At Mr. Bidulph’s invitation Amber sat down to have supper with him, and they lingered there afterward while she listened to his tales of the Civil Wars. She heard of numerous instances demonstrating his and everyone else’s heroic valour, of the dead King’s nobility and martyrdom, the magnificent leadership of Prince Rupert. Nothing, he assured her again and again, could have been more glorious than the way the Royalists had lost the war.
Amber kept an eye on the clock.
By ten she was beginning to grow nervous and had to force herself to sit still and smile and ask questions. They had been there at the table for more than three hours, and certainly Black Jack should have finished his work by now and made her a signal to join them. A feeling of panic was rising in her, and her stomach turned over and over, fluttering like a captive bird.
Oh! she thought wildly. Where is he! Why doesn’t he come!
Then all at once she heard a noisy commotion from outside. The dogs began to bark again, horses’ hoofs beat along the roadway, and there was a babble of voices—men shouting, a woman’s scream. Pall opened their door at the head of the stairs to wave frantically at her. And Amber, suddenly terrified, thinking that Bess had arrived with a party of constables, leaped to her feet.
“Good Lord, madame! What’s amiss?”
“It’s thieves!” cried Amber wildly. “Quick! Put out the lights!”
She darted across to snuff out the candles burning in wall-sconces, and as she did so Pall burst from the room above and came running down, wailing with fear. “Shut up!” cried Amber frantically. At that moment she heard the unmistakable sound of Bess Columbine’s voice and a bellow of rage from Black Jack.
The voices were nearer now and Amber—able to think of nothing but saving herself—started for the front door. She heard Pall bawling her name, and Mr. Bidulph, catching the contagion of excitement, went stumbling around in the dark, calling out, “Mrs. Ann! Mrs. Ann! Where are you!” By mistake he grabbed hold of Pall and she shrieked with terror.
Amber rushed on and then, just as she got outside, she heard footsteps coming that way and saw the flare from their torches. Bess’s voice screamed: “She’s in here! Let him go—
Amber whirled and ran back inside, heading for the kitchen. Mr. Bidulph was still floundering about and calling her name while Pall screamed but could not decide what to do; as Amber ran by he reached for her and caught hold of her skirt. She jerked it free, hearing it tear, and rushed on, reaching the narrow little hallway below the stairs just as a torch brightened the room. Pall gave a shriek of agony as she was seized and Mr. Bidulph indignantly demanded to know what was going on.
Amber burst into the kitchen, panting so that she could scarcely breathe, and gave a scared start as she heard a voice.
“Mrs. Channell? It’s the host.”
She stopped still. “Oh, my God! Where can I go! Where can I hide? They’ll be here next!” Her teeth were chattering and her very bones seemed to shake.
“Quick! Get into this food-hutch! Give me your hand!”
Amber reached out gropingly. He caught hold of her hand, threw up the top of a great oaken chest, and she climbed in. The lid had just shut down when Bess and the constables came through the hallway; the host turned and ran out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
“There she goes!” yelled Bess. And through the air-holes bored in the chest Amber saw a flare of light and heard the rush of their feet as they went by, Bess swearing when she knocked her ankle against a stool.
Amber waited only until the last one was gone and then she flung back the lid and got out, picked up her skirts, and ran after them. Still on the trail of the host they had rounded the corner into the courtyard, and since the kitchen formed a separate wing of the house it was dark when she got outside. The confusion was greater than ever and she knew they had captured all three men for she heard Bess yelling: “Let him go, you damned fools! He’s the ostler here! Get that woman!”
Amber did not pause an instant but struck off in the other direction, toward the river, hoping only to get away where it was so dark she could not be seen. Reaching the bank she plunged down it. She was unable to see at all, for the moon had disappeared and the sky was black with storm-clouds, but she ran blindly ahead—like one in a dream who, no matter how hard the legs churn, cannot seem to make any progress. The sounds were growing fainter, but she dared not stop or look back.
Her shoes were soaked through in a moment and the rocks on the stream-bed bruised the soles of her feet. Her wet skirts flopped and clung to her ankles; brambles scratched her face and bare arms and caught in her hair. A hard pain seared her left side, her legs felt wooden and her lungs were beginning to burn. But she ran on and on.
