First published in Great Britain 2014

by Egmont UK Limited, The Yellow Building,

1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2014 Jane Hardstaff

Chapter illustrations © 2014 Joe McLaren

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2013

ISBN 978 1 4052 6828 8

eISBN 978 1 7803 1388 7

www.egmont.co.uk

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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For Mum and Dad

CONTENTS

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

1 Basket Girl

2 The Prisoner

3 The Song of the River

4 Escape

5 River Thief

6 Two-Bellies’ Revenge

7 The Queen’s Uncle

8 Keeping a Secret

9 A Hand in the Darkness

10 The Ragged Man

11 Truth and Lies

12 Leaving

13 Salter

14 Bread First Then Morals

15 Frost Fair

16 Salter’s Scam

17 Ice River Ride

18 Dragon’s Heart

19 The Queen and the Little Swan

20 The Riverwitch

21 Snatcher on the Shore

22 Ghosts in the Walls

23 A Trick

24 Drowning

25 The Great Wave

26 Friends

27 Bluebell Woods

A note from the author

Acknowledgements

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE
Basket Girl

She’d never get used to beheadings. No matter what Pa said.

Peering through the arrow-slit window, Moss tried to catch a glimpse of the fields beyond Tower Hill. All she could see were people. Crazy people. Spilling out of the city. Scrabbling up the hill for the best view of the scaffold. Laughing and shouting and fighting. Madder than a sack of badgers. She could hear their cries, carried high on the wind, all the way up to the Tower.

‘Get your stinking carcass off my spot!’

‘Son-of-a-pikestaff, I ain’t goin nowhere!’

‘What are you? Dumb as a stump? Move your bum, I said! I’ve been camping here all night!’

‘Then camp on this, coloppe-breath!’

She shook her head in disgust. Execution Days brought a frenzied crowd to Tower Hill. The more they got, the more they wanted. Like a dog with worms.

Of course, London had always been execution-mad. If there was a monk to be drawn and quartered or a Catholic to be burned, the people liked nothing better than to stand around and watch. Preferably while eating a pie. But you couldn’t beat a good beheading. That’s what the Tower folk said. Up on the scaffold was someone rich. Someone important. Maybe even a Royal. That’s what people came for. Royal blood. Blood that glittered as it sprayed the crowd. It made Moss feel sick just thinking about it.

‘Moss!’

Pa was calling. She could hear his cries below, faint among the bustle on Tower Green.

‘Moss, MOSS!’

He’d be panicking by now. Well, let him panic. She’d sit tight. She’d wait. With luck, he wouldn’t find her. Judging by the rats’ nest in the fireplace, no one had used this turret for months. No prisoners, no guards and no one to find a girl somewhere she shouldn’t be.

Moss scraped her tangle-hair out of the way and pushed her freckle-face to the narrow gap. Up here, she was ten trees tall. She could see everything. On one side Tower Hill. On the other the river. And, in between, the Tower of London, planted like a giant’s fist in the middle of a deep moat, lookouts knuckled on all corners. It was said that the Tower was strong enough to keep out a thousand armies. Bounded by two massive walls, it guarded the city, arrow-slit eyes trained on the river. It was a fortress, a castle and a prison. Moss had lived here all her life. And in the summer the reek of the moat made it stink like a dead dog’s guts.

‘Moss!’

Pa’s voice was closer.

‘MOSS!’

Too late she heard his feet pounding up the twist of steps. Now there was no way out. She scowled and scrunched herself into a corner.

‘Are you up there?’

‘No! Go away!’

His face appeared in the doorway, full of frown.

‘What are you playing at? Don’t do this to me, Moss.’

‘I’m not doing anything.’

‘You know what day it is. Come on. It’s time.’ He stood over Moss, his bear-like frame blocking the light.

What choice did she have? She dragged herself to her feet and followed him down the winding staircase, all the way to the ground. The basket was waiting for her at the foot of the steps.

‘Take it and get behind me.’ Pa thrust the basket into her arms and picked up his axe.

A blast of trumpets screeched from the high walls. Everyone stopped what they were doing. The Armoury door yawned wide; two hundred soldiers poured out and marched across the courtyard to the gates.

Pa pulled the black hood over his face. Moss knew what was coming. All around them, people shrank back. Some shuddered, some crossed themselves. Some turned their heads as though a foul stench pricked their noses. Moss could have cried with shame. But what good would that do? So she stared at her boots, trying to shut out the whispers.

Stay back . . . The Executioner . . . the basket girl . . . don’t go near them. They touch death.

‘Come on,’ said Pa and yanked her into the march of the procession.

Over the walls of the Lion Tower came the howl of animals in the Beast House. Moss had never seen the beasts, but their roars echoed over Tower Green every time the bell was rung, or the cannons fired, or on a day like today when the shouts from the hill stirred them in their cages.

The procession marched on. Over the narrow moatbridge to the great gate. Once more the fanfare blasted from the turrets and the portcullis was raised. Moss was knocked back by the roar of the crowd. She dropped her basket, covering her ears.

‘Pick it up,’ said Pa. His voice was flat.

‘Pa, all these people . . . there must be twice as many as last time.’

‘Just walk.’

She walked, following the slow line of soldiers up the muddy path of Tower Hill. All around her the crowd heaved and pushed, and those that weren’t complaining cried out their business.

‘Carvings, carvings. Last true likeness of a condemned man!’

‘Tragic Tom on a tankard! A little piece of history to take home!’

‘Ladies and gents! The Ballad of Poor Sir Tom! Cry like a baby or yer money back!’

Moss hurried on beside Pa. They were nearly at the top of the hill. And though the crowd pressed her from all sides, she caught a glimpse of the sprawling city beyond. It was smoke and shadows, dark as a cellar. A mystery. A place she would never go. Her world was the Tower. And the only time she set foot outside its walls was the slow walk to the scaffold on Execution Days.

She glanced across at Pa. His hooded head was bowed, just like always. His axe held respectfully by his side, just like always. And, just like always, it made Moss cringe.

‘Out of the way, you wretches!’ Soldiers were shoving the front row, who shoved viciously back. ‘Make way for the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower!’

Lieutenant William Kingston. Doublet drawn tight round his girdled waist, chest puffed, savouring every step of his slow walk up the hill. He was a man with an eye to a title. That’s what people said. In the space of a month, he had organised the executions of three monks and a bishop. It seemed to Moss as though the whole of London flocked to the hill. To see the monks dragged to Tyburn. To see Bishop Fisher’s head roll. And today the beheading of the man who was once the King’s best friend. Sir Thomas More. No wonder people were calling it ‘the Bloody Summer’.

She felt the crowd surge forward and she struggled to stay in line while the soldiers pushed them back. The Lieutenant bowed low. His guests had arrived, sweeping towards the bank of seats by the scaffold. There was the tight-lipped man who came to every execution. Next to him another man, straight-nosed, eyes like stones. In front of them both was a lady, her face hidden, shrouded in a cloak of deep blue velvet. And now whispers were stirring in the crowd.

The Queen . . . Queen Anne Boleyn is watching . . .

