Winsor, Kathleen (27 page)

"Go
on!" she cried. "What are you stopping for?"

He
made no answer but lunged swiftly forward; one hand caught hold of her skirts
and dragged her toward him. With a scream Amber knocked the candle out of his
hand. Suddenly she found that he had given way and she was going swiftly down
the steps, her hands reaching out blindly toward the walls, but the short
chains on her wrists and ankles caught with a jerk. She lost her footing and
toppled headlong, twisting desperately to protect her belly and yelling with
terror as she plunged toward the bottom of the stair-well.

But
even as she stumbled Black Jack Mallard started up, and he caught her before
she had hurt herself. She could not see him but she felt with passionate relief
a man's powerful hands and arms, his great protecting body, and she heard the
violent angry thunder of his voice bellowing curses at the candleman whose
footsteps went pounding on up to the second story.

"What
did he do to you? Are your hurt?" he demanded anxiously.

Spent
with fear, Amber relaxed against him. "No—" she panted. "I think
I'm—"

From
above, the candleman shouted something unintelligible and with a snarl of rage
Black Jack let her go and started after him. "You stinking son-of-a-whore,
I'll—"

Suddenly
his warmth and protectiveness were gone. Amber's eyes opened and she reached
out frantically. "Don't leave me! Please—don't leave me!" She was afraid
of other unseen dangers hiding there in the dark.

Instantly
he was back again. "I'm here, sweetheart. Don't be scared. I swear I'll
slit his gullet next time I see him, the turd-coloured dog!"

"I
wish you would," she muttered, pressing her hands to her swollen stomach.

Fright
had left her crumpled and weak and she let him half carry her to the bottom of
the staircase where he gently set her on her feet again. The Tap-Room was
nearby and they stood in a kind of smoky twilight; she could feel him watching
her. And finally, forcing herself to look up, she saw his eyes going over her
face and shoulders and breasts with an expression of pleased contemplation. All
at once she felt pretty again; she could almost forget her stringy hair and the
lice crawling on her skin and the dirt packed beneath her finger nails. The
corners of her mouth went up in a faint smile and her eyes slanted
flirtatiously.

Black
Jack Mallard was the biggest man Amber had ever seen. He was at least six feet
five, his shoulders were massive and the muscles in his calves thick and
powerful. His coarse black hair, shiny with oil, hung to his shoulders and
there was a slight wave in it. She could see the glint of gold as a vagrant
light touched the rings he wore in either ear-—it was a fashion much affected
by the fops, but on this giant the jewels seemed only to accentuate his almost
threatening masculinity. His forehead was low and broad, his nose wide at the
nostrils, and while his upper lip was narrow and tightly drawn the lower rolled
out in a heavy curve.

His
clothes were in the latest mode: a blue velvet suit consisting of short doublet
and wide-legged knee-length breeches, white shirt, white linen-and-lace cravat.
Garnet-coloured satin ribbons hung in loops at his waist and sleeves and
shoulders, there was a feather-loaded Cavalier's hat on his head and he wore
calf-high riding boots. Only the boots would not have been acceptable in the
King's own Drawing-Room. The clothes were obviously expensive and certainly no
cast-off garments but they were soiled, somewhat wrinkled, and he wore them
with an air which suggested contempt of such finery.

Now
he grinned at her, showing even, square teeth so white they glistened, and made
a bow. For all his great bulk he was controlled and graceful as a cat.
"I'm Black Jack Mallard, madame, of the Press Yard." The Press Yard
was the elite quarter of the jail, reserved for the rich.

She
curtsied, delighted to be once more in the presence of a man who was not only
susceptible to her charms but worthy of them. "And I, sir, am Mrs.
Channell of the Lady Debtors' Ward, Master side."

Both
of them laughed and bending over he gave her a casual kiss, the customary
salute upon formal introduction. "Come in here," he said, "and
we'll have a bouse on that."

"A
what?"

