“Let me by,” said Amber shortly, “or I’ll have both your noses slit!”
Intimidated either by her threat or by Big John’s towering bulk they let her go in. A servant went to call Shadrac Newbold, who soon appeared, looking as tired as she felt. He bowed to her, politely.
“I took the liberty of coming in by your back entrance. I’ve been up all night and I couldn’t wait in that line.”
“Certainly, madame. Won’t you come into my office?”
With exhausted relief she dropped into the chair he offered her. The rims of her eyelids felt raw and her legs ached. She gave a sigh and leaned her head against her hand, as though unable to hold it up herself. He poured a glass of wine, which she accepted gratefully; it gave her at least a temporary sense of spurious vitality.
“Ah, madame,” murmured Newbold. “This is a sad day for England.”
“I’ve come for my money. I want all of it—now.”
He gave her a mournful little smile, turning his spectacles thoughtfully in his hand. Finally he sighed. “So do they, madame.” He gestured toward the window through which she could see a part of the waiting queue. “Every one of them. Some have twenty pound deposited with me—some, like you, have a great deal more. In a few minutes I must begin to let them in. I’ve got to tell them all what I tell you—I can’t give it to you.”
“What!” cried Amber, the shock jerking her out of her tiredness. “Do you mean to say—” She was starting to get up from her chair.
“Just one moment, madame, please. Nothing has happened to your money. It is quite safe. But don’t you see, if I and every other goldsmith in London were to try to give back every shilling which has been deposited with us—” He gave a helpless little gesture. “It is impossible, madame, you know that. Your money is safe, but it is not in my possession, but for a small sum. The rest is out at interest, invested in property and in stocks and in the other ventures of which you know. I do not keep your money lying idle, and neither have I kept the money of my other depositors lying idle. That is why we can’t return it to all of you all at once. Give me twenty days—and if you want it then I can have it for you. But we must all ask for that twenty days of grace to bring the money into our possession again. Even that will create a condition of financial anarchy which may upset the entire nation.”
“The entire nation’s upset as it is. Nothing worse than invasion can happen to us. Well—I understand you, Mr. Newbold. You took care of my money during the Plague and the Fire and no doubt you can take care of it as well as I can now... .”
Amber went back home, spent four hours trying to sleep, ate her dinner and then set out for the Palace. Along the Strand went a parade of carts and coaches full of refugees hurrying out of town once more to the comparative safety of the country. In the courts and passages of Whitehall there stood more loaded carts. Everywhere people gathered together, listening for the guns, gabbling of nothing but invasion and of trying to get their money, of hiding their belongings and of making out their wills. Several of the courtiers had been among those volunteers who had gone with Albemarle to Chatham or with Prince Rupert to Woolwich, and upon those few hundred men rested all the hope of England.
Amber was stopped every few feet by some excited courtier or lady who asked her what she was going to do and then without waiting for her answer started to tell his or her own troubles. Everyone was gloomy, acknowledging frankly that all fortifications were decayed, unarmed and unmanned, and that the country lay helpless before the invaders. They were angry with the goldsmiths because they would not return their money and swore never to do business with them again. Some of them intended to go to Bristol or another port and sail for America or the Continent. If England was a sinking vessel they did not intend to go down with her.
The Queen’s apartments were hot and crowded and full of shrill noisy voices. Catherine was fanning herself and trying to look composed, but the quick, darting anxious movements of her black eyes betrayed her own worry and uncertainty. Amber went up to speak to. her.
“What’s the news, your Majesty? Have they come any nearer?”
“They say that the French are in Mounts Bay.”
“But they won’t come here, will they? They wouldn’t dare!”
Catherine smiled faintly and shrugged her shoulders. “We didn’t think that they would dare do this much. Most of the ladies are going out of town, madame. You should go too. I’m afraid the sad truth is we didn’t expect this and we’re not prepared.”
Just then they heard the loud clear voice of Lady Castlemaine, standing only a few feet away talking to Lady Southesk and Bab May. “Someone’s going to smoke for this, you may be sure! The people are in a tearing rage! They’ve been chopping down Clarendon’s trees and breaking his windows and they’ve writ their sentiments plain enough on his gate. They’ve got a sign there that says, ‘Three sights to be seen: Dunkirk, Tangier, and a barren Queen!’ ”
Lady Southesk gave her a warning jab and Barbara glanced around, puffed out her cheeks as though in horrified surprise and pressed one hand to her mouth. But the glitter in her eyes said plainly that she had intended to be overheard. While Catherine stared, Barbara gave a careless shrug and signalled to Bab May. They left the room together.
Damn that hard-hearted bitch! thought Amber. I’d like to jerk her bald-headed!
“And a barren Queen,” whispered Catherine, her tiny hands clasping her fan until they trembled. “How they hate me for that!” Suddenly her eyes came up and she looked Amber straight in the face. “How I hate myself!”
Amber had a sudden pang of shame; she wondered if Catherine knew that she was pregnant at that moment, with his child. Impulsively she pressed her hand, tried to give her a reassuring smile of sympathy, but she was relieved to see the languid affected Boynton sail up, waving her fan and seeming about to swoon.
“Oh, Lord, your Majesty! We’re all undone! I’ve just heard the French army is off the coast of Dover making ready to land!”
“What!” yelped a woman who stood nearby. “The French have landed? Good God!” And she started in a rush for the door. The cry was taken up and instantly the room was a milling swirling mass—men and women shoving and pushing at one another in their wild anxiety, surging toward the door.
But that rumour, like a hundred others, proved false.
Drums beat all through that night, calling up the train-bands. Gunfire could be heard from London Bridge. Waves of hysterical alarm and angry pessimism swept the city. Whoever owned anything of the slightest value was busy burying it in the back yard, rushing it out of town in the custody of wife or servant, hectoring the goldsmiths and drawing up his will. They said openly that they had been betrayed by the Court—and most of them expected to die at the point of a French or a Dutch sword. Then news came that the Dutch had broken the boom which had been stretched across the Medway to keep them out, that they had burned six men-of-war and taken the Royal Charles and were pillaging the countryside.
The King ordered the sinking of several ships at Barking Creek in order to block the river and keep them from coming any higher. Unfortunately, however, in the excitement someone misunderstood a command and several boats laden with the scant precious store of naval supplies were sunk by error. The tenth night after the attack on Sheerness it was possible to see the red glow made by burning vessels. Ripped dead carcasses of sheep had floated up-river to London. And the terrified city was swept again and again by spasms of alarm; business had stopped dead, for no one had any business now but to save himself and his family and possessions.