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."
"What did she want Parson to do?"
"To do, why, to lay the spirit that kept walking uneasily night after
night. Ay, and it keeps walking now, as a dozen Roehurst folk could
tell, only they won't speak about it for fear of doing themselves ill."
"What did Betsy want him to do?"
"Why, just go and cut a piece o' turf off her grave about a hand-breadth
long and a hand-breadth wide, and lay it on the holy table in the
church, and after that be done the spirit rests and doesn't trouble
people any more."
"He might ha' done that," said the young mother. "I should say it would
be wise to get a bit off Mother Goodhugh's grave by-and-by to keep her
from walking."
"Eh, but you'll never find grass grow upon her grave, lass. It will
always be black and scathed like."
"Nay, they'll never bury her in no grave. She'll be scattered in dust
and ashes to the four winds o' heaven."
"Or the other place," said one of the women, sententiously, and then
they all watched the preparations.
"Hush! Look!" cried the young mother in an excited whisper; and a
strange murmur ran through the crowd as, at a sign from Sir Thomas,
whose florid face was blanched, and blotched with livid patches, a man
ran into the cottage with a rough torch.
Master Peasegood saw that the end had come, and, pressing against the
pile of faggots which reached up round the victim's neck, he reached
over one hand and touched her cheek.
"Courage, poor soul!" he cried earnestly. "Pray with me for mercy in
that other land."
The wretched woman seemed to be brought back by the parson's voice, and
she stared at him in a curiously dazed manner, her lips moving at last
in a whisper that could not be heard.
"Pray with me, my poor soul--let us pray," cried Master Peasegood
eagerly.
"No," she said sharply. "It be too late. I want to do some good before
I die."
"And it is too late for that," said Master Peasegood to himself, as the
excited murmur of the crowd went on.
"No, not to do--to say something, Master--and--and it seems all gone.
Yes; I know," she cried, striving hard to hold up her head, which fell
back again heavily upon her chest. "No, I can't remember. Yes, Mace,
come here, child. I'll give thee to thy father now."
"Poor soul, she wanders," muttered Master Peasegood. Then aloud:--"Try
to pray with me, mother. Try--one word."
"Yes, I was not a witch, master. It was only--Where be Jeremiah Cobbe?
Here, let me tell him--quick."
"He cannot reach thee now, poor soul. Pray with me quickly. Oh, Father
have--"
"Mace. Here--quick, child, come. Poor sweet--I had to fight hard to
hate thee. My head--my head."
Master Peasegood stretched out a hand to try and sustain the palsied
head.
"Stand back, sir," cried Sir Mark fiercely; and he laid his hand upon
Master Peasegood's arm, but the stout cleric shook him off.
"Back yourself, sir," he cried, "an' you would not singe your gaudy
plumes. My place is here."
Sir Mark stood back, for at that moment the smoking, flaming torch was
thrust into the brushwood, which began to crackle and burn furiously,
while a pillar of smoke rose high in the still autumn air, in company
with a shriek from the women, some of whom turned away, while others
covered their faces with their hands.
The torch was thrust into the faggots again and again, four times in
all, and at each thrust there was a burst of flame and a cloud of smoke;
but Master Peasegood stirred not, though the flames licked his long
black garb.
The torch-bearer then rose up, and was in the act of thrusting his light
right in the centre of the pile, when a strong hand seized it, wrenched
it from his hand, and hurled it, as the man staggered back, full in the
face of Sir Mark.
A loud chirping whistle rang out at the same moment, and a score of the
rough country fellows in long gaberdines, who had been so busy in
helping, now took advantage of their forward position to seize the
burning faggots and hurl them furiously at the armed men.
Almost before the crowd could realise what was taking place, the flaming
brushwood was scattered far and wide, and amidst the smoke a tall,
bronzed fellow was seen cutting Mother Goodhugh free.
"Take her, Wat; she's as light as any child," he cried, in a clear
voice. "Lead on, we'll cover you."
"Down with them!" shouted Sir Mark, as he recovered from his
astonishment; and, drawing his sword, he made a rush at the disturbers
of the judicial tragedy.
His first attempt, though, was unfortunate, for he fell over the
prostrate body of Master Peasegood, who had been overset in the
struggle; and his men hung back as they saw the rough-looking countrymen
whip out the weapons they had concealed beneath their gaberdines, and
form a bold front.
There was ample room, for the crowd fled shrieking as the bright steel
flashed before their eyes. They had gazed in a stupefied, puzzled
manner at the disturbance of the faggot pile, and wondered whether it
was part of the show or the result of witchcraft; but the bold rescue of
the wretched woman they could understand, and they hastened to find
safety in flight.
