The Sable Quean (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  “Nothing like Salamandastron Forge Scones. They’ll put some iron into your muscles, young un. Now, let me see, where was I?”

  Buckler reminded him. “The scouts had found the vermins’ lair, you said.”

  Lord Brang took a sip from his tankard. “Aye, so they had. I ordered the full Long Patrol into battle order and marched on the villains. I must tell you, though, I was young and reckless then, wilder than you’d ever imagine. I take it you’ve heard of the thing they call Bloodwrath?”

  Buckler nodded silently, allowing Brang to explain.

  “ ’Tis a terrible affliction, a sickness that drives a beast berserk. I had that Bloodwrath, the mad urge to fight, slay and slaughter. Nothing could stand in my way, one beast or a score. When my eyes went red with the rush of blood, I became unstoppable. I outpaced my own hares, charging into that quarry, straight into the foebeast. Fool that I was! The Ravagers had scouted our approach. They were waiting for us and had us heavily outnumbered. But I was out of control, roaring Eulalias and laying waste to the vermin.

  “By the blade and the hilt, I fought that day. Everything around me was one red mist, but I battled on. Those Ravagers pressed me hard—I still carry the wounds and scars they gave me. I became cut off from my hares, surrounded, so that I could scarcely move to swing my blade. Then I tripped and fell, the sword slipped from my bloodstained paws.

  “That was when I saw him—Armuk Rinn, the great sable. He was standing over me, swinging a battleaxe. I knew my fate was sealed, I was a deadbeast. But a miracle occurred. Your grandsire Feryn, my trusty right paw, came hurtling through the air, blade flashing, roaring his war cry. He struck like a thunderbolt, cleaving Armuk Rinn, helmet and head, right through his evil brain!”

  Buckler’s eyes were shining, even though he had heard the tale before. “And that’s what settled the battle?”

  Brang rose. Crossing to his forge, he leaned down heavily upon the bellows. A plume of golden flame and scarlet sparks shot up, illuminating the badger’s powerful head, glinting in his fierce eyes. “Aye, young un, that was a battle to remember. Though it was my friend Feryn’s brave act which carried the day. Those Ravagers who were still alive fled when they saw what happened to the mighty Armuk Rinn. Up until then, the vermin didn’t believe he could be defeated.”

  Buckler laughed. “But my grandpa proved different! That’s why you gave him the Coin.”

  The Badger Lord scowled. “Let me tell you about that thing, young un. It actually was a coin, a golden one, from someplace far beyond the sunset, long ago. When I was very young—I recall it was wintertide—I was walking the shoreline south of this mountain when I came across the wreck of an old vessel. It was buried deep by the seasons. There wasn’t much to see, only a bit of old wood sticking out of the sand. Well, I started digging it up and choosing pieces, planning on taking them to old Corporal Cook Magirry. He was a real good old sort, often keeping a little plum duff in the oven for me. Actually it was Magirry who taught me to make Forge Scones.”

  Buckler sensed that Brang was going off into tales of his early seasons, so he interrupted. “But how did you come across the Coin?”

  The badger came back to the point. “There was a hole in it, and a rusty iron spike fixing it to what looked like part of a mast.” He smiled, winking at the young hare. “ ‘Twas my secret treasure. I kept it, same as any young un would. That night I inspected the coin. It was a curious thing, worn smooth but quite heavy and bright. There were a few strange marks on one side—couldn’t make out what they were—Er, hadn’t you better run along now, Buck? They’ll be serving supper in the mess.”

  Buckler, however, was intrigued by the tale. “Diggs’ll save some for me. Tell me more about the Coin, please.”

  Lord Brang frowned, shaking his head. “ ’Twas never meant to be called the Coin. I wanted it to be a special medal for your grandsire. After the battle at the quarry, I polished all the marks from it and made some of my own. A picture of a paw holding aloft a sword, with the word Blademaster engraved beneath it. I wove a silken cord of scarlet and black, threaded it through the spikehole and there I had it, the Blademaster’s Medal!”

  Buckler shook his head. “I never heard it called that before. Everybeast calls it the Coin.”

  Brang gave the bellows a few more heaves. Bright flames shining upward on his huge, striped features gave him a fearsome appearance.

