Free Loamhedge by Brian Jacques Page A

order.
    â€œThankee, zurr h’Abbot. Naow, you’m all coom to ee h’orchard arter brekkist, an’ oi’ll give ee yurr tarsks. Hurr hurr, an’ all you’m Dibbuns make shore you’m be proper scrubbed!”
    Abbot Carrul looked over the top of his tiny glasses at Sister Portula. “Does that solve your problem, marm?”
    The good Sister looked slightly nonplussed. “But Father, Summer Season doesn’t start for two days yet.”
    Foremole Dwurl wrinkled his snout confidentially. “If’n you’m doant tell ’um, marm, us’n’s woant. Hurrhurr!”
    Â 
    Silence reigned in Cavern Hole. Every Redwaller was tucked up in bed, anticipating the coming day’s delights. SummerSeason feast and sports was always a joyous event on the Abbey calendar.
    Abbot Carrul pushed Martha’s chair across Great Hall to her bedroom, which was next to his on ground level. His voice echoed whisperingly about the huge columns as they went.
    â€œDid you notice that Old Phredd didn’t come in for supper this evening?”
    Martha voiced her concern. “Oh dear, I do hope he’s not ill!”
    The Father Abbot reassured her. “Not at all, that old fogy’s fit as a flea. He was rather anxious for us to get out of the gatehouse, though. I’ll wager a button to a barrel of mushrooms that rascal has information about Loamhedge hidden in his dusty archives, sly old hog!”
    Martha sat up eagerly. “Do you really think so, Father?”
    Carrul nodded. “I’m certain of it, miss. D’you know, I think our search is going to turn up some interesting and exciting stuff tomorrow.”
    The young haremaid wriggled with anticipation, since any prediction the Abbot made invariably came to pass. “Oh, I do hope so, Father. Maybe we’ll discover Sister Amyl’s secret. Wouldn’t that be wonderful!”
    Martha looked up as they passed the great tapestry. Was it just a trick of the flickering lanterns, or did she really see Martin the Warrior’s eyes twinkle at her?

7

    Some leagues north of Redwall Abbey, the ragtag vermin gang blundered their way through the nighttime thickness of Mossflower woodlands. Skrodd swiped at the undergrowth with his former leader’s cutlass as he led the party.
    The big rat, Dargle, kept muttering under his breath, continuously criticising Skrodd. “Fancy trackin’ two beasts when yore lost, huh!”
    Tired and sleepy, the other vermin managed a weary murmur of agreement. Skrodd did not want to challenge Dargle directly—it was the wrong time and place for such a move. So he asserted his authority by bullying all and sundry. He turned on them, brandishing the cutlass.
    â€œShut yer gobs an’ keep movin’. Lost? Hah! Youse’d be the lost ones if’n I wasn’t leadin’ ye!”
    Flinky enjoyed causing trouble. Disguising his voice, he called out behind the big fox’s back. “That’s no way t’be talkin’ to pore pawsore beasts!”
    Little Redd agreed with him. “Aye, we should be sleepin’ now instead o’ wanderin’ round an’ round all night long!”
    Although Flinky was the instigator, Redd was the unlucky one whose voice Skrodd identified. With a savage kick, Skrodd sent the small fox sprawling.
    Laying the cutlass blade against his neck, he snarled, “Ye liddle runt, say the word an’ ye can sleep ’ere fer good. I’ve took enough of yore moanin’!”
    Realising that he had gone too far, Flinky tried to remedy the situation by pulling Redd upright as he appealed to Skrodd. “Ah, come on now, sure he’s only a tired young whelp. No sense in slayin’ one of yore own mates. Let’s step out a bit, an’ I’ll sing a song to help us along, eh?”
    Skrodd relented, pointing his blade at the stoat. “Right, you sing. The rest o’ ye march, an’