Mattimeo (Redwall)

by Brian Jacques

  Tim Churchmouse came round from the south side of the Abbey, carrying baby Rollo Bankvole on his back.

  ‘Look, everybody, this ruffian has just beaten me to first place in the sack race.’

  They laughed aloud as baby Rollo flew a small paper kite on a string that he had been given as a prize by Cornflower. Basil Stag Hare took the infant upon his knee. He gave him a drink from his cider beaker and a bite of his pastie.

  ‘Right, Rollo you young rip. Let’s hear you sing for old Uncle Baz, wot?’

  Rollo willingly obliged, piping up in his gruff baby voice,

  ‘Fight a flagon an’ drink a dragon,

  Gizzard a lizard an’ split his blizzard,

  Ride a spider for good ol’ cider,

  Gooooood oooooold ciderrrrrrrr!’

  Suddenly Basil deposited the infant on the steps and shot up to the west ramparts. Mrs Lettie Bankvole was seen bustling across from the gatehouse doorway, where she had been folding napkins for the table.

  ‘Ooh, you villainous lop-eared troublemaker, just let me get my paws on you and I’ll make you sing a different tune.’ Basil stood on a battlement peak, trying to reason with the furious mother of Rollo.

  ‘But madam, I can assure you the little chap composes his own verses. Jolly good too, if you ask me. Top hole.’

  ‘How dare you! I’d take a switch to you if I were your mother.’

  ‘Fur forbid, ma’am. If you were my mater I’d chuck meself off the jolly old battlements and save you the trouble.’

  Mrs Lettie Bankvole straightened her pinafore frostily. ‘And don’t you sit there grinning, Ambrose Spike, you’re as much to blame as that excuse for a rabbit up there. Come here, baby Rollo, this instant!’

  The outraged mother swept her offspring up and hurried away, chiding him as she went.

  ‘Now don’t ever let me hear you singing that dreadful song again. Say you’re sorry for upsetting Mama.’

  Baby Rollo thought about this for a moment, then broke out into song lustily.

  ‘I’d roll a mole an’ squeeze a sparrow,

  Or shoot a rat wiv a big sharp arrow,

  For good ol’ bla-ha-ha-hack currant wiiiiiiine!’

  Basil descended the stairs, muttering to himself, ‘Inventive little wretch, must remember that verse, what was it? Strangle a mole with a great big marrow? Talented young blighter, wish we’d had him in the old fifty-seventh foot fighters’ mess.’

  As the bells tolled out, a chorus of mice could be heard singing around the grounds.

  ‘To table, to table and eat what you may,

  Come brothers, come sisters, come all.

  Be happy, be joyful, upon our feast day,

  Eight seasons of peace in Redwall.

  So sing from dusk to dawn

  And let the Abbey bells ring.

  The sun will bring the morn,

  And still we will merrily sing.’

  The sweet sounds floated out, fading on the warm evening air, as every woodlander and Redwall creature hastened to take their place at table for the long-awaited feast.

  Such festivity there never was!

  Eight long trestle tables had been laid in a sprawling octagon, covered in the finest white linen, overlaid with pastel-hued mats of woven rushes. Intricate flower arrangements trailed night-scented stock, roses, pansies, kingcups, jasmine, lupins and ferns at the junction of each table. Places were set out and named in neatly printed small scrolls, each of which doubled as a napkin. Bowls of hot scented flower waters steamed fragrantly, awaiting the advent of sticky paws. There was no top table or concession to rank, and the humblest sat alongside the greatest, squirrels rubbed paws with mice, others rubbed tails with voles, and moles tried not to rub shoulders with hedgehogs. Everything was perfect, except for the food. . . .

  That was beyond mere words.

  Salads of twelve different types, ranging from beetroot to radish, right through many varieties of lettuce and including fennel, dandelion, tomato, young onion, carrot, leek, corn – every sort of vegetable imaginable, cut, shredded, diced or whole. These were backed up with the cheeses, arranged in wedge patterns of red, yellow and white, studded with nuts, herbs and apple. Loaves were everywhere, small brown cobs with seeds on top, long white batons with glazed crusts, early harvest loaves shaped like cornstooks, teabread, nutbread, spicebread and soft flowerbread for infants. The drinks were set out in pitchers and ewers, some in open bowls with floating mint leaves, October ale, fresh milk, blackcurrant wine, strawberry cordial, nutbrown beer, raspberry fizz, elderberry wine, damson juice, herb tea and cold cider.

