The Rat Prince

by Bridget Hodder

  I curtsied to them both, snatched a candle from the window ledge, and ran up to the attic. When I reached my dark room, seared by humiliation and fury and helplessness, I shoved the candle into a crude wooden holder and dropped onto the cot in a hunched position. I felt my shoulders shake, but I would not give my stepmother the victory of making me cry now. I took deep, shuddering breaths, reaching for calm.

  Some moments passed before I realized the thin blanket underneath me felt lumpier and somehow softer than usual. I squinted at it curiously in the low glow of the candle.

  Then I leapt off the cot, amazed.

  Covering the meager bedding was a magnificent gown of costly cloth-of-gold, beside an undergarment of fine white silk, all in the style of the last century. I turned my head and saw there was a fancy farthingale beside the window, and a white neck ruff arranged neatly beside my pillow, as though the long-ago Queen Lizbeth of Nance herself had emerged from the pages of history books, taken off her finery, and left it behind.

  What on earth?

  I cast a wild glance about, hoping to catch a clue as to what this might possibly mean.

  And then I saw them.

  There, standing just a few feet away from me in the weak candlelight, were Blackie and Frump-Bum.

  “You!” I gasped.

  They were not alone. There was another large rat with them, a sleek white one who had a distinctly female, almost regal, air about her, and fifty—no, a hundred—no, what looked like a veritable host of mice waiting there, too.

  Incomprehension gave way to a strange dread. I groped for the sapphire ring in my bodice, and held it tight as if to ward off evil. My entire body was shaking.

  “You—Blackie—” I stammered. “How can this be?”

  He stood mute, looking at me.

  Wheels and gears turned in my head, spun, caught, spun again. “Am I to understand that you brought this clothing here, as you have brought me food before? But how did you know I needed it? And how did you carry it? You would all have had to work together … It’s just not possible.”

  Blackie’s gaze was dark and locked with mine.

  He was only a beast, a lowly beast. How could he have aught to do with a ball gown?

  Silence within, silence without. And many little furry animals, watching me as if they expected I would eventually understand.

  “What are you?” I blurted, as though they could answer. “What manner of person or power has sent you?” Feeling the first stirrings of terror, I backed away toward the door, step by careful step.

  Then Blackie turned to Frump-Bum and made a low series of sounds.

  As if on command, Frump-Bum scurried to a corner of the room and began to push a red leather book across the dusty floor with his shoulder and snout. Efficiently, purposefully, he brought it toward me, as though he did this sort of thing every day. Then he dropped back on his haunches and looked up into my astonished face.

  Blackie made more commanding noises, this time aimed in my direction. Though I am not a rat, I could recognize the tone of authority when I heard it. I was being told to do something.

  Still trembling, clutching my family’s ring in my left hand, I moved forward and leaned over. With my right hand, I picked up the book. It was very old, and gave off a slight smell of mildew. I could just make out the words stamped in gold across the cover: Baron Dominick de Lancastyr, Sherriff of Lancashyrre, Knight of the Sacred Order of the Tyne, Keeper of the Privy Seal and Lord of the Anglander March. His Book.

  I almost dropped it.

  “Baron Dominick was the first Lancastyr!” I said, looking at Blackie. “My ancestor. Why, this book must be over two hundred years old!”

  The black rat—a pet to me, a menace to most—held my astonished gaze and ever so slowly, ever so deliberately, nodded his smooth head.

  Too much.

  I fainted, crumpling into a heap on the bare boards of the floor.

  * * *

  An agitated chorus of twitters and ack ack ack sounds awakened me. Something was swarming across my body. With a cry, I brushed at my torso, making frantic, sweeping slaps. My hands met tiny warm balls of fur and sent them flying in every direction as they emitted squeaks of distress.

  Mice! They’d been crawling all over me! Good Lord’s hooks, what were they doing? Were they going to eat me alive?

  When I shot up to a sitting position, I saw fat wax candles positioned in each corner of the room, making it as bright as day. And … o’ Lord, o’ Lord … I was wearing the Queen Lizbeth gown.