  “Aye, well, that’s your grandsire for you. Huh, the Coin, indeed! Just like you he was, a real young rip. Wouldn’t accept proper regimental honours from me. Said he’d accept it as a gift, a keepsake, if y’please. The Coin, eh? Rebellious, disobedient rascal!”

  Buckler grinned. “Just like me, I s’pose.”

  Lord Brang paused, then his attitude softened. “Aye, just like you.”

  The young hare stared out at the darkened seas. There was resentment in his tone. “Then why does my brother Clerun wear the Coin? He’s no warrior, just a big, clumsy creature.”

  Brang shrugged. “Because he’s the eldest Kordyne son. Your grandsire Feryn passed the Coin, and his broadsword, down to his firstborn son, your father, Adarin. Now it is the tradition to pass it on to the firstborn—that’s Clerun. There’s nought I can do about it.”

  Buckler protested. “But my father wasn’t a warrior either. It’s not fair!”

  Brang watched the swift path of a comet crossing the night skies. “I sympathise with you, Buck, but your family traditions must be honoured. I know your father wasn’t a warrior, nor skilled with a sword. But he was a very wise counsellor and served me well all of his life. Maybe if it had been up to me, I would have granted you both the Coin and the broadsword.”

  Buckler snorted derisively. “Huh, who needs a broadsword—great, hulking, clumsy things. But the Coin, that would’ve given me something to remember Grandpa Feryn by.”

  Draining his tankard, Brang slammed it down. “What’s done is done, and neither you nor I can change it. We just have to accept things as they are.”

  The injustice of this stung Buckler. “But my brother Clerun doesn’t even live at Salamandastron anymore. He got himself wed to Clarinna, Major Doughty’s eldest daughter. They’ve both gone off to be farmers together. Hah, I’ll wager she’s wearing the Coin as an ornament now. Aye, and Clerun will be using the broadsword to chop firewood and cut weeds!”

  Even though he did not show it, Brang felt sympathy for his young friend. “Well, everybeast to what they choose, I suppose. Clerun to farming, and you here at my mountain as Blademaster. It’s not such a bad position.”

  Taking the sword from Buckler, Brang made a few swift passes. He was surprisingly light on his paws for such a big beast. Twirling the sword into the air, he caught it deftly. “A fine blade. I wouldn’t mind making one for myself. Though I don’t think I could repeat a weapon of this quality a second time.”

  He passed it back to Buckler, who bowed respectfully. “Nobeast but you could forge a sword like this, Lord.”

  Brang’s dark eyes twinkled with pleasure. “I’m glad you respected my title, Buck. I think you’d get on much better with everybeast at Salamandastron if you tried to conform to our ways a bit more. If you know what I mean.”

  The young hare whipped his swordblade through the forge flames, as if trying to cut them up. He raised his voice bitterly. “Conform? You mean strut about in uniform, saluting and wot-wotting old chap! Playing at being warriors, and for what, eh? The days of battling vermin Ravagers are long gone. Now it’s all parades, exercises, regimental balls and banquets. I’m a Blademaster, what’s that supposed to be? A fool who passes his days teaching other fools how to play with swords!”

  He was silenced by the heavy paw of Lord Brang landing on his shoulder. “Then what do you want—tell me, Buckler?”

  The young hare was suddenly stuck for an answer. “I want . . . I want . . .”

  He flung the sword. It flew across the forge chamber and stood quivering in the door as he shouted, “I don’t blinkin’ know wha
t I bloomin’ well want!”

  The badger ’s eyes twinkled momentarily. “Let me suggest something. How about a bit of travel and adventure? Would that suit you?”

  The young hare’s ears twitched suspiciously. “Travel, adventure—what sort of adventure?”

  Brang made a sweeping gesture at the outside world. “Travel is an adventure! When you go travelling, adventures happen along the way. So where would you like to travel to, eh?”

  Buckler was totally unprepared for the question. “Travel, er, I don’t know anyplace I could travel to.”

  Brang was ready with a suggestion. “It might be a nice idea to visit Clerun and Clarinna.”

  Buckler was uncertain. “But why?”

  The Badger Lord explained patiently. “Well, ’tis quite a few seasons since they went. I think they’d be pleased to see you. Who knows, they’ve probably got a family now. There’ll be young uns wanting to meet their uncle Buckler the Blademaster. I wager you’ll enjoy being an uncle—has a good ring to it, Uncle Buck!”

