The warrior mouse slept, overcome by weariness. Sometime before dawn he was wakened by paws thrusting something over his head and around his neck. Still half-asleep, Martin tried to grab hold of his assailants. He was roughly kicked to one side, then the door clanged shut as the key turned in the lock again. Leaping up, Martin ran to the door. The stoat guard peered through the grating, chuckling and wagging a paw at him. ‘You nearly had me that time, mouse.’
The warrior mouse gave an angry snarl and leapt at the grating, but the stoat backed off, grinning at his futile attempt. ‘Listen, mouse, if I were you I’d keep pretty quiet down here, otherwise you might attract Lady Tsarmina’s attention – and I don’t think you’d like that. You just sit tight and behave yourself, then maybe in time somebody like Gingivere will remember you’re here and have you released.’
As the guards trooped off, Martin saw they had left a load of clean straw in one corner, also some bread and water. Instinctively he moved towards it, and felt something clunk against his chest. It was the sword handle dangling from a piece of rope around his neck. Martin held it in front of his eyes, staring at it hard and long. He would wear it, not because he had been sentenced to as a mark of shame, but to remind himself that one day he would slay the evil cat who had broken his father’s blade.
Settling down in the dry straw, he drank water and gnawed upon the stale bread hungrily. He was about to fall asleep again when shouts and commotion broke out above stairs. Pulling himself level with the door grille, Martin listened to the sounds that echoed in the silence of the cells.
‘My Lord Greeneyes is dead!’
‘Lady Tsarmina, come quick, it’s your father.’
There was loud stamping of spearbutts and the sounds of mailed paws dashing hither and thither, coupled with the slamming of doors.
Tsarmina’s voice could be heard in an anguished wail. ‘Murder, murder. My father is slain!’
Ashleg and Fortunata took up the cry. ‘Murder, Gingivere has poisoned Verdauga!’
A tremendous hubbub had broken out. Martin could not hear clearly what was going on. A moment later there was a sound of heavy pawsteps on the stairs; it sounded like a great number of creatures. Martin pulled to one side of the grille and saw it all. Led by Tsarmina, a mob of soldiers carrying torches marched down the corridor, Ashleg and Fortunata visible among them. As they passed the cell door, Martin glimpsed the stunned face of the gentle wildcat Gingivere. He was bound in chains. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. Their eyes met for a second, then he was swept by in the surge of angry soldiers, their faces distorted by the flickering torchlight as they chanted, ‘Murderer, murderer! Kill the murderer!’
Martin could no longer see them, owing to the limited range of his vision through the grille, but he could still hear all that went on. Some distance down the corridor a cell door slammed and a key turned. Tsarmina’s voice rose above the noise. ‘Silence! I will say what is to be done here. Even though my brother is a murderer, I cannot harm him. He will stay locked up here until he lives out his days. He is now dead to me; I never want to hear his name spoken again within the walls of Kotir.’
Martin heard Gingivere’s voice trying to say something, but it was immediately drowned out by Ashleg and Fortunata starting a chant that the soldiers took up at full pitch. ‘Long live Queen Tsarmina. Long live Queen Tsarmina!’
As the mob passed by Martin’s cell again, he drew back. Above the roars he heard Tsarmina, close by the door, speaking to Ashleg. ‘Bring October ale and elderberry wine from the storerooms. See that there is plenty for everyone.’
Shutting his ears against the sounds of the revellers, Martin lay upon the straw with the sword handle pressing against his chest. Now that his last hopes were gone it looked like being a long hard winter.
5
‘Across the lea, beneath the leaves,
When countrylands wake up to spring,
Hurrah here comes the Prince of Thieves,
Hear every small bird sing.
So daring and so handsome too,
He makes a wondrous sight,
But if he comes to visit you,
Lock up your treasures tight.’
Sunlight sparkled on the chuckling stream that had lain iced over and silent all winter. Snowdrops nodded agreeably to crocus on the warm southerly breeze. Spring was everywhere. Golden daffodils and their paler narcissus relatives stood guard between the budding trees of Mossflower Woods; evergreens that had endured the dark winter took on a new fresh life.
