First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Egmont UK Limited

The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN

Text copyright © 2015 Jane Hardstaff

Illustrations copyright © 2015 Joe McLaren

The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted

First e-book edition 2014

ISBN 978 1 4052 6832 5

eISBN 978 1 7803 1389 4

www.egmont.co.uk

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

Typeset by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford on Avon, Warwickshire

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 Frea

CONTENTS

Cover

Title page

Copyright

Dedication

1 Strange Fish

2 Old Lives, New Lives

3 The Promise

4 Boat Thief

5 Bonfires and Cannons

6 Cat’s Head

7 Eel-Eye Jack

8 The Great White Bear

9 On the Roof of The Crow

10 Little Elizabeth

11 Whipmaster

12 Hiding

13 The Pit

14 Catching Salmon

15 Salter’s Way

16 Jenny Wren

17 Slider

18 The River Inside

19 Friendship Broken

20 Bladder Street

21 Princess Redhead

22 An End to All This

23 Bear Fight

24 The Slider Rises

25 Boat of Leaves

A note from the author

Acknowledgements

Also by Jane Hardstaff

CHAPTER ONE
Strange Fish

‘Sweet Harry’s scabs! Yer like a frog with hair, Leatherboots.’

‘Bet you’ve never seen a frog do this!’

Moss dived down, turning a full somersault as she went, leaving Salter grinning on the riverbank. As she stretched to touch the stony river bed, she felt the drag of the water against her body. The river here was in no hurry. No roar, no raging currents, just a wide bend and a grassy bank that ushered the moorhens politely on their way. Moss knew this stretch of river as well as she knew the scratches on her knees. She knew the vole holes. She knew where the kingfishers flicked their jewel wings. She knew every dip in the river bed. Because it was here she’d learnt to swim.

She wore an old apple sack with holes cut for her neck and arms. At first Moss had gasped at the clumsiness of her kicks, fists gripped tight to the branch that kept her afloat, her friend never more than a few steps away. On the surface was a spluttering fight for air. Yet under the water, the quietness calmed her. So Salter had tied a rope around her middle and she’d let herself sink, eyes open, arms outstretched, and gradually her legs had learned a rhythm that propelled her body forward. When she ran out of breath, she would rise to the surface and gulp another. And if she strayed too far into the river, Salter would haul her back on the end of his rope like a strange fish.

Now the rope was off. More than a year had passed since she, Pa and Salter had left London, and though Salter said she frightened the trout, Moss had spent much of those summer months swimming the river.

There were times when Moss could barely believe how different this new life was to their old. All those years in the Tower of London, the taunts of the Tower folk, the thump of the drum on Execution Day, Pa standing on the scaffold with his axe in his hands. And Moss herself, holding her wretched basket ready to catch a rolling head. Just thinking about it made the bile rise from her stomach. How many hours had she spent gazing from the battlements of the Tower, willing the mighty river Thames to carry her away from that miserable life? The river had saved her, thought Moss. But it had almost killed her too.

A breeze rustled the leaves on the willow. Autumn was coming and it would soon be too cold for dipping. She stared down at her feet, curled against the stones of the river bed. This was a very different river to the Thames. Here the water was clear and waist deep. The only place for fish to hide was among the water crowfoot, giant green ribbons that swayed with the flow. But Moss avoided the tangled weeds and the clutch of anything that might drag her down.

Salter was lying in the grass, his dirt-smudged face propped on his elbows.

It hadn’t been easy for the river boy to leave London or his beloved shack on the banks of the Thames. It had been his home, where he’d fished and thieved and managed to stay warm, winter after winter. But from the moment he’d first hauled a near-drowned Moss into his boat, their lives had changed. Though he would never admit it, they now had something that neither of them wanted to lose.

They were friends.

He was watching her now.

‘Do you have to go right to the middle?’ he called. ‘Those great hooves’ll scare the fish all the way to Silbury!’

‘Don’t worry about me, Smudgeface!’

‘I ain’t worried about you! I’m fishin later. Just don’t want me catch driven away that’s all.’

Moss grinned. ‘Well, catch this, fisher boy!’ She ducked under and swam to the bank, bobbing up in front of Salter’s face with a splash.

‘See.’

‘I don’t see nothin.’

‘I can swim, or hadn’t you noticed?’

She could see his smile coming. A little crows-feet crinkle in the corner of his eyes. She flipped a handful of water at his face and ducked back down, kicking strong strokes back out into the river. But when her head broke the surface, Salter wasn’t looking at her any more. He was staring downriver.

‘Hey!’ she called, ‘Come on in!’

He stood up, still peering into the distance.

‘What is it?’ she said.

‘Dunno.’

Moss waded a few paces to the middle of the river where she had a clear view past the bend. She screwed up her eyes and stared.

There was something.

A dark ripple, moving slowly towards her. In front of it, specks of silver darted from the river to the bank, lightning quick, threading the grass with a shining mesh.

‘What is that?’ said Moss.

Salter squinted into the sunlight. ‘Pope’s earholes! It’s the fish!’

‘Fish?’

‘The fish are jumpin. Out of the river.’

Moss stared at the bizarre sight before her. Salter was right. Driven forward by the dark ripple in the water, the fish seemed to be panicking. Leaping high out of the river and throwing themselves on to the banks. Landing in a silver heap where they gasped and jerked, helpless in the grass. She watched, mesmerised by the jumping fish and by the strange shape behind them, getting closer and closer.

‘Fish leapin to their deaths . . .’ Salter was shaking his head. ‘Ain’t never seen nothin like it.’

‘It’s like they can’t stand to be in the water,’ said Moss. ‘Like they can’t get out fast enough.’

Salter jumped, as though someone had whacked the back of his head.

‘Get out of the water. Now !’

‘What?’

‘Don’t argue, Leatherboots! Do as I say. Quick!’

Moss dived down again, her arms pulling against the current. But something was wrong. She’d hardly moved.

‘Swim!’ Salter’s muffled voice yelled above her.

There was a splash. Salter was still shouting. ‘I’m comin! Keep swimmin, Leatherboots! Don’t stop!’

All at once Moss’s eyes filled with silt. She spluttered to the surface and saw Salter in the river, staggering towards her. The water was thickening with mud. It pressed in on her body, slowing her arms and legs. She tried to reach down with her feet to touch the solid river bed, but it was gone. In its place was shifting mud that oozed between her toes. All around her, the river was brown and choking, a muddy rag stuffed down its throat.

‘Don’t stop!’ Salter was still yelling, ‘Keep goin!’

But her feet wouldn’t move. The mud gripped her, warm and sticky, holding her fast.

‘Salter! I’m stuck!’

‘Wait!’ He lunged forward, arm outstretched. As if in some slow dream, Moss watched the water drag him under.

‘SALTER!’

He was gone.

Now the mud beneath her began to tug at her feet. Sucking her down. Inch by inch. And the more she thrashed, the deeper she sank. Her flailing arms beat the surface to brown froth as her head was pulled slowly under.

Something brushed against her body. Through the stew of water she saw lashing fronds of water crowfoot, felt it against her legs, coiling and tightening. But instead of dragging her further down, the crowfoot seemed to be pulling upwards, as though trying to free her from the mud. Then a mighty rush of current snatched her up and she felt herself bowl over and over until all at once it stopped. Her feet found the stony river bed and she pushed with all the force she could muster, exploding to the surface in choking breaths.