  The mice now huddled in a corner at a safe distance, chattering faintly, watching my every move as if in fear. In their tiny paws I saw the gleam of silvery needles, trailing golden thread.

  I felt that I had lost my reason. I would be carted off to the madhouse, and the Lancastyrs would be no more.

  But before I could give way to utter panic, I felt a warm, comforting weight curl up in my lap. Catching my breath, I looked down and saw Blackie. I hugged him to me and buried my face against his fur. He smelled clean and sweet, like lavender and lemon water. Do rats bathe? This rat must have.

  “Oh, Blackie!” I exclaimed.

  He poked his snout into my cheek and nuzzled me a bit, until my head cleared and the worst of my fears subsided.

  “Did you and the mice dress me in this gown?” I inquired at last in a whisper, as if someone might overhear. “Did you somehow find out about the ball, and you gave me this … this marvelous gift, just as you gave me the ring before?”

  He nodded again. I felt the nod, rather than saw it, because his face was still against mine. “Do you understand me?” I asked.

  Another nod. I was not mad; my tame rat understood human speech.

  “Blackie, how can this be?”

  He nimbly hopped from my lap and went to the red book my ancestor had written. He ruffled through the pages until he came to a particular one and pointed to it. Then he looked at me as if to say, Well, come on, then.

  I snatched up the book and focused on the passage Blackie had indicated. It was difficult to make out the quaint old language and the odd spelling of my ancestor, yet I was able to understand it after some moments’ struggle.

  Kin of our kin, this captaine of the shippe upon which our ancestors arrived at this lande, Captaine Ulum by name, when he was given to understande that by the effort of the rats alone was his vessel saved from sinking, for, lowly creetures tho’ they be, they had filled the breeche in the hold with sackes of grain, thusly preventing the seas from rushing in to overwhelme the shippe … When Ulum, then, understoode this miracle, then swore he, ne’er shall there be strife between rat and any descendant of mine, as long as there be sun in skye and man on terra firma; yea, said he, tho’ rats be the most despised of creatures, ne’er shall my son nor my son’s sons so despise them; and none shall slaye them in shippe or house, unto the sun’s darkeninge at the breaking of the Seventh Seal at the end of days.

  PRINCE CHAR

  I could see Rose’s mind working.

  “No one in my family has knowledge of this book,” she said, her eyes bigger and rounder than ever.

  “Because in order to protect it from one of your brainless great-grandfathers, who remodeled the library and let his decorators burn thousands of precious volumes, we stole it and hoarded it in our treasure chamber for about one hundred years,” I replied in my own language. “Though it was forgotten by the Lancastyrs, that book is our charter. It gives the details of a pact between an ancient goddess, your family, and my people. This agreement is what gave the rats on Captain Ulum’s ship—and their descendants—long life and intelligence far above that of ordinary rat-folk. The book tells us that if the line of the Lancastyrs should ever come to an end, we rats will return to what we once were.”

  She didn’t need to understand me. She could fill in the blanks for herself. At last, we had broken the long silence between humans and rats, and the charter had been shared with the Lancastyrs once more. I had done it.

 
; I, Prince Char.

  Rose’s jewel-like eyes closed. “Ah,” she said. “A mystery is solved. The Lancastyr coat of arms features a sable rat, to the right side of a ship, under crossed swords. My father told me it was a device indicating persistence, endurance, cleverness. The rat may indeed have represented those qualities, but clearly the device tells the tale of our ancestor Captain Ulum and the rats.” Then she looked at me.

  I nodded again. The coat of arms she mentioned was the same one etched upon the ring I had given her.

  “Where did you get this gown?” she asked.

  Millennia of history before her—a family tale dating from the time of the Phoenicians—yet her first question was about a dress?

  Nonetheless I would have explained, had I had the power of human speech. I would have taken her to our storerooms and treasure troves to reveal that over the centuries, we rats had secretly saved a magnificent garment from the wardrobe of each Lady Lancastyr whose elegance we had particularly admired.

