The Executioner's Daughter. Jane Hardstaff

pitched upwards to shadowy streets where dogs barked and people cried out. Down on the shore, it was strangely silent. Just the lap of the incoming tide and the call of boatmen, snatched by the wind. She edged closer to the waterline. Here, the mud was thick and the stones fewer, and though her toes were ready to drop off, Moss savoured the squelch between them. She let the gentle waves wash over her feet.

      Crash! Moss found herself thrown backwards. A freak wave threw up a fistful of shingle, whipping her bare ankles. She was on her knees, stumbling to her feet. A noise like laughter tinkled from the water’s edge. The shingle rattled, settling back down, raked by the waves. All the same, she retreated from the waterline and hurried as fast as she could back to the wharf. She waded underneath. The water was deeper, much deeper than it had been, and she could see waves sloshing into the tunnel through the gap. She would have to be quick.

      Heaving herself up through the hole, Moss dropped back into the tunnel. The water was up to her armpits. She hesitated. Outside she heard the tinkling laughter again. Stop it, she told herself. It’s only the river. But as she waded back through the tunnel, her head swirled with the memory of the drowned woman.

      ‘It’s just the river,’ she said out loud. Her words echoed down the tunnel. ‘I’m not afraid.’

      Well, perhaps you should be, girl. Somewhere inside her head, Nell’s cloudy-eyed warning echoed back. The rivers are hers, not ours. Foolish is the one who forgets the song of the river.

      It was a tough climb back up to the garderobe drop, frozen fingers slipping, sodden dress dragging every step of the way. By the time Moss reached the garderobe door, the last chimes of the Tower’s curfew bell were ringing. She crept up the steps. The yard was empty, so she scurried through the arch to Tower Green, ready to sprint round the White Tower to the forge.

      ‘Hello, basket girl.’

      A thick arm swiped her off her feet, then dragged her backwards into the stables, shoving her into the hay. The bulk of Two-Bellies stood over her, his red face redder than usual.

      ‘Think you’re so clever? Think you’re so funny?’

      Moss cast around wildly, wet clothes forgotten. There was only one way out and it was blocked. She glared up at Two-Bellies.

      ‘Let me guess. I ruined your best boots?’

      ‘Don’t cheek me, basket scum.’

      ‘What have I got to lose? You’re going to beat me up anyway.’

      He lunged, but Moss rolled, dodging his swiping fists. She was up on her feet, whip-quick, jumping from the hay.

      ‘You can run but you can’t hide, forge rat.’

      ‘Come and get me then.’

      Two-Bellies picked up a broom and advanced, blocking any hope of her sprinting to the door. He spread his arms wide, grabbing each end of the broom handle, herding her into the corner.

      ‘Like catching a chicken, see? And when I’ve got you, I’m going to wring your neck.’

      Moss sidestepped another lunge and in the split second of his unbalance, she darted under his waving arm. There was a whoosh of air and a crack as the broom made contact with her back. Moss was on her knees. Without a moment’s hesitation, Two-Bellies grabbed her neck and shoved her head into a water butt. Now the fists were pushing her down, holding her under until the brown water made her eyes smart.

      No breath. The fist was on her neck. Moss felt her chest start to spasm. How many chokes before her lungs filled up? She tried to wriggle from his grip. Her head turned and through the water she saw Two-Bellies’ raging face. His fist pressed harder. Her lungs were exploding. Suddenly she was seized by a paralysing terror. He was actually trying to drown her. After everything that had happened that day . . . finding the tunnel, surviving the wild river, only to be drowned by a meat-faced bully on her own doorstep. And that was the moment when Moss knew what she needed to do. She let herself go limp. The hand on her neck relaxed. Then she struck, jabbing both elbows hard into his chest. Two-Bellies howled and let go, giving Moss time to whip her head out of the water and spring to her feet.

      Two-Bellies picked up his broom.

      ‘Come on then! You want some, basket scum?’

      Not good. He was still between Moss and the door.

      Two-Bellies walked towards her, holding the broom like a quarterstaff.

      Definitely not good.

      Then instinct took over. It happened so quickly, Moss could barely believe what she’d done. One minute Two-Bellies was yelling and swinging his staff. The next she had stuck out her leg, tripped him over his own weapon and tipped him head first into the water butt. And for a moment, there he lodged, legs waggling.

      Sprinting through the door, Moss swept her eyes across the yard. On the far side, Mrs Peak was bawling at a couple of kitchen boys who’d dropped a tray of quails on the cobbles. From the stables came a crash followed by a full-throated roar.

      ‘Nnnaarrgghhhh!’

      In a panic, Moss realised Two-Bellies would be out of the stables before she’d had time to run across the Green. She had to hide somewhere, quickly!

      She slipped round the corner and through an open door. Inside was a narrow passage and some stairs. She shot up the stairs and along a corridor. She had no idea where she was, but she didn’t care. She just had to find somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter so long as Two-Bellies couldn’t find her.

      There were voices coming up the stairs. Moss spotted a door halfway along the corridor, wide open. She poked her head in. The room was empty and silent. All she could hear was the spitting of tallow candles. She darted inside. At one end was a table, spread with a cloth. On the table were dishes piled high with creamy white manchet loaves, their sweet smell mixing with the smoky fat of the burning tallow.

      ‘Lord help us! Have your heads gone to mince?’ Mrs Peak’s bellow filled the corridor, getting louder as she approached. ‘Do you think the Duke likes his quails cold? Put those birds next to that brawn and get a bleedin move on!’

      Quick as a cat, Moss dived under the table. There she crouched, stifling her gasping breaths, aware that the stench of the garderobe rose from her like a fog. From behind the cloth, she peeped out and hoped the smoking tallow would mask her stink.

      Then Mrs Peak was in the room, flapping her apron at the kitchen boys. ‘Be quick with you! The guvnor is coming! The Duke of Norfolk with him! And when they get here, I daresay they won’t want to be gawping at your ugly mugs!’

      Moss heard the boys fumbling with their dishes. There was a scuffling as they retreated and a ‘Thank you, sirs’. Now she heard the clack-clack of well-heeled boots entering the room. The door slammed.