On the opposite side of the river, Salter was heaving himself towards the bank.

The mud had gone. The water was clear, the crowfoot swaying gently, great, trailing tendrils, stretching towards her. She kicked out for the bank and the crowfoot seemed to pull back. But as it did, a shadow curled underneath. Too big for a fish.

For a flit of a second, the shadow showed itself. In the tangle of weeds.

What she saw almost stopped her heart.

A hand. Then a face. Then it was gone.

Moss dived back into the river, floundering through the weed, dragging it out in great clumps, pulling it apart.

Nothing. The shadow had vanished, and with it, the face.

It was a face she’d never seen before. Yet it was familiar. Green eyes, a tangle of hair. So like her own. But older, sadder.

She couldn’t be sure. She’d never seen her.

Her mother’s face.

CHAPTER TWO
Old Lives, New Lives

It was dusk by the time Moss and Salter made it back to the village. She had stashed her apple sack in the hollow of the willow as usual, changing back into her dry dress in the bushes. Salter was wet through. But despite his sodden clothes, he kept up a cheery banter all the way from the fields to the lane. Every time Moss tried to mention the river, he changed the subject, so in the end she gave up and slunk into her own thoughts. In her head, a picture shimmered. She’d only seen it for a moment. But she had seen it.

The face. Her mother’s face? Was it possible? But her mother was dead. Could that have been her spirit in the river today? She turned the thought over and over. A year and a half ago, she’d seen with her own eyes how the dead could be given life by the cold waters. The Riverwitch had revealed herself. A restless spirit who haunted the rivers, looking for children to snatch.

Ignoring Pa’s pleas to stay away from the river, Moss had left him and made her way out of the Tower. And on Moss’s twelfth birthday the Riverwitch had come for her, just as she’d promised on the day Moss was born. She’d dragged Moss down to the depths of the murky Thames. But there in the swirl and suck of the river, Moss succeeded in changing her fate. And the Riverwitch had let her go.

Moss, Pa and Salter had walked away from their old lives in London and settled in a country village where Pa was welcomed as the new blacksmith. During those early days, Moss had wondered whether the Witch would come for her again. But the more she’d swum in the gentle village river, the bolder she’d become, until the strangeness of that winter had seemed so far away it was almost unreal. She’d buried those memories deep, hoping she’d never have to dig them up. The Riverwitch was gone from their thoughts and their lives. But today . . . what had she seen? The coiling weeds had filled her head with thoughts of the Witch. Yet the face in the water was not the face of the Riverwitch.

The squat little forge was a welcome sight. Moss pushed at the door. Warmth and smoke wrapped her like a blanket. Pa was already asleep, a rising, falling bundle on his pallet. They trod past him softly and settled on the low stools by the fire. The clear October sky brought a chill to the air and Pa allowed a log or two to burn way into the night.

‘Rabbitin tomorrow,’ said Salter. ‘Set the traps yesterday an’ I’m goin back to see what I’ve got first light.’

‘Salter . . .’

‘Yep?’

‘What was that, in the river?’

‘Search me. Some sort of freak current. Ain’t never seen it like that. All whipped up with mud an’ stinkin like a badger’s bum. Best not go swimmin fer a while, Leatherboots. Too dangerous. This time we was lucky.’

But it didn’t feel like luck to Moss. It felt like the river had changed. And the face in the waterweed – she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

‘Salter,’

‘Mmm.’

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘If you must. I can tell that head of yers is stewin. Though if you was to ask me, I’d say that questions only lead to more questions an’ don’t make yer troubles go away.’

Moss gave the fire a poke. On the one hand, she liked the way Salter just got on with life, making the best of things wherever possible. But he never questioned why things were the way they were, and this frustrated her no end. She supposed he couldn’t help it. After all, he’d been just six years old when his parents died. From that day on, alone, with nothing but his hands and his wits, he’d had to fend for himself. ‘Bread first, then morals,’ he always said. Survival was the most important thing and Salter had learned not to ask too many questions, of himself or anyone else. But the village was a world away from that harsh life, thought Moss. And there were moments when she wondered if there was more to Salter than he was letting on.

‘You think too much,’ he said.

‘Do I? And what about you? What goes on in that head of yours? Or is just full of rabbits?’

Salter grinned. ‘Yep. Fish an’ rabbits, that’s me, shore girl.’

‘Shore girl? I can swim almost as well as you.’

‘All thanks to my brilliant teachin.’

‘Oh, is that what you call it? Holding a rope and shouting from the bank?’

‘I could have just thrown you in and watched you sink.’

‘Do you know, sometimes I can’t quite believe it. All this. Swimming in the river, us living here, Pa working the forge. It’s more than I could ever have hoped for.’

Salter eyed her. ‘So what’s on yer mind, then?’

Moss hesitated, not even sure herself what she wanted to say.

‘Go on, Leatherboots, out with it!’

‘Well, here in the village, we have food, Pa has work, I’m not catching heads in a basket. Life is good, Salter.’

‘Yes it is.’

‘It’s just that, do you ever, sometimes . . .’

‘What?’

‘. . . feel that something is missing?’

‘Missin?’ Salter’s eyes widened. ‘Missin.’ He rolled the word around his mouth. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘since yer askin, I miss the old river.’

Moss sat up.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Salter. ‘The rush and the roar of the big river. This little stream is nice and the fish are fat, but it ain’t the Thames. Dirty and dangerous, that old river can snatch you quick as a rat’s fart and roll yer body like a barrel. But on a good day it’s wide and bright as the sea. And I think about the shack and the smoker and the sound of that old river breathin in and out on the shore. So if I was honest, and I don’t see why I should be, but if I was, then I miss it.’

Salter eyes were shining as the memory of his old life poured from his lips. Now Moss thought about it, it made sense that he missed the river that he’d rowed and fished all his life. She wondered how often his thoughts drifted back to those old ways.

‘So what about you, Leatherboots?’

‘Me?’

‘You said yerself, life is good here. So what’s the problem?’

‘It’s kind-of hard to explain. All my life I dreamed of being far away from the Tower and the Hill and, you know, the executions. To be free. To be with Pa, living somewhere just like this, in a village with fields and bluebell woods.’

‘So? Ain’t too many that get their dreams fer real.’

‘Yes, but now we’re here,’ Moss stared at the slow burn of the fire, logs shedding their feathery ash. ‘Now we’re here and everything’s fine, well, I guess there’s room to think of other things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, things . . . from our past. Do you ever think of your father and your mother?’

Salter blinked.

‘I was just wondering,’ she said.

Salter’s gaze dropped. He shuffled the embers with the toe of his boot.

‘Spend too long in the past,’ he said, ‘And you might not find yer way back.’

The fire spat. On his pallet, Pa shifted.

Salter stood up. ‘I’m turnin in. Much as I’d like to, can’t hang about all night chit-chattin.’

‘Night, Salter.’

But he didn’t reply. Moss watched him splash a little water on his face from the bucket. Then he disappeared into his corner, drawing the heavy wool curtain behind him.

CHAPTER THREE
The Promise

‘Moss!’ Pa was calling from the forge.

‘Coming Pa!’ Moss beat the soil from her hands and clomped in from the vegetable patch where she’d been digging up skirrets. Pa was already pumping the bellows, sparks shooting out of the fire.

