Escape from the Palace

by Santa Montefiore

  Shylo caught his breath.

  His heart stopped.

  The fox was so strong, so obviously powerful, that Shylo’s ears drooped and he shrank behind Clooney and Laser with fear.

  ST-BT strutted into the room. Of all the foxes in the world, he was, Shylo thought, surely the most debonair, the most lustrous, the most pearly toothed fox that ever existed. His white-tipped red tail was luxuriant and extravagantly bushy. His face was wide, his nose haughty, his whiskers magnificent. He wore red trousers with a black stripe down each leg, polished black boots, and a white leather jacket with shiny black buttons. On his wrists shone silver cufflinks engraved with his initials, and on his paw flashed a big silver ring. A golden necklace of chunky letters spelling out ST-BT hung around his neck.

  Shylo watched the fox walk into the room—no, it wasn’t a walk, it was pure SWISH. The little rabbit tried to rouse his wilted ears so that ST-BT wouldn’t sense his fear.

  But ST-BT missed nothing.

  His nose picked up even the slightest emotion, and he peered down at Shylo. “And who is this nervous little creature?” he asked, his voice crisp and deep.

  “This is our newest recruit,” Clooney told him, sliding onto one of the high chairs at the bar and asking the bar-fox for an espresso. Clooney, ever suave and handsome, spotted his own reflection in the espresso machine, and pretending to admire himself, he watched the foxes in the room behind him who were all blissfully unaware of his gaze.

  “Does he speak?” ST-BT asked, narrowing his eyes and looking Shylo up and down.

  “Of course he speaks,” said Laser, jumping to Shylo’s defense. She gave Shylo a prod.

  The small bunkin seemed to wake from his trance. “My name is Shylo,” he murred in a small voice. He suddenly remembered to give the sign and raised his Red Badge.

  “And my name is Sharp-Tooth-Bushy-Tail, but my friends call me ST-BT.” The glossy fox chuckled, and Shylo felt as if a cold wind had just swept over his fur. “So, you’re a member of the Royal Rabbits, are you? You don’t look like one.”

  “He’s braver than all of us put together,” said Laser, which Shylo knew wasn’t true, but he felt happy that Laser wanted to back him up.

  “You’re frightened of me, Shylo, I can smell it,” said the fox, putting his nose to the bunkin’s face. “But you’re not from here, are you? You’re a long way from your country home.” Shylo’s eye widened. “Don’t look so surprised; it’s my job to know everything.” He straightened and put his paws on his hips. “I’m not going to eat you. I’ve eaten so many rabbits in my time that I’ve grown bored of the taste. It’s not flesh I crave but power.”

  “I’m most relieved to hear that, ST-BT,” said Shylo meekly.

  The fox grinned, flashing his sharp white teeth. He put out his paw and clicked his claws. Immediately, a fox in a black waistcoat and white shirt brought him a glass of Butterscotch on the Rocks. It matched ST-BT in its creamy richness. Shylo watched the fox put the straw to his lips and take a sip. The murmur of voices resumed once again as the foxes in the club went back to their gambling and their darts.

  “Butterscotch on the Rocks, little rabbit? Or would you prefer a carrot juice?”

  “A carrot juice would be very nice, thank you,” Shylo replied politely, and ST-BT clicked his claws once again and a carrot juice was swiftly delivered.

  Noticing that Shylo was gazing around him with wide, curious eyes, ST-BT put a heavy paw on his shoulder. “Come, let me show you around.” He sauntered over to a row of periscopes, much like the ones Shylo had already seen in The Grand Burrow. ST-BT pulled one down to Shylo’s level. “Take a look at Number Ten Downing Street,” he said. “The heart of British power.”

  Shylo expected a grand palace, but what he saw was a rather normal-looking house made of charcoal-colored bricks with a black front door in a white frame. If it wasn’t for the two police officers guarding it, he wouldn’t have known it was important at all. He couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed.

  “Foxes have been helping the Prime Ministers of Great Britain ever since the first. Prime Minister Walpole brought a fox cub into Downing Street as a present for his son. If it hadn’t been for us, the Duke of Wellington would never have won the Battle of Waterloo, Gladstone and Disraeli would have ruined the Empire, and Churchill would have lost the Second World War!” ST-BT pointed to some chairs around a card table. “Take a seat, my friends,” he said.

