The Rat Prince

by Bridget Hodder

  She was right, of course. I tucked it away again, out of sight.

  PRINCE CHAR

  I wanted to nudge Rose’s arm and tell her not to fear—if her stepmother were ever to steal the ring, I would get it back. Believe me when I say there is nowhere a rat cannot go, and there is certainly nowhere Lady Wilhemina could have hidden the ring where I wouldn’t have found it. We rats had cherished the shiny golden thing for more than a century, ever since Prince Gravy, a most canny rat-ruler, nicked it from the bedside table of a slipshod Lancastyr ancestor, Vern the Vapid.

  Swiss was looking at me with reproach in his eyes. “You have yet to explain why you gave our greatest treasure to a human.”

  “Our people have been linked to her family for untold generations,” I replied. “I know I can’t explain the history or significance of the ring to her, but I thought it might at least bring her comfort and courage.”

  “Humph. We know the courage part didn’t work,” Swiss said. “And now that she has the thing, she’ll keep it.”

  “Rose deserves it. She works hard, as hard as a rat. She could have been one of us.”

  “But she’s not. She’s human, and so she will stay,” he pointed out, quite reasonably.

  Without thinking, I rounded on him and nipped his hindquarters.

  “Ow! What did you do that for?” He rubbed the sore place with his snout.

  I wasn’t sure myself, so I kept silent.

  The younger girl, Jessamyn, cried out. “They’re fighting!”

  “Oh, no.” Rose smiled at her. “Do you see, Frump-Bum didn’t bite him back? Blackie had good reason to do that, you may be sure. He’s the leader.”

  I said to Swiss in a jesting tone, “Take heed of what she says. And as your leader, I’ve been thinking about the upcoming ball—the one being given for the human prince, Geoffrey.”

  “The humans have been blathering about it for weeks,” Swiss said, “but it’s of no interest to us. Why, Castle Wendyn lies deep in the Southern Rat Realm of Princess Mozzarella. Even if we were to travel there, we would have to ask her permission for everything we took from the royal tables.”

  I cocked my ears back in exasperation. “I’m not speaking of a raid on the party food. Think, Swiss! Prince Geoffrey is seeking a wife. And you just heard Lady Rose say she would like a prince for a husband. Let us use our considerable capabilities to make it happen.”

  He gaped at me. “Your Highness, have you lost your wits? Your duty is to rats, not humans.”

  “I’m in full possession of my faculties. If Lady Rose were to marry the future ruler of Angland, she would remove Wilhemina from Lancastyr Manor forever. We would see an end to the poisonings.” And Lady Rose’s eyes would shine once more with happiness.

  Swiss’s eyes certainly shone at this. His ears perked up and his brown fur fluffed out like a mink’s. “Oh, I see now. Excellent! Let’s get started! Er, what can we do exactly?”

  “Patience,” I cautioned. “I must get a look at Geoffrey first. And let us keep this notion of Rose marrying him to ourselves for the time being. I have no wish to give our people hope of ousting Wilhemina until I am sure it might actually come to pass.”

  I then heard Jessamyn ask Lady Rose, “What are they doing now? How cute that smaller one is, the brown one. Look at his cheeks. How they move as he squeaks!”

  Rose replied, “Oh, no doubt they’re saying something important. Now watch this.” She inched forward. What was she up to? She put out her hand, and I quickly closed the space between us to sniff her fingers. They held the scent of pine soap, traces of bread and grease, and the other scent, pure Rose de Lancastyr—unique, indefinable.

  “He will bite you!” the silly creature on the bed exclaimed.

  “No, he won’t,” Rose said.

  Then she moved her fingers to the back of my head and stroked my fur. I swayed from side to side with the rhythm until Swiss broke the spell.

  “She’s bewitching you!” he cried. “Let’s be away! Now, Your Highness!”

  I allowed him to persuade me. I thought perhaps he was right.

  * * *

  “All bow!” the majordomo boomed as I appeared in the doorway of my throne room to deliver my weekly royal speech. “Make way for his Royal Highness, Prince Char of the Northern Rat Realm; his royal mother, Lady Apricot; and his royal councillor, Swiss!”