  Buckler scratched between his ears in bewilderment. “Whoa, slow down there, sir, me . . . an uncle?”

  Brang retrieved the sword from the door, then tossed it to the young hare. “Don’t stand there with your mouth open, laddie buck. There may be flies about.”

  Buckler did not know whether to smile or frown. “Forgive me. I’m just trying to get used to the idea. D’you really think I’ve become an uncle?”

  Lord Brang closed the damper on his forge fire. “I don’t see why not. A farmer and a farmer’s wife are bound to raise a family. They’ll need help about the place as they get older. Where exactly did they go to settle down, d’you know?”

  Buckler nodded. “A small valley southeast of Redwall. Clerun said he spotted it when he was with the Long Patrol. I think he liked it at first sight.”

  The big badger brightened visibly. “Southeast of the Abbey, you say. Splendid! You can do an errand for me. Wait there.”

  Hurrying over to an elaborate oak chest, Brang opened it. Rummaging about, he produced two coils of rope. “Take these to Abbess Marjoram—she’s a great friend of mine. Last time I was at Redwall, let me see, eight seasons back, Marjoram showed me around the place. I saw Matthias and Methuselah, the two Abbey bells, beautiful things, with wondrous tones. She allowed me to have a go at ringing them. Not such a good idea, as it turned out, me being so large and heavy-pawed. I pulled so hard that I snapped one of the bellropes. I felt so foolish, but the Abbess assured me that they were old ropes, long past their best. Brother Tollum, the Abbey Bellringer, repaired the broken rope. Before I left Redwall, I promised the Abbess that I would present her with two stout new bellropes. It took me all last winter, but I spliced these ropes myself. So, you will deliver these to Marjoram with my best wishes. I think they’ll please her.”

  The young hare inspected Lord Brang’s gifts. They were superbly made. Green and gold fibres had been plaited in an intricate weave. Each carried at their ends two pieces of weathered elmwood, cleverly carved and pierced to form tolling handles. Buckler ran his paw admiringly over them.

  “Wonderfully made, sir. These should last a few hundred seasons, eh!”

  Brang smiled broadly. “I take it you have decided to go travelling, then. Planning on going soon?”

  Buckler felt the prickle of excitement running through him. He strove to keep his voice level. “Would tomorrow morning after breakfast suit you, Lord?” He winced as the badger shook his paw warmly.

  “No better time, I’d say, my friend. Are you going alone? Mayhaps you’d do better to take a companion—always good to travel with a comrade. Might I suggest Subaltern Meliton Gubthorpe Digglethwaite?”

  Buckler chuckled. “Of course, good old Diggs. Though I wonder, who’s going to pull the cart?”

  Lord Brang looked puzzled. “What cart?”

  The young hare slotted his sword into the back scabbard he had designed so he could draw steel swiftly. The hilt showed over his left shoulder. “The cart we’ll need to carry Diggs’s vittles. Have you seen the amount of food that tubby rascal can shift?”

  Diggs was waiting for his friend in the crowded Mess Hall. He pointed to a small heap of supper set out close to him. “Wot ho there, Buck! Just about saved you some scoff, wot. Y’have t’be nippy with this famine-faced mob about. Tuck in, old lad. You must be jolly hungry, wot wot!”

  Buckler felt too exhilarated for food, but he kept calm, nibbling some salad and cheese. “Hmm. No plum duff tonight. That’s strange.”

  Diggs swiftly wiped crumbs from his tunic. “Er, there was only a smidgeon left, mis’rable little portion. Didn’t know you were fond of the bloomin’ duff, or I’d have jolly well saved you some, mate.”

  Buckler surveyed the empty bowls and platters lying about. “What happened to the apple crumble?”

  Diggs patted his bulging waistline. “Measly bit left. Had to eat it before it went cold.”

  Buckler tasted a crumb from an empty dish. “And the mushroom and cauliflower bake?”

  Diggs smiled guiltily. “Oh, that. No sense in lettin’ the confounded stuff go t’waste. Had to polish it off, I’m afraid. Sorry about that, old stick!”

  Buckler nodded as if in agreement with his gluttonous friend. “Hmm. Just as well, old chum. You’ll need it to keep your strength up for tomorrow.”

  Diggs captured a slice of his companion’s cheese. “Oh, y’don’t say. Why, what’s happenin’ on the morrow?”

