Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

She sat brooding over her cold hearth till evening: and then, as soon as it was dark, put on her cloak, took her stick, and walked cautiously to the Pool-house, where she succeeded in getting to the kitchen window unperceived, reaching in and touching Janet on the shoulder with her stick as she sat nodding near it in her chair.

The girl started, and as her eyes fell upon the face of the visitor her lips parted to utter a cry, but the peculiar look on the old woman’s face seemed to fascinate her, and she sat back gazing at her as Mother Goodhugh climbed in at the casement, and stood by her side.

“Wh-what do you want?” faltered the girl.

“I’ve come to see thee, dearie,” said the old woman, smiling. “I want to know how you be getting on.”

“But you must not stay here!” cried Janet, making an effort to recover herself. “If master knew he would drive me hence.”

“Go and tell him, then, child,” said Mother Goodhugh mockingly. “Go and tell him that Mother Goodhugh has come to ask thee about thy love affairs, and the philtre she gave thee. What? You will not? He, he, he, he! What a strange girl you are.”

“But you must not stay!” cried Janet in alarm. “If you were found here master would never forgive me.”

“He is sitting smoking and drinking in his parlour, dearie, and never comes this way after dark.”

“Yes, yes, he does!” cried the girl; “he comes sometimes to go down to the powder-cellar with a lantern.”

“What, through that door?” said Mother Goodhugh, pointing.

“Nay, nay! That be the beer cellar. That be the way to the powder-cellar,” she said, pointing to a massive door, down a couple of steps. “That be the first door, and there be another farther on at the end of the passage.”

“Lawk adear!” said Mother Goodhugh, “and aren’t you afraid, when they bring the stuff down?”

“They never bring it through here,” said the girl. “They let the little barrels down through a hole covered with a flat stone outside there amongst the trees, and master goes along with Tom Croftly to take it, in their slippers, and then comes back and locks it up.”

“Ay, and I’ll be bound to say always carries the keys in his pocket, eh!”

“No,” said the girl, shaking her head. “They hang on a nail in the passage by the door.”

“There, I don’t want to know about the powder, dearie,” cried Mother Goodhugh. “Oh, the horrible stuff! I always begin to curse when I hear it mentioned, so we won’t talk about it. I came to see you, and talk about love, and – ”

“But you mustn’t stop, indeed you mustn’t stop,” whispered Janet. “Suppose Mistress Mace should come?”

“But she won’t come, dearie. She’s in the corner of the parlour window with the handsome young spark from town.”

“How do you know?” cried Janet. “How do I know, child! He-he-he! Do you think there’s anything I don’t know? You came to me because I was the wise woman, eh?”

“Ye-es,” faltered the girl. “Well, didn’t you expect me to be wise, child, eh?”

Janet shrank as far away from her as she could, and stared at her, round of eye and parted of mouth.

“Look here, dearie,” whispered the old woman, “don’t try to deceive me. I’m such a good friend, but such a bad enemy. You wouldn’t like to make me angry, and set me cursing and ill-wishing you.”

“N-no,” faltered Janet, who began to be horribly frightened of the penetrating eyes that seemed to read her inmost thoughts.

“No, of course you would not. How often dids’t say Mas’ Cobbe went down into the powder-cellar?”

“Only once a month,” said the girl, “when they’ve finished working.”

“Then he’ll be going down directly?”

“Oh, no; they finished there last week, and it will be three weeks, just,” faltered Janet.

“Dear me, will it?” said the old woman. “But, as I was saying, it would be so horrible if I cursed you, though it is not me, my dear, but something in me that does it. It be an evil spirit,” she whispered, “and I’ve known girls as handsome as you lose their round, red cheeks, and soft, smooth skin, and their eyes have grown sunken, and their foreheads wrinkled. It be very horrible, my dear, but I couldn’t help it.”

Janet tried to get up and go away, but her visitor’s fierce, sharp eyes seemed to hold her back in her seat, a fact which Mother Goodhugh well knew and rejoiced in.

It was the only pleasure the old woman had, and she felt at times like this how it recompensed her for the dread she felt of the stringent laws. A curious smile played round her thin lips, and Janet shuddered as the old woman leaned forward till her face was close to that of her victim.

“How is the love going on, dearie?” she whispered.

