Brian Jacques - [Redwall 03] - Mattimeo

one we’ll be taking away with us, him and any others we can lay our paws on.”

Vitch brightened up. “Maybe I’ll get a few minutes alone with Mattimeo after we make our getaway,

when he’s chained up good and proper.”

Slagar watched the small rat’s face approvingly. “Ha, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“Heehee, like it, I’d love it!” Vitch’s eyes shone malevolently.

The fox leaned closer. “Vengeance, that’s the word. I tell you, rat, there’s nothing in the world like the

moment when you have your enemy helpless and you can take revenge.”

Vitch was puzzled. “I can’t imagine a little mouse like that being able to hurt you, Sly One. What did he

do that you seek revenge upon him?”

Slagar had a faraway look in his eyes, and beneath the mask his breath hissed roughly.

“It was his father, the Warrior, that big badger too — in fact, it was all the creatures at Redwall who

hurt me. The little one was not even born then, but I know how they all dote on him. He is the son of their

warrior, the hope of the future. I can kill a lot of birds with one stone by taking Mattimeo. You couldn’t

imagine the agonies they’d go through if he went missing. You see, I know the woodlanders of that Abbey.

They love their young and they’d rather be made captive themselves than have anything happen to their

precious little ones. This is what will make my revenge all the sweeter.”

Suddenly Vitch stretched a paw towards Slagar’s masked face. “Did they do that to you? Is that why

you have to wear a mask over your head? Why don’t you take it o— Aaaarrrggghh!”

Slagar seized Vitch’s paw and bent it savagely backwards. “Don’t you ever dare put your grubby paw

near my face again, or I’ll snap it clean off and make you eat it, rat! Now get back to that Abbey and keep

your eyes open. Make sure you know exactly where that young mouse is at all times, so that I can put my

paw on him when the moment arrives.”

He released Vitch and the small rat huddled on the ground, sobbing. Slagar spat on him

contemptuously. “Get up, misery guts. If you’re still lying there in a moment, you’ll feel my sword. That

really will give you something to moan about.”

Vitch picked himself up slowly and painfully. Next moment he was sent hurtling by a kick on the

behind from Slagar.

“Garn! Get yourself out of my sight, you snivelling snotface.”

Vitch departed hastily, leaving Slagar to take his ease once more. The Cruel One lay back, all thoughts

of sleep banished by one word which echoed around his twisted mind like an eerie melody.

Revenge!

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?”