to do so, if you’ll excuse me for saying. Young Matti will have to start growing up sometime if he ever
hopes to become the Warrior of Redwall like his father Matthias. Mattimeo will have to start behaving
responsibly instead of going about like a spoilt brat, if you’ll pardon the expression, ma’am.”
Cornflower stood up. “I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Churchmouse, but we may be judging Matti
a little unfairly. After all, he does have quite a lot to live up to, being the son of Redwall’s Warrior. Besides,
practically every woodlander within our walls has spoiled him since the day he was born.”
Both John and Rufus nodded their heads in agreement.
The awkward silence which followed was immediately broken by a band of small creatures headed by a
young mole who waved his digging claws wildly.
“Cumm yurr quickly, gennelmice, ’asten ee. Li’l Matti be a-slayin’ Vitch. Do ’urry!”
Even though the little creature was speaking in the quaint and complicated molespeech, they
understood the urgency of his message.
“Where, where?” they cried. “Take us there quickly!”
The group dashed around the south Abbey gable, taking the shortcut to the east grounds.
Cornflower picked up her skirts, narrowly avoiding collision with a baby hedgehog. Brother Rufus was
out in front.
Jess Squirrel was first on the scene. She had been up an apple tree in the orchard with her son Sam when
they heard the screams. Travelling from bough to bough, swift as a bird in flight, Jess dropped to the
ground and set about trying to separate the two creatures locked together on the grass. They rolled, kicked,
spat and bit furiously. Sam dropped down to his mother’s aid. They grabbed one each and held them apart.
As they did, the crowd arrived.
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 and—”
“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, whining 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.
Chapter 4
The new moon was up. It hung like a fresh-minted coin in a still, cloudless 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 Threeclaws 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