14

Friar Higgle Stump was up and about early the next morning. He trundled down to his beloved kitchens, grumbling to himself.

“I wager breakfast ain’t but ’alf started yet. Best be about my business, ’ungry mouths t’feed. That Sister Cicely, she’d ’ave a body lyin’ abed all season for no good reason. Us Stumps’re made of stern spike, ’tis plain no seagull can bother me!”

He strode boldly into the kitchens, only to be met by his wife Teasel’s accusing eye.

“I knowed there weren’t nothin’ wrong wi’ you, ’iggle, I ’spect it was you sneaked down last night late an’ took a slice of that parsnip an’ mushroom pastie I left out to cool afore I went abed!”

The good Friar brushed past her stiffly, saying, “Shame on you for even thinkin’ such a thing about me, marm! When did I ever filch food from me own kitchens, eh?”

He set about measuring oatmeal and barley into a mixing bowl before livening up the oven fires with fresh charcoal. Teasel took a tray of nutbread rolls down from her cooling shelf, her muttering blending with that of Higgle. Both hedgehogs chunnered to themselves as they went about their cooking chores.

“A pastie that eats itself? Ain’t naught but mysteries of late in this ’ere Abbey, mysteries an’ mischief!”

“Huh! This honey’s stiff as glue, I’d best leave it atop the oven t’warm through. Parsnips don’t agree with me, why should I want to eat ’er pastie?”

“We’re goin’ t’need more white cheese afore the mornin’s done, aye, an’ this oven fire needs a good rakin’ out . . .”

Abbot Durral had also risen early. He strode into the kitchens rubbing his paws in a lively fashion. “Good morrow to you both, can I lend a paw? Here, that fire needs raking out, Teasel—let me do it!”

The three friends went about their work as the atmosphere lightened and mouth-watering aromas began pervading the air. Durral helped Higgle to carry a small churn of greensap milk from the cooling slab to the mixing bowl, explaining his day’s plans as they measured it into the oatmeal and barley.

“I thought I’d take a stroll into Mossflower woodlands today, collect some coltsfoot and brooklime, maybe find a clearing where some red clover is showing. It’s going to be a nice warm day, I feel we’ll soon have a hint of summer.”

Friar Higgle winked knowingly at his friend, and said, “Who knows, may’aps I’ll be able to make you some pastilles if’n you collects enough o’ those plants, Father Abbot.”

Durral hid a smile, putting on a mock-defensive tone. “Coltsfoot pastilles are good for the young ones, keep them fit, good for coughs and any number of small ailments.”

Teasel had been eavesdropping on the conversation, and now she tapped the Abbot’s paw lightly with her ladle. “I don’t suppose it’d ’ave anythin’ t’do with a certain Abbot o’ Redwall who likes to carry a liddle bag o’ coltsfoot pastilles to suck. Some elders are worse’n Dibbuns, I say!”

Durral lifted the warmed honey from the oven top, protecting his paws with a cloth. “You would say right, Teasel. I’ve been dreaming lately of having a good pocketful of nice sweet coltsfoot pastilles.”

During breakfast, the Abbot called Tansy to his side and whispered in the hogmaid’s ear, “I’m off into Mossflower today, collecting plants. How’d you like to come with me? It will be mild and sunny—we could take lunch with us. What do you say?”

Much to his surprise, Tansy refused the offer. “Thank you very much, Father Abbot, but maybe you’d like to give someone else a chance. Take poor Viola bankvole with you.”

The kindly old mouse was pleased, but perplexed. “Certainly, missie, but why Viola?”

“Because I feel sorry for her and I think we should be friends. Last night Viola had bad dreams, so I put her in my bed at the sick bay. I thought I was helping her, but Sister Cicely came in during the night and made her drink a big bowl of warm nettle broth. Poor Viola, she’s sitting over there unable to touch any breakfast. See, she looks a funny color to me.”

Abbot Durral looked up from his mint tea. “You’re quite right, Tansy, a walk in the woodlands and a picnic lunch will do your friend a power of good, I think. But what will you do with yourself all day?”

Tansy’s voice dropped to a secretive whisper. “I’ve got business with Martin and Rollo. We’ve a riddle to solve. Very important.”

The glorious spring morning rolled on into early noontide, with Redwall Abbey abuzz as creatures went about their chores and young ones played across the lawns. Skipper of Otters and his stalwarts patrolled the ramparts, striding along the high battlemented outer wall, ever alert for the slightest sign of invading gulls.

At the woodland’s edge on the north path, a mass of cow parsley with white flowering buds stirred, which was odd, because there was not the slightest breeze to move it. The corsair ferret Romsca popped her head up momentarily, before dropping back out of sight.

“Last time I saw that place I was with Cap’n Conva an’ we was on the trail of ole Graylunk. That’s Redwall Abbey right enough!”

