[Redwall 18] - High Rhulain (39 page)

“It's not light yet. Where's Pandion gone?”

Cuthbert scratched his ear lazily. “That ole rascal comes an' goes as he pleases, Tillie me gel. May'aps he's spotted land, I don't know.”

Racing forward, Tiria scrambled out onto the bowsprit and scanned the sea around her. The waters were smooth, with hardly a wave of any size, blanketed by a mist that had taken on a soft golden haze as the sun began to rise. Visibility was virtually nonexistent, but from somewhere far off she could distinguish the muted cry of gulls. Hanging on to the bowline, Tiria leaned out, peering keenly into the waking day. Behind her the sail flapped idly and began to fill. The same breeze which was stirring it began to shift the mist rapidly.

Tiria stood stock-still, her eyes following the receding mists. Suddenly her fur rose from rudder to eartip as she picked out the dark blotch on the western horizon. There it was! Raising a paw to her mouth, Tiria bellowed, “Land dead ahead! Land hoooooooooo!”

The ship came alive to her cries. A babble of excited chatter broke out.

“I say, you chaps, did somebeast say land a bally head?”

“Eulalia! There 'tis, jolly old land, we made it, wot!”

“Get some blinkin' breakfast served, I ain't goin' ashore on an empty tum. I get vexatious without vittles, y'know!”

“Oh, my giddy aunt, just look, terra flippin' firma. I can't wait t'get me confounded paws on it!”

Cuthbert's shouts rang out above the clamour. “Getcher idle bottoms back on those oar benches, ye shower o' bobbin' beetles! Who gave the order for ye to stand round chattin' an' gawpin' like a gang of ole mousewives on a trip round the bay? Shape up, an' let's see a few rosy blisters on those lily white paws from rowin' ! Heave an' row an' row an' pull an' push an' pull! Row! Row!”

Passing over the tiller to Rafe Granden, Cuthbert wasted no time in retrieving his barrelhead drum. Soon it was booming as he battered away with his two ladles, still harassing the crew to action.

“Row, ye bilge-bottomed blaggards! Brekkist! Wot swab mentioned brekkist, eh? Ye don't get a single sniff o' the cook's apron until the keel hits the shallows! Row! Let's hear those backbones a-creakin', git those sweeps movin', ye misbegotten maggots, ye far-flung flotsam, ye jumped-up jetsam!”

Quartle sniggered to Portan as they pulled furiously, “Ole Blood'n'guts says the nicest things, don't he? I always wanted to be a jumped-up jetsam!”

He missed the stroke and tumbled backward. “Whoops, sorry, must've caught a crab!”

Portan whispered as he pulled his comrade upright, “Well, don't tell anybeast, old lad. They'll all want some!”

The wind stiffened, sending the vessel riding full tilt and landward. Once again, Cuthbert started berating his hapless crew. “Lay to wid those oars! D'ye want to run us onto a reef? There's rocks ahead! Ship yore sweeps, finish with those oars afore ye wreck me valuable vessel, ye cloth-eared clods! I told ye to row, not t'go bloomin' mad!”

Quite a bit of muffled laughter broke out among the oarcrew, but they gratefully shipped oars whilst Cuthbert, aided by the fat Corporal Drubblewick, frantically shortened the mainsail to decrease the vessel's speed. With Tiria at the bowsprit calling directions and Cuthbert manning the tiller skillfully, they charted a course between rocks and reefs. The
Purloined Petunia
made a stately landfall, her keel crunching into the pebbled shallows.

Even before they had dropped anchor, the main body of the crew made an eager stampede for the side, everybeast wanting to be first ashore. Cuthbert suddenly cast off his maritime coat and reverted to his role of Major Blanedale Frunk. However, it was only with the timely assistance of Captain Rafe Granden and Colour Sergeant O'Cragg that the Long Patrol were stopped from disembarking and wading ashore. The roars of the three officers froze the crew in their tracks.

“Stand fast there, ye mutinous mob. Come to attention all of ye!”

“Yew 'eard the h'offisah, stan' fast! Just twitch h'an ear, laddie buck, h'an yore h'on a bloomin' fizzer!”

“Steady in the ranks, pay 'tenshun to the Major now!”

Cuthbert strode the deck, glaring through his monocle. “Lady Tiria, Cap'n Granden, Sarn't O'Cragg an' my goodself are goin' ashore. We'll form the advance guard in case of attack. Subalterns Quartle an' Portan will drop anchor an' furl sails. Corporal Drubblewick an' the cookin' detail will follow us ashore to light a fire an' ready up some vittles. The rest of ye, form a chain from ship to shore, an' bring all supplies'n'arms to land safe'n'dry, an' in good order. Whilst you are on yonder island, you'll conduct yourselves like Long Patrol hares. Right, stan' easy, dismiss, an' attend to your duties!”

As the hares went about their tasks with military efficiency, Tiria wandered a little way up the beach. She climbed upon a rock and stared around. So this was the fabled Green Isle, she thought, the home of her distant ancestors. This was actually where the High Queen Rhulain had once ruled.

Colour Sergeant O'Cragg marched up and came smartly to attention. “Major Frunk's compliments, miss. Will ye be dinin' with the Patrol?”

Savoury odours drifting from cauldrons over the cooking fire reminded Tiria that she was hungry. “Oh yes, please, Sergeant. That would be nice!”

The burly hare saluted. “Right y'are, miss, but the major says ye don't get h'a bite 'til yore dressed properlike h'in yore regalia!”

The ottermaid looked indignantly at the tunic and kilt she had worn for the voyage. “Why, what's wrong with the way I'm dressed?”

