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 neighbors 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.
Chapter 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