“Don’t – ask – me,” faltered the girl.

“You didn’t take the stuff, dearie, to give yourself ease?”

“How – how did you know?”

“How did I know? He-he-he!” laughed the old woman, with a cacchination that was enough to freeze the girl’s blood. “I know, child, and you can’t deceive me. Why didn’t you take it?”

“I – I was afraid,” stammered Janet. “Mary Goodsell took some once, but it killed her and her baby too.”

“Afraid? Stuff! Afraid to give yourself ease when Mistress Mace was torturing you by her love-makings with the fine spark who played with you, and pretended to love you.”

“He didn’t pretend,” said the girl, indignantly. “He did love me till she came between.”

“Ah, yes, child, I suppose so; but she be a white witch and very strong, and she would come between and master him. She could lead him wherever she liked, and win him to love her with her spells. Don’t trouble your poor, dear heart about him any more, my child, but take the drops, and be happy.”

“I – I don’t think I dare,” faltered the girl.

“Dare? Pish! child, you be too brave and handsome a girl not to dare. It be a pity, too, that she should have come between,” said Mother Goodhugh, musingly. “Ah! I have known cases where handsome, noble gentlemen have come down into country places and seen village girls, not so beautiful as thou, child, and married them, and taken them away; and a few years after they have come back looking fine ladies, with their diamonds, and jewels, and carriages, and servants.”

Janet’s eyes sparkled as this indirect piece of flattery went on.

“I’ll take it,” she said hastily; “I’ll take it.”

“Take it? Of course you will, dearie!” cried Mother Goodhugh; “and now look here, my child. I want something of thine to complete a little spell I have at work. Thou hadst a ribbon round thy neck when thou earnest to me.”

“Yes,” said Janet, “a red one; Mas’ Wat Kilby gave it to me.”

“Nay, then, child, that will not do. I only want an inch cut from it by thy left hand; but if it be tainted by an old man’s love it would not do. Let me see. Thou hast not anything given thee by the young court gallant?”

“No,” said the girl. Then, with a hasty glance around, she whispered “I have a piece of lace he gave to Mistress Mace, and which she would not wear.”

“That will do, child; go, get me the tiniest scrap of that, and I will weave a spell that shall bring thee happiness and peace.”

Janet rose and opened the door, and listened.

“They be all in the room,” she whispered, as she closed the door again.

“That be well. Be quick, child, and let me get out of this place.”

“Thou wilt not move while I am gone.”

“Nay, nay, child, not I; but harkye, leave the door ajar while thou art gone up stairs, so that if I hear a step that be not thine I may flee.”

Janet looked doubtful for a moment, and then turned to go.

“I need not bring the whole piece?” she whispered.

“Faith, no, child; I’ll not rob you of it. The tiniest scrap be all I want. It must be something that the knight has touched.”

Janet nodded, and slipped out of the room, but ere she reached the staircase Mother Goodhugh was at the passage door listening; and, as the last stair creaked beneath the weak girl’s tread, the old woman had glided into the passage, peered about by the light of the rush-candle burning on a stand, and uttered a grunt of disappointment. The next moment, though, she saw what she wanted, in the shape of a couple of keys hanging high up, close to the ceiling; and, stepping on a chair, she just reached them, and, lightly crept back along the passage to sit down in the kitchen, panting from exertion and excitement combined.

Before she could compose herself Janet was back, too much excited herself to notice the old woman’s hurried breathings.

“I’ve got it,” she cried, producing a handsome piece of lace. “I must cut some off here. Be quick; I be in such a fright for fear some one should come.”

“That will do, dearie,” said the old woman, tearing off a scrap from one end. “There, put it away, and let me begone. Take the drops, child, and give thyself ease. You don’t care for such love as his.”

Janet did not reply, but gladly opened the door to get rid of her unwelcome visitor, who stepped out into the dark night, and hurried away across the little bridge, and into the lane, where she turned to shake her stick at the peaceful-looking house, with its lighted windows.

“Now we shall see – now we shall see!” she cried. “Two ways open, and my sayings coming to pass. There will be no wedding now.”

