Ambrose Spike tapped the casks of cider, October ale, berry wines and various fruit cordials which stood on trestles around a thick-boled beech tree.

The liberated slaves sat transfixed. They had never seen such an abundance of fare. Moles called for gangway as they trundled deeper’n’ever pies out on trolleys; long poles slung between otters wobbled under the weight of cauldrons of watershrimp and hotroot soup: hazelnut and acorn scones were laid out in rows to cool by the raspberry canes.

*   *   *

Mrs. Churchmouse and Cornflower barely managed to stop baby Rollo diving from a pear tree into a maple and mint cream trifle, while Mattimeo and his friends were recapturing their lost season with other young ones from the slave pits. They dashed about, plucking wild cherries from the tops of iced cakes, and sneaking candied chestnuts from an arrangement which Sister May was making. She scolded them tongue in cheek as the intricate heap fell apart for the umpteenth time.

Jabez Stump and young Jube were discovering the delights of strawberry cordial cold from the cellars. They lay beneath a trickling barrel with their mouths open wide, only stopping to munch celery and young onion flan.

*   *   *

Basil Stag Hare was instructing his protégé young Cheek in the art of trencherbeastship.

“No, no, m’lad. Don’t grab it all at once. Watch me. A smidgeon of fruit cake on the plate, a slice to eat now; a pawful of honeyed blackberries for yourself, and one for your plate; a quick swig of elderberry wine, and fill your beaker with beetroot port; now, some of the Abbot’s Redwall pie; lots of Brother Trugg’s celery and woodland herb dip; compliment the old mole fellers on the deeper’n’ever pie an’ they’ll give you an extra-large helpin’. Right, tackle that lot, and we’ll start again!”

*   *   *

Sir Harry was perched among the sparrows.

“Now listen and mark my words

As I eat this delicious cheese.

You’re really quite lucky birds,

To live in surroundings like these,

Woodland nutcrunch, gooseberry pie,

Honeybaked apples too.

Bilberry pudding, my, oh my,

Just swallow, don’t bother to chew.”

The Abbot looked apologetically over his glasses at Matthias. “There’s a very nice fish baking in the pit, a grayling, like the one we caught together many seasons ago. I’m sorry I didn’t wake you up to go fishing, but you were sleeping so peacefully.”

Matthias shook his head regretfully as he watched the moles take the dockleaves from the steaming white fish which lay on the pit embers.

“Hmm, I’ve missed our fishing trips, but I forgive you. By the way, who did help you? It’s more than a one-mouse job, landing a fish that size.”

Sister May tugged shyly at the Warrior’s habit.

“Beg pardon, Matthias, it was me. We hooked it, played it and landed it together, the Abbot and I.”