Читать книгу The Executioner's Daughter - Jane Hardstaff - Страница 9

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.’