Mattimeo (Redwall) Read online

  Mattimeo was panting heavily. He tried to break free, but Jess shook him soundly by the scruff.

  ‘Be still you little ruffian, or I’ll tan your hide!’ she warned him.

  Sam held tight to the other mouse, Vitch, who looked more like a rat, small though he was. Vitch was not struggling. He looked quite relieved that the fight had been stopped.

  John Churchmouse strode firmly between them. ‘Now then, what’s all this about, eh?’

  ‘He called me a skinny little rat.’

  ‘He said I was not a warrior’s son.’

  ‘He pulled my tail and he jumped on me and bit me an—’

  ‘Silence!’

  Every creature present froze at the booming growl of a huge grey female badger. Constance, the mother of all Redwall, stood high on her hind legs, towering above them. Folding her front paws judiciously, she glared down at the two small miscreants.

  ‘Vitch, is it? Well, Vitch, you are a newcomer to our Abbey, but that is no excuse for fighting. We are peaceable creatures at Redwall. Violence is never the answer to a quarrel. What have you got to say for yourself?’

  The ratlike mouse wiped a smear of blood from his snout.

  ‘It was Mattimeo,’ he whined piteously. ‘He hit me first, I wasn’t doing anything, I was just. . . .’

  Vitch’s faltering excuses faded to a whimper under the badger’s stern gaze. She pointed a blunt paw at him.

  ‘Go to the kitchens. Tell Friar Hugo that I sent you. He will set you to sweeping floors and scrubbing pans. I will not have fighting in the Abbey, nor whimpering, whingeing and trying to put the blame upon others. Brother Rufus, take him along, see he delivers my message to Friar Hugo properly.’

  Vitch looked as if he were about to dodge off, until Brother Rufus caught him firmly by the ear and marched him away.

  ‘Come on, young Vitch, greasy pots and floor scrubbing will do you the world of good.’

  ‘Owowooch, leggo, you big bully,’ Vitch protested. ‘You’re pulling my ear off!’

  When Vitch had gone, Constance turned upon the other culprit. Jess had released Mattimeo. He stood shamefaced, kicking at a clump of turf, looking down at his paws. He did not see the nod which passed between his mother and Constance. Cornflower was giving her silent permission to the badger; Mattimeo was in for a dressing-down.

  ‘Son of Matthias the Warrior, look at me!’ Constance commanded.

  Sheepishly the young mouse gazed upward until he was staring into Constance’s unblinking dark eyes. The onlookers stood silent as the matriarch gave the young mouse a piece of her mind.

  ‘Mattimeo, this is not the first time I have had cause to speak with you. I am not going to ask you for an explanation because in this case I do not think you could justify yourself. Vitch is a newcomer, hardly arrived here. You were born at Redwall, you know the rules of our Abbey: to live in peace with others, never to harm another creature needlessly, to comfort, assist, and be kind to all.’

  Mattimeo’s lip quivered, he looked as if he were about to speak, but the badger’s stern gaze silenced him.

  ‘Today you took it upon yourself to attack another creature who is a guest in our home,’ Constance continued, her voice an accusing knell. ‘You, the son of my old friend Matthias the Warrior, who fought to bring peace to Mossflower. Mattimeo, I will not give you any tasks to do as a punishment. The sorrow and worry you cause your mother and the shame you bring down upon your father are the penalties that will rest on your own head. Go now and speak with your father.’

  Mattimeo’s head drooped low as he stumbled off.

  Tess, Tim and Sam Squirrel kept silent. They knew that every word Constance spoke was the truth. Mattimeo’s middle name should have been trouble.

  4

  THE NEW MOON was up. It hung like a fresh-minted coin in a still, doudless sky of midnight blue. Moths fluttered vainly upward, only to drift spiralling down to the grass-carpeted woodland floor. The trees stood like timeless sentinels. Somewhere a nightjar serenaded the soft darkness.

  Threeclaws was alert at his sentry post. He spied the figure of Vitch approaching and gave a low whistle.

  The undersized rat looked up. ‘Where’s Slagar and the others?’ he asked.

  Threeclaws pointed with his dagger. ‘Inside the church. What’ve you been doing to yourself?’

  ‘Keep your snout out of my business, fatty,’ said Vitch, dodging nimbly past Threedaws into the church.

