Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times

If for such a crime as this a tender child of nine could be punished with death in Christian England in those salutary days, there can be no wonder that Mother Goodhugh’s condemnation was pretty sure. She was the known witch of the neighbourhood, and those who had feared her, sought her help, and paid her, were among the first to give evidence against the repository of their secrets.

Jeremiah Cobbe strove hard to save her, and so did Master Peasegood; but two men in an out-of-the-way part of England could not stem the tide of popular opinion, as it set strong against the wretched woman. In her rage and hate she strove to drag down Mistress Anne as well, but in so doing made a bitter enemy of one who was strong in court favour. For on hearing of the accusation Sir Mark lost no opportunity of fighting against “this notorious witch.”

But Mother Goodhugh was not condemned without ample test and trial, fallen as she had under the care of a famous witch-finder and judge of the day, who came down to the nearest town by royal command to investigate the case.

The wretched woman was put through a course of torture. She suffered the pin test for the witch’s mark. This failing, she next had her thumbs and toes tied together, she was wrapped in a sheet, and in the presence of plenty of spectators thrown into a pool.

As a certain amount of air remained in the sheet, and the water was some time in penetrating it, the poor woman naturally enough floated, amidst the execrations of the crowd, among whom were some twenty or thirty of Sir Mark’s men.

None but a witch could float, so it was said; so after a final test, in which Mother Goodhugh failed to repeat the Lord’s prayer without hesitation, her trial proceeded, and she was condemned to be burnt at the stake in her own village a week after sentence.

There was not much mercy shown in those days, and, though the fair rounded cheeks of Anne Beckley turned a little pale when Sir Mark brought her the news, they flushed directly after, for she felt that she would be freed from a persecutor who would give her no rest, and who might cause her trouble with her husband after the first few months of matrimonial life.

Besides, Anne Beckley argued with a shudder, the old woman had done strange things, and, with the superstition in her nature ready to accept it, she argued that if living she might curse her to her injury. True she might curse her now, but, as her accusations had been set aside as malicious, it was quite possible that her evil genius had deserted her as he did those who became unfortunate, and, as she had risked so much and gained only defiance, Anne Beckley determined to go on to the end.

It was a strange mixture, but the preparations for the wedding of Mistress Anne Beckley and for the execution of Mother Goodhugh went on side by side, in spite of the further efforts of Master Peasegood and the founder, who even went so far as to make a journey to London to seek the King’s clemency. Of course without avail.

From his position as maker of his Majesty’s Ordnance, Master Cobbe succeeded in getting an audience, to be received well, told that he was a good man, that his guns were strong, but that he knew naught of witchcraft.

“Read my book, Master Cobbe, read my book,” said his Majesty; and Jeremiah Cobbe had to bow himself out with the stout parson, who was perspiring with anger.

“I’m a loyal and I hope religious man, Master Cobbe,” said the latter excitedly; “I fear God and I honour the King; but all the same, Master Cobbe, I vow and declare that his Majesty is the damnedest fool I ever saw, and may the Lord forgive me for swearing.”

“Yes,” said the founder, sadly. “Well, old friend, we have done all we can, so let us stay away till they have wreaked their silly vengeance on that poor, mad soul.”

“No, no, thank God!” said Master Peasegood, “they can only wreak it on her body, my friend, and as to staying here – nay, that must not be. I have no love for the weak old creature, who spent her time in mummery and silly cursing, but my place is by her side to ask forgiveness with her and a painless passage to the mercy-seat.”

“Ay, parson, thou art right, and I’ll join thee in thy prayer, for there should be mercy for one who men declare shall have her hellish flames before she dies.”

“I don’t quite like that speech, Master Cobbe, but you mean quite right. Now, good friend, take me to some hostel and give me ale, or I shall faint here by the way. Nay, I’ll not. It is choler. I’ll be blooded instead, a good nine ounces, or I shall have a fit.”

They were stout, strong posts that were set up outside the Moat gates to bear the arch of evergreens and flowers, but it was a stronger one in front of the cottage where Mother Goodhugh had spent her days, and, while men piled last year’s faggots and heaped up charcoal taken from the founder’s dogwood stacks, others cut down branches of yew and holly and gathered bundles of heather and golden gorse, and the preparations for the wedding feast went on.