  Laser and Clooney sat down, and Shylo followed their example. But the little rabbit was so small, he was only just able to see over the table in front of him. ST-BT settled himself into a leather armchair, facing Shylo, and licked the butterscotch off his top lip.

  “I have thousands of foxes working for me in every corner of the city,” he said. “The Backstreet Brushes live in people’s gardens; roam the pavements, parks, and playgrounds; peer into people’s houses; and sometimes even curl up on their sofas if they desire a comfortable night’s sleep. There is nothing that goes on in this city that I don’t know about.” He turned to Clooney and Laser. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “As you know, the president is arriving in two days’ time,” said Laser. “The Ratzis pose a dangerous threat to the visit, and we need to know their every move. . . .”

  “Yes, I have something for you. My Brushes have spotted a couple of Ratzis loitering dangerously close to the Weeping Willow in Green Park. They had a net and a stick of celery. You must all be vigilant.”

  Clooney looked alarmed. “The Weeping Willow is the secret entrance to our Grand Burrow.”

  “It doesn’t sound good,” said Laser. “We’ll tell Zeno to double the guard on all the tunnels beneath the palace while the president is here.”

  “We are living in dangerous times,” growled ST-BT. “Life was simpler when we were dealing with the odd thief and spy. Papa Ratzi’s rise to power and the dangers of the Internet have given us something seriously worrying to think about.”

  Shylo, who had so far said nothing, piped up in his small voice. “Horatio always told me that everything in life has a good side and a bad side. The Internet can be good if it’s used by people who want to learn facts and chat with friends, but to those who want to spread lies and hate, like the Ratzis, it’s a very dangerous thing indeed.”

  ST-BT looked at Shylo as if he had said something so dazzlingly brilliant that the little bunkin felt himself grow hot with surprise and pleasure. “Horatio?” ST-BT repeated with a frown. “You know Horatio?”

  “Yes, Horatio taught me everything I know,” Shylo replied. “He sent me to find the Royal Rabbits when I overheard a Ratzi plot against the Queen. It’s because of him that I’m here.”

  ST-BT’s expression softened. It seemed he had been rash to judge Shylo on his frail appearance. “Anyone who is a friend of Horatio’s is a friend of mine,” he said. “Horatio found me when I was a cub after my mother was killed by Pest Control. I’d curled up in a can to keep warm, and if it hadn’t been for him, I would have surely died the following morning when they came to collect the trash.”

  “Horatio is like a father to me,” said Shylo, whose own father had been shot by the farmer back home.

  “He’s like a father to me too,” ST-BT said with a wistful smile. “I was so happy to hear from Nelson that he hadn’t been killed in the Buckingham Palace Kennel after all, but escaped the corgis and fled to the countryside.”

  Laser glanced at Clooney; neither had ever met Nelson’s brother. “I’d sure like to know this Horatio,” said Laser. “He sounds like a very cool guy.”

  “He was the bravest of all the Royal Rabbits,” said ST-BT. Then he knitted his claws and looked directly at Shylo. “What advice do you think he would give about the president’s visit, Shylo?”

  Shylo thought for a moment. He knew his answer was important if he wanted to be accepted as a Royal Rabbit by this swishsome fox. “I think Horatio would say: ‘Life is an adventure and anything in the world is possible—by will and by luck, wi
th a moist carrot, a wet nose, and a slice of mad courage.’ ”

  ST-BT threw back his glossy head and gave a rumbling laugh. “He would indeed,” he bellowed, slapping his thigh. And suddenly the whole Fox Club was laughing with him, and Shylo, who was still slightly anxious about the sheer number of foxes in the room, found himself quietly laughing too.

  CHAPTER SIX

  SHYLO RETURNED TO THE GRAND Burrow with Clooney and Laser. He was so relieved to be out of the swanky Fox Club, where the scent of fox had been almost unbearable, that he forgot that the Backstreet Brushes had spotted Ratzis lurking around the Weeping Willow and hurried outside for some air. Shylo always felt better being in nature, and he looked about him and felt instantly comforted.

