Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times
“Yes,” said Master Peasegood! “and plenty of blackberries, and hips and haws, and cold night-dews, and damp ferns. Bah, man, we can’t live like hermits here in this Christian land. This is not a place where a man can be happy in a hair-shirt and a scooped-out hole in the rock, with a handful of dates and a cup of water. My word, it would puzzle some of those early fathers to exist on such terms down here. But there, have no fear, there is not a man for miles round who would not give either of us a hiding-place and a regular meal if we were in need.”
“Brother Peasegood, you are a true friend,” said Father Brisdone; “and I shall resign myself to thy advice, for I am weak, and I own that I shrink from the thought of martyrdom; for life is, after all, so very sweet.”
“Of course it is, or it wouldn’t be given to us. Bah! When you meet with a man who talks much about the weariness and wretchedness of the world, depend upon it there is something wrong.”
Father Brisdone bowed his head. “I’m afraid I have a good deal of the evil one in me, brother,” said Master Peasegood, helping himself to more tobacco. “See here, I try this herb to see what it is like, so that I may be able to follow out his Majesty’s wishes, and duly preach it down; and how do I find myself? Why, tied neck and heels, and given over to the hands of the tempter.”
“Ah, yes,” said Father Brisdone, re-lighting his own pipe, “it is a soothing and seductive weed.”
“Then again, about you? Sir Thomas at the Moat twitted me again with our intimacy, as not becoming the parson of Roehurst, and I told him I was converting you fast.”
“An untruth, brother Peasegood.”
“Yes; but it slipped out unawares. Ah, Brother Francis, I’m afraid that I resemble the unjust steward, and am making friends with such as thou against the days when thy party has the ascendancy once more, and we Protestants are of small account.”
Father Brisdone shook his head sadly.
“Nay,” he said, “the day is gone; and, if it were not, thou art not the man to stand on the order of taking care of self. But was not that a step?”
They ceased speaking, for it was plainly enough a step, and directly after the door was unceremoniously opened and a figure stood on the threshold.
“Gilbert Carr!” cried Master Peasegood; “why I thought thee miles away.”
“And so I should be,” was the reply; “but I could not go without first saying a few words.”
Master Peasegood rose from his chair, and made way for his fresh visitor to take a seat; but Gil laid his hands upon the stout clerk’s shoulders, and gently pressed him back.
“Sit still,” he said; “I have not a minute to stay. I have come across from Curtport, and must be back at daybreak, or my vessel will have to wait another tide.”
“Have you a horse?”
“No; I walked,” said Gil, smiling.
“Why, it is nearly thirty miles,” said Father Brisdone.
“Quite,” was the reply. “Look here, Master Peasegood, I can speak before Father Brisdone, for he is a friend.”
“But first have bite and sup,” cried Master Peasegood, essaying to rise.
“I have both in my wallet here,” said Gil. “Now, listen to me: I am uneasy about matters at the house by the Pool.”
“And thou would’st have me watch over some one there?” said Master Peasegood.
“Yes,” was the reply.
“Be easy in thy mind, then, lad, for it is done. Not that I favour thee, or think well of thy suit, mind; but rely on my taking care of the little treasure there.”
“I am content, Master Peasegood,” said Gil, holding out his hand.
“But you did not walk across country from Curtpool to tell me this?” said Master Peasegood.
“I did; and why not, Master Peasegood? There, my mission is ended, so good night to both.”
Before either could reply he had passed out into the darkness, and they heard his steps die away in the distance.
“A true-hearted, brave man!” said Father Brisdone, fervently. “Heaven’s blessing be upon him!”
“Heaven’s blessing be upon him, by all means,” said Master Peasegood drily; “and I hope it will do him good.”
“Why do you speak so cynically of the young man?”
“Because I don’t like him after all for our child, and he shall never have her with my consent.”
“Poor girl! And yet she loves him.”
“He’s not good enough man for her,” growled Master Peasegood.
“No man that I know is,” replied Father Brisdone. “But, there, we cannot dislike him for his love for one so sweet and true. Good night, brother; I must be for home. It grows late.”
“I’ll see thee half-way back,” cried Master Peasegood; and after a short walk with his friend he returned to his cottage, and was soon making the bed vibrate with his heavy breathing, which often degenerated into a snore. But he had not been sleeping many minutes before there was a loud pattering at the casement, one that was repeated again and again.