"A
bouse, sweetheart—a drink. I don't suppose you know
our Alsatian
cant." He took her arm and she noticed that he wore no fetters and even
had a sword slung at his hip.

The
Tap-Room was dimly lighted with several tallow candles, but the smoke that hung
over it was thick as a morning fog on the Thames. At one end was a bar. Stools
and tables and chairs were packed in closely, leaving little room to pass
between them, and the ceiling was so low that Black Jack had to hunch his
shoulders as he walked along, going toward a table in one far corner. He
exchanged several greetings as he went and Amber was aware that every eye there
turned to survey her, searching curiously over Black Jack's new wench; she
caught some whistles from the men and low-murmured spiteful comments from the
women.

But
he evidently had a position of some authority, for they moved respectfully
aside to let him pass, several of the women gave him inviting smiles, and one
or two men complimented his choice. His own attitude toward them was that of
good-natured camaraderie—he slapped the men on the back, stroked one woman's
hand and another's cheek as he passed— and seemed as much at his ease as though
they had been in the tap-room of the Dog and Partridge.

Amber
sat down with her back to the wall, and Black Jack, after asking her what she
wanted, ordered Rhenish for her and brandy for himself. When they had examined
her thoroughly the others went back to what they had been doing. Bottles were
raised, cards shuffled and dice rolled, prostitutes wandered from table to
table soliciting business; the room swelled with voices—laughter, songs and
shouts, the occasional cry of a child. Amber exchanged a smile with Moll Turner
but averted her eyes swiftly from the sight of a blowzy fat woman sprawled at a
table, holding a fan of cards in her hand while a sleeping baby had its mouth
fastened to one brown teat.

"Oh,
my God! she thought with horror. Two more months and I'll— She looked quickly
at Black Jack, and found him smiling down at her.

"You're
a mighty dimber wench," he said softly. "How long 've you been
here?"

"Five
weeks. I'm here for debt—four hundred pound."

He
was less impressed than the Lady Debtors had been. "Four hundred. God's
blood, I can take that much in an easy night's work. What happened?"

"My
husband stole every penny I had and ran off and left me with the debts—"

"And
the lullabye-cheat." He glanced significantly at her belly.
"Well—" He poured a glass of white wine for her and a smaller one of
brandy for himself and flipped a coin to the waiter, giving a casual salute to
the brim of his hat. "Here's to you! May he come back soon and get you out
of crampings." He tossed it down at a gulp, as a gentleman should, poured
another glass and turned to look at her shrewdly.

Amber
drank hers down too, for she was thirsty, but a scowl puckered her eyebrows.
"He'll never come back. And I hope he never does—the ungrateful
pimp!"

Black
Jack laughed and gave a low whistle. "You say that with such spleen I'd go
near to believe you really are married."

She
stared at him, her eyes sparkling. "Well! And why shouldn't you believe
it, pray! Why the devil does everyone think that's just some tale I tell!"

He
poured another glass for each of them. "Because sweetheart, a girl like
you who says her husband left her, probably never had one at all."

She
smiled then and her voice purred. "The way I look now I think I'd fright
away a better man than a husband."

"My
eyes are good, sweetheart. They see under six layers of dirt—and they see a
tearing beauty." For a moment they sat looking at each other and then at
last he said, "I've got a room with a window on the third floor. Would you
like to smell some fresh air and look at the sky?" He half-smiled at the
invitation but got to his feet and reached down his hand to help her.

As
they walked out the entire room set up a bellowing and laughing, shouting
obscenities and advice to Black Jack, who waved his hand at them but did not
glance around.

The
rooms were furnished like those in a low-class tavern catering to gay parties,
the furniture scarred and much initialled, but certainly luxurious compared to
the rest of the jail. The walls were covered with ribald words and sentences,
crude drawings, names, and dates. Black Jack told her that the quarters had
cost him three hundred pounds. Every man who bought the office of Jailor at
Newgate went out of it rich, if not beloved.

