Sam reluctantly undid something that was hidden by the long brush of his tail. He tossed it in with the pitiful collection. “Mum’s champion climber tailbracelet. It’s made from baked clay and reedgrass, painted three different colours too. I borrowed it to wear for the feast that night.”

Mattimeo unfastened his soft white habit girdle. “Suppose I’d better throw this in too. Dad said it belonged to old Abbot Mortimer before my time. It’s a nice one.”

“Let me do this,” Tess offered. She gathered the objects up and signalled to the newt.

Cynthia Bankvole hissed a warning, remaining frozen in her upright position on watch. Immediately the newt dropped out of sight and the companions lay flat as if asleep.

Wartclaw strode over. He tickled Cynthia under her chin with his cane.

“Not sleepy, eh, missie?”

“Er, no sir,” Cynthia gulped. “I can’t seem to get any sleep.”

“Well, you ought to take lessons from your little pals yonder. Look, they’re snoozin’ like a pile of bees trying to last out the winter.”

Cynthia was too petrified even to look. She sat staring at Wartclaw with the cane pressing painfully into her throat. Wartclaw gave the cane a hard shove, sending Cynthia flat on her back, both chained paws clutching her neck.

“Get to sleep before I tuck you in with this cane, vole, and don’t let me catch you napping when we start to march again,” Wartclaw’s voice hissed close to her ear.

He strode off, chuckling to himself and shaking his head. “Must’ve had a featherbed life in that Redwall place before we got our claws on ’em. . . . Huh, can’t sleep, sir!”

Cynthia sat up partially. “He’s gone now. Oh, do hurry up!” she said, her voice trembling.

Scurl scampered swiftly up and seized the things the others had collected for him.

“Hmm, notmuch, notmuch. Funny bell, though. Nice ring, soft white rope, nice on Scurl.” He held the white habit girdle against his red underside.

Tess gave a look of mock admiration. “Oh, that does look nice on you. Now put the bracelet on your tail. No, like this. Let me see . . . oh yes, hang my beechnut bell around your neck. Very handsome. Tuck the blue flowers in the thong up by your frill. There! You can carry the green stone.”

Auma placed a paw upon Scurl’s back. “Just a moment, where’s the keys?”

The newt gave her a scornful glance. “Don’t carryem. Huh, wouldn’t carryem, gotter go for em.”

Auma kept her paw firmly on Scurl. “How do I know you’ll come back?”

Scurl stood upright, his eyes wide and a dignified expression upon his face. “Stripedog, you be no woodlander, right?”

Auma nodded glumly. “No, I’m from the western plain. I’m a flatland badger.”

“I be woodlander, tellem ’bout woodlander rule, mouse.” Scurl smiled disarmingly.