Anne Boleyn. The Firecracker Queen. She’d come from nowhere. Dazzled the King and blown a country apart. People didn’t like her, Moss knew that. She’d stayed in the Tower once. The night before her coronation. And though Moss hadn’t seen the Queen herself, she’d heard plenty of tongues clacking. They said that her clothes were too showy. Her manners too French. That she was an upstart who didn’t know her place.

Moss took a good look. Was that really her? The velvet cloak, too heavy for summer, weighed down her small frame. She didn’t look much like a firecracker, thought Moss. More like a broken twig. Her movements seemed fragile. Hiding under the shadow of her cloak, her face was anxious. And when the stone-eyed man said something in her ear, she flinched.

Now the drum was beating. The Yeomen were coming. Forcing their way up the path to the hill, bright in their red and yellow livery.

Moss peered round Pa to get a better look. The Yeomen were bunched in a tight wall around the prisoner, but there he was. Slow as an old bull in the July heat. Sir Thomas More was a good man, people said. A devout man. But King Henry the Eighth had no time for goodness or devotion if it didn’t get him what he wanted. And Moss wondered at how quickly the King’s best friend could become his bitterest enemy, with all of London jostling for a glimpse of his death.

In the Tower the bell began to toll. Moss clutched her basket.

It was time.

All around her the crowd was pressing.

On the scaffold Pa was waiting.

Sir Thomas climbed the steps, his white cotton gown laced loosely about his neck. White so the blood would show. And at that moment, Moss wished so desperately that Pa would lay down his axe. Punch a soldier. Leap off the scaffold, grab her and dive into the crowd. Let them take their chances in one glorious dash for freedom.

She drilled her gaze at Pa.

He wasn’t going anywhere. That was obvious.

She saw his eyes flicker through the slits in his hood and there was a cheer as he took out the blindfold. She watched Sir Thomas push a pouch of coins into his hands. It was the custom of course, but she hated that Pa took it. Money for a good death. Make it quick. Make it painless. Pay and pray.

She fixed her eyes on the straw. Spread in a wide arc around the block, it would soon be soaking in wine-dark blood. Behind her the crowd hushed, looking on hungrily as Sir Thomas let Pa guide his neck into position.

The hill held its breath.

Pa raised his axe.

With a single blow, it hit the block. Clean. Just like always.

The crowd exhaled. From inside the Tower a cannon fired and a cloud of white doves fluttered over the turrets, their heads dyed red. Everyone gasped. It was all Moss could do to stop herself throwing up.

On the scaffold Pa stood over the slumped body of Sir Thomas, wiping his axe on the sack. That was her cue.

She thumped the basket on the ground. The Lieutenant plucked Sir Thomas’s dripping head from the straw and lobbed it over the edge of the scaffold, where it landed with a whack in the basket. The crowd went wild.

Moss picked up the basket. Pa was by her side now. She couldn’t look at him. Instead she concentrated on getting down the hill without stumbling. She was glad of the distraction and tried not to notice Sir Thomas’s unmoving eyes, rolled forever to the sky.

CHAPTER TWO
The Prisoner

‘I’m not touching that thing, so don’t even bother to ask!’

‘Leave the axe then, just help me with the broadswords –’

But Moss wasn’t listening. She clomped out of the forge, slammed the door and kicked the water bucket hard, sending a spray of drops into the bitter morning air. It was freezing. Even for January. Fog every night, frost every morning, with a chill that Moss couldn’t shake from her bones.

Six months had passed since the beheading of Sir Thomas. A bloody summer, a miserable autumn and a long, cold winter that wasn’t over yet.

It was barely dawn, but already the people of the Tower were up and busy. Stable lads were trundling oat barrels over the courtyard and kitchen girls bickered as they carried breakfast to the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. From the open shutter behind her came the rasp of bellows, breathing life into the fire. When he wasn’t chopping heads on the hill, Pa worked as Tower blacksmith. The little stone forge where they lived was set apart from the bigger buildings of the Tower. Huddled against the East Wall like a cornered mouse, it had been Moss’s home for as long as she could remember.

‘Moss! Come inside! Now!’

She shivered. A fog was rolling in from the river, curling over the high walls, fingers poking through the cold stone turrets. Tower folk crossed themselves when the river fog came. It was a silent creeper. A hider. A veil for the unseen things. Things that might crawl from the water. From the black moat, or from the swirling river that slipped and slid its way through London, treacherous as a snake. But whatever it was that made them afraid, it had never shown itself to Moss. The fog didn’t scare her.

‘Moss!’

She gave the bucket another kick.

‘Will you come in?’

She sighed and dragged herself back through the forge door. Inside, Pa was polishing the axe.

‘Bread and cheese for you on the table.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

Pa turned the axe, rubbing oil into the blade. It was his little ritual and he did it every morning.

‘When there’s food on the table, you should eat.’

Moss said nothing. What was there to say? This was her life and she just had to accept it. Pa was the Tower Executioner. She was his helper. They were prisoners and this was pretty much it, because they were never getting out. She’d asked Pa a thousand times how they’d ended up in the Tower. Each time she got the same gruff reply. Pa had been a blacksmith. And then a soldier. Accused of killing a man in his regiment, he and Ma had gone on the run. They’d hidden in a river, where the shock of the icy water sent Ma into labour.

‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it,’ Pa had said. ‘It was a miracle. You swam from your mother until your fingers broke the surface. Then you held on to me with those fierce little fists. And I didn’t let go.’

Of course, the soldiers got Pa in the end. And he would have been executed there and then had it not been for his captain. Pa was the captain’s finest swordsman. His kills were clean and accurate. And rather than waste such a talent, the captain wanted to put it to good use. For he was William Kingston, the new Lieutenant of the Tower of London. And he wanted Pa to be his Executioner.

That was all Pa would say. Every time Moss begged him to tell her more, he clammed up. ‘Your mother died on the day you were born. We’re prisoners now. End of story.’

But how could it be the end, thought Moss? Out there was a river and a city. Beyond that were fields. And beyond the fields were places she could only dream about. Places she would go one day.

She stared at Pa, and coiled the end of one of her tangle-curls round her finger. Rub rub. His knuckles were white, working the axe blade to a blinding shine. There was less than a week to go until he’d use that axe again. Moss felt her stomach sink to her boots. She wished she were anywhere but here.

‘Armourer’s keeping us busy today,’ said Pa. ‘Longswords and broadswords. Two boxes. Rusted and broken. Need to get that fire really hot. More wood from the pile . . .’ He stopped. There was a boy standing in the doorway. Moss had seen him before. He worked in the kitchens.

‘What do you want?’ said Pa gruffly.

‘Cook says she’s short-handed. Needs an extra body to fetch and carry fer the prisoners. Says to bring the basket girl.’

Pa hesitated. ‘We’re busy in here today.’

The boy cocked his head to one side. ‘You ever seen Mrs Peak angry? Got a temper hot as a bunch of burnin faggots. If she says bring the basket girl, that’s what I’m doin.’

‘Well, it’s not a good time –’

‘Forget it, Pa, I’m going,’ said Moss. Anything was better than being stuck in the forge with a father who chopped off heads. She was out of the door before he could stop her.

‘Frost is here! Ice is coming! And devil knows what crawling from the river! Close that door, you little scrag-end!’

Moss was quick enough to duck the blow from Mrs Peak’s fist.

‘Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas? Take this soup up to the Abbot and be quick about it or I’ll cut off yer ears and boil them for stock!’

