The Bag of Bones by Vivian French Page B

day!”
    If Brother Bodalisk wondered how this fitted in with Truda’s promise that the rats would have the run of the palace, he said nothing. All he said was, “This way, ma’am,” and he led the way down the tunnel and into a side passage.
    Brother Brokenbiscuit quietly extricated himself from his bag and tiptoed unseen toward the entrance to the cellar.

Prince Marcus of Gorebreath was humming as he rode through the marketplace. He had taken the precaution of borrowing a tattered old jacket and a well-worn woolen cap from Ger, the stable boy, and very few of his subjects gave him a second glance. They were much too busy arguing over the relative merits of carrots and cabbages and cauliflowers, or telling one another what they should have done (but hadn’t) when Buckleup Brandersby’s dogs ran wild amid the stalls that morning.
    “Don’t know what the place is coming to,” said an old apple-woman indignantly. “Just like ravenous beasts, they were. Took one of my best hams, they did, and a string of sausages as well! And there’ll be nothing paid for it. He’s as mean as string beans, that man.”
    “Heard he was after a runaway,” said her neighbor. “Caught her, too, by all accounts. Our Jem saw him marching along with the poor little thing slung over his shoulder with her braids a-swinging in the road dust. Dead to the world, he said she was.”
    “Not all he saw, either.” A large red-faced butcher pushed in front of Marcus’s pony in his excitement. “Told me there was a green-faced troll heading this way, large as life and crying its eyes out, and —”
    “Excuse me!” Marcus interrupted. “Did you say a troll?”
    The butcher put his hands on his hips and glared. “Mind your manners, lad! None of your business!” He turned back to the old women. “Jem took care of it. Said the troll asked him the way to the palace, if you please. So Jem asked it what business it had with the Royals, and when he didn’t get any sense, he gave it a good hearty shake, and — would you believe it? Its head fell off! So he left it lying by the side of the road, and for all I know it’s lying there still, and good riddance —”
    “Excuse
me
!” Marcus pulled off his cap and did his best to look royal. “Where exactly is this troll?”
    “I told you, laddie —” the butcher began, but one of the old women caught his arm, and whispered in his ear. Frowning, he looked Marcus’s pony up and down. Noticing that the saddle and bridle were of the very best quality and that Marcus bore an uncanny resemblance to the picture on the Gorebreath two cent stamp, he began to cough and splutter. “Didn’t mean any harm, Your Highness, only it was difficult to see it was you under that there hat —”
    “The troll!” Marcus snapped. “This could be urgent! Where is he?”
    “Back along the road between here and the forest,” the butcher stammered. “That’s what Jem said, Your Highness —” But Marcus was gone.
    He took Glee through the marketplace at a swift trot, and the moment the road was clear of stalls and barrows, he persuaded the pony into a steady canter. “Why was Gubble asking for the palace?” he wondered. “Something must be wrong! He hasn’t left the House of the Ancient Crones since he got there. Maybe he’s bringing a message from Gracie? But surely she’d send a bat; that’d be miles quicker.”
    A terrible thought made Marcus pull on the reins so hard that his pony skidded to a sudden halt.
    What had that woman been saying about a runaway before the butcher got in his way?
    Marcus went hot, then freezing cold. “Gracie!” he said out loud. “Could it have been Gracie?”
    “Sure was, kiddo,” said a voice in his ear. “Knocked out and carried off.”
    “Marlon!” Marcus jumped as the bat circled in front of him. “Where did
you
come from?”
    “Been looking for you. Get that pony turned around. If we’ve guessed right, Gracie’s behind bars.”
    Marcus snatched up his