The Royal Rabbits of London

by Santa Montefiore

  Suddenly, he heard a rustling further along the tunnel and froze. It won’t take me long to return to Horatio’s burrow if I run as fast as I can, he thought. But then Shylo remembered his mother telling him to eat more parsnips so he’d grow to be big and strong; and Horatio telling him that there was more to him than he could ever imagine; and the desire to be brave rose in him like a great tide. It pushed him on towards the rustling, as if he was not a runt at all but a brave Knight of the Crown, a Spy of the Rabbit Rules of Secret Craft.

  To his relief, the rustling turned out to be nothing more than a leaf blowing in the wind that swept down the tunnel from the opening that at last came into view in a blaze of natural light. He switched off his torch and leaped towards the hole with a rush of excitement. He’d done it. He’d made it to the farm.

  Shylo peeped out of the hole and looked around. He had come out beside a big green barn. He turned his eyes to the field behind him, which rose towards the forest in a gentle slope, and knew that Horatio’s burrow was just up there, hidden beneath the bracken. He wondered whether the old buck was watching him. That thought gave him an extra boost of courage.

  He hopped out and poked his head into the barn.

  It was exactly as Horatio had said. The fat farmer’s wife was busy packing cabbages into crates while her ruddy-faced husband lifted the full ones into the back of a van, which had been reversed into the barn. They were chatting happily as they worked, half listening to the radio on a table against the wall.

  In the workshop at the back, Shylo could see their son and daughter through a large glass window. They were sitting on a sofa, playing a computer game, staring with dead eyes at the TV screen as if in a trance.

  Shylo had to think fast. He could see that the farmer’s wife was about to finish packing the cabbages. He imagined that, once the last crate had been loaded into the van, the doors would close and the opportunity to jump in would be lost. Frantically, he scanned the room. There had to be some way to distract the farmer and his wife. Shylo had survived the tunnel without turning back; he was not going to fail now.

  Then he had an idea. It was a brave idea, braver than any he’d ever had before and he didn’t have time to think it through. If he had, he probably wouldn’t have had the courage to do it.

  He slunk into the barn and hopped along the edge of the wall, like he’d seen the farm cat do a thousand times when he had defied his mother and sneaked away to steal the farmer’s vegetables or simply to observe the human world which fascinated him so much.

  Once he reached the back wall, he jumped on to a container, then from the container on to a cardboard box, then from the cardboard box on to a shelf laden with greasy bottles whose stained labels spelled out the words RAT POISON in red, beneath a picture of a skull and crossbones. Shylo shuddered, trying not to brush up against any of them . . .

  From there, he squeezed through the window, which was open a crack, into the workshop where the children were staring at the TV screen. They didn’t see him; they were so focused on their game that they wouldn’t have noticed if an elephant had charged into the room! Shylo hopped on to the floor and followed the trail of wire from the computer to the wall. Then he put his paw on the plug, as he had seen the farmer do, and switched it off.

  The reaction was instant. The children started shouting: ‘Mum, Dad! The Xbox has gone off! We’re in the middle of our game! Dad, do something!’

  You might have thought the house was on fire as both parents stopped what they were doing and looked at each other in alarm. This was enormously satisfying to a small rabbit who had been taunted by his siblings all his life for being cowardly.

  ‘What on earth?’ cried Mrs Ploughman. ‘Quick! We have to turn the computer back on or the children will scream the house down!’

  The farmer ran into the workshop, followed by his wife, leaving the door wide open. Shylo only had a moment to escape and dash across the barn floor to the open doors of the van. With a great leap, he lunged towards it. But the little rabbit didn’t make it. He clung to the edge with his front paws while his hind legs pedalled furiously in mid-air, and he tried desperately to scramble inside. He hoped Tobias the cat didn’t spot his paddling legs.

  ‘Who did that then? A ghost?’ Mrs Ploughman asked when her husband had turned the plug back on and the children had fallen silent again.

  ‘Dunno. Mighty strange, if you ask me. There’s no one here but us. It appears to have switched off all by itself.’

  ‘Must be the cat,’ she suggested.