  Then there were the cakes, tarts, jellies and sweets. Raspberry muffins, blueberry scones, redcurrant jelly, Abbot’s cake, fruitcake, iced cake, shortbread biscuits, almond wafers, fresh cream, sweet cream, whipped cream, pouring cream, honeyed cream, custardy cream, Mrs Churchmouse’s bell tower pudding, Mrs Bankvole’s six-layer trifle, Cornflower’s gatehouse gateau, Sister Rose’s sweetmeadow custard with honeyglazed pears, Brother Rufus’s wildgrape woodland pie with quince and hazelnut sauce.

  To name but a few. . . .

  The rule was to start with what you liked and finish when you felt like. Nothing was stinted and everyone was to make sure that their neighbours either side of them enjoyed everything.

  ‘Hi, Tess, have some hot candied chestnuts.’

  ‘Thank you, Matt. Here, try some of this almond wafer topped with pink cream. I’ve just invented it and it’s lovely.’

  ‘Yurr, pass oi that troifle, oi dearly do luv troifle. Hurr, coom on, Abbot zurr, you’m b’aint ayten ’ardly a boit. Let oi ’elp you t’ summ o’ thiz yurr salad ’n’bread’n’ – cheese’n bell tower pudden.’

  ‘Oh er, all together? Thank you, Foremole, most kind. Have you tried my Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf cake?’

  ‘Strike me sails, Mordalfus, that’s a nice long name for a good-sized cake.’ Winifred commented. ‘Ho, it tastes ’andsome. Pass us the cider, matey.’

  ‘My, my, Basil, you’re not saying much.’

  ‘Mmmfff scrumff grumphhh. Action, laddie buck, that’s the ticket. Grmffff, munchmunch, slurrrp!’

  ‘Try some of my woodland pie, Matthias. By the fur, is that Basil behind the huge plateful over there?’

  ‘Thank you, Brother Rufus. A little more nutbrown beer for you? Haha, so it is. Every time his ears show over the top of that pile of food he shoves more on it. Oh dear, I’m sure he’ll explode before the evening’s out. Hi, Basil, steady on old lad.’

  ‘Grmmmfff, munch. Beg pardon, old mouse, can’t hear you. Must be me old war wound, snchhh, gulp! Oh no, it’s a stick of celery in me ear. How’d that get there, chompchomp, grumphhh!’

  The Abbot was upstanding now. He beat upon the table with a wooden ladle.

  ‘Silence, please. Give order and make way for Friar Hugo and the fish.’

  The carp was on a low wide trolley. Hugo would allow none to help. Proudly he pulled and tugged until he drew it up to the table. Fanning himself with the tail-held dockleaf, he regained his breath.

  ‘Abbot, the fish prayer, if you please.’

  The eating stopped. All sat in reverent silence as Mordalfus spread his paws over the carp and intoned:

  ‘Fur and whisker, tooth and claw,

  All who enter by our door.

  Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits,

  Berries, tubers, plants and roots,

  Silver fish whose life we take

  Only for a meal to make.’

  There was a loud and heartfelt ‘Amen’ from all.

  The Abbot gave the proceedings over to Hugo, and the fat little Friar cleared his throat.

  ‘Ahem, my friends, this year I have created for you a dish known as Carp Capitale. You will observe that I marinated my fish in a mixture of cider and dandelion extract. It has been grilled on a turning spit, skinned and laid in a slow-cooking mixture of cream and mushrooms with hotroot pepper, then garnished with flaked almond, mint leaves and chopped greens.’


  ‘Absolutely spiffin’. I say, Hugo, you old pan-walloper, d’you need a good steady-pawed fellow to help you t’ serve the old trout, wot wot?’

  Friar Hugo never blinked an eyelid, but there were titters and smothered giggles from every corner at Basil’s offer. Hugo addressed the Abbot:

  ‘Lord Abbot, before I serve you the first portion to taste, can I suggest jugged hare for our next banquet?’

  Basil’s ears stood straight up with indignation. ‘I say, steady in the ranks there. I wouldn’t be able to have any, doncha know.’

  Amid gales of unrestrained laughter, Abbot Mordalfus dug his fork into the delicious dish. A whisker’s-breadth away from his lips he stopped the loaded fork and said, ‘Friar Hugo, my most old and valued chef, I pronounce this dish totally excellent merely by the sight and aroma, knowing that when I actually taste it I will be lost for words.’

