Kitabı oku: «The Executioner's Daughter», sayfa 3

CHAPTER FIVE
River Thief

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 warning, there was a sudden jerking at her legs. She felt the dead weight of her body being dragged from above. Beneath her, the woman shrank backwards into the black river.

Feet first, Moss felt herself hauled through the waves until her head broke the surface in a splutter of foam. Arms were pulling her now, dragging her body until it cracked on the side of something solid. More heaving and she flopped on to her back against wooden planks, her lips spitting frothy vomit. Then the grey sky went white.

‘Sweet Harry’s scabs! That’s a wind cold enough to freeze off yer goosters.’

Words were buffeting Moss’s ears. Fuzzy at first. Then gradually more distinct as she came to her senses.

‘Take a punt up to Old Swan . . . no time for anything else now.’

From under the wisps of her lashes, Moss peeked out. A blurry shape was moving around her.

‘Ain’t nothin here worth havin.’

She felt hands patting her dress.

‘Stupid pisspot of a shore girl.’

She kept her eyes closed, peeping through her lashes until the blurry shape grew a face. Brown-eyed and smudged with dirt. Hands, going through her pockets. Scrawny arms and shoulders, clothed in a threadbare tunic. Hair dark and matted, as though a cat had chewed it up and spat it out.

It was a boy. And judging by the way he was cussing, he seemed very cross.

‘Should have known yer’d be good fer nothin but a boatful of sick.’

Slowly, Moss opened her eyes. The boy did not notice at first, but carried on sifting through her pockets. She blinked, then heaved herself up on one elbow and felt the ground wobble.

‘Stay on yer back, yer nubbin loach!’ He shot her a furious glance.

Still groggy, Moss looked around and saw she was sitting in a small flat boat, bobbing near the shore. A boat! On the river! How had she . . . how did she . . .?

‘Sweet Harry’s gammy leg! I said stay still !’ The boy gave her a push.

‘Ow!’

‘Idiot shore girl! You’ll have me boat over!’

He glared at her. She glared back.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘I’ll keep still.’ She looked about. The boat was a good way from the shore. ‘Could you tell me . . . what happened?’

‘You fell in the river, I pulled you out, you puked in me boat.’

‘Oh.’

The boy said nothing. He had his back to her now and was checking a net trailing in the water behind him.

‘Is this your own boat?’

The boy ignored her, still sifting through his net.

‘It must be nice to have a boat.’

Silence.

‘I mean, nice to be able to come out here. On the river.’ She was running out of things to say.

‘What are you talkin about, nice ? I rows to make me livin. Ain’t nothin nice about rowin the river.’

‘I just meant, you know, in your boat you can go wherever you like, see all the other boats, the sails, everything –’

‘What? Are you mad as a rabbit? It ain’t no pageant out here. Them big boats would squash you soon as look at you. Saw a waterman go down only last week. His boat was a four-seater. Crushed between a galley an’ a barge like a fly between yer thumbs.’

‘Oh. I didn’t know.’

‘Well, you do now.’

The boy took up his oars and began to row towards the bank. Moss watched, surprised his scrawny arms could pull such deft, clean strokes. His clothes were little more than rags, and she saw that his tunic had been patched many times and that the patches were sackcloth. He really was filthy. She wondered at how a boy who worked on the river could be so dirty. Every bit of skin was grimed, as though he hadn’t been within two miles of a pail of water his whole life.

‘So . . . what’s your name?’ said Moss.

‘What you want that for?’

‘Well, to thank you, I suppose. You just saved my life?’

‘Fat lot of good that’s done me.’

‘Well, I didn’t ask you to save me. Look, I’m sorry I was sick in your boat . . . My name’s Moss.’

‘Sounds about right. Useless green stuff, soaks up water.’

A gust of wind rocked the little boat, biting into Moss’s body. Her woollen dress was sodden and grey water was pooling where she sat. Her teeth were rattling and before long, her legs and arms were shaking too.

‘Do you . . . do you . . . have . . . a blanket?’

‘You what? A blanket ? Who do you think I am? Some lordy merchant sailin a ship piled high with furs an’ silky pillows?’

‘It’s c-cold.’

‘So? Shouldn’t have gone swimmin then, should yer?’

‘I didn’t go swimming. I was walking. I fell –’ She gripped her feet with her frozen fingers. They were bare. ‘Where are my boots?’

