The Executioner's Daughter. Jane Hardstaff
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 daughter would make some man a fine wife one day.’
Nell paused for a swig.
‘Plenty would have wed the girl, sure enough. The goatherd. The weaver’s son. But it was another who caught her heart.’
‘Who?’ said Moss.
‘A lordly young soldier with a bright sword and a shine on his tongue. Who passed through one day. Who found bed and board with the miller. Who noticed the miller’s daughter. And caught by his charms, the miller’s daughter soon fell for the soldier.’
‘They were married?’
Nell swilled a mouthful of ale.
‘The day was set for their wedding. A wedding feast for the whole village. The miller proud. His daughter’s heart so full she thought it might fly away with happiness. They waited. And they waited. And the girl’s fingers plucked the cornflowers in her bridal posy. But her soldier did not come.’
‘He didn’t come? Where was he?’
‘A soldier he was, but high-born, who never would have wed a country girl.’
‘So what happened to the miller’s daughter, Nell?’
‘The girl grieved for her soldier and her grief was deep, for she had never once felt pain or sadness her whole life long. After three weary months, she fell sick. A sickness that came and went each morning and lasted all the winter. But when spring sprouted her new shoots, the girl revived. Fairer than ever, she was. Her cheeks now pink and her body full. And the women in the village tittled and tattled and knew what the girl herself did not.’
‘Knew what, Nell?’
‘That she was with child.’
‘Oh,’ said Moss.
‘Yes. And sure enough, as the May sun turned green fields to gold, the miller’s daughter had her baby. A little boy. And though he was brown-eyed and brown-haired like his father, the miller’s daughter loved him and raised him. And nothing was as sweet to her as the feel of her son’s embrace.’
‘Then this is a happy story, Nell.’
‘Not so fast, child. This tale is not yet told. Twelve years came and went. Until one winter’s morning, the wind blew the sound of hooves from the high path to the mill. Men on horseback. The miller’s daughter watched them come. Four greys and a fifth, a fierce white horse, carrying a steward.’
‘A what?’
‘A man who would stop at nothing to do his master’s bidding. For his master was none other than the young soldier, now a noble lord, rich from his father’s estate, lying on his deathbed, with no child of his own to carry his family name. The lord knew the miller’s daughter had given birth to a son. And from the gossip that spread from the village fields to the kitchens of his estate, he knew the son was his.’
Nell shook her head sadly. ‘Property of that noble lord was the child. So the steward took the boy, tossed three gold sovereigns to the miller and told them they would never see the child again.
‘Now the miller was greedy. Three gold sovereigns would buy a new millstone. Forget the boy, he said to his daughter. He paid no heed to her screams or to the pain that hollowed out her heart. That night she lay awake and a bitter seed, planted in her pure soul, began to grow. When the cockerel crowed in the dawn, she rose quietly and climbed the great millwheel –’
‘No, oh, Nell!’
‘Did I not tell you this tale was an unhappy one?’ Nell drained the last of the ale from the jug. ‘The miller’s daughter stepped on to the turning wheel and for a moment her graceful body soared as her heart had once soared. Then she plunged, her body smashing through the crust of ice, deep into the river.’
‘She drowned?’ said Moss in a small voice.
‘Drowned she was. Dragged and crushed by the pull and suck of the Hampton Wheel. That day the wheel stopped, never to turn again. The mill fell into ruin. The miller died a poor and lonely man.’
‘Serves him right, Nell.’
‘Maybe so. But this tale is still not yet told. The girl’s body was broken. But her bitter soul gave life to her tattered remains. And her empty heart filled with the cold spirit of the river. She became –’
‘The Riverwitch?’ said Moss eagerly.
‘Yes, child, the Riverwitch. A restless spirit to haunt its depths each winter. In summer, she is gone. She swims far away to guard her frozen heart. When winter comes, she returns. In her wake, streams become ice and rivers turn so cold that the unwary ones who fall in may not climb out. And in the cold rivers she searches.’
‘For what, Nell?’
‘For a child to snatch with fingers of ice.’
Nell leant into the fire and her face crackled with shadows. ‘The rivers are hers, not ours. Foolish is the one who forgets the song of the river.’
Nell began to croon softly. A song that Moss had not heard before, its melody lilting and incomplete.
Silver river stained with souls
Take care of its depths, my child