wasn’t going anywhere. That was obvious.
She saw his eyes flicker through the slits in his hood and there was a cheer as he took out the blindfold. She watched Sir Thomas push a pouch of coins into his hands. It was the custom of course, but she hated that Pa took it. Money for a good death. Make it quick. Make it painless. Pay and pray.
She fixed her eyes on the straw. Spread in a wide arc around the block, it would soon be soaking in wine-dark blood. Behind her the crowd hushed, looking on hungrily as Sir Thomas let Pa guide his neck into position.
The hill held its breath.
Pa raised his axe.
With a single blow, it hit the block. Clean. Just like always.
The crowd exhaled. From inside the Tower a cannon fired and a cloud of white doves fluttered over the turrets, their heads dyed red. Everyone gasped. It was all Moss could do to stop herself throwing up.
On the scaffold Pa stood over the slumped body of Sir Thomas, wiping his axe on the sack. That was her cue.
She thumped the basket on the ground. The Lieutenant plucked Sir Thomas’s dripping head from the straw and lobbed it over the edge of the scaffold, where it landed with a whack in the basket. The crowd went wild.
Moss picked up the basket. Pa was by her side now. She couldn’t look at him. Instead she concentrated on getting down the hill without stumbling. She was glad of the distraction and tried not to notice Sir Thomas’s unmoving eyes, rolled forever to the sky.
‘I’m not touching that thing, so don’t even bother to ask!’
‘Leave the axe then, just help me with the broadswords –’
But Moss wasn’t listening. She clomped out of the forge, slammed the door and kicked the water bucket hard, sending a spray of drops into the bitter morning air. It was freezing. Even for January. Fog every night, frost every morning, with a chill that Moss couldn’t shake from her bones.
Six months had passed since the beheading of Sir Thomas. A bloody summer, a miserable autumn and a long, cold winter that wasn’t over yet.
It was barely dawn, but already the people of the Tower were up and busy. Stable lads were trundling oat barrels over the courtyard and kitchen girls bickered as they carried breakfast to the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. From the open shutter behind her came the rasp of bellows, breathing life into the fire. When he wasn’t chopping heads on the hill, Pa worked as Tower blacksmith. The little stone forge where they lived was set apart from the bigger buildings of the Tower. Huddled against the East Wall like a cornered mouse, it had been Moss’s home for as long as she could remember.
‘Moss! Come inside! Now!’
She shivered. A fog was rolling in from the river, curling over the high walls, fingers poking through the cold stone turrets. Tower folk crossed themselves when the river fog came. It was a silent creeper. A hider. A veil for the unseen things. Things that might crawl from the water. From the black moat, or from the swirling river that slipped and slid its way through London, treacherous as a snake. But whatever it was that made them afraid, it had never shown itself to Moss. The fog didn’t scare her.
‘Moss!’
She gave the bucket another kick.
‘Will you come in?’
She sighed and dragged herself back through the forge door. Inside, Pa was polishing the axe.
‘Bread and cheese for you on the table.’
‘I’m not hungry.’
Pa turned the axe, rubbing oil into the blade. It was his little ritual and he did it every morning.
‘When there’s food on the table, you should eat.’
Moss said nothing. What was there to say? This was her life and she just had to accept it. Pa was the Tower Executioner. She was his helper. They were prisoners and this was pretty much it, because they were never getting out. She’d asked Pa a thousand times how they’d ended up in the Tower. Each time she got the same gruff reply. Pa had been a blacksmith. And then a soldier. Accused of killing a man in his regiment, he and Ma had gone on the run. They’d hidden in a river, where the shock of the icy water sent Ma into labour.
‘If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I would never have believed it,’ Pa had said. ‘It was a miracle. You swam from your mother until your fingers broke the surface. Then you held on to me with those fierce little fists. And I didn’t let go.’
Of course, the soldiers got Pa in the end. And he would have been executed there and then had it not been for his captain. Pa was the captain’s finest swordsman. His kills were clean and accurate. And rather than waste such a talent, the captain wanted to put it to good use. For he was William Kingston, the new Lieutenant of the Tower of London. And he wanted Pa to be his Executioner.
That was all Pa would say. Every time Moss begged him to tell her more, he clammed up. ‘Your mother died on the day you were born. We’re prisoners now. End of story.’
But how could it be the end, thought Moss? Out there was a river and a city. Beyond that were fields. And beyond the fields were places she could only dream about. Places she would go one day.
She stared at Pa, and coiled the end of one of her tangle-curls round her finger. Rub rub. His knuckles were white, working the axe blade to a blinding shine. There was less than a week to go until he’d use that axe again. Moss felt her stomach sink to her boots. She wished she were anywhere but here.
‘Armourer’s keeping us busy today,’ said Pa. ‘Longswords and broadswords. Two boxes. Rusted and broken. Need to get that fire really hot. More wood from the pile . . .’ He stopped. There was a boy standing in the doorway. Moss had seen him before. He worked in the kitchens.
‘What do you want?’ said Pa gruffly.
‘Cook says she’s short-handed. Needs an extra body to fetch and carry fer the prisoners. Says to bring the basket girl.’
Pa hesitated. ‘We’re busy in here today.’
The boy cocked his head to one side. ‘You ever seen Mrs Peak angry? Got a temper hot as a bunch of burnin faggots. If she says bring the basket girl, that’s what I’m doin.’
‘Well, it’s not a good time –’
‘Forget it, Pa, I’m going,’ said Moss. Anything was better than being stuck in the forge with a father who chopped off heads. She was out of the door before he could stop her.
‘Frost is here! Ice is coming! And devil knows what crawling from the river! Close that door, you little scrag-end!’
Moss was quick enough to duck the blow from Mrs Peak’s fist.
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas? Take this soup up to the Abbot and be quick about it or I’ll cut off yer ears and boil them for stock!’
Moss looked around eagerly. She’d never set foot in the kitchen before. Never spoken to a cook or a spit boy. Never carried a meal across the courtyard. But this was a chance, wasn’t it? To be one of them? A kitchen girl. Not a basket girl.
A