Maudie glared at Yik. "Don't annoy me, cheeky nose, or I may be jolly well tempted to show you!"
201
The shrewbabe wrinkled his nose insolently. "You punch me an' I bite ya again!"
Luglug placed a paw across the shrewbabe's mouth. He whispered urgently as he saw Maudie's paw clench, "Don't ye dare strike a babe, shame on ye...."
Like lightning, the haremaid's paw shot between Luglug and Yik. She had heard the leaves rustle, and glimpsed the flat-scaled head rearing behind the shrews. In seasons to come, the Hon. Maude Mugsberry Thropple, known to her regimental comrades as Mad Maudie, would recall that she had gained the distinction of knocking a snake out cold, with one punch, that day.
And what a punch it was! A sharp, straight right, which hit the reptile's snout like a flying boulder. The snake's eyes immediately clouded over, the coils relaxed, and it lay amid the loam, like a wet piece of string. Luglug tightened his hold on Yik's mouth, he stared in awe at the snake.
"Seasons o' slaughter, where'd that thing come from?"
Maudie blew on her paw, watching the opposite bank-top with relief. The brief incident had gone unnoticed by Kurdly and his vermin, who were painfully occupied in cracking off the mud, which pulled the stings out as it was removed. The haremaid turned her attention back to the unconscious reptile.
"I say, quite a good-sized brute, doncha think?"
Luglug inched away from the snake, his eyes tightly shut. "Ugh, I wonder why I never smelled it, I kin always smell adders, long afore I sees 'em."
Maudie lifted the snake's head, inspected it and let it flop back down. "You couldn't smell it because it ain't an adder, old scout, it's a bally grass snake an' a bloomin' whopper of a beast if ever I saw one."
Luglug nodded agreement, adding, "It's big enough to swallow liddle Yik in one go!"
Reaching out carefully, Maudie broke off several strands
202
of hedge parsley, growing nearby. Plaiting them together, she fashioned a tough piece of halter. "Indeed, this brute most likely had friend Yik firmly on today's luncheon menu. Good job I got the old straight right in first, wot!" She began tying the snake's mouth tight with the tough parsley strands, knotting it securely.
Summoning up his courage, Yik struck the snake's snout with a small, chubby paw, scowling at it. "Yik hit ya, jus' like a punchin' rabbit!"
Maudie corrected him indignantly. "Now just a moment, young feller me shrew, there's no such thing as a punchin' rabbit. I am what is known as a boxin' hare, you little curmudgeon!"
The shrewbabe waved a clenched paw under Maudie's nose. "An' I norra likkle amudjin, I be a Yik!"
Luglug ducked his head into the loam. "An' yore both a pair o' noisy nuisances, 'cos I think the vermin's 'eard ye, an' they're comin' over 'ere to take a look!"
203
21
The moles carried the unconscious watervole into the gatehouse, laying him out upon the bed. Fenn Bluepaw sniffed in disgust.
"I take it you'll be removing that... thing from my bed as soon as it comes to. Hmph! Filthy paws and matted fur, I'll have to scrub the counterpane and drape it in the orchard, so a good, clean breeze can dry it!"
Abbot Daucus commented drily, "That's what I like about you, Miz Bluepaw, you're so kind and tenderhearted."
The squirrel Recorder bristled. "Well, it's not your bed that scruffy beast's laid out on!"
Daucus nodded. "Right, marm, but if you want him off your bed, you'd be better employed by fetching Sister Atrata, instead of being so harsh upon a senseless creature. Once the good Sister brings him around, then we can move him from your bed."
Benjo Tipps, accompanied by Orkwil Prink, wandered in to view the watervole. Redwall's stout Cellarhog looked slightly rueful. "Mayhap I shouldn't have chucked that bungstarter so hard at him. He might never waken proper."
Orkwil curled his lip when he looked closer at the patient. "It wouldn't be a great loss if'n he didn't, Mister
204
Tipps. I've had a few run-ins with this 'un, he's a mean-spirited an' bad-tempered ole watervole."