How Culverin Cark sealed up the Store

The autumn sun shone brightly down into the ravine that led up to the mouth of Gil Carr’s store, and the steep sides were glorious with the bright berries that glistened amongst the changing leaves. Where the briony, with its bronze green foliage, flung down its wreaths, there was cluster after cluster of orange scarlet fruit. The brambles hung down thorny strands black with rich ripeness that there was no hand to gather; and wherever a prickly holly, all glistening glossy green, had rooted in some crevice of the sand-rock, it was covered with yellow berries awaiting more kisses from the ardent sun before blushing scarlet for the Christmas-tide.

The ferns were beginning to be dappled on their dark green fronds with gorgeous dashes of orange and chrome, mingled with crimson, red as blood, and the dyes of the finger-leaved maple were nearly as bright. Where the white tails of the rabbits could be seen disappearing as their owners heard a tramp of many feet, the dense small-leaved sloe-bushes, with their cruel thorns, showed many a row of tiny plums of the richest violet, dusted with a delicate pearly bloom. The late blossoms of the yellow rag-wort clustered amidst the purple heath, and glossy ivy hung in strands swinging in the hot sunshine with the tender tips just brushing the seeded grass self-turned into useless hay.

Hot, still, and breathless lay the ravine, with all its natural riches, ripe with the fullness of the season, and now resting, waiting the coming of the cold wintry winds, that, sweeping up from the sea, should heat and tear and bear away the brightness of the autumn and turn all to desolation and death.

Suddenly a velvety blackbird, with its orange bill and yellow-circled eyes, uttered its alarm-note and flew along like a streak of night away up and along the side of the ravine to the over-hanging woods. A chat that had been busy twittering its song over a golden clump of furze stopped half-way and dived amongst the purple heath, while a glistening lizard, that had half taken the alarm from the scattering rabbits, ran beneath the leaves.

The steps in the distance grew plainer on the ear, and a greeny olive snake raised its head where it lay in a twirl upon a shelf of short, fine, sun-browned turf, darted its tongue out over its hard shiny jaws, and glided under the root of a tree, seeming to give warning of danger by its low hiss to an adder higher up the stony way, for the little viper condescended to raise its head where it lay like a scaly letter S upon the mossy stump of a hazel bush, round whose green, mouldering, gnarled stem were clustered, like chalices, so many thickly-veined fungi that looked as if roughly cast in orange-tinted deadened gold.

The danger seemed to be far off, for the viper lay down its spade-shaped head once more, yawned, and seemed disposing itself for another sunny sleep, but had hardly arranged its tail to its satisfaction when —rustle – tap– something fell from above, and struck it sharply on the back.

It was only a hazel nut that could hang no longer in its husk, but ripened into a soft warm brown, it had dried and dried till a leaf or two above it had ceased to give its shade, and then it had fallen like a warning upon the viper’s back.

A moment before and the little reptile was sluggishness itself; this blow, light as it was, seemed to galvanise it into life, for a quick spasm darted through it, there was a sharp wave, and the raised head was ready to strike, while the eyes, that had a moment before resembled dim oxidised silver, now glittered like tiny jewels, as the whole creature seemed to become the picture of malicious rage, and sought where to drive deep its poison-fangs.

There was somehow a kind of resemblance between the little serpent and Anne Beckley, though there was no one by to see, as, failing an object at which to strike, the reptile seemed to consider that discretion was the better part of valour; and, slowly lowering its crest, it threw its body into a series of horizontal waves, and gradually disappeared beneath some tawny – golden bracken on the slope.

The steps came nearer, and suddenly there was a movement on the edge of the cliff, high above the store, where a bronzed man took his place, evidently on the look-out.

Directly after another was seen scaling the side of the ravine to post himself on the slope over the entrance, while again another suddenly appeared amidst the furze on the green shoulder which overlooked the sloping downs.

Gil Carr’s men did not often visit the place by day, hence the precautions against being watched by some intruder.

High up above the cavern, the gaunt figure of Wat Kilby suddenly showed against the sky. Then he shrank down into a little depression half overgrown with trees, and soon after a thin, pale blueish vapour arose, and kept rising, as, pipe in mouth, the old sailor seated himself upon a block of stone to watch.

Meanwhile, up the bottom of the ravine, close down by where the clear stream wandered in its deep fern-hung mossy shades, a little party of some twenty men wound their way.

