Foremole tugged his snout obligingly. “Burr, if’n you’m laydeez ud loik to wet you’m paws, oi’ll take you’m thro’ yon tunnel to pond.”

Winifred the Otter sprang up. “What a good idea! Oh, would you please let us go, Father Abbot? We’ll be careful, I promise we will. The first sign of a rook and we’ll pop into that hole like moles, pardon the expression.”

Abbot Mordalfus took his spectacles off. Smiling indulgently, he settled back in his chair.

“Well, it’s pretty certain I won’t get any rest with you chattering creatures about. Of course you may go, but don’t stay out too long and be very careful. I’ll stop here and take a nap.”

Foremole was first into the tunnel. “Age afore booty. Foller me, gennelbeasts.”

The Abbot settled back in his chair with a sigh. A ray of sunlight crossing Great Hall penetrated down the stairs across the barricade top and shone in his eyes. He watched the small golden dust flecks dancing in it, his eyes gradually closing as he drifted into his noontide nap.

*   *   *

Cornflower came wriggling back down the tunnel, followed by her companions. She scurried from the entrance and, not bothering to dust herself down, began shaking the sleepy Abbot by the paw.

“Wake up, wake up, Father Abbot, quickly! They’re attacking it, the poor thing. Oh, it’ll be killed if we don’t do something.”

The Abbot blinked and jumped up. “Eh, what? Attacking what poor thing, where?”

Winifred grabbed his other paw. “A big rusty-colored bird, much bigger than Ironbeak’s lot. It’s over by the pond and the rooks are attacking it. Oh, I’m sure it isn’t an invader. We’ve got to help it.”

The Abbot leapt into action.

“Find Constance quickly. Get any available moles and bring them here.”

A moment later, Constance rushed in from the kitchens, covered in flour with a bunch of scallions in her paw. She climbed into the tunnel, shouting orders:

“Everybeast stay here except the moles. Send them after me. I’ll deal with this!”

*   *   *

In front of the pond the great red bird lay. With one final effort she had flown over the outer Abbey wall, landing with a thud on the soft gatehouse garden soil. Seeing the water glint in the afternoon sun, she hauled herself painfully over to drink at the pond. The throat of the great red bird was dry, her tongue parched, spots danced before her eyes. Crazily she staggered and wobbled towards the water. Next instant she was harried by three rooks who descended upon her. They pecked and dragged at the great red bird, lashing out with their clawing talons. Half unconscious and defenceless, she lay at their mercy.

Foremole was awaiting Constance’s arrival up the tunnel.

“O’er thurr, stroipmarm,” he said, pointing to the scene of the attack. “They’m akillen yon burd, they gurt bullies!”