  My subjects put their snouts to the floor while I led the procession into the princely stronghold. It had been built by my people centuries before in a walled-off corner of an attic storeroom the Lancastyrs had long since forgotten.

  Here was the throne of the prince.

  And it was mine.

  I adjusted my cape of royal purple, which was encrusted with sparkling amethyst on the back. Then I walked between rows of my bowing subjects, drawing satisfaction from surveying the piles of royal plunder leaning against the walls. We’d collected it from humans over the centuries: coins, jewels, rich clothing, gold goblets, silver buckles, and on and on, everything gleaming, colorful, textured. The treasure had been chosen to please our eyes, stimulate our senses, and delight our hearts.

  After touching as many of my people as I could with my tail, I left my lady mother and Swiss seated on two silk pillows, and came to a standstill before a window.

  Light streamed in through the diamond-cut pane of leaded glass, illuminating my polished silver throne. The humans who had crafted this throne of beauty, molding it with intricate vines, fruits, and faces, had thought they were making a lavish bowl for serving soup. Ha, ha! With a plump velvet cushion stuffed inside it, where the soup used to be, the bowl was the perfect size and shape for the prince of the rats.

  I sat upon it and gave my subjects a fond glance.

  “My fellow rodents,” I intoned, “I have aught to teach and tell. Recall that millennia ago, we rats came in the holds of Phoenician ships to the shores of this island country, which the humans call Angland, led by the great Prince Feast. In each succeeding generation, by winning our traditional trials of wit and skill, only the strongest and wiliest of rats have become prince of the Northern Rat Realm, as have I.”

  “Wise one! Noble one!” The pleasing epithets blew about the room at my feet.

  It’s good to be prince.

  I raised my voice again. “Every day, I concern myself with your safety, and with the important thing, the essential thing, the main goal of every true leader…” I let my voice trail off, to invite the traditional chant.

  “Food. Find the Food! Food. Find the Food!” the crowd shouted in a most satisfactory chorus.

  “Our realm is under threat,” I declared. “As each one among you is aware, Wilhemina wants no rat left alive in Lancastyr Manor. I have already warned you of the dangers of choice food left lying inexplicably upon the floor. That is how we lost our dear companions Crust, Mince, Strawberry, and Trout last year. Lately, Cook has begun scattering poison among the crumbs she drops between table and wall, the better to deceive us. And thus were murdered the three small daughters of Gulp and Grill, and two of our mouse friends, Erasmus and Hermia. But we will not fall victims again to such trickery, I vow!”

  “Hear, hear!” the majordomo said in a loud, mellifluous voice. “Prince Char has given his royal word!”

  Sadness brought on by the mention of our dearly departed settled over the room. I allowed a moment of respect and remembrance. Yet we could not dwell upon our losses without planning action to prevent more.

  I twirled my whiskers. “Take heart. Since Royal Councillor Swiss and I set up a watch to keep Cook and Wilhemina under surveillance at every hour of the day or night, we have not lost a single one of our number to poison. We are also working upon ways to rid ourselves of Wilhemina forever. Our people will flourish. We will keep the Food safe and pure!”

  I made a wide arc with my tail, and the gathering responded: “Food. Find the Food!”

  “Good folk of the Northern Realm, I must tell of another potential threat. It comes once again from
the humans, but this time, from those outside Lancastyr Manor.”

  There was a rumble of unease.

  I resumed my speech. “Though human rule encompasses all of Angland and includes the land upon which both the Northern and Southern Rat Realms rest, the humans allow their throne, this great responsibility, to pass from parent to oldest child without any tests of worthiness. Such a foolish practice has led to many an incompetent human king or queen causing trouble for rat-kind. Unlike the current human ruler, Good King Tumtry of Angland, the bad sort of ruler ignores his or her duty to the Food. Who could forget what our histories tell of Ablered the Awful, or Queen Millicent the Mad?”

  I paused to inhale deeply. I could tell by their scents that my people were indeed recalling with horror the tales of past bad human rulers.

  “My friends, surely you have heard gossip in the sewers and the streets and the servants’ quarters: Good King Tumtry is aged and ill. When he dies, his son, Geoffrey, will rise to the throne.”

