Читать книгу: «Sweet Mace: A Sussex Legend of the Iron Times», страница 26

How Mother Goodhugh fared ill at Justice’s Hands

By chance it happened that Anne Beckley had extended her walk towards the woods and had strolled farther than she had intended. Fate led her into the narrow lane where she had rested in Gil Carr’s arms when Mace and Sir Mark had been witnesses of the scene.

She smiled now as she seated herself upon the bank, and thought of the changes that had taken place, for she was shortly to become Mark Leslie’s wife.

How the time had passed, she thought, and how cleverly she had won Sir Mark from his gloom and despondency to become at first grateful, then loving, and at last – so she believed – so infatuated with her, that she could do with him as she pleased.

If some unkind friend had told her that her father’s money and estates had anything to do with the match, she would have rejected the suggestion with scorn, and then gone to her mirror, to examine the sit of her ruffle, to give a slight touch to her painted cheeks, and perhaps add another ornamental patch to her chin.

Sir Mark was in town now, preparing for the bridal, and Anne’s heart was joyful within her, as she thought of the coming ceremony. For years she had been dreaming of and hoping for wedlock, and at last she was to be a wife – a lady of title – Dame Anne Leslie, and her eyes sparkled with the pleasure of the thought.

The spot she had chosen for her reverie, though, brought up thoughts that made her sigh. There, close by where she was seated, Gil Carr had held her in his arms; and she sighed as she recalled how fondly she believed that she had loved him. And where was he now?

A year had rolled by since he set sail, and no news of either him or his followers had reached Roehurst since; and as she thought of this the events of that terrible time came crowding back.

“Poor Mace!” she said, softly; “I am sorry I hated you so much; and poor Gil Carr, he was a proper youth. Alack! What change one lives to see!”

She felt half disposed to continue her walk, and go on as far as the Pool-house; but a slight shudder ran through her nerves at the thought. Somehow the ruins had a repelling influence upon her, and she shrank from going near, feeling that she had been to blame for what had taken place on that terrible night.

“I don’t think I’ll go,” she said softly; and she was about to rise and return, when she became aware that some one was standing close behind her, and, starting up, she found herself face to face with Mother Goodhugh, who had advanced as quietly as a cat.

“Mother Goodhugh!” she cried in a startled voice.

“Yes, my dearie, it be Mother Goodhugh. What can I do for thee, my beauty bird?”

“Nothing, mother,” replied Anne sharply. “Nothing, my dearie?” said the old woman laughing. “Nay, surely you want some help of the poor old woman who works to help you. Is it a new lover, my dear?”

“I have told thee I do not want anything, mother,” cried Anne peevishly.

“Nay, then, come on to my cottage, where we can talk. Thou has not been to see me for months and months.”

“Nay, mother, I’ll come no more. Good day, I must get me home.”

“Stay, child,” cried Mother Goodhugh, clutching at her dress; “I want to talk to thee of him. Come to my place.”

“Loose me this instant, mother,” cried Mistress Anne, indignantly. “How darest thou lay thy hands on me?”

“Only because we are sisters, dearie.”

“Sisters?”

“Ay, dearie; don’t we practise the art together. But hist, hist, come to my cottage and let us talk.”

“Not a step will I go,” cried Anne, angrily.

“Nay, is it so? Ah, she has gotten what she wanted by my help – a brave, fine husband, and now she throws me by.”

“Cease thy talk about those childish follies. I am sick of them.”

“Ay, child, yes; thou art sick of them now, but when thou wast hungry for thy love nothing was too good for Mother Goodhugh then.”

“Out upon thee! Did I not pay thee well for thy silly mummeries?”

“Pay me well?” cried Mother Goodhugh. “Nay; what were a few paltry gold pieces for such a husband as I gained for thee?”

“You gained for me?” cried Anne, contemptuously.

“Ay, to be sure, I gained for thee, mistress; and now thou hast him safe I be thrown aside. Not once hast thou been to me these many months.”

“I tell thee I have done with such follies,” cried Anne contemptuously. “I have paid thee, and there the matter ends.”

“Oh, nay, mistress, it does not. Thou hast thy lover, and so had poor Mace Cobbe, and the wedding was to be next day; but I prophesied that she should not have the man of thy choice, and what came to pass?”

“Mother Goodhugh,” said Anne, turning pale, “if I thought thou had’st anything to do with that misfortune at the Pool thou should’st be handed over to my father for punishment according to thy deserts.”

“And would she who helped me be punished too?”

“If thou had’st accomplices, yes.”

“Sweet mistress, then we will go to prison, thou and I, together, for we made our plans to stay the wedding of Mace Cobbe.”

“It is false; I had nothing to do with thy plans,” cried Anne excitedly.

“Had’st thou not better come to my cottage, mistress?” said Mother Goodhugh.

“Nay, I have done with thee and thy ways. I’ll come there no more.”

