Abbot Martin was not too sure what to make of Threeclaw. The stoat spoke with an exaggerated accent he'd never heard before (that simply could not be real), and when he was not admitting to a long list of crimes (many of which would have carried a death sentence were Redwall not a place of peace) there was a strange sort of charisma about him. He seemed a beast easy to like and fun to be around. Whether or not it was a failure in his judgement was still uncertain, but it was clear why Matiya had put him on a pedestal.
"So I am allowed everywhere except everybeast's chambres, la cuisine, la biblioteque, le belltower, le gatehouse, the rouge walls- am I forgetting quelque chose?"
The rest of the abbey had retired almost as soon as the Great Hall was spotless, leaving the old mouse an easy target for the stoat to corner. He'd been alarmed at first, and had breathed the smallest sighs of relief when Threeclaw merely requested to know where it was he was going to be sleeping.
"For the time being I think it would be best if you didn't go anywhere too much. We er- don't intend to lock you in a dungeon or anything but if you do step out of line-"
"Oh monsieur mouse, threats do not suit you."
Not quite sure what a 'monsieur' was, Abbot Martin struggled to find a reply. Before he could point out that he hadn't really intended his words as a threat the stoat had wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him in close.
"N'anquiette pas!" There was no menace on his face or in the gesture, but the old mouse in question could not help noting the sharpness of his claws, the whiteness of his fangs and that if the stoat tried anything it would take far too long for help to arrive. "I will not be treading anywhere I am not meant to be treading. I will be as sweet as a sourrie, as kind as a kikiriki."
Abbot Martin had to resist the urge to squeak out a 'as kind as a what?'
"And when the rest of your poor, lost children show up, we will never have to be under the same plafond." The prospect delighted them both greatly, though Martin was a little offended by the brusqueness of his words.
"Of course. Well, here we are." Carefully prying himself free of Threeclaw's grasp, the old abbot pulled a ring of keys from the inside of his sleeves. "It's not much," he confessed, fumbling with the lock.
"A pity. Your abbey's hospitality is legendary even among vermin." Threeclaw smirked, casually twisting one of Martin's whiskers between two claws.
"But it'll do."
Nobeast in Redwall had been particularly keen on preparing a bed or proper bedding for the confessed kidnapper. The ever-reliable Foremole had eventually gotten the job done, but, being a mole, he lacked both the ability and the motivation to do anything too impressive where bedding was concerned. A small mattress had been shoved into a corner. Folded neatly on top of it was a patched-up blanket several seasons older than the Abbey itself (by the looks of it anyways) and a pillow borrowed from the infirmary.
"You have certainly lived up to your reputation." Abbot Martin wasn't sure whether or not Threeclaw's chuckle was sarcastic, but the stoat seemed nothing less than delighted as he slunk into the closest equivalent Redwall Abbey had to a cell.
"Candles will be supplied of course, and most beasts like to keep a barrel of water in case they get thirsty. I ah..." Abbot Martin had been a teacher long enough to know when somebeast wasn't paying attention to him and Threeclaw seemed far more interested in the blanket than the prospect of candles. "Well, I think I'll let you rest then. It has been a long day and-"
"Bon nuit!" Threeclaw cut in, curling into himself and failing to bite back a yawn.
"Yes. Well." The abruptness of his dismissal left the mouse a bit miffed. "Alright." Abbot Martin swung the door shut, hesitated a moment and then locked it twice, before stowing the keys back into his sleeves. He breathed a tiny of sigh of relief as he backed away from the cellar. Putting Threeclaw to bed had been easier than expected, but his old heart still beat against his chest like a march hare on a drum.
He still wasn't sure if keeping the stoat around was the right decision, and hoped dearly that he would not come to regret it…
As soon as the old mouse's footfalls faded into nothingness, Threeclaw threw aside all pretenses of exhaustion and, scowling, dug a claw into the lock.
A less patient beast would have bolted at the first opportunity given, and though he'd been tempted to make a break for the walls as soon as his 'trial' had ended, the stoat had grit his teeth and steeled his resolve; knowing that it was always safer to strike when your opponent's guard was down.