Gonff was returning from another successful visit to Kotir. The wine flasks bumped and banged against his broad belt as he skipped nimbly through the flowering woodlands, singing aloud with the heady intoxication of springtime.
‘Cuckoo, cuckoo, good day, my friend, to you.
O sly one you know best.
To lay in others’ nest,
Is a trick you often do.
But I am smarter, sir, than you,
Cuckoo, my friend cuckoo.’
The blood coursed madly through Gonff’s young veins like the waters of a brook, gurgling happily and generally making him so light-headed that he turned somersaults. Every so often he would pull a reed flute from his tunic and twiddle away with the sheer joy of being alive on such a morning as this. With a great whoop Gonff threw himself into a thick tussock of grass and lay with the perspiration rising from him in a small column of steam. Overhead the sky was a delicate blue with small white clouds scudding on the breeze. Gonff imagined what it would be like to lie upon a small fluffy white cloud and allow himself to be buffeted about in the sunny sky.
‘Whooooaaa, look out, zoom, bump, whoof! Out of the way you big clouds.’ The little mousethief held tight to the grass, swaying from side to side as he played out his game of make believe.
He did not notice the two weasels dressed in Kotir armour until too late. They stood over him looking grim and officious.
Gonff smiled impudently, aware of his clunking wine flasks. ‘Er, aha ha. Hello, mateys, I was flying my cloud, you see. . . .’
The larger of the two prodded him with a spearbutt. ‘Come on you, on your paws. You’re wanted at Kotir.’
Gonff winked at him cheerily. ‘Kotir? You don’t say! Well, how nice! Listen, you two good chaps, nip along and tell them I’m busy today but I’ll pop in early tomorrow.’
The spearpoint at Gonff’s throat discouraged further light banter. The smaller of the two weasels kicked Gonff. ‘Up you come, thief. Now we know where the best cheeses and elderberry wine have been going all winter, you’ll pay for stealing from Kotir.’
Gonff stood slowly. Placing a paw on his plump little stomach he looked from one guard to the other with an air of innocence. ‘Me, steal? I beg your pardon, sirs, did you know the head cook has given me permission to borrow what I please from his larder? Actually, I was going to return the favour by sending him some good recipes. I understand his cooking leaves something to be desired.’
The large weasel laughed mirthlessly. ‘Shall I tell you something, thief? The head cook has personally vowed to skin you with a rusty knife and roast what’s left of you for supper.’
Gonff nodded appreciatively. ‘Oh good, I do hope he saves some for me . . . ouch!’
Prodded between two spears, he marched off with the guards in the direction of Kotir.
A pale shaft of sunlight penetrated between the iron bars of the high window slit. The walls of the cell dripped moisture, and sometimes the faint trill of a skylark on the flatlands reached the prisoner. Martin knew that this was the onset of full, burgeoning springtime. His face was haggard, his body much thinner, but his eyes still shone with the warrior’s angry brightness.
Martin rose and paced the cell with the sword handle about his neck; it seemed to grow heavier with time. Fifteen paces, whichever way he went – from door to wall or from wall to wall, it was always fifteen paces. He had paced it many times as the days and weeks grew into months. Gingivere was too far away to converse with,
besides, it only made the guards angry. They stopped his bread and water for attempting to speak to the one whose name it was forbidden to mention. Now Martin believed that he really had been forgotten and left here to die under the new regime of Tsarmina. He stood in the shaft of weak sunlight, trying not to think of the world of blue skies and flowers outside.
‘Get the little devil in there quick. It’ll be less trouble to feed two at once. Ouch, my shin!’
Lost in thought, Martin had failed to hear the approach of guards bringing a prisoner to his cell door.
‘Aargh, leggo my ear, you fiend. Hurry up with that door before he bites my lug clean off.’
‘Ouch. Ow. He nipped me! Keep him still while I find my key.’
There was more shouting and scuffling as the key turned in the lock. Martin ran to the door but was immediately bowled over by another figure, which shot through the doorway straight in on top of him. Together they fell over backward, as the cell door slammed shut again. The two prisoners lay still until the pawsteps of the guards retreated down the corridor.