Moss looked around eagerly. She’d never set foot in the kitchen before. Never spoken to a cook or a spit boy. Never carried a meal across the courtyard. But this was a chance, wasn’t it? To be one of them? A kitchen girl. Not a basket girl.

A bowl of steaming broth stood on a table near the fireplace. She reached for it and felt a sudden sting on her cheek.

‘Ow!’

A dob of hot apple dropped to the floor. On the other side of the table a kitchen girl licked her fingers, shooting Moss a scornful glance while another one sniggered behind her apron.

Moss wiped her burning cheek and turned away from the girls. Maybe fitting in wasn’t going to be so easy. She picked up the bowl of soup, then ducked as the lumpen fist of the Cook swung over her head once more. It clipped the spit boy in a puff of flour.

‘What was that for?’ he wailed, dropping his pail of water.

Mrs Peak clouted him again. ‘One for the basket girl and another for all this mess!’ The tide of water from the spit boy’s pail slopped against the table legs, sending the kitchen girls into a spasm of giggles.

‘Hell’s bells!’ bellowed Mrs Peak. ‘I’m surrounded by idiots! Lazy girls and halfwit boys! I’d get more help from a bag of mice!’

Moss walked slowly to the kitchen door, balancing the bowl as carefully as she could. She felt another hot slap on her shoulder.

Basket girl. Bloodstained girl. Filthy little basket girl.

Basket girl, when you’re dead, who will carry all the heads?

The chants of the girls rang after her down the corridor. She felt a sob rise from her chest and swallowed it back down. She would not cry.

It wasn’t easy carrying a bowl of soup, slip-sliding across Tower Green. In winter, the looming walls shut out every sliver of sunlight, turning the grass to mud. Her fingers clutched the warm bowl. There was a little less soup in it now and she hoped the Abbot would not be angry.

Moss had seen them bring the Abbot in a boat from the river through Traitors’ Gate, two months back. He’d wobbled when the soldiers hauled him to his feet. Maybe he’d never been in a boat before, thought Moss. Or maybe he was afraid. Behind him, the barred gate swung shut, jaws closing. The black water of the moat flickered with burning torches. Few who came through Traitors’ Gate ever made it back out. The Tower was a place of death.

Moss stood outside the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. In front of her two guards blocked her path, halberds crossed. This was the only way in to the Bell Tower. They’d put the Abbot right at the top in Sir Thomas’s old cell.

She hesitated. ‘Soup for the Abbot’s breakfast?’ she said, half expecting them to send her straight back to the forge with a clipped ear. But they let her pass. A wood-panelled corridor gave way to a narrow stone arch and a set of stone steps. Moss climbed, twisting up and up to a half-landing where another guard stood outside an oak door.

‘Soup for the Abbot?’ said Moss.

The guard unlocked the door. Moss gripped the bowl and stepped in.

The Abbot was on his knees, mumbling a prayer. In front of him was an empty fireplace. Wood had been scarce this winter and unless a prisoner could pay, his hearth stayed cold.

‘Frost is upon us,’ said the Abbot, without turning. ‘Frost, then ice. A real winter. Cold as the coldest I have known.’

He lifted his head. Straggling hair framed his face and his shaved crown sprouted wild tufts. Two months in a cell didn’t always turn you into a crazy man, but it made you look like one, thought Moss.

Moss offered the bowl and the Abbot motioned to a small table.

‘Soup?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Moss, ‘I . . . I carried it as best I could. But the mud and . . . I spilt some. I’m sorry.’

The Abbot wrinkled his eyes at Moss. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do believe you are.’

He creaked off his knees and hobbled to a chair by the table. Moss hovered by the door, unsure whether to go or wait for him to finish. The Abbot slurped the soup, his lips trembling a little each time he raised the wooden spoon to his mouth.

‘Well, I’ll say this,’ he said. ‘Even lukewarm, this is tasty soup. Better than I’d be getting back in the Abbey.’ He slurped some more. ‘And I’m used to silence of course. A cold room, a hard pallet; all part of a monk’s life. There’s one thing I do miss though.’ He put down the spoon, picked up the bowl and put it to his lips, draining the last of the soup. ‘Would you like to know what?’

Moss nodded shyly.

‘My morning walk through the wood. Startled deer. Beech leaves underfoot. And the flute-song of the mistle thrush, calling from the treetops.’

He handed her the bowl. ‘What’s your name, kitchen girl?’

‘It’s Moss, Abbot.’

‘Then thank you, Moss. It was good soup.’

Moss took it and trod slowly back down the Bell Tower stairs. She tried to picture the Abbot walking among trees with the song of birds above. She would give anything to walk in such a wood.

CHAPTER THREE
The Song of the River

There’d been a strangeness about Pa these past days. A tetchiness that began each time she was about to leave for the kitchen.

‘Don’t talk to those kitchen girls. They’re trouble.’

‘You don’t have to tell me, Pa.’

‘Just keep yourself to yourself. We don’t mix with Tower folk. It’s best that way.’

‘Best for who?’ muttered Moss as she stomped across the courtyard. Had he even tried to get to know anyone here? Did he not mind being treated like a shovelful of scrapings from the garderobe? To the people of the Tower, she and Pa were a bad smell, to be avoided like the plague.

And yet the Abbot didn’t think so, did he? Moss had been taking his meal every morning and evening, and while she waited for his bowl, he talked to her. Talked. He didn’t turn away, or call her names, or flick apple, or try to trip her. And for those few precious minutes, Moss felt like an ordinary girl. Of course, she hadn’t told him about her basket. Or about Pa, who’d soon be standing over him, axe raised. But that was the point. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Pa. It was what they did that made them so repellent to the people of the Tower.

She pushed at the kitchen door. Inside, the room steamed and bubbled with the usual ferocious mix of boiling pans and shrieks from the Cook.

‘Mutton pie on the table!’ yelled Mrs Peak as soon as Moss walked in. ‘No nibbling! No licking! Or it’ll be tongue pie tomorrow!’

Moss grabbed the pie and was out of the kitchen with only a jab in the ribs as she darted round the kitchen girls.

It was dusk and the Green was quiet. Without a breath of wind to wheeze through the turrets, Moss could hear the creak of ships and the shouts of the watermen on the river. It was a rare sound. Like music, thought Moss. Notes from the world outside, fluttering into her cold stone box.

She didn’t see him coming until it was too late.

Before she knew what was happening, her legs were whipped from under her and Moss found herself falling backwards into the horse trough. Struggling to sit up, she peeled the wet hair from her eyes and scowled at the face leering down at her.

George ‘Two-Bellies’ Kingston. A squat version of his uncle, red-faced, with a stomach full enough to burst his jacket. With time on his hands, he roamed the Tower, picking on anyone he thought he could bully. He wasn’t fussy. Moss kept out of his way as much as she could.

‘What’s the matter, basket girl? Never had a bath?’

Before she could react, he grabbed her dress with his thick fists and plunged her head under. Suddenly she was gulping filthy water, spluttering as he yanked her head back out. Two-Bellies grinned at her, drunk as a tick on the sight of Moss rasping lungfuls of air.

‘Scum always floats to the surface,’ he said.

‘And pigs can’t help that they stink so bad.’