  Weasels and a few ferrets and stoats lay about sleeping on the floor. Slagar sat with his back against the painted cart. He scowled at Vitch.

  ‘You took your time getting here, what in the name of the fang kept you?’

  Vitch flung himself wearily on a tattered hassock. ‘Washing dirty pots and greasy pans, scrubbing floors and generally getting meself knocked about.’

  Slagar crouched forward. ‘Never mind all that. I put you in there to do a job. When is the feast to begin?’

  ‘Oh that. One more moonrise, then the early evening following.’

  ‘Right, did you fix the bolts on the small north wallgate?’ asked Slagar.

  ‘Of course. That was the first thing I attended to. They’re well greased and fit for a quick getaway. You can keep that Redwall place, Slagar, I’m not goin’ back there again.’

  ‘Oh, why’s that, Vitch?’ The fox’s voice was dangerously gentle.

  ‘Huh, it was hard enough tryin’ to pass meself off as a mouse. That young one, wotsisname? Matty something – he smelt a rat right away. I had a fight with the little nuisance. He’s strong as an otter. Then I was pulled up by a big badger. She gave me a right old tellin’ off. Peaceful creatures, my front teeth! I was lugged off and made to scrub dirty pots for some fat old cook. He had me up to my tail in greasy dishwater, standin’ over me and makin’ me scour and cl—’

  ‘Ah shut your trap and stop snivelling, rat. This little mouse, was he called Mattimeo, son of Matthias the Warrior?’

  ‘Aye, that’s him, but how do you know?’

  Slagar touched the red silk skull cover, baring his fangs viciously. ‘Never mind how I know. He’s the one we’ll be taking away with us, him and any others we can lay our paws on.’

  Vitch brightened up. ‘Maybe I’ll get a few minutes alone with Mattimeo after we make our getaway, when he’s chained up good and proper.’

  Slagar watched the small rat’s face approvingly. ‘Ha, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Heehee, like it, I’d love it!’ Vitch’s eyes shone malevolently.

  The fox leaned closer. ‘Vengeance, that’s the word. I tell you, rat, there’s nothing in the world like the moment when you have your enemy helpless and you can take revenge.’

  Vitch was puzzled. ‘I can’t imagine a little mouse like that being able to hurt you, sly one. What did he do that you seek revenge upon him?’

  Slagar had a faraway look in his eyes and beneath the mask his breath hissed roughly.

  ‘It was his father, the Warrior, that big badger too – in fact, it was all the creatures at Redwall who hurt me. The little one was not even born then, but I know how they all dote on him. He is the son of their warrior, the hope of the future. I can kill a lot of birds with one stone by taking Mattimeo. You couldn’t imagine the agonies they’d go through if he went missing. You see, I know the woodlanders of that Abbey. They love their young and they’d rather be made captive themselves than have anything happen to their precious little ones. This is what will make my revenge all the sweeter.’

  Suddenly Vitch stretched a paw towards Slagar’s masked face. ‘Did they do that to you, is that why you have to wear a mask over your head, why don’t you take it o— Aaaarrrggghh!’

  Slagar seized Vitch’s paw and bent it savagely backwards. ‘Don’t you ever dare put your grubby paw near my face again, or I’ll snap it clean off and make you eat it, rat! Now get back to that Abbey and keep your eyes open. Make sure you know exactly where that young mouse is at all times, so that I can put my paw on him whe
n the moment arrives.’

  He released Vitch and the small rat huddled on the ground, sobbing. Slagar spat on him contemptuously. ‘Get up, misery guts. If you’re still lying there in a moment, you’ll feel my sword. That really will give you something to moan about.’

  Vitch picked himself up slowly and painfully. Next moment he was sent hurtling by a kick on the behind from Slagar.

  ‘Garn! Get yourself out of my sight, you snivelling snotface.’

  Vitch departed hastily, leaving Slagar to take his ease once more. The Cruel One lay back, all thoughts of sleep banished by one word which echoed around his twisted mind like an eerie melody.

  Revenge!

  5

  MATTHIAS THE WARRIOR of Redwall stood with his back to the empty fireplace. Cornflower had gone out early to help with the baking. Golden morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the small gatehouse cottage, glinting off the dewy fruit piled upon the table. There was a pitcher of cold dder, some cheeses and a fresh-baked loaf set out for breakfast but Matthias lacked the appetite to do it justice and stared miserably about the room. It was neat and cheerful, which did not reflect the Warrior’s mood.

