The Executioner's Daughter. Jane Hardstaff

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      ‘Frost is here! Ice is coming! And devil knows what crawling from the river! Close that door, you little scrag-end!’

      Moss was quick enough to duck the blow from Mrs Peak’s fist.

      ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Christmas? Take this soup up to the Abbot and be quick about it or I’ll cut off yer ears and boil them for stock!’

      Moss looked around eagerly. She’d never set foot in the kitchen before. Never spoken to a cook or a spit boy. Never carried a meal across the courtyard. But this was a chance, wasn’t it? To be one of them? A kitchen girl. Not a basket girl.

      A bowl of steaming broth stood on a table near the fireplace. She reached for it and felt a sudden sting on her cheek.

      ‘Ow!’

      A dob of hot apple dropped to the floor. On the other side of the table a kitchen girl licked her fingers, shooting Moss a scornful glance while another one sniggered behind her apron.

      Moss wiped her burning cheek and turned away from the girls. Maybe fitting in wasn’t going to be so easy. She picked up the bowl of soup, then ducked as the lumpen fist of the Cook swung over her head once more. It clipped the spit boy in a puff of flour.

      ‘What was that for?’ he wailed, dropping his pail of water.

      Mrs Peak clouted him again. ‘One for the basket girl and another for all this mess!’ The tide of water from the spit boy’s pail slopped against the table legs, sending the kitchen girls into a spasm of giggles.

      ‘Hell’s bells!’ bellowed Mrs Peak. ‘I’m surrounded by idiots! Lazy girls and halfwit boys! I’d get more help from a bag of mice!’

      Moss walked slowly to the kitchen door, balancing the bowl as carefully as she could. She felt another hot slap on her shoulder.

       Basket girl. Bloodstained girl. Filthy little basket girl.

       Basket girl, when you’re dead, who will carry all the heads?

      The chants of the girls rang after her down the corridor. She felt a sob rise from her chest and swallowed it back down. She would not cry.

      It wasn’t easy carrying a bowl of soup, slip-sliding across Tower Green. In winter, the looming walls shut out every sliver of sunlight, turning the grass to mud. Her fingers clutched the warm bowl. There was a little less soup in it now and she hoped the Abbot would not be angry.

      Moss had seen them bring the Abbot in a boat from the river through Traitors’ Gate, two months back. He’d wobbled when the soldiers hauled him to his feet. Maybe he’d never been in a boat before, thought Moss. Or maybe he was afraid. Behind him, the barred gate swung shut, jaws closing. The black water of the moat flickered with burning torches. Few who came through Traitors’ Gate ever made it back out. The Tower was a place of death.

      Moss stood outside the Lieutenant’s Lodgings. In front of her two guards blocked her path, halberds crossed. This was the only way in to the Bell Tower. They’d put the Abbot right at the top in Sir Thomas’s old cell.

      She hesitated. ‘Soup for the Abbot’s breakfast?’ she said, half expecting them to send her straight back to the forge with a clipped ear. But they let her pass. A wood-panelled corridor gave way to a narrow stone arch and a set of stone steps. Moss climbed, twisting up and up to a half-landing where another guard stood outside an oak door.

      ‘Soup for the Abbot?’ said Moss.

      The guard unlocked the door. Moss gripped the bowl and stepped in.

      The Abbot was on his knees, mumbling a prayer. In front of him was an empty fireplace. Wood had been scarce this winter and unless a prisoner could pay, his hearth stayed cold.

      ‘Frost is upon us,’ said the Abbot, without turning. ‘Frost, then ice. A real winter. Cold as the coldest I have known.’

      He lifted his head. Straggling hair framed his face and his shaved crown sprouted wild tufts. Two months in a cell didn’t always turn you into a crazy man, but it made you look like one, thought Moss.

      Moss offered the bowl and the Abbot motioned to a small table.

      ‘Soup?’ he said.

      ‘Yes,’ said Moss, ‘I . . . I carried it as best I could. But the mud and . . . I spilt some. I’m sorry.’

      The Abbot wrinkled his eyes at Moss. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I do believe you are.’

      He creaked off his knees and hobbled to a chair by the table. Moss hovered by the door, unsure whether to go or wait for him to finish. The Abbot slurped the soup, his lips trembling a little each time he raised the wooden spoon to his mouth.

      ‘Well, I’ll say this,’ he said. ‘Even lukewarm, this is tasty soup. Better than I’d be getting back in the Abbey.’ He slurped some more. ‘And I’m used to silence of course. A cold room, a hard pallet; all part of a monk’s life. There’s one thing I do miss though.’ He put down the spoon, picked up the bowl and put it to his lips, draining the last of the soup. ‘Would you like to know what?’

      Moss nodded shyly.

      ‘My morning walk through the wood. Startled deer. Beech leaves underfoot. And the flute-song of the mistle thrush, calling from the treetops.’

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