  ‘I can’t see no cat.’ He looked under the table. ‘Tobias, is that you?’ Bewildered, Mr and Mrs Ploughman walked back into the barn, closing the workshop door behind them so that their children could play their game in peace.

  ‘There, last cabbage,’ said Mrs Ploughman with a sigh, plonking it into the crate. ‘I think it’s time for a cup of tea. How ’bout you?’

  ‘No time for that. Got to get myself to London.’

  The farmer lifted the final crate. Shylo, foaming at the mouth with fear and exhaustion, gave one last, frantic kick and heaved himself inside the van. Farmer Ploughman was so busy thinking about his journey that he didn’t see the little rabbit lying panting beside the crates and dropped the last one on to the floor of the van. He narrowly missed squashing Shylo who was now almost completely wedged between the boxes of spring cabbage. The van doors closed and the interior was plunged into darkness.

  Shylo lay a while, listening to his heart thumping like the beat of a drum. Little by little, it grew slower and quieter until it ticked in the usual way, like a regular clock. As the excitement and fear subsided and the engine began to roar, followed by the gentle vibration of the wheels, Shylo realized that he was on his way to London. There was no turning back.

  He sat up and gazed forlornly at the sealed doors of the van. He wished there was a window so he could see the farm for the last time. He wished he’d been able to say goodbye to his mother and he wondered if he was doing the right thing. But then he felt a swell of something unexpected in his chest: he’d made it down the tunnel, reached the farm and managed to climb into the van. How proud Horatio would be! How proud Shylo was of himself!

  All that excitement had made the little rabbit hungry. He squeezed through a hole in a crate and inhaled the sweet smell of spring cabbage. Then he took a bite. Never in his life had he tasted anything so delicious. When this was all over and he came home, Shylo decided he’d bring his mother the biggest spring cabbage he could find.

  Shylo awoke to the sound of voices. He sprang up, heart racing, and dived into a crate to hide beneath the cabbages. The big doors opened and the back of the van was flooded with light. He began to tremble with fear, which made the cabbages tremble too. He shrank down deeper, hoping the farmer wouldn’t notice.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I hit a bit of traffic,’ said Farmer Ploughman, lifting the crate – and Shylo – out of the van.

  Shylo barely dared open his good eye. The swaying motion made him feel sick and he wished he hadn’t eaten so many cabbages. Through the slats of the crate he could see the van was parked in a small street between huge towering buildings – These must be hotels, Shylo thought – and across a roaring, busy road was the green foliage of a park. If Horatio was right about where the van was supposed to drop the cabbages off in London then that must be Green Park!

  The crate was dropped on to the ground with a thud. Shylo froze. Now what? But, before he could work out his next move, a dark shadow cut out the light as another crate was being lowered on top of him. Afraid of being trapped, he shot out of his hiding place and scampered off as fast as he could to seek shelter.

  ‘Eh, did you see that?’ a woman screeched. ‘It was a rabbit!’ She cackled like an old witch. ‘You brought more than cabbages up from the country!’

  ‘A rabbit?’ the farmer exclaimed. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I know a rabbit when I see one. A brown one, it was. Small and skinny. Nothing to it.’

  �
�Where did it go then?’

  ‘Under that car. What are you going to do?’

  Farmer Ploughman knelt down and looked behind the wheel where Shylo cowered. ‘Catch it and give it to my wife for the pot.’

  ‘But it’s got no meat on it at all. Better to give it to the dog.’

  ‘Hey, little rabbit, don’t be frightened. I’m not going to hurt you.’ The farmer reached under the car. ‘Hey,’ he hissed at the woman. ‘Come over here and give me a hand. I’ve nearly got him.’

  Shylo saw the farmer’s hand to his right, and the woman’s hand to his left, and didn’t wait for their grasping fingers to close round him. He did not intend for his mission to end in a pot of stew or in the jaws of a dog.

  He scooted out from under the car and ran clumsily down the little road towards the park, but, as he drew closer, he could see that the rushing London traffic on the big road was between him and those green meadows! He prayed to the Great Rabbit in the sky that he wouldn’t trip or stumble or get squashed beneath a lorry. How was he going to get across? Nothing could have prepared Shylo for the London streets. On grey, filthy paving stones he saw thousands of walking feet. When he looked up, he realized that most of the humans had phones clamped to their ears or were just staring at the little screens, scarcely noticing anything around them.