‘What?’

‘My boots. I was wearing boots when I fell in.’

‘Don’t ask me. Probably at the bottom of the river stinkin out the fish, in’t they?’

The boy was on his feet now, punting the boat towards the bank with one oar. On the shore was a jumble of flimsy huts. Shacks made of driftwood and crates, propping each other up in the mud. They seemed so close to the water, thought Moss. Surely one rogue tide and they’d all be swept away?

‘Is this where you live?’ she said.

‘Who wants to know? Whoever it is, I ain’t tellin.’ The boy scowled. ‘Well, don’t just sit there like a nun givin thanks for her own farts. Hop off now, shore girl.’ He held the boat fast with the oar and Moss wobbled to the front.

‘Won’t you tell me your name?’

‘Out! Count yerself lucky I didn’t tip you back in!’

Moss jumped on to the shingle and the boy pushed off without a backwards glance.

As the little boat nudged into deeper water, he reached over the side and fished out something from the trailing net. Moss squinted at his catch. It didn’t look much like fish.

Then she gasped. Her boots! The little thief had stolen her boots!

‘Those are mine! Give them back!’ she yelled.

But the boy just grinned and carried on rowing up the river.

CHAPTER SIX
Two-Bellies’ Revenge

What kind of low life saves your skin then steals your boots?

Alone on the shore, Moss hugged her damp body tight. The ice-wind sliced through her. She had never been so cold. She tried rubbing her arms and legs, but her fingers felt as though they might snap. All she could think about was the fire in Pa’s forge. Heat. Warm and dry. She needed to get back home as soon as possible.

Moss looked around. The Tower stood tall against the grey sky. Good. Not too far off, and at least that little thief had dumped her on the right side of the river. She set off towards the wharf, wincing as her bare feet scraped the stony shore. The ramshackle huts were behind her. On her left, the banks pitched upwards to shadowy streets where dogs barked and people cried out. Down on the shore, it was strangely silent. Just the lap of the incoming tide and the call of boatmen, snatched by the wind. She edged closer to the waterline. Here, the mud was thick and the stones fewer, and though her toes were ready to drop off, Moss savoured the squelch between them. She let the gentle waves wash over her feet.

Crash! Moss found herself thrown backwards. A freak wave threw up a fistful of shingle, whipping her bare ankles. She was on her knees, stumbling to her feet. A noise like laughter tinkled from the water’s edge. The shingle rattled, settling back down, raked by the waves. All the same, she retreated from the waterline and hurried as fast as she could back to the wharf. She waded underneath. The water was deeper, much deeper than it had been, and she could see waves sloshing into the tunnel through the gap. She would have to be quick.

Heaving herself up through the hole, Moss dropped back into the tunnel. The water was up to her armpits. She hesitated. Outside she heard the tinkling laughter again. Stop it, she told herself. It’s only the river. But as she waded back through the tunnel, her head swirled with the memory of the drowned woman.

‘It’s just the river,’ she said out loud. Her words echoed down the tunnel. ‘I’m not afraid.’

Well, perhaps you should be, girl. Somewhere inside her head, Nell’s cloudy-eyed warning echoed back. The rivers are hers, not ours. Foolish is the one who forgets the song of the river.

It was a tough climb back up to the garderobe drop, frozen fingers slipping, sodden dress dragging every step of the way. By the time Moss reached the garderobe door, the last chimes of the Tower’s curfew bell were ringing. She crept up the steps. The yard was empty, so she scurried through the arch to Tower Green, ready to sprint round the White Tower to the forge.

‘Hello, basket girl.’

A thick arm swiped her off her feet, then dragged her backwards into the stables, shoving her into the hay. The bulk of Two-Bellies stood over her, his red face redder than usual.

‘Think you’re so clever? Think you’re so funny?’

Moss cast around wildly, wet clothes forgotten. There was only one way out and it was blocked. She glared up at Two-Bellies.

‘Let me guess. I ruined your best boots?’

‘Don’t cheek me, basket scum.’

‘What have I got to lose? You’re going to beat me up anyway.’

He lunged, but Moss rolled, dodging his swiping fists. She was up on her feet, whip-quick, jumping from the hay.

‘You can run but you can’t hide, forge rat.’

‘Come and get me then.’

Two-Bellies picked up a broom and advanced, blocking any hope of her sprinting to the door. He spread his arms wide, grabbing each end of the broom handle, herding her into the corner.

