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 water-man 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—came 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.

But she was uneasy and angry herself to be put under the girl’s scrutiny. For though she had used Black Jack’s comb and scrubbed her face she was still miserably dirty, and now she could feel a louse begin to bite. But she would have died rather than reach down to scratch. As it was, Bess lifted her brows and smiled faintly to indicate that she considered her no very formidable rival.

Pox on her! thought Amber furiously. Just wait till I’ve had a bath, Mrs.! We’ll see whose nose is out of joint then, I’ll warrant you! Her speech was taking on the colour of her surroundings, reflecting Lord Carlton and Almsbury, Luke Channell and his aunt, Moll Turner and Newgate, and now, Black Jack and Alsatia.

But if Black Jack was conscious of the resentment crackling between the two women he gave no indication of it. “I’m thirsty,” he said. “Where’s Pall?”

Bess shouted the name and within a few moments a girl pushed open the door which led into another room and stood sleepily on the threshold. Evidently the kitchen-slavey, she was barefooted and ill-kempt, and her hair hung in greasy yellow streaks about her neck. But at the sight of Black Jack she blushed and smiled self-consciously and dropped him a curtsy.

“Glad t’see ye back, sir.”

“Thanks, Pall. I’m glad to be back. Can we have something to drink? I’ll have cherry-brandy. What do you want, sweetheart?” He turned to Amber.

Bess scowled swiftly at that and the next instant she was berating Pall, pouring her jealous spleen over her. “What’ve you been doing, you lazy slut! Why aren’t those dishes cleaned?” She pointed to a table littered with dishes and bones and nut-shells, glasses and wine-bottles. “By Jesus, you’ll mend your ways or I’ll give you a flogging—D’ye hear me?”

Pall winced, evidently believing her, but Black Jack interrupted the tirade. “Leave the girl alone, Bess. Maybe she’s been busy in the kitchen.”

“Busy sleeping, I’ll warrant you!”

“Bring a bottle of Rhenish for Mrs. Channell, and Bess will have—”

“Brandy!” snapped Bess, and gave Amber a quick furious glare.

Amber turned her back and went to sit down. She felt tired and listless and suffered acutely from knowing that she had never been less attractive. She wished only that she might get away from them all and go somewhere to sleep, and then in the morning have a fine warm bath with soap-suds enough to float on. Oh, to be really clean again!

Black Jack and Bess began to talk then, but it was in the underworld cant of which Amber had learnt only a few words. She heard their voices but did not try to understand what they were saying. Instead, she looked idly about her at the furnishings of the room. It was crowded with a vast number of chairs and tables and stools. Half-a-dozen cupboards and hutches ranged the walls. There were innumerable portraits in heavy gold frames and several more stood stacked in a pile against the fireplace. Some of the pieces were obviously expensive, but others were so old or so badly scarred and broken as to be of no possible value and very little use.