  A cheer went up at the Abbot’s gallant pronouncement. Hugo fanned himself furiously with pleasure at the compliment.

  Basil Stag Hare actually ate four portions, claiming that he had an otter ancestor somewhere in his family tree.

  Then the toasting started, led by Ambrose Spike. ‘I would like to toast all Redwall Abbots past, and in particular good old Mordalfus, our present Abbot.’

  ‘Yurr yurr, gudd owd M’dalfuzz.’

  ‘I would like to toast Matthias the Warrior, our champion,’ called out Brother Rufus.

  ‘Good egg, I’ll second that, old bean.’

  ‘I would like to toast our young ones, the hope of future seasons to come.’

  ‘Hear, hear, Cornflower. Well toasted.’

  ‘Ahem, as a retired regimental buffer, I’d like to toast anything on toast, cheese, mushrooms, what have you. . . .’

  ‘Oh, all right, Basil. Here’s to tomatoes on toast.’

  ‘I toast Mr Hare and Mr Spike.’

  ‘Sit down, baby Rollo, and drink your milk.’

  ‘Here’s to the otters and the squirrels.’

  ‘Bravo, here’s to the sparrows and the moles.’

  ‘To Redwall Abbey.’

  ‘To Mossflower Woods.’

  The toasts flew fast and thick. Laughter, song, good food, sufficient drink and friendly company were making it a feast to remember.

  Then Slagar the Cruel knocked upon the door of Redwall Abbey.

  10

  SLAGAR TURNED TO the group at the cart. They had been watching him banging fruitlessly upon the main gate.

  ‘They’ll never hear you, Chief,’ Wartclaw ventured. ‘We’ll have to think of some other way to distract them.’

  Slagar’s paw was numb from hitting the woodwork. ‘We? You mean me, don’t you? Here, Skinpaw, sing that song. Halftail, get that little drum from the cart and beat it. Scringe, there’s a flute in the cart. See if you can get a tune out of it.’

  Skinpaw was the only one of the slavers who had actually been in a travelling show. Filling his lungs, he began singing the song of strolling performers, in a cracked voice.

  ‘Lalalalalalala, we travel from afar,

  Derrydown dill, over vale and hill.

  We camp beneath the stars.

  Lalalalalalala, good fortune to you, sir.

  The strolling players bring to you

  Magic from everywhere. . . .’

  Skinpaw shrugged at Slagar. ‘Chief, that’s all I know, I’ve forgotten the rest.’

  The sly one swirled his cloak impatiently. ‘Then sing it over and over again. You two, try to pick up the tune on the flute and drum,. The rest of you, tumble about in the road and join Skinpaw on the “Lalala” bits.’

  Slagar kept his eye against a joint that was slightly open in the solid gate timbers.

  The entire troupe went through the routine several times. Slagar waved his paw encouragingly at them.

  ‘Keep it up, louder, louder! I can see they’ve heard us, they’re coming across the grounds. Keep it up, keep going.’

  The hooded fox leapt aboard the cart. Crouching, he covered himself with a pile of old coloured wagon sheeting.

  There was a scraping of drawbars and bolts, and the door opened partially as Matthias came out on to the path, followed by Constance the badger and Ambrose Spike. They stood awhile, watching the performers, then Matthias called out. ‘Hey there. What can we do for you?’

  ‘Send ’em on their way, scruffy bunch of ragbags,’ Ambrose Spike snorted.

  ‘Ambrose, don’t be so ill mannered!’ Constance nudged him sharply. ‘We can at least be civil to travellers. Leave the talking to Matthias and myself.’

  Slagar bounded up in a whirl of coloured cloth. Leaping over the edge of the cart, he landed on the path, twirling his cape this way and that.

  ‘Happy Midsummer Eve to you, my lords,’ he said, doing his level best to keep his grating voice light and cheerful. ‘You see before you a band of strolling entertainers, foolish fellows and peace-loving buffoons. We travel the roads merely to bring you songs, stories, tumbling and leaping, comical antics to amuse you and your families. Where do we come from? No creature knows, except I, Stellar Lunaris, master of the moon and stars.’

  The fox whirled round and round, showing the lining of his cape, the silk shimmering and twinkling in the hot summer twilight on the dusty roadway.

  Constance relaxed slightly. Only a band of travelling players. Her keen old eyes checked the ditch that ran west of the path for signs of others hidden there. It was clear.