‘Like catching a chicken, see? And when I’ve got you, I’m going to wring your neck.’

Moss sidestepped another lunge and in the split second of his unbalance, she darted under his waving arm. There was a whoosh of air and a crack as the broom made contact with her back. Moss was on her knees. Without a moment’s hesitation, Two-Bellies grabbed her neck and shoved her head into a water butt. Now the fists were pushing her down, holding her under until the brown water made her eyes smart.

No breath. The fist was on her neck. Moss felt her chest start to spasm. How many chokes before her lungs filled up? She tried to wriggle from his grip. Her head turned and through the water she saw Two-Bellies’ raging face. His fist pressed harder. Her lungs were exploding. Suddenly she was seized by a paralysing terror. He was actually trying to drown her. After everything that had happened that day . . . finding the tunnel, surviving the wild river, only to be drowned by a meat-faced bully on her own doorstep. And that was the moment when Moss knew what she needed to do. She let herself go limp. The hand on her neck relaxed. Then she struck, jabbing both elbows hard into his chest. Two-Bellies howled and let go, giving Moss time to whip her head out of the water and spring to her feet.

Two-Bellies picked up his broom.

‘Come on then! You want some, basket scum?’

Not good. He was still between Moss and the door.

Two-Bellies walked towards her, holding the broom like a quarterstaff.

Definitely not good.

Then instinct took over. It happened so quickly, Moss could barely believe what she’d done. One minute Two-Bellies was yelling and swinging his staff. The next she had stuck out her leg, tripped him over his own weapon and tipped him head first into the water butt. And for a moment, there he lodged, legs waggling.

Sprinting through the door, Moss swept her eyes across the yard. On the far side, Mrs Peak was bawling at a couple of kitchen boys who’d dropped a tray of quails on the cobbles. From the stables came a crash followed by a full-throated roar.

‘Nnnaarrgghhhh!’

In a panic, Moss realised Two-Bellies would be out of the stables before she’d had time to run across the Green. She had to hide somewhere, quickly!

She slipped round the corner and through an open door. Inside was a narrow passage and some stairs. She shot up the stairs and along a corridor. She had no idea where she was, but she didn’t care. She just had to find somewhere. Anywhere. It didn’t matter so long as Two-Bellies couldn’t find her.

There were voices coming up the stairs. Moss spotted a door halfway along the corridor, wide open. She poked her head in. The room was empty and silent. All she could hear was the spitting of tallow candles. She darted inside. At one end was a table, spread with a cloth. On the table were dishes piled high with creamy white manchet loaves, their sweet smell mixing with the smoky fat of the burning tallow.

‘Lord help us! Have your heads gone to mince?’ Mrs Peak’s bellow filled the corridor, getting louder as she approached. ‘Do you think the Duke likes his quails cold? Put those birds next to that brawn and get a bleedin move on!’

Quick as a cat, Moss dived under the table. There she crouched, stifling her gasping breaths, aware that the stench of the garderobe rose from her like a fog. From behind the cloth, she peeped out and hoped the smoking tallow would mask her stink.

Then Mrs Peak was in the room, flapping her apron at the kitchen boys. ‘Be quick with you! The guvnor is coming! The Duke of Norfolk with him! And when they get here, I daresay they won’t want to be gawping at your ugly mugs!’

Moss heard the boys fumbling with their dishes. There was a scuffling as they retreated and a ‘Thank you, sirs’. Now she heard the clack-clack of well-heeled boots entering the room. The door slammed.

CHAPTER SEVEN
The Queen’s Uncle

Shivering under the table, Moss gathered her dress close, trying to stem the trickle of water at her feet. She curled her body as small as she was able. She could hear voices.

‘No, Lieutenant, it’s not going well, damn it! Not well at all!’

‘My Lord Norfolk . . .’

‘By Christ and all his wretched saints! There are days when I think it would be easier to fight a war than serve the King!’

‘Yes, my Lord. Of course, my Lord.’

That was the Lieutenant’s voice. Oily words and a bow low enough to make his girdle twang. But the other one. The Duke . . .

She couldn’t resist a peek. Carefully, she shuffled forward and tweaked a chink in the cloth. The Lieutenant was still bent double. The Duke loomed over him, his face a brewing storm. He looked . . . familiar.

