Eagle Warrior

by Roger Mortimer

  Behind him he could hear the mocking imitations: ‘Thenk-yew, Pravate!’ But his heart was swelling with pride. He’d done it! He’d fooled the lot of them!

  As the Monastery cast its shadow over him, Dabo felt his confidence slipping away. Hastily he took refuge in the thoughts of Doctor Prunard and began estimating the height of the wall and the dimensions of the gatehouse that loomed above him.

  ‘Two hundred spans, I should say; and the height of the gatehouse, let me see now...’

  He was so absorbed in his calculations that he failed to notice that a small door in the gatehouse had been opened and that a young monk, dressed in the black robes of his order, was watching him,

  ‘... about two hundred and fifty – oh!’

  The Black Mouse smiled. ‘It’s actually two hundred and seventy-five; the tallest gatehouse in Carminel. Are you Doctor Prunard? We’ve been expecting you.’

  Dabo nearly collapsed with relief.

  After closing and barring the door, the monk led the way beneath the barrel-vaulted roof of the gatehouse. Emerging into the open, Dabo saw, some twenty spans ahead of him, the grim, scowling inner wall rearing above him: the Monastery’s second line of defence.

  After passing through another tall, gloomy arch, Dabo emerged into the open centre of the Monastery. Here stood the workshops, barns, refectory and dormitories: tough-looking buildings of rugged stone, patched with purple and gold lichen on their sheltered sides, bare and stark where the cold, moorland wind blasted them. In the centre reared the great Abbey with its soaring tower at the northern end. It seemed to Dabo like some huge animal crouching at the heart of the Monastery. He stared up at the dizzy height of the tower. Oh, Lord of Light, he thought, I hope Gideon knows what he’s doing!

  The monk followed the direction of Dabo’s gaze. ‘Impressive, isn’t it?’ he remarked. Instantly, Dabo snapped back into character, clearing his throat and blinking rapidly behind his spectacles. ‘Indeed, yes,’ he said earnestly. ‘A most – ah – magnificent structure. The colour of the stone is particularly pleasing. Locally quarried, I suppose? And the flying buttresses ... beautiful ... yes ...’

  ‘I’d better take you to the Chapter House,’ said the Black Monk. ‘The whole community has assembled for a very important meeting.’

  Now what? Dabo wondered nervously. As he entered the building, Dabo was instantly aware of three things. An airy lightness caused by the tall, delicately carved windows; a circle of black-robed monks seated around the wall on a low, continuous stone bench; and a repulsive smell that was all too familiar.

  Fighting down an impulse to turn and run, Dabo trailed behind his guide to a space on the stone bench where he perched, self-consciously. Realizing that every mouse in the place was looking at him, Dabo forced himself to raise his eyes and peer through his spectacles at the figure standing in the centre of the room.

  It was Forstus.

  In the deathly silence, Dabo felt an over­whelming urge to run out into the middle of the Chapter House and confess everything. He closed his eyes and tried to control himself. He thought of Gideon and Conal. They had faith in him, and he must not let them down! He must play his part ...

  Opening his eyes, he put a paw up to his forehead and blinked round the assembly until he spotted the Abbot: a massively stout, brutal-looking mouse. He was seated on the low, stone bench but set apart from the others by the finely-carved, wooden canopy fixed to the wall above his head.

  Dabo scrambled down from the bench. Ignoring Forstus, he crossed the floor and bowed.

  ‘Father Abbot, I beg your pardon. A passing faintness ... long journey... Please accept my letter of introduction from His Eminence the Cardinal.’

  The Abbot took it and passed it, unopened, to the monk who sat beside him. When he spoke, his voice was like the rumble of distant thunder.

  ‘We will read it later. You must be Doctor Prunard. We heard yesterday that you would be joining us. We bid you welcome and we trust that your stay with us will be a pleasant one.’

  The Abbot’s black fur was streaked with grey. One blind eye gleamed milky-white but the other sparkled with intelligence. His personality had the power of a tidal wave.

  ‘Return to your seat, Doctor, if you please. We must continue to hear the message of Father Forstus. He brings grave news, I fear!’

  With another low bow, Dabo returned to his seat, holding his breath as he passed Forstus, who was twitching impatiently and picking at a boil on his face.