Full from the feast, exhausted from the food fight, and drained by the efforts of their late-night cleaning most of the abbeybeasts had spared nary a second thought for the vermin in their midst. Allowing the old abbot to guide him to this pitiful excuse for a dungeon had set the mouse at ease, and the badger had had to deal with four weasels too many to worry about what the stoat was planning. Any who were paranoid enough to remain alert and attentive expected an attack, not an escape and would more than likely be glad to see the back of him.
He didn't expect pursuit, not when the Redwallers still had four weasels to barter with should any of the Honest Bunch come calling (a prospect Threeclaw found singularly unlikely) and not with the remaining band of Long Patrol hares having already departed on what Threeclaw was almost certain was a wild goose chase.
The only beast who seemed to have an inkling as to what he was planning was the Log-a-log, who had taken his shrews to guard the walltops- the most readily apparent way out of this accursed place.
But there was one thing he and the rest of the abbeybeasts hadn't accounted for. Something Threeclaw had been sure to keep to himself throughout his questioning and something he was delighted to find was still his secret.
The night of the feast, the night the Honest Bunch had 'abducted' Fret, the night this ridiculous mess he and his crew had found themselves tangled up in- Sharpfur and Greyclaw had done what seasoned hordebeasts and conquerors had failed to do- they had gotten into Redwall Abbey!
The lock clicked twice, allowing Threeclaw to slink back into the hall- as silent as a hunting owl.
He hadn't pressed the mismatched brothers for details; something he now sorely regretted; but he remembered distinctly that they'd mentioned a secret passage and that the only part of the abbey they'd actually infiltrated were the kitchens. Putting the two together, he drew the natural conclusion and thus began his search in the conveniently-nearby cuisine…
Normally, Friar Gord was a light sleeper- ever vigilantly guarding the larders from the abbey's young and old alike from the small, but cozy little cot he'd installed besides one of the smaller ovens. But, having over-exerted himself with stress- both from the food fight and his most unwise decision to brave the abbey pond he was nowhere to be found. Tucked into a more comfortable bed in the dormitories above, his kitchens were left completely at Threeclaw's mercy.
The stoat wasted little time shoving barrels aside to inspect the walls behind them, pressing his claws against what looked like exposed bricks, pulling various bits of cutlery that seemed a little out of place. He even stuck his head into one of the ovens and was rewarded with a puff of ash that painted his face black.
"Lost something?"
Startled, the stoat whirled on the spot. His paw was halfway to his belt by the time he remembered he'd given Matiya the rapier, and by then it was too late to look anything but stupid as he found himself facing an unusually large mousemaid. Were it not for the roundness of her ears he could have almost mistaken her for a rat.
"Or were you hoping to steal a late night snack?" she asked, her arms crossed over her chest as she raised an unconvinced eyebrow.
Where the abbot had been twitching with the barely-concealed urge to put as much distance between himself and the stoat, this mouse seemed eerily comfortable in his presence. Which, in his experience with woodlanders, meant she was either a capable warrior or thought herself one. Judging from the way she carried herself and the fact that she'd managed to sneak up on him, he guessed the former and bit back a scowl.
"Mademoiselle, I mean no insult to your Friar or his sumptuous cooking, but I've eaten more tonight than I do most weeks. Even the most petitte of nibbles would kill me." Putting on his usual, disarming smile, Threeclaw tried and failed to make his stance seem casual as he leaned against a worktop. "I'm afraid the only thing I have lost is my sense of direction. It is embarrassing, really. I find it hard to sleep without the stars above my head. You see, I can't seem to remember the last time I slept under a roof. It brings back… poor memories. So I was hoping to find somewhere less cozy and comfortable and a bit more open-air." He chuckled at his own expense and threw his arms wide. "Mais je suis complètement perdu! Luckily it seems you have now found me and can kindly escort me to somewhere more to my tastes."
Constance was not fooled, and only the slightest bit amused. "If you need an escort, I'll be happy to show you to your room in the cellar. It's for your own safety too, you know. Half the abbey wants you dead."
