“Oh hahaheeehee! Good old Basil, ohoohoohoo! There’ll be fur flying in the kitchens soon. Hahahahohoho!” Cornflower gasped.

“Heeheehee! Oh my ribs, did you see the way he dropped the roses when he smelt food. Haha, he’s a stomach on four legs, that feller,” Mrs. Churchmouse chortled.

*   *   *

Foremole and his crew looked up from the roasting pit they were digging. Wiping paws on fur and blowing soil from their snouts, they chuckled and slapped each other’s backs.

“Hohurr hurr, ee be a champeen scoffer that un, oi never seed narthin so ’ungered atop or below soil. Ee Froiyer’ll wack ’im proper wi’ ladlespoon on m’ead, you’m see if ee doant, hurrhurr.”

*   *   *

Resounding with the noise of busy creatures and laughter, mixing with the smell of woodsmoke and cooking aromas, the sunlit afternoon stretched into warm windless eventide, turning the red sandstone Abbey walls a rosy hue with the speckle of golden dust motes drifting lazily on the rays of the setting sun.

6

Slagar sorted the odd jumble of performers’ clothing from the bed of the painted cart, throwing appropriate outfits to the chosen actors of his travelling troupe.

“Fleaback, Bageye, Skinpaw, you’ll be the tumblers, share that lot out between you.”

“But Chief . . . ,” Fleaback protested.

“And no complaints, d’you hear!”

“Here, give me those yellow pawsocks, you.”

“Huh, you can have ’em, they look daft.”

“They’re supposed to look daft, thickhead,” Slagar explained. “I said no complaints. Come over here, Hairbelly. You’ll be the balancer. Try this on. Oh, and don’t forget to put the ball sticky side down on your nose, otherwise it’ll fall off. Let’s see how you look.”

“Arr Chief, I was the balancer last time. Can I do the rope tricks this time?”

“No, you can’t. Leave that to Wartclaw, he’s best at it.”

“Oh, I’m fed up with this already,” Hairbelly grumbled. “Look, this tunic doesn’t fit me. Besides I can’t sing.”

Slagar was upon the unlucky weasel, dagger drawn. “You’ll sing a pretty tune if I tickle your eyeballs with this blade, bucko. Listen, all of you, one more moan from anyone and I’ll dump the lot of you back out upon the road, where you came from. You can go back to being the starving tramps and beggars you were before I took the trouble to form you into a proper slaving band. Now is that understood?”

There was a subdued mutter. Slagar dropped the knife and grabbed a sword. “I said, is that understood?”

There was a loud chorus of ayes this time, as the silken hood was beginning to suck in and out rapidly, denoting Slagar’s mounting temper.

Hairbelly was a little slower than the rest, still unhappy with his role as the balancer.

“It’s still not fair though, Chief,” he piped up. “You’ll probably only be standing about, watching tomorrow night while we do all the work.”