picked up her bucket and tiptoed up the steps. Carefully prising the soft boots from his feet, she tipped a dollop of foul slops into each. She allowed herself a smile. It was the little things that made life worth living.
There was no point hanging around until Two-Bellies woke up. Leaving the filthy bucket on the steps, she went back down to get the shovel. As she picked it up, she slipped on the slimy floor, sending the shovel clanging against the wall. She winced, waiting for the echo to stop. But as she stooped to pick up the shovel again, she noticed a fist-sized gap in the wall where it had knocked out a brick.
Moss squatted down. A draught hissed across her cheek and she put her hands to the gap, plugging the sharp breath of wind. That was strange. Where was the wind coming from? She leant on one of the large wall stones above the gap and it moved. Curious, she pressed the full weight of her shoulder against it. Without too much resistance, the stone swivelled and she found herself peering into blackness.
Moss wriggled her head and shoulders through the hole. She was looking into some sort of enclosed space. Gradually, her eyes got used to the dark and she could see it was a small chamber, lined with rough stone. Where the floor should have been was the gaping dark of what looked like a very steep drop.
What was this place? She peered down. Just darkness. A well perhaps?
She turned back to the garderobe drop. Then looked back at the chamber. What harm would it do just to take a peep? Quickly she picked up the shovel and carried it outside. Two-Bellies was still snoring at the top of the steps. She placed the shovel next to the bucket. He would wake and think she’d scarpered.
Guided by the draught, Moss groped her way to the hole and eased herself through, clinging to the stonework, feet scrabbling for a foothold.
One. Two. Her feet found gaps, just big enough for a boot. Three. Four. Her hands followed. Down she went. Slowly. Deeper and deeper. The walls around her pressed in, echoing with the scrape of her boots. The air was cold, getting colder with every step. And the walls were wet. Slimed with green, like the riverweed that clung to the stone steps at Traitors’ Gate. How far down was she now? Maybe twenty steps? Wherever she was, she must be deep in the foundations of the Tower. At least she wouldn’t get lost. The only way was down. Or up.
Her boot squelched into mud and she supposed this must be the bottom. She planted both her feet in the mud carefully, making sure she was on solid ground before letting go of the wall. Funny, it didn’t seem so dark here.
She turned. Ahead of her, specks of light pricked the blackness. She squinted at the light. The specks seemed to be coming from the end of a long, dark passage. What was this place? Somewhere so old and forgotten that it could have come from one of Nell’s stories.
Now what? Go back? Tell Pa? Or go on? By herself.
She peered down the passage into the darkness. Her heart clanged against her chest.
From somewhere came a sound. Far away. Like the soft rattle of leaves at the top of a tree. It tugged at something deep inside Moss. She pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was still hammering. But the noise was pulling her.
She bent her head and stepped forward.
The roof of the passage was low. Several times she banged her head. Mud and water sloshed round her boots. The light was distant and grey, but it was enough to follow. Moss ran her fingers over the walls. They were earth and rock. She hardly noticed the flints in the mud as they nicked her thin-soled boots. The noise was louder now and there was a rhythm to it. Like breathing. It mixed with the short gasps that stuck in her throat. Excitement. Fear. She didn’t know what. All she could think about was getting to the end of the passage. The further she went, the brighter the specks of light became.
Moss stopped, feeling rock ahead of her. She looked up. There was a shaft of brightness coming from above. She scrambled up towards it and gripped the rough walls, pulling herself on to a ledge a few feet above the base of the tunnel. In front of her was a hole blocked with large stones, grey light filtering through.
Carefully, Moss dislodged the stones. She stuck her head out of the hole and almost tumbled backwards. Above her were the creaking planks of a wharf. And through the murky half-light was a band of shimmering silver, spreading as far as she could see.
It was the river. She could hardly believe it. She was outside the Tower. She was . . . free.
Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might burst from her chest. The passage was a tunnel ? A tunnel from the garderobe drop all the way under the moat to the riverbank.
Moss was shaking now, her ears pounding with blood and crazy, mixed-up thoughts. For years she’d listened to Nell’s tales. Of ghosts and witches and old passageways and siege tunnels dug by fearful kings. And she’d never known whether to believe the tales or not. Of course, Pa had scorned them. They were just stories dribbled from an old lady’s lips. But this tunnel was real. As real as the mud beneath her feet.
She was free.
On her lips, the tang of salt and riverweed. The sweetest thing she’d ever tasted.
Moss looked around. She could wade out from under the wharf and, if the water wasn’t too deep, make it along the wharf ’s edge to the bank. She could see that the tunnel would probably be flooded at high tide, which would account for all the water and mud. She reckoned she had an hour, maybe two, before it flooded again. Her head was bursting and all the while she felt a tug-tug, deep inside, drawing her to the river. She had never been this close to it. Before she was even aware of what she was doing, Moss had hitched up her dress, crawled through the hole and dropped into the water.
It wasn’t very deep at all. She waded swiftly, enjoying the tingle of icy water as it rinsed round her boots. With a few strides she was out from under the wharf. The water was deeper here, up to her thighs. Beyond the wharf, she could see waves lashing the shingle bank, peeling back in a snarl of froth. The wind was picking up and she felt the pull of the current now, tearing at her legs. Her boots were slipping on the shingle bed. She stumbled and steadied herself. The current was strong.
She carried on wading, the murky water driving against her body. She staggered as her foot struck something large. And at that same moment, her legs were whipped from under her and she stumbled sideways, flailing into the deeper water of the river.
Instantly a fist of current snatched her under.
She felt her body barrel under the waves, over and over, cracking her head on something hard. She tried to open her eyes, but all she could see was a wall of dark. Panicking for breath, she gulped and felt saltwater fill her lungs, while useless legs thrashed against the flow that towed her as easily as a piece of rope. Her head was numb in the freezing river. She was seeing things now. Dizzy, flickering pictures, of Pa raising his axe, Two-Bellies leering at her, the swirling crowd on the hill. Then the images sank away, deep down into the silt, and Moss was bursting, her chest a choked balloon of salty water. Which way was up? Which was down? Both were gone, dissolved in the hideous pull that sucked her into darkness. That was when she saw the face.
A woman. Her hair wispy and coiling, like smoke. A pale, frozen face, lit by strange eyes, with no expression, no smile or frown. Around her, seaweed fanned out. Her bare arms reached up towards Moss. A poor drowned soul, lost to the river. And Moss knew, sure as rotten teeth on a rich man, that she would soon be joining her. The suck of the current stopped. She felt her dress billow as her feet tipped upwards.
Without