  There was a knock on the door.

  ‘Come in please,’ he called, straightening up.

  The Foremole entered, tipping the top of his black velvet furred head with a huge digging claw. He wrinkled his button nose in a wide smile that almost made his bright little eyes vanish.

  ‘Gudd morn to you’m, Mattwise, yurr. Uz moles be diggen a cooker pit t’day. May’aps you’ud loik to ’elp?’

  Matthias smiled fondly. He patted his old friend’s back, knowing the mole had come to cheer him up.

  ‘Thank you for the offer, Foremole. Unfortunately I have other more serious business to attend this morning. Hmm, that sounds like it in the next room, just getting out of bed. Will you excuse me, my friend?’

  ‘Hurr hurr, ee be a roight laddo, yurr young Mattee. Doant wack ’im too ’ard naow,’ Foremole chuckled, and left to join his crew.

  Matthias had been far too angry to deal with his son on the previous afternoon, so he sent him straight off to bed without tea or supper. Now the Warrior stood facing the bedroom door, watching the tousled head of his son peer furtively round the door jamb.

  Seeing his father, he hesitated.

  ‘Come in, son.’ The Warrior curled a paw at him.

  The young mouse entered, gazing hungrily at the laden breakfast table before turning to face his father. Sternness had replaced the previous day’s anger on the Warrior’s face.

  ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Mattimeo?’

  ‘’m sorry,’ Mattimeo mumbled.

  ‘I should hope you are.’

  ‘’m very sorry,’ Mattimeo mumbled again.

  ‘Foremole said I should whack you. What do you think?’

  ‘’m very very sorry. ‘t won’t happen again, Dad.’

  Matthias shook his head, and placed a paw on his son’s shoulder.

  ‘Matti, why do you do these things? You hurt your mother, you hurt me, you hurt all our friends. You even get your own little pals into trouble. Why?’

  Mattimeo stood tongue-tied. What did they all want? He had apologized, said he was very sorry, in fact, he would never do it again. Jess Squirrel, his mother, Constance, they had all given him a stern telling-off. Now it was his father’s turn. Mattimeo knew that the moment he set paw out of doors he would be spotted, probably by Abbot Mordalfus, and that would mean another stern lecture.

  Matthias watched his son carefully. Beneath the sorrowful face and drooping whiskers he could sense a smouldering rebellion, resentment against his elders.

  Turning to the wall over the fireplace, Matthias lifted down the great sword from its hangers. This was the symbol of his rank, Warrior of Redwall. It was also the only thing that could command his son’s total attention. Matthias held the weapon out.

  ‘Here, Matti, see if you can wield it yet.’

  The young mouse took the great sword in both paws. Eyes shining, he gazed at the hard black bound handle with its red pommel stone, the stout crosstree hilt and the magnificent blade. It shone like snowfire, edges sharp and keen as a midwinter blizzard, the tip pointed like a thistle spike.

  Once, twice, he tried to swing it above his head. Both times he faltered, failing because of the sword’s weight.

  ‘Nearly, Father, I can nearly swing it.’

  Matthias took the weapon from his son. With one paw he hefted it then swung it aloft. Twirling it, whirling it, until the air sang with the thrum of the deadly, wonderful blade. Up, down and around it swung, coming within a hair’s-breadth of Mattimeo’s head. Turning, Matthias snicked a stalk from an apple, sliced the loaf without touching the table and almost carelessly flicked the rind from the cheese. Finally Matthias gave the sword a powerful twist into the warrior’s salute, bringing the blade to rest with its point quivering in the floor.

  Admiration for the Warrior of Redwall danced in his son’s eyes. Matthias could not help smiling briefly.

  ‘One day you will be the one who takes my place, son. You will grow big and strong enough to wield the sword, and I will train you to use it like a real warrior. But it is only a sword, Mattimeo. It does not make you a warrior merely because you carry it. Weapons may be carried by creatures who are evil, dishonest, violent or lazy. The true Warrior is good, gentle and honest. His bravery comes from within himself, he learns to conquer his own fears and misdeeds. Do you understand me?’

  Mattimeo nodded. Matthias grew stern once more.

  ‘Good, I am glad you do. I will not whack you. I have never laid a paw on you yet and I do not intend starting now. However, you attacked little Vitch and you must pay for that, one way or another. At first I thought I should refuse you permission to attend the celebrations. . . .’

