At Redwall, sporting events for the youngsters had been going on since early afternoon. Matthias woke refreshed. He sat on the west wall steps with John Churchmouse, Abbot Mordalfus, Basil Stag Hare and old Ambrose Spike. They drank cider and watched the antics of a young mole trying to shin up a greased pole to retrieve the bag of crystallized fruits from its top. The little fellow was over halfway up, further than any had got, and the watchers on the steps yelled encouragement:

“Dig your claws in, Gilly. You’ll make it!”

“Take it easy, old lad. A bit at a time, that’s the way!”

“Stay still! Stay still! Oh he’s slipping!”

Gilly slid slowly earthward, his face a picture of longing.

“Gurr, sloidy owd greasepole, ee be loik tryin’ t’ rassle wi’ a damp frog. O shame on oi, ee carndy’s still thurr.”

They applauded loudly. “Good try, young un, well done!”

Constance the badger came ambling over towards them. As she passed near to the greased pole, young Sam the Squirrel moved like lightning. He dashed a short way, bounded on to Constance’s back, sprang up on her head and gave a mighty leap. It carried him over the top of the greased pole. He snatched the candied fruit bag as he went, without a backward look.

“I say, was that fair?” Constance blinked owlishly.

Gilly and Sam sat laughing on the grass, sharing the fruits between them. The young mole patted Sam with a greasy paw as he stuffed a sugar plum in his mouth.

“Hurr hurr, bain’t nuthin’ in ee rules agin it, no zurr.”

“Look out, gangway, here come the runners!”

On the second lap of the Abbey grounds, the runners came by, Tess Churchmouse in front by a whisker and a tail. They sped by, jockeying frantically to be among the front runners on the last lap.

John Churchmouse puffed at his pipe between chuckles. “She’s a one for the running, my young Tess is.”

Mattimeo came dashing across, wearing a coronet of dripping duckweed on his head.

“Look what the otters gave me, I won, I won!” he shouted.

Streamsleek, a powerful young otter, followed in Mattimeo’s wake, along with a group of young creatures. The otter slouched down on the steps, shaking water from his coat.

“Crimp me sails, but he did that, Matthias. Three circuits of the pool on a log. I had me course well charted to keep up with him.”

The warrior mouse handed Streamsleak the cider flagon and ruffled his son’s damp back.

“Well done, Matti. You’d better let that duckweed tiara dry out a bit before you wear it, though.”

“Balderdash, spoils of war, wot?” Basil Stag Hare said through a mouthful of summer vegetable pastie. “You wear it, young feller me bucko, ’twas honorably won.”

Tim Churchmouse came round from the south side of the Abbey, carrying baby Rollo Bankvole on his back.

“Look, everybody, this ruffian has just beaten me to first place in the sack race.”

They laughed aloud as baby Rollo flew a small paper kite on a string that he had been given as a prize by Cornflower. Basil Stag Hare took the infant upon his knee. He gave him a drink from his cider beaker and a bite of his pastie.

“Right, Rollo you young rip. Let’s hear you sing for old Uncle Baz, wot?”

Rollo willingly obliged, piping up in his gruff baby voice,

“Fight a flagon an’ drink a dragon,

Gizzard a lizard an’ split his blizzard,

Ride a spider for good ol’ cider,

Gooooood oooooold ciderrrrrrrr!”

Suddenly Basil deposited the infant on the steps and shot up to the west ramparts. Mrs. Lettie Bankvole was seen bustling across from the gatehouse doorway, where she had been folding napkins for the table.

“Ooh, you villainous lop-eared troublemaker, just let me get my paws on you and I’ll make you sing a different tune.” Basil stood on a battlement peak, trying to reason with the furious mother of Rollo.

“But madam, I can assure you the little chap composes his own verses. Jolly good too, if you ask me. Top hole.”

“How dare you! I’d take a switch to you if I were your mother.”

“Fur forbid, ma’am. If you were my mater I’d chuck meself off the jolly old battlements and save you the trouble.”

Mrs. Lettie Bankvole straightened her pinafore frostily. “And don’t you sit there grinning, Ambrose Spike, you’re as much to blame as that excuse for a rabbit up there. Come here, baby Rollo, this instant!”