Martin moved gingerly, easing aside the body that had fallen on top of him. It giggled. He pulled his cellmate into the shaft of sunlight where he could view him more clearly.
Gonff winked broadly at him, played a short jig on his reed flute, then began singing,
‘I knew a mouse in prison here,
More than a hundred years.
His whiskers grew along the ground,
And right back to his ears.
His eyes grew dim, his teeth fell out,
His fur went silver grey.
“If my grandad were here,” he said,
“I wonder what he’d say?”’
Martin leaned against the wall. He could not help smiling at his odd little cellmate.
‘Silly, how could the grandfather of a hundred-year-old mouse say anything? Sorry, my name’s Martin the Warrior. What’s yours?’
Gonff extended a paw. ‘Martin the Warrior, eh. By gum, Martin, you’re a fine, strong-looking fellow, even though you could do with a bit of fattening up. My name’s Gonff the Thief, or Prince of Mousethieves to you, matey.’
Martin shook Gonff warmly by the paw. ‘Prince of Mousethieves, by the fur. You could be the King of the Sky, as long as I’ve got a cellmate to speak to. What did they throw you in here for?’
Gonff winced. ‘Stop squeezing my paw to bits and I’ll tell you.’
They sat down on the straw together, Gonff massaging his paw. ‘They caught me running down the larder stocks of wine and cheese, you see. But don’t you worry, matey, I can open any lock in Kotir. We won’t be here for too long, you’ll see. Leave it to Gonff.’
‘You mean you can – we can – escape from here? How, when, where to?’ Martin’s voice tumbled out, shaky with excitement.
Gonff fell back against the wall, laughing. ‘Whoa, matey, not so fast! Don’t worry, as soon as I get things organized we’ll say bye bye to this dump. But first, let’s get you fed. They should be ashamed of themselves, keeping a great lump like you on bread and water.’
Martin shrugged and rubbed his hollow stomach. ‘Huh, what else is there? I was lucky to get bread and water sometimes. What do you suggest, fresh milk and oatcakes?’
‘Sorry, matey. I haven’t got milk or oatcakes. Would cheese and elderberry wine do you?’ he asked seriously.
Martin was lost for words as Gonff opened his tunic and spilled out a wedge of cheese and a flat canteen of wine.
‘Always keep this for emergencies or trading. Here, you may as well have it. I’ve had enough of cheese and wine for a bit.’
Martin needed no second bidding. He wolfed away at the cheese, slopping wine as he gulped it into a full mouth. Gonff shook his head in wonder as the wine and cheese vanished rapidly. ‘Go easy, matey. You’ll make yourself ill. Take your time.’
Martin tried hard to take the good advice, but it was difficult after so long on starvation rations. As he ate he questioned Gonff. ‘Tell me, what have I walked into around here, Gonff? I’m only a lone warrior passing through; I know nothing of Mossflower and wildcats.’
The mousethief scratched his whiskers reflectively. ‘Now, let me see, where to begin. Since long before I was born the old tyrant Verdauga Greeneyes, Lord of the Thousand thingummies and so on, has ruled over Mossflower. One day long ago, he swept in here at the head of his army. They came down from the north, of course. The fortress must have been what attracted him. To woodlanders it was nothing but an old ruin that had always been there; Verdauga saw it differently, though. This was a place of plenty where he could settle, so he moved straight in, repaired it as best as he could, called the place Kotir and set himself up as a tyrant. There were none to oppose him; the woodlanders are peaceable creatures – they had never seen a full army of trained soldiers, nor wildcats. Verdauga could do just as he pleased, but he was clever: he allowed our creatures to live within his shadow and farm the land. Half of everything they produced was taken as a tax to feed him and his vermin.’
‘Didn’t anyone fight back?’ Martin interrupted.