Sister Atrata entered the gatehouse with Fenn Bluepaw in attendance, still complaining bitterly. "The very idea of it, some raggedy-bottomed, barrel-bellied vole, cooling his paws on my nice, clean bed!"
The Sister silenced her with a single glare. "Yes, thank you, Miz Bluepaw, I've heard enough!" Leaning over the watervole, she opened one of his eyes, giving an instant diagnosis, as she unstuffed a pawful of feathers from the mattress. "Hmm, he's about ready to be wakened. Bring that lamp over here, Orkwil."
Igniting the feathers from the lamp flame, the Sister let them burn for a moment then extinguished them. Holding the smoldering material under the watervole's snout, Sister Atrata allowed him to inhale the acrid fumes. He shot bolt upright, gagging and gasping. The Sister smiled cheerily. "Up you come now, let's get a dressing on that head lump of yours, and a draught of my belladonna potion. You'll be right as rain before you know it!"
Skipper Rorc stepped in, taking charge of the vole. "Not so fast, matey, you've got some questions to answer. C'mon, let's take a stroll on the walltops, this place smells of smolderin' feathers, phew!"
The watervole hung back, he was in a surly mood. "Got to get me 'ead treated first, after wot that spikepig did t'me."
The burly otter squeezed his paw in a viselike grip. "If'n you call Mister Benjo Tipps a spikepig agin, I'll put another lump atop o' the one you've already got. Now watch yore mouth, vole, an' keep a civil tongue in yore 'ead when I talks to ye. Out ye go!"
Skipper pushed the vole in front of him. Together with Benjo and Orkwil, they mounted the steps to the walltop. Orkwil strode alongside Skipper, as he and Benjo walked toward the north parapet, keeping the watervole lodged firmly between them. As they drew close to the northwest
205
corner, the vole began dragging his paws, trying to hang back. Skipper shoved him onward, questioning. "Big, fat rascal like you ain't afraid, are ye?"
The vole ducked his head, so that he could not be seen. He crouched along in the cover of the battlements.
Benjo jabbed him in the ribs. "What are ye tryin' to hide down there for?"
Nodding toward the woodlands beyond the north wall, the vole whispered, "They're watchin' us, I'm sure of it!"
The stout Cellarhog hauled him up, above the walltop. "Who's watchin' ye, tell us?"
The watervole wriggled furiously as Benjo held him tight. "The golden fox an' his crew, there's a whole army of 'em!"
Benjo shook him. "Aye, an' yore one of 'em!"
The prisoner's nerve deserted him, he whined piteously. "No, I ain't, ask 'im, that young 'un!"
Orkwil had no sympathy for the vole. "He wasn't one of the fox's crew when I first met up with him, but that doesn't mean much. He's mean an' bad-tempered enough to have joined up with the vermin!"
Skipper stood on the north wall, peering down into the woodland, his keen gaze taking in the path and the ditch. "Well, they don't seem to be nowheres around now. Where d'ye think they've got to, young Prink?"
Orkwil shrugged. "I don't know, Skip, there was a lot o' crewbeasts aboard that ship. If they came chasin' me'n' Gorath, we'd have seen at least a few of 'em by now. Maybe they're hidin', waitin' for daylight."
Skipper hopped back down onto the walkway. "That don't sound like vermin t'me, mate, skulkin' round in the dark an' attackin' by night's more their style. You was with 'em, vole, didn't ye hear any plans?"
Still held in Benjo Tipps's grasp, the vole sneered. "Of course I didn't, they wouldn't tell me anythin'. But they never injured me like yore Mister Tipps did, nor stole my vittles like that young 'un."
206
Ignoring the vole's complaints, Orkwil ventured an idea. "Maybe they've moved position. Let's take a quiet patrol, right round the walls, we might spot the vermin."
Skipper nodded. "Good plan, young 'un, let's do it. Benjo, if'n the vole makes a sound, teach him t'be quiet, will ye?"