Neither Amber nor Jenny wanted to be alone that night and Jenny was having spasmodic cramps which she feared might mean that her labour had begun prematurely. They stayed together in a seldom used guest apartment in the north-east wing of the building overlooking the courtyard, for they were both reluctant to return to their own chambers. Amber was determined she would never go back to hers again as long as she lived. By ten o’clock Jenny’s pains had stopped and she went to bed, but Amber stayed up, nervous and jumpy, apprehensive of shadows, alarmed at any unexpected sound. She felt as though hideous unseen things surrounded her on every side, shutting her in until she could scarcely breathe, and once she screamed aloud in terror. She kept lighted all the candles she could find and refused to take off her clothes.

At last Jenny got up and came to put her arms about her. “Amber, dear, you must try to sleep.”

Amber shook her off. “I can’t I can’t.” She ran her fingers through her hair, shivering. “What if he should come back. He meant to kill me. If he found me alive—Oh! What’s that!”

“Nothing. Just an animal outside. He won’t come back. He wouldn’t dare. He won’t ever come back. You’re safe here.”

“I’m not going to stay! I’m going away tomorrow morning—as soon as it’s light!”

“Going away? But where will you go? Oh, please, Amber, don’t go and leave me!”

“Your mother will come. I can’t stay here, Jenny! I’d go mad! I’ve got to go—and don’t try to stop me!”

She could not and would not tell Jenny where she was going, but she knew very well herself. For now the chance had come and all the plans over which she had mulled and brooded these past weeks fell into a pattern. She had expected to use Philip, but now he was dead and she realized that she could do it better without him. It seemed so simple she wondered why she had endured all these months of hatred and degradation, without realizing that it had taken time and circumstances to bring her to her present pitch of desperation.

With Big John Waterman and two or three other serving-men she would set out for London. Perhaps they could ambush him on the way, but if not she would somehow contrive to meet him alone in London, some dark night. It was no uncommon occurrence, she knew, to find a gentleman of quality badly beaten or even dead—for every man had his enemies and vengeance was crude and decisive. A slit nose, a brutal kicking, a sword through the stomach, were all popular means of avenging some real or imagined insult. She intended Radclyffe to die of his injuries—since now it was either his life or hers.

Because it was both easier and safer to travel in masculine dress she prepared to set out the next morning wearing one of the Earl’s suits—which was not a great deal too large—his hat and riding-cloak. Big John and four husky footmen were to go with her, though no one but John knew what her intentions were. Jenny wept and begged her over and over to change her mind, but when Amber refused she helped her get ready and gave her many admonitions about taking care of herself.

“There’s one thing I’ll never be able to understand,” Jenny said, as she watched Amber pulling on a pair of his Lordship’s boots. “I don’t know why he spared me—If he wanted to kill you, and Philip—why would he have let me live?”

Amber gave her a swift narrowed glance and as the blood rushed into her face she bent her head. Poor innocent little Jenny. She still did not know; and certainly it could do her no good to know now. For the first time since she had begun her affair with Philip Mortimer Amber felt a kind of shame. But it did not last long. Soon she was on horseback—waving to Nan and promising Jenny that she would be careful.

The summer had been even hotter than the year before; for weeks it had not rained and the roads were hard. Amber, because she had been riding almost every day during the past four and a half months, was able to set a swift pace for the men. They stopped at the first village they came to because she was ravenously hungry, and then they hurried on again. By five o’clock that evening they had travelled forty-five miles.

Hot and tired and dusty, reeking of sweat—their own and the horses’—the six of them stopped at a pretty little inn. Amber went swaggering in with the men, pretending that she was one of them. She felt pleased at this adventure, the more so because she was keenly aware that but for a lucky accident she would have been lying dead at Lime Park and not sitting here on a settle with her feet cocked up before the fire, stroking a ragged old dog and enjoying the succulent smells from a joint which turned and crackled over the flames. She was luxuriously tired and her muscles felt sore from the unaccustomed strain of riding astride. Nothing had ever tasted so good as the cool golden ale she swallowed from a pewter tankard.