Gonff nodded sadly. ‘Oh yes, even now there are old ones who are still too frightened to tell of how Verdauga and his cruel daughter put down the poorly organized rebellion. Those who were not massacred were thrown into this very prison and left to rot. I’m told my own parents were among them, but I don’t know the truth of it. When the rebellion was broken, Verdauga proved what a clever general he was. He actually made a kind of peace with the woodlanders. They were allowed to live within Kotir’s shadow and farm the land. He said he would protect us from further attacks by bands wandering down from the north. We were partly enslaved then and very much disorganized. Not having any proper fighting strength and with all the rebellious fighters out of the way, most creatures seemed just to accept their lot. Then last summer Verdauga became ill. Since he has been sick, he has left the running of the settlement to his daughter, Tsarmina. Unlike her father, she is cruel and evil. Woodlanders have been driven too hard out on the fields and not allowed enough to live on. Hedgehogs like Ben Stickle and his family dare not run away; where could they go, with young ones to care for? However, things became so bad that a lot of them took the chance and escaped from the settlement. As the numbers grew less, Tsarmina demanded more and more from the few. I tell you, matey, it’s a sad tale.’
They sat side by side, watching the shaft of sunlight striking the cell floor. Martin passed the wine to Gonff. ‘What do you know about the wildcat called Gingivere?’
Gonff took a sip of the wine and passed it back. ‘I know he never took part in any killing. Woodlanders always hoped that Verdauga would pass the reins to him. He’s supposed to be a good sort, for a wildcat, that is. Now you take the sister, Tsarmina. She is pure evil – they say that she is far more savage than Verdauga. I’ve heard the gossip around Kotir when I’ve been visiting here, matey – do you know, they say old Greeneyes is dead and his son in prison here, so that means Tsarmina must be the new ruler now.’
Martin nodded. ‘It’s true. I saw and heard it myself. Gingivere is in a cell far down the corridor. I tried to speak to him but it’s too far.’ The warrior mouse banged his paw against the wall in frustration. ‘Why doesn’t somebody do something, Gonff?’
The mousethief tapped the side of his nose and lowered his voice. ‘Sit still and listen, matey. Now the last families have left the settlement, we’re making plans. All the scattered families and woodlanders have banded together out there in Mossflower Woods. They’re learning to become strong once more, and the old spirit of defeat is gone now. We have real fighters training, otters and squirrels, besides hedgehogs and moles and the likes of me. We’ve even got a badger, Bella of Brockhall; her family used to rule Mossflower in the good old days. You’ll like her. Together we form the Council of Resistance in Mossflower – Corim, see, take the first letter of each word. Ha, we’re getting stronger every day.’
Martin felt the excitement rising within him again. �
�Do you think that the Corim know we’re locked up here. Will they help us to escape?’
Gonff winked broadly, a sly grin on his face. ‘Sssshhhhh, not so loud, matey. Wait and see.’
He passed the wine flask across to Martin. ‘Tell me something, matey. Why do they call you warrior? Where are you from? Did you live in a place like Mossflower? Was it nice?’
Martin put the wine to one side and lay back, staring at the ceiling. ‘Where I come from, Gonff, there are no forests, only rocks, grass and hills. Aye, that’s the northland. I never knew a mother. I was brought up by my father, Luke the Warrior – my family have always been warriors. We lived in caves, constantly under attack by roaming bands of sea rats who came inland. You were forced to defend your cave, your piece of land, or be overrun. There were other families like us. I had lots of friends – there was Thrugg the Strong, Arrowtail, Felldoh the Wrestler, Timballisto.’
Martin smiled at the memory of his companions. ‘Ah, it wasn’t so bad, I suppose. All we seemed to do was eat, sleep and fight in those days. As soon as I was tall enough I learned to lift my father’s sword and practise with it.’
He touched the broken weapon strung about his neck. ‘Many’s the enemy learned his lesson at the point of this sword – sea rats, mercenary foxes too. One time my father was wounded and had to stay in our cave. Ha, I remember all that summer, fighting off foes while he lay at the cave entrance preparing our food and calling advice to me. Then one day he took off with a band of older warriors to meet the sea rats on the shores of the waters far away. They were supposed to make an end to all invading rats forever. It was a brave idea. Before he went he gave me his trusty old sword, then he left carrying spear and shield. My father said that I should stay behind and defend our cave and land, but if he did not return by late autumn then I was to do as I felt fit.’
Mossflower (Redwall) Page 3