A set of razor sharp kitchen knives lay within lunging distance, and although he felt pretty confident in his ability to kill her if the need arose, Threeclaw was wary enough of the mouse to curb that vicious temptation. She would not go down without a fight and even if he somehow managed to find Sharpfur and Greyclaw's secret passage he had no doubt the Redwallers would pursue him if he slew one of their own. "And what do you want?" he demanded instead, his voice dripping with contemptuous sarcasm. "An apology?"
"Just your honesty."
Intrigued, Threeclaw gestured for her to continue.
"Is what you said about my son true?"
While he did remember a small, golden brown mouse among the captive children- Threeclaw did not remember ever having said anything in particular about him.
As if reading his thoughts, Constance rolled her eyes and clarified. "The ferret. I'm Fret's mother."
Threeclaw made a great show of looking the mouse up and down, before finally hitting her with an insolent smirk. "I take it he takes after the father?"
"By the love I bear him, if not by blood," the mouse growled, with an irritation that suggested she'd said the words many times before.
The stoat thought better than to mock her further and merely shrugged. "Everything I said today was true. Why would I have lied? And a better question is what makes you think I would be any more honest now?" He didn't give her a chance to cut in and went on in as blunt a voice as his accent allowed. "L'petit Fret's involvement in this fiasco was nothing more than unfortunate circumstance. Mine was too, if you believe it. And yes, if it weren't for me he'd have cut the rest of your children loose and maybe they'd be standing here instead of moi. I did what I did and we are where we are. I won't insult you with an apology."
For a moment, Threeclaw was sure she was going to leap at him. Just as he was about to start discretely edging his ways towards the knives, Constance nodded in the general direction of the cellars.
"You know your way back?"
The stoat nodded.
They stood there for another moment or two, before Threeclaw finally relented. He filled a wooden bowl with water from the basin as if that was the reason he was here; a reasonable excuse as any to be slinking around in the dead of night, and slowly made his way back towards the small, stingy room he was going to get very familiar with.
He was about to disappear round the corner when Constance called out to him. "Is he alive?"
Threeclaw sighed. "You're old enough to have seen your fair share of ambushes. The beasts who attacked us, whoever they were, came fast and hard. I did not see a body, nor did I see him fall. But far more formidable creatures have been lost to less." He half-turned to face her. "I understand this is not the news a mother would want to hear. If I had a sweeter song, I would sing it… but I will not insult you with so blatant a lie when you asked for honesty."
Though most beasts were kind enough not (or too scared of her to) say it, Constance knew they disapproved. Being a peaceable creature, and not well-suited to conflict, Abbot Martin had sided with her, but even he regarded the wide-eyed infant with something inbetween fear and revulsion.
The Foremole had greeted her new son with a friendly face and a kindly tweak on the nose, Friar Gord had tried to do the same and was promptly bitten. After that nobeast else had been brave enough to attempt something so daring.
Constance sat beside the abbey pond, watching her new son nibble decisively at a chive and cheese sandwich she'd managed to procure from the disgruntled Friar. She'd been fighting vermin hordes for almost a decade and a half now, and though he had the classic mask of a ferret and claws that were sharper than the average dibbun's he looked nothing at all like the beasts she'd spent half her life killing.
Montague, who was neither scared of her, nor one for kind words, had been the beast most vehemently opposed to Abbot Martin's arrangement. In part because he had to find a new store-room for all the abbey's old recordings, and in part because it was his job to guide the beasts of the present away from the follies of the past.
"Every time! Every single time vermin have been allowed to enter the sacred halls of our abbey, goodbeasts have suffered the consequences. Brother Hal, murdered by the treacherous stoats Dingeye and Thura, who killed countless more by bringing Dryditch Fever into our abbey. The mouserat Vitch and the slavers of Slagar the Cruel who were welcomed in as honest entertainers and thanked our ancestors by stealing their young. Veil Sixclaw, an incorrigible thief and an attempted poisoner who died as he lived."
Knowing that arguing history with a beast more devoted to the past than the present was a futile effort, Constance had merely thrust the infant ferret into his face and demanded to know what horrible crime he expected of it.
"I just think it's a little insensitive," the Recorder retorted, with the certainty of a beast who always made his own opinion crystal clear no matter how unwanted it was. "We've all lost loved ones at the claws of vermin. And now you want to raise one?"
