The Sable Quean (51 page)

Cellarmole Gurjee objected strongly. “You’m’ll do nuthin’ of ee sort, zurr. They’m likkle uns needs carin’ furr!”

Dymphnia Witherspyk did not seem in agreement with Gurjee. “Oh, tut tut, sir. I’m sure a good long march’ll do the babes a power o’ good. Ain’t that right, Oakie?”

Putting aside a hefty fruitcake, Oakheart nodded. “Quite right, m’dear! Oh, Colonel, might I have a private word with ye, a whisper in your good ear, sir?”

The Colonel strutted over to where Oakheart was sitting. Leaning down, he bent his unbandaged ear at the florid hog. “Whisper on, sah. What d’ye jolly well want?”

With a chunk of the cake clutched in one paw, Oakheart swung out, catching the hare a stunning blow to the back of his head. Colonel Crockley Sputherington fell to the grass, knocked out cold.

There was an immediate uproar. Buckler ran at Oakheart, his paws clenched. “What’n the name o’ blood’n’vinegar did y’do that for?”

Trajidia wailed, “Oh, Father, what a cowardly thing to do, striking down a poor beast in such a sly manner!”

Oakheart merely grinned, consulting his wife’s opinion. “How was that, m’dear? Did I do it right?”

Dymphnia clutched his fruitcake-filled paw. “Couldn’t have done it better myself, Oakie. You hit him right on the button, just as I did to you, darling!”

The Abbess hurried forward with a pail of cold water and a cloth. “Will somebeast pray tell me what’s going on?”

Dymphnia obliged willingly. “My Oakie once struck his head on the tiller of our raft, knocked himself clean out. When he came to, he thought he was an owl. Egbert Whootfellow, we had to call him. We put up with him for six days, sitting perched on top of the mast making owl noises. In the end, I could stand it no longer. So, I climbed the mast when he was asleep one night and shoved him off. He wasn’t really an owl, you see, couldn’t fly. Fell to the deck headfirst, knocked out again. Would you believe it, when he came around again he was Oakheart Witherspyk once more. I think it was the second knock to his head that cured him.”

Abbess Marjoram rolled up her habit sleeves. “Right, let’s see, shall we?”

Whoosh!
She emptied the bucket of cold water over the head of the senseless hare. He sat up groaning. Wiping water from his eyes, he swiftly viewed the splendid feast, then launched into a tirade.

“Yah, you rotten bunch o’ cads, helpin’ your bally selves to all this bloomin’ tuck while I was asleep! I hope your scringey tails wither an’ drop off!”

Buckler threw a paw about his friend. “Diggs, is it really you?”

Wrenching himself loose, his companion began heaping a plate with all he could lay his paws on. “Of course it’s me, ye great blitherin’ oaf! Who did ye think it was, a duck with a top hat on? Call y’selves friends, wot! Rotten, the whole bunch of you are, lowly bounders’n’cads. What a slimy trick t’pull on a starvin’ young subaltern. I’ll never speak to you again, never! Specially you, Buck Kordyne!”

Without warning, his mood changed. He smiled. “I say, that summer salad looks jolly nice. Mind passin’ me a goodly portion, Buck old lad, wot?”

Everybeast laughed, cheering at the transformation. Diggs was Diggs once again, gluttonous as ever.

The feast continued until dawnlight, when lots of young ones fell fast asleep where they sat, bowls and spoons still in paw. Mumzy, Sister Fumbril and other dedicated helpers began carrying the babes off to their dormitories. Ambrevina wandered by, laden with four young creatures. She nodded to Buckler. “I think Clarinna would like a word with you. She’s over in Great Hall.”

Dawn rays were shafting through the tall windows, tinted by the stained glass. Buckler found Clarinna sitting by the tapestry of Martin the Warrior. He sat down beside her.

“Are Calla and Urfa both asleep now?”

Clarinna nodded upward. “Tucked up in the dormitory, bless them. Here, Buckler, these are for you.” She placed the great broadsword and the coin medallion in front of him. Buckler sat staring at them awhile, then pushed them back to her.

“These are my poor brother Clerun’s birthright. By family tradition, they belong to Calla, his eldest son.”

Clarinna shook her head. “I and my little ones won’t be returning to Salamandastron. It’s my wish that they grow up here, with me at Redwall Abbey. I don’t want to see them being raised under a Badger Lord, joining the Long Patrol and learning warriors’ ways of war, regiments and weapons. Redwall is a place of peace, gentleness and wisdom.”

She hung the medallion around Buckler’s neck. “You must wear this. You have always been the true Blademaster. Clerun was a farmer at heart.”