The outraged mother swept her offspring up and hurried away, chiding him as she went.

“Now don’t ever let me hear you singing that dreadful song again. Say you’re sorry for upsetting Mama.”

Baby Rollo thought about this for a moment, then broke out into song lustily.

“I’d roll a mole an’ squeeze a sparrow,

Or shoot a rat wiv a big sharp arrow,

For good ol’ bla-ha-ha-hack currant wiiiiiiine!”

Basil descended the stairs, muttering to himself, “Inventive little wretch, must remember that verse, what was it? Strangle a mole with a great big marrow? Talented young blighter, wish we’d had him in the old fifty-seventh foot fighters’ mess.”

*   *   *

As the bells tolled out, a chorus of mice could be heard singing around the grounds.

“To table, to table and eat what you may,

Come brothers, come sisters, come all.

Be happy, be joyful, upon our feast day,

Eight seasons of peace in Redwall.

So sing from dusk to dawn

And let the Abbey bells ring.

The sun will bring the morn,

And still we will merrily sing.”

The sweet sounds floated out, fading on the warm evening air, as every woodlander and Redwall creature hastened to take their place at table for the long-awaited feast.

Such festivity there never was!

*   *   *

Eight long trestle tables had been laid in a sprawling octagon, covered in the finest white linen, overlaid with pastel-hued mats of woven rushes. Intricate flower arrangements trailed night-scented stock, roses, pansies, kingcups, jasmine, lupins and ferns at the junction of each table. Places were set out and named in neatly printed small scrolls, each of which doubled as a napkin. Bowls of hot scented flower waters steamed fragrantly, awaiting the advent of sticky paws. There was no top table or concession to rank, and the humblest sat alongside the greatest, squirrels rubbed paws with mice, otters rubbed tails with voles, and moles tried not to rub shoulders with hedgehogs. Everything was perfect, except for the food. . . .

That was beyond mere words.

Salads of twelve different types, ranging from beetroot to radish, right through many varieties of lettuce and including fennel, dandelion, tomato, young onion, carrot, leek, corn – every sort of vegetable imaginable, cut, shredded, diced or whole. These were backed up with the cheeses, arranged in wedge patterns of red, yellow and white, studded with nuts, herbs and apple. Loaves were everywhere, small brown cobs with seeds on top, long white batons with glazed crusts, early harvest loaves shaped like cornstooks, teabread, nutbread, spicebread and soft flowerbread for infants. The drinks were set out in pitchers and ewers, some in open bowls with floating mint leaves, October ale, fresh milk, blackcurrant wine, strawberry cordial, nutbrown beer, raspberry fizz, elderberry wine, damson juice, herb tea and cold cider.

Then there were the cakes, tarts, jellies and sweets. Raspberry muffins, blueberry scones, redcurrant jelly, Abbot’s cake, fruitcake, iced cake, shortbread biscuits, almond wafers, fresh cream, sweet cream, whipped cream, pouring cream, honeyed cream, custardy cream, Mrs. Churchmouse’s bell tower pudding, Mrs. Bankvole’s six-layer trifle, Cornflower’s gatehouse gateau, Sister Rose’s sweetmeadow custard with honeyglazed pears, Brother Rufus’s wildgrape woodland pie with quince and hazelnut sauce.

To name but a few. . . .

The rule was to start with what you liked and finish when you felt like. Nothing was stinted and everyone was to make sure that their neighbors either side of them enjoyed everything.

“Hi, Tess, have some hot candied chestnuts.”

“Thank you, Matt. Here, try some of this almond wafer topped with pink cream. I’ve just invented it and it’s lovely.”

“Yurr, pass oi that troifle, oi dearly do luv troifle. Hurr, coom on, Abbot zurr, you’m b’aint ayten ’ardly a boit. Let oi ’elp you t’ summ o’ thiz yurr salad ’n’bread’n’-cheese’n bell tower pudden.”

“Oh er, all together? Thank you, Foremole, most kind. Have you tried my Redcurrantwall Abbot Alf cake?”

“Strike me sails, Mordalfus, that’s a nice long name for a good-sized cake,” Winifred commented. “Ho, it tastes ’andsome. Pass us the cider, matey.”

