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.”