Every man seemed well-armed, and, with the exception of their leader, all appeared to be carrying a burden, either a small keg or a little chest, or a heavy packet, which they bore through the clustering bushes, which seemed to interlace their arms and try to stay them as they forced their way amongst the rocks.

After climbing pretty close to the end, at a word from Gil the loads were set down, arms laid aside, and by means of half a dozen pike-staves the great stone was rolled away.

The men then waited while Gil went in and lit a lanthorn, returning soon after to make a sign, when one by one they all lifted and bore in their loads, following their leader for some distance to where the dim light showed an inner cavern, whose sides and roof had evidently been roughly chiselled out by the hands of man.

Here the fresh additions to the stores of the place were neatly deposited, and the sailors sat down, while Gil busied himself in examining a bale or two that seemed to have been gnawed by rats.

“I wonder where the skipper shoved that spying fellow Churr – him as we searched for?” said one of the men in a low voice to his nearest comrade.

“Further in, somewhere,” was the reply; “I thought I could smell him just now.”

“That be rats,” said the other; “I know them well enough. But does the place go in far?”

“I believe you, my lad. I once went in ever so far with old Wat and the skipper carrying lanterns.”

“Did you?” said the other, eagerly; “and what be it like?”

“Like this here. All the same – hole after hole, with rough stone pillars to support it all, just as it must have been dug out.”

“Bah! chap, this was never cut out,” said the other. “It came natural like.”

“Never cut out? Come natural like? Look here, my lad,” said the sailor, rising and pointing to marks upon the wall that seemed to have been made with some rough tool.

“Yes, but anybody might have done that,” said the younger man.

“You can think what you like,” said the other. “I’m telling you what the skipper told old Wat, and you never knew him tell a lie. He said to old Wat, ‘My father found the way rabbiting when a boy, and forgot all about it till he felt the want of a place to store things in unknown to other folk, and then he recollected this.’ He said it was made by folks as lived underground hundreds of thousands of years ago.”

“Oh?” said the other.

“Yes; and they dug first one and then another, as they wanted them, and grew bigger in numbers, and that it went right in farther than they’d ever been on account of the bad air.”

“Same as down among the bilge in the ship’s hold?”

“That’s so. The skipper’s father was most stifled by it once when he tried to go right in.”

“But do they go right in?” The elder sailor struck the top of an empty barrel a sharp rap with the hilt of his sword, and the other’s question was answered, for the sound went echoing into the distance till it died away.

“It be a queer sort of place,” said the other, with a half shudder. “Hang me if I’d like to be boxed up here along with Abel Churr, if the skipper’s stowed him there.”

“Plenty of room and good water,” said the other, pointing down to where the source of the stream outside ran trickling through the interstices of the stone, and formed tiny pools of limpid clearness.

“Ugh! the place smells damp and cold, and I should expect to come out, if I was shut up here, all over blue mould.”

“Like a bit of ship’s cheese, eh? Come along: here’s the skipper.”

“Now, my lads!” cried Gill, just then, “work with a will, plenty to do.”

He led the way, and the men followed him with a sense of relief out into the bright sunshine, where the ferns fringed the rough arch over the entrance to the hole.

They glanced at the heaps of stores and the various shipping chandlery, spare sails and cordage, but all was so familiar that nothing excited their interest.

Just as they reached the outside there was a whistle from below, and Gil uttered an impatient ejaculation. But hurrying a little distance down, he peered over a mass of rock, to see one of his men, who had been on sentry, leading a dark figure with bandaged eyes.

“Father Brisdone!” said Gil. “Bring him along, my lad.”

Going forward, he quickly undid the handkerchief and threw it aside.

“I forgot to tell them, father,” he said, holding out his hand; “there was no need with you.”

“I do not wish to pry into any of your secrets, my son, that you do not care to trust me with,” said Father Brisdone, smiling as he took the young man’s hand.

“Trust you, father? Why, I’d trust you with anything. But you look weary and hot with your journey. Sit down on yon stone: this is nature’s parlour. Here is something to eat. Lockyer, a bottle of that wine from the case inside on the left. The cup too.”

Leading the father to a nook by the side of the entry, he placed refreshments before him, and then said —

“Now you shall see us lock up the house, for it may be a year before we return.”

“Why should you show me?” said Father Brisdone, smiling.