“Ah, parson,” cried Sir Mark, from the back of one of Sir Thomas’s stout cobs, as he rode along beside fair Mistress Anne, who was mounted on a handsome jennet, “I have not seen thee for days. Art ready to tie our nuptial knot?”

“No, Sir Mark,” said Master Peasegood, sternly. “I am going to pray beside the dying and the dead.”

“What does he mean – the insolent fool?” cried Sir Mark, angrily.

“Truth, love, I cannot tell,” said Mistress Anne; but in her heart of hearts she felt a sickening sensation, and would have given anything that the execution or the coming wedding were to take place elsewhere.

“As he will, sweetest,” said Sir Mark, tenderly, and they rode on, receiving salutations from all they passed; “there are plenty of priests who will be glad to make us one; and only think, love – only two days now.”

Anne Beckley rode on in silence for some time, thinking. Her betrothed laughed and chatted gaily, and truly they were a handsome pair; but the girl’s heart was ill at ease, and at last, being bantered by Sir Mark upon her silence, she leaned towards him in a quiet glade of the forest, and, laying her hand upon his shoulder, offered her lips to his long clinging kiss.

“I have a favour to ask, love,” she said.

“Ask favours from now till night, and thou shalt have them all,” he cried.

“It is but one,” faltered Anne; “our wedding.”

“I would it were over,” cried Sir Mark, eagerly; “but what of it, bright eyes?”

“I like not the day,” said Anne, checking her horse’s pace so that she could cling to her companion.

“And why not?” he asked.

“I like it not for my sake and thine,” she said in a low tone.

“Let’s hear the reason on thy part,” said Sir Mark, laughing.

“It is the day they burn that wicked woman; and it troubles me that we should go to church at such a time.”

“The day of a good deed, love,” he said. “Now the other, for my sake.”

“Have you not thought,” she said, pressing closer to him, heedless of the fact that they were watched.

“I thought? Yes, that it is the most blessed day in the calendar.”

“Nay; but have you not thought what day it is?”

“Not I. Saint Somebody-or-another’s – some Christian martyr’s, perhaps; and we’ll give him a burnt sacrifice of bad witch to satisfy his manes.”

“Mark, it is the anniversary of the day that was to have seen you a husband; me a broken-hearted girl.”

Sir Mark started and changed colour. He was troubled, for it seemed a bad augury that such a day should have been chosen, but he lightly put it aside.

“Never mind, love; it was an accident, and can make no difference now. Besides, the matter is settled, and if we picked the days over we should find each the anniversary of some troubled time.”

Anne Beckley was disappointed, but she made no more objection, and they rode soon after through the avenue and over the bridge, beneath which the great carp gaped and stared with their big round eyes in unconscious imitation of their master, the wise dispenser of King James’s justice, and keeper of the peace.

How Mistress Anne watched and feared

Early morning, as bright and glowing autumn time as ever shone over the weald of Sussex. The harvest was gathered in; the trees were heavy beneath the red and golden crop of apples, and in hedgerow and plantation the brown and cream-husked nuts peered out in clusters from the leafy stubs.

There was a suspicion here and there of the coming fall, but only in bright touches of beauty – golds, and russets, and reds – bloody crimson, and orange scarlet, where the sun-kissed leaves yet burned beneath the caresses of the ardent god. The sky above was of the richest, purest blue, and the eye rested on naught but beauty, so long as it kept to nature, and not to art, for winding along the narrow lane towards Roehurst was a procession of armed men, preceding and following a rough country tumbril, drawn by a clumsy horse. The load was apparently a heap of shabby garments, dropped in one corner of the cart.

But the crowd that pressed upon the armed men, striving to get a glimpse of the interior of the vehicle, could see that the bundle of clothes in the cart moved slightly from time to time, lifting a thin white hand and letting it fall heavily once more; and as they buzzed, and talked, and shouted to one another, they made out further that there was a grey head raised from the heap, and a white, scared face looked round partly in wonder, partly seeking for pity, as its owner seemed to realise her position, and then crouched lower and lower as she heard shouts and voices crying out the words, “Mother Goodhugh! Witch! The stake, the stake!”

The escort took the pressure of the eager little crowd very good-humouredly, but had to keep waving the sight-seers back, or some would have been trampled beneath the horse’s feet, and as it was the procession was greatly delayed.

“I don’t believe they’ll burn her after all,” said one rough specimen of a peasant to another.

