River Daughter

‘Really?’

‘Not actual words. It’s more . . . the feel of her voice. Outside. In the grass, or blown by the wind.’

‘And do you . . . do you ever, see her?’

Pa’s gaze went through Moss, to that distant place only he could reach. ‘Perhaps just a trace. It’s been so long.’ He smiled. ‘Do you think your old Pa’s a little crazy?’

‘No, Pa.’ She hugged him tight. ‘I really don’t.’

Outside, there was a clatter of hooves. A ruddy-cheeked man poked his head into the forge.

‘Mornin, Samuel!’

‘Morning, Farmer Bailey,’ said Pa. ‘Got Big Sal with you? Tie her to the post. I’ll be right out.’

As Moss left the forge, Pa and Farmer Bailey were deep in talk of horses and Big Sal and how fine a friend she was to Farmer Bailey, who would be sorry to lose her when the time came.

Moss hopped over the fence and waded through the long meadow grass. Salter would be well into the woods by now, checking his traps. Thank goodness for rabbits, she thought, for there was precious little meat. Here in the village, the sheep were for wool or milk and the pigs went to market. She hadn’t seen a ham since Twelfth Night. What a ham it had been, though. On Mrs Bailey’s kitchen table, glistening with honey and pocked with cloves. And Mrs Bailey must have seen her face pop, because she’d sent a good piece round to Pa the next day. They’d eaten it that evening, savouring every morsel of that sweet, spiced meat. But mostly they lived on stew made from the vegetables that Moss grew, fish from the river and bread bought with Pa’s earnings. And the rabbits.

It was poaching of course. The woods belonged to Sir John, and although Salter said the gamekeepers were as dozy as a cow in a hot field, he risked a chopped hand if he was caught. Nevertheless, he’d become bold and somehow he always seemed to be one step ahead. He lured the rabbits with cabbage leaves and turnips. He never set his traps in the same place. He was crafty and quiet. Neither the keepers nor the rabbits stood a chance.

By the treeline, Moss found the blackberry bushes and had just begun to fill her basket when she spotted Salter coming out of the woods with several grey rabbits flopped over his shoulder.

‘Four young bucks,’ said Salter. ‘Not a bad mornin’s work.’

‘Enough for stew.’

‘And some left over. Goin to take em to the Nut Tree now, see if I can’t sell a couple to Old Samser.’

‘I’ll come with you.’

‘If you like, but leave the barterin to me, Leatherboots, or I’ll end up with nuppence for me trouble.’

‘But I always feel so sorry for Old Samser. This isn’t London, where everyone’s looking for a way to rip each other off, you know. They do things differently here.’

‘You reckon so? Well, don’t feel too sorry for that old goat. He may be slow, but he ain’t stupid. If I let him, he’d play me like a fiddle. Anyway, a bit of bargainin keeps everyone on their toes.’

It was only ten o’clock but already smoke was puffing from the windows of the Nut Tree Inn. Salter pushed at the door and they threaded their way through the tumble of voices. No one batted an eyelid at the rabbits. Like Salter, many of the villagers poached for a bit of meat and the Nut Tree was where you sold or traded any you couldn’t eat yourself.

Old Samser stood at the top of the cellar steps, jug in hand. Wagging her tail against his leg was Poppy, Old Samser’s spaniel, staring up at Salter’s rabbits with hopeful eyes.

‘Eyes off them rabbits, Poppy,’ said Salter, letting the dog lick his hand. ‘They ain’t fer you.’

Old Samser chuckled. ‘Mornin, Moss, mornin, Salter-boy. What you got there, then?’

‘Two young bucks, Samser, if I likes the price.’

Moss knelt down beside Poppy and ruffled her shaggy coat, catching a wink from the old landlord. He was well used to Salter’s cheekiness.

‘Bain’t no lad in the village can trap rabbits like the boy here. He’s a sly city fox, this one. If he can’t get yer one way, he’ll get yer another.’

‘A groat buys you two rabbits, take it or leave it,’ said Salter.

‘Threefarthin,’ said Old Samser.

‘Are you out of yer mind? Three pennies and I ain’t goin no lower.’

‘Two pennies and yer backsides can warm themselves by my fire.’

‘Our backsides don’t need warmin,’ said Salter. ‘No deal.’

Moss found herself smiling. She had to admit, there was something very satisfying about watching Salter hold his nerve. But Old Samser wasn’t backing down just yet.

‘Two pennies and a jug of my best to take back for yer Pa.’

Salter shook his head. ‘You’ll have to do better than that, landlord.’

‘All right then, two pennies, three farthin and the jug.’

‘Three pennies and you can have the pick of these fine rabbits, whichever two you like.’

Old Samser chuckled. ‘All right, all right. Three pennies it is. It’s a hard bargain you drives, Salter-boy. There’s farmers round here could learn a thing or two from you.’

