“Oh golly. Vitch had a wasp on his bottom, but I couldn’t brush it off in time. I think he’s been stung.”

Vitch was thrashing about on the grass, tears squeezing out onto his cheeks as he rubbed furiously at his tender rump.

Cornflower was genuinely concerned. “Oh, you poor thing. Don’t rub it, you’ll make it worse. Go to Sister May at the infirmary and she’ll put some herb ointment on it for you. Tess, show him where it is, please.”

Scrambling up, Vitch avoided Tess’s paw and dashed off, sobbing.

Tess turned to Mattimeo. “Aaahhh, poor Vitch. It must be very uncomfortable,” she said, her voice dripping sympathy.

Mattimeo tried hard to keep a straight face. “Indeed it must. It’s a terrible thing to be stung on the bottom by a churchmouse, er, wasp, I mean.”

Cornflower put her paws about them both. “Yes, of course. Now you two run off and play. There may be other wasps about and I don’t want either of you stung.”

“Come on, Matti, let’s go water-shrimping with Tim and the otters,” Tess suggested.

“Great, I’ll race you over there. One, two, three. Go!”

Cornflower shaded her eyes with a paw as she watched them run.

“What a lively young pair,” she said aloud.

Mrs. Churchmouse arrived, carrying a pansy and kingcup bouquet. “Yes, but you watch your Matti. He’ll let her win. He’s very fond of my little Tess.”

“Bless them, that’s the way it should be.” Cornflower nodded, smiling.

7

It was late afternoon on the common land at the back of Saint Ninian’s. Slager had marshalled his band of slavers. Threeclaws the weasel and Bageye the stoat stayed inside the ruined church, together with the wretched little group of slaves, who had been manacled to a running chain. They were to await the return of Slagar and the others that night.

Now the Sly One reviewed his force. They were dressed as a band of travelling performers. None looked evil, Slagar had seen to that. Every ferret, stoat or weasel had a silly grin painted on its face with berry stain and plant dyes, and all wore various types of baggy comical costume. The fox swept up and down the line, adjusting a ruffle here, affixing a false red nose there.

Dressed as the Lord of Mountebanks, Slagar the Cruel looked neither comical nor amusing. There was a mysterious air about him, hooded and caped in swirling patterned silk which showed the black lining of the moon and stars motif at every turn.

“Right, listen carefully. Throw down any weapons you are carrying. Right now!” His voice was a warning growl, flatly dangerous.

There was an uneasy shuffling. The slavers were apprehensive of entering the Abbey without weapons. Slagar paced the ranks once more.