  By now it was early afternoon. The early summer sunshine flooded the park, and a gentle breeze made a rustling sound in the branches above him. He breathed in what should have been the sweet grassy smell of the park, but instead was the revolting stench of rotting junk food and farts. He froze and glanced about him. There was no sign of rats, just the distant laughter of children as they played with a small dog some way off in the distance, and the gentle rumbling of traffic on the Mall.

  However, Shylo’s sharp sense of smell was never wrong. And above him, hidden in the leafy branches of the Weeping Willow, were Mavis and Flintskin.

  “Stop farting!” Mavis hissed crossly. “Can’t you hold them in even for a minute? The rabbits will smell you.”

  “They just slip out,” Flintskin complained.

  “That’s what Thigby said, and it nearly cost him his other ear.”

  “Hmm. True. No more seeping out then! But we’ve been waiting here for hours. I’m bored. And hungry. You said you’d seen rabbits under here, but we haven’t seen so much as a fluffy tail in . . . Wait! What’s that?”

  They both looked down to where Shylo was standing in the shade of the tree.

  “That’s him!” whispered Mavis. She leaned over to get a better look. “Just like they described: small and feeble-looking with a red eye patch. Of all the luck!”

  “Shouldn’t be difficult to catch,” said Flintskin.

  “Can’t imagine how a little runt like him could have gotten the better of Baz, Grimbo, and Splodge. Idiots!” She poked Flintskin with her claw.

  “Ouch!” he whined.

  “What are you waiting for? Throw down the celery!”

  “Oh right, yes, the celery.” Flintskin let the stick of celery drop to the ground. It landed with a thud right next to Shylo.

  The little rabbit had been busy looking for Ratzis. He knew he smelled them. But he couldn’t see any rats anywhere. The sudden noise jolted him from his search, and he spun around to find a stick of celery lying on the grass beside him. At the sight of his favorite vegetable, Shylo’s heart gave a leap, and he forgot all about the smell of Ratzis as his one eye feasted on it with surprise. How deee-lish. How tempting!

  Above him the two Ratzis were trembling with excitement. “Now drop the net,” instructed Mavis.

  Flintskin got ready to throw down a net that was just big enough to catch a small rabbit like Shylo. At this point, it seemed as if it was going to be much too easy for the Ratzis to trap the poor bunkin. But Mavis’s mouth was watering so much at the sight of the rabbit that her drool overflowed her drooping lip, and a large dollop dripped, in a green, greasy globule, right onto the piece of celery, just as Shylo was about to pick it up.

  At the same moment that the globule landed, Laser poked her head out of the hidden entrance to The Grand Burrow. “Shylo, you’re needed. Come quick!” she said.

  “Drop the net!” screeched Mavis.

  Flintskin threw down the net, and for a second it hovered over Shylo’s head. But in the nick of time Shylo dashed toward Laser and down the manhole into The Grand Burrow. So all the net caught was the soggy piece of celery.

  “You idiot!” cried Mavis, pushing Flintskin off the branch so that he landed on the net with a squeal. He rolled and squirmed, but his flabby body acted as a cushion so he didn’t hurt himself at all. Rats are very resilient. Ratzis even more so.

  “Who are you calling an idiot?” Flintskin screeched back, baring his two sharp teeth. “You dribbled on the celery!”

  “You farted and he smelled it!”

  “You were too busy thinking of your stomach!”

  “You were too eager to be famous!”

  Mavis swung down one of the long branches and landed beside him. “You’re going to have an appointment with the Doctor!”

  Flintskin grinned grimly. “Then so are you. We’re in this together, don’t forget. If I fail, you fail.”

  Mavis scowled, and her face became even uglier, which one would not have thought possible. But then her drooping lip slowly lifted into a smile as she rested her eyes on the bush into which the rabbits had disappeared. “Wait . . . I think we’ve just stumbled upon the secret entrance to the Royal Rabbits of London. The Grand Burrow itself,” she said. “If this is the way into the palace, and I’ve discovered it, Papa Ratzi will be sure to reward me!”

  “And me!” squeaked Flintskin, doing the Driggle. “I found it too! I did! I did! I did!”

