Gabe took a jug over to his cider barrels. "D'you want a drinkin' cider or a cookin' cider?"
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"Oh, a cooking one, I s'pose. Whoops, heehee! Er, sorry. It's for Mother Mellus. She's baking horse, teehee, chestnuts, whoo! For the Jubilee, phwaw! That stuff could tickle you to death, Mr. Quill. Hahaha!"
"Well, it's certainly got you young uns all of a-wiggle. You'd never make it upstairs carryin' a jug o' cider. Siddown now an' sip some of this cold motherwort tea.
That'll calm you a bit."
oo
Above stairs in the kitchens, Friar Alder was at his wits' end. The Foremole and his team had decided to make the biggest raspberry cream pudding ever seen in Mossflower country. Alder threw his hat down and danced upon it.
"Flour, raspberries, honey and cream everywhere. I can't stand it!"
Foremole ignored him, but a fat mole named Buxton waved a reassuring paw at the harassed Alder. "Burr, doant you a-froight yerself, maister. Us'ns knows wot we're about."
A young mole named Danty, white with flour from tail to tip, climbed into one of the huge copper stock-pots.
"Hurr aye, doant 'ee fret thoi whiskers, zurr Alder. Yurr, Burgo, tipple some o' they rabserries in yurr, an' moind that garleck doant go near 'em."
Burgo turned indignantly to Foremole, who blanched at the smell of the wild garlic Burgo always carried. His voice sounded squeaky through the peg he wore at the tip of his snout. "Yurr, wot's Danty rubblin' on about? Oi doant loik the smell o' garleck noither. 'At's whoi oi allus pegs me nose up toight. Oh lookit, liddle Grubb's fell in 'ee honey."
Foremole fished Baby Grubb out of the panful of warm honey. "Gurr you'm toiny racsal, wot do 'ee want ter fallen in honey furr?"
Grubb waved a sticky carefree paw. "Hurr, better
fallen in honey than mud, oi allus says. Baint nothen wrong wi' honey. Bees makes et."
Foremole wrinkled his button nose, nodding in agreement. "Ho urr, the choild be roight, he'm be growen up wisely clever. Stan' o'er thurr an' lick thoi-self off, liddle Grubb. Buxton, Drubber, see wot you'm c'n do for zurr Alderhe'm fainted roight away. Doant leave 'im alyin' thurr in yon rabserry pudden mixture."
From the kitchen doors Abbot Bernard stood watching the proceedings, with Simeon chuckling beside him.
"My my, those moles are certainly teaching Friar Alder a thing or two, Bernard. His kitchen will never be the same again."
"Indeed, Simeon. Excuse me a moment, will you? Brother Ash, would you help those little mice to roll that great cheese they're trying to move? If it falls on one of them he'll be flattened. Oh, Treerose, I don't wish to interfere, but is that a woodland summercream pudding I can smell beginning to burn in the ovens?"
Treerose had been bustling about, efficiently attending to several things at once. However, she had forgotten the woodland summercream pudding she had put in the oven some time before. Panic-faced, she dashed off to attend to it.
Simeon nodded in admiration. "Your sense of smell is getting better, Bernard."
"Thank you, Simeon, but I had a double motive. Treerose is very pretty but far too efficient and snippy. It will teach her that even the best of us can make mistakes. Also, I would hate a woodland summercream pudding to be burnt in the ovens, especially hers. To tell the truthand I wouldn't tell herTreerose does make the best woodland summercream I've ever tasted."
Treerose arrived at the ovens, grabbed up a cloth and swung the door wide.
"My pudding. . . . It's gone!"
"I smelled the crust edges just begin to scorch so I pulled it out for you."
She turned to see Rufe Brush standing by her pudding, which was set on the big flat cooling slate. Rufe was a rough-looking squirrel, not given overmuch to hanging about kitchens or joining the growing band of Treerose's admirers. He sniffed at the pudding before sauntering off. "Looks all right to me."
Treerose watched him go. What a fine bushy tail, well-pointed ears and powerful shoulders . . .
Mother Mellus banged a ladle upon a saucepan. "Come on, all you Dibbuns. Bedtime now."
Abbot Bernard yawned. "I think I'll join the Dibbuns, Simeon."
"Me too, Bernard. It's been a long day and we're getting no younger, my friend. I'll just take a stroll first and check that all the outer gates are secured." Simeon the blind herbalist placed a paw on his friend's shoulder.
"Right, I'll come with you."
"No you won't. I can sense your weariness. Besides, what could you see in the dark that i could not feel ten times better? Day and night are alike to me."
"You are right, of course. Good night, Simeon."
"Good night, Bernard. Sleep well."
The Abbot went off to his room, knowing that shortly the kitchen fires would be damped for the night, the cooks would retire and peace would settle over his beloved Redwall Abbey.
oo
As Gabool predicted, the ship Greenfang had crossed bows with Darkqueen, the huge black galley commanded by Saltar. Upon hearing of the death of his brother Bludrigg, the corsair Captain put about, piling on sail and oars as he set course for Terramort Isle. The whips cracked belowdecks as drivers flogged the galley slaves on to greater efforts. The searat atop of the mizzenmast scoured the waves for sight of land; below his claws
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the wide sails bellied out on the night breeze. Saltar stood in the bows putting a fine edge to his curved sword on an oilstone. Bleak-eyed and grim-faced, the searat muttered beneath his breath.
"I'll send you down where the fish will eat your flesh and the sea water rot your bones, Gabool the Wild. There was never any love lost between me and Blud-rigg, but he was my brother, and blood must be repaid with blood."
"Terramort rocks sighted off the starb'd bow, Cap'n," the lookout called down. "We can drop anchor in the cove afore dawn with this wind behind us."
Saltar sheathed his sword and began polishing the needletip of his cruel gaff hook, scowling at the dark lump on the horizon which marked the black forbidding rocks of Gabool's pirate kingdom.
"Ledder, douse all lights. When we're close enough to harbor, furl in all sails. Tell the crew to arm up and stand ready. There's killin' to be done tomorrow."
Saltar's first mate Ledder went aft to carry out his orders.
With the hook swinging from a neck cord and his sword at his side, Saltar stood leaning on the forward rail. He had never lost a fight or left an enemy alive. Gabool the Wild might rule Terramort and Fort Blade-girt, but Saltar had heard, as had every other salty searat, the story of how he was nearly bested by a mousemaid.
The corsair spat viciously over the side at the curving bow wave. "Lord of all Seas, King of Searats! Huh! You'll find out tomorrow, Gabool. You'll learn that
Saltar the Corsair is no mousemaid!"
oo
In the banqueting hall of Fort Bladegirt, Gabool stood giving instructions to three fortslaves, dormice who had been captured in a land raid.
"Stand on his shoulders, you. Polish up round the top where the ring is. You, be still, and don't put yer
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bare paws on the metalyou'll have pawmarks all over me bell. Of course, you know what that means, don't you?"
Doing his best to stand still and not to touch the bell, the ragged slave called over his shoulder, "Yes, Master. Pawmarks all over the bell mean whipmarks all over our backs."
Gabool slouched down on his throne. He picked idly at a dish of fruits crystallized in sugared honey and poured a goblet of wine.