“Nay, they will. Stake be all ready, and faggots enough to burn a dozen such witches as old Mother there.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it, lad. See if she don’t go off in a flash, or else make the rain come so as the faggots won’t burn. Nay, lad, she won’t be done for yet. Look there. Did’st see her wicked old eyes glowering round when she raised her head? Don’t let her look at thee, or she’ll put a curse in thy face.”

“Ay, but she be a wicked looking one, and it will be a glad riddance for Roehurst when she be gone, for she did naught but curse.”

“Mas’ Cobbe ought to be glad to see her burnt, for she’s cursed him oft enough, poor soul.”

“But why don’t they make haste? I want to see the burning, and then get back to the wedding games.”

“Oh, they won’t wed till Mother Goodhugh’s all in ash, lad. See, there be the bridegroom. He be going to see it done.”

“But what be they stopping for?”

“Don’t know,” said the other, climbing up the bank and holding on by the branch of a tree. “Why, it be parson come, and he be getting into the cart with Mother Goodhugh. Say, look there! He be gone down on his knees aside her, and takes her hand. Look out, parson, as she don’t fly at thee like a cat.”

But there was no cat-like spring in Mother Goodhugh, for torture and starvation had reduced her so that the little life left in her was likely to flutter away before the torch was placed to the faggots. As Master Peasegood laboriously clambered into the cart and knelt beside her, he took one of the poor wretch’s wasted hands in his, and she raised her head to look up at him half-wonderingly, before letting it fall once more, and remaining apparently nerveless and flaccid, waiting for the end.

The procession passed within fifty yards of the Moat gate, where Anne Beckley was waiting – not to cry out in reviling tones against the wretched woman, but to see her pass, hidden awhile amidst the dense evergreens, and trembling lest she should be seen.

Anne Beckley’s heart beat fast as the procession came nearer and nearer, and she crouched down trembling as she fancied that Mother Goodhugh must see her; while the cold dew stood upon her brow as she waited for the curses the old woman would fling upon her head.

But there was no curse hurled at her; there was the trampling of feet, and the buzz of many voices, beating hoofs, and grinding wheels coming nearer and nearer, till all appeared to stay close by, and Anne’s heart seemed to stop its pulse as well.

She had come to see her enemy, and would gladly have witnessed the execution, only that she dared not express a wish so to do; and even now, so great was her trepidation, that in place of gazing at the broken, half-dead object in the cart, she shrank down lower and lower till the leaves completely sheltered her head.

What were they stopping for? Were they going to bring Mother Goodhugh there?

No: there had been no stoppage at all; it was only her fancy. They were going slowly on, and that was Master Peasegood’s voice praying beside the wretched creature so near her end.

The buzzing and trampling seemed to grow louder and the grating of the wheels more defined, till it seemed to Anne as if they would never pass away; but they grew fainter at last, and after some ten minutes of agony she hurried out of the clump of shrubs, and hastened to her room, too faint and heartsick to think of dressing for the ceremony to come.

Sir Mark and his men would be at the execution she knew, and when he returned it would be a signal to her that her enemy was no more, and she told herself that she would be able to go to the little church with a lighter heart.

In imagination she followed the procession to the narrow lane, and up to the front of Mother Goodhugh’s cottage, where the great stake had been placed. She saw the wretched woman bound there, the faggots fired, and seemed to hear her shrieks as she waved her hands and wildly cursed those around. Now she strained at the chain, and strove to tear it away as it grew red hot and burned into her thin white flesh, while the flames rose higher and higher, the faggots crackled, and she even fancied that she could hear the shouting of the people.

How the smoke curled up, half suffocating her at times, and making her hang her head as if dead! Then it was swept away, and the flames rose higher, half hiding the hideously contorted face with a ruddy lurid veil. The flames fluttered and danced, and seemed to Anne as if rejoicing at their task of purifying the earth from the presence of a witch. Then the smoke rose higher, till it formed a heavy canopy above the stake, while the flames played wildly on its lower surface.

Again the flames opened to reveal the figure of Mother Goodhugh. She had ceased to curse now, and with blackened, outstretched hands was appealing to her executioners to set her free.

As she did so Anne started forward with a wild cry.

“It is too horrible – too horrible!” she shrieked. “Father, father, save her before it is too late!” and then, overpowered by the imaginary scene she had conjured up, she tottered a step or two, and sank fainting upon the floor.

