Mattimeo

Chapter 5

Matthias the Warrior of Redwall stood with his back to the empty fireplace. Cornflower had gone out early

to help with the baking. Golden morning sunlight streamed through the windows of the small gatehouse

cottage, glinting off the dewy fruit piled upon the table. There was a pitcher of cold cider, some cheeses and

a fresh-baked loaf set out for breakfast but Matthias lacked the appetite to do it justice and stared miserably

about the room. It was neat and cheerful, which did not reflect the Warrior’s mood.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in, please,” he called, straightening up.

The Foremole entered, tipping the top of his black velvet furred head with a huge digging claw. He

wrinkled his button nose in a wide smile that almost made his bright little eyes vanish.

“Gudd morn to you’m, Mattwise, yurr. Uz moles be diggen a cooker pit t’day. May’aps you’ud loik to

’elp?”

Matthias smiled fondly. He patted his old friend’s back, knowing the mole had come to cheer him up.

“Thank you for the offer, Foremole. Unfortunately I have other more serious business to attend this

morning. Hmm, that sounds like it in the next room, just getting out of bed. Will you excuse me, my friend?

”

“Hurr hurr, ee be a roight laddo, yurr young Mattee. Doant wack ’im too ’ard naow,” Foremole

chuckled, and left to join his crew.

Matthias had been far too angry to deal with his son on the previous afternoon, so he sent him straight

off to bed without tea or supper. Now the Warrior stood facing the bedroom door, watching the tousled

head of his son peer furtively around the door jamb.

Seeing his father, he hesitated.

“Come in, son.” The Warrior curled a paw at him.

The young mouse entered, gazing hungrily at the laden breakfast table before turning to face his father.

Sternness had replaced the previous day’s anger on the Warrior’s face.

“Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Mattimeo?”

“ ’m sorry,” Mattimeo mumbled.

“I should hope you are.”

“ ’m very sorry,” Mattimeo mumbled again.

“Foremole said I should whack you. What do you think?”

“ ’m very very sorry, ’t won’t happen again, Dad.”

Matthias shook his head, and placed a paw on his son’s shoulder.

“Matti, why do you do these things? You hurt your mother, you hurt me, you hurt all our friends. You

even get your own little pals into trouble. Why?”

Mattimeo stood tongue-tied. What did they all want? He had apologized, said he was very sorry, in

fact, he would never do it again. Jess Squirrel, his mother, Constance, they had all given him a stern telling-

off. Now it was his father’s turn. Mattimeo knew that the moment he set paw out of doors he would be

spotted, probably by Abbot Mordalfus, and that would mean another stern lecture.

Matthias watched his son carefully. Beneath the sorrowful face and drooping whiskers he could sense a

smouldering rebellion, resentment against his elders.

Turning to the wall over the fireplace, Matthias lifted down the great sword from its hangers. This was

the symbol of his rank, Warrior of Redwall. It was also the only thing that could command his son’s total

attention. Matthias held the weapon out.

“Here, Matti, see if you can wield it yet.”

The young mouse took the great sword in both paws. Eyes shining, he gazed at the hard black bound

handle with its red pommel stone, the stout crosstree hilt and the magnificent blade. It shone like snowfire,

edges sharp and keen as a midwinter blizzard, the tip pointed like a thistle spike.

Once, twice, he tried to swing it above his head. Both times he faltered, failing because of the sword’s

weight.

“Nearly, Father, I can nearly swing it.”

Matthias took the weapon from his son. With one paw he hefted it, then swung it aloft. Twirling it,

whirling it, until the air sang with the thrum of the deadly, wonderful blade. Up, down and around it

swung, coming within a hair’s-breadth of Mattimeo’s head. Turning, Matthias snicked a stalk from an

apple, sliced the loaf without touching the table and almost carelessly flicked the rind from the cheese.

Finally Matthias gave the sword a powerful twist into the warrior’s salute, bringing the blade to rest with its

point quivering in the floor.

Admiration for the Warrior of Redwall danced in his son’s eyes. Matthias could not help smiling

briefly.

“One day you will be the one who takes my place, son. You will grow big and strong enough to wield

the sword, and I will train you to use it like a real warrior. But it is only a sword, Mattimeo. It does not

make you a warrior merely because you carry it. Weapons may be carried by creatures who are evil,

dishonest, violent or lazy. The true Warrior is good, gentle and honest. His bravery comes from within

himself; he learns to conquer his own fears and misdeeds. Do you understand me?”

Mattimeo nodded. Matthias grew stern once more.

“Good, I am glad you do. I will not whack you. I have never laid a paw on you yet and I do not intend

starting now. However, you attacked little Vitch and you must pay for that, one way or another. At first I

thought I should refuse you permission to attend the celebrations….”

Matthias watched the shock and disbelief on his son’s face before continuing.

“But I have decided that you may go, providing you run straightaway to the kitchens. There you will

ask Friar Hugo to allot you double the tasks he gave to Vitch yesterday. When you have finished working

for the Friar, you will offer to help your mother with the gathering of flowers until such time as she decides

to free you of your task. Is that clear?”

Mattimeo’s face was a picture of disbelief. He, the son of the Redwall Warrior, working! Never before

had he been asked, much less ordered, to carry out Abbey tasks. The young mouse considered himself the

inheritor of his father’s sword and duties. As such, he was firmly convinced that he was above any type of

pan-scrubbing or daisy-gathering. Even Constance knew that. She had sentenced Vitch to hard labour, but

even she did not dare tell the future Champion to dirty his paws with menial chores. Besides, Vitch would

be finished with his tasks by now. He could stand about and gloat at the sight of his enemy ordered to

perform double the work and more.

