Phredd waved his scone at her. “Oh, er, young Gurvel, g’day!”
She chuckled. “Hurr hurr, goo day to ee, zurr. Wot bee’s ee soup sayin’ to ee, sumthin’ noice oi ’opes?”
Phredd sipped at the beaker and smacked his lips. “Oh yes, indeed, miss. ’Tis saying that you cooked it very nicely. Oh, it also asked if there was any pie about, eh?”
Gurvel went to her larder and took out a large pie. It was preserved plum and apple, the golden crust liberally dusted with maple frosting.
She cut a generous slice and gave it to him. “Thurr naow, old ’edgepig, doant ee let nobeast see that. Oi baked it speshul furr supper.”
Phredd nodded his thanks and skittered off out of the kitchens, conversing with the pie slice. “My my, you’re a handsome fellow! What a splendid dessert you’ll make. Come on, let’s find a nice quiet corner, eh?”
Granmum Gurvel shook her head at Phredd’s antics. She picked up the remainder of the pie. “Coom on, pie, back in ee larder again!”
The realisation of what she was doing caused the old molecook to smile. “Gurr, lack ee day, that Phredd got oi a talkin’ to moi own pies naow, gurt seasons!”
Martha had finished her lunch. She, too, sought peace and quiet to continue her reading. Leaving her friends, she wheeled the chair indoors. Crossing Great Hall, she went straight to her favourite place. Harlequin hues of sunlight shafted down through the high, stained-glass windows onto the worn stone floor. Between two towering sandstone columns, a lantern glowed beneath a wondrous woven tapestry with a sword suspended to one side of it. The haremaid halted her chair in full view of the scene, golden motes of sundust floating slowly on the serene air.
Martha paused before opening Sister Portula’s heavy book. She gazed up at the central figure in the tapestry, Martin the Warrior. A heroic, armour-clad mouse, the hero and champion of Redwall Abbey. Martha loved looking at his face—so strong and protective yet kindly, with a secret smile forever hiding in his eyes. The sword he was leaning on was the very same one that hung on the wall—a legendary warrior’s weapon, its only adornment, one red pommel stone set on the hilt. Martin’s swordblade had been forged at Salamandastron, the badgers’ mountain fortress on the west seashore. It had been made from a star fragment that had fallen from the skies.
No matter what position Martha took up when she visited the tapestry, Martin’s eyes always seemed to be watching her. The haremaid could feel his presence so strongly that she often spoke to him. Keeping her voice low in the echoing hall, she nodded toward the warrior mouse.
“The rains stopped today. You can see by the sunlight in here that it’s a beautiful spring day outside. I’ve come to do a bit of reading in peace. You should hear those Dibbuns singing in the orchard—they’re so happy! Did you ever do much reading, Martin?”
“Hee hee, I don’t suppose he did, a warrior like him, eh?” Phredd emerged from the shadows, where he had installed himself behind a column to enjoy his lunch.
Martha was slightly surprised at the old hedgehog’s appearance. “Oh I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know you were here.”
Phredd picked pie crumbs from his cheek spikes. “No need to be sorry, pretty miss, you carry on talking to your friend. I’ve had many a long chat with him, eh!”
The haremaid continued looking at the tapestry. “He looks so understanding, like a friend anybeast could talk to. Do you think he can hear us?”
Phredd patted her shoulder lightly. “Of course he can. I’m sorry for intruding. You carry on, miss. I’ll just pop off to my gatehouse for an afternoon nap. Good day to you.”
He shuffled off, though Martha heard him reprimanding a corner bench. “You mind your own business an’ don’t be eavesdropping now, eh, eh!”
Martha opened the book but was only able to concentrate on it for a short while before her eyelids began to flicker and then droop. The peacefulness of her surroundings, combined with the warm sunlight pouring down from the windows, had woven its own spell. There, in the silence of Great Hall, the small figure in the chair slept in a pool of tranquillity. Floating through the corridors of her mind came two mice—one, a maid of her own age clad in a gown of green; the other, Martin the Warrior.
His voice was as reassuring as soft breezes through a meadow. “I never did read much, Martha. It is good to read, all learning is knowledge. Read on, young one. Learn of Sister Amyl and the mice of Loamhedge.”
The haremaid could hear her own voice replying, “Learn what? Who is Sister Amyl?”
The young mousemaid standing beside the warrior pointed to Martha and spoke, every word burning itself into Martha’s mind.
“Where once I dwelt in Loamhedge,
my secret lies hid from view,
a tale of how I learned to walk,
when once I was as you.
Though you cannot go there,
look out for two who may,
travellers from out of the past,
returning home someday.”
Both Martin and Sister Amyl raised a paw in farewell. The dream faded like wisping smoke as Martha slept on.
Around midnoon Martha was awakened rudely, her chair jolted as three pair of paws latched on to it. Horty, Springald and Fenna ran her speedily across Great Hall, whirling perilously around the huge stone columns.
Martha gripped the chair tightly. “Whoo! Slow down, please. Where are we going?”
Horty jumped up beside her, shouting, “Out to enjoy the jolly old fresh air, my beautiful skin’n’blister, you’ll go mouldy sittin’ indoors, wot! I say, you chaps, can’t you make this thing go faster? Yaaaah!”
The chair struck a table edge and upturned. Springald and Fenna leapt aside, but Martha and Horty were shot out. Luckily, Martha landed on top of her brother, clutching Sister Portula’s volume to her. The chair skidded on a short distance, then lay still, one of its wheels still turning slowly.
Horty looked up into his sister’s face. “Dreadfully sorry about that, old gel, just a bit of fun, wot. I say, are you hurt?”
Martha glared down from where she was sitting on him. “Lucky for you I’m not. Is my chair damaged?”
Springald and Fenna set the chair upright and examined it.
“No, not a mark on it, Martha!”
“Haha, old Toran knew what he was doing when he built this thing. Stay there, we’ll lift you back in!”
In frosty silence, Martha allowed them to lift her back into the chair. The trio fussed about, folding the rug neatly about her lap and laying the volume on it.
Fenna smiled sweetly. “There, no real harm done, Martha. We were only trying to cheer you up, didn’t mean to throw you like that.”
Hastily Springald backed her up. “Yes, we were going to take you for a quick spin around the walltop. Lovely view from there on a day like this.”
Horty waggled his ears in agreement. “Right you are, m’dear. There’s still time for a toddle round the battlements, though we’ll go slower this time. Word of honour, wot!”
Martha shook her head firmly. “Oh no, you three wildbeasts aren’t taking me anywhere. Now go away! Please, leave me alone, I’m quite happy here!”
Horty scuffed his footpaw guiltily along the floorstones. “I say, y’won’t tell anybeast about what happened, will you?”
Martha tapped her chair arm pensively. “Any beast like who?”
Horty fidgeted with his belt tab. “Er, like Toran, or Abbot Carrul or blinkin’ old Sis Peculiar.”
Martha reminded him of the Infirmary Keeper. “Or Sister Setiva?”
Fenna’s eyes went wide. “Oh please, don’t tell her!”
The other two miscreants joined in with their pleas.
“She’ll make us scrub the infirmary out and stitch sheets!”
“Aye, an’ physick the blinkin’ life out of us. Oh come on, charmin’, beautiful Sis, say y’won’t snitch to that monster!”