When Old Samser had chosen his rabbits, Salter pulled a couple of apples from his pocket and he and Moss sat down to enjoy the sight of the farmers coming in from milking. With them shuffled a weary drover who sank back on the settle by the fire. He sat there, breathing heavily for several minutes, until Old Samser brought him a plate of bread and hot mutton and a large mug of ale.

‘Old Samser’s no fool,’ said Salter, ‘He knows that drover’s come from London with tired feet and a full purse.’

‘Well, 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 mouth parted as if to say something, then began dissolving before Moss’s eyes. Now it gaped at Moss, half torn, teeth rooted in bare bone. A dead face. A skull face, lit by strange candle eyes. A face Moss knew too well.

The Riverwitch.

Moss wrenched her hands from the bone-cold grasp and burst to the surface. She scrabbled backwards, splashing and stumbling, trying to reach the bank. But winding its way round her ankles was the twisting waterweed, holding her fast to the river bed.

Up through the clear water rose the Riverwitch. Her tattered dress rippled outwards, her skull face breaking the surface of the river.

‘River Daughter . . . now the Blacksmith’s Daughter, are you not?’

‘I . . . I thought you had gone,’ said Moss.

The Riverwitch said nothing.

‘Why?’ asked Moss. ‘Why have you come back?’

‘You know why.’ The Witch’s eyes flared. ‘I saved your life when you were born. But in return a promise was made. You were to come to me on your twelfth birthday.’

‘And I did come. That day on the river. I jumped. I gave myself to you.’

Above the trickle of the river the Witch’s voice hissed, ‘Tell me, what do you remember of that day?’

Moss opened her mouth to speak. Some of it was so clear – stepping from the raft into the murky water where the Riverwitch lay waiting, Salter’s cry as she was dragged down. But after that the pictures in her head ran thin as a poor man’s broth. There was the darkness of the deep river. The bone-arms of the Riverwitch circling her. Moss’s own arms embracing that cold body. And as she’d drifted into blackness, the grasp of the Witch had slackened. Then she remembered no more.

‘Why?’ said Moss. ‘Why did you let me go?’

The Riverwitch inclined her head slowly. ‘The embrace of a child.’ She spread her arms. ‘The embrace of a child has the power to thaw a Witch’s frozen heart.’

‘So . . .’

‘So that day I let you go. But do not forget. You were promised to me. A child born in water, you shall return to water. You belong to me.’

‘No!’ Moss kicked out at the coils of weed that bound her feet, but they held fast.

‘Do not struggle. You cannot fight me, River Daughter. I am the swirl and suck of the river. Its currents and its mysteries pass through me. They have made me strong. And I have watched you swimming the river. I’ve seen your eyes open to its treasures and its terrors.’

Something clicked inside Moss’s head.

‘The mud yesterday, in the river . . . It was sucking me down,’ she said, ‘but something pulled me free. Was it you ?’

The Witch’s face stretched into a painful smile.

‘But why?’ said Moss. ‘Why save me again, if you are going to take me now?’

The water began to churn and the Witch grew suddenly agitated, her body twisting, the fronds of her dress whisking this way and that.

‘There is something you can do for me,’ said the Witch slowly, ‘A way for you to earn your freedom.’

‘My freedom?’ echoed Moss.

‘What I ask will not be easy. But if you succeed, I will release you.’

The churning river quietened and for a few moments there was just silence between them, the Witch’s body swaying in the current.

‘Isn’t that what you want, River Daughter? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?’

Moss hesitated. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘This thing you want me to do?’

‘All in good time, River Daughter. First you must leave this village.’

‘Leave? Leave Pa and Salter?’

‘Leave this place. Go back. To London.’

‘But London is miles and miles. Three days walk at least.’

‘You shall travel by river.’

‘But I can’t just disappear. Pa needs me.’

The Witch’s lantern eyes held her. How could I have mistaken this face for my mother’s ? thought Moss. She’d wanted to believe it so badly. But all the time it was the Riverwitch.

The Witch held up two ghostly hands. The tips of her fingers were black. She gestured to the dead fish on the bank.

‘It has begun,’ she said.

‘What has begun?’

But the Witch’s torn body was sinking back into the river. As the weed closed over her head, her words mixed with the trickle of water.

‘The river rots . . .’

Then Moss felt the tendrils loosen around her feet.

The Riverwitch had gone.

CHAPTER FOUR

Boat Thief

It was unthinkable.

Wasn’t it?

Moss lay back on her pallet staring at the ceiling.

Even if she took Salter’s boat, she’d never been further than a few miles down river. Salter had told her, though, that if you went far enough the gentle chalk river gathered speed until it met the wide path of the Thames. Flowing past fields and towns to London. There it became the murky torrent she knew, raging through the arches of London Bridge and all the way out to the sea.

