Читать книгу The Executioner's Daughter - Jane Hardstaff - Страница 10
ОглавлениеMoss 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.