Buckler touched the bright gold emblem. “But it was you who slew Zwilt the Shade. You were the brave one, Clarinna.”

She pointed to the figure of Martin the Warrior. “No, it was he who did it, really. Martin bade me to take his sword. After that, I remember nothing, only seeing the sable lying dead in front of me. I think Martin would not allow that evil beast to murder a babe in his Abbey. Nor would he see a bravebeast like you sacrifice his life to save that babe.”

Buckler picked up the broadsword. “Martin was very wise. He knew Zwilt would have killed us all if he had gotten the chance. I’ll wear the medal, Clarinna. But what of this sword? It’s not a weapon that I’m suited to. I have my own long rapier, which Lord Brang forged for me.”

The hare mother stared at the blade with something like loathing in her eyes. “I’ll have no more to do with that thing. As far as I’m concerned, you can throw it in the sea!”

Buckler patted her paw understandingly. “Leave it to me, Clarinna. I know the very beast it will suit. A broadsword forged at Salamandastron by a mighty Badger Lord is far too precious to throw away.” Wearing the medallion and shouldering the hefty blade, Buckler strode from Great Hall, out into the sunlight of a new summer day.

 

Soft autumn mist lay in the hollows and vales of the dunelands by the far west coast. It would be fully midmorn before the sun’s warmth evaporated it. A young hare, Windora Rowanbough of the Long Patrol, stood atop a high hill. Leaning on her slender javelin, she peered intently at a distant dunetop. Having ascertained what her keen eyes could see, she wheeled, shooting off like a shaft from a bowstring in the direction of Salamandastron.

Windora was a Runner, the swiftest and best on the mountain. She was poetry and grace in motion, limbs moving like silent pistons, ears blown flat back by her re markable speed.

Lord Brang was at his anvil, putting the final touches to a helmet. It was a work of great beauty, a polished steel dome with a bright copper spike at its centre. A curtain of fine steel mesh, both functional and simple, hung halfway around it, protection for a warrior’s neck and upper shoulders. The huge badger polished away at the helmet with a piece of greased silk, making it shine in the forgelight.

General Flurry Flackbuth entered, giving a small cough to make Brang aware of his presence. The Badger Lord did not even look up.

“Don’t you bother to knock anymore, Flurry?”

The old bewhiskered hare shook his head. “Beggin’ y’pardon, m’Lud, I knocked twice!”

Brang placed the helmet carefully on the windowsill. “Didn’t hear ye, my friend. I must be gettin’ old.”

Flurry replied almost apologetically, “We’re none of us gettin’ any bally younger, sah. You were busy, let’s say, er, occupied with your work, eh?”

Brang filled two tankards from an ale cask. Taking a red-hot dagger blade from the forge fire, he quenched it in the tankards, passing one to his friend.

“Mulled ale. Always makes the morning a little more bearable. Well, then, General, what news?”

Flurry savoured a sip of his drink, standing with his back to the forge fire. “Young Runner Rowanbough just reported in, sah. Seems there’s three bodies approachin’ here from the east.”

The Badger Lord looked over his tankard rim, speaking as though he were talking to himself. “Two of our own, and a long-overdue badgermaid. My dreams were right, Flurry. Send out a score of our Long Patrol in full fig to meet them. Bring all three right here to me.”

 

The autumn mist had died to milky wisps as the three travellers halted on the hilltop, where the haremaid had stood earlier.

Buckler drew his rapier, pointing at the great mountain on the coastline. “Well, there it is, Ambry. Salamandastron!”

The badgermaid stared at it for a long moment. “Incredible! It’s exactly as I used to see it in my dreams. Can you believe that?”

Diggs twirled his sling idly. “Don’t see why not, marm. You’re a bloomin’ badger, aren’t ye? Who are we to question your flippin’ visions an’ whatnot, wot!”

Ambrevina’s paw strayed to the hilt of her broadsword. “Look—we’ve got company approaching, maybe twoscore.”

Diggs set off downhill, calling back, “That’ll be the jolly old reception committee, wot. All good friends an’ stout comrades. Huh, I bet they didn’t think to bring a measly plum pudden to welcome returnin’ heroes, famine-faced bounders. Hah, look who’s leadin’ the parade, old Flackers! An’ there’s Skinny Swippton, Algie Bloggmort, Tubby Magrool an’ Lancejack Cudderfauld. All in their best number ones, just to meet Sub Digglethwaite, wot! I don’t know whether t’feel flattered or battered. Hi, there, you chaps!”

The escort kept pace with General Flurry, who was limping slightly, favouring a gouty footpaw. Then he halted, awaiting the arrival of the trio, exchanging the customary salute with Buckler.

“Blademaster Kordyne, welcome back.”

