Читать книгу The Executioner's Daughter - Jane Hardstaff - Страница 7
Оглавление‘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.
