burned, the people liked nothing better than to stand around and watch. Preferably while eating a pie. But you couldn’t beat a good beheading. That’s what the Tower folk said. Up on the scaffold was someone rich. Someone important. Maybe even a Royal. That’s what people came for. Royal blood. Blood that glittered as it sprayed the crowd. It made Moss feel sick just thinking about it.
‘Moss!’
Pa was calling. She could hear his cries below, faint among the bustle on Tower Green.
‘Moss, MOSS!’
He’d be panicking by now. Well, let him panic. She’d sit tight. She’d wait. With luck, he wouldn’t find her. Judging by the rats’ nest in the fireplace, no one had used this turret for months. No prisoners, no guards and no one to find a girl somewhere she shouldn’t be.
Moss scraped her tangle-hair out of the way and pushed her freckle-face to the narrow gap. Up here, she was ten trees tall. She could see everything. On one side Tower Hill. On the other the river. And, in between, the Tower of London, planted like a giant’s fist in the middle of a deep moat, lookouts knuckled on all corners. It was said that the Tower was strong enough to keep out a thousand armies. Bounded by two massive walls, it guarded the city, arrow-slit eyes trained on the river. It was a fortress, a castle and a prison. Moss had lived here all her life. And in the summer the reek of the moat made it stink like a dead dog’s guts.
‘Moss!’
Pa’s voice was closer.
‘MOSS!’
Too late she heard his feet pounding up the twist of steps. Now there was no way out. She scowled and scrunched herself into a corner.
‘Are you up there?’
‘No! Go away!’
His face appeared in the doorway, full of frown.
‘What are you playing at? Don’t do this to me, Moss.’
‘I’m not doing anything.’
‘You know what day it is. Come on. It’s time.’ He stood over Moss, his bear-like frame blocking the light.
What choice did she have? She dragged herself to her feet and followed him down the winding staircase, all the way to the ground. The basket was waiting for her at the foot of the steps.
‘Take it and get behind me.’ Pa thrust the basket into her arms and picked up his axe.
A blast of trumpets screeched from the high walls. Everyone stopped what they were doing. The Armoury door yawned wide; two hundred soldiers poured out and marched across the courtyard to the gates.
Pa pulled the black hood over his face. Moss knew what was coming. All around them, people shrank back. Some shuddered, some crossed themselves. Some turned their heads as though a foul stench pricked their noses. Moss could have cried with shame. But what good would that do? So she stared at her boots, trying to shut out the whispers.
Stay back . . . The Executioner . . . the basket girl . . . don’t go near them. They touch death.
‘Come on,’ said Pa and yanked her into the march of the procession.
Over the walls of the Lion Tower came the howl of animals in the Beast House. Moss had never seen the beasts, but their roars echoed over Tower Green every time the bell was rung, or the cannons fired, or on a day like today when the shouts from the hill stirred them in their cages.
The procession marched on. Over the narrow moatbridge to the great gate. Once more the fanfare blasted from the turrets and the portcullis was raised. Moss was knocked back by the roar of the crowd. She dropped her basket, covering her ears.
‘Pick it up,’ said Pa. His voice was flat.
‘Pa, all these people . . . there must be twice as many as last time.’
‘Just walk.’
She walked, following the slow line of soldiers up the muddy path of Tower Hill. All around her the crowd heaved and pushed, and those that weren’t complaining cried out their business.
‘Carvings, carvings. Last true likeness of a condemned man!’
‘Tragic Tom on a tankard! A little piece of history to take home!’
‘Ladies and gents! The Ballad of Poor Sir Tom! Cry like a baby or yer money back!’
Moss hurried on beside Pa. They were nearly at the top of the hill. And though the crowd pressed her from all sides, she caught a glimpse of the sprawling city beyond. It was smoke and shadows, dark as a cellar. A mystery. A place she would never go. Her world was the Tower. And the only time she set foot outside its walls was the slow walk to the scaffold on Execution Days.
She glanced across at Pa. His hooded head was bowed, just like always. His axe held respectfully by his side, just like always. And, just like always, it made Moss cringe.
‘Out of the way, you wretches!’ Soldiers were shoving the front row, who shoved viciously back. ‘Make way for the Lord Lieutenant of the Tower!’
Lieutenant William Kingston. Doublet drawn tight round his girdled waist, chest puffed, savouring every step of his slow walk up the hill. He was a man with an eye to a title. That’s what people said. In the space of a month, he had organised the executions of three monks and a bishop. It seemed to Moss as though the whole of London flocked to the hill. To see the monks dragged to Tyburn. To see Bishop Fisher’s head roll. And today the beheading of the man who was once the King’s best friend. Sir Thomas More. No wonder people were calling it ‘the Bloody Summer’.
She felt the crowd surge forward and she struggled to stay in line while the soldiers pushed them back. The Lieutenant bowed low. His guests had arrived, sweeping towards the bank of seats by the scaffold. There was the tight-lipped man who came to every execution. Next to him another man, straight-nosed, eyes like stones. In front of them both was a lady, her face hidden, shrouded in a cloak of deep blue velvet. And now whispers were stirring in the crowd.
The Queen . . . Queen Anne Boleyn is watching . . .
Anne Boleyn. The Firecracker Queen. She’d come from nowhere. Dazzled the King and blown a country apart. People didn’t like her, Moss knew that. She’d stayed in the Tower once. The night before her coronation. And though Moss hadn’t seen the Queen herself, she’d heard plenty of tongues clacking. They said that her clothes were too showy. Her manners too French. That she was an upstart who didn’t know her place.
Moss took a good look. Was that really her? The velvet cloak, too heavy for summer, weighed down her small frame. She didn’t look much like a firecracker, thought Moss. More like a broken twig. Her movements seemed fragile. Hiding under the shadow of her cloak, her face was anxious. And when the stone-eyed man said something in her ear, she flinched.
Now the drum was beating. The Yeomen were coming. Forcing their way up the path to the hill, bright in their red and yellow livery.
Moss peered round Pa to get a better look. The Yeomen were bunched in a tight wall around the prisoner, but there he was. Slow as an old bull in the July heat. Sir Thomas More was a good man, people said. A devout man. But King Henry the Eighth had no time for goodness or devotion if it didn’t get him what he wanted. And Moss wondered at how quickly the King’s best friend could become his bitterest enemy, with all of London jostling for a glimpse of his death.
In the Tower the bell began to toll. Moss clutched her basket.
It was time.
All around her the crowd was pressing.
On the scaffold Pa was waiting.
Sir Thomas climbed the steps, his white cotton gown laced loosely about his neck. White so the blood would show. And at that moment, Moss wished so desperately that Pa would lay down his axe. Punch a soldier. Leap off the scaffold, grab her and dive into the crowd. Let