  Before he could be stopped, Ambrose Spike called out, ‘And what will it cost us, this magical entertainment?’

  Slagar stopped the cloak revolving and spread his paws. ‘A crust from your grand table, maybe a drink of cool water and the safety of your Abbey walls so that my friends and I can sleep without fear through the night. Oh, do not worry, good creatures. We will sleep upon the grass out here if you fear us.’

  Matthias the Warrior of Redwall stepped forward, rubbing his paw across the red pommel stone of the wondrous sword he carried sheathed at his side.

  ‘We fear no creature. Redwall buried its foes many seasons back. Stay here a moment, I would talk with my friends.’

  The trio drew back into the gateway, where groups of curious revellers had left the table and were peering round the gates. ‘Well, what d’you think, Warrior?’ Constance asked in a low voice. ‘They look harmless enough to me, even though they are led by a fox.’

  Matthias pursed his lips. ‘Hmm, the rest are weasels, stoats and ferrets. Nothing that we can’t cope with. They’d be outnumbered at least fifteen to one inside Redwall, and they don’t seem to have any hidden army waiting to spring out in ambush on us. I think they look ragged but harmless enough.’

  Behind them the young ones were eagerly craning their necks, calling out excitedly. ‘Hurray! Clowns and tumblers. Oh, can we see them Constance?’

  ‘Look, there’s a magic one. Ooh, see his cloak!’

  Vitch was leading the youngest in a chant. ‘We want to see, we want the show. . . !’

  Basil Stag Hare pushed his way though to Matthias. He was chuckling indulgently and waving his ears for silence.

  ‘Steady on, chaps, haw haw! A jolly old concert party, wot? Don’t be an old stick in the mud, Constance. Let the blighters in, as long as they don’t pull rabbits out of hats.’

  Constance shook her big striped head from side to side doubtfully. The chanting broke out even louder. Finally she winked at Matthias and nodded to the hooded fox.

  ‘Oh all right! Come on then, you youngsters, move aside and let me open the gates, otherwise these tumblers won’t be able to get in.’

  The young ones gave a great cheer.

  Slagar was impressed with the long tunnel of arched sandstone. It denoted the massive thickness of the Abbey walls. The travelling troupe looked around at the great Abbey of Redwall standing in its own grounds, the magnificent alfresco feast lit by the flames from the baking pit. This was a place of riches and plenty.

  They were patted down by Abbey dwellers searching for
arms. Slagar shook his head sadly, ‘Alas, these are untrusting times we live in.’

  Abbot Mordalfus bowed courteously. ‘Merely a precaution, friend. The feast is far from over yet. Kindly come and sit with us at table. There is plenty for all.’

  The silken hood quivered as Slagar wiped away an imaginary tear.

  ‘Such hospitality and kindness, thank you, sir. My friends and I will repay you by putting on an extra special performance for you and your good creatures.’

  As they moved over to the table, nobody noticed Vitch slip a small scroll to Slagar. The sly one secreted it beneath his voluminous cape.

  Wartclaw crept up behind Skinpaw with a jug of water poised to throw at him. A ferret named Deadnose who stood facing Skinpaw was juggling three balls, unaware that Wartclaw was about to drench Skinpaw with the water.

  The youngsters squirmed with glee as they shouted out, ‘Look out, he’s behind you!’

  ‘Who, what did you say?’ Skinpaw wrinkled his false red nose and grinned a silly grin.

  ‘Ooooh, look out, he’s behind you!’

  Deadnose dropped one of the balls he was juggling. Skinpaw bent to pick it up at the exact moment that Wartclaw flung the water from the jug at him. The youngsters roared with laughter as Deadnose was drenched instead of Skinpaw.

  Scringe darted in with a large floppy wooden clapper. He swung it and smacked Wartclaw across the bottom with a loud comic slap. Wartclaw whooped with surprise, dropped the jug and stepped in it by accident, getting his paw stuck inside. They ran off with Wartclaw hop-skipping, clumpetty thump, the jug fixed on his paw, while Scringe followed up, whacking his bottom with the clapper.

  All the inhabitants of Redwall laughed merrily. Abbot Mordalfus held his sides as he chuckled to Basil, ‘Ohohoho, I knew that juggler would get drenched, hahaha. Oh, look, the red-nosed fellow is eating one of the juggling balls, hee hee hee. It was an apple all the time, ohahaha!’