Despite the warmth of spring sunshine, Lask Frildur was still shivering from a cold night spent wandering through the damp woodlands. He was not in the best of tempers.

“Why not raize your voize a bit louder zo they can hear you properly, addlebrain!” he snarled, drawing a heavy cloak tight about his quaking body.

Romsca leaned towards him, her voice contemptuous. “Button yer lip, sloptongue. I’ll talk when an’ ’ow I like, see! Hah, it don’t matter if they ’ears us, the moment those Abbeycreatures catches sight of you they’ll be dumbstruck fer sure!”

Lask loosened the cloak and puffed out his throat airily. “You zpeak nonzenze, fool!”

Romsca snorted as if in despairing amusement. “Lissen to ’im, messmates; every time ’e opens that gob ’e treads on ’is tongue! Let me tell yer somethin’, Monitor, a fact you’n’the Emperor overlooked. Them Abbeybeasts can’t abide searats, corsairs an’ suchlike, so imagine ’ow they’ll take to the sight o’ you an’ ten other reptiles, great flesh-eatin’ lizards from the tropics beyond the sunset. Haharr, never thought o’ that, did yer? They ain’t never seen the likes o’ you before. Wot d’yer think they’re goin’ t’do, invite yer inside fer cakes’n’wine? Tchah! They’ll slam the gates tight in yore face, give those Monitors a volley of spears, an’ send the lot o’ ye packin’ up the road! Just like any right-minded creature would, I’ll take me oath on that, matey!”

Deflated, the Monitor General drew away with his ten remaining Monitors, and went deeper into the woodland where they could hold a conference. Romsca had left a guard of six vermin aboard Waveworm, but her corsairs were still three times the number of Lask’s force. They too drew back into the wood, but only to light a small fire on which they could cook their supplies, supplemented by whatever roots and fruits they had foraged from the countryside.

Rubby the cook held out a young turnip he had spitted and roasted on his cutlass blade. Romsca accepted it and lounged nonchalantly in the sunlight.

Rafglan the bosun joined her, munching a stalk of wild celery. “So, wot are y’goin’ t’do now, Cap’n?” he said.

Romsca spat out a tough piece of turnip. “Do? I ain’t doin’ nothin’, matey. Ole scaleguts is in charge o’ the land party, let Lask do all the doin’.”

Rafglan cast a glance through the bushes. “Ahoy, ’ere comes ole Lask ’imself, looks like ’e wants to talk.”

The Monitor General dismissed Rafglan with a nod and seated himself next to Romsca, saying, “Perhapz what you zay iz right, my friend.”

Romsca flung the half-eaten turnip away and wiped her mouth. “Oho, friend, is it? You’ve changed yer tune, lizard. So tell me, what’s the plan?”

Abbot Durral sat on the bank of a small stream with Viola bankvole. They ate nutbread rolls and cheese, washed down with sips of old cider, for lunch. The Father Abbot kicked off his sandals and lowered his footpaws gingerly into the cold clear water with a long sigh. “Aaaaah, that is truly delightful. Nothing like streamwater for refreshing the footpaws. You should try it, Viola.”

The bankvole maid stared doubtfully at the gurgling stream. “But I don’t like getting my footpaws wet, Father, and besides, there’s no towels to dry them.”

Durral smiled benevolently at the prissy little creature. “Grass, soft moss or dead ferns are as good as any towel, Viola. Come on, you’ll never know what it’s like until you try it.”

Slipping off her sandals, the volemaid lowered her footpaws into the water. She shuddered, then giggled. “Heeheehee! It tickles and it’s cold, but you’re right, Father, it does feel good. I think I’ll stand up and have a paddle!”

Lussak and Fraddle, two of Lask Frildur’s Monitors, had been unsuccessfully trying to catch birds with a net. Finding the stream, the two lizards had followed its course, searching for a likely spot where fish might be found.

Fraddle suddenly held up a heavily scaled claw, saying, “Hearken, lizzen, I hear voizez!”

Crouching low, they wriggled silently forward. From behind a screen of hemlock and dropwort they watched two creatures clad in green habits, an old mouse and a young bankvole, prancing in the stream shallows, laughing and splashing.

Lussak’s dark tongue snaked out hungrily. “Food at lazzzzt!” he breathed.

Fraddle’s claw shot out as Lussak started to creep forward. Seizing him tight by the loose jawflesh, he dragged until it threatened to tear. “No, theze will be prizonerz for General Lazk!”

Viola and the Abbot sat on the streambank, rubbing their footpaws in the sunwarmed grass.

“Oh, Father Abbot, what fun! You were right when you said tha—Eeeeeek!”

The tough twine meshes of a ship’s net trapped them both. They were pulled backward and hauled up the bank. Terrified, wordless and stiff with fright, the old mouse and the young bankvole found themselves staring into the foul-breathed faces of two reptiles they could not have imagined in their worst nightmares.

“Be ztill or be zlain!”