How the Witch-Faggots were fired

The scene at the execution was different from that which Anne Beckley painted in her mind. The cart, with its helpless burden, went slowly on, bumping up and down through the ruts of the narrow lane, and the armed escort patiently bore the pressure of the increasing crowd. For every hamlet for ten or fifteen miles round had sent its occupants to see the double show, and every bank and hillock had its gazing faces; while, as the procession drew near to the stake, with its terrible adjuncts, the cart had some difficulty in getting through.

The crowd gave way, however, to the escort, who pushed them back till a circle was made about the stake, in the midst of which stood Sir Thomas, Sir Mark, and the armed men.

As the cart stopped, Master Peasegood descended, wiping his bare wet forehead, and stood gazing with pallid face as four of the men pressed forward and roughly lifted the condemned woman to the earth.

“Be gentle, men, be gentle,” he cried, in tones of remonstrance. “It is a woman with whom ye have to deal.”

“A witch – a foul witch – thou mean’st,” said one of the men; and there was a yell of execration from the crowd.

“Silence!” roared Master Peasegood, furiously. “Are ye brute beasts, or men, women, and children? Ah, Master Cobbe, are you there?” he cried. “Can nothing be done to save this poor creature here?”

“Yes,” said the founder, sternly. “I protest against this terrible outrage in our midst, and I call upon you, good people, to help me to stop it.”

There was a murmur in the crowd that gathered round; but it was the murmur of a hungry beast fearful of being robbed of its prey, and not a hand was raised to help the speaker.

“Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Mark, sternly, “if thou art not mad, hold thy peace, and let the King’s commands be done.”

“Water, water,” gasped the wretched woman, looking appealingly round.

“Nay, Jezebel, thou shalt have fire,” said Sir Thomas. “It is more purifying than water for such as thou.”

There was a burst of laughter at the coarse jest, but Master Peasegood strode into the cottage, took a rough earthenware vessel, and, parting the crowd, filled the mug from the clear cold spring, and held it to the wretched woman’s lips.

She drank with avidity, and then pressed her thin white lips to the hand that held the vessel, while her eyes gave a grateful look at the face.

“Bless you,” she said, in a hoarse whisper, and her lips kept moving quickly.

“Quick,” cried Sir Mark; “we are wasting time,” and four of the men seized and carried the trembling creature to the stake, where a chain was hanging ready to bind her fast.

But as it happened there was the chain but no means of fastening it, and impatiently throwing it aside they bound her with a cart-rope so that she was upright, for her limbs refused their task, and she had to be held as the rope was twisted round.

“Mas’ Cobbe, Mas’ Cobbe!” cried Mother Goodhugh, in a hoarse wail.

“Nay, go not nigh to her, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Thomas. “She will only curse thee again.”

For answer the founder, who could not tear himself from the spot, strode towards the stake.

“I cannot save thee, Mother Goodhugh,” he said, hoarsely.

“Nay, but thou did’st try,” said the poor creature, piteously. “Try and forgive me, Mas’ Cobbe, for I be a wicked wretch. I have cursed thee, and the curse has fallen back on me. Mace, thy child, be – ”

“Stand aside, Master Cobbe,” cried Sir Mark, imperiously. “Now, knaves, do your work quickly. Round with the faggots. Pile them higher, man, the brushwood first and the charcoal last. Quick, we are wasting time.”

The founder and Master Peasegood were thrust aside, and a part of the crowd pushed forward to help to build up from a stack at hand the brushwood and faggots round the wretched woman, who hung forward with drooping head, apparently insensible now from weakness and dread; and at last all was ready.

A deep silence fell upon all. The morning sun shone more brightly than ever on the gay autumn woodlands, and the eager crowd that, open-mouthed and staring, awaited the fiery trial.

“Will she screech?” whispered one matron, who had brought a child in arms to see the show, and who kept handing her little one clusters of the great blackberries that grew so plentifully upon the banks, “because if she do I shouldn’t like to stay and hear her cry aloud.”

“Nay,” said another, “she’ll not squeal much; she’ll take something to keep away the pains.”

“Think she will?”

“Ay, that she will. She be an anointed witch. See how she lives. You never go to her place but there be meal in plenty, and sugar and bacon too. Where do it come from, eh?”

“Nay, I d’now.”

“She makes it all with spells, and calls up plenty for what she wants. Eh, but she be a clever one. I’ve met her o’ nights in the forest, going crouching along; and one night John Piper see her with a white sperrit, going along together hand in hand.”