  But I could communicate none of this to her. And it was more important that she read the entire book her ancestor wrote, so I slapped it with one paw.

  “Yes, you gave me a magnificent present. Thank you from the bottom of my heart!” she gushed, not understanding. “I will read it when I have time, after the ball. And I cannot ever properly express my gratitude to you for the gown!”

  Realizing I had done everything I could to draw her attention to the book, I looked over at Swiss and sighed. Then I stood up tall and swept Lady Rose a low, courtly bow. As I placed a paw upon my chest and brought my whiskers toward the floor, I hoped it would convey what I wished I could say aloud: The dress is my royal gift to you, Lady Rose.

  “Oh, God save!” she cried. I could tell my action was so unexpected to her as to be frightening.

  However, she calmed herself in an instant. Then her green eyes held mine as she favored me with the magnificent curtsy she’d given her stepmother the day before. This time, the move was as solemn as it was graceful.

  “Thank you, Blackie,” she murmured while she sank to the ground amid waves of golden skirts. “You and your people, and the mice, honor me greatly. I am proud to wear the gift of the rats, protectors of my family.”

  My mother and Swiss, who’d remained at the margins of these events, now came forward to stand next to me.

  “She may be human,” Lady Apricot said, breathing in the girl’s scent curiously. “But there is something about her. She has the air of a queen, indeed. I now see why the humans have always thought her beautiful.”

  “My apologies, but I don’t think I will ever find her beautiful,” said Swiss. “She does smell extremely toothsome, though. Like sugarplums. She’s lucky we’re civilized enough not to bite her cheeks as she sleeps.”

  “If she were a rat, she would be called Lady Sugarplum,” I declared.

  Lady Apricot gave a most unladylike “Humpf!”

  * * *

  The day of the ball dawned fair and clear.

  I awoke that morning with fierce exhilaration burning in my breast. My bid to put Lady Rose at the side of the next king would be a gamble with little risk to us rats and an enormous payoff if we succeeded. Indeed, in light of the latest developments, luck seemed to be on our side. The mice had worked long into the night to put the final touches on Rose’s impressive garment, fashioned to thwart Wilhemina’s mean-spirited plan. They had discarded the outmoded ruff and large farthingale and changed the shape of the billowing skirts and narrow bodice. The rat-candidate for queen would attend the party and be in line for the human throne before the evening was out.

  Oh, the bliss and confidence of ignorance.

  “Mother,” I said over the remnants of our breakfast—fresh eggs stolen from the henhouse, shreds of venison, and day-old bread scattered across a single gold plate on the floor of my chamber—“did you match Lady Rose’s garments with adornments from our treasure boxes?”

  “Indeed I did.”

  “Thank you. When you deliver them, don’t wake her up if she’s still asleep. She needs her rest.”

  “As you wish, Your Highness,” she replied in a resentful tone, but with a regal inclination of her head. Then she added, “When you reach Castle Wendyn, thieve something pretty for me.”

  “My lady,” I admonished, “great deeds are afoot. This is not about you and your jewel box.”

  “I know very well who this is about,” she said, and turned her back.

  My, but she seems moody today, I thought. I judged it wisest to make no comment.

  Instead I proceeded with Swiss to the throne room, where my elite team of rat-warriors was waiting to start our expedition to Castle Wendyn. As you may recall, there were five of them: Corncob, a stout older rat with street experience; Truffle, a lean and dangerous black-furred female with extra-sharp teeth; and a trio of brave brown brothers, Beef One, Beef Two, and Beef Three, whom no one could tell apart. They each wore strips of jerked, dried meat around their necks, as is customary for soldiers departing on a long march. Their eager faces, their paws curled like claws, and their anticipatory chatter showed they were prepared for any sort of perilous deeds.

  Yet, I’d stretched the truth a bit about needing a stalwart force in order to venture across the city.

  In fact, I had almost lied.

