keep your fingers to yourself,’ said Moss. She was pretty sure Salter hadn’t thieved since they came to the village, but stealing had been a way of life for him back in London. And while that was all very well in a city of strangers with plenty of dark alleyways to hide in, here in the village if someone lost so much as a wooden spoon everyone knew about it.
The drover finished his plate, mopping the fat with a crust of bread. Then he sat back to let Old Samser refill his mug.
‘Good price for your cattle, drover?’ said Old Samser.
‘Could be better, could be worse,’ said the drover.
‘Mmm,’ nodded Old Samser, letting his customer gulp down the contents of his mug. ‘And news from the city? We don’t get much of it out here, but we likes to know what the talk is.’
‘Fill her up then, innkeeper,’ said the drover. Old Samser obliged, and the drover sat back on the settle, one hand on a full stomach, the other on a full mug.
‘Well now, let’s see. King Henry still won’t see his daughters. They say that Mary’s as stubborn as he is, with a temper that would burn down a barn. And the redhead Elizabeth is too young to know any different. Out of sight, out of mind. I suppose they remind him of his first two wives, both cold in the ground.’
‘And what of the new Queen?’ asked Old Samser. ‘We heard she is with child.’
‘Yes, yes, there’s much talk of Queen Jane. Grown fat as a pot-bellied oak and took to her chambers at Hampton Court some weeks back. The King has set a guard around the walls that would keep out the whole French army! Pray for all our sakes she gives him a son and heir.’
‘Even a king needs the luck.’ Old Samser twisted the end of his beard. ‘We in these parts hopes the best for Queen Jane. Grew up not five mile from here, in Savernake.’
‘Is that so?’ said the drover. ‘Well, she’ll squeeze out her pup soon enough. If it’s a boy, she may keep her title and her head. If not, then I wouldn’t be in her dainty shoes for all the crowns in Christendom. Old Harry is going through wives like a pig through a bag of carrots!’
‘True enough,’ said Old Samser, and he began to chant, ‘Queen Catherine left to rot poor soul, Queen Anne went for the chop. ’ The rhyme produced a ripple of laughter from the drinkers.
Moss swallowed. She hated the songs and the jokes. People had never liked Anne Boleyn. When she was alive, they’d called her the Firecracker Queen. Now she was dead they called her a witch and had only cruel things to say in her memory. But Moss had met the Queen. Two winters ago in a snow-covered garden at Hampton Court. Hungry and cold, Moss had followed her nose through a kitchen window, eaten a pigeon and strayed into the Kings Garden. And when the Queen had found her there, instead of being angry and calling for the guards, Anne Boleyn had talked to her. She’d told Moss how the King had loved her once, how she’d made him laugh and how she’d gone looking for adventure. And though at the time she’d seemed full of mischief, when Moss thought of her now it was as a wandering ghost, frail and forlorn.
Moss’s hand went to her pocket. In it was the little silver bird she always kept there. A gift from Queen Anne. Even though the silverwork was very fine, she’d never thought to sell it. It had saved her life. Hold on to love, wherever you can find it, the Queen had told her. It is a most precious thing. The words had settled, like leaves on a pond.
‘What you waitin for Leatherboots? Come on!’ Salter was on his feet and heading out of the door, coins jangling in his pocket.
She followed him outside, then stopped. ‘You go on. I’ll catch you up.’
Salter nodded. ‘Two rabbits, three pennies. That’s a good mornin’s work.’ He slung the rabbits over his shoulder. ‘Oh, Leatherboots,’
‘Yes?’
‘Yer new dress. Looks, well . . . all right.’
Moss felt her cheeks flush and turned quickly in the other direction. She didn’t think he’d noticed. And anyway, what did it matter if he had?
All Moss could hear was birdsong.
It was a quietness that she knew she would never take for granted. No shouts, no rumble of cartwheels, and no one to call her back. The clamour of the city was a world away from the lush green fields that lay before her. Moss hitched up her dress and climbed the fence, dropping onto the grass on the other side. This was a well-worn shortcut to the place where she and Salter swam and fished, and she hurried there eagerly now.
The water was clear. Flowing gently once more. But the river felt different. On the banks the fish stranded yesterday had begun to rot, their scales curling to a dull grey.
Moss pulled out her apple-sack tunic from the willow tree. There was no one about, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to change on the open riverbank, so she darted into the bushes. Still damp from yesterday, the cloth was cold against her skin.
Back on the riverbank, she stared out over the water. The crowfoot stroked the river bed, soothing her thoughts. Into her head shimmered the face she thought she’d seen, its green eyes so like her own.
Slowly Moss lowered herself from the bank into the water. As always, the cold took her breath away. She bobbed her shoulders under, panting short gasps until her body got used to the numbing chill. Then she kicked off from the bank and dived down. Halfway across she stopped and stood to watch the sway of the crowfoot. There was nothing here. Just waterweed.
Moss lay back in the current and then flipped over, sinking her head below the surface. She blinked as the water swirled past her eyes. The chalk river was so clear she could see all the way to the stones on the bottom. Moss had never stopped marvelling at this shimmering world. It was a quiet place that belonged to the creatures and plants, and Moss was always glad to be among them.
Something caught her eye. Hidden among the weeds. She could not make it out. A dark shape. A shadow. Moving away from her.
Moss kicked her feet hard, trying to reach the crowfoot before the shadow disappeared. She parted the weed, following the tail of the shadow, feeling slippery greenness all around.
Where are you?
Could a ghost hear your thoughts?
She bobbed her head above the water to take another gulp of air and when she sank back down, there it was.
The face.
Green eyes, hair coiling, arms reaching. A gentle face, smooth as milk. A mirror of herself. And Moss could not help but stretch her own arms towards the ghostly figure.
She felt her hands clasped by ice-cold fingers.
Who are you?
The gentle ghost tried to smile, as though she had understood Moss’s unspoken question.
But something was wrong.
The face was changing. The milk-smooth skin was flaking away. Peeling, tearing, paper-thin flakes hanging from her cheeks. The ghostly
