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?’
‘One escape. One. In a hundred years.’
‘I know, I know. But isn’t it worth a try?’
Pa shook his head. ‘And risk getting caught? Hanged? It may be a half-life in here, but at least it’s a life.’
‘But –’
‘Let it go, Moss. Trust me. There’s no way out.’
Moss sat on the cobbles, tying her boots as best she could with a broken lace. She had already done her breakfast duties. Now the white winter sun burned away the frost.
Inside the forge, Pa was up, pumping the bellows.
‘Where are you going?’ he called through the open door.
‘Nowhere.’
‘Well, don’t be too long. Don’t go leaning over any walls – do you hear me?’
‘No.’
‘And stay away from Traitors’ Gate. Those steps are slippery. I don’t want you falling into the moat. It’s deep when the tide is in. Are you listening?’
‘No! I’m NOT listening. Because you never listen to me. And because you say the same old things, EVERY SINGLE TIME!’
She heard the bellows stop. Pa appeared in the doorway. He looked pale. Or maybe it was just ash from the fire. She glared at him.
‘Stay away from people. Stay away from the moat. Stay away from the river. This wretched place is bad enough, but you make it worse!’ She was gone before he could stop her.
The Green was quiet. Just a stable boy filling the troughs. It was a bright, fogless day. Over the walls drifted the sounds of the river. Gulls screeching. Men calling. The groan of ships.
Moss made up her mind. Just one quick look. Never mind Pa.
She darted through the arch towards Traitors’ Gate and scoped the South Wall. The guard had his back to her and was making his slow march along the battlements towards the Cradle Tower. Perfect.
Moss was soon up the steps and scooting along the battlements. She found her spot and wedged her boot into a hole where the wall had worn away. With a push she launched her head and shoulders. Her heart soared. It was here she had the best view of the great River Thames.
Moss leant out as far as she dared, feeling the freedom of the air above and the river below. For a few moments she was blinded by the water, a plate of dazzling silver that threw the sun back into the sky. Then a forest of sails came into focus and she drank in the sight of the river at work. Three-masted ships and hefty barges ploughed stubbornly upriver. Painted Venetian galleys jostled oars for a place at the quay. And dodging among them like a swarm of flies were the watermen in their flat little boats, ferrying passengers from bank to bank. How many times had Moss wondered how different her life could have been? If she’d been one of the children down there on the wharf, fetching and carrying for the traders. Bet none of their baskets had heads in.
Moss squinted at London Bridge in the distance. It was almost a town in itself, piled crazily with buildings from one end to the other. It blocked the passage of the wide river, sucking the water through its arches with a force that would rip a tree from its roots.
A flash of red and yellow on the bridge caught her eye. Yeomen. At the Drawbridge Gate. It didn’t take a genius to work out what they were up to. A small crowd was gathering. Sure enough there was a cheer as the head of a traitor was unpicked from its spike and tossed into the river. Moss inhaled the salt air and turned away. The outside world was as cruel as the Tower. But more than anything, she longed to be a part of it.
At the other end of the wall, the guard was about to turn. Quickly, Moss made her way back to the steps and scrambled down, leaping the last few on to the cobbles.
A hand grabbed her by the scruff of her dress.
‘Naughty naughty.’
Two-Bellies jerked her round, an unpleasant grin on his face. ‘What’s a dirty little rat like you doing up on the battlements?’
‘Trying to get away from the stink of you.’
‘Stink, is it? Well, I’ve got a job that’ll shut that mouth of yours. Unless you want me to tell the guard you were walking his wall?’
Moss glared at him.
‘Thought not,’ sneered Two-Bellies. He dragged her along the cobbled path towards the garderobe drop and shoved her down the steps. ‘Toilet needs a clean. Off you go.’
Moss had to give him credit. He was organised enough to throw a bucket and shovel after her.
The smell in the garderobe drop was eye-wateringly bad. A low pit underneath the Lieutentant’s Lodgings, it was ten feet from the toilet holes above. Whatever came hurtling down ended spattered halfway back up the brickwork. Seeing she had no choice, Moss dumped the bucket at one end and began scraping the walls.
Half an hour later, Two-Bellies had grown tired of laughing at Moss and had fallen asleep at the top of the steps. Inside the drop,