The Abbot shook a stern paw at them. “Where did you go off to without as much as a word to me?”

Matthias tossed the towel aside wearily. “We’ve been up the north road. Warbeak and her sparrows flew ahead of us. But the rain was too heavy, so there are no tracks.”

Basil blew droplets of rain from his whiskers. “Tchah! Bally old rain. They’ve either travelled up that road a lot faster than we thought they could, or else cut off east into the woodlands or west out onto the plains. Couldn’t make out a confounded thing with the old skyjuice pouring down like that.”

Warbeak fluttered her wings irritably. “They worms, no can travel faster’n us with cart to pull. We catchem, you see.”

Abbot Mordalfus gathered up the wet towels. “So, they could have travelled anywhere in three directions from the road. One thing is certain, no creature can track them in this rain, so what can we do?”

Thunder rumbled outside, a vivid lightning flash streaked across the windows of Great Hall. Basil twitched his ears miserably.

“No signs of this little lot lettin’ up, old sport,” he said to Matthias. “We’re really at sixes and sevens, laddie. Can’t sit around and twiddle our paws and can’t get out and track ’em.”

Matthias wiped his sword dry, gritting his teeth angrily. “Track them or not, we can’t let them get away with our young ones.”

The Abbot folded both paws into his wide habit sleeves. “We’ll bury our dead and think hard while we’re doing it.”

*   *   *

Ambrose Spike and Cornflower kept baby Rollo at their side as they tolled the bells that evening. The sky was leaden purple-grey, and rain poured ceaselessly as the procession of Redwallers marched solemnly to the burying place. Dressed in his ceremonial robe, the Abbot stood over the twin graves, at the foot of which two weeping willow saplings had been transplanted.

Tearfully the woodlanders passed in single file, each leaving a small memento to their fallen friends, a young mousemother and a fat little Friar. Some brought flowers, others carried offerings of fruit and nuts, or a treasured object they thought might please, a paw-worked purse, a carved wooden ladle, a dockleaf made from green felt.

Matthias stood alongside Mordalfus, dressed in his full armour, bearing the sword. Together the warrior and the patriarch intoned the prayer for those who would rest forever in the Abbey grounds.

“Suns that set as seasons turn,

Flowers grow and wither yet.

Who can say what flame may burn,

Friends that we have known and met.

Look into the young ones’ eyes,

See the winter turn to spring,

Across the quiet eternal lake,

Ripples spreading in a ring.”

The rain continued unabated as they filed back to the Abbey, leaving Foremole and his crew to replace the earth gently over their fallen companions.

*   *   *