  Because there is no danger at all involved in the trip, unless you count snaking through drainpipes and swimming in sewers to be dangerous. If you’re human, it might well be so. If you’re a rat, it’s a little pleasant exercise. As for the oh-so-fearsome Southern Rat Realm, their princess, Mozzarella, was once daring and dauntless but had become extremely lazy since ascending the throne. She probably would not care a whit whether we passed through her domain or not.

  To be completely honest (and I always am, unless it is not to the purpose), during my earlier appearance in the throne room I’d played up the drama of the moment to give my people the pleasure of being witnesses and participants in a great endeavor.

  That is how rats get the chance to feel like heroes. It’s also how princes get featured in songs and stories.

  “Brave citizens of my realm!” I now shouted to the group of five.

  They pointed their snouts in my direction, inhaling my scent of excitement and determination.

  “We shall reconnoiter the royal castle and find Prince Geoffrey; then we will remain to spy upon him. I am in the lead with Royal Councillor Swiss. You bring up the rear, my loyal subjects, and in case of attack, fight tooth, fight nail, fight to the death!”

  Swiss’s snort was drowned out by a shrill battle cry arising from five rat-throats, and off we charged.

  * * *

  It took over an hour to get to Castle Wendyn. I hesitate to describe our route in detail, for I do not wish to provide any interfering humans with the means to block rat access points. Suffice it to say, we began by sliding into a hole in the carved wooden pipe beneath a particular, unspecified sink at Lancastyr Manor. (Even the largest rat, my friends, can squeeze into an opening no wider than a walnut.) This led us to the public pipeline of hollowed tree trunks under the street, and from there to the large, rushing stone sewers.

  We stood together on the cobbled bank of the fast-moving, rank-smelling underground river, eyeing it with distaste. “In we go!” I declared.

  “Must we?” Swiss complained. “Surely we could run alongside it. The ledge is wide enough.”

  The other rats looked at him, shocked, as if he’d just admitted to cowardice. Beefs One, Two, and Three made rather rude noises.

  Then the ferocious Truffle stood tall on her haunches, gave Swiss a disparaging glance, and said, “If Prince Char so orders, I shall swim through the filthiest sewer water and run through fire to fulfill our mission.”

  I smiled at Swiss’s annoyed expression before cautioning the others, “My brave followers, do not forget that in the contest for rulership that made me prince, Royal Councillor Swiss came in second, and his courage is unquestioned. This moment is a
n example of how he wisely protects us. He would never tell us to undergo a hardship—such as swimming this foul current—unless it were absolutely necessary. But, Swiss,” I said to him, “we must go by water, for it is faster by far than we can run.”

  “Thank you for reminding this company of my prowess, Your Highness,” Swiss said with dignity, while the others had the grace to look ashamed. “There may in fact be another alternative to swimming. Warriors, look about for something to use as a raft.”

  After some nosing around, Corncob found an old wine crate that had gotten caught up in a clumped eddy of straw and refuse. Swiss held on to one of the wooden slats with his tail as the rest of us piled in; then he pushed it into the current and took a flying jump to land inside.

  We were off, at a spanking pace.

  “Nice, eh?” Swiss said, and grinned at me.

  “Heroically uncomfortable,” I replied as I watched my warriors scramble about with every roll of the leaky wooden craft.

  We knew we had reached Castle Wendyn when we caught sight of a stairway carved with the seal of the human royal family of Angland. We leapt off our crate and swam over to the steps, ran up them single file, and emerged in the palace dungeons.

  “Don’t bother to dry yourselves,” I announced in a low tone. “We must find a source of clean water and wash in it. All the stealth in the world will do us no good if our stench betrays our presence to the humans.”

  As things turned out, the most hazardous part of our inbound mission was the washing up. When we located a pail of water by a set of stone stairs leading up and out of the dungeons, we plunged ourselves into it one by one to get the task done. Just as the last of us was finishing, we heard the approach of a palace guard. The situation would still have been fine had not Truffle, in her haste to quit the wooden bucket, knocked it to the stone floor with a loud clunk.