  Chattering broke out. A small golden rat put up a nervous tail and asked, “Your Highness, is Geoffrey the sort of human you’ve just warned us about? The kind who doesn’t look after the Food?”

  “A wise question, madam!” I nodded. “I do not know the answer, and that is the problem. We must learn more about the heir to the throne, to find out how his kingship will affect us. Will we need to lay aside stores of grain and dried meats in enough quantities to stave off a famine? Is he a rat-enemy who will try to decimate our population? We cannot plan for the future until we know what the future holds.”

  “Hear, hear!” the majordomo called. “His Royal Highness, Prince Char, has spoken!”

  Others took up the cry: “Hear, hear!”

  I waited for silence, then announced: “On the day after tomorrow, when the big ball will take place, Prince Geoffrey will surely be present at Castle Wendyn, awaiting the evening’s event. Therefore, I shall lead a party of my most stalwart subjects across the city and into the castle that morning, to observe him and those around him. We shall discover the answers to all our questions. Who among you wishes to join our mission?”

  “Me! Choose me, Your Highness!” My people pushed forward, their faces avid with excitement.

  “Calm, my friends. Consider carefully before you volunteer for this venture. We must leave the Northern Rat Realm and cross over into the Southern Rat Realm. It will be dangerous.”

  This did not seem to daunt the clamoring crowd. I was glad our ancestors had thought to pack the walls of the throne room with straw, to deaden the passage of sound. For if Wilhemina could hear us, danger would surely follow.

  I twirled my whiskers for a moment, then pointed to five of our very bravest citizens: “Truffle, Corncob, and over there in the back, the three Beef brothers,” I declared. “You are the chosen ones.”

  They grinned and glowed as their companions cheered and twined tails with them in congratulations.

  I commanded with a benevolent smile, “Go now, my subjects, and return to your daily tasks. My royal councillor and I must have quiet in which to contemplate our next moves.”

  As they dispersed, Swiss said in an undertone, “Well done, Your Highness. I’m sorry I doubted you earlier. But I still can’t imagine how you propose to put a human girl on a human throne.”

  “The way I see it,” I mumbled, “if we can get Prince Geoffrey to take one look at Rose, it’s in the bag. Haven’t you noticed? Every human male who sees her falls in love with her. Why, Mrs. Grigson has to go out every morning with her broom and shoo away young men who linger in the bushes in hopes of catching a glimpse of her, even though it’s been ages since Rose has set foot outside the house.”

  Just then we were interrupted by my mother, who drew me aside with a grave, cautious touch upon my back. Her two favorite courtiers, Lady Lambchop and Lady Pudding, hovered right behind her.

  “There is a word you left out of your speech today, Prince Char,” she said. “And the word is Cinderella.”

  I did not like to hear my mother use that name for Rose, but I said nothing.

  Swiss leaned in closer to eavesdrop. I poked him hard with the tip of my tail. “Mother, I hardly think this is the time or the place to discuss these matters.”

  She twitched a whisker at her ladies, who minced away. Then she nosed me into a corner behind a heap of stolen ribbons and lace where no one—not even Swiss, who was straining hard—could hear us. I could smell her mood, which was tense and uncertain.

  “My son, there are rumors about you and this Cinderella person. I cannot help but wonder if your sudden interest in the wider world of the human kingdom—all this talk of Good King Tumtry, and an expedition to Castle Wendyn—has something to do with that girl. Some say you are bespelled.”

  “I am not,” I said.

  “Then explain, my son. I am listening.”

  “I have a feeling about Rose. I think she’s important to us.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. She’s no longer of importance in her own home, to her own father. Char, if your sainted father were here today, he would be just as disapproving of your enthusiasm for her as I am.”

  I never knew my father, who had died on a failed mission to roll home a barrel of wine before I was born. Yet Lady Apricot invokes him every time we have a disagreement.

  I took a deep breath before replying. “Mother, think for a moment of how dire things could get if Geoffrey turns out to be a bad king and drives the city to starvation. We would be obliged to leave Lancastyr Manor and go live in the countryside, making nests in bushes or cold stone walls. Scavenging in the woods.”

