In all of her life, Salome had never been in so much pain.
The flesh on her head, beneath the fur, felt as if it had been lacerated, while, just beneath the skin, her skull throbbed mercilessly.
She must have been struck - her teeth still ached from the impact of whatever blow she had received. And, to add to her misery, she felt as if a million tiny creatures were holding a riot in her fur.
She lifted her paw in an effort to scratch, but found she was unable to move it more than a fraction. She was trapped, somehow.
"Lie still, young one." Salome froze. "Let your friends help you."
She could not see the face of the speaker, but his voice - it was warm, deep, mellow as the tolling of the Abbey bells. After a moment of hesitation, Salome relaxed, sank back, as she had been bidden.
Almost immediately, relief came in the form of liquid coolness - washing over her, seeping beneath her fur, soothing the burning of her cuts.
As her eyes grew heavier, that bell-like voice drifted again into her consciousness.
"Samuel will bring Fainlie back to Redwall; Salome will find her. The cure for the black plague is with Fainlie. Go north, where she is worshipped in captivity."

The pressing of cloth upon her head brought Salome to reality.
She blinked, for the light was harsh on her eyes. Faces surrounded her - faces that were far too blurred to distinguish from one another.
Ah, her vision was sharper, clearer now - those brown eyes belonged to Marianne. And that crown of spikes, why, who could the owner be, if not old, kindly faced Friar Jerome?
"I beg you to leave her be for just a moment, Sister Bethelle. I fear the broth will be of no help and will only upset her. We must look into what I've found in this tome together, all of us; haply one of us will understand it and we will find a real cure."
Sister Jane's clear, quiet voice was unmistakable, as was that of Sister Bethelle - acid with injured pride. "As you wish, then, Sister Jane. You may lift her out of the basin, Master Samuel."
Salome felt a pair of arms encircling her, and, within moments, there was nothing beneath her but air. Instinctively, she threw her own arms about the neck of the creature who had lifted her, weak though she was.
"Miz Bethelle." Samuel's voice was just overhead now - and, Vulpuz, but it seemed loud enough to split her brain - rough, and yet imploring. "You looked over 'er. 'ow many times was she bit? Tell me!"
"I cannot tell you, Master Samuel; I have more than a dozen creatures now who have been bitten by fleas, and Skipper Johndam tells me that more will be reporting to the infirmary soon - quite a few of his creatures were attacked by fleas as they crossed the lawn to get into the Abbey, just as the Abbess feared. I imagine that she has been bitten a good number of times, considering that the jar of fleas fell on her, if Skipper is to be be believed, but I have not pushed her fur aside to count the bites. It is far more important to get a flea bitten creature into a bath as quickly as possible. Now, please, will you place her on the bed and allow me to bandage those cuts?"
The mention of cuts made Salome all the more aware of her pain. She clung to her brother feebly, desperate for rest.
Samuel did not budge. "Wot 'ave you read, Sister Jane? Spill it, 'cos if it's goin' t' cure Salome an' everybeast that's got th' black death, then yore standin' about 'oldin' th' book an' not readin' it won't 'elp us any more'n Miz Bethelle's broth!"
Salome stiffened. The black death.
The crawling in her fur . . Sister Bethelle, standing there, taut-faced and tense . . .and the face of Samuel, those dark eyes, bright, almost damp, those white teeth, bared as if - as if he were poised to attack.
And the voice in her dream - deep, steady, mellow. A sound that she could never forget.
The cure for the black plague is with Fainlie.
"Oh, Master Samuel." There was sadness in Sister Jane's voice. "I am afraid it will not be as easy as that. I found only one sentence - and it's a riddle."
Samuel's hold upon her tightened. "Tell me yore foolin' with me - all o' you. A Hell-dammed riddle. Devil's teeth!"
An arrow of pain struck the inner walls of Salome's skull.
"Sammy . . . S-S-Samuel. . . please."
"Shouting won't heal your sister, sir." Abbess Elinor's voice, crisp and officious, a person in its own right, announced its presence. Salome was certain that she felt Samuel relax his grip upon her.
"Put her down and allow Sister Bethelle to do what she must."
After that, Salome heard nothing until she was lying across cool bedsheets, resting cheek-first against a pillow of heavenly softness.
The itching sensation had begun to trouble her again, but she was far too weak to scratch.
She watched as Samuel wandered off to stand before the infirmary window, to grip the windowsill until his paws lost some of their color, watched as Sister Bethelle applied cream to her cuts, forcing herself not to flinch at the sting, then plastered a bandage across the site of the wounds.
"How are you feeling, my dear?"
The tenderness in the old squirrel's tone brought moisture to Salome's eyes.
"I . . . I'm all right, Sister Bethelle, marm . . .though it 'urts."
"There's a good creature. Try to rest, now; let your head heal." Sister Bethelle paused. "It seems you were badly bitten by those fleas, but Sister Jane has found . . .something, and once we all understand what it is, we'll have every creature in here as right as rain, you'll see."
Every creature in here. Salome could hear the moaning of a mouse who lay a few beds down from her.
"Water . . .please, more water . . . I'm burnin' up, my throat's like parchment. God! My back aches."
Sister Bethelle rose halfway. "Chrysani, bring that creature water!"
In the bed beside Salome, a hogmaid, who, until now, had been asleep, shifted about. "Ooh! My legs hurt and I itch. Untie my paws, Sister Bethelle, please! I want to scratch."
Sister Bethelle forced herself to remain intractable. "My dear, you must not scratch; you won't reach the bites and will only cut your paws to pieces. Hush now; try to sleep."
Salome tried to ignore her own itching. "'ow . . .'ow did I . . .an' all these creatures . . .get fleas?"