Keeping his eyes to the front, the young hare replied, “Thankee, General, sah. Afraid we haven’t had the chance to spruce up appearances, sah!”

Flurry noted their travel-stained tunics and dusty appearance in contrast to his escort’s smart turnout.

“Hmmph! No matter, laddie buck, no matter. Er, Subaltern Diggs, can’t ye do anythin’ about that left ear? It’s floppin’ about like a flag in a breeze, wot!”

Diggs managed a stiff heroic grin as he explained, “Oh, that, sah. ’Fraid I can’t. Lost the ear in battle, doncha know. Only left me with one dainty shell like, see?”

He unfastened the chinstrap, holding the false ear out for inspection. “Charmin’ old hedgehog named Crumfiss Witherspyk knitted this for me. Rather fetchin’, ain’t it, sah? Flops about in the wind a bit, but it looks jolly well like the real thing from a distance, wot wot!”

He slipped the chinstrap back on, adjusting the ear to a rakish angle. This brought many admiring remarks from the young hares, to whom there was nought like a real battle-scarred warrior.

“I say, top hole, Diggs. That’s really the duck’s nightie!”

“Rather. I love the way it sort of flops halfway!”

“Didn’t you get anythin’ chopped off, Buck? Bet you wish you had. Old Diggs looks absolutely dashin’, wot!”

“You could win all kinds of wagers in the mess with an ear like that, old lad. Chaps’d give you all their pudden ration just to try it on!”

General Flurry cut sternly through the banter. “Silence in the ranks, there!” He saluted Ambrevina courteously. “My ’pologies, Milady, ignore these young rips. Lord Brang awaits you in his quarters, soon as possible.”

The badgermaid gave him a brief, gracious nod. “Thank you, General. Please, lead on!”

 

There were banners staked out along the beach and an honour guard of Long Patrollers leading up to the fortress entrance. The Regimental Band, complete with fifes and drums, belted out a brave marching air named “Hares in the Heather.” Resplendent in burnished armour and a magnificent cloak of carmine velvet, Lord Brang emerged to greet the trio.

Standing either side of the badgermaid, Buckler and Diggs saluted. Brang acknowledged them with a nod. He stood facing Ambrevina, who though not having the Badger Lord’s powerful bulk, was taller than him by a half head. The music halted.

Brang held forth his paw, treating the new guest to one of his rare smiles. “Lady, I am Lord Brang Forgefire, Ruler of Salamandastron. Your presence here gives me great pleasure. Welcome!”

The badgermaid accepted the outstretched paw graciously. “I am called Ambrevina Rockflash, from the far Eastern Shores, Sire. I deem it an honour to be here.”

With Ambrevina’s paw resting upon his, Lord Brang turned, leading the procession into the mountain. The band began playing a stately measured piece, entitled “Heart o’ the Western Shores.”

General Flurry whispered to Buckler, “Lordship wants to see all three of ye up in his Forge Chamber before the feast.”

Diggs’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I say, a jolly old feast, wot! You go on ahead with Ambry, Buck. I’m not much flippin’ good at reportin’ back. I’ll stop down here with the chaps!”

General Flurry’s moustache tickled Diggs’s good ear as the old officer murmured threateningly, “You’ll do no such thing, sah. Go on, straight up to the Forge Chamber with ye!”

Diggs groaned and carried on upstairs, managing to twitch his good ear savagely at one of his regimental comrades. “Beware, Tubby Magrool. Touch a single festive crumb before I get back, an’ I’ll box your fat head!”

 

The mist had cleared now, leaving a fine autumn day. From the broad, low window of the upper chamber, the mighty sea was smooth as a millpond right out to the hazy western horizon.

They sat on a cushion-strewn ledge, savouring the rose-hip and almond-blossom cordial which Flurry served liberally. The Badger Lord could not take his gaze away from Ambrevina.

“You carry the name Rockflash. I knew one or two of them in my young seasons. They were experts at wielding slings.”

Ambrevina produced her own sling, a big, formidable thing. “Aye, Lord, I can use one. I was brought up amongst kin whose only weapons were slings.”

Brang indicated the broadsword she wore. “Yet you carry a blade, one I made at that forge yonder. I recognise it as belonging to the Kordyne clan. How so?”

Buckler interrupted to explain. “My brother Clerun was slain by a sable beast, Zwilt the Shade, and his vermin killers. I’ll mention all that in my report, Sire. But his wife, Clarinna, gave me the sword and this medal, of which you know. She lives at Redwall now, with her twin babes. They wish to be peaceful creatures, so she gave me the sword. I have my own blade, so I thought Lady Ambrevina could use it.”