His ham fists forced her under again and this time when she came up, she spluttered, ‘Get your hands off me, meat boy.’

‘But that,’ sneered Two-Bellies, ‘wouldn’t be nearly so much fun, would it, forge rat?’ He gave her a last shove and stepped back, shaking his wet sleeves.

Moss heaved herself from the trough. She was soaking from her head to her waist.

The pie! Where was it?

‘Looking for this?’ Two-Bellies kicked the pie out from under the trough. It lay on the cobbles by his feet, broken in two. Two-Bellies tipped it with the toe of his calfskin boot. ‘Rat pie? For your supper?’

‘No,’ said Moss. ‘Mutton pie. For the Abbot.’

‘Pigswill pie. For a traitor.’

‘What do you know, Two-Bellies?’

‘I know this.’ He raised his boot and brought his foot down hard, crushing the pie into the cobbles. ‘In a week’s time, that stinking Abbot will be crow-food.’

He wiped his boot on Moss’s dress and walked away.

Moss knelt on the cobbles. She daren’t go back to the kitchen. All she could do was scrape what was left of the pie back on to the plate.

In the Bell Tower, the Abbot was on his knees, praying as usual. At least the guards had lit a fire tonight to keep him warm. Moss set the pie on the small table. The Abbot took his seat.

‘They gave you mutton pie tonight, Abbot, not broth. Only . . . there was an accident on the way.’

The Abbot raised his eyebrows at the state of his supper, but noticing Moss was dripping wet, he beckoned her towards the fire.

‘Pie is pie,’ he said. ‘Whole, halved or crushed, it is still pie. A man is grateful for pie in his last few days. Even that fearsome Cook has a merciful streak.’

He picked a chunk from the plate and offered it to Moss.

‘Here. Take this back for your supper.’

Moss shook her head.

‘No, thank you.’ Bitterness rose in her gullet. She swallowed it down.

‘Well, I may be a dead man, but I know a good meal when I smell one.’ The Abbot bit into a piece of pie.

‘Abbot . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you think about it ?’

‘You mean my fast-approaching execution? Well, there’s a serious question from one so young.’

He folded his hands into the loose sleeves of his robe. ‘When I was your age, I had no thought of death at all. It was too far away. But I will be honest with you, Moss. Now I do find myself wondering how I will be when the moment comes. Will I be steady? Will I cry out? Will I bow my head and give way to my fate with dignity?’

He munched, flecks of pastry bobbing on his beard. ‘But tonight I have a pie. I will think on that. And on the skilled hands of the Cook who made it. And you.’ He turned to Moss. ‘You are too young to dwell on morbid thoughts. None of us can foretell our end.’

He smiled at her and Moss felt sick. This time next week, his head would be in her basket.

The forge door was shut tight. Moss heaved it open, spilling the glow from the fire over the frozen cobbles. Inside, Pa was putting away his hammer and tongs. He barely looked up.

With her back to him, she sat on the small stool by the fire and let her gaze drift into the gleam of the red-hot embers.

‘Moss?’

‘Don’t talk to me.’

She stared into the fire, trying not to think about what was coming. About how her father would execute the Abbot. A man who shared his supper. Who’d been nothing but kind. Next week Pa would do his job. And he’d do it without so much as a blink.

‘Time you were in bed, Moss. There’s fog rolling in from the river.’

‘So?’

‘Take the extra blanket.’

Moss snorted and climbed on to her pallet. But she didn’t protest when he unfolded the blanket and tucked it tightly round her.

A whistle of wind buffeted the window, blowing wisps of clammy fog into the forge. Pa glared at the gap between the shutters. Both of them jumped as the door banged open. Moss’s nose wrinkled at the familiar smell of ale and old wee.

‘Dear friends, on a night as cold as this, have you a drop of ale to warm an old lady’s throat?’

‘No we haven’t,’ growled Pa.

‘Come and warm yourself by the fire, Nell,’ said Moss, and was off her pallet before Pa could stop her. ‘We’ve bread. And cheese.’ She took the cheese from the table and pressed it into Nell’s hands. ‘You’ll like it, it’s good and soft.’

Nell’s cloudy eyes crinkled. ‘Thank you, child. Makes a nice change from rats.’

Moss led her to a chair, feeling Pa’s frown on her back.

Nell was old. So old that no one could quite remember what she was doing in the Tower in the first place. She slept in a cellar under the kitchen and caught more rats than any of the cats. It was true that she smelt like a 200-year-old ham. And fair enough, any chair she sat on was always a little damp when she got up. But Moss had never really understood Pa’s objection to Nell. During her long life, Nell had lived both inside and outside the Tower. She knew the Tower’s stories and its legends. Secret passageways and walking ghosts and creatures from the deep river and tales of the wide world that lay beyond. And when Nell spoke about chalky hillsides or blue-flowered woods, it was the closest thing Moss had to seeing those things for herself.

‘You don’t mind if I loosens me rags?’ said Nell.

‘Course not,’ said Moss. ‘Just make yourself comfortable.’

Nell bent over and peeled the rags from her misshapen feet. She waggled them in front of the fire and soon a rancid steam was rising from her toes.

‘How about a story, Nell?’ said Moss. ‘The Two Princes! Please, Nell.’

Nell chuckled. ‘I must have told that story to you a thousand times, child.’

‘Then tell it again. Please.’

Nell turned to Pa. ‘Child went missing from the river last night, Samuel.’

Pa grunted. ‘The river’s a dangerous place. Children drown all the time.’

‘This wasn’t no drowning. Frost is here and the fishermen are saying –’

‘I don’t care what the fishermen are saying! Superstitious nonsense. And I won’t have talk of it in my forge.’

Nell sucked on her cheese. The shutters rattled, drawing little puffs of mist into the room.

‘Gaps need plugging,’ said Pa. ‘I’m off to the stables to get some hay. Make sure that door stays shut now.’

Moss rolled her eyes.

When Pa had gone, Moss grabbed his ale jug from the table and thrust it into Nell’s hands.

‘Here, Nell. There’s a little in there, I think.’

‘Such kindness for an old leftover like me.’

Moss settled on the floor by Nell’s chair and drew her knees tight to her chest.

‘What did the fishermen see, Nell? On the river last night?’

The old lady patted Moss’s head.

‘Many are the children who have strayed from the shore, who’ve felt cold fingers of ice close round their ankles. Whose screams are lost in the roar of the river.’

‘They fall into the river and drown?’

‘Drown, yes. Fall, no. They are taken.’

‘Taken?’

Nell spat on her hand and crossed herself quickly. ‘By the Riverwitch.’

Moss felt a shiver lick her spine. ‘The Riverwitch . . .’

‘Yes, child. The Witch of the Rivers. She is not always there, but those children she finds in her waters she will take.’

‘I’m not afraid of the river, Nell.’

‘Is that right?’ Nell’s cloudy eyes became suddenly sharp. ‘Well, perhaps you should be, girl.’

‘Have you ever seen her? The Riverwitch?’

‘I have not and thankful for it.’

‘Then they’re just stories.’

‘Stories. Memories. Who’s to say what’s true and what’s not? My grandmother, rest her rotten bones, told me tales of the river that would scare the skin off an apple.’