"I've not lost any less than you," Constance replied coldly.
"Yes, quite a bit more in fact." He sighed heavily and for a moment it seemed he was trying to muster up something akin to sympathy. But just when it seemed Constance was about to get a glimpse of the small bit of kindness buried deep within him, the Recorder jabbed a disapproving finger in the ferret's direction. "And that is the worst possible way to replace them."
"I heard you struck Montague," said Connington, drawing her attention back to the two creatures now seated besides her. The smaller mouse's whiskers twitched into a ghost of a smile- the first she'd seen from him in weeks. "I wish I'd been there to see it."
"He was being insensitive."
Connington almost laughed. "I'm glad to hear some things haven't changed."
An unwelcome silence descended- marred only by the sounds of cautious chewing as the ferret glanced from one mouse to the other.
The last few weeks had been a horrible mess of grief and pain. Almost overnight, everything seemed to have changed. Familiar, haunting screams still echoed from somewhere nearby, though with every passing day they grew fainter.
"Does he have a name?" Connington finally asked, reaching over to ruffle the kit's fur.
Constance shook her head. All she'd known of the child was that he was alone. Abandoned by the horde fleeing for their lives. Alone and helpless, and completely undeserving of the cold steel she'd been holding.
"Well don't fret, we'll think of something."
Constance waited to hear the faint sound of a lock clicking twice before departing.
Aside from Threeclaw, the beast most agreed was to blame, everybeast in the abbey held themselves responsible for the missing young beasts. Flounder, who had been asleep at his post and from under who's snoring nose the brave band of naive children had ventured forth into Mossflower Wood, the Log-a-log for being unable to retrieve them from the clutches of their vermin captors, Abbot Martin for taking far too long to notice that his entire class had gone missing.
Constance was no exception. She blamed herself for not being fit to join the initial search and rescue, for not recovering faster, and most of all for giving up on her son when she'd once been his staunchest supporter.
She hadn't wanted to believe that the awkward, shy little kit who had come running to her whenever something upset him could be cruel enough to lead his peers into a trap. She hadn't wanted to believe that he could raise a knife against them. But when confronted with Roseheart's account she hadn't challenged it.
In that moment all her love had curdled into rage and she'd hated herself for having been so stubborn and foolish and not listening to the wisdom of her peers. She'd forgotten Fret, and replaced him instead with the vermin she knew. The ones that lurked in the shadows and struck you down when you were wounded. The ones that cut through the silence of the night with the screams of her loved ones. The monster everybeast else had seen, back when she'd first brought the infant to Redwall Abbey.
But Matiya and Threeclaw had reminded her that her son was not particularly devious. That he couldn't have possibly arranged any of it beforepaw. That he was awkward and easily-scared and that he'd probably been terrified the entire time and had wanted nothing more than to run home and let her deal with all his problems.
Her aimless trudge had taken her to the abbey pond, and as she gazed down at the stars reflected on it's smooth, inky surface, she could only hope that she'd see him again.
Footnote: I know it's been close to four years- but I assure you dear readers! We are so back! I'm still in a hectic/turbulent period of my life where I no longer have as much time and motivation to dedicate towards this fic and as you can probably tell from my profile I am not very good at sticking to one project and have probably piled on a bit too much for one single person to be writing (talented though I may be)
BUT! It is 2025 and, as promised, BaW has returned with what I hope is a chapter that was worth the wait. One thing I am going to try and stick to is at least 'one chapter a month' for this fic- just to keep things steadily moving forwards.
Aaaaand because I am an absolute madman and cannot live in a world where I do not go above and beyond- I have added a rewrite of this fic to my endless list of projects. There isn't a time limit on this as it's mostly for the sake of my own sanity (though I am immensely proud of it- I feel like parts of this story have not aged really well and the rewrite is done in an effort to curb that to some extent). It's for the most part the same story, just more refined and well-put together. A second draft of my magnum opus, if you will.
Next time! Probably more of Redwall Abbey? But honestly, I've started six different chapters at this point so I'm just going to give the next chapter to whichever one I finish writing first.