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 centerpiece?”
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.
Chapter 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