‘Tell me one now then,’ said Moss. Maybe they were just stories, but she loved to hear them. ‘Please, Nell. Tell me about the Riverwitch.’

Nell glanced at the door.

‘Please, Nell, please.’

The old lady lowered her voice. ‘Very well. But this story is a sad one and has no end.’ She took a swig from the jug and leant forward, seeming glad of her audience in a warm forge on a damp night.

‘Long ago, on a bend of this very river, there was a mill, built where the water flows fast. A mill with a crooked chimney and a great wheel of wood that churned the grey river day and night. The Hampton Wheel they called it. Here lived a miller and his daughter. A good girl, who helped her father and who never complained at the work. A fair girl, whose skin was smooth and pale, not like the rugged girls from the fields. A purer soul there never was. All could see the miller’s daughter would make some man a fine wife one day.’

Nell paused for a swig.

‘Plenty would have wed the girl, sure enough. The goatherd. The weaver’s son. But it was another who caught her heart.’

‘Who?’ said Moss.

‘A lordly young soldier with a bright sword and a shine on his tongue. Who passed through one day. Who found bed and board with the miller. Who noticed the miller’s daughter. And caught by his charms, the miller’s daughter soon fell for the soldier.’

‘They were married?’

Nell swilled a mouthful of ale.

‘The day was set for their wedding. A wedding feast for the whole village. The miller proud. His daughter’s heart so full she thought it might fly away with happiness. They waited. And they waited. And the girl’s fingers plucked the cornflowers in her bridal posy. But her soldier did not come.’

‘He didn’t come? Where was he?’

‘A soldier he was, but high-born, who never would have wed a country girl.’

‘So what happened to the miller’s daughter, Nell?’

‘The girl grieved for her soldier and her grief was deep, for she had never once felt pain or sadness her whole life long. After three weary months, she fell sick. A sickness that came and went each morning and lasted all the winter. But when spring sprouted her new shoots, the girl revived. Fairer than ever, she was. Her cheeks now pink and her body full. And the women in the village tittled and tattled and knew what the girl herself did not.’

‘Knew what, Nell?’

‘That she was with child.’

‘Oh,’ said Moss.

‘Yes. And sure enough, as the May sun turned green fields to gold, the miller’s daughter had her baby. A little boy. And though he was brown-eyed and brown-haired like his father, the miller’s daughter loved him and raised him. And nothing was as sweet to her as the feel of her son’s embrace.’

‘Then this is a happy story, Nell.’

‘Not so fast, child. This tale is not yet told. Twelve years came and went. Until one winter’s morning, the wind blew the sound of hooves from the high path to the mill. Men on horseback. The miller’s daughter watched them come. Four greys and a fifth, a fierce white horse, carrying a steward.’

‘A what?’

‘A man who would stop at nothing to do his master’s bidding. For his master was none other than the young soldier, now a noble lord, rich from his father’s estate, lying on his deathbed, with no child of his own to carry his family name. The lord knew the miller’s daughter had given birth to a son. And from the gossip that spread from the village fields to the kitchens of his estate, he knew the son was his.’

Nell shook her head sadly. ‘Property of that noble lord was the child. So the steward took the boy, tossed three gold sovereigns to the miller and told them they would never see the child again.

‘Now the miller was greedy. Three gold sovereigns would buy a new millstone. Forget the boy, he said to his daughter. He paid no heed to her screams or to the pain that hollowed out her heart. That night she lay awake and a bitter seed, planted in her pure soul, began to grow. When the cockerel crowed in the dawn, she rose quietly and climbed the great millwheel –’

‘No, oh, Nell!’

‘Did I not tell you this tale was an unhappy one?’ Nell drained the last of the ale from the jug. ‘The miller’s daughter stepped on to the turning wheel and for a moment her graceful body soared as her heart had once soared. Then she plunged, her body smashing through the crust of ice, deep into the river.’

‘She drowned?’ said Moss in a small voice.

‘Drowned she was. Dragged and crushed by the pull and suck of the Hampton Wheel. That day the wheel stopped, never to turn again. The mill fell into ruin. The miller died a poor and lonely man.’

‘Serves him right, Nell.’

‘Maybe so. But this tale is still not yet told. The girl’s body was broken. But her bitter soul gave life to her tattered remains. And her empty heart filled with the cold spirit of the river. She became –’

‘The Riverwitch?’ said Moss eagerly.

‘Yes, child, the Riverwitch. A restless spirit to haunt its depths each winter. In summer, she is gone. She swims far away to guard her frozen heart. When winter comes, she returns. In her wake, streams become ice and rivers turn so cold that the unwary ones who fall in may not climb out. And in the cold rivers she searches.’

‘For what, Nell?’

‘For a child to snatch with fingers of ice.’

Nell leant into the fire and her face crackled with shadows. ‘The rivers are hers, not ours. Foolish is the one who forgets the song of the river.’

Nell began to croon softly. A song that Moss had not heard before, its melody lilting and incomplete.

Silver river stained with souls

Take care of its depths, my child

When frost and ice creep from her shores

She’ll drag you down, my child

A miller’s daughter once she was

Spurned on her wedding day

She seeks the thing she’ll never have

A loving child to hold

She is the waves, the current strong

The weed that snags your feet

And if she finds you, better drown

Than feel her cold embrace

‘ENOUGH!’

In the doorway stood Pa with an armful of hay, his face taut with anger. ‘One more note from you, old lady, and I swear, I’ll not open my door to you again!’

Nell pursed her lips. Pa threw the hay on the floor.

‘I’ll not have you filling my daughter’s head with all that rubbish.’

Moss jumped up. ‘What else is there to fill it with then? Executions? You haven’t been locked in a fortress all your life. I’m nearly twelve and I’ve never seen a wood, or a meadow full of flowers. Or –’

‘Or nothing. We have no choice. We keep our heads down and get on with it. This is our home.’

‘Our tomb, more like.’

‘Well, there’s nothing I can do about it.’

Moss opened her mouth to reply, then shut it again. What was the point?

The forge was quiet. Moss glared at Pa. He dropped his gaze and said no more.

The silence was broken by a throat-rattling snore from the fire. Nell had fallen asleep, head against the hearth, a trickle of cheese making its way down her chin.

‘Pa,’ whispered Moss.

‘What?’

‘We could find . . . a way out? Don’t sigh. Remember Lady Tankerville last summer?’

‘One escape. One. In a hundred years.’

‘I know, I know. But isn’t it worth a try?’

Pa shook his head. ‘And risk getting caught? Hanged? It may be a half-life in here, but at least it’s a life.’

‘But –’

‘Let it go, Moss. Trust me. There’s no way out.’

CHAPTER FOUR
Escape

Moss sat on the cobbles, tying her boots as best she could with a broken lace. She had already done her breakfast duties. Now the white winter sun burned away the frost.

Inside the forge, Pa was up, pumping the bellows.

‘Where are you going?’ he called through the open door.

‘Nowhere.’

‘Well, don’t be too long. Don’t go leaning over any walls – do you hear me?’

‘No.’

‘And stay away from Traitors’ Gate. Those steps are slippery. I don’t want you falling into the moat. It’s deep when the tide is in. Are you listening?’

‘No! I’m NOT listening. Because you never listen to me. And because you say the same old things, EVERY SINGLE TIME!’

