River Daughter. Jane Hardstaff

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      ‘Somethin’s goin on,’ Salter pulled her arm. ‘Come on, let’s get near one of them fires, dry ourselves out.’

      Moss hitched the skirts of her waterlogged dress and followed Salter up the bank to where an enormous bonfire blazed, flames snapping at the night sky.

      A crowd was gathered around the fire. Two men in velvet caps filled mugs from a barrel as fat as a pony.

      ‘Bring your mugs and your jugs!’ cried one of the men. ‘Fill them up and drink them down and be as merry as you please, this night of nights!’

      ‘City merchants givin out free beer?’ said Salter. ‘Has the world gone mad?’ He marched up to the men.

      ‘Beer for you, lad?’ said the red-cheeked merchant.

      ‘What’s the night, mister?’

      The merchant seemed taken aback by Salter’s question. ‘Where’ve you been this day, lad? Snoring under a hay bale?’

      ‘It’s a long story,’ said Salter.

      The merchant laughed and raised his mug. ‘The Queen has had her child. The King has a son! Long live the Prince! We toast his health and thank heaven and all the angels, for England’s throne has an heir at last!’

      There was a huge cheer from the men and women around the bonfire. Mugs clanked and the merchants’ boys threw on more logs. Now the smoke had cleared, Moss could see that London Bridge was a blaze of torches. Men dangled from the arches waving their arms. Long flags fluttered from the rooftops and the whooping carried down the river. It seemed to her as if all London had come out to shout and sing for the new prince.

      ‘Come on,’ said Salter. ‘We need to look for the boat and our stuff before the tide takes it back.’

      Moss looked at the black river doubtfully. But she knew he was right. If there was a chance they could find it, they had to try. A broken boat and two wet blankets were better than nothing at all.

      They scrambled back to the water’s edge and worked their way up the shoreline, prodding and scouring. But all they found were bits of old crate, bricks and bones, coughed up by the tide.

      ‘This is hopeless.’ Moss turned from the river and stared up the shore. Not far off, slumped like a tired army in the mud, were the fishermen’s tumbledown huts.

      Salter was shaking his head. ‘Where is it?’ he muttered.

      ‘Let’s face it, the boat’s gone,’ said Moss. ‘We need to find somewhere to sleep. Salter ?’

      ‘Here,’ he said. ‘It was here.’ He was dashing to and fro like a mouse that had lost its hole. ‘It was here. I swear on me old nan’s teeth.’

      Then he stopped. Sniffed the air. And looked down. Now he was on his knees, scrabbling in the shingle.

      ‘Salter, what are you doing?’

      He pulled a piece of charred wood from the stones. ‘The smoker . . .’ He took a few steps forward and blinked with disbelief, turning in a slow circle and looking at the ground. He was standing on what could only be described as a pile of broken sticks.

      And then she understood.

      ‘Oh, Salter, I’m sorry –’

      ‘Me old shack. It’s gone.’

      Moss stared helplessly at where Salter’s hut had been. Never much to look at from the outside, inside the shack had been snug as two cats. Now it was smashed to tinder. A heap of wood, barely enough for an hour’s blaze.

      ‘Salter,’ she said gently, ‘it can’t be helped. All those children on the riverbank, hungry and frozen. When they realised you weren’t coming back, they’d have taken what they could. Come on. You’d have done the same.’

      ‘Maybe I would,’ said Salter gruffly. ‘But you ain’t never built somethin with yer bare hands, only to find it pulled to pieces like a chicken from its bones . . . Wait a minute.’ He patted his pockets. ‘Cussin collops!’ He kicked at the ground, sending a spray of shingle into the river. ‘All me coins must’ve fallen out.’

      No money, no blankets and no boat. At least there were fires on the shore. There was a chance they wouldn’t freeze to death. They traipsed back to the bonfire and sat huddled together, backs to the heat, as close as they could get without setting themselves alight. And Moss must have forgotten the cold, because at some point she felt her head fall gently against Salter’s shoulder.

      In the distance, cries and cheers mixed with the hush of the waves.

      ‘You asleep, Leatherboots?’ murmured Salter.

      She was too tired to reply. But as sleep came, she felt the lightest touch of something soft on her forehead.

       CHAPTER SIX

       Cat’s Head

      A howling river wind woke Moss early next morning. She lifted her head and sat up. Salter was still asleep, propped against an empty beer barrel. She guessed he’d dragged it over to the fire to shield them from the wind. She stood up and shook out her dress. It was smoky and specked with ash, but the wool was bone-dry next to her skin. Silently she thanked Pa. Without a blanket or a groat to her name, this dress was all she’d got.

      ‘Arrggh.’ Salter groaned himself awake. He stretched and his neck cricked. ‘Sweet Harry’s achin bones! Feels like someone chopped me head off and put it back the wrong way.’

      Moss didn’t hear him. She was already down by the water’s edge, walking along the shore. The strangeness of their river journey was fresh in her mind – snatched by a freak current and dumped right in front of the Tower.

      ‘Hey! Leatherboots! Wait for me!’

      Salter caught her up. ‘Where are you goin?’

      ‘Back to where we pitched up last night.’

      ‘Won’t do no good. Tide’ll have taken the boat. Won’t be nothin to find now.’

      ‘I know. I just –’ She broke off. What could she say? She wasn’t going to tell him about the Riverwitch.

      But Salter was distracted by something else. The grey river raked the shingle, leaving a sticky sludge in its wake.

      ‘Steer clear of that mud, Leatherboots,’ said Salter. ‘You never know how deep this stuff is. Maybe it’s just an inch or two, or maybe it’s sinkin mud.’

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