“He gave them hailstones for rain,” muttered Master Peasegood, in his sleep.
Patter, patter, patter again at the casement, when Master Peasegood started up, and the bed gave forth a dismal groan.
Patter, patter, patter at the window once more.
“There’s some one ill,” said the stout clerk, and, rising hastily, while the bedstead emitted a sound like a sigh of relief, he threw on his old gown, went to the window and threw it open.
“Hallo!” he cried.
“Hallo, parson,” came up out of the darkness in a deep growl.
“What is it thou, old son of Belial,” said Master Peasegood, sourly, for he had been awakened from a pleasant sleep.
“Ay, Wat Kilby it is.”
“I thought thee with thy master, far at sea – safe enough, for thou’lt be hanged some day, Wat Kilby, and never drowned.”
“Thou’rt a false prophet,” growled Wat Kilby.
“Thou’rt a villainous old unbeliever, worse than a Jew!” cried Master Peasegood, angrily.
“I wish all thy country flock were as good as Jews, parson.”
“I wish they were,” said Master Peasegood, angrily. “And now why art thou here?”
“We’re at anchor. Skipper’s ashore.”
“He was here an hour ago, man.”
“Eh? Was he then? I must get me back. Here, hold down thy hand; I’ve brought thee some tobacco. I know thou’rt converted, parson, and can smoke.”
“I’ll come down, if I can convert thee, Wat Kilby.”
“Convert me, Master Peasegood; why, what’s amiss with me?”
“Amiss, thou wicked old reprobate? Why thou’rt an open sinner, and never com’st to church.”
“Eh, but I would if thou’dst let me smoke my pipe by the open door.”
“Then you are repenting of your evil ways.”
“Nay, I’ve nothing to repent of, but a love or two.”
“And spiriting away poor Abel Churr.”
“Nay, parson, I never did; I wish I had,” growled Wat.
“Then that’s as bad.”
“Nay, parson, don’t preach; I arn’t a bad ’un after all. I always tries, and gets along pretty well for a time, but, just as I’ve got as perfect as can be, down comes the devil with a pretty girl, and then I’m done.”
“Out upon thee, Wat Kilby, my cheeks burn with shame.”
“Ay, it do make the cheeks burn, parson. But it always was so, parson, and that’s the devil’s way. He always did serve me so, and you may preach at me and preach, and preach, and preach, but unless you can preach all the pretty women off the earth, if you’re right in what you say, I’m sartain to be burnt.”
“But you must resist the devil and he’ll flee, Wat Kilby.”
“Nay: not he, parson. He knows his man too well. There, it’s all no good. Reach down thy hand – got it. That’s well.”
“Thanks, Wat Kilby. Man, it is a goodly offering of the precious weed.”
“Thou and the king said it was devilish poison.”
“Ah, um, yes; but my ideas are being modified, my man. And now what does this mean?”
“Well, you see, parson, it’s all about a woman I have come.”
“Is this a time man to speak about a wedding?”
“Yes, parson; when you have to go by orders.”
“Well speak out quick, for the night is chill.”
“I will, parson. It’s like this: I love pretty Mistress Janet at the Pool.”
“For a grandchild, Wat Kilby?”
“Nay, master; for a wife. I wanted to get speech of her, but could not get me near. Tell her, and keep thy eye on her as well, that Wat Kilby han’t forgot, and will come back and wed her.”
“Well man, well?”
“And I ask thee, parson, not to wed her to any other man.”
“But man, how can I help – ”
“Why, forbid it all, and I’ll sattle down to be a better man and come to church when I be not at sea. Sometimes I’ll come and sit in the porch o’ Sunday afternoons. And now I must hasten to catch the skipper. Tell her from me, parson, Wat Kilby will come and make her an honest woman, and be true; and now good night.”
“Here, stop, you vile old sinner!” cried Master Peasegood, but he only heard old Wat Kilby striding rapidly away, and after listening for a few moments he closed the lattice with a slam.
“The place gets worse the more I preach,” he cried, angrily. “Master and man. A nice charge, verily – but Wat and that Janet! My preaching must be stronger, yet. That wicked wench!”
Five minutes later Master Peasegood was fast asleep, and the casement-frames vibrated to his snore.