Black
Jack was often gone, for he had a great many visitors and social obligations to
fulfill. But each time he came back they would laugh together over the fine
lady—masked of course—who had hinted that she was at the very least a countess
and had offered to solace his lonely hours. Once he stole a gold bracelet from
some admirer and gave it to her. The highwaymen were the aristocrats of the
underworld and they enjoyed a general popularity. Their names were well-known,
their exploits discussed in taverns and on street-corners, they were much
visited when in jail and when they took their last ride in a cart up Tyburn
Hill they were attended by great and sympathetic crowds.

Amber
spent most of her time at the window, swallowing in the fresh air as though she
could never get enough, standing with her arms braced on the window-sill and
looking out over the city. She could see the favoured prisoners down below in
the courtyard, walking or standing in groups, some of them playing hand-ball or
pitch-and-toss for though it was now the end of January the weather continued
mild and the streets were dusty. The tar-smeared quarters of the men hanged
after
the fanatic uprising earlier that month still lay exposed there and flies and
wasps buzzed over the heap in angry masses.

Four
days after Amber had met him Black Jack made another of his miraculous escapes,
and she went with him. Every bolt, every door, every gate had been liberally
greased with the King's coin and each swung open at a touch. In the street a
hackney waited, the door ajar; they got in swiftly and rattled off down Old
Bailey Street. Black Jack, settling into the seat beside her, slapped his thigh
and gave one of his thunderous laughs.

Suddenly
a woman's voice spoke, tart and peevish. " 'Sdeath, Jack! That's a fine
stink you've got! You bring it out every time you go into that damned
jail!"

That,
Amber knew, must be Bess Columbine, whom he called his "buttock." Now
he introduced them, saying, "Bess, this is Mrs. Channell."

The
two women exchanged cool murmurous greetings and all three of them lapsed into
silence. It was only a few minutes, however, until the coach stopped, and as
she got out Amber saw that they were at the edge of the river. They climbed
swiftly into the barge that waited there and the waterman started upstream; it
was perfectly black and moonless and though none of them could see the others
Amber felt Bess staring insistently at her and could sense her jealous
hostility.

Much
I care, she thought, if she likes my company or not!

But
she did not expect to stay long with Black Jack. For somehow, she was sure, she
could get him to give her four hundred pounds. He seemed to have so much money,
and so little use for it, she was convinced she would have it from him in less
than a fortnight. And then she would leave him—though what she would do or
where she would go she had no idea. She had even lost the names of the women
Lord Carlton had said would take care of her during her lying-in.

At
the foot of Water Lane they disembarked and Bess started out ahead up the steep
stone steps to the street level. Amber, holding the bird-cage in one hand and
her skirts in the other, cautiously felt her way along until all at once Black
Jack—who had been delayed while he paid the bargeman—come up behind her, swung
her into his arms and went up as swiftly as though it had been broad daylight.
They passed through the gardens which had belonged to the old Carmelite monastery
that had once stood there, and finally came into a narrow street.

Here,
there was light and noise, and great street signs indicated that almost every
other building was a tavern. Through the square-paned windows they could see
men playing cards, a naked woman dancing, two other women stripped to the waist
and fighting before a crowd of onlookers that cheered and threw coins. The
sound of fiddles blended with screams and laughter and the wailing of babies.
They were in Ram Alley, Whitefriars, a part of the district which gave the
privilege of
sanctuary to criminals and debtors. Those who lived there preferred to call it,
ironically, Alsatia.

They
stopped before one of the houses, Bess opened the door with a key and Black
Jack set Amber down. She stepped inside and instantly the two women turned to
look at each other.

Bess,
Amber saw, was no more than her own age, and of about the same height. Her
hair, which was abundant, was dark brown and curly and fell below her
shoulders; her eyes were blue and she had a small piquant face, somewhat too
broad at the cheekbones, with a nose that turned up saucily. Her figure was
round almost to plumpness and her breasts were full-blown. Amber thought that
she looked vulgar—an ill-bred slut.