head would be in her basket.
The forge door was shut tight. Moss heaved it open, spilling the glow from the fire over the frozen cobbles. Inside, Pa was putting away his hammer and tongs. He barely looked up.
With her back to him, she sat on the small stool by the fire and let her gaze drift into the gleam of the red-hot embers.
‘Moss?’
‘Don’t talk to me.’
She stared into the fire, trying not to think about what was coming. About how her father would execute the Abbot. A man who shared his supper. Who’d been nothing but kind. Next week Pa would do his job. And he’d do it without so much as a blink.
‘Time you were in bed, Moss. There’s fog rolling in from the river.’
‘So?’
‘Take the extra blanket.’
Moss snorted and climbed on to her pallet. But she didn’t protest when he unfolded the blanket and tucked it tightly round her.
A whistle of wind buffeted the window, blowing wisps of clammy fog into the forge. Pa glared at the gap between the shutters. Both of them jumped as the door banged open. Moss’s nose wrinkled at the familiar smell of ale and old wee.
‘Dear friends, on a night as cold as this, have you a drop of ale to warm an old lady’s throat?’
‘No we haven’t,’ growled Pa.
‘Come and warm yourself by the fire, Nell,’ said Moss, and was off her pallet before Pa could stop her. ‘We’ve bread. And cheese.’ She took the cheese from the table and pressed it into Nell’s hands. ‘You’ll like it, it’s good and soft.’
Nell’s cloudy eyes crinkled. ‘Thank you, child. Makes a nice change from rats.’
Moss led her to a chair, feeling Pa’s frown on her back.
Nell was old. So old that no one could quite remember what she was doing in the Tower in the first place. She slept in a cellar under the kitchen and caught more rats than any of the cats. It was true that she smelt like a 200-year-old ham. And fair enough, any chair she sat on was always a little damp when she got up. But Moss had never really understood Pa’s objection to Nell. During her long life, Nell had lived both inside and outside the Tower. She knew the Tower’s stories and its legends. Secret passageways and walking ghosts and creatures from the deep river and tales of the wide world that lay beyond. And when Nell spoke about chalky hillsides or blue-flowered woods, it was the closest thing Moss had to seeing those things for herself.
‘You don’t mind if I loosens me rags?’ said Nell.
‘Course not,’ said Moss. ‘Just make yourself comfortable.’
Nell bent over and peeled the rags from her misshapen feet. She waggled them in front of the fire and soon a rancid steam was rising from her toes.
‘How about a story, Nell?’ said Moss. ‘The Two Princes! Please, Nell.’
Nell chuckled. ‘I must have told that story to you a thousand times, child.’
‘Then tell it again. Please.’
Nell turned to Pa. ‘Child went missing from the river last night, Samuel.’
Pa grunted. ‘The river’s a dangerous place. Children drown all the time.’
‘This wasn’t no drowning. Frost is here and the fishermen are saying –’
‘I don’t care what the fishermen are saying! Superstitious nonsense. And I won’t have talk of it in my forge.’
Nell sucked on her cheese. The shutters rattled, drawing little puffs of mist into the room.
‘Gaps need plugging,’ said Pa. ‘I’m off to the stables to get some hay. Make sure that door stays shut now.’
Moss rolled her eyes.
When Pa had gone, Moss grabbed his ale jug from the table and thrust it into Nell’s hands.
‘Here, Nell. There’s a little in there, I think.’
‘Such kindness for an old leftover like me.’
Moss settled on the floor by Nell’s chair and drew her knees tight to her chest.
‘What did the fishermen see, Nell? On the river last night?’
The old lady patted Moss’s head.
‘Many are the children who have strayed from the shore, who’ve felt cold fingers of ice close round their ankles. Whose screams are lost in the roar of the river.’
‘They fall into the river and drown?’
‘Drown, yes. Fall, no. They are taken.’
‘Taken?’
Nell spat on her hand and crossed herself quickly. ‘By the Riverwitch.’
Moss felt a shiver lick her spine. ‘The Riverwitch . . .’
‘Yes, child. The Witch of the Rivers. She is not always there, but those children she finds in her waters she will take.’
‘I’m not afraid of the river, Nell.’
‘Is that right?’ Nell’s cloudy eyes became suddenly sharp. ‘Well, perhaps you should be, girl.’
‘Have you ever seen her? The Riverwitch?’
‘I have not and thankful for it.’
‘Then they’re just stories.’
‘Stories. Memories. Who’s to say what’s true and what’s not? My grandmother, rest her rotten bones, told me tales of the river that would scare the skin off an apple.’
‘Tell me one now then,’ said Moss. Maybe they were just stories, but she loved to hear them. ‘Please, Nell. Tell me about the Riverwitch.’
Nell glanced at the door.
‘Please, Nell, please.’
The old lady lowered her voice. ‘Very well. But this story is a sad one and has no end.’ She took a swig from the jug and leant forward, seeming glad of her audience in a warm forge on a damp night.
‘Long ago, on a bend of this very river, there was a mill, built where the water flows fast. A mill with a crooked chimney and a great wheel of wood that churned the grey river day and night. The Hampton Wheel they called it. Here lived a miller and his daughter. A good girl, who helped her father and who never complained at the work. A fair girl, whose skin was smooth and pale, not like the rugged girls from the fields. A purer soul there never was. All could see the miller’s
