Jane Hardstaff - The Executioner's Daughter

‘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.’