  Buckler explained, “We’re travelling southeast, to my brother ’s farm.”

  Diggs spotted a scone doing nothing; he snatched it. “What? Y’mean the Long Patrol are out on a march?”

  Buckler tweaked his ear gently. “No, my old friend. Just you and I.”

  Diggs frowned as he demolished the scone. “Er, I’m no great shakes at all that trampin’ an’ marchin’ stuff, Buck. P’raps I’d best stay home an’ keep my blinkin’ eye on things, don’cha know, wot?”

  Buckler shook his head firmly. “Sorry, mate. It’s a direct order from the great Lord Brang. You’ve got to accompany me all the way there and back, no excuses. Those were his very words to me.”

  Diggs stared miserably around. There was no more food to be had. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Ah, well, lackaday, poor young me. Who am I, a mere Diggs of the ranks, to argue with a Badger Lord? He must’ve known you’d need a cool head, some reliable chap like me, to keep you out of trouble. Well, don’t worry, Buck m’laddo, I’ll blinkin’ well look after you!”

  It was difficult for Buckler to keep a straight face. However, he managed to shake his friend’s paw solemnly.

  “Lord Brang said I could rely on you. Thank you, my true and trusty comrade!”

  3

  On that shimmering summer noon, a traveller crossing the western plain toward Redwall might have viewed it as a haven of serenity. With Mossflower Wood’s verdant foliage as a backdrop, the ancient sandstone Abbey towered over its surroundings. The Belltower stood silent, awaiting eventide chimes as the sloping roofs and timeworn buttresses, old dormitory windows and long, stained-glass panels reflected the sun’s rays. Below, flower-bordered lawns and gardens spread from the huge main building, meandering round orchard and Abbey pool to the outer wall. Four high battlemented ramparts protected Redwall and its creatures. At the western threshold, stout oaken gates opened onto the path and ditch fronting the flatlands. Beyond those gates, the vision of tranquillity ground to a halt.

  Seated at a long table on the front lawn, a group of elders tried to withstand the noise and chaos raging about them. That good mouse, Marjoram, Mother Abbess of Redwall, had to yell to make herself heard above the din. She cast a pleading glance at her friend Ruark Boldstream, Skipper of Otters.

  “Please, can you not do something to stem this dreadful row, Skipper? I’m being driven out of my senses!”

  The trusty otter saluted. “Leave it t’me, marm!”

  Borrowing a hefty bung mallet from Cellarmole Gurjee, Skipper use
d the top of an empty October Ale barrel as a drum. Boom! Boom! Buboom!

  The thunderous alarm stopped everybeast instantly. Fiddle-scraping hedgehogs, flute-twiddling squirrels, a choir of mousemaids, a group of moles twanging banjo-like instruments and numerous solo performers practising their singing. Every Redwaller involved ceased all activities. In the sudden silence that followed, Skipper dealt the barrel one more good whack. Boom! The brawny otter launched straight into his announcement.

  “All rehearsals, an’ all ructious rows, will stop forthwith. D’ye hear me? If’n the noise starts up agin, then Abbess Marj will cancel the contest for the Bard o’ Redwall. Is that unnerstood? Now, sit down quietly, all of ye!”

  The Redwallers obeyed dutifully, everybeast turning to glare at a little vole, who, by accident, plumped himself down on the inflated bag of a bagpipe, causing it to wail. He lowered his eyes, muttering a hasty apology. With echoes still ringing in her ears, the Abbess stood up to speak.

  “Friends, we must get this event underway. So if you sit quietly, we’ll call the first contestant. Er, Granvy, do you have the list, please?”

  Granvy Shtuckle, an elderly hedgehog who served as Abbey Scribe and Recorder, began unrolling a long birch-bark parchment. He coughed importantly.

  “Ahem! Aye, marm, here ’tis. Right, it says here that Foremole Darbee will be first to sing!”

  Darbee was not expecting to be called first. Burying his snout in his big digging claws, he retreated behind the other contestants, complaining in the quaint mole accent, “Burr nay, ho no, not oi, zurr. Oi never did be a wishen t’sing in ee furst place. Oi bee’s too gurtly ’umble furr such ee thing, ho burr aye!”

  Irately, Granvy scratched Foremole’s name from the list. “I just knew something like this’d happen! Well, who’s going to perform first, eh? Speak up!”