place at the front. Though she never took her eyes from the water, she saw nothing but riverweed and trout.
Before long the river grew wider. If there were coots or moorhens on this stretch, they didn’t show themselves. Once or twice Moss saw places where the grassy banks seemed to shrink from the water’s edge, pushed back by an oozing sludge. She caught glimpses of dead fish, slits of tarnished silver in the mud. And there was a smell. A rotten smell. Of dead things and fly-blown meat. A smell that had no place in a fresh, cold river.
They rowed all day, taking turns, sharing half a loaf of bread and some cheese, until their boat was gathered by the tug of the big river Thames as it swept past villages and towns towards London.
‘Can’t be more than twenty miles from the city now.’ Salter was rowing. It was almost sunset. ‘We’ll have to moor up somewhere soon.’
Moss dragged her gaze from the river and began looking up and down the banks for a good place to land. Through the branches of the tall oaks, she caught a flash of something bright. She stood up, craning her neck to get a better view.
‘Oi! Sit down!’
This broad sweep of river, it was familiar.
‘Just a minute. I think I know where we are.’
Lit by the October sun, a golden-turreted gatehouse rose above the trees.
‘Roll me in a barrel and drown me now!’ said Salter. ‘Ain’t that a sight.’
He steered the little boat round the wide river bend and there, spreading either side of the five-storey gatehouse, were the elegant brick walls of Hampton Court Palace.
‘Well, you can see why the King brings all his ladies down here. That is one fancy pile of bricks.’ Salter drew in the oars and let the boat glide with the current. ‘Ain’t this the place you told me you snuck into? Thieved a pigeon and a cloak if I remember right?’
‘I was desperate.’
‘Just like I always said. You learnt good that night, Little Miss Stealin-Ain’t-Right. Bread first, then morals.’
Moss rolled her eyes. It was true though. She’d never forget that feeling. So hungry, she’d have done almost anything to get her hands on some food. A different time. A frozen river. The palace covered in snow. She gazed at the high walls. How on earth had she managed it? She’d clambered through a kitchen window. There’d been hardly a guard in sight. Not like today. She stared at the line of armoured soldiers, pikestaffs pointing to the sky. The drover was right. King Henry was guarding his new queen as though she was made of glass.
As they drifted nearer, they could see there was quite a crowd gathered in front of the gatehouse. Moss could hear chatter and the cries of hawkers. The smell of spices and roast meat wafted on to the river.
‘Now that’s what I’m dreamin of, night in, night out.’ Salter licked his lips. ‘Warm gingerbread an’ mutton with the fat drippin down me chin.’
He dipped the oars back into the river, slowing the boat. ‘Why don’t we stop here? Just for a bit?’ He patted his pocket. ‘Got me three pennies. I’ll buy you a pie.’
‘Well,’ said Moss, ‘so long as we pay for it fair and square.’
‘What do you take me for?’ said Salter, grinning. ‘I’m an honest country boy now! All me rough edges hacked off good an’ proper.’
Somehow Moss doubted that was quite true, but she was hungry. And this was as good a place as any to try and find a field for the night.
Salter was hauling at the oars, but before he could turn the little boat towards the bank, a whip of current spun them around.
‘Whoah!’ he cried. ‘What was that?’
‘What?’
‘Get off !’
‘What’s the problem?’
Salter was tugging at his left oar.
‘Somethin . . . somethin’s got me paddle!’
Moss crawled to the middle of the boat and grabbed the oar. She could feel it. Something was pulling from below.
Splash! The oar flew from their grasp and landed in the water.
‘Quick!’ Salter leant over the side, trying to rake the floating oar back towards the boat.
All around them the grey water was turning green.
‘Salter –’
Thick coils of snaking waterweed were circling the boat.
‘Salter, forget the oar –’
‘Hell’s Chickens! Where did all this weed come from?’
‘Salter! Forget the oar! Hold on!’
‘What?’ For a split second, he looked up at Moss and saw her shocked face. Then they both grabbed the sides of the boat.
It all happened so fast. The boat flipped over, slamming the pair of them into the river. Moss felt her back ram against the upturned seat. Twisting round, she grabbed the boat and held on as best she could, but it surged forward with a force strong enough to carve its way through boulders. Her eyes were blind in the rush of water. All she could hear was the roar of the river. She spluttered and shouted, but could not move, pinned as she was, arms wrapped round the seat, clinging and gasping, feeling her grip slackening and knowing that if she let go, she’d be snatched by the current and tumbled in its fists like a rag in a boilpot.
All at once, she felt a great weight bearing down on the top of the upturned boat. The water choked her throat. She spluttered and retched, then something knocked the wind from her chest and the tumbling water faded away.
Boom! Boom! BOOM!
Such a pounding her ears had never felt. A storm ripping through her head. Thunder and lightning exploding all around her, loud enough to burst her eyes from their sockets.
In her mouth, the taste of mud. Her cheek against something wet and slippery, her eyes gummed shut and her body battered. She rubbed the mud from her eyes and lifted her head. She was lying on shingle, the river lapping her feet. The air was clogged with smoke. The boat was nowhere to be seen. Just a few feet away lay Salter. On his back, mouth open, eyes closed.
Moss crawled towards him, her knees scraping on the stones. She reached out and touched his hand. It was cold. She pressed her ear to his chest, but against the pounding explosions in the night sky, she could hear nothing.
‘Salter . . .’ She rolled his body on to its side. It convulsed and she watched as he erupted in a fit of coughing. Salter opened his eyes and they widened at the deafening noise all around them.
‘Devil eat me breeches,’ he croaked, ‘What the hell is goin on?’ He was looking about, but they couldn’t see a thing. He sniffed the air.
‘I’d know that smell anywhere,’ he said.
‘What smell?’ All Moss could smell was smoke.
‘Salt-mud. Smell of the old river.’
‘What? Are you crazy?’ But as she spoke, a sudden wind blew the smoke away and she staggered to her feet, almost toppling backwards into the mud.
Rising like a cliff in front of her were the sheer and mighty walls of the Tower of London.
She could not speak. Her head throbbed and she swayed, staring with disbelief from the Tower to the river to Salter and back to the Tower.
Now she could see that the deafening explosions were coming from inside the Tower itself. Cannons. Volley after volley. And all along the river, bonfires were burning. Had they woken up in