"You remember the cleaning of Great Hall, dear heart. Afterwards, you - well, it seems you tried to leave Redwall, and some creature shot a jar of fleas at you, which broke over your head. And now it seems the fleas are scattering across the lawn, biting other creatures."
It took a moment for Salome to absorb the words. She kicked her blanket away.
"Of course th' Walkin' Dead WOULD be out there, waitin' for some daft beast t' open th' gates t' come out, an' th' daft beast that came out 'ad t' be me. I should never 'ave tried t' leave th' Abbey, it was bound t' go wrong. Now - now I'll die, an' so will everybeast else, an' it's all my fault!"
Marianne appeared, then. Dropping to her knees upon the edge of the bed, she took Salome's paws into hers.
"Don't you dare say that! Sister Jane's found somethin' about th' cure, an', by God, every beast 'ere is goin' t' be cured, Salome!"
Abbess Elinor came forward.
"Sister Jane, read what you've found, if you please."
A silence overtook the infirmary - all groaning and whimpering ceased, and every aching, bitten body left off its tossing and turning and lay still.
Sister Jane opened the tome. She began to turn the pages slowly, making her way to the spot she had marked.
"There is not a great deal written here, nor is it anything I understand, Mother Abbess. It says only, 'The cure for the black plague will be found with a child. Go north, where a maid is worshipped in captivity.'"
Salome attempted to sit upright; the pain in her head paralyzed her. She sank back against the pillows and began to claw herself feverishly, unable to restrain herself any longer.
"That's wot I 'eard! It - it's wot I dreamt of - wot Martin said t' me!"
Abbess Elinor knelt beside the bed. "What Martin told you!"
"Aye - s-s-somethin' like it, I think - only . . .only it was Fainlie. He said Fainlie!"
"Sister Jane, when was this written and who wrote it?"
Sister Jane scanned the page in question. She shook her head incredulously. "Mother Abbess, this was written more than five hundred seasons ago, by a Recorder called Brother Nathaniel, who doubled as an Herbalist."
Now Samuel tore himself away from the window. "An' that's all he wrote? Nothin' else?"
Sister Jane shut the tome. "He wrote nothing more. It seems this was his healer's journal, and these were the last words that he scrawled in it. Perhaps he died after writing them. What a strange final entry."
Abbess Elinor relieved her of the tome. "Strange or not strange, you must find more information about this Brother Nathaniel, if you can, Sister Jane. You say this was his healing journal; perhaps he also kept a separate recording journal."
Sister Jane shook her head. "I have never heard of a recorder who kept two journals, but I will search as well as I can, Mother Abbess."
Marianne rose, and Salome, latching onto her paw, tried to pull herself to her feet. The squirrelmaid spoke for both of them. "Sister Jane, we'll 'elp you t' look!"
Sister Bethelle was at Salome's side in a moment. "Good God, no!"
"She's right, little ones," Sister Jane said gently. "Moving about will only harm Salome, and, Marianne, Friar Jerome needs you."
Both young maids made as if to protest, but a glance from Sister Jane, a reminder of Marianne's earlier misdeeds, silenced her, while Salome, weak already, was cowed by the look in Samuel's eyes.
"Aye, carry on, Miz Jane, Abbess Elinor. You keep leafin' through tomes an' chantin' riddles an' dreamin' o' mouse princes with ruby-studded swords."
He brought his paw down upon the windowsill, causing Salome to jump.
"Can't you see - any o' you? Rashe beat you! A pack o' ten or twelve vermin licked you all like a bunch o' youngsters! If'n you all can't make sense out o' yore pretty dreams an' funny riddles within, oh, three weeks or a month, everybeast 'ere is dead! While you all were 'unkerin' about, arguin' over whether or not t' let us die, he strolled up an' practically slew us all regardless!
"He's got you ill now, shut up inside o' th' Abbey for fear you'll be bit. No matter whether we find 'im now or not, he's won!"
The infirmary door swung inward to make way for a flood of otters and squirrels. Abbess Elinor raised her voice, just a fraction, above the commotion caused by grumbling voices and pounding paws.
"I'll hear no more of this hateful, defeatist talk, Master Samuel, and leave that windowsill in one piece! Some of us have been bitten and will soon be ill, but we will not remain holed up in this building forever, leaving the Abbey undefended so that our attackers are free to make matters worse - you must have taken leave of your senses!
"It is true that most of our creatures have not been trained in the art of warfare, but Skipper's otters and the squirrels have. I could not think of a way for any creature to set foot on the Abbey lawn and feel sure of not being bitten. Skipper and a number of volunteers will replenish themselves; Sister Bethelle will prepare herbs and medicines for them - no broth, please, Sister Bethelle; only the sorts of medicines that help to combat pain and fever, in case they should begin to surface while our warriors are away. They will depart this evening. Those Walking Deadbeasts will be found, as will the cure for their black death!
No, Master Samuel, you may not accompany Skipper; don't be foolish. You are not covered with flea bites, and I don't intend to allow you to change that. Now, if you are quite finished with your burst of temper, you may sit with Salome; otherwise, make yourself scarce, please."
Samuel chose the latter. Salome tried again to sit upright.
"S-S-Samuel! Wait!"
Sister Bethelle gave her a gentle push, pressing her back down. Salome's eyes began to fill.
"Leave him, dearheart. He'll be back. By God, if I know your brother even a bit, he will be back. Try to drink a little water, will you?"
Salome nodded, unable to resist or protest any more. Every bit of energy seemed to have seeped out of her.
Rashe beat you. . .a pack o' ten or twelve vermin licked you all . . .everybeast here is dead. . .everybeast.