“But thou wilt pay me for winning thee a husband.”

“Pay thee?” cried Anne contemptuously. “What should I pay thee?”

“A hundred golden pounds, mistress,” cried the old woman, whose eyes sparkled at the very mention of so much money.

“A hundred pence,” cried Anne. “Go, get you gone, old crone. I’ll never part with a piece again for thy follies.”

“Have a care, mistress,” cried the old woman excitedly, for her anger was getting the better of her reason. “Thou art not Mark Leslie’s wife as yet, and some accident might happen to thee, too.”

“Mother Goodhugh,” cried Anne, “have a care. Thou art a marked woman.”

“I will have a care, my dearie, that if I am to suffer, thou shalt suffer too. I can place thee in prison if I am touched, so beware – beware.”

“Vile old hag,” cried Anne angrily; “Speak a word against me, and you shall bitterly repent it.”

“Rue it, eh! We’ll see; we’ll see,” cried the old woman, shaking her stick after the girl, as she hurried back, uneasy enough in her mind to suffer acutely, for Mother Goodhugh might throw obstacles in the way. She shuddered at the bare thought of what had happened on the eve of Mace’s wedding, but determined to risk all.

“If she speaks, no one will believe her,” cried Anne laughing. “She shall be seized for a witch, and she dare not charge me with helping her, for if she did it would only be accusing herself, and that she dare not do. Neither dare I let her be at liberty till I am dear Mark’s wife. After this she may do her worst.”

Full of this intent – for now that the old woman had obtruded herself once more upon her path, she really feared her – Anne hurried back towards the Moat, feeling anything but secure while Mother Goodhugh was at liberty. Her mind had been too much occupied of late during Sir Mark’s long visits to trouble herself about the old woman, and whatever thought she had had of the terrible night at the Pool-house had been gradually allowed to grow dull. The great thing had been that the wedding had been stayed, but, now that she thought the matter over, she felt sure that Mother Goodhugh had been guilty of some desperate deed; and to bring it home to herself – if the old woman would do such a thing for gain, might she not do it for revenge?

Anne shuddered and her brow grew cloudy as she felt that she could not set Mother Goodhugh aside as one that she need not fear. Sir Mark was not yet her husband, and what if some terrible catastrophe were to happen to prevent the wedding.

“I should go mad,” she muttered; and she paused to think whether it would be better to try a bribe.

“She wants too much money, and if I did silence her now she would be pestering me with claims for more, and threaten and harass me. No, mother; you have opened the battle again, so now let us see which of us is the stronger.”

Hurrying to her father’s room lest her mind should change, Anne had a long colloquy with him, introducing the subject of witchcraft incidentally.

“Sir Mark tells me, father, that his Majesty strongly approves of efforts being made to keep down witches in this country.”

“Yes, my dear, so I heard Sir Mark say,” replied Sir Thomas, putting on his carplike visage, and gaping and panting at his daughter, as his eyes stood out wide and round.

“Why should you not do something to commend yourself to the King?”

“But what could I do, child?” said Sir Thomas.

“True, there is nothing you could, unless you arrested Mother Goodhugh.”

“You forbad it once, but the very thing!” cried Sir Thomas, eagerly.

“But she is not a witch,” said Anne, dubiously.

“Nay, my child, but, according to his Majesty’s book, she has all the signs of a witch in her.”

“Indeed, father?”

“Yes, child, I have studied it all well, and can show you a dozen points wherein she answers to a witch. Anne, my child, she shall be seized and examined.”

“I don’t think I would, father. Such women are sure to say more than is quite true, and spit their venom at random. Better let her rest in peace.”

“Nay, child, she shall be examined, and, if she says too much, she shall be gagged. I am not a man to be trifled with by a known and practised witch.”

Next day Mother Goodhugh returned to her cottage from one of her many absences in the forest, full of bitterness against Mistress Anne.

“Does she think she be going to play with me?” muttered the old woman. “Not she. I be not frightened of her threats now. Let her speak if she dares. I could tell strange tales against her if I liked, and I’ll be paid. One hundred golden pounds she shall give me, or she shall not marry him; nay, that she shall not. Mother Goodhugh is stronger than they think.” She chuckled, as she walked sharply up and down the little room, shaking her stick and then thumping the end upon the floor. “Nice tales could I tell. Mistress Anne Beckley would look well as my companion, and ha-ha-ha! ho-ho-ho! What would the fine, gay, gallant Sir Mark say to his sweet if he knew of the tricks and plans she had carried out. There would be an end to the wedding, and she dare not speak. What do you want here?”

“I came to see thee, Mother Goodhugh,” said the founder, who had just raised the latch, and stood in the doorway.

“To see me,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “What! hast come to be cursed again? But no, no, no; go away, man, go away, away,” she said hurriedly, as she fell a trembling. “I don’t want thee here.”