  There was a pause, filled with the vibrations of Lady Apricot’s alarmed contemplation of this prospect. “Why do you wish to frighten me thus?” she said at last.

  “Because you asked why I’m preoccupied with Lady Rose. If Geoffrey turns out to be a bad king, a good queen could counterbalance him, and save the country. An intelligent queen. A queen who has been forced to work hard, who has often gone hungry, who understands the primacy of the Food. A queen who has been kept alive by the Rat Prince.”

  Even as I spoke, I realized there was a problem with my rapidly developing scheme: It seemed a bit of hard luck on Rose that the worse Prince Geoffrey turned out to be, the more crucial it was (from the rat point of view) that she marry him. I felt for the poor girl.

  Though I would never say so in front of Lady Apricot.

  My mother’s expression became thoughtful. “I begin to take your meaning, my son. You are thinking of Rose de Lancastyr becoming queen.”

  “None other. Consider her the rat candidate, if you will. Were I to succeed in placing a queen upon the human throne who is sympathetic to rat-kind, and who will free us from the dread Wilhemina, I shall have done a deed worthy of the great Prince Feast himself. But tell no one of this yet,” I added hastily, well aware of how much my mother liked to chatter with her handmaidens. “We should not raise hopes prematurely.”

  Particularly since I still had no actual strategy of how to bring any of this about. But I was sure I’d come up with something.

  Lady Apricot flared her nostrils and gave an abrupt switch of her tail. I could see her turning the idea over and over in her mind.

  I also could see Swiss. He obviously understood by our postures and our scents that something momentous was being discussed, so he was creeping closer and closer.

  “Oh, botheration, Swiss, you may join us,” I called.

  “I am your chief adviser, after all,” he reminded me, taking his customary place by my side. “What’s in the wind?”

  “It’s about Rose. I’ve told my mother our plans for her,” I informed him.

  He stepped backward and shook out his fur into spikes as if it had gotten wet. “You told Lady Apricot our secret?”

  My mother ignored Swiss, to put him in his place. “My son, the idea is brilliant. How do you propose to fulfill these ambitions?”

  I hid my lack of certainty with bold speech. “We must find
a way for Rose to go to the prince’s ball.”

  “But Wilhemina won’t allow it,” Swiss objected. “She said so in the kitchen this morning, do you not recall?”

  “Of course, we must keep our ears to the walls and figure something out,” I told Swiss.

  Just then a chorus of squeaks and the pitter-patter of many tiny feet heralded the arrival of visitors: our local mice.

  “Your Highness! Your Highness!” they cried as they approached.

  My mother edged away from the flood of small creatures, curling her tail tight so none of them would tread upon it and sitting up tall on her haunches to emphasize the fact that she considered mice ill-mannered and pert. I myself am rather charmed by their small size and wee fluting voices, and must occasionally squelch an urge to scoop them up and hug them like nestlings.

  Pompey, the head mouse, showed his respect by running in a circle, then came to rest directly in front of me and saluted. He gave a special little wave to my mother, who put her nose in the air.

  “Yes, Pompey?” I nodded, with due courtesy. “Have you anything to report in our common cause against Wilhemina?”

  Perhaps I ought to explain that mice require so little in the way of sustenance, they are content to eat the rats’ leftovers—and in return for the food, they are quite useful to us as spies and allies.

  He bowed his head and said, “Your Highness, my people and I were eavesdropping on your speech just now, and we took special note of your concern about the human prince.”

  His mention of eavesdropping caused no surprise for us, nor shame on his part, for all the animals who dwell in Lancastyr Manor keep a close watch upon each other—as is only proper and natural.

  Pompey then said, with a little hop, “After you finished, some of my folk hastened to inform me that Lady Wilhemina—”

  “Do not call her a lady,” my mother snorted. “She is no such thing.”

  I paid no heed to Mother’s rude interruption. “Continue, Pompey,” I encouraged him. “What did your mice say?”

  “Wilhemina is in Eustacia’s bedchamber, and they are arguing about Prince Geoffrey right now,” he said. “They talk of him often, but this time they’re getting rather heated. Is that of interest to you?”