Jane Hardstaff - River Daughter

‘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.