Mattimeo (Redwall) Read online

  Though the cooking smells were extra delicious, Mattimeo was glad to be out of the steamy heat and bustle of the kitchen for a while. He saluted the Friar smartly and ran off, dodging mice, hedgehogs, voles and squirrels, all carrying trays, pots, platters and bowls.

  The Abbey cellars were peacefully dim and cool. Unwittingly Mattimeo surprised old Ambrose Spike. The cellar keeper was pouring a bowl of October ale, blowing the froth from the top before he drank. As he dipped his snout, Mattimeo said ‘’scuse me please, Friar Hugo said I was t—’

  The ancient hedgehog choked and sneezed, spraying Mattimeo with ale as he whirled around.

  ‘Pahcoochawww! Don’t sneak up on me like that, young Matti. Hold still a moment, will you.’

  Ambrose drained the bowl. Regaining his composure, he stared at the froth lying in the bottom of his sampling bowl.

  ‘Harr, wunnerful! Though I do say it meself, no creature brews October ale like the Spike family. Now, what can I do for you, mousey?’

  ‘Friar says I’ve got to fill more flagons of strawberry cordial, sir.’

  ‘Oh, right, barrels are through in the next section,’ Ambrose told him, ‘the ones marked pink, flagons against the wall as y’go in. Careful now, don’t disturb the little casks of elderberry and blackcurrant wine or they’ll go cloudy.’

  As Mattimeo wandered into the next section, he was hailed.

  ‘Psst, Matt, ssshhhh, over here!’

  It was Tim and Tess and Sam Squirrel. Mattimeo tip-pawed over.

  ‘What are you three doing down here?’

  Tess Churchmouse stifled a giggle. ‘We slipped past Ambrose while he was dozing. Come and have some cold strawberry cordial, it’s scrummy.’

  The trio had prised the bung from a barrel that lay on its side. They used long hollow reeds as drinking straws, dipping them down into the liquid and sucking up the sparkling ice-cold strawberry juice.

  Tess gave Mattimeo a straw, and he could not resist joining them.

  Cold strawberry cordial becomes sickly when drunk too freely. Matt, Tess, Tim and Sam soon found this out, and they lay back awhile and rested. Later, the two churchmice and the young squirrel helped Mattimeo to fill the flagons. Together they bore them up to the kitchens.

  Ambrose Spike raised his snout from a bowl of nutbrown beer as they passed through his cellar. ‘Mmmm, ’s funny, there was only one of ’em here before,’ he muttered.

  Friar Hugo was working flat out now. There was still more than enough to be done before the feast.

  ‘You there, Billum Mole, can you dig me a nice neat tunnel through the middle of that big marrow?’

  ‘Hurr, gaffer, oi serpintly can. Pervidin’ oi can eat it as oi goes along.’

  ‘Righto, carry on. Oh, there you are, young Matti. Now take your friends along to the larder. I want two small white cheeses flavoured with sage, two large red cheeses with beechnut and rosemary and one of the extra large yellow cheeses with acorn and apple bits. Be very careful how you roll the extra large yellow, don’t go knocking any creature down or breaking furniture.’

  The four chums dashed off whooping, ‘Hurray, we’re going to roll the cheeses!’

  Abbot Mordalfus cut a comical sight for so dignified a figure. He was up to his whiskers in fresh cream, candied peel, nuts and wild plums.

  Friar Hugo dusted off the Abbot’s face with his dockleaf as he passed. ‘Ha, there you are, Alf. Well, how’s the special Redwall Abbot’s cake coming along?’

  Old Mordalfus chewed thoughtfully on some candied peel. ‘Very well, thank you, Hugo. Though I still suspect it lacks something. What d’you think?’

  Hugo dipped his dockleaf into the mix and tasted it. ‘Hmmm, see what you mean, Alf. If I were you, I’d put some redcurrant jelly in to make it look more like an Abbot’s cake. Doesn’t hurt to cheat a little. After all, you’re only going by Abbot Saxus’s recipe, and that’s a matter of taste. Yes, put more redcurrant in and we’ll name it Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf cake.’

  The Abbot dusted flour from his paws, smiling proudly. ‘What a good idea. Hi there, Matthias, where are you off to?’

  The Warrior of Redwall was carrying two fishing lines and bait. Dodging a pair of moles who scurried past with a trolleyful of steaming bilberry muffins, he called across, ‘Don’t you remember, Abbot, we were supposed to be going fishing in the Abbey pool for our annual centrepiece?’