She heard the bellows stop. Pa appeared in the doorway. He looked pale. Or maybe it was just ash from the fire. She glared at him.

‘Stay away from people. Stay away from the moat. Stay away from the river. This wretched place is bad enough, but you make it worse!’ She was gone before he could stop her.

The Green was quiet. Just a stable boy filling the troughs. It was a bright, fogless day. Over the walls drifted the sounds of the river. Gulls screeching. Men calling. The groan of ships.

Moss made up her mind. Just one quick look. Never mind Pa.

She darted through the arch towards Traitors’ Gate and scoped the South Wall. The guard had his back to her and was making his slow march along the battlements towards the Cradle Tower. Perfect.

Moss was soon up the steps and scooting along the battlements. She found her spot and wedged her boot into a hole where the wall had worn away. With a push she launched her head and shoulders. Her heart soared. It was here she had the best view of the great River Thames.

Moss leant out as far as she dared, feeling the freedom of the air above and the river below. For a few moments she was blinded by the water, a plate of dazzling silver that threw the sun back into the sky. Then a forest of sails came into focus and she drank in the sight of the river at work. Three-masted ships and hefty barges ploughed stubbornly upriver. Painted Venetian galleys jostled oars for a place at the quay. And dodging among them like a swarm of flies were the watermen in their flat little boats, ferrying passengers from bank to bank. How many times had Moss wondered how different her life could have been? If she’d been one of the children down there on the wharf, fetching and carrying for the traders. Bet none of their baskets had heads in.

Moss squinted at London Bridge in the distance. It was almost a town in itself, piled crazily with buildings from one end to the other. It blocked the passage of the wide river, sucking the water through its arches with a force that would rip a tree from its roots.

A flash of red and yellow on the bridge caught her eye. Yeomen. At the Drawbridge Gate. It didn’t take a genius to work out what they were up to. A small crowd was gathering. Sure enough there was a cheer as the head of a traitor was unpicked from its spike and tossed into the river. Moss inhaled the salt air and turned away. The outside world was as cruel as the Tower. But more than anything, she longed to be a part of it.

At the other end of the wall, the guard was about to turn. Quickly, Moss made her way back to the steps and scrambled down, leaping the last few on to the cobbles.

A hand grabbed her by the scruff of her dress.

‘Naughty naughty.’

Two-Bellies jerked her round, an unpleasant grin on his face. ‘What’s a dirty little rat like you doing up on the battlements?’

‘Trying to get away from the stink of you.’

‘Stink, is it? Well, I’ve got a job that’ll shut that mouth of yours. Unless you want me to tell the guard you were walking his wall?’

Moss glared at him.

‘Thought not,’ sneered Two-Bellies. He dragged her along the cobbled path towards the garderobe drop and shoved her down the steps. ‘Toilet needs a clean. Off you go.’

Moss had to give him credit. He was organised enough to throw a bucket and shovel after her.

The smell in the garderobe drop was eye-wateringly bad. A low pit underneath the Lieutentant’s Lodgings, it was ten feet from the toilet holes above. Whatever came hurtling down ended spattered halfway back up the brickwork. Seeing she had no choice, Moss dumped the bucket at one end and began scraping the walls.

Half an hour later, Two-Bellies had grown tired of laughing at Moss and had fallen asleep at the top of the steps. Inside the drop, Moss could hear his snores. She picked up her bucket and tiptoed up the steps. Carefully prising the soft boots from his feet, she tipped a dollop of foul slops into each. She allowed herself a smile. It was the little things that made life worth living.

There was no point hanging around until Two-Bellies woke up. Leaving the filthy bucket on the steps, she went back down to get the shovel. As she picked it up, she slipped on the slimy floor, sending the shovel clanging against the wall. She winced, waiting for the echo to stop. But as she stooped to pick up the shovel again, she noticed a fist-sized gap in the wall where it had knocked out a brick.

Moss squatted down. A draught hissed across her cheek and she put her hands to the gap, plugging the sharp breath of wind. That was strange. Where was the wind coming from? She leant on one of the large wall stones above the gap and it moved. Curious, she pressed the full weight of her shoulder against it. Without too much resistance, the stone swivelled and she found herself peering into blackness.

Moss wriggled her head and shoulders through the hole. She was looking into some sort of enclosed space. Gradually, her eyes got used to the dark and she could see it was a small chamber, lined with rough stone. Where the floor should have been was the gaping dark of what looked like a very steep drop.

What was this place? She peered down. Just darkness. A well perhaps?

She turned back to the garderobe drop. Then looked back at the chamber. What harm would it do just to take a peep? Quickly she picked up the shovel and carried it outside. Two-Bellies was still snoring at the top of the steps. She placed the shovel next to the bucket. He would wake and think she’d scarpered.

Guided by the draught, Moss groped her way to the hole and eased herself through, clinging to the stonework, feet scrabbling for a foothold.

One. Two. Her feet found gaps, just big enough for a boot. Three. Four. Her hands followed. Down she went. Slowly. Deeper and deeper. The walls around her pressed in, echoing with the scrape of her boots. The air was cold, getting colder with every step. And the walls were wet. Slimed with green, like the riverweed that clung to the stone steps at Traitors’ Gate. How far down was she now? Maybe twenty steps? Wherever she was, she must be deep in the foundations of the Tower. At least she wouldn’t get lost. The only way was down. Or up.

Her boot squelched into mud and she supposed this must be the bottom. She planted both her feet in the mud carefully, making sure she was on solid ground before letting go of the wall. Funny, it didn’t seem so dark here.

She turned. Ahead of her, specks of light pricked the blackness. She squinted at the light. The specks seemed to be coming from the end of a long, dark passage. What was this place? Somewhere so old and forgotten that it could have come from one of Nell’s stories.

Now what? Go back? Tell Pa? Or go on? By herself.

She peered down the passage into the darkness. Her heart clanged against her chest.

From somewhere came a sound. Far away. Like the soft rattle of leaves at the top of a tree. It tugged at something deep inside Moss. She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was still hammering. But the noise was pulling her.

She bent her head and stepped forward.

CHAPTER FIVE
River Thief

The roof of the passage was low. Several times she banged her head. Mud and water sloshed round her boots. The light was distant and grey, but it was enough to follow. Moss ran her fingers over the walls. They were earth and rock. She hardly noticed the flints in the mud as they nicked her thin-soled boots. The noise was louder now and there was a rhythm to it. Like breathing. It mixed with the short gasps that stuck in her throat. Excitement. Fear. She didn’t know what. All she could think about was getting to the end of the passage. The further she went, the brighter the specks of light became.

Moss stopped, feeling rock ahead of her. She looked up. There was a shaft of brightness coming from above. She scrambled up towards it and gripped the rough walls, pulling herself on to a ledge a few feet above the base of the tunnel. In front of her was a hole blocked with large stones, grey light filtering through.

Carefully, Moss dislodged the stones. She stuck her head out of the hole and almost tumbled backwards. Above her were the creaking planks of a wharf. And through the murky half-light was a band of shimmering silver, spreading as far as she could see.

It was the river. She could hardly believe it. She was outside the Tower. She was . . . free.

Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might burst from her chest. The passage was a tunnel ? A tunnel from the garderobe drop all the way under the moat to the riverbank.