  ‘As I was saying, my Lord Abbot,’ said the spy, in his oiliest tones, ‘information has reached the Lord General Cambray concerning a plot by enemies of the State to kidnap the Prince from this monastery. While the Lord General has every confidence in your security, he has sent me to warn you of this attempt and to advise you that a regiment of guards will remain outside the Monastery walls until the plotters are caught.’

  The Abbot leant forward. ‘Who are they?’ he rasped.

  ‘My Lord, the culprit is Gideon, an enemy of the State, and one-time commander of the Tyrant’s Regiment of Eagles.’

  ‘Lord Gideon?’ rumbled the Abbot. ‘Then we will indeed be on our guard! But I fear that a regiment of my cousin’s mice will not be sufficient to deflect him from his purposes. We must consider how our security may be improved. We thank you, Father Forstus, and need detain you no longer.’

  The Abbot dismissed Forstus with a wave of his paw. With an obsequious bow, the spy left the Chapter House.

  ‘Now,’ boomed the Abbot, ‘I will speak privately with Brother Sivry and Brother Clermont.’ Two mice, seated on either side of the Abbot, rose and bowed in silence.

  ‘Brother Salazac,’ continued the Abbot, ‘take Doctor Prunard to my dining room and give him bread, cheese and wine from my personal store. When he has refreshed himself, take him to the North Tower. Now: let all mice be vigilant! Lord Gideon is a formidable opponent. Remember, our loyalty is to the Lord Cardinal and the Church of the Lord of Light. And to my cousin, the Lord General,’ he added, with a threatening gleam in his one good eye. ‘Now ... let all brethren return to their duties. The meeting is concluded.’

  In the Abbot’s dining room, Dabo sat down to a delicious lunch of freshly-baked bread flavoured with herbs and several chunks of tangy, home-made cheese. Their flavours mingled wonderfully with the strawberry wine; but Dabo was careful to drink only one glass of that.

  After his lunch, he followed Brother Salazac up the spiral staircase of the North Tower. A long climb brought them to a stout wooden door, where two black-robed mice, armed with drawn swords, stood motionless. At a word from Brother Salazac, one of the guards unlocked the door.

  It was a small room with bare, stone walls. Sunlight shone faintly through weather-streaked glass. Along one wall, a massive fireplace housed a cheerful log fire. Under the window stood a little, low bed heaped with brightly coloured rugs. A desk and chair completed the furnishings.

  A young mouse rose from a stool by the fire. He was small but sturdy, with the distinctive reddish fur of the Kings of Carminel. Brother Salazac did not bow, but gave the young prisoner a friendly smile.

  ‘Prince Armand, allow me to present Doctor Prunard, your new tutor.’

  Dabo stared mildly at the Prince and offered a slight smile. Armand stared back, his handsome face a mask of sullen resentment.

  ‘The Lord Abbot wishes your lessons to begin first thing tomorrow morning,’ Brother Salazac continued, ‘but I daresay, Doctor, that you would like to talk to your new pupil – get to know each other. I’ll have to lock you in, I’m afraid, but when you’re ready to leave, just call. The guards will hear you and direct you to the refectory. I’ll meet you there and show you to your sleeping quarters.’

  Brother Salazac left the room and Dabo heard the key turn in the lock. He looked at Prince Armand. The Prince scowled back. Dabo went into his tutor impersonation, speaking loudly and distinctly. He had no doubt that the guards outside were listening, and he could not afford a slip-up now.


  ‘Good day, Prince Armand. As Brother, er, Salazac said, we shall commence formal lessons tomorrow, but I should like to venture a few questions first, simply to gauge the extent of your education, which has, I fear, been sadly neglected of late.’

  Whilst saying this, Dabo had sat down at the desk and scrawled some words on a piece of paper: I’ve come to get you out.

  ‘Now,’ he went on, still scribbling, ‘what do you know of mathematics?’

  Lord Gideon sent me.

  Suddenly, the little Prince’s eyes lit up.

  ‘Well?’ asked Dabo kindly. ‘Do you know your tables?’

  Please trust me!

  ‘Yes!’ Armand seized the pen and began to scribble eagerly, whilst chanting: ‘Once three is three, two threes are six ...’