  There were bollards and traffic lights, signposts and dustbins, and the noise. Oh, the noise! The thunder of the cars and lorries, the whizzing of wheels and the roaring of angry engines were all deafening for poor Shylo. And the smell! For a little rabbit with an extremely sensitive nose, the stench was nearly as bad as the Ratzis!

  Woof-woof-grrr! A dog, a Golden Retriever, lunged at Shylo with a snarl. The poor little rabbit hopped backwards in terror, but the dog couldn’t reach him: it was on a leash and its owner hadn’t even noticed – she was too busy messaging on her phone. Then, suddenly, there came another woof-woof-grrr!: this time a snapping terrier. Shylo froze. But this dog was also on a lead and it was quickly dragged off down a tunnel that seemed to go under the road.

  Shylo thought of his home – the quiet Northamptonshire fields, the warm comfort of his mother’s kitchen, the butterflies and bees in summer, the sun setting over golden crops of wheat and barley – and he longed to be back there with every fibre of his being.

  It isn’t supposed to end like this, he thought glumly, but this task had always been too much for a feeble rabbit like him. He imagined how disappointed Horatio would be. How a fragment of the Queen’s soul would be snatched by the Ratzis. How his mother would shake her head and his brothers and sisters would laugh at his tragic end.

  And how utterly and pathetically predictable his failure would be.

  But then, just as he was about to give up he heard Horatio’s familiar voice as if he was right beside him: ‘You might be frail, Shylo Tawny-Tail, but never waste time worrying about things you can’t change! You’re cleverer than you realize. Learn from your enemies!’

  Shylo turned back to those frightening dogs and saw that the tunnel their owners had taken them through did run under the road and into the park: Instead of running away, he followed them. His heart filled with hope as he leaped down the steps and scurried quickly along the tunnel, keeping to the shadows. When he emerged at the other end, the smell of freshly cut grass and the whisper of leaves on the trees restored his flagging courage.

  He headed further into the park, which was almost like the countryside with its swathes of purple crocuses and yellow daffodils. He took shelter beneath a bush and little by little his breathing grew regular and his heartbeat slowed.

  It was hard to believe that he’d been in the Warren that morning. Home felt very far away. As Shylo reflected on his adventure, he began to swell with pride. He’d succeeded where everyone would have expected him to fail. Perhaps he was the right rabbit for the job, after all.

  He spotted a squirrel greedily munching on a packet of biscuits she’d just dragged out of a bin. Shylo decided to be brave and ask the squirrel if she knew anything about the Weeping Willow.

  The squirrel looked at him hard. ‘Are you a tourist?’

  Shylo was afraid to admit that, so said nothing.

  The squirrel took pity on him. ‘You’re not from around here, are you? Look, it’s not far. Come on, I’ll take you myself. Human tourists love feeding squirrels and there are always lots of those by the willow.’

  She led Shylo along winding pathways, through the luscious, damp grass, until he started to wonder if the squirrel knew where she was going. But eventually the little animal raised her eyes to the sky.

  Shylo looked up. There, rustling above him in the gentle breeze, were the elegant branches of a weeping willow. The Weeping Willow, framed by a beautiful rosy orange glow as London’s sky was tinged with the beginnings of dusk. Shylo opened his mouth to thank the squirrel, but she’d gone, chasing after a group of tourists carrying paper bags bulging with food.

  Shylo noticed a scruffy-looking brown rabbit nibbling on a patch of grass near the trunk of the Weeping Willow. In his rush to carry out his plan, he forgot everything Horatio had told him and hopped over nervously. The rabbit stopped chewing and gazed at him dumbly.

  Shylo looked around to make sure they wouldn’t be overheard. Then he sidled up and whispered: ‘I think it’s going to rain rats and frogs.’

  ‘Oy, keep ya distance!’ The brown rabbit looked at him blankly. ‘What’s that you’ve got on yer eye?’

  Shylo was surprised. He’d expected the little animal to come out with the secret reply: A thump of the paw is as good as a carrot in the warren. So he repeated what Horatio had taught him, this time a little louder.