Matthias watched his son’s face. Now was the testing time. Would he behave like the spoiled little

creature who had been indulged all his life by the Abbey dwellers, or would he show a bit of character?

The young mouse swallowed hard, nodding his head. “I’ll do as you have asked, Dad.”

Matthias clapped him heartily on the back. “Good mouse. That’s the mark of a warrior in training,

obedience. Off you go now!”

Morning sunlight stencilled the high window shaped in soft pink relief on the sandstone floor of Great Hall

as Mattimeo passed through on his way to the kitchens. He felt the fur on his shoulders prickle slightly, as if

some beast were watching him from behind. Turning slowly, he faced the west wall. No creature was there.

The hall was empty, save for the picture of Martin the Warrior upon the Redwall tapestry. Mattimeo often

had this same experience when he was alone and near the large woven cloth. He drew closer, standing in

front of the magnificent armoured mouse’s likeness. Martin the Warrior looked big and strong. He held the

famous sword easily in his right paw, a smile upon his broad honest face, and behind him the images of

bygone enemies fled in fear as if trying to escape from the tapestry. The young mouse’s eyes glowed in

admiration of his hero. He spoke to Martin, not knowing that his father Matthias had done the same thing

when he was young.

“I could feel you watching me, Martin. I’m just on my way to do penance in the kitchens, but you

probably know that. I didn’t mean to disobey my parents or cause them unhappiness. You can understand

that, can’t you? I had to fight Vitch because he said things about my father. He thought I was scared of him,

but I am the son of a warrior and I could not let him insult my family. If my father knew the truth of it all

he would not have punished me, but, well, he’s my father, you see. I can’t explain things properly to him.

You’re different, Martin. You understand how I feel.”

Mattimeo shuffled his paws on the stones beneath Martin’s never changing expression.

“You know, sometimes you’re just like my father. Look, I’m sorry, I’ll try to be a better mouse. I

promise not to fight or get into any more trouble or worry my parents again.”

He turned and shuffled sulkily toward the kitchens, muttering as he went, “I wish there was another

Great War, then I’d show ’em. Huh! They’d be glad of young mice that could fight then. I wouldn’t be sent

off to scour pans. They’d probably have to give me a medal or something like that.”

The smile upon the face of the tapestry warrior seemed to be gentler as the immobile eyes watched the

small habit-clad figure descend the steps of Cavern Hole.

Friar Hugo was absolute ruler in the vast kitchens of Redwall. He was the fattest mouse in the Abbey and

wore a white apron over his habit. Hugo always carried a dockleaf in his tail, which he waved about busily,

fanning himself, rubbing it upon a scorched paw, or holding it like a visor across his forehead as he peered

down into steaming, bubbly pots. Mattimeo stood by, awaiting orders, whilst Hugo checked his lists,

issuing instructions to his staff of helpers.

“Mmmm, let me see, that’s six large raspberry seedcakes. We need four more. Brother Sedge, quickly,

take that pan of cream from the flames before it boils over. You can add the powdered nutmeg and whisk it

in well. Sister Agnes, chop those young onions and add the herbs to the woodland stew. Er, what’s this?

Ten flagons of cold strawberry cordial. That’ll never do, we need twice that many. Here, young Matti, nip

down to the cellars and fill more flagons from the barrels. Ambrose Spike’s down there, so you won’t need

the keys.”

Though the cooking smells were extra delicious, Mattimeo was glad to be out of the steamy heat and

bustle of the kitchen for a while. He saluted the Friar smartly and ran off, dodging mice, hedgehogs, voles

and squirrels, all carrying trays, pots, platters and bowls.

The Abbey cellars were peacefully dim and cool. Unwittingly Mattimeo surprised old Ambrose Spike. The

cellar keeper was pouring a bowl of October ale, blowing the froth from the top before he drank. As he

dipped his snout, Mattimeo said “ ’scuse me, please, Friar Hugo said I was t—”

The ancient hedgehog choked and sneezed, spraying Mattimeo with ale as he whirled around.

“Pahcoochawww! Don’t sneak up on me like that, young Matti. Hold still a moment, will you.”

Ambrose drained the bowl. Regaining his composure, he stared at the froth lying in the bottom of his

sampling bowl.

“Harr, wunnerful! Though I do say it meself, no creature brews October ale like the Spike family. Now,

what can I do for you, mousey?”

“Friar says I’ve got to fill more flagons of strawberry cordial, sir.”

“Oh, right, barrels are through in the next section,” Ambrose told him, “the ones marked pink, flagons

against the wall as y’go in. Careful now, don’t disturb the little casks of elderberry and blackcurrant wine or

they’ll go cloudy.”

As Mattimeo wandered into the next section, he was hailed.

“Psst, Matt, ssshhhh, over here!”

It was Tim and Tess and Sam Squirrel. Mattimeo tip-pawed over.

“What are you three doing down here?”

Tess Churchmouse stifled a giggle. “We slipped past Ambrose while he was dozing. Come and have

some cold strawberry cordial, it’s scrummy.”

The trio had prised the bung from a barrel that lay on its side. They used long hollow reeds as drinking

straws, dipping them down into the liquid and sucking up the sparkling ice-cold strawberry juice.

Tess gave Mattimeo a straw, and he could not resist joining them.

Cold strawberry cordial becomes sickly when drunk too freely. Matt, Tess, Tim and Sam soon found this

out, and they lay back awhile and rested. Later, the two churchmice and the young squirrel helped

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.