‘Here.’ She shook the skinny fist of roots. ‘Not too bad for a second crop. If Salter gets us some rabbits, we’ll have a good stew.’

Salter had gone at first light. Moss had heard him from her pallet in the little alcove by the fire. She’d said nothing, just listened to the sound of him pulling his boots on, munching on a hunk of bread while he dressed. She’d wriggled down under her blanket. These noises were as familiar to her now as the crackle of logs. It was as though Salter had always lived with them.

Pa was tying the beaten leather apron behind his back. She looked to the table. On it was a little jug with a sprig of hazel poking out of the top. She’d placed it there for Pa that morning before she’d gone out. All those months ago when she’d walked out of the Tower with no word of where she was going, Pa was so distraught it had almost killed him. A sprig of leaves or a few flowers left in the jug was her unspoken way of telling him that she was coming back. That she loved him.

‘Farmer Bailey’s bringing up Big Sal for shoeing this morning,’ said Pa. ‘She’s an old mare and no mistake. Most wouldn’t bother with an animal you can neither ride nor work. But Farmer Bailey’s got a soft spot for that horse.’

‘I’ve seen him,’ said Moss. ‘He leads her to the sweetest meadow grass. Talks to her while she eats.’

Pa smiled. ‘Would you say she listens?’

‘Yes, I’m sure she does. And you know, Pa, I think Big Sal talks to Farmer Bailey too.’

Pa nodded. ‘It’s a rare friendship, that one. Men like to think they are the master of beasts. But I don’t think Big Sal would agree.’ He took down the hammer, tongs and creaser from their hooks on the wall.

Moss watched him lay his tools neatly next to the anvil. Gentle, careful Pa. Who avoided the river if he could and liked to walk the woods at sunset. Moss had spent many evenings last autumn crunching through the leaves by his side. This way, little by little, Moss had learnt of her mother. That she was green-eyed and tangle-haired. That she had freckles on her nose and a dimple in her cheek and was so much like her daughter. That she sang when she was sad. That she’d once climbed to the top of a tree to pick a red-ripe apple, just for Pa.

Moss clutched at these fragments of her mother. But no matter how hard she tried to make Pa’s memories her own, she couldn’t. They were from a distant place that only he could reach. All the same, she clung to them. They were all she had.

‘There are still blackberries in West Woods,’ said Moss. ‘I’ll go up there now, see if I can catch Salter on his way back.’

‘Just a minute.’

‘What is it?’

‘Over there,’ said Pa. ‘There’s something for you.’

‘For me?’

There was a sackcloth bundle on the table, tied with string.

‘Open it,’ said Pa.

Moss pulled at the string and the sackcloth fell away. Inside was more cloth, a smooth, tightly-woven wool. Carefully, Moss picked it up, unfurled it.

‘Oh, Pa.’

It was a dress. Soft and green. The colour of new leaves.

‘Pa, how did you –?’

‘We’ve been plenty busy since we got here,’ he said. ‘Shod horses, mended hoes, made new knives for the innkeeper. Our first year was a good year, Moss. And you’ve outgrown those old rags you’ve had since goodness knows when.’

‘But this must have cost so much, Pa.’

‘Well, never mind that.’ He smiled and his tired face brightened, and Moss could see how happy it made him to give her this dress.

‘I’ll try it on,’ she said.

She tucked herself into her little alcove, pulled off her old dress and tugged the new one over her head. The wool was light against her skin. Compared to the scratch of the coarse garments she’d always worn, this was like stepping into silk. She stared down at herself, then felt suddenly shy.

‘Well?’ said Pa, ‘Does it fit you?’

‘It does, Pa,’ said Moss, ‘It’s the most beautiful dress.’

She wrapped her skinny arms tight around him. Pa had worked so hard to build this life for them. How could she possibly think something was missing?

‘Pa,’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you sometimes think of her?’

Pa loosened Moss’s hug so he could look into her face.

‘Your mother?’

Moss nodded.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Does she seem far away?’

‘Well, yes and no. Sometimes I think I can still hear her.’

‘Really?’

‘Not actual words. It’s more . . . the feel of her voice. Outside. In the grass, or blown by the wind.’

‘And do you . . . do you ever, see her?’

Pa’s gaze went through Moss, to that distant place only he could reach. ‘Perhaps just a trace. It’s been so long.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think your old Pa’s a little crazy?’

‘No, Pa.’ She hugged him tight. ‘I really don’t.’

Outside, there was a clatter of hooves. A ruddy-cheeked man poked his head into the forge.

‘Mornin, Samuel!’

‘Morning, Farmer Bailey,’ said Pa. ‘Got Big Sal with you? Tie her to the post. I’ll be right out.’

As Moss left the forge, Pa and Farmer Bailey were deep in talk of horses and Big Sal and how fine a friend she was to Farmer Bailey, who would be sorry to lose her when the time came.

Moss hopped over the fence and waded through the long meadow grass. Salter would be well into the woods by now, checking his traps. Thank goodness for rabbits, she thought, for there was precious little meat. Here in the village, the sheep were for wool or milk and the pigs went to market. She hadn’t seen a ham since Twelfth Night. What a ham it had been, though. On Mrs Bailey’s kitchen table, glistening with honey and pocked with cloves. And Mrs Bailey must have seen her face pop, because she’d sent a good piece round to Pa the next day. They’d eaten it that evening, savouring every morsel of that sweet, spiced meat. But mostly they lived on stew made from the vegetables that Moss grew, fish from the river and bread bought with Pa’s earnings. And the rabbits.

It was poaching of course. The woods belonged to Sir John, and although Salter said the gamekeepers were as dozy as a cow in a hot field, he risked a chopped hand if he was caught. Nevertheless, he’d become bold and somehow he always seemed to be one step ahead. He lured the rabbits with cabbage leaves and turnips. He never set his traps in the same place. He was crafty and quiet. Neither the keepers nor the rabbits stood a chance.

By the treeline, Moss found the blackberry bushes and had just begun to fill her basket when she spotted Salter coming out of the woods with several grey rabbits flopped over his shoulder.

‘Four young bucks,’ said Salter. ‘Not a bad mornin’s work.’

‘Enough for stew.’

‘And some left over. Goin to take em to the Nut Tree now, see if I can’t sell a couple to Old Samser.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘If you like, but leave the barterin to me, Leatherboots, or I’ll end up with nuppence for me trouble.’

‘But I always feel so sorry for Old Samser. This isn’t London, where everyone’s looking for a way to rip each other off, you know. They do things differently here.’

‘You reckon so? Well, don’t feel too sorry for that old goat. He may be slow, but he ain’t stupid. If I let him, he’d play me like a fiddle. Anyway, a bit of bargainin keeps everyone on their toes.’

It was only ten o’clock but already smoke was puffing from the windows of the Nut Tree Inn. Salter pushed at the door and they threaded their way through the tumble of voices. No one batted an eyelid at the rabbits. Like Salter, many of the villagers poached for a bit of meat and the Nut Tree was where you sold or traded any you couldn’t eat yourself.

Old Samser stood at the top of the cellar steps, jug in hand. Wagging her tail against his leg was Poppy, Old Samser’s spaniel, staring up at Salter’s rabbits with hopeful eyes.