  Mordalfus clapped a floury paw to his brow. ‘Goodness me, so we were. I’ll be right with you, my son.’

  Matthias peered about in the activity and bustle. ‘Friar Hugo, have you seen Mattimeo?’

  ‘Indeed I have, Matthias. The young feller’s a great help to me. Haha, I’ve sent him and his pals to roll cheeses out. That’ll keep them busy. Constance Badger is the only one large and strong enough to deal with a big yellow cheese, and I’ve told them to roll one out, hahaha. I’d love to see how they do that.’

  Matthias winked at the Friar ‘Don’t laugh too soon, Hugo. I’ve got news that’ll wipe the smile from your whiskers. Basil Stag Hare has just arrived. I let him in the main gate not a minute ago. He says that he’s been on a long patrol over the west plain and hasn’t had decent food in three sunrises. Oh, he also said to tell you he’s appointed himself official sampler.’

  Matthias and Abbot Mordalfus left the kitchens with all speed. Friar Hugo was speechless at the news, but only momentarily. His fat little body puffed and swelled with indignation almost to bursting point. As they hurried across Great Hall, Hugo’s outraged squeaks followed them.

  ‘What? Never! I’m not having any retired regimental glutton feeding his face in my kitchens. Oh no! Why, the skinny great windbag, he’ll eat us out of storeroom and larder before sunset, then, fur forbid, he’ll meet up with that Ambrose Spike and start sampling the barrels. We’ll have to tell the young ones to cover their ears when those two get to singing their barrack-room ballads and wild woodland ditties. Oh my nerves, I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it.’

  Cornflower and Mrs Churchmouse were carrying a bundle of roses across the Abbey grounds. The blooms ranged from white, right through the shades of yellow, intermixed with lilacs, pinks, carmines and crimsons, to the rich dark purples. Suddenly they were confronted and relieved of their burdens by a lanky old hare whose patchwork-hued fur defied description. His swaying lop ears twitched and bent at the most ridiculous angles as he bowed, making a deep elegant leg to the two mice.

  ‘Allow me, laydeez, wot wot? Two handsome young fillies totin’ all this shrubbery, doesn’t bear thinkin’ about, eh,’ he said gallantly. ‘Basil Stag Hare at y’ service, gels. Hmmm, my my, is that cookin’ I smell? Ha, old Hugo burnin’ somethin’ tasty, I’ll be bound. I say, d’you mind awfully if I leave you two ravin’ beauties to carry all these lovely roses, charmin’ picture. Must go now, investigatin’, doncha know. See you later, after tiffin, p’raps. Toodle pip now!’

  Cornflower and Mrs Churchmouse collapsed in tucks of laughter as the odd hare shot off in the direction of Friar Hugo’s kitchen.

  ‘Oh hahaheeehee! Good old Basil, ohoohoohoo! There’ll be fur flying in the kitchens soon. Hahahahohoho!’ Cornflower gasped.

  ‘Heeheehee! Oh my ribs, did you see the way he dropped the roses when he smelt food. Haha, he’s a stomach on four legs, that feller,’ Mrs Churchmouse chortled.

  Foremole and his crew looked up from the roasting pit they were digging. Wiping paws on fur and blowing soil from their snouts, they chuckled and slapped each other’s backs.

  ‘Hohurr hurr, ee be a champeen scoffer that un, oi never seed narthin so ’ungered atop or below soil. Ee Froiyer’ll wack ’im proper wi’ ladlespoon on m’ead, you’m see if ee doant, hurrhurr.’

  Resounding with the noise of busy creatures and laughter, mixing with the smell of woodsmoke and cooking aromas, the sunlit afternoon stretched into warm windless eventide, turning the red sandstone Abbey walls a rosy hue with the speckle of golden dust motes drifting lazily on the rays of the setting sun.


  6

  SLAGAR SORTED THE odd jumble of performers’ clothing from the bed of the painted cart, throwing appropriate outfits to the chosen actors of his travelling troupe.

  ‘Fleaback, Bageye, Skinpaw, you’ll be the tumblers, share that lot out between you.’

  ‘But Chief. . . .’ Fleaback protested.

  ‘And no complaints, d’you hear!’

  ‘Here, give me those yellow pawsocks, you.’

  ‘Huh, you can have ’em, they look daft.’