How the Game went against Master Cobbe
A very different scene was enacting at the Pool-house on that very evening. Sir Mark had spent the day mostly out of doors, and had sought out the founder, who, finding that he made no further allusions to his child, but turned the conversation to the works, readily showed him the busy tasks in progress, where, about a mile from the house, men were digging ironstone from out of a pit. Then on the way back he pointed with pride to the deep hole in the face of a precipitous mass of stone, where the shell had torn for itself a place in which to explode, and then rent out the rock in splintered fragments, which lay about side by side with the pieces of iron of which the shell was composed.
“Does that hole go in far?” said Sir Mark, eyeing it curiously.
“Goodness knows,” was the reply. “Deep enough. That shot would destroy part of an enemy’s stronghold, or drive in the side of a ship. But come, and you shall see them get ready a furnace for my next gun.”
Sir Mark followed, and watched the process as layers of ironstone were alternated with charcoal from a mighty heap that lay hard by.
A visit to one of the powder-sheds came next, after Sir Mark had left outside his sword, dagger, and spurs.
“Are you not too particular?” he said, rather disdainfully.
“Not a bit,” was the bluff reply. “Would’st have his Majesty’s Ambassador blown into fragments, like one of my shells? I am none too particular,” he said, as he saw his companion shudder. “I have had so many accidents here that you must allow me to know what is best.”
After this Sir Mark seemed disposed to shirk the visit, but he made an effort, and walked through the place more manfully, looking with curious eyes at the dull black grains, or masses of composition in an unfinished state.
“How would his Majesty like a run through here?” said the founder, with a chuckle. “Powder will always have an ill savour in his nostrils.”
It was with no little sense of relief that Sir Mark found himself outside, close by the shed where the great howitzer had been placed, and at his solicitation the founder readily consented to have the gun out once more, and with boyish eagerness devoted himself to test the powers of the piece and its bursting shells, when loaded after Gil’s own fashion.
At last the founder and his guest had returned, partaken of the evening meal, which Mace dispensed with the calmness of one whose heart was quite at rest; and finally she had retired to find occasion to take Janet to task for being giggling and whispering in the shrubbery with one of Sir Mark’s gaily-dressed men, for by dint of careful drying and smoothing, the traces of the plunge into the mill-race had been made to disappear.
“Now, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Mark, “let us calmly and in friendly spirit talk over our affairs again. Suppose you fill your glass.”
“That I will,” said the founder; “and you do the same.”
“I’ll drink with you and welcome,” said Sir Mark, filling his glass, nodding, and then wetting his lips, while the founder took a hearty draught.
“That’s better,” he said. “And now, sir, what is it to be – a good order for his Majesty’s troops?”
“Yes, and fortune for you Master Cobbe. This order will be but the introduction to many. Why should you not be ordnance-master to his Majesty?”
“Why, indeed, my lad,” said the founder, composedly. “I should gain, of course, but the King would be no loser.”
“Then why not have it so, Master Cobbe. Come, I appeal to you – I plead to you. Are you blind to your daughter’s advantages? I am not a moneyed man, but I offer position and a title.”
“If I sell her to thee,” said the founder, looking through the wine in his glass.
“Tush! Why call things by such hard names? ’tis no sale – I love her dearly, and to help my cause I own that I do try to press upon thee by means of the interest I have at court.”
“What should I make by your order, Sir Mark?” said the founder, musingly.
“How can I tell?” cried Sir Mark, eagerly. “What do I know of the profits? All I know is that I can give you an order for guns and ammunition, to the value of three thousand pounds, to be paid in hard coin. You shall supply as many of those great howitzers and shells as you can, and then take on more men and make others, for from what I have seen of the performance of those guns you have made both name and fortune.”
The founder sat gazing through his wine again, as if musing, and the visitor watched the play of his features with anxiety.
“Harkye, Master Cobbe,” he whispered, “I offer marriage and a place at court for your child. Of course I know that there has been some love-talk between her and this Carr, as they call him, but he has sailed away, and what could be a better opportunity for my suit?”
“But, suppose she loves this Gilbert Carr, Sir Mark?”
“Tush, man; a girl’s fancy! She will forget him in a week. The sight of a wedding-dress would drive him out of her head. You but give me access to her and your aid, and, trust me, she will be a willing bride. There, it is settled, is it not?”