‘Eyes off them rabbits, Poppy,’ said Salter, letting the dog lick his hand. ‘They ain’t fer you.’

Old Samser chuckled. ‘Mornin, Moss, mornin, Salter-boy. What you got there, then?’

‘Two young bucks, Samser, if I likes the price.’

Moss knelt down beside Poppy and ruffled her shaggy coat, catching a wink from the old landlord. He was well used to Salter’s cheekiness.

‘Bain’t no lad in the village can trap rabbits like the boy here. He’s a sly city fox, this one. If he can’t get yer one way, he’ll get yer another.’

‘A groat buys you two rabbits, take it or leave it,’ said Salter.

‘Threefarthin,’ said Old Samser.

‘Are you out of yer mind? Three pennies and I ain’t goin no lower.’

‘Two pennies and yer backsides can warm themselves by my fire.’

‘Our backsides don’t need warmin,’ said Salter. ‘No deal.’

Moss found herself smiling. She had to admit, there was something very satisfying about watching Salter hold his nerve. But Old Samser wasn’t backing down just yet.

‘Two pennies and a jug of my best to take back for yer Pa.’

Salter shook his head. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, landlord.’

‘All right then, two pennies, three farthin and the jug.’

‘Three pennies and you can have the pick of these fine rabbits, whichever two you like.’

Old Samser chuckled. ‘All right, all right. Three pennies it is. It’s a hard bargain you drives, Salter-boy. There’s farmers round here could learn a thing or two from you.’

When Old Samser had chosen his rabbits, Salter pulled a couple of apples from his pocket and he and Moss sat down to enjoy the sight of the farmers coming in from milking. With them shuffled a weary drover who sank back on the settle by the fire. He sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, until Old Samser brought him a plate of bread and hot mutton and a large mug of ale.

‘Old Samser’s no fool,’ said Salter, ‘He knows that drover’s come from London with tired feet and a full purse.’

‘Well, keep your fingers to yourself,’ said Moss. She was pretty sure Salter hadn’t thieved since they came to the village, but stealing had been a way of life for him back in London. And while that was all very well in a city of strangers with plenty of dark alleyways to hide in, here in the village if someone lost so much as a wooden spoon everyone knew about it.

The drover finished his plate, mopping the fat with a crust of bread. Then he sat back to let Old Samser refill his mug.

‘Good price for your cattle, drover?’ said Old Samser.

‘Could be better, could be worse,’ said the drover.

‘Mmm,’ nodded Old Samser, letting his customer gulp down the contents of his mug. ‘And news from the city? We don’t get much of it out here, but we likes to know what the talk is.’

‘Fill her up then, innkeeper,’ said the drover. Old Samser obliged, and the drover sat back on the settle, one hand on a full stomach, the other on a full mug.

‘Well now, let’s see. King Henry still won’t see his daughters. They say that Mary’s as stubborn as he is, with a temper that would burn down a barn. And the redhead Elizabeth is too young to know any different. Out of sight, out of mind. I suppose they remind him of his first two wives, both cold in the ground.’

‘And what of the new Queen?’ asked Old Samser. ‘We heard she is with child.’

‘Yes, yes, there’s much talk of Queen Jane. Grown fat as a pot-bellied oak and took to her chambers at Hampton Court some weeks back. The King has set a guard around the walls that would keep out the whole French army! Pray for all our sakes she gives him a son and heir.’

‘Even a king needs the luck.’ Old Samser twisted the end of his beard. ‘We in these parts hopes the best for Queen Jane. Grew up not five mile from here, in Savernake.’

‘Is that so?’ said the drover. ‘Well, she’ll squeeze out her pup soon enough. If it’s a boy, she may keep her title and her head. If not, then I wouldn’t be in her dainty shoes for all the crowns in Christendom. Old Harry is going through wives like a pig through a bag of carrots!’

‘True enough,’ said Old Samser, and he began to chant, ‘Queen Catherine left to rot poor soul, Queen Anne went for the chop. ’ The rhyme produced a ripple of laughter from the drinkers.

Moss swallowed. She hated the songs and the jokes. People had never liked Anne Boleyn. When she was alive, they’d called her the Firecracker Queen. Now she was dead they called her a witch and had only cruel things to say in her memory. But Moss had met the Queen. Two winters ago in a snow-covered garden at Hampton Court. Hungry and cold, Moss had followed her nose through a kitchen window, eaten a pigeon and strayed into the Kings Garden. And when the Queen had found her there, instead of being angry and calling for the guards, Anne Boleyn had talked to her. She’d told Moss how the King had loved her once, how she’d made him laugh and how she’d gone looking for adventure. And though at the time she’d seemed full of mischief, when Moss thought of her now it was as a wandering ghost, frail and forlorn.

Moss’s hand went to her pocket. In it was the little silver bird she always kept there. A gift from Queen Anne. Even though the silverwork was very fine, she’d never thought to sell it. It had saved her life. Hold on to love, wherever you can find it, the Queen had told her. It is a most precious thing. The words had settled, like leaves on a pond.

‘What you waitin for Leatherboots? Come on!’ Salter was on his feet and heading out of the door, coins jangling in his pocket.

She followed him outside, then stopped. ‘You go on. I’ll catch you up.’

Salter nodded. ‘Two rabbits, three pennies. That’s a good mornin’s work.’ He slung the rabbits over his shoulder. ‘Oh, Leatherboots,’

‘Yes?’

‘Yer new dress. Looks, well . . . all right.’

Moss felt her cheeks flush and turned quickly in the other direction. She didn’t think he’d noticed. And anyway, what did it matter if he had?

All Moss could hear was birdsong.

It was a quietness that she knew she would never take for granted. No shouts, no rumble of cartwheels, and no one to call her back. The clamour of the city was a world away from the lush green fields that lay before her. Moss hitched up her dress and climbed the fence, dropping onto the grass on the other side. This was a well-worn shortcut to the place where she and Salter swam and fished, and she hurried there eagerly now.

The water was clear. Flowing gently once more. But the river felt different. On the banks the fish stranded yesterday had begun to rot, their scales curling to a dull grey.

Moss pulled out her apple-sack tunic from the willow tree. There was no one about, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to change on the open riverbank, so she darted into the bushes. Still damp from yesterday, the cloth was cold against her skin.

Back on the riverbank, she stared out over the water. The crowfoot stroked the river bed, soothing her thoughts. Into her head shimmered the face she thought she’d seen, its green eyes so like her own.

Slowly Moss lowered herself from the bank into the water. As always, the cold took her breath away. She bobbed her shoulders under, panting short gasps until her body got used to the numbing chill. Then she kicked off from the bank and dived down. Halfway across she stopped and stood to watch the sway of the crowfoot. There was nothing here. Just waterweed.

Moss lay back in the current and then flipped over, sinking her head below the surface. She blinked as the water swirled past her eyes. The chalk river was so clear she could see all the way to the stones on the bottom. Moss had never stopped marvelling at this shimmering world. It was a quiet place that belonged to the creatures and plants, and Moss was always glad to be among them.

Something caught her eye. Hidden among the weeds. She could not make it out. A dark shape. A shadow. Moving away from her.

Moss kicked her feet hard, trying to reach the crowfoot before the shadow disappeared. She parted the weed, following the tail of the shadow, feeling slippery greenness all around.

Where are you?

Could a ghost hear your thoughts?

