River Daughter. Jane Hardstaff

      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?