  When do we go?

  ‘Excellent!’ cried Dabo, taking the pen. ‘And how many other tables do you know?’

  Tomorrow night!

  Suddenly, there was a sharp knock at the door. Dabo only just had time to grab the paper and throw it on the fire before the door opened and one of the mice on guard announced that it was supper-time. Dr Prunard should go at once to the refectory. Prince Armand’s supper would be brought to him shortly.

  As Dabo left the room, Armand threw him such a look of hope and trust that it tore at his heart. He vowed that he would help the Prince to safety; and for a while, he completely forgot who he was supposed to be. It was only when he caught himself swaggering across the dark courtyard like a soldier of fortune that he remembered himself.

  He stopped, bent to adjust his shoe, then continued his walk with a slight stoop, short steps, paws clasped behind his back. A quick glance round showed him that the courtyard was deserted.

  The Brothers were at supper. But Forstus, bored with their company, was prowling restlessly around the Monastery, keeping as usual to the shadows. He had pretended, in the Chapter House, not to recognize the new tutor. But Forstus was convinced that he had seen him somewhere before. And since that moment he had put his remarkable memory to work. Now, spying on the tutor from the shadows of the Abbey, something clicked in Forstus’s brain. He could not recall the mouse’s name. The confident swagger suggested not a scholar, but ...

  Forstus smiled to himself as he recognized this so-called tutor as one of the soldiers from the Great Fortress of Aramon. Yes! It was the mouse who had deserted on the night of Gideon’s visit to the Cardinal.

  Dabo.

  Should he tell the Abbot? No. Not yet. He would wait and see what Dabo was up to. Then he would unmask the imposter and take all the credit for himself.

  6. The Birthday of the Lord of Light

  Next morning, the Black Monks went about their duties with smiling faces and a sense of excitement filled the air. That evening, they would celebrate the Birthday of the Lord of Light.

  One cold winter’s night many ages ago, the god of the Mouse-Kind was born into a family of humble mice. His father was the village baker and the young mouse learnt his father’s craft. When he was fully grown, knowledge of what he was came upon him, and he left his village and went to live in a cave in the hillside. From there, he taught all mice who came to visit him the ways of right living; how to love the good in themselves and to fight the evil.

  Of all the thousands who came to hear him, he chose ten companions who lived with him, studied under him and whose task it would be, one day, to spread his message of love throughout Carminel and to the lands beyond the seas where others of the Mouse-Kind lived.

  Once a month he would bake special, honey-flavoured bread and serve it to his companions with rich, blackberry wine. ‘This is the bread of life,’ he would say. ‘And the wine is the symbol of brotherhood. Do what is right and live together in peace, and you will enter my Kingdom of Eternal Happiness.’

  Finally, when his message had spread throughout Carminel, he bade his ten companions farewell. ‘I go where you cannot yet follow,’ he told them. ‘But when you are in pain, or when sorrow afflicts you, call on me and pray to the Light and I will not fail you. And when your life here comes to an end, remember me at the last and I shall greet you again, and all who come after you.’

  At this, the sun blazed with a sudden, dazzling splendour, and when the ten companions could see again, the god had vanished.

  He was never seen again. But all mice believe that far to the north, across an impassable ocean, the Lord of Light lives still on the Island of Peace. And every year in the dead of winter, the Mouse-Kind celebrate his birthday with feasting, at the very heart of which is the special, honey-flavoured bread and the rich, blackberry wine.

  Most mice preferred to celebrate the Birthday in the churches or the abbeys, simply because those were the meeting places where mice would gather, once a month, to talk about right conduct and to learn from the priests about the teachings of the god.

  On every Birthday, as midnight struck, all mice would go outside to watch in wonder the great blaze of lights that soared into the northern sky, a fabulous display of energy and power that confirmed all mice in their belief that the Lord of Light still lived and was watching over them.

  The custom was that even those mice who worked the night-shifts in workshops or mines – even those mice in prison – would go, if they wished, to the nearest meeting place and join in the celebrations. So Gideon believed that no matter how closely Prince Armand was imprisoned, he would be allowed into the Abbey that night for the special Birthday service. And it was upon this belief that he had based his plan of rescue.

