The Abbot rapped the table. “Silence, please. We have no time to sit about arguing. What I need is some sensible suggestions. Let us review the position. The raven has the hostages, and no matter how we try to buy time or debate, he’ll kill them eventually, make no mistake about that. I tried to bluff him today, possibly I succeeded, but it won’t last. Listen, even if it meant the loss of just one life, I would have to surrender the Abbey. We cannot have three deaths on our heads; it is against all our principles.”

Winifred the Otter thumped the table with her tail. “Play the villain at his own game, then. What’s the name for it? Er, subterfuge, that’s it. We’ll use subterfuge.”

Every creature sat up bright and attentive. When there was no response to Winifred’s suggestion, they slumped back.

“We’m gotter be a-thinken ’ard, rasslin’ wi’ uz brains,” Foremole urged.

More silence followed.

“Surely somebody must have a glimmer of a plan?” Winifred said sadly.

“Here comes supper. Let’s think while we eat,” the Abbot suggested.

“Good idea,” Ambrose Spike agreed. “Sometimes I thinks the brainbox and the stomach bag is joined up some’ow. Hoho, I say, they done us proud, acorn salad and spiced apple’n’damson pie—”

“Pie, that’s it!”

They turned to stare at John Churchmouse.

“I was trying to remember the name of those black and white birds that are with Ironbeak. It’s pie. Magpie!”

The Abbot put aside his platter. “Go on, John, think hard. Have you got an idea?”

John scratched his whiskers in frustration. “Oh, if only I could remember what it was. It’s stuck right between the tips of my ears. Hmph! It’s no good, I’ve forgotten now.”

Ambrose supped October ale noisily from a beaker. “Pity, I thought you was goin’ to come up with a plan to get your missus an’ Cornflower an’ that baby down off the roof.”

“The roof, the magpies, that’s it!” John Churchmouse banged his paw down on the table, squelching a wedge of pie by mistake. “Of course, I saw those three magpies only this morning, robbing our orchard and flying up to the eaves. Those birds are Ironbeak’s supply line. He needs them to bring in food!”

“And if we could capture ’em, we could do a swap,” Winifred said through a mouthful of salad. “Three magpies for three hostages. Good idea, John.”

“Burr aye, vittles be of more use to burdbags than ’ostages. Otherwise they’d be a-starved from ’unger,” Foremole added.