  ‘They’re supposed to look daft, thickhead,’ Slagar explained. ‘I said no complaints. Come over here, Hairbelly. You’ll be the balancer. Try this on. Oh, and don’t forget to put the ball sticky side down on your nose, otherwise it’ll fall off. Let’s see how you look.’

  ‘Arr Chief, I was the balancer last time. Can I do the rope tricks this time?’

  ‘No you can’t. Leave that to Wartclaw, he’s best at it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m fed up with this already,’ Hairbelly grumbled. ‘Look, this tunic doesn’t fit me. Besides I can’t sing.’

  Slagar was upon the unlucky weasel, dagger drawn. ‘You’ll sing a pretty tune if I tickle your eyeballs with this blade, bucko. Listen, all of you, one more moan from anyone and I’ll dump the lot of you back out upon the road, where you came from. You can go back to being the starving tramps and beggars you were before I took the trouble to form you into a proper slaving band. Now is that understood?’

  There was a subdued mutter. Slagar dropped the knife and grabbed a sword. ‘I said, is that understood?’

  There was a loud chorus of ayes this time, as the silken hood was beginning to suck in and out rapidly, denoting Slagar’s mounting temper.

  Hairbelly was a little slower than the rest, still unhappy with his role as the balancer.

  ‘It’s still not fair though, Chief,’ he piped up. ‘You’ll probably only be standing about, watching, tomorrow night while we do all the work.’

  Slagar seemed to ignore him for a moment. Turning to the cart, he whipped out a swirling silk cloak. It was decorated with the same design as his headcover, and the lining was black silk, embellished with gold and silver moon and star symbols. Twirling it expertly, he threw it around his body, leaping nimbly on to a row of pews. Then Slagar spread his paws wide in a theatrical gesture.

  ‘I will be Lunar Stellaris, light and shadow, hither and thither like the night breeze, presiding over all. Lord of Mountebanks, now you see me. . . .’ He dropped out of sight behind the pews, calling, ‘And now you don’t!’

  The audience strained forward to see where he had hidden himself. Slagar was gone from behind the pews.

  Suddenly, as if by magic, he reappeared in the midst of his band. Right alongside Hairbelly.

  ‘Haha, Lunar Stellaris, Lord of light and dark. But to those who disobey my word I am Slagar the Cruel, Master of life and death.’

  Before Hairbelly could blink an eye, Slagar had run him through with his sword. The stricken weasel stared at Slagar in surprise and disbelief, then he looked down at the sword protruding from his middle and staggered as his eyes misted over.

  Slagar laughed, an evil, brutal snigger. ‘Take this fool outside and let him die there. We don’t want his blood in here. Now, any one of you scum that wants to join him, just let me know!’

  The morning of Redwall’s feasting dawned misty at first light. Abbot Mordalfus and Matthias had fished since the previous afternoon. Having had little luck in daylight, they elected to continue until such time as they made a catch. Tradition dictated that a fish from the Abbey pool must grace the centre of the festive board. In bygone years they had been lucky enough to land a grayling, but this year there were few. Out of respect for the graylings, they had let two fine big specimens slip the lines, fishing doggedly throughout the night. In the hour before daybreak they struck a medium-sized carp. It was a fine battle. The small coracle-shaped boat was towed round and round the waters, ploughing through rushes and skidding across shallows. Mordalfus was an experienced fishermouse, and he plied all his skill and guile, remembering the time when he was plain Brother Alf, keeper of the pond. Helped along by Matthias’s strong paws, the carp was fought and tackled, diving and tugging, leaping and backing, until it was finally driven into the shallows, blocked off by the boat, and beached on the grassy sward.

  Warbeak the Sparra Queen was up early that day. She roused the sparrow tribe who lived in the roof of the Abbey when she spied the activity at the pond.

  ‘Warbeak say Sparras help Matthias and old Abbot-mouse.’ Matthias and Mordalfus were glad of the assistance. Tired, wet and hungry, they sat breathing heavily on the bank.

  ‘Warbeak, whew! Thank goodness you’ve arrived,’ Matthias saluted his winged friend and her tribe. ‘The Abbot and I are completely tuckered out. What d’you think of our fish?’

  The fierce little bird spread her wings wide. ‘Plenty big fishworm, friend Matthias. My warriors take urn to fatmouse Friar, he burn urn fish good. Sparra like fishworm, we eat plenty at big wormtime.’

  As the Sparra folk towed the carp off in the direction of the kitchens, Abbot Mordalfus turned, smiling, to Matthias.