“Sir Mark Leslie,” said the founder, sitting back in his chair; “if you could offer me ten times three thousand pounds in orders I would say the same. Sir, I am a bluff south-country yeoman, and I would sooner become the meanest beggar that crawls than sell my poor child as I would chaffer away a gun. There, I’ll listen to no more. Stay, if you please; you are just as welcome. But I’ll hear no more from you or any man upon this point.”
He gazed frankly into his guest’s eye as Sir Mark’s brow knit, and the young man strove hard to keep down the annoyance he felt at the rejection of his suit by this, in his eyes, common man.
For some minutes neither spoke, and then Sir Mark began in a low husky voice.
“Master Cobbe, I have come to you offering you friendship, and you reject it. I cannot be your enemy for your child’s sake; but you compel me to bring force to bear.”
“Force, sir, what force?” cried the founder angrily. “Do you mean you’ll carry her away? ’fore Heaven I warn you that the lives of you and your servants would not be worth a snap of the fingers did you try such a thing. There are more men here in this neighbourhood than you think for, ready and willing to fight for her at word of mine.”
“No, Master Cobbe; the force I bring to bear is of another sort. Mind, you bring me to this by your obstinate rejection of my suit. I now tell you that Mace must and shall be my wife, and that you will give her to me.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes,” said Sir Mark, “and soon. Listen: I hold the power here to seize upon this place in his Majesty’s name; to arrest you for high treason as the man who supplied his Majesty’s enemies, and as one who is now in league with papist emissaries. Stop, sir, hear me out. You are leagued with one Father Brisdone, a notorious follower of Spain; with a rough adventurer named Carr, who is more pirate than trader. In fact, you and yours are attainted, and at a word from me ruin falls upon you all.”
“And you will do all this with two men whom the very boys who work for me would throw into the Pool?”
“I came in peace, with two men only, Master Cobbe; but a messenger would fetch twenty, fifty, or a hundred good swordsmen and harquebusiers to my side to seize your person, raze the works to the ground, and then – yes, then, Master Cobbe, your daughter would become an easy prize.”
“What you say is all false!” cried the founder, who sat aghast as he felt what a web the man before him had contrived to spread around.
“False or true, I am no judge, Master Cobbe. I am here to execute the King’s commands. The case is left in my hands to act as I see fit. If you prove a good subject of his Majesty, and supply him with the ordnance, well. If you refuse, you stamp yourself a rebel, and as one guilty of high treason.”
“But I do not refuse, Sir Mark; I offer to supply his Majesty.”
“You refuse the proposal of his servant.”
“Did his Majesty bid thee truck and bargain with me, making my child the price at which I should obtain this order?” said the founder, curtly.
“His Majesty bade me do what seemed the best,” said Sir Mark; “so what is it to be, Master Cobbe – Peace or war?”
“War,” cried the founder, angrily; and he brought his fist down heavily on the table.
“As you will, Master Cobbe; but I warn you of your folly. You lose heavily in wealth and liberty, and you deprive your child of her natural protector, leaving her almost entirely at my mercy.”
“No,” cried the founder, “not so. If by your lies and trickery I am snatched from her, there are two men who would take upon themselves the part of guardian. Father Brisdone would – ”
“Be in prison or a fugitive,” said Sir Mark, quietly.
“Then Master Peasegood would – ”
“Be suspended from his office for evil dealing, and allowing himself to be won over to the Papist cause.”
“Then I’d trust Gil Carr, and bid him wed my child.”
“Gilbert, otherwise Culverin, Carr’s ship, when it returned, would by my orders be watched and seized, as a suspected vessel, and its captain and crew imprisoned to await their trial.”
“Then Sir Thomas Beckley, justice and just man, with all his faults, would protect my daughter.”
“Sir Thomas Beckley might be called upon to seize the person of Mistress Mace Cobbe, for divers malpractices, held in common with a woman here known as Mother Goodhugh, a notorious witch. His Majesty has determined to put down and root out of his kingdom all those vile traffickers with the works of darkness, and has placed great power in the hands of the magistrates of this realm.”
“What!” cried the founder, half in anger, half-laughing. “My child a witch!”
“I say not so, Master Cobbe; I only speak of the common report. Both thy daughter and her maid have been regular visitors to this notorious woman, and by this they have exposed themselves to great risk; for to be attainted now of witchcraft, even of holding communion with the powers of darkness, may mean the stake.”
“Curse thy quibbling, glib, plot-weaving ways?” cried the founder. “Failing those I have named there is not a man, woman, or boy in Roehurst who would not raise a hand for the white moth.”
