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 center 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 um to fatmouse Friar; he burn um 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 it 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 watershrimp 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 watershrimp, 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.

Upstairs in the vegetable store, Mrs. Lettie Bankvole was remonstrating with her young offspring baby Rollo. He had learned the words after his own fashion and was singing uproariously in a deep rough gurgle,

“Baby Rollo! Stop that this instant. Cover your ears and help me with this salad.”

“Rollo! Go and play outside and stop listening to those dreadful songs. Strangling dragons and swigging beer – where will it all end?”

*   *   *

Mattimeo was finding out that roses had sharp thorns. For the second time that day he sucked at his paw, nipping out the pointed rose thorn with his teeth. Tim Churchmouse had gone off shrimping with the otters, Tess stayed behind out of pity for the warrior’s son.

“Here Matti, you stack those baskets on the cart for your mum. I’ll arrange the roses for you. You’ve got them in a right old mess.”

Mattimeo winked gratefully at her. “Thanks, Tess. I’m about as much use as a mole at flying, with all these flowers. I never thought it would be such hard work.”

“Then why did you volunteer for it?”

“I never volunteered,” he explained. “Dad said I have to do it as part of my punishment for fighting with Vitch.”

Tess stamped her paw. “Oh, that little rat. It’s so unfair, it was he who provoked you into that fight. Look, there he is now, over by the tables, having a sly snigger at you.”

Mattimeo saw Vitch, leaning idly on a table. He sneered and pulled tongues in the young mouse’s direction.

Mattimeo felt his temper rising. “I’ll give him something to stick his tongue out at in a moment,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ll throttle him so hard it’ll stick out permanently!”

Tess felt sorry for her friend. “Pay no attention to him, Matti. He’s only trying to get you into more trouble.”

It was difficult for Mattimeo to ignore Vitch. Now the rat was wiggling a paw to his snout end at his enemy.

The young mouse straightened his back from the pile of baskets. “Right, that’s it! I’ve taken all I can stand of his insults.”

Quickly Tess dodged past Mattimeo and ran towards Vitch, who was still grimacing impudently. Angrily the young churchmouse picked up the first thing that came to her paw. It was a pliant rose stem. “Look out, Vitch, there’s a great big wasp on your tail,” she cried out urgently. “Stay still, I’ll get it!”

Startled by Tess’s warning cry, Vitch obeyed instantly, turning and bending slightly so she could deal with the offending insect. There was no sign of a wasp behind Vitch.

Tess swung the rose stem, surprised at her own temper but unable to stop the swishing descent of the whippy branch. It thwacked down hard across Vitch’s bottom with stinging speed.

Swish, crack!

“Yeeehoooooowowow!” The rat straightened like a ramrod. Leaping high in the air, he rubbed furiously with both paws at the agonizing sting.

Cornflower came hurrying over. “Oh dear, the poor creature. What happened, Tess?”

The young churchmouse looked the picture of innocence, though she felt far from it. Blushing deeply she stammered an excuse.

“Oh golly. Vitch had a wasp on his bottom, but I couldn’t brush it off in time. I think he’s been stung.”

Vitch was thrashing about on the grass, tears squeezing out onto his cheeks as he rubbed furiously at his tender rump.

Cornflower was genuinely concerned. “Oh, you poor thing. Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse. Go to Sister May at the infirmary and she’ll put some herb ointment on it for you. Tess, show him where it is, please.”

Scrambling up, Vitch avoided Tess’s paw and dashed off, sobbing.

Tess turned to Mattimeo. “Aaahhh, poor Vitch. It must be very uncomfortable,” she said, her voice dripping sympathy.

Mattimeo tried hard to keep a straight face. “Indeed it must. It’s a terrible thing to be stung on the bottom by a churchmouse, er, wasp, I mean.”

Cornflower put her paws about them both. “Yes, of course. Now you two run off and play. There may be other wasps about and I don’t want either of you stung.”

“Come on, Matti, let’s go water-shrimping with Tim and the otters,” Tess suggested.

“Great, I’ll race you over there. One, two, three. Go!”

Cornflower shaded her eyes with a paw as she watched them run.

“What a lively young pair,” she said aloud.

Mrs. Churchmouse arrived, carrying a pansy and kingcup bouquet. “Yes, but you watch your Matti. He’ll let her win. He’s very fond of my little Tess.”

“Bless them, that’s the way it should be.” Cornflower nodded, smiling.