Moss was shaking now, her ears pounding with blood and crazy, mixed-up thoughts. For years she’d listened to Nell’s tales. Of ghosts and witches and old passageways and siege tunnels dug by fearful kings. And she’d never known whether to believe the tales or not. Of course, Pa had scorned them. They were just stories dribbled from an old lady’s lips. But this tunnel was real. As real as the mud beneath her feet.

She was free.

On her lips, the tang of salt and riverweed. The sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.

Moss looked around. She could wade out from under the wharf and, if the water wasn’t too deep, make it along the wharf ’s edge to the bank. She could see that the tunnel would probably be flooded at high tide, which would account for all the water and mud. She reckoned she had an hour, maybe two, before it flooded again. Her head was bursting and all the while she felt a tug-tug, deep inside, drawing her to the river. She had never been this close to it. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Moss had hitched up her dress, crawled through the hole and dropped into the water.

It wasn’t very deep at all. She waded swiftly, enjoying the tingle of icy water as it rinsed round her boots. With a few strides she was out from under the wharf. The water was deeper here, up to her thighs. Beyond the wharf, she could see waves lashing the shingle bank, peeling back in a snarl of froth. The wind was picking up and she felt the pull of the current now, tearing at her legs. Her boots were slipping on the shingle bed. She stumbled and steadied herself. The current was strong.

She carried on wading, the murky water driving against her body. She staggered as her foot struck something large. And at that same moment, her legs were whipped from under her and she stumbled sideways, flailing into the deeper water of the river.

Instantly a fist of current snatched her under.

She felt her body barrel under the waves, over and over, cracking her head on something hard. She tried to open her eyes, but all she could see was a wall of dark. Panicking for breath, she gulped and felt saltwater fill her lungs, while useless legs thrashed against the flow that towed her as easily as a piece of rope. Her head was numb in the freezing river. She was seeing things now. Dizzy, flickering pictures, of Pa raising his axe, Two-Bellies leering at her, the swirling crowd on the hill. Then the images sank away, deep down into the silt, and Moss was bursting, her chest a choked balloon of salty water. Which way was up? Which was down? Both were gone, dissolved in the hideous pull that sucked her into darkness. That was when she saw the face.

A woman. Her hair wispy and coiling, like smoke. A pale, frozen face, lit by strange eyes, with no expression, no smile or frown. Around her, seaweed fanned out. Her bare arms reached up towards Moss. A poor drowned soul, lost to the river. And Moss knew, sure as rotten teeth on a rich man, that she would soon be joining her. The suck of the current stopped. She felt her dress billow as her feet tipped upwards.

Without warning, there was a sudden jerking at her legs. She felt the dead weight of her body being dragged from above. Beneath her, the woman shrank backwards into the black river.

Feet first, Moss felt herself hauled through the waves until her head broke the surface in a splutter of foam. Arms were pulling her now, dragging her body until it cracked on the side of something solid. More heaving and she flopped on to her back against wooden planks, her lips spitting frothy vomit. Then the grey sky went white.

‘Sweet Harry’s scabs! That’s a wind cold enough to freeze off yer goosters.’

Words were buffeting Moss’s ears. Fuzzy at first. Then gradually more distinct as she came to her senses.

‘Take a punt up to Old Swan . . . no time for anything else now.’

From under the wisps of her lashes, Moss peeked out. A blurry shape was moving around her.

‘Ain’t nothin here worth havin.’

She felt hands patting her dress.

‘Stupid pisspot of a shore girl.’

She kept her eyes closed, peeping through her lashes until the blurry shape grew a face. Brown-eyed and smudged with dirt. Hands, going through her pockets. Scrawny arms and shoulders, clothed in a threadbare tunic. Hair dark and matted, as though a cat had chewed it up and spat it out.

It was a boy. And judging by the way he was cussing, he seemed very cross.

‘Should have known yer’d be good fer nothin but a boatful of sick.’

Slowly, Moss opened her eyes. The boy did not notice at first, but carried on sifting through her pockets. She blinked, then heaved herself up on one elbow and felt the ground wobble.

‘Stay on yer back, yer nubbin loach!’ He shot her a furious glance.

Still groggy, Moss looked around and saw she was sitting in a small flat boat, bobbing near the shore. A boat! On the river! How had she . . . how did she . . .?

‘Sweet Harry’s gammy leg! I said stay still !’ The boy gave her a push.

‘Ow!’

‘Idiot shore girl! You’ll have me boat over!’

He glared at her. She glared back.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep still.’ She looked about. The boat was a good way from the shore. ‘Could you tell me . . . what happened?’

‘You fell in the river, I pulled you out, you puked in me boat.’

‘Oh.’

The boy said nothing. He had his back to her now and was checking a net trailing in the water behind him.

‘Is this your own boat?’

The boy ignored her, still sifting through his net.

‘It must be nice to have a boat.’

Silence.

‘I mean, nice to be able to come out here. On the river.’ She was running out of things to say.

‘What are you talkin about, nice ? I rows to make me livin. Ain’t nothin nice about rowin the river.’

‘I just meant, you know, in your boat you can go wherever you like, see all the other boats, the sails, everything –’

‘What? Are you mad as a rabbit? It ain’t no pageant out here. Them big boats would squash you soon as look at you. Saw a waterman go down only last week. His boat was a four-seater. Crushed between a galley an’ a barge like a fly between yer thumbs.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know.’

‘Well, you do now.’

The boy took up his oars and began to row towards the bank. Moss watched, surprised his scrawny arms could pull such deft, clean strokes. His clothes were little more than rags, and she saw that his tunic had been patched many times and that the patches were sackcloth. He really was filthy. She wondered at how a boy who worked on the river could be so dirty. Every bit of skin was grimed, as though he hadn’t been within two miles of a pail of water his whole life.

‘So . . . what’s your name?’ said Moss.

‘What you want that for?’

‘Well, to thank you, I suppose. You just saved my life?’

‘Fat lot of good that’s done me.’

‘Well, I didn’t ask you to save me. Look, I’m sorry I was sick in your boat . . . My name’s Moss.’

‘Sounds about right. Useless green stuff, soaks up water.’

A gust of wind rocked the little boat, biting into Moss’s body. Her woollen dress was sodden and grey water was pooling where she sat. Her teeth were rattling and before long, her legs and arms were shaking too.

‘Do you . . . do you . . . have . . . a blanket?’

‘You what? A blanket ? Who do you think I am? Some lordy merchant sailin a ship piled high with furs an’ silky pillows?’

‘It’s c-cold.’

‘So? Shouldn’t have gone swimmin then, should yer?’

‘I didn’t go swimming. I was walking. I fell –’ She gripped her feet with her frozen fingers. They were bare. ‘Where are my boots?’

‘What?’

‘My boots. I was wearing boots when I fell in.’

‘Don’t ask me. Probably at the bottom of the river stinkin out the fish, in’t they?’

The boy was on his feet now, punting the boat towards the bank with one oar. On the shore was a jumble of flimsy huts. Shacks made of driftwood and crates, propping each other up in the mud. They seemed so close to the water, thought Moss. Surely one rogue tide and they’d all be swept away?

‘Is this where you live?’ she said.