  Mavis joined in, and the two Ratzis were so busy celebrating their find that they didn’t notice a flash of red fox’s tail disappear into a nearby laurel bush.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  IT WAS A BRIGHT SUNNY day when Air Force One, the president’s jumbo jet, landed at Stansted Airport. Of course, the POTUS never travels alone, so the plane was full of people. There was the POTUS’s wife, also known as the First Lady (naturally code named FLOTUS), their thirteen-year-old son, and hundreds of officials and Secret Service agents from the White House. The president had also brought along his big black car, nicknamed “the Beast.” It was a shining, armor-plated Cadillac with bulletproof glass and an arsenal of rocket-propelled grenades, night-vision optics, tear-gas cannons, and pump-action shotguns, all there to keep the POTUS safe.

  Air Force One came to a halt on the tarmac in front of two welcoming parties. One was the Prime Minister and a large gathering of officials and photographers; the other was ST-BT, lurking in the shadows and reclining languidly on the bumper of the Prime Minister’s gleaming Jaguar.

  At last the big door of the jumbo jet opened, and the president stepped out with his wife and son. They stood together at the top of the steps and waved. At the same time, a large door in the bottom of the plane opened, and the luggage began to be unloaded and packed into the waiting cars. Everyone was so busy going about their business that they didn’t notice the small hatch of Air Hutch One open at the other end of the plane.

  As the cameras clicked and the flashes flashed and the POTUS descended the steps, the Rabbits of the United States who had traveled with him hopped onto the tarmac toward their own greeting party headed by Zeno. Like the human Secret Service who protect the president, the ROTUS wore dark suits and ties, with crisp white shirts. Each rabbit had a pair of dark sunglasses and a special earpiece to make sure they could always be in touch with one another if they needed to spring into action. While humans might carry pistols, the ROTUS carried acorn guns. The commander shook hands with Zeno, who escorted them all to the Beast.

  With a quick movement, a secret hatch was opened in the belly of the car, and the ROTUS jumped in one by one. In the blink of an eye all thirty were inside. By the time the president had reached the car, the whole troop were strapped into their special seats, ready to travel the final leg of their journey to Buckingham Palace in London. Zeno saluted as the car sped away.

  If Shylo had been impressed by the Royal Rabbits of London, he was awestruck by the American rabbits.

  These were not Hopsters, but Jack Rabbits, and just like everything in America, they were somehow super-big and super-glossy. When they entered the great hall in The Grand Burrow, everyone gathered on the floors above to watch. They leaned over the balconies, hundreds of curious faces, to view these large, tough-looking rabbits stride in, sunglas
ses aglint and dark suits sharp, acorn guns tucked into holsters under their jackets.

  HOW TO SPOT A ROTUS!

  • They are American rabbits so they speak with American accents.

  • The tops of their ears are not pointed like English rabbits, but rounded.

  • They have very long and powerful hind legs.

  • They have the newest and most sophisticated gadgets.

  • They usually wear dark sunglasses, wrap-around style.

  • When they are not dressed in dark suits, they like to wear baseball caps and bomber jackets—with badges of the American flag sewn onto them.

  • They like to chew gum.

  • They always have earpieces in their ears and little microphones on their lapels to talk to the commander and one another.

  Shylo stood beneath the chandelier in the great hall with Clooney, Belle de Paw, and Laser, and watched with a mixture of excitement and awe. He was very happy that these strapping rabbits were on their side.

  Nelson waited at the far end of the hall to welcome their commander. He did not look excited or awed, for he had met many important rabbits in his long life and was not easily impressed.

  Zeno grimaced at the eager faces watching from above, jealous that the Americans were getting so much attention. “Show-offs,” he muttered crossly under his breath, as he escorted two very important-looking Jack Rabbits toward Nelson. One was a big red buck with a scar running down the side of his face, the other was a light brown doe. They both wore dark suits and wraparound sunglasses and were clearly in charge.

  “May I present Special Agent Huntington L. McGuire the Third?” said Zeno so loudly that the chandelier tinkled above them.

  “Call me Hunter,” said the Jack Rabbit in a clipped Boston accent, putting out his paw.

  “And Special Agent Lola Estrada,” Zeno continued.