“Mother Goodhugh,” said the founder, sadly, “thou hast always looked upon me as an enemy.”

“Yes, a bitter, cruel enemy,” she cried, flinching from him. Then, with a malignant grin, she added, “But thou hast had to suffer too, Master Cobbe, and to know what it is to gnaw thy heart with pain.”

“Yes, yes, woman, I know all that,” said the founder, hastily; “but let us not talk of the by-gone, but of the future.”

“What is my future to thee, Mas’ Jeremiah Cobbe?” cried the old woman, suspiciously. “Go thy ways, and let me go mine.”

“I came to tell thee that there is danger for thee, Mother Goodhugh. They say that thou’rt a witch, and I came to bid thee go hence to some place where thou art not known.”

“Who will harm me?” cried the old woman.

“Maybe Sir Thomas will have thee put in prison.”

“She daren’t do it – she daren’t do it,” cried the old woman, fiercely. “I defy her – I defy her.”

“The law dare do a good deal, Mother Goodhugh,” said the founder, sadly. “But take my advice: go from hence. I have ready for thee twenty gold pounds; they will keep thee for some time, and when they are gone I will give thee more. But go, and go at once, before it is too late.”

The old woman’s fingers were held out crooked and trembling to grasp the money, her eyes twinkling with eagerness; but ere the founder could place the coins therein she seemed to make a tremendous effort over herself, and snatched back her hands.

“Nay,” she cried, “I will not go. Thou for one would’st get rid of me, and Mistress Anne hath sent thee, but I’ll not be baulked of my revenge.”

“I came not from Mistress Anne, good mother. It was from a talk with Master Peasegood that I came to-day.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” cried the old woman exultingly, “from Mas’ Peasegood, her friend. So I am to be sent away on a beggar’s pittance, and forego my revenge. She be a clever girl, but she can’t outwit me.”

“I understand not thy sayings, mother,” said the founder, wearily; “I only bid thee get hence, for the sake of thy poor dead husband and thy boy.”

The founder said the words in all kindness, but they transformed Mother Goodhugh into a perfect fury; her eyes flashed, the foam stood upon her lips, and, mouthing and gibbering in impotent rage, she pointed to the door.

“Go,” she shrieked at last, “and tell them who sent thee that Mother Goodhugh will stay in her place and defy them. Bid Mistress Anne have a care, and tell her that if Mother Goodhugh stands at the stake it will be back to back with the mincing, painting, and patching madam who came and bade her curse and destroy her rival at the Pool-house; who planned its destruction; who is a worse witch than I. Tell her all this, for I’ll stay and defy her. Bid her do her worst.”

“Silence, woman!” cried the founder, who gazed at her, horrified and startled at this outburst; “thou art mad.”

“Mad? Ay, mad, if thou wilt; but wait and see. Tell her I’ll stay – tell her I’ll stay and defy her. She don’t know Mother Goodhugh yet, Jeremiah Cobbe; so wait and see.”

“I shall not have long to wait, then,” said the founder, gloomily. “It is thy own fault, woman, and God forgive thee for thy cursing and thy lies.”

Mother Goodhugh had literally driven him from her room, to stand at the doorway fiercely gesticulating and threateningly waving her stick; but, as the founder spoke and drew back from her, a complete change came over the old woman: her eyes grew fixed, her jaw dropped, the stick fell from her hand, and she clung to the door-post, turning of a deadly white, for at that moment Sir Thomas Beckley, looking red, important, and accompanied by the village constable, a couple of assistants with a cart, and some dozen or two of the people, came slowly to the door.

The rustic constable held a document in his hand, which he tried to read to the woman, and dismally failed from want of erudition, even though prompted by Sir Thomas. He mumbled out, though, something about the heinous sin of witchcraft; and sovereign lord and King.

Then thrusting the document into his rough doublet, he caught the old woman by the wrist.

“No, no,” she shrieked in agony, all her defiance gone, as she found herself face to face with the horrible reality. “No, no, I will not go.”

“Come, thou must, Mother Goodhugh,” said the constable; “and I warn thee that if thou begin’st any cursing against me and my men it will be the worse for thee.”

“I will not go; I am innocent, Sir Thomas. Pray, Sir Thomas, don’t let him. A poor weak widow woman. Pray, pray don’t.”

“An anointed witch thou art,” said the justice, pompously. “Away with her.”

“Nay, nay, Sir Thomas,” cried the founder. “She is no witch; only a silly, half-mad creature.”

“Yes, that he right,” cried Mother Goodhugh, clinging frantically to one of the doorposts, “mad – mad with trouble, good Sir Thomas.”

“Nay, woman, thy witchcrafts have stunk in my nostrils this many a day, and there is a long list of crimes for thee to expiate at the stake.”

“Shame, Sir Thomas!” cried the founder, indignantly; “if any one has cause against her it is I.”

“Yes, yes, good Sir Thomas, hear