Brian Jacques - [Redwall 18] - High Rhulain

“Where’s that blinkin’ grubswiper got to with our scoff, eh?”

“Let’s casserole the confounded cook. There’s enough on that flippin’ old lard tub for two helpin’s apiece, wot!”

“Oh, go an’ boil your fat head, Wopps minor!”

“Shan’t! You go an’ toast y’tail, Chubbscott!”

Tiria found herself seated at a corner guest table with her two subalterns. She ducked as a stale crust flew overhead. “Are they always like this?”

Quartle denied the accusation strenuously. “Good grief no, miz! They’re pretty quiet tonight. I expect it’s ’cos we have guests, manners y’know.”

Regimental Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was seated at the top table with Lord Mandoral and some high-ranking officers. Pandion was nowhere to be seen; Tiria assumed the osprey had gone fishing in the bay for dinner.

She pressed on, questioning her two friends about Cuthbert. “Tell me about Major Blanedale. I don’t know much about him.”

Portan seemed quite taken aback. “Great seasons, the chap’s a blinkin’ legend among Long Patrol types. I’ve heard that Lord Mandoral sometimes refers to him as the Deathseeker. Says he’s been lookin’ to get himself jolly well slain ever since he lost his daughter.”

Quartle nodded in Cuthbert’s direction. “That chap’s been sewn t’gether more times than a bloomin’ patchwork quilt. Just look at those scars, y’can see them from here. Huh, talk about perilous!”

Tiria was growing impatient with her garrulous escorts. “I know that. He’s obviously been in lots of battles. But could you please tell me why? Was it because of his daughter?”

Portan tossed a clean serviette to Tiria. “Whoops! Gangway there, chaps, here comes the old nosh, an’ not before flippin’ time, eh Quarters?”

An outsize platter of salad, a big bowl of soup, a full loaf of wheatbread and a tankard overflowing with burdock and nettle squash clattered down in front of Tiria. She regarded it with awe.

“There’s enough here for the three of us!”

Quartle chaffed her. “Oh, come on now, old thing, it’s only a light summer repast. Personally, I’m always jolly well hungry by suppertime. Ain’t that right, Porters?”

His tablemate gestured airily. “Anythin’ y’can’t cope with, sling it over to me an’ old Quarters. We’ll deal with it, wot!”

Tiria glared from one to the other. “Will you please stop avoiding my questions?”

“Pay no heed t’these two gormless scoffin’ machines, young ’un. I can tell you all you want t’know. Move over there, ye famine-faced wastebins!”

The hare who seated himself at the guest table was a rough-looking customer. He was tall and sinewy, sable-furred, with a scar running through his face from eartip to jaw. Both subalterns went politely quiet.

The new guest unsheathed a very long, basket-hilted rapier and laid it on the table. “Captain Raphael Granden at y’service, young ’un. I take it you’re enquirin’ about Major Blanedale?”

Tiria answered respectfully. “I am, sir. If you’ll pardon me saying, the major is a rather odd creature.”

The captain indicated the crowded mess hall with a sweep of his eyes. “We’re all odd creatures in one way or another. No doubt y’ve heard the sayin’ ‘madder than a March hare.’ There’s more’n a few of ’em here, miss, but I know what y’mean.

“I served under Major Cuthbert when I was a sergeant. In those seasons he was a perilous fighter, the bravest warrior on this mountain. Anyhow, to cut a long story short, I’ll tell ye what made him wilder than a Badger Lord with the Bloodwrath. He had a daughter named Petunia, a real beauty, quiet an’ gentle. She was the flower of the Long Patrol. Many a young ranker lost his heart to her, I can tell ye. Well, one autumn day she was out on the shore, a league from here, gatherin’ shells an’ coloured stones, as many haremaids are apt t’do.”

Captain Granden paused, staring at his long swordblade. Both young subalterns urged him on.

“What happened then, Cap’n Rafe?”

“Was it the vermin, sah?”

He nodded sombrely. “Aye, sea raiders, a whole crewload of the scum. They’d anchored around the north point an’ come ashore. Petunia saw them, o’ course. When she tried to run back here an’ raise the alarm, they brought her down with arrows—slew her, an’ left her layin’ in the shallows. A poor innocent haremaid, who’d never harmed anybeast.”

Tiria felt the hair on her nape prickling. “Major Cuthbert found out, of course, Cap’n Rafe?”

The captain blinked several times, and his voice shook. “I was out walkin’ with him. It was me who found her. Rollin’ in the surf, dead, with four shafts in her back.”

Tiria shuddered. “It must have been a terrible thing for him, seeing his daughter like that.”

The stone-faced captain never took his eyes from the long rapier blade as he continued. “He picked her up and held her close, then his eyes sort of filmed over. He gave her to me and said, ‘Take my daughter back to the mountain.’ Then he screamed.”

Captain Granden drew in a deep breath. “It was a long time ago, miss, but I can still hear that scream, like some wounded madbeast. It just ripped out of the major’s throat. Then I was left holding his daughter’s body as he thundered off along the shore after the vermin. I raced back here and raised the alarm. An instant later, I was racing after him at the head of a hundred warriors. But nobeast would ever catch him. He must have run with the speed of madness driving him onward. We lost him completely, even though we searched ’til long after dark.”

Quartle and Portan sat forward with tight-clenched paws.

“The filthy villains, I wish I’d jolly well been there!”

“Aye, but Old Blood’n’guts got ’em! Didn’t he, Cap’n Rafe?”

They fell silent as the tough hare nodded slowly. “Three days later, the sea raiders’ ship drifted into the bay outside of here an’ ran aground. I was one of the party, led by Lord Mandoral, who boarded the vessel. Her crew was a mixed bag—rats, stoats, weasels, ferrets, even a pair of foxes. A score an’ a half of the villains. Every last one of ’em was dead as a doornail. Slain!”

The ottermaid interrupted. “And the Major?”

Captain Granden smiled grimly. “We found him, though at first we took him for dead, too. He was covered from scut to ears in rips an’ gapin’ wounds. I was tryin’ to pry the broken sword from what I thought was his death grasp when he opened his eyes an’ said to me, ‘This is my daughter’s ship. I took it for her and called it the Purloined Petunia. Good name, don’t y’think, wot?’ ”

The captain picked up his rapier and sheathed it. “We carried him back here. Took him four seasons to recover, but he did. Well, his body healed, but I fear his mind was affected forever. So there y’have it, miss. Now, if you’re finished eating, Lord Mandoral would like a word with ye.”

Regimental Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was in his element. He had retired to an alcove with a group of fellow officers to drink spiked punch and regale them with a bloodthirsty ditty.

“Oh I dearly do love vermin,

I’ve oft times heard it said,

that the finest type of vermin,

are those vermin who are dead!

Show me a rat that’s been laid flat,

or a ferret that’s food for fishes,

or a wily fox laid out in a box,

an’ you’ve got my fond good wishes.

’Cos a vermin that’s slain gives nobeast pain,

he’ll never harm honest creatures,

nor steal no scoff, with his bonce chopped off