Jane Hardstaff - The Executioner's Daughter

‘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?’