Cornflower stood up. “I know exactly what you mean, Mr. Churchmouse, but we may be judging Matti a little unfairly. After all, he does have quite a lot to live up to, being the son of Redwall’s Warrior. Besides, practically every woodlander within our walls has spoiled him since the day he was born.”

Both John and Rufus nodded their heads in agreement.

The awkward silence which followed was immediately broken by a band of small creatures headed by a young mole who waved his digging claws wildly.

“Cumm yurr quickly, gennelmice, ’asten ee. Li’l Matti be a-slayin’ Vitch. Do ’urry!”

Even though the little creature was speaking in the quaint and complicated molespeech, they understood the urgency of his message.

“Where, where?” they cried. “Take us there quickly!”

The group dashed around the south Abbey gable, taking the shortcut to the east grounds.

Cornflower picked up her skirts, narrowly avoiding collision with a baby hedgehog. Brother Rufus was out in front.

*   *   *

Jess Squirrel was first on the scene. She had been up an apple tree in the orchard with her son Sam when they heard the screams. Travelling from bough to bough, swift as a bird in flight, Jess dropped to the ground and set about trying to separate the two creatures locked together on the grass. They rolled, kicked, spat and bit furiously. Sam dropped down to his mother’s aid. They grabbed one each and held them apart. As they did, the crowd arrived.

*   *   *

Mattimeo was panting heavily. He tried to break free, but Jess shook him soundly by the scruff.

“Be still, you little ruffian, or I’ll tan your hide!” she warned him.

Sam held tight to the other mouse, Vitch, who looked more like a rat, small though he was. Vitch was not struggling. He looked quite relieved that the fight had been stopped.

John Churchmouse strode firmly between them. “Now then, what’s all this about, eh?”

“He called me a skinny little rat.”

“He said I was not a warrior’s son.”

“He pulled my tail and he jumped on me and bit me and—”

“Silence!”

Every creature present froze at the booming growl of a huge grey female badger. Constance, the mother of all Redwall, stood high on her hind legs, towering above them. Folding her front paws judiciously, she glared down at the two small miscreants.

“Vitch, is it? Well, Vitch, you are a newcomer to our Abbey, but that is no excuse for fighting. We are peaceable creatures at Redwall. Violence is never the answer to a quarrel. What have you got to say for yourself?”

The ratlike mouse wiped a smear of blood from his snout.

“It was Mattimeo,” he whined piteously. “He hit me first, I wasn’t doing anything, I was just . . .”

Vitch’s faltering excuses faded to a whimper under the badger’s stern gaze. She pointed a blunt paw at him.