“Eh, did he? What did he say?”

“He never said a word; he dare not; but went down flat upon his face, and laid there till she’d gone.”

“I’d ha’ spoke to her if it had been me.”

“Nay, thou wouldn’t. It be too dreadful. Maybe she’d ha’ put a spell upon thee, and cursed thee like, and then thou’d ha’ pined away like Susan Harron. You marn’t speak to a witch when she be out o’ nights.”

“But dost think she do conjure up meal, and sugar, and bacon?”

“Why, could she get ’em if she didn’t?”

“I don’t believe about the white ghost.”

“Eh, but it be true enough,” said another. “Why, I used to see the old witch go o’ nights to dig about the Pool-house, and Mas’ Tom Croftly said, when I telled him, that it was to get burned bones to make spells with. I see her night after night, when the stones was smoking still.”

“Eh, she be witch enough,” said another. “See how she said that the Pool-house would be blown up some day, and never be builded again. I think she goes with one o’ they owls, as flits about o’ nights.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” said the woman with i the child; “and, if she do screech, see if it bean’t just like they call.”

“She’ll fly out o’ the fire like one o’ they, see if she don’t, and her wings won’t even be singed. I wonder whether she’ll come back again, and live about here like an owl. If she do I shan’t stay i’ this neighb’rood to please nobody, so there.”

“Nay, she won’t fly away,” said one who had not yet spoken. “She’ll go down into the earth like, and underneath or into the rocks. Frank Goodsell told me he saw her go right into a solid piece o’ rockstone one night as he crossed the forest – she was there one moment, and the next moment she was gone – and became so frighted that he ran away.”

“But he ought to ha’ searched the place.”

“So he did next day, for he was ’shamed o’ being scared by an old woman.”

“Yes; and what did he see?”

“Solid stones, and not a hole big enough for a mouse to get into and hide. She just touched the rock with her stick, and it opened and she went in, and it shut up after her. That be a real witch, that be.”

“It be a terrifying thing to think of,” said another. “Only think of going into the earth and stopping for days, like a corpse.”

“Nay, but she didn’t do that?”

“Eh, but she did, for Frank Goodsell went every day to her cottage to see if she was there, pretending he wanted a charm for a pain in his wife’s leg; and he had to go ten days before he found her back, and then she was as quiet and smiling as could be, only she looked white and very terrifying to see.”

“Ah, lots of us wondered how she used to live. She’ll be back there soon; you see, they’ll never get her to burn; and, if they do, she’ll harnt the place, and make it bad for everybody. I’m not going to throw a stone at her, poor soul.”

“Poor soul, indeed, why she beant got one. She sold it to old what’s-his-name long ago.”

“Eh, but it be very horrid, said the woman with the child; and I half wish I had not come to see her burned to death.”

“She won’t burn.”

“Nay,” said another, “it be very terrifying; but she’ll be dead ’fore they burn her, if they don’t be smart. Think of it, though: Mother Goodhugh going to be burned for a witch.”

“I don’t quite like the old woman to be burnt. How wist she looks!” said the young mother, as she stared at the preparations.

“Hold thy tongue, do,” said another; “the country be better without her.”

“Ay, it was time something was done now the holy father’s gone, and Parson Peasegood won’t do naught to exorcise the witch.”

“You went to him, didn’t a?”

“Ay, I went to him and told him o’ Mother Goodhugh’s doings, and how she put a spell on our cow, and evil-wished neighbour Lewin’s boy.”

“What did he say?”

“Laughed at me and puffed smoke in my face. ‘Go to,’ says he, ‘for a fool. Thou must get some one to sew some more buttons on thee. Mother Goodhugh be no witch.’”

“Did he say that?”

“Ay, that he did, and when Betsy Goodsell saw the white sperrit o’ Sweet Mace, in the wood near the high rocks and went and asked parson to lay it, he got in such a rage that Betsy had to go.”

“She should ha’ took him an offering and then he would.”

“She did. She took him a two-pound lump o’ the fresh butter from her cow after putting a lump o’ salt i’ the churn to keep out the witch, and told him what she wanted done, and he ups with the butter and throws it at her, and it stuck on the door-post till Mistress Hilberry come and took it off; and when she heard what was wanted she said Parson ought to do it, and then he called her a silly fool.”