A smile creased the sergeant's rough-hewn face. “Major Frunk says ye look like h'a 'edgehog wot's been dragged back'ards through h'a bush, beggin' yore pardon, miss. H'accordin' to 'im, you gotta be h'attired h'as befits h'a future queen. H'either that or ye starve. Those h'are 'is words, not mine, miss!”

Fuming with the injustice of it all, Tiria was forced to go back aboard the ship and change into her regalia. She marched stiffly into camp, where she sat stone-faced amid the garrulous hare crew. Corporal Drubblewick served her with a bowl of mushroom and barley soup, some freshly baked griddle scones and a beaker of raspberry cordial.

The fat hare wiggled his ears at her. “I say, M'lady, jolly spiffy outfit, wot!”

Cuthbert strolled over, nodding his approval. “Top marks, a very smart turnout indeed! Ye really look the part now, Milady. Well done!”

Tiria treated him to a withering stare. “I'm so pleased you think so, Major.”

He indicated the other hares with his swagger stick. “Oh,'tis not just me, it's the rest o' the Patrol, doncha see? They'll be goin' into battle to regain this isle for ye. That bein' the case, some o' these buckoes may be slain defendin' your title, miss. War's war y'know, an' they'd feel much better knowin' they're riskin' life'n'limb for a queen who looks like a queen, an' not some raggedy otter gel, eh wot?”

Tiria, completely humbled by this statement, put aside her food. “Please accept my apologies, Major Frunk. I never thought of it that way. From now on I'll do my best to look and act like a queen. Forgive my foolishness.”

Cuthbert tapped her paw with his swagger stick, answering kindly, “Come on now, don't get so jolly well upset. Eat up your vittles, Majesty, an' remember: Handsome is as handsome does, wot!”

Tiria cheered up, accepting the hares' compliments and putting up with their jokes. When the meal was finished, Captain Granden gave the order for everybeast to inspect arms.

“Before ye fall in t'march, look to those weapons. All lance an' spearpoints to be correctly tipped. Pay special attention to your blades, sharpen 'em blinkin' well. Bowstrings t'be waxed an' tested, you archers, check your quivers. Slingbeasts, I don't want t'see any frayed slings or half-filled stonepouches. This beach is full of bloomin' good pebbles. Make bally sure your arms ain't goin' to let ye down if push comes to shove, buckoes. Then y'can fall in, formed in three ranks. Major Frunk an' my goodself will scout ahead. Sarn't Major O'Cragg, will ye take over please?”

He murmured in Tiria's ear, “Ye'd best march with the Patrol, Lady. We don't want to risk losin' you just yet!”

 

The advance scouts had departed by the time the Patrol were ready and formed up. Tiria marched alongside Quartle and Portan, with Sergeant O'Cragg leading off at the front of the columns. The hares sang a marching song, though not too loudly, just to keep them in orderly stride.

Sunlight glinted brightly off Tiria's armour. Her short emerald cloak swaying jauntily, she picked up the words of the hares' tune and sang it a second time. As she marched, thoughts began to tumble through the young ottermaid's mind. She had come all the way from being an Abbeymaid who had hardly been far outside of Redwall, to a would-be warrior queen marching across Green Isle with the Long Patrol. And all in the space of one season! If only her father and all her dear friends—Brink Greyspoke, Abbess Lycian, Brinty, Girry, Tribsy, Friar Bibble and the rest—could see her now! A resolve rose within Tiria. She would not let any of them down, especially the gallant hares of Salamandastron. Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she marched onward regally. Major Cuthbert Cuthbert Frunk W. Bloodpaw was right: Handsome is as handsome does!

Leatho Shellhound had decided on a course of action. His first job was to break out of the cage. But where then? It was far too high up for him to reach the pier below, so he planned on going upward. He would climb into the chamber above, through the window, from whence his prison was suspended. It would be a risky business, but the outlaw realised it was his only avenue of escape. Looking down through the floor bars, he checked below, lest any guards were watching. The pier and the lake beyond it lay deserted. Leatho did not stop to wonder why. Instead, he focussed on trying to loosen one of the roof timbers. Attempting to prevent the cage from hitting the side of the tower—and doing so with as little noise as possible—was no easy task. The roof bars were made of heavy wood, quite thick, and were firmly nailed in place with iron spikes. The outlaw otter attacked them with his bare paws, pulling, pushing, clawing and scrabbling, but to no avail. Clearly, it was going to be a long and painstaking chore. He began working on the iron spikes, desperately trying to budge just one. After a while his paws were skinned and bleeding from the effort, forcing him to take a rest.

As the Shellhound was licking his scratches and wishing he had some sort of tool to help, he heard the door creak in the upper chamber. Quickly he wrapped the severed rope ends around his paws and hung there limply, as though he were still bound and helpless.

Weilmark Scaut had decided to look in on the prisoner. He leaned over the windowsill and rattled the cage bars with his whipstock. “Hah, still alive, are ye, Shellhound? Wot's it feel like, hangin' up here without any vittles or water, eh?”

Determined not to rise to the bait, Leatho hung limply, head lolling forward, feigning unconsciousness.

Scaut thrust the whip through the bars, managing to tickle his victim's ears with it. He whispered scornfully, “Ain't so bold an' sprightly now, are ye? Well, you just stay there like a goodbeast 'til yore rebel friends surrender. Aye, then we'll take ye down, an' I'll give ye a proper taste o' this lash. Pleasant dreams!”

Leatho heard him retreating back into the chamber, slamming the door as he left.

A dark shadow hovered over him, and a voice nearby whispered, “Raaaark! He is gone. Ye could do with some help.”

Leatho found himself looking up into the savage, goldenrimmed eyes of a mighty hawk as it hovered over the cage. He loosened his paws from the ropes.

“Who are ye, mate, an' what're ye doin' here?”