She slept deeply that night and longer than she had intended, but they were off again at six. By noon they had reached Oxford, where they stopped for dinner. The hostess put two enormous black-jacks on the table and while they drank she brought in pewter plates and knives and spoons. When the joint was taken off the fire she carved it for them, very neatly, and then according to the custom they invited her to join them.

“I suppose you gentlemen are on your way to London to see the fire?” she inquired in a polite, conversational tone.

Heads turned all down the table, fingers paused halfway to their mouths. “Fire!”

“Ye hadn’t heard? Oh, there’s a great fire in London, they say.” She was full of importance at having such news to tell: burnt-out crops and the heat had been the most exciting source of conversation for some time. “There was a gentleman here not an hour since just come from there. He says it gets worse by the hour. Looks like it might take the whole city,” she added, shutting her mouth complacently and nodding at them.

“You mean there’s a big fire in London?” repeated Amber incredulously. “Not just a few houses?”

“Oh, Lord, no! It’s a big one, well enough. He said it was well along the river when he left—and that was yesterday afternoon.”

“Good Lord!” whispered Amber. She had visions of all her money burning, her clothes, and everything else that belonged to her. London in flames! “When did it begin? How did it start?”

“Began early Sunday morning,” she said. “Long before sun-up. They think it’s a Papist plot.”

“My God! And this is Monday noon! It’s been burning almost two days!” She turned excitedly to Big John. “How much farther is it? We’ve got to get there!”

“It’s seventy miles or more, sir. We could never make it if we rode all night. Better to ride till dark and then go on in the morning.”

In just a few minutes they had finished eating and were mounted. The hostess followed them out, pointing up into the sky. “Look at the sun! How red it’s turned!” They all looked up, shading their eyes with their hands, and there were others in the streets also looking up. The sun had a dull glow and its colour was fierce and ominous.

“Come on!” cried Amber, and they swept off, galloping down the road.

Amber did not want to stop at all that night for she was afraid that when she got there not only her money but the Earl too would have disappeared in the confusion. But it would have been all but impossible to reach the City, for travel by night was much slower and more dangerous than by day. When supper was over she went immediately to her room and without taking off more than her hat and boots and doublet threw herself onto the bed and fell fast asleep. Before dawn the hostess was rapping at the door and by five they were on the road again.

At each village they asked for news of the fire and heard the same thing everywhere: it was taking all the town, burning the Bridge, churches, houses, sparing nothing. And the closer they got to London the more people they saw on the roads, all going in the same direction. Farmers and workmen were throwing down their shovels and leaving their fields, setting out for the capital with carts and even wheelbarrows; vehicles of transportation were at a premium and a man might hire himself and cart at forty or fifty pounds for a few hours’ work—as much as a farmer was likely to make in a whole year’s time.

When they had gone fifteen more miles they could see the smoke, a great moving pall that hung in the distance, and soon little charred fragments of paper and linen and plaster began to drift down upon them. They galloped on and on, as fast as they could go, not stopping even to eat. The day was windy and the closer they got to London the fiercer it blew, whipping their cloaks about them. Amber lost her hat. They had to squint their eyes for the wind blew specks of tinder into them. As the afternoon began to fade the flames could be seen more clearly, leaping in great streaks, casting a threatening red glare over all the land.

It was almost night when they reached the City because for the last ten miles the roads were so congested that they could not move at even a walking pace. From far off they could hear the roar of the fire, like thousands of iron coach-wheels crashing together over cobblestones. There was a continuous echoing thunder as buildings collapsed or were blown up. From the churches that still stood, within the City and without, the bells rang frantically—sounding a wild call of distress that had never ceased since the fire had been discovered two days and a half before. As darkness settled the sky glowed red—like the top of a burning oven.

Just without the walls were the great open spaces of Moor Fields, already crowded with men and women and children, and more were constantly arriving—forcing the first comers back into the middle of the fields, packing them in tightly. Some had already pitched tents made of sheets or towels tied together. Women were suckling their babies; others were trying to prepare a meal with whatever food they had been able to save in those few awful moments before the flames had seized their houses. Some sat and stared, unable and unwilling to believe. Others stolidly stood and watched, the heat scorching their faces, though the glare of the fire made it impossible to see more than black silhouettes of the burning buildings.