“Why should I not show the man whom I have always looked upon as a trusty friend?” retorted Gil. “Now, my lads,” he said, and, leaving the father’s side, he soon had his men busy with spade and shovel. First of all the old stone was reared into its place. Then smaller blocks were thrust in here and there, so as to completely wedge it in. Then shovels of stones were thrown into fissures, and sods of earth, mingled with grass and heather, were carefully arranged; after which broad-fronded ferns, roots of rag-wort, grasses, and bramble roots were planted, dead leaves sprinkled here and there, and touch after touch given till nothing seemed left to be done but to pour water over the new earth to bind it together, and make the plants take root.

“There,” said Gil to the father, as he stopped by him, hot and panting; “unless some spy has watched our work, that is safe enough, for in a week’s time those things will be growing again.”

“Yes, that will be secure enough,” said the father, rising. “Thanks, my son, I was indeed faint for want of food. And now, what next?”

“Next, father, you will accompany my man there on board. The little ship lies ready in the river; he will take you down in the skiff. If all’s well we shall be with you soon after midnight, and then heaven send us favouring gales, for we shall drop down the river on the tide, and put to sea at once.”

“But no bloodshed, my son. For heaven’s sake do not let the hand that leads your promised wife on board be red with the blood of a fellow-man.”

“Father,” said Gil, sternly, “I am no cut-throat; I am no lover of the sword. I go to-night to fetch my wife, and I go with peace and love towards all; but if that man or his followers stand in my path to prevent us, they must take what follows, for I cannot trifle now.”

Father Brisdone sighed.

“You know the consequences; if I do not get her away to-night, they are to be wed at eight o’ the clock, and to stay that, there must be a deadly fray. Trust me, father; and, if I can help it, no blood shall be shed.”

“I trust you, my son. Go, and my blessing be with you. I shall make the little cabin a chapel, where I shall pass the time in prayer for your success.”

“And then, father, a chapel where you make her mine by ties that none can break.”

“Amen, my son, amen!” said Father Brisdone; and they parted, the father to follow his guide down the valley, and Gil to lead his men through one of the forest tracks in the direction of Roehurst Pool, Wat and the other watchers closing in behind.

The advance was made with caution to within a mile of the foundry, where, beneath a spreading oak, Gil called a halt, and cast his eyes over his party of twenty sturdy, well-armed men, every one of whom could handle his weapon well.

“That will do, my lads,” he said in his quick, imperious way. “Now lie down, and eat and rest. Silence, every man; not a word above a whisper. Goodsell, Kingley, two hundred paces each of you along the track. A good look – out, and a quick whistle, if so much as a berry-hunting child approach.”

His orders were carried out, and then with the soft autumn evening rapidly drawing nigh, Gil also went out through the forest to watch and listen for the approach of footsteps that might end in the discovery of his men.

How Gil and his Men drew Sword

The hours glided slowly by, and the soft damp of night scented the forest with its peculiar odours, – of decaying leaves, swift-growing fungi, and mouldering wood. Ever and again a leaf that had hung lightly by its dying stalk became so laden with dew that it fell pattering down with a noise that seemed startlingly loud in the silence of the time.

Borne on the sighing breeze that whispered through the branches above came, rising and falling, the rushing sound of falling water, as the swift stream dashed past the front of the founder’s house, and hurried towards the huge wheel, but only to be turned aside to sweep with a sudden plunge into the lower hole.

There was something very strange and hollow that night in the sound of the rushing stream; and, as Gil stood leaning against a tree, the falling water seemed now distant, dying away in sighs; now close at hand, rolling down with a thunderous bass. If he had been asked why it affected him, he could not have said; but its deep notes sounded then like a portent of mishap. He remembered it afterwards so well, for every incident of that memorable evening seemed to be burned into his brain, and he had but to lean over the side of his ship and gaze away into the depths of air and sea to have all come vividly back as if the events were then taking place.

Hour after hour glided by and there was no interruption, nothing to disturb the solitude. From time to time Gil walked back to the oak, but only to find his men well on the alert, and that the sentries had nothing to report. There was scarcely any talking, no drinking, and no smoking, for his people were in earnest to do everything possible to carry out their leader’s plans. Even Wat Kilby contented himself with sucking quietly at his empty pipe and glancing round at every man in turn to see that the rules were kept.