But why did the Witch want her to go there? What did she want from Moss?

She rolled over and kicked off her blanket. She couldn’t breathe in here.

What if she didn’t go? What if she stayed here? If she never went near a river again, the Witch couldn’t touch her.

Freedom . . . isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?

This past year and a half here in the village, with Pa and Salter, Moss had experienced more freedom than she’d ever dreamt was possible. And now she thought about it, the river was a huge part of her new life. Salter fished it, she swam in it. To run from the Riverwitch now would mean giving all that up.

Softly she slipped from her pallet and tweaked the curtain. The forge was heavy with Pa’s deep sleep. No noise from Salter. In those early days, when Salter had let her stay in his cosy shack, Moss had discovered he was a light sleeper, always half an eye open in case of trouble. But since coming to live in the forge he’d slept like a boy who’d been turned to stone.

Moss pulled on her dress and boots. She patted her pocket. The little bird was there. Then she laid out her blanket. On it she placed a knife, a wooden mug, half a loaf of bread, some cheese and her tinderbox. Reaching under her pallet, she pulled out her winter shawl, given to her by Mrs Bailey last year when the frost came. If nothing else, she could sell it to buy food. Folding the blanket over these few possessions, she tied the ends together and slung it over her back.

Even in boots, her steps were soft on the earth floor. She knew Pa would not wake. There could be no goodbye of course, stealing away in the middle of the night. But at least she could let him know she was coming back. As quietly as she could, she opened a shutter and plucked a sprig of red-berried hawthorn from the bush that grew outside their window. Tiptoeing to the table, she removed the hazel from the jug and replaced it with the hawthorn. Then she tweaked the curtain to Pa’s pallet and took a last look at her sleeping father.

The great bear-frame of his body rose and fell. A frown creased his face and Moss wondered where he went in his dreams. She was sorry that he’d wake up and find her gone. But Salter was there to help in the forge and pick the skirrets, and in any case, she hoped she would return soon enough.

Outside, the fields were pink-orange in the glow of the harvest moon. Moss heaved her bundle over the fence and clambered after it. The grass, damp with night dew, brushed her legs. She crossed the fields quickly and then she was at the river.

She didn’t feel good about taking Salter’s boat. He’d made it himself from pieces of old timber he’d found on the Baileys’ farm. It lay upturned on the bank. She heaved it over, half-expecting it to cry out for its master, but the only sound was the slap of wood against water as she slid it into the river. She tethered it to a tree stump and threw her bundle in.

‘Goin somewhere?’

‘Oh!’ Moss jerked round. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same thing, Leatherboots. Sneakin off in the night. Takin me boat and whatever else you got in that bundle.’

‘It’s just food and a few things for the journey.’

‘Journey, eh? Goin far?’

‘Down the river.’ There was no point lying. Though she didn’t have to tell him the whole truth.

‘Is that right? All by yerself ? This river ain’t no gentle row. You may be able to manage up here, but downriver it’ll whip along fast and furious.’

‘I know. You don’t have to tell me.’

‘Then what’s this all about, shore girl? And why creep off in the night, not a word to me nor yer Pa?’

‘You wouldn’t understand.’

‘Try me.’

‘I don’t even understand it myself. It’s just a feeling.’

‘Well I got a feelin. A bad feelin. You been funny ever since yesterday in the river. And whatever it is that you ain’t tellin me, it’s makin you do a stupid thing.’

‘It’s not stupid. And anyway, even if it was, you’re not my keeper. I can do what I like, Salter. Go where I like.’

Salter considered this. ‘All right then.’ He threw his leather bag into the boat.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Comin with you.’

‘You are not.’

‘Try and stop me. Anyway, that’s my boat yer in.’

‘Fine. Suit yourself.’

She watched him push off from the bank and hop on board. They wobbled into the current. Moss took the oars and began to row. Salter sat back.

‘Cheer up, Leatherboots! It’ll be good to see that old city again.’

‘Who said anything about London?’

‘Call it a feelin.’

‘Good or bad?’

Salter looked at Moss. She waited for the crinkle in his eyes, but none came.

‘Too early to say,’ he said.

CHAPTER FIVE

Bonfires and Cannons

There was something unreal about the day that followed. Ignored by the creatures that swam and nested and bobbed, Salter’s boat was as quiet as the river and Moss was glad of the silence. When she wasn’t rowing, she leant over the side, staring into the clear water.

She hadn’t told Salter about the Riverwitch. Though he’d been there through it all and had seen the Witch for himself, once they’d left London, Salter had been as keen as Moss to start their new life and bury those memories deep. He’d never wanted to talk about it. And Moss, who’d never really forgiven herself for putting her friend in such terrible danger, had vowed never to risk Salter’s life again. Despite his stubbornness, following her and jumping into the boat, she would do everything in her power to keep him away from the Riverwitch.