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 head 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.”