  ‘Good friends, our sparrow allies, though why everything is worm this or worm that I’ll never know. Can you imagine Hugo’s face when Warbeak tells him to burn fishworm good?’

  Matthias shook pond droplets from his paws. ‘It’s just their way of talking, Abbot. Sometimes I wonder who is the harder to understand, a sparrow or a mole.’

  Mordalfus glanced up. The sun was piercing the mists, casting a rosy glow over the world of Mossflower with the promise of a hot midsummer day. From the bell tower the sounds of the Abbey bells pealed merrily away, calling the inhabitants of Redwall to rise and enjoy the day.

  Constance the badger ambled down to the pond and beached the coracle with one mighty heave.

  ‘Whoof! It’s going to be a real scorcher,’ she remarked. ‘My word, little Tim and Tess are certainly energetic. Listen to them ringing the Methusaleh and the Matthias bells. Still, we mustn’t waste the day, there’s so much to do before we can sit down to feast this evening.’

  Matthias yawned and stretched. ‘Well, I’m for a swift forty winks and a bath after all that night fishing. D’you realize, the Abbot and I have been stuck in that boat since yesterday noon? Right, Mordalfus?’

  Constance held a paw to her muzzle. ‘Ssshhh, he’s fallen fast asleep. Good old Alf.’

  The Abbot was curled up on the grassy bank, snuffling faintly, still tackling the carp in his dreams.

  Matthias smiled, patting his friend gently. ‘Aye, good old Alf. I remember him taking me on the pond for my first fish. It was a grayling, as I recall. Hmm, I was even younger than my own son then. Ah well, none of us is getting any younger as the seasons pass.’

  ‘Huh, I’m certainly not,’ the badger snuffled. ‘Neither is Alf. But I’m not sure about you, Matthias. Sometimes I wonder if you’ve aged at all. You go off and get your rest now, and I’ll see to our angling Abbot here.’

  Constance quietly scooped the slumbering Mordalfus up on to her broad back and trundled slowly off in the direction of the Abbey dormitories.

  On his way over to the gatehouse cottage, Matthias spied Cornflower and Mattimeo carrying flower baskets and pruning knives. He waved to them.

  ‘We landed a beautiful carp. I’ve got to have a nap and a bath.’

  Cornflower tied her bonnet strings in a bow. ‘Oh I’m glad you caught a good fish, dear. I’ve left your breakfast on the table, we’ll see you later. Mattimeo is so kind, guess what? He’s promised to help me all day with the flowers.’

  Matthias winked cheerily at his scowling son. ‘What a splendid fellow he is, Cornflower. I’ll bet it was all his own idea too.’

  As the morning sun rose higher, Redwall came to life. A team of young hedgehogs and squirrels sang lustily as they carried firewood, damp grass and flat rocks to the baking pit, which the moles were busy putting the final touches to.

>   ‘Dig’m sides noice’n square, Jarge. Gaffer, pat yon floor gudd an flattish loik.’

  ‘Yurr, you’m ‘old your counsel, Loamdog. Oi knows wot oi’m a-doin’.’

  ‘Ho urr, be you serpint it’n deepwoise enuff?’

  ‘Gurr, goo an arsk Friar to boil your ’ead awhoil, Rooter. May’ap ee’ll cook summ sense into you’m.’

  Friar Hugo paced several times around the fish and dabbed at with his dockleaf.

  ‘Hmm, long time since I baked a carp. Brother Trugg, bring me bay leaves, dill, parsley and flaked chestnuts. Oh, and don’t forget the hotroot pepper and cream, lots of cream.’

  An otter lingered near the carp, licking her lips at the mention of the sauce ingredients.

  ‘How’s about some fresh little water shrimp for a garnish, Friar,’ she suggested. ‘That’d make prime vittles.’

  The fat mouse shooed her off with his dockleaf. ‘Be off with you, Winifred. I’ve counted every scale on that fish. Er, if you’re going for water shrimp, I’ll need at least two nets full for a decent garnish.’

  The bee folk had been extra productive and kind in this Summer of the Golden Plain, and honey was plentiful. It dripped off the symmetrical combs in shining sticky globules. Jess Squirrel and her son Sam were storing it in three flat butts, the clear, the set, and the open-comb type much favoured by squirrels. From the cellars came the slightly off-key sound of singing, a quavering treble from Basil Stag Hare, backed by the gruff bass harmony of Ambrose Spike.