Sir Mark was not long in recovering himself, and, calling to the armed
men to follow, he pursued the retiring party, which retreated steadily
along the narrow track, which, after it had passed Mother Goodhugh's,
gradually assumed the nature of a forest footpath, and grew more rugged
at every step.
Attempts were made to outflank the party, but the density of the forest
rendered that impossible, and those who left the path lost ground, while
Sir Mark found himself kept at bay by the rear-guard of the retreating
men.
"These are no countrymen," he muttered to himself, as he saw how
steadily they kept up the retreat; and he was in the act of cheering on
his little force to make a rush where the pathway opened a little, when
cries from behind warned him that he was attacked in the rear.
He bit his lip angrily as he found how cleverly his men were trapped,
for it was evident enough that a portion of those he pursued had turned
off to right or left, allowing him and his men to pass, and then closing
up to attack, this rear movement being the signal for those in front to
turn and make a desperate charge upon him and his London men.
It was so sharp a surprise that, at the end of five minutes' cutting and
thrusting, Sir Mark was down, faint and sick from a slash across the
cheek, and his men had thrown up their weapons and fled helter-skelter
through the forest, leaving the rescuers of Mother Goodhugh to proceed
in peace.
"Single file, my lads, and away!" cried a well-known voice. "One of you
relieve Wat Kilby, and change and change as you grow fagged. Wat, go
round by the lower stream. I'll come last and hide the trail."
It required little hiding, for the men passed on and disturbed the
herbage but slightly, while, after turning off to right and left in
various narrow half-hidden tracks, their course could not have been
discovered by the keenest eye, especially as one cut was made right
across the forest.
Not a word was spoken, and the roughly-clad, brown-faced men went
steadily on. Their load was changed from time to time, and after a
while a stoppage was made by a stream, where Mother Goodhugh's face was
bathed, and the leader, whom it would have puzzled his best friends to
have taken for Gilbert Carr, knelt beside her, and poured a few drops of
spirits between her lips.
"Think she's burned, captain?" said a rough voice that could be none
other than that of Wat Kilby.
"No," was the reply, "but I fear we were too late. She will hardly live
to our journey's end. Forward, my lads, forward! Did anyone see aught
of Master Cobbe?"
"I saw him turn away and go behind the cart," said one of the men. "He
was not in the fight."
"And Master Peasegood?"
"I helped him up, captain, and he staggered to the bank, and sat down on
a half-burned faggot."
"Then they are all right," said the captain, musingly. "Wat, we shall
have to be off to sea again at once. This affair will make the country
too hot to hold us."
"Why did you do it then?" growled the old man, gruffly, as he limped
along, his scarred face shining in the sun. "She was no good, and will
only curse us for our pains."
"Well, Wat," said the captain, sadly, "and if she does, we can bear
another curse or too."
"Ay, or a hundred," was the reply.
It was a hot walk, through the still woods and over streams and
ravine-scored hills. The men, as they grew heated, stripped off their
rough country Saxon gaberdines, and appeared as light, active seamen of
the time, one and all taking turns in carrying Mother Goodhugh, for whom
a rough kind of hurdle had been hastily twisted together, and upon it
she was laid.
At last the little party was ascending one rugged side of the valley
where Anne Beckley had been left to wait the coming of her lover; and
after a weary climb the men all had a rest, seating themselves by the
spring that gushed from the rocks where the ferns and mosses hung, and
after tempering the clear fluid with spirit they began to smoke.
"Let her rest for a time," said Gil; "there is no danger here. Poor
soul! A narrow escape from death." As he spoke he covered the wretched
creature with a cloak, and placed a doubled gaberdine beneath hothead.
He again trickled a few drops of spirits between the cracked white lips;
and, after watching its effects, he rose from his knees, leaving Wat
Kilby to fill his little pipe.
"Not much of a job after a twelvemonths' cruise," muttered Wat, as he
limped uneasily up and down, "but better than leaving the poor old lass
to burn. She's too old and ugly, or she might have done; for I want a
wife. Bah! No. She wouldn't do. She's not the witch I want. Eh!
captain, did you call?"
"Yes," was the reply; and, on rising, the old lieutenant scrambled up to
where Gil, who looked bronzed and ten years older, stood pointing to the
stones at the mouth of the store.
"Not been touched, eh, skipper?" said the old fellow.
"No; not by anything more than a rabbit," said Gil, in a grave, quiet
voice. "Get up the bars when the lads are rested. We shall have to
stay here for the night."
Volume 3, Chapter XIV.