From her chink, Moss swallowed a little gasp of recognition. It was the stone-eyed man who’d watched Sir Thomas’s head roll last summer. The one who’d sat next to Queen Anne Boleyn at the execution. Who’d made her flinch. And judging by the flustered look on the Lieutenant’s face, he was here on important business.

‘My Lord Norfolk,’ said the Lieutenant, ‘did you wish to speak with me on some matter?’

‘Of course, you fool! I didn’t come here to nibble manchets, did I?’

‘No, my Lord.’

‘As you know, the King has charged me with the task of preparing his Feast Day celebrations at Hampton Court. I want a St Valentine’s Day to remember, Norfolk! And you are the man to make it happen! Those were His Majesty’s words. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate.’

‘My Lord?’

‘The Feast of St Valentine. Lovey-dove dancing. Kissy-kissy couples. All that nonsense. What that court needs is a damn good fight ! So that is what they will get.’

‘Yes, my Lord Norfolk.’

‘With your help, Lieutenant Kingston.’

Moss watched the Lieutenant turn a little pale.

‘My help, my Lord?’

‘Damn right, your help! Those idiots at Whitehall Palace couldn’t build a pigsty! Even if you put the hammers right into their hands! I need your men. I need soldiers, armourers, your finest horse, the use of your forge.’

‘But, my Lord! Pardon the expression, but we are up to our necks in preparations for the Abbot’s execution. In a mere six days –’

‘Damn your days!’

The Lieutenant shifted and the rustle of his doublet echoed round the room.

‘You, Kingston, will make it your personal business to build what I need for the festivities. You will do it in the utmost secrecy. I have drawings. Your men will build to their exact specification. And it will work. If it does not . . . well, I hardly need remind you how changeable is the mood of the King.’

The Lieutenant’s throat moved up and down, as if he’d swallowed an egg. The room was quiet. The tallow candles spat.

Moss’s bare feet curled on the stone floor, her body quivering in the clench of her sodden dress. She daren’t think about what would happen if she were discovered. These were powerful men. Their business was secret. So she stayed as still as she could. At the same time, she couldn’t tear herself from the chink in the cloth, fascinated by these men and their talk of masques and palaces and a King who could end a man’s life if he chose.

In front of her, the Lieutenant fiddled with the button on his cape.

‘Er, permit me, my Lord, to ask after your niece, Anne. Is she in good health?’

Moss’s ears pricked. They were talking about the Queen, Anne Boleyn.

The Duke of Norfolk did not reply.

‘I have heard –’

‘Never mind what you’ve heard. The Queen is with child. If that child is a boy, all will be well and the King will have a son and heir. If not, then her time is done.’

Moss caught her breath. She should not be here. She should not be listening to any of this. Still she peeked through the cloth. What did he mean, her time is done ?

‘These are sensitive matters, my Lord Norfolk,’ said the Lieutenant. ‘Difficult times, even for the noblest of families.’

The Duke’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you take me for a fool?’

‘No, my Lord?’

‘A half-wit perhaps?’

‘No –’

‘Then put away your idiot presumptions, Kingston,’ said the Duke. ‘There are many routes to power. All of us have profited from the rise of my niece. Now we wait. We wait and see.’

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door.

‘Enter!’ barked the Lieutenant.

Moss watched as a breathless man bowed into the room and handed a piece of paper to the Duke.

‘Leave us,’ said the Duke to the messenger.

He opened the letter. Moss saw his stone eyes turn over its contents. They gave away nothing. It could have been the best news or the worst.

The Duke strode over to the fireplace. He set the end of the letter to the flames, lighting it like a taper.

‘I have a man in Whitehall Palace,’ he said. ‘When a door is closed, he listens for me. He tells me the things I need to know.’

The Duke held up the burning paper. It flared in front of his face and his eyes didn’t move. ‘The Queen has lost her baby. She lives, but the child is dead. And a pity it was not the other way around. For it was a boy.’

Moss caught her breath. In the Duke’s hand, the burning letter crumbled to black ash.

‘It is over for Anne,’ he said. ‘Nothing can save her now.’

He strode to the door, leaving the ghosts of his words hanging in the room. All at once, Moss’s fear turned to anger. She wanted to leap out from under the table and run after the Duke and shake him and shout at him. The Queen had lost her baby. And what? She might as well be dead? This man, with his eyes of stone and a cold heart – this was a man she would not want for an uncle, not for all the riches in the world.