Cornflower tied her bonnet strings in a bow. “Oh I’m glad you caught a good fish, dear. I’ve left your breakfast on the table, we’ll see you later. Mattimeo is so kind, guess what? He’s promised to help me all day with the flowers.”

Matthias winked cheerily at his scowling son. “What a splendid fellow he is, Cornflower. I’ll bet it was all his own idea too.”

*   *   *

As the morning sun rose higher, Redwall came to life. A team of young hedgehogs and squirrels sang lustily as they carried firewood, damp grass and flat rocks to the baking pit, which the moles were busy putting the final touches to.

“Dig’m sides noice’n square, Jarge. Gaffer, pat yon floor gudd an flattish loik.”

“Yurr, you’m ’old your counsel, Loamdog. Oi knows wot oi’m a-doin’.”

“Ho urr, be you serpint it’n deepwoise enuff?”

“Gurr, goo an arsk Friar to boil your ’ead awhoil, Rooter. May’ap ee’ll cook summ sense into you’m.”

*   *   *

Friar Hugo paced several times around the fish and dabbed at it with his dockleaf.

“Hmm, long time since I baked a carp. Brother Trugg, bring me bay leaves, dill, parsley and flaked chestnuts. Oh, and don’t forget the hotroot pepper and cream, lots of cream.”

An otter lingered near the carp, licking her lips at the mention of the sauce ingredients.

“How’s about some fresh little watershrimp for a garnish, Friar,” she suggested. “That’d make prime vittles.”

The fat mouse shooed her off with his dockleaf. “Be off with you, Winifred. I’ve counted every scale on that fish. Er, if you’re going for watershrimp, I’ll need at least two nets full for a decent garnish.”

*   *   *

The bee folk had been extra productive and kind in this Summer of the Golden Plain, and honey was plentiful. It dripped off the symmetrical combs in shining sticky globules. Jess Squirrel and her son Sam were storing it in three flat butts, the clear, the set, and the open-comb type much favoured by squirrels. From the cellars came the slightly off-key sound of singing, a quavering treble from Basil Stag Hare, backed by the gruff bass harmony of Ambrose Spike.

“O if I feel sick or pale,

What makes my old eyes shine?

Some good October ale

And sweet blackcurrant wine.

I’d kill a dragon for half a flagon,

I’d wrestle a stoat to wet my throat,

I’d strangle a snake, all for the sake

Of lovely nutbrown beer. . . .

Nuhuhuhut broooowwwwwnnnnn beeeeheeeyer!”

Upstairs in the vegetable store, Mrs. Lettie Bankvole was remonstrating with her young offspring baby Rollo. He had learned the words after his own fashion and was singing uproariously in a deep rough gurgle,

“I strangle a snake an’ wet his throat,

I wrestle a dragon an’ steal his coat—”

“Baby Rollo! Stop that this instant. Cover your ears and help me with this salad.”