  ‘I THINK IT’S GOING TO RAIN RATS AND FROGS!’

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ said the rabbit, chewing again and scratching himself. ‘And I don’t like talking to strangers, so hop it!’

  Shylo waited for something more to happen, but the rabbit feasted on, ignoring Shylo, until eventually he huffily lolloped off and disappeared into a bush.

  Shylo was left feeling frustrated and anxious. As the brown rabbit had hopped away, he’d noticed that there was no red sole to his front paw. He was quite obviously not a member of the Royal Rabbits and Shylo felt foolish for having mistaken him for one. How could he have forgotten the Rabbit Rules of Secret Craft already? The little bunny sat by the trunk of the Weeping Willow and waited.

  And waited.

  And then waited some more.

  Rabbits came and went, but none looked any different from the brown rabbit Shylo had spoken to and he began to lose hope. His stomach was rumbling. He nibbled on a blade of grass, which tasted bitter and not at all like country grass, and wondered whether he was ever going to find a member of the mysterious Royal Rabbits.

  Then he began to lose faith in Horatio. Perhaps the Leaders of the Warren were right after all and the old buck was mad. Perhaps he’d made all those stories up, like the Rabbits of the Round Table. Perhaps the Royal Rabbits of London didn’t exist at all. Shylo felt foolish for having believed him. How his brothers and sisters would howl with laughter if they could see him now!

  The park grew dark. Shylo imagined it was full of city foxes, owls and rats who would love to dine on a young skinny bunkin, in spite of what his mean siblings said, and he worried about where he was going to spend the night.

  Just then, a very suave, sleek and handsome rabbit with short grey hair, long, black-tipped ears and an intelligent, alert expression hopped out from under the famous willow tree. In the grainy dusk, Shylo could see that the rabbit was wearing well-pressed black trousers, a dashing black dinner jacket and a scarlet bow tie. He had the air of a rabbit of the world. Was this what Horatio had called a Hopster rabbit?

  Shylo stopped worrying and stood on his hind legs. The Hopster rabbit gave him a tough, no-nonsense stare, but said nothing. He began to look around as if searching for something.

  Well, Shylo thought to himself, he certainly looks knowing, important and busy-looking.


  Hastily gathering his courage, he lolloped over to the Hopster rabbit who was so tall he didn’t see the little bunny at his feet until he heard him sneeze.

  The rabbit glanced down at Shylo in distaste. ‘Oh really, how very uncouth,’ he said.

  Shylo wiped his nose and the tall rabbit hopped away. Suddenly, Shylo saw a flash of red paw in the gloom. The Badge!

  ‘I think . . .’ he began, hurrying after the Hopster, desperate not to lose him. ‘I think it’s going to rain rats and frogs,’ he blurted as darkness was about to swallow the rabbit.

  A moment later, two shiny black eyes appeared, then long, black-tipped ears, a grey head and a surprised expression.

  ‘What did you just say?’ demanded the Hopster.

  ‘I . . . I think it’s going to rain rats and frogs.’

  The tall rabbit came closer. He bent down and put his face a few centimetres from Shylo’s. His nose twitched. He frowned. ‘A thump of the paw is as good as a carrot in the warren. What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘No names,’ Shylo stammered. ‘Rabbit Rules of Secret Craft.’

  ‘Why are you here?’ demanded the rabbit briskly.

  ‘I only report my name and mission to the Royal Rabbit with the double Badges,’ Shylo replied a little more bravely, remembering what Horatio had told him.

  The Hopster rabbit smiled grimly. ‘Well done. You do know where you are, don’t you?’ He parted the branches of the Weeping Willow and finally Shylo saw it. Rising up like a giant white cake and magnificent in the golden rays of sunset, was Buckingham Palace, and beneath it somewhere, was the Royal Rabbit Headquarters.

  The Union Jack fluttered high above the palace, which Shylo knew meant that the monarch was at home. The little bunny remained awestruck for a moment. He’d seen pictures of this in the newspapers Horatio collected, but to clap eyes on it in real life was something else altogether. It was spectacular, truly spectacular, and Shylo couldn’t help saluting with his ears, giving the Queen a double-flopsy.