  Matthias watched the shock and disbelief on his son’s face before continuing.

  ‘But I have decided that you may go, providing you run straightaway to the kitchens. There you will ask Friar Hugo to allot you double the tasks he gave to Vitch yesterday. When you have finished working for the Friar you will offer to help your mother with the gathering of flowers until such time as she decides to free you of your task. Is that clear?’

  Mattimeo’s face was a picture of disbelief. He, the son of the Redwall Warrior, working! Never before had he been asked, much less ordered, to carry out Abbey tasks. The young mouse considered himself the inheritor of his father’s sword and duties. As such, he was firmly convinced that he was above any type of pan-scrubbing or daisy-gathering. Even Constance knew that. She had sentenced Vitch to hard labour, but even she did not dare tell the future Champion to dirty his paws with menial chores. Besides, Vitch would be finished his tasks by now. He could stand about and gloat at the sight of his enemy ordered to perform double the work and more.

  Matthias watched his son’s face. Now was the testing time. Would he behave like the spoilt little creature who had been indulged all his life by the Abbey dwellers, or would he show a bit of character?

  The young mouse swallowed hard, nodding his head. ‘I’ll do as you have asked, Dad.’

  Matthias clapped him heartily on the back. ‘Good mouse. That’s the mark of a Warrior in training, obedience. Off you go now!’

  Morning sunlight stencilled the high window shapes in soft pink relief on the sandstone floor of Great Hall as Mattimeo passed through on his way to the kitchens. He felt the fur on his shoulders prickle slightly, as if some beast were watching him from behind. Turning slowly, he faced the west wall. No creature was there. The hall was empty, save for the picture of Martin the Warrior upon the Redwall tapestry. Mattimeo often had this same experience when he was alone and near the large woven cloth. He drew closer, standing in front of the magnificent armoured mouse’s likeness. Martin the Warrior looked big and strong. He held the famous sword easily in his right paw, a smile upon his broad honest face, and behind him the images of bygone enemies fled in fear
as if trying to escape from the tapestry. The young mouse’s eyes glowed in admiration of his hero. He spoke to Martin, not knowing that his father Matthias had done the same thing when he was young.

  ‘I could feel you watching me, Martin. I’m just on my way to do penance in the kitchens, but you probably know that. I didn’t mean to disobey my parents or cause them unhappiness. You can understand that, can’t you? I had to fight Vitch because he said things about my father. He thought I was scared of him, but I am the son of a warrior and I could not let him insult my family. If my father knew the truth of it all he would not have punished me, but, well, he’s my father, you see. I can’t explain things properly to him. You’re different, Martin, you understand how I feel.’

  Mattimeo shuffled his paws on the stones beneath Martin’s never changing expression.

  ‘You know, sometimes you’re just like my father. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll try to be a better mouse. I promise not to fight or get into any more trouble or worry my parents again.’

  He turned and shuffled sulkily toward the kitchens, muttering as he went, ‘I wish there was another Great War, then I’d show ’em. Huh! They’d be glad of young mice that could fight then. I wouldn’t be sent off to scour pans. They’d probably have to give me a medal or something like that.’

  The smile upon the face of the tapestry warrior seemed to be gentler as the immobile eyes watched the small habit-clad figure descend the steps of Cavern Hole.

  Friar Hugo was absolute ruler in the vast kitchens of Redwall. He was the fattest mouse in the Abbey and wore a white apron over his habit. Hugo always carried a dockleaf in his tail, which he waved about busily, fanning himself, rubbing it upon a scorched paw, or holding it like a visor across his forehead as he peered down into steaming, bubbly pots. Mattimeo stood by, awaiting orders, whilst Hugo checked his lists, issuing instructions to his staff of helpers.

  ‘Mmmm, let me see, that’s six large raspberry seed-cakes. We need four more. Brother Sedge, quickly, take that pan of cream from the flames before it boils over. You can add the powdered nutmeg and whisk it in well. Sister Agnes, chop those young onions and add the herbs to the woodland stew. Er, what’s this? Ten flagons of cold strawberry cordial. That’ll never do, we need twice that many. Here, young Matti, nip down to the cellars and fill more flagons from the barrels. Ambrose Spike’s down there, so you won’t need the keys.’