  As the pale sun dwindled to the horizon, the Abbey’s bells pealed out across the cold countryside, bidding all mice welcome to the Monastery. Only the soldiers, camped out on the moor, stayed away. They had to celebrate the Birthday in their cold tents.

  As night fell, so did the snow. Armand held Dabo’s paw, squealing with excitement. After the long, dreary months of imprisonment, the little mouse felt the joy of approaching freedom. But Dabo wasn’t so sure. He had a delicate and difficult role to play tonight; one wrong move and – well, the consequences did not bear thinking about. But he noted with pleasure how many of the visiting mice smiled and bowed as they recognized the captive Prince.

  Suddenly, the crowds parted and made way for an extremely old mouse whose crippled back was so bent with pain that he needed two sticks to support himself. With pitiful slowness, he crept across the courtyard. A mouse-girl, his daughter, Dabo supposed, walked slowly beside him. She wore a long, grey cloak with many patches and her thin shoes were sadly worn. Even Dabo forgot his worries and marvelled at these poor mice who had trudged to the Monastery in honour of the Lord of Light.

  There was a general stir among the crowd as the bulky Abbot and his warrior monks emerged from the Abbey and processed across the courtyard to the refectory. As the last monk crossed the threshold, there was a general surge of movement towards the warm, glowing light and the enticing smells. But, by common consent, the crowd paused and held back until the elderly mouse and his gentle daughter had passed inside. Watching them, Dabo realized that the old mouse was blind as well as crippled. From his bent head, which was almost bare of fur, milky eyes dully gleamed.

  When all were seated at the long refectory tables, the Abbot rose majestically and silence fell. His mind upon the good things to come, the Abbot boomed only a short thanksgiving, then called loudly for the first course: the traditional bread and wine.

  Twenty black-robed mice entered, bearing huge, steaming loaves smelling deliciously of honey. As these were eagerly seized upon, Brother Cellarer entered with his helpers, all bearing stone jars brimming with warm, blackberry wine deliciously spiced with cloves.

  The bread and wine were followed by hot chestnut soup, then came a wonderful dish of baked mushrooms, mixed with egg yolks and cream, and seasoned with thyme and parsley. Artichokes in a creamy, herb sauce followed, then baked potatoes with cheese or soured cream; a hazelnut salad; a broccoli flan; roast parsnips and a bean stew – all accompanied by jugs filled with
mulled ale.

  Next came a delicious, sweet-scented apple tart, and pancakes stuffed with dried apricots. Finally, Brother Kitchener and his helpers staggered in with a huge cake, baked with cherries and smothered in icing. On its wide top stood wonderfully-made figures representing the Lord of Light and his Ten Companions.

  Huge candelabra, suspended from the roof, cast a golden glow over the feast. Dabo sat at the High Table next to Prince Armand, uncomfortably aware of the Abbot seated on his other side. Fortunately, the Lord of the Black Mice was only interested in stuffing as much food as possible into his massive bulk, so Dabo was not expected to make conversation, except to comment occasionally on the excellence of the food and ale.

  But at the far end of the refectory, Dabo spotted Forstus – and realized, with alarm, that the spy was watching him. Hastily, he turned to Armand. ‘Will you take some more of these delicious sweet pastries?’

  The young Prince, cheeks bulging with sugarplums, nodded eagerly and reached out a sticky paw. Dabo waited until the Abbot turned aside for a moment to order a passing kitchen-helper to fetch more ale; then he whispered in the Prince’s ear: ‘In the service, when I nudge you, pretend to feel sick!’

  A sharp glance and a slight nod from Armand showed that he had understood. Though at the rate he’s scoffing the sugarplums, thought Dabo, he won’t need to pretend!

  With mounting nervousness, Dabo did his best to match the cheery mood around him. He nibbled fussily at his food, forcing himself to swallow it, but only sipped at his ale: he must keep a clear head tonight.

  Eventually, as the last dishes were emptied, the Abbot heaved himself upright. At once, a hush descended, as the monks and their guests stood also. Stifling a belch, the Abbot boomed the grace. Then he lead the way out of the refectory and all followed in silence to the great Abbey. The most solemn part of the night’s celebrations was about to begin.

  And, with a sick lurch of his stomach, Dabo knew that the moment for action had arrived.