“Yes,” said Sir Mark, quickly; “that is it. Even that tells against her. She is known commonly as the White Moth of Roehurst; and there are those who whisper that she is a witch.”
“Sir Mark Leslie!” cried the founder, who was white with anger, “I will not quarrel with thee again. I forgot myself once towards my guest; I hope to control myself now, but you try me sore.”
“It grieves me, Master Cobbe, and, though I speak this, it is not as an enemy but as a friend. I merely place my position before you, and say is it not better to avoid all this trouble, when instead the way is open to wealth and honour, and a peaceful old age?”
“Who and what are you?” cried the founder, passionately; “and why do you come to disturb my peaceful home?”
“I am his Majesty’s servant, Master Cobbe. I came here at his command to investigate certain malpractices alleged against thee. I found them to be true, but I found here also a greater king than his Majesty James the First. I found here that all-powerful monarch – Love, and, vanquished by him, I suffered thy sword; I made reports that softened thy case; I returned from my mission with so goodly an account that the King gave me leave to offer thee honour and wealth if, in place of being of doubtful allegiance, thou becomest his faithful liege subject, and work for him as you have been accused of working for others. There, Master Cobbe, it is late, and thou art angry. Think over it all; sleep on it; take time to consider. I am one who can wait; for, believe me, I would rather see thee honoured than know that a lingering imprisonment was sapping thy vital forces and bringing thee low. Good night, Master Cobbe, good night.”
Sir Mark held out his hand, but it was not noticed; the founder sitting back in his stiff old-fashioned chair, and going over the words of his guest, who, with a peculiar smile, glanced at him mockingly, and slowly ascended to his chamber, leaving his host to sit thinking hour after hour, and at last to stumble off heavily to bed with the feeling upon him that he had been playing at some game with heavy stakes, and that the luck had been all upon the other side.
How Mistress Anne was Unquiet, and how the Founder came to Terms
The coming back of Sir Mark had the effect of driving Mace to her room, where she stayed as much as possible. Gil need have had no jealous fears, could he have read her heart, for her every thought was of him. Seated at her window, looking over the Pool, her eyes might be gazing at some azure kingfisher darting across the shallows, or seated on some twig, ready to plunge down and emerge from the water with the drops falling like glistening pearls from its sides, as it bore away a tiny silvery fish; or her pensive look be fixed upon the heron, so grey and lank of mien, standing motionless, deep in the water, amidst the varied aquatic growth, where it seemed at times to launch its long beak, like some javelin, at a luckless fish, to stab or seize it for its prey; or at even, when the soft wreaths of mist came floating over the Pool, she watched the flight of the owl as it uttered its peculiar cry, and swept by so softly that it passed as noiselessly as a ghost, while the white moths flitted and danced amidst the roses round her casement by night, as the golden flies and gauzy-winged dragons darted and played about in the sun. By soft balmy day, or cool delicious dreamy night, Mace sat at her window, watching and thinking, but it was always of the white sails of a ship, ever gliding farther and farther away.
These thoughts formed her bright dreams, to which she turned when fancies about Sir Mark became obtrusive; for the days glided on, and he stayed, growing each hour more courtly and respectful to her. While he was bright and full of compliments she could fence with him, and turn away the points of his speeches, but now that he had become grave and earnest she was full of fears.
A greater cause for fear though was the conduct of her father, who seemed to be giving way to their guest, though at times he broke out with his old independent ways, and appeared to be setting him at defiance.
Mace was puzzled, for she could not comprehend her father’s manner. He had never been more tender and affectionate, but there was something behind which troubled her.
Sir Mark left at last, to her great relief, and for the next fortnight she was as joyous as a bird, singing about the house, and in the highest of spirits, when, to her horror, the guest returned, accompanied by a dozen well-armed followers, who proved to be artisans, and began work the very next morning, assisting the founder’s staff.
Then by degrees it leaked out that Sir Mark had brought a great order from the King for guns and their ammunition – an order that must lead to wealth for the founder, who was busy almost night and day.
At the end of another week half-a-score more men arrived, to be distributed through the village, lodging with different workmen, whom they assisted during the day.
They were nominally in the founder’s service, and he paid them their weekly wage, but they looked to Sir Mark for guidance in all else saving the work at the foundry, and to Master Cobbe came plenty of complaints.