“My, my, Basil, you’re not saying much.”

“Mmmfff scrumff grumphhh. Action, laddie buck, that’s the ticket. Grmffff, munchmunch, slurrrp!”

“Try some of my woodland pie, Matthias. By the fur, is that Basil behind the huge plateful over there?”

“Thank you, Brother Rufus. A little more nutbrown beer for you? Haha, so it is. Every time his ears show over the top of that pile of food he shoves more on it. Oh dear, I’m sure he’ll explode before the evening’s out. Hi, Basil, steady on old lad.”

“Grmmmfff, munch. Beg pardon, old mouse, can’t hear you. Must be me old war wound, snchhh, gulp! Oh no, it’s a stick of celery in me ear. How’d that get there, chompchomp, grumphhh!”

The Abbot was upstanding now. He beat upon the table with a wooden ladle.

“Silence, please. Give order and make way for Friar Hugo and the fish.”

The carp was on a low wide trolley. Hugo would allow none to help. Proudly he pulled and tugged until he drew it up to the table. Fanning himself with the tail-held dockleaf, he regained his breath.

“Abbot, the fish prayer, if you please.”

The eating stopped. All sat in reverent silence as Mordalfus spread his paws over the carp and intoned:

“Fur and whisker, tooth and claw,

All who enter by our door.

Nuts and herbs, leaves and fruits,

Berries, tubers, plants and roots,

Silver fish whose life we take

Only for a meal to make.”

There was a loud and heartfelt “Amen” from all.

The Abbot gave the proceedings over to Hugo, and the fat little Friar cleared his throat.

“Ahem, my friends, this year I have created for you a dish known as Carp Capitale. You will observe that I marinated my fish in a mixture of cider and dandelion extract. It has been grilled on a turning spit, skinned and laid in a slow-cooking mixture of cream and mushrooms with hotroot pepper, then garnished with flaked almond, mint leaves and chopped greens.”

“Absolutely spiffin’. I say, Hugo, you old pan-walloper, d’you need a good steady-pawed fellow to help you t’ serve the old trout, wot wot?”

Friar Hugo never blinked an eyelid, but there were titters and smothered giggles from every corner at Basil’s offer. Hugo addressed the Abbot:

“Lord Abbot, before I serve you the first portion to taste, can I suggest jugged hare for our next banquet?”

Basil’s ears stood straight up with indignation. “I say, steady in the ranks there. I wouldn’t be able to have any, doncha know.”

Amid gales of unrestrained laughter, Abbot Mordalfus dug his fork into the delicious dish. A whisker’s-breadth away from his lips he stopped the loaded fork and said, “Friar Hugo, my most old and valued chef, I pronounce this dish totally excellent merely by the sight and aroma, knowing that when I actually taste it, I will be lost for words.”

A cheer went up at the Abbot’s gallant pronouncement. Hugo fanned himself furiously with pleasure at the compliment.

Basil Stag Hare actually ate four portions, claiming that he had an otter ancestor somewhere in his family tree.

Then the toasting started, led by Ambrose Spike. “I would like to toast all Redwall Abbots past, and in particular good old Mordalfus, our present Abbot.”

“Yurr yurr, gudd owd M’dalfuzz.”

“I would like to toast Matthias the Warrior, our champion,” called out Brother Rufus.

“Good egg, I’ll second that, old bean.”

“I would like to toast our young ones, the hope of future seasons to come.”

“Hear, hear, Cornflower. Well toasted.”

“Ahem, as a retired regimental buffer, I’d like to toast anything on toast: cheese, mushrooms, what have you. . . .”

“Oh, all right, Basil. Here’s to tomatoes on toast.”

“I toast Mr. Hare and Mr. Spike.”

“Sit down, baby Rollo, and drink your milk.”

“Here’s to the otters and the squirrels.”

“Bravo, here’s to the sparrows and the moles.”

“To Redwall Abbey.”

“To Mossflower Woods.”

The toasts flew fast and thick. Laughter, song, good food, sufficient drink and friendly company were making it a feast to remember.

Then Slagar the Cruel knocked upon the door of Redwall Abbey.