‘Who wants to know? Whoever it is, I ain’t tellin.’ The boy scowled. ‘Well, don’t just sit there like a nun givin thanks for her own farts. Hop off now, shore girl.’ He held the boat fast with the oar and Moss wobbled to the front.

‘Won’t you tell me your name?’

‘Out! Count yerself lucky I didn’t tip you back in!’

Moss jumped on to the shingle and the boy pushed off without a backwards glance.

As the little boat nudged into deeper water, he reached over the side and fished out something from the trailing net. Moss squinted at his catch. It didn’t look much like fish.

Then she gasped. Her boots! The little thief had stolen her boots!

‘Those are mine! Give them back!’ she yelled.

But the boy just grinned and carried on rowing up the river.

CHAPTER SIX
Two-Bellies’ Revenge

What kind of low life saves your skin then steals your boots?

Alone on the shore, Moss hugged her damp body tight. The ice-wind sliced through her. She had never been so cold. She tried rubbing her arms and legs, but her fingers felt as though they might snap. All she could think about was the fire in Pa’s forge. Heat. Warm and dry. She needed to get back home as soon as possible.

Moss looked around. The Tower stood tall against the grey sky. Good. Not too far off, and at least that little thief had dumped her on the right side of the river. She set off towards the wharf, wincing as her bare feet scraped the stony shore. The ramshackle huts were behind her. On her left, the banks pitched upwards to shadowy streets where dogs barked and people cried out. Down on the shore, it was strangely silent. Just the lap of the incoming tide and the call of boatmen, snatched by the wind. She edged closer to the waterline. Here, the mud was thick and the stones fewer, and though her toes were ready to drop off, Moss savoured the squelch between them. She let the gentle waves wash over her feet.

Crash! Moss found herself thrown backwards. A freak wave threw up a fistful of shingle, whipping her bare ankles. She was on her knees, stumbling to her feet. A noise like laughter tinkled from the water’s edge. The shingle rattled, settling back down, raked by the waves. All the same, she retreated from the waterline and hurried as fast as she could back to the wharf. She waded underneath. The water was deeper, much deeper than it had been, and she could see waves sloshing into the tunnel through the gap. She would have to be quick.

Heaving herself up through the hole, Moss dropped back into the tunnel. The water was up to her armpits. She hesitated. Outside she heard the tinkling laughter again. Stop it, she told herself. It’s only the river. But as she waded back through the tunnel, her head swirled with the memory of the drowned woman.

‘It’s just the river,’ she said out loud. Her words echoed down the tunnel. ‘I’m not afraid.’

Well, perhaps you should be, girl. Somewhere inside her head, Nell’s cloudy-eyed warning echoed back. The rivers are hers, not ours. Foolish is the one who forgets the song of the river.

It was a tough climb back up to the garderobe drop, frozen fingers slipping, sodden dress dragging every step of the way. By the time Moss reached the garderobe door, the last chimes of the Tower’s curfew bell were ringing. She crept up the steps. The yard was empty, so she scurried through the arch to Tower Green, ready to sprint round the White Tower to the forge.

‘Hello, basket girl.’

A thick arm swiped her off her feet, then dragged her backwards into the stables, shoving her into the hay. The bulk of Two-Bellies stood over her, his red face redder than usual.

‘Think you’re so clever? Think you’re so funny?’

Moss cast around wildly, wet clothes forgotten. There was only one way out and it was blocked. She glared up at Two-Bellies.

‘Let me guess. I ruined your best boots?’

‘Don’t cheek me, basket scum.’

‘What have I got to lose? You’re going to beat me up anyway.’

He lunged, but Moss rolled, dodging his swiping fists. She was up on her feet, whip-quick, jumping from the hay.

‘You can run but you can’t hide, forge rat.’

‘Come and get me then.’

Two-Bellies picked up a broom and advanced, blocking any hope of her sprinting to the door. He spread his arms wide, grabbing each end of the broom handle, herding her into the corner.

‘Like catching a chicken, see? And when I’ve got you, I’m going to wring your neck.’

Moss sidestepped another lunge and in the split second of his unbalance, she darted under his waving arm. There was a whoosh of air and a crack as the broom made contact with her back. Moss was on her knees. Without a moment’s hesitation, Two-Bellies grabbed her neck and shoved her head into a water butt. Now the fists were pushing her down, holding her under until the brown water made her eyes smart.

No breath. The fist was on her neck. Moss felt her chest start to spasm. How many chokes before her lungs filled up? She tried to wriggle from his grip. Her head turned and through the water she saw Two-Bellies’ raging face. His fist pressed harder. Her lungs were exploding. Suddenly she was seized by a paralysing terror. He was actually trying to drown her. After everything that had happened that day . . . finding the tunnel, surviving the wild river, only to be drowned by a meat-faced bully on her own doorstep. And that was the moment when Moss knew what she needed to do. She let herself go limp. The hand on her neck relaxed. Then she struck, jabbing both elbows hard into his chest. Two-Bellies howled and let go, giving Moss time to whip her head out of the water and spring to her feet.

Two-Bellies picked up his broom.

‘Come on then! You want some, basket scum?’

Not good. He was still between Moss and the door.

Two-Bellies walked towards her, holding the broom like a quarterstaff.

Definitely not good.

Then instinct took over. It happened so quickly, Moss could barely believe what she’d done. One minute Two-Bellies was yelling and swinging his staff. The next she had stuck out her leg, tripped him over his own weapon and tipped him head first into the water butt. And for a moment, there he lodged, legs waggling.

Sprinting through the door, Moss swept her eyes across the yard. On the far side, Mrs Peak was bawling at a couple of kitchen boys who’d dropped a tray of quails on the cobbles. From the stables came a crash followed by a full-throated roar.

‘Nnnaarrgghhhh!’

In a panic, Moss realised Two-Bellies would be out of the stables before she’d had time to run across the Green. She had to hide somewhere, quickly!

She slipped round the corner and through an open door. Inside was a narrow passage and some stairs. She shot up the stairs and along a corridor. She had no idea where she was, but she didn’t care. She just had to find somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter so long as Two-Bellies couldn’t find her.

There were voices coming up the stairs. Moss spotted a door halfway along the corridor, wide open. She poked her head in. The room was empty and silent. All she could hear was the spitting of tallow candles. She darted inside. At one end was a table, spread with a cloth. On the table were dishes piled high with creamy white manchet loaves, their sweet smell mixing with the smoky fat of the burning tallow.

‘Lord help us! Have your heads gone to mince?’ Mrs Peak’s bellow filled the corridor, getting louder as she approached. ‘Do you think the Duke likes his quails cold? Put those birds next to that brawn and get a bleedin move on!’

Quick as a cat, Moss dived under the table. There she crouched, stifling her gasping breaths, aware that the stench of the garderobe rose from her like a fog. From behind the cloth, she peeped out and hoped the smoking tallow would mask her stink.

Then Mrs Peak was in the room, flapping her apron at the kitchen boys. ‘Be quick with you! The guvnor is coming! The Duke of Norfolk with him! And when they get here, I daresay they won’t want to be gawping at your ugly mugs!’

Moss heard the boys fumbling with their dishes. There was a scuffling as they retreated and a ‘Thank you, sirs’. Now she heard the clack-clack of well-heeled boots entering the room. The door slammed.

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