She bobbed her head above the water to take another gulp of air and when she sank back down, there it was.

The face.

Green eyes, hair coiling, arms reaching. A gentle face, smooth as milk. A mirror of herself. And Moss could not help but stretch her own arms towards the ghostly figure.

She felt her hands clasped by ice-cold fingers.

Who are you?

The gentle ghost tried to smile, as though she had understood Moss’s unspoken question.

But something was wrong.

The face was changing. The milk-smooth skin was flaking away. Peeling, tearing, paper-thin flakes hanging from her cheeks. The ghostly mouth parted as if to say something, then began dissolving before Moss’s eyes. Now it gaped at Moss, half torn, teeth rooted in bare bone. A dead face. A skull face, lit by strange candle eyes. A face Moss knew too well.

The Riverwitch.

Moss wrenched her hands from the bone-cold grasp and burst to the surface. She scrabbled backwards, splashing and stumbling, trying to reach the bank. But winding its way round her ankles was the twisting waterweed, holding her fast to the river bed.

Up through the clear water rose the Riverwitch. Her tattered dress rippled outwards, her skull face breaking the surface of the river.

‘River Daughter . . . now the Blacksmith’s Daughter, are you not?’

‘I . . . I thought you had gone,’ said Moss.

The Riverwitch said nothing.

‘Why?’ asked Moss. ‘Why have you come back?’

‘You know why.’ The Witch’s eyes flared. ‘I saved your life when you were born. But in return a promise was made. You were to come to me on your twelfth birthday.’

‘And I did come. That day on the river. I jumped. I gave myself to you.’

Above the trickle of the river the Witch’s voice hissed, ‘Tell me, what do you remember of that day?’

Moss opened her mouth to speak. Some of it was so clear – stepping from the raft into the murky water where the Riverwitch lay waiting, Salter’s cry as she was dragged down. But after that the pictures in her head ran thin as a poor man’s broth. There was the darkness of the deep river. The bone-arms of the Riverwitch circling her. Moss’s own arms embracing that cold body. And as she’d drifted into blackness, the grasp of the Witch had slackened. Then she remembered no more.

‘Why?’ said Moss. ‘Why did you let me go?’

The Riverwitch inclined her head slowly. ‘The embrace of a child.’ She spread her arms. ‘The embrace of a child has the power to thaw a Witch’s frozen heart.’

‘So . . .’

‘So that day I let you go. But do not forget. You were promised to me. A child born in water, you shall return to water. You belong to me.’

‘No!’ Moss kicked out at the coils of weed that bound her feet, but they held fast.

‘Do not struggle. You cannot fight me, River Daughter. I am the swirl and suck of the river. Its currents and its mysteries pass through me. They have made me strong. And I have watched you swimming the river. I’ve seen your eyes open to its treasures and its terrors.’

Something clicked inside Moss’s head.

‘The mud yesterday, in the river . . . It was sucking me down,’ she said, ‘but something pulled me free. Was it you ?’

The Witch’s face stretched into a painful smile.

‘But why?’ said Moss. ‘Why save me again, if you are going to take me now?’

The water began to churn and the Witch grew suddenly agitated, her body twisting, the fronds of her dress whisking this way and that.

‘There is something you can do for me,’ said the Witch slowly, ‘A way for you to earn your freedom.’

‘My freedom?’ echoed Moss.

‘What I ask will not be easy. But if you succeed, I will release you.’

The churning river quietened and for a few moments there was just silence between them, the Witch’s body swaying in the current.

‘Isn’t that what you want, River Daughter? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?’

Moss hesitated. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘This thing you want me to do?’

‘All in good time, River Daughter. First you must leave this village.’

‘Leave? Leave Pa and Salter?’

‘Leave this place. Go back. To London.’

‘But London is miles and miles. Three days walk at least.’

‘You shall travel by river.’

‘But I can’t just disappear. Pa needs me.’

The Witch’s lantern eyes held her. How could I have mistaken this face for my mother’s ? thought Moss. She’d wanted to believe it so badly. But all the time it was the Riverwitch.

The Witch held up two ghostly hands. The tips of her fingers were black. She gestured to the dead fish on the bank.

‘It has begun,’ she said.

‘What has begun?’

But the Witch’s torn body was sinking back into the river. As the weed closed over her head, her words mixed with the trickle of water.

‘The river rots . . .’

Then Moss felt the tendrils loosen around her feet.

The Riverwitch had gone.

CHAPTER FOUR
Boat Thief

It was unthinkable.

Wasn’t it?

Moss lay back on her pallet staring at the ceiling.

Even if she took Salter’s boat, she’d never been further than a few miles down river. Salter had told her, though, that if you went far enough the gentle chalk river gathered speed until it met the wide path of the Thames. Flowing past fields and towns to London. There it became the murky torrent she knew, raging through the arches of London Bridge and all the way out to the sea.

But why did the Witch want her to go there? What did she want from Moss?

She rolled over and kicked off her blanket. She couldn’t breathe in here.

What if she didn’t go? What if she stayed here? If she never went near a river again, the Witch couldn’t touch her.

Freedom . . . isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?

This past year and a half here in the village, with Pa and Salter, Moss had experienced more freedom than she’d ever dreamt was possible. And now she thought about it, the river was a huge part of her new life. Salter fished it, she swam in it. To run from the Riverwitch now would mean giving all that up.

Softly she slipped from her pallet and tweaked the curtain. The forge was heavy with Pa’s deep sleep. No noise from Salter. In those early days, when Salter had let her stay in his cosy shack, Moss had discovered he was a light sleeper, always half an eye open in case of trouble. But since coming to live in the forge he’d slept like a boy who’d been turned to stone.

Moss pulled on her dress and boots. She patted her pocket. The little bird was there. Then she laid out her blanket. On it she placed a knife, a wooden mug, half a loaf of bread, some cheese and her tinderbox. Reaching under her pallet, she pulled out her winter shawl, given to her by Mrs Bailey last year when the frost came. If nothing else, she could sell it to buy food. Folding the blanket over these few possessions, she tied the ends together and slung it over her back.

Even in boots, her steps were soft on the earth floor. She knew Pa would not wake. There could be no goodbye of course, stealing away in the middle of the night. But at least she could let him know she was coming back. As quietly as she could, she opened a shutter and plucked a sprig of red-berried hawthorn from the bush that grew outside their window. Tiptoeing to the table, she removed the hazel from the jug and replaced it with the hawthorn. Then she tweaked the curtain to Pa’s pallet and took a last look at her sleeping father.

The great bear-frame of his body rose and fell. A frown creased his face and Moss wondered where he went in his dreams. She was sorry that he’d wake up and find her gone. But Salter was there to help in the forge and pick the skirrets, and in any case, she hoped she would return soon enough.

Outside, the fields were pink-orange in the glow of the harvest moon. Moss heaved her bundle over the fence and clambered after it. The grass, damp with night dew, brushed her legs. She crossed the fields quickly and then she was at the river.

She didn’t feel good about taking Salter’s boat. He’d made it himself from pieces of old timber he’d found on the Baileys’ farm. It lay upturned on the bank. She heaved it over, half-expecting it to cry out for its master, but the only sound was the slap of wood against water as she slid it into the river. She tethered it to a tree stump and threw her bundle in.

‘Goin somewhere?’

‘Oh!’ Moss jerked round. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing, Leatherboots. Sneakin off in the night. Takin me boat and whatever else you got in that bundle.’

‘It’s just food and a few things for the journey.’

‘Journey, eh? Goin far?’

‘Down the river.’ There was no point lying. Though she didn’t have to tell him the whole truth.

‘Is that right? All by yerself ? This river ain’t no gentle row. You may be able to manage up here, but downriver it’ll whip along fast and furious.’

‘I know. You don’t have to tell me.’

‘Then what’s this all about, shore girl? And why creep off in the night, not a word to me nor yer Pa?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘I don’t even understand it myself. It’s just a feeling.’

‘Well I got a feelin. A bad feelin. You been funny ever since yesterday in the river. And whatever it is that you ain’t tellin me, it’s makin you do a stupid thing.’

‘It’s not stupid. And anyway, even if it was, you’re not my keeper. I can do what I like, Salter. Go where I like.’

Salter considered this. ‘All right then.’ He threw his leather bag into the boat.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Comin with you.’

‘You are not.’

‘Try and stop me. Anyway, that’s my boat yer in.’

‘Fine. Suit yourself.’

She watched him push off from the bank and hop on board. They wobbled into the current. Moss took the oars and began to row. Salter sat back.

‘Cheer up, Leatherboots! It’ll be good to see that old city again.’

‘Who said anything about London?’

‘Call it a feelin.’

‘Good or bad?’

Salter looked at Moss. She waited for the crinkle in his eyes, but none came.

‘Too early to say,’ he said.

CHAPTER FIVE
Bonfires and Cannons

There was something unreal about the day that followed. Ignored by the creatures that swam and nested and bobbed, Salter’s boat was as quiet as the river and Moss was glad of the silence. When she wasn’t rowing, she leant over the side, staring into the clear water.

She hadn’t told Salter about the Riverwitch. Though he’d been there through it all and had seen the Witch for himself, once they’d left London, Salter had been as keen as Moss to start their new life and bury those memories deep. He’d never wanted to talk about it. And Moss, who’d never really forgiven herself for putting her friend in such terrible danger, had vowed never to risk Salter’s life again. Despite his stubbornness, following her and jumping into the boat, she would do everything in her power to keep him away from the Riverwitch.

That evening they struck camp well before dusk, dragging the boat into a field. Moss gathered stout branches to prop underneath the upturned boat. It would be good shelter that night from the cold and rain. Grudgingly she accepted Salter’s offer to fish for their supper. It turned out he’d brought many things in his bag. His hooks and line, a hatchet, a pan to cook with and even some onions from her storebox. And before she knew it, they began to fall into familiar ways. Moss gathered wood and by the time Salter had a fish wriggling on the end of his line, the fire was lit and the pan was hot. That night they slept curled under the boat in their blankets.

When the birds woke them at daybreak, Moss insisted they pack up and move on straight away. They launched the boat back on to the river and Salter took the oars, while Moss settled back in her place at the front. Though she never took her eyes from the water, she saw nothing but riverweed and trout.

Before long the river grew wider. If there were coots or moorhens on this stretch, they didn’t show themselves. Once or twice Moss saw places where the grassy banks seemed to shrink from the water’s edge, pushed back by an oozing sludge. She caught glimpses of dead fish, slits of tarnished silver in the mud. And there was a smell. A rotten smell. Of dead things and fly-blown meat. A smell that had no place in a fresh, cold river.

They rowed all day, taking turns, sharing half a loaf of bread and some cheese, until their boat was gathered by the tug of the big river Thames as it swept past villages and towns towards London.

‘Can’t be more than twenty miles from the city now.’ Salter was rowing. It was almost sunset. ‘We’ll have to moor up somewhere soon.’

Moss dragged her gaze from the river and began looking up and down the banks for a good place to land. Through the branches of the tall oaks, she caught a flash of something bright. She stood up, craning her neck to get a better view.

‘Oi! Sit down!’

This broad sweep of river, it was familiar.

‘Just a minute. I think I know where we are.’

Lit by the October sun, a golden-turreted gatehouse rose above the trees.

‘Roll me in a barrel and drown me now!’ said Salter. ‘Ain’t that a sight.’

He steered the little boat round the wide river bend and there, spreading either side of the five-storey gatehouse, were the elegant brick walls of Hampton Court Palace.

‘Well, you can see why the King brings all his ladies down here. That is one fancy pile of bricks.’ Salter drew in the oars and let the boat glide with the current. ‘Ain’t this the place you told me you snuck into? Thieved a pigeon and a cloak if I remember right?’

‘I was desperate.’

‘Just like I always said. You learnt good that night, Little Miss Stealin-Ain’t-Right. Bread first, then morals.’

Moss rolled her eyes. It was true though. She’d never forget that feeling. So hungry, she’d have done almost anything to get her hands on some food. A different time. A frozen river. The palace covered in snow. She gazed at the high walls. How on earth had she managed it? She’d clambered through a kitchen window. There’d been hardly a guard in sight. Not like today. She stared at the line of armoured soldiers, pikestaffs pointing to the sky. The drover was right. King Henry was guarding his new queen as though she was made of glass.

As they drifted nearer, they could see there was quite a crowd gathered in front of the gatehouse. Moss could hear chatter and the cries of hawkers. The smell of spices and roast meat wafted on to the river.

‘Now that’s what I’m dreamin of, night in, night out.’ Salter licked his lips. ‘Warm gingerbread an’ mutton with the fat drippin down me chin.’

He dipped the oars back into the river, slowing the boat. ‘Why don’t we stop here? Just for a bit?’ He patted his pocket. ‘Got me three pennies. I’ll buy you a pie.’

‘Well,’ said Moss, ‘so long as we pay for it fair and square.’

‘What do you take me for?’ said Salter, grinning. ‘I’m an honest country boy now! All me rough edges hacked off good an’ proper.’

Somehow Moss doubted that was quite true, but she was hungry. And this was as good a place as any to try and find a field for the night.

Salter was hauling at the oars, but before he could turn the little boat towards the bank, a whip of current spun them around.

‘Whoah!’ he cried. ‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘Get off !’

‘What’s the problem?’

Salter was tugging at his left oar.

‘Somethin . . . somethin’s got me paddle!’

Moss crawled to the middle of the boat and grabbed the oar. She could feel it. Something was pulling from below.

Splash! The oar flew from their grasp and landed in the water.

‘Quick!’ Salter leant over the side, trying to rake the floating oar back towards the boat.

All around them the grey water was turning green.

‘Salter –’

Thick coils of snaking waterweed were circling the boat.

‘Salter, forget the oar –’

‘Hell’s Chickens! Where did all this weed come from?’

‘Salter! Forget the oar! Hold on!’

‘What?’ For a split second, he looked up at Moss and saw her shocked face. Then they both grabbed the sides of the boat.

It all happened so fast. The boat flipped over, slamming the pair of them into the river. Moss felt her back ram against the upturned seat. Twisting round, she grabbed the boat and held on as best she could, but it surged forward with a force strong enough to carve its way through boulders. Her eyes were blind in the rush of water. All she could hear was the roar of the river. She spluttered and shouted, but could not move, pinned as she was, arms wrapped round the seat, clinging and gasping, feeling her grip slackening and knowing that if she let go, she’d be snatched by the current and tumbled in its fists like a rag in a boilpot.

All at once, she felt a great weight bearing down on the top of the upturned boat. The water choked her throat. She spluttered and retched, then something knocked the wind from her chest and the tumbling water faded away.

Boom! Boom! BOOM!

Such a pounding her ears had never felt. A storm ripping through her head. Thunder and lightning exploding all around her, loud enough to burst her eyes from their sockets.

In her mouth, the taste of mud. Her cheek against something wet and slippery, her eyes gummed shut and her body battered. She rubbed the mud from her eyes and lifted her head. She was lying on shingle, the river lapping her feet. The air was clogged with smoke. The boat was nowhere to be seen. Just a few feet away lay Salter. On his back, mouth open, eyes closed.

Moss crawled towards him, her knees scraping on the stones. She reached out and touched his hand. It was cold. She pressed her ear to his chest, but against the pounding explosions in the night sky, she could hear nothing.

‘Salter . . .’ She rolled his body on to its side. It convulsed and she watched as he erupted in a fit of coughing. Salter opened his eyes and they widened at the deafening noise all around them.

‘Devil eat me breeches,’ he croaked, ‘What the hell is goin on?’ He was looking about, but they couldn’t see a thing. He sniffed the air.

‘I’d know that smell anywhere,’ he said.

‘What smell?’ All Moss could smell was smoke.

‘Salt-mud. Smell of the old river.’

‘What? Are you crazy?’ But as she spoke, a sudden wind blew the smoke away and she staggered to her feet, almost toppling backwards into the mud.

Rising like a cliff in front of her were the sheer and mighty walls of the Tower of London.

She could not speak. Her head throbbed and she swayed, staring with disbelief from the Tower to the river to Salter and back to the Tower.

Now she could see that the deafening explosions were coming from inside the Tower itself. Cannons. Volley after volley. And all along the river, bonfires were burning. Had they woken up in some great battle? Washed up on the shore, only to be trampled by the stamping horses of an invading army?

Then the cannons stopped. The last wisps of smoke drifted away and in their place came the sound of cheering and laughter.

‘Somethin’s goin on,’ Salter pulled her arm. ‘Come on, let’s get near one of them fires, dry ourselves out.’

Moss hitched the skirts of her waterlogged dress and followed Salter up the bank to where an enormous bonfire blazed, flames snapping at the night sky.

A crowd was gathered around the fire. Two men in velvet caps filled mugs from a barrel as fat as a pony.

‘Bring your mugs and your jugs!’ cried one of the men. ‘Fill them up and drink them down and be as merry as you please, this night of nights!’

‘City merchants givin out free beer?’ said Salter. ‘Has the world gone mad?’ He marched up to the men.

‘Beer for you, lad?’ said the red-cheeked merchant.

‘What’s the night, mister?’

The merchant seemed taken aback by Salter’s question. ‘Where’ve you been this day, lad? Snoring under a hay bale?’

‘It’s a long story,’ said Salter.

The merchant laughed and raised his mug. ‘The Queen has had her child. The King has a son! Long live the Prince! We toast his health and thank heaven and all the angels, for England’s throne has an heir at last!’

There was a huge cheer from the men and women around the bonfire. Mugs clanked and the merchants’ boys threw on more logs. Now the smoke had cleared, Moss could see that London Bridge was a blaze of torches. Men dangled from the arches waving their arms. Long flags fluttered from the rooftops and the whooping carried down the river. It seemed to her as if all London had come out to shout and sing for the new prince.

‘Come on,’ said Salter. ‘We need to look for the boat and our stuff before the tide takes it back.’

Moss looked at the black river doubtfully. But she knew he was right. If there was a chance they could find it, they had to try. A broken boat and two wet blankets were better than nothing at all.

They scrambled back to the water’s edge and worked their way up the shoreline, prodding and scouring. But all they found were bits of old crate, bricks and bones, coughed up by the tide.

‘This is hopeless.’ Moss turned from the river and stared up the shore. Not far off, slumped like a tired army in the mud, were the fishermen’s tumbledown huts.

Salter was shaking his head. ‘Where is it?’ he muttered.

‘Let’s face it, the boat’s gone,’ said Moss. ‘We need to find somewhere to sleep. Salter ?’

‘Here,’ he said. ‘It was here.’ He was dashing to and fro like a mouse that had lost its hole. ‘It was here. I swear on me old nan’s teeth.’

Then he stopped. Sniffed the air. And looked down. Now he was on his knees, scrabbling in the shingle.

‘Salter, what are you doing?’

He pulled a piece of charred wood from the stones. ‘The smoker . . .’ He took a few steps forward and blinked with disbelief, turning in a slow circle and looking at the ground. He was standing on what could only be described as a pile of broken sticks.

And then she understood.

‘Oh, Salter, I’m sorry –’

‘Me old shack. It’s gone.’

Moss stared helplessly at where Salter’s hut had been. Never much to look at from the outside, inside the shack had been snug as two cats. Now it was smashed to tinder. A heap of wood, barely enough for an hour’s blaze.

‘Salter,’ she said gently, ‘it can’t be helped. All those children on the riverbank, hungry and frozen. When they realised you weren’t coming back, they’d have taken what they could. Come on. You’d have done the same.’

‘Maybe I would,’ said Salter gruffly. ‘But you ain’t never built somethin with yer bare hands, only to find it pulled to pieces like a chicken from its bones . . . Wait a minute.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Cussin collops!’ He kicked at the ground, sending a spray of shingle into the river. ‘All me coins must’ve fallen out.’

No money, no blankets and no boat. At least there were fires on the shore. There was a chance they wouldn’t freeze to death. They traipsed back to the bonfire and sat huddled together, backs to the heat, as close as they could get without setting themselves alight. And Moss must have forgotten the cold, because at some point she felt her head fall gently against Salter’s shoulder.

In the distance, cries and cheers mixed with the hush of the waves.

‘You asleep, Leatherboots?’ murmured Salter.

She was too tired to reply. But as sleep came, she felt the lightest touch of something soft on her forehead.

CHAPTER SIX
Cat’s Head

A howling river wind woke Moss early next morning. She lifted her head and sat up. Salter was still asleep, propped against an empty beer barrel. She guessed he’d dragged it over to the fire to shield them from the wind. She stood up and shook out her dress. It was smoky and specked with ash, but the wool was bone-dry next to her skin. Silently she thanked Pa. Without a blanket or a groat to her name, this dress was all she’d got.

‘Arrggh.’ Salter groaned himself awake. He stretched and his neck cricked. ‘Sweet Harry’s achin bones! Feels like someone chopped me head off and put it back the wrong way.’

Moss didn’t hear him. She was already down by the water’s edge, walking along the shore. The strangeness of their river journey was fresh in her mind – snatched by a freak current and dumped right in front of the Tower.

‘Hey! Leatherboots! Wait for me!’

Salter caught her up. ‘Where are you goin?’

‘Back to where we pitched up last night.’

‘Won’t do no good. Tide’ll have taken the boat. Won’t be nothin to find now.’

‘I know. I just –’ She broke off. What could she say? She wasn’t going to tell him about the Riverwitch.

But Salter was distracted by something else. The grey river raked the shingle, leaving a sticky sludge in its wake.

‘Steer clear of that mud, Leatherboots,’ said Salter. ‘You never know how deep this stuff is. Maybe it’s just an inch or two, or maybe it’s sinkin mud.’

‘Sinking mud?’

‘Deep as a pit, thick as porridge – mud that’ll trap you an’ pull at yer boots an’ the more you struggle, the more stuck you get. Till you ain’t got the strength to even call out fer help. And when it knows you ain’t goin nowhere, that mud will suck you down. Cold an’ thick an’ pressin the life from yer lungs. An’ there ain’t a thing you can do but watch yerself get swallowed slow.’

Moss stopped walking. ‘That’s what it felt like. That day the fish jumped out and I got stuck.’

Salter nodded. ‘It’s evil stuff an’ no mistake, an’ you don’t go near it if you can help it.’

They were almost at Tower Wharf. A putrid smell crept past Moss’s nostrils.

‘Holy dogbits!’ Salter’s nose caught the wind. ‘That’s disgustin! I think I’m gonna gip.’

The closer they got to the Tower, the stronger the smell, until Moss’s eyes were watering.

‘Hold it, Leatherboots. What is that ?’

Salter was pointing at a messy object, half buried in the mud not five feet from where they walked.

‘Wouldn’t touch it if I was –’

Too late. Moss was crouching by the muddy object, trying not to retch on the foulness that clawed its way down her throat.

It was a ball of matted fur, caked with river mud and what looked like old blood. Moss grabbed a stick and poked at it, rolling it over slowly. The matted fur was odd-looking. Speckled with a strange pattern, though it wasn’t easy to see through all the mud. The ball tipped on its side.

‘Oh!’

Moss jumped back.

Two startled eyes stared up at her – huge and black-ringed, faded by death. A lolling tongue poked through four enormous fangs. It was the head of some poor dead animal. Washed up by the tide.

Salter was beside her now. He whistled. ‘That is one big cat. What’s it been feedin on? All the other cats in town?’

‘That’s no cat,’ said Moss.

‘Got cat ears,’ said Salter. ‘Got cat eyes. And I reckon them straw things plastered to its fur are whiskers.’

‘Look at its teeth,’ said Moss. ‘When did you last see a cat with fangs the size of parsnips?’

‘Well, what is it then?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Hey, what are you doin? Don’t touch that thing!’

Moss had lifted the head by the scruff of fur between its ears and was carrying it to the water’s edge. It was heavy. She swilled it in the grey water until the mud had rinsed off. Then she carried it back up the shingle and laid it down.

The creature’s head was covered in a strange pattern of round black patches, like a beautiful plague that spread from the line between its eyes across fawn-yellow fur.

‘It’s a good thing it’s dead,’ said Salter. ‘Those jaws would rip yer face off soon as look at you. Whatever that creature is, it ain’t from round here.’

At Salter’s words, something clicked inside Moss’s head and it filled with the memory of animal roars from long ago.

‘But it could be from round here.’

‘Eh?’

‘This creature. It could have come from the Tower.’

‘What? ’

‘From the Beast House.’

Salter nodded slowly. “I heard about that place. Wolves an’ snakes an’ weird birds, ain’t it?’

‘I only know what the Tower folk told me. That they are the King’s beasts. Rare and strange animals sent by the kings and queens of far away places.

‘You ever see em?’

‘No. I never went into the Beast House. Normal Tower folk weren’t allowed, only the keepers. On Execution days we’d walk right past and I’d hear the animals howling and roaring, but the keepers kept it locked.’

‘So,’ said Salter, ‘if you ain’t never seen em, what makes you think that mangy head is one of em? An’ even if it was, what’s it doin washed up on the shore?’

‘I don’t know.’

She stared up at the Tower. Its walls gave nothing away. Once these walls had encircled her whole world. Where she and Pa had lived almost her entire life. Stark and sheer, they blocked the sky. A howl echoed across the turrets, joined by another and another, as if the animals of the Beast House were crying out, trying to reach beyond the walls. Moss had never heard them howl like that in all the time she had lived in the Tower.

She looked down at the head of the beast. Its face was a frozen snarl. However this creature had died, she was pretty sure it hadn’t passed away peacefully in its sleep.

‘We’ll bury it,’ she said.

‘You what?’

‘It shouldn’t be here. We can’t leave it slopping in and out with the tide.’

Salter spent the next ten minutes grumbling while they scrabbled a hole in the shingle near the bank, deep enough to take the creature.

When the head was buried, Moss walked back to the mudline.

The rotten smell was still there. It was everywhere. In her hair, in her nose. She could taste it on her tongue. It was the smell of death and it hung around the Tower like a stinking fog.

‘Ready fer breakfast?’

‘Not really. Anyway, we’ve no food. Or money.’

There was a flicker in Salter’s eye. Tiny. But Moss caught it.

‘Salter, no.’

‘What?’ He laughed. ‘You don’t even know what I’m plannin!’

‘And I don’t want to know.’

‘Look, I ain’t lyin to you. It’s a scam all right. But it only takes from the pockets of them that can afford a groat or two. Nothin big. Nothin fancy. We won’t get caught. All you need to do is –’

‘No. Just . . . no. We’ve been in London one night and already you’re talking about thieving ?’

‘You got a better idea? Unless you want to turn round an’ walk back to the village right now?’

She didn’t.

Right now they needed food and a place to sleep. Surely there must be someone who’d give them shelter. Just for a night or two.

‘You lived on the river long enough,’ said Moss, ‘You must know somewhere we can go?’

‘Ain’t no one I can ask,’ said Salter. ‘It’s every man, woman and child fer themselves in this city. Ain’t no one who’ll take us in without a groat to show fer ourselves.’

‘Wait a minute,’ said Moss. In her memory, a thought stirred. A name from the past. She’d never met him, but Salter had talked about him. A boy. Someone Salter went to for . . . well, she wasn’t quite sure what he went to him for. But she remembered that he had helped Salter once, maybe twice.

‘Eel-Eye Jack!’ she cried. That was his name.

Salter’s brow creased.

‘Eel-Eye Jack,’ said Moss.

‘I heard you the first time. What about him?’

‘He’s your friend, isn’t he?’

‘Eel-Eye Jack ain’t no friend.’

‘You know what I mean. He helped you didn’t he? Helped you find me when I went to Hampton that winter.’

‘Eel-Eye Jack don’t help people.’

‘Oh, come on, Salter. We can ask him for a bed and a bit of food, just enough for a few days.’

‘No.’

‘What do you mean no?’

‘I mean no pussin way. I mean Eel-Eye Jack ain’t the kind to be askin favours from.’

‘Salter, don’t be ridiculous. We’ll find a way to pay him back.’

‘I’m serious. I ain’t never been in debt to Eel Eye Jack. Done all me business on an equal foot. An’ there’s good reason for that. When he calls in his favours, you don’t know what he’ll ask.’

‘What are you afraid of, Salter?’ Moss could feel the heat rising in her throat. ‘You don’t want to ask for help? Is that it? You take care of yourself, let others take care of themselves. You’d lie and steal rather than ask a friend for help.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘So prove it.’

Silence. She was up close to Salter. Close enough to see the trouble in the brown eyes that were gazing straight into hers.

She blinked. They both stepped back.

Salter kicked the shingle. ‘All right. Have it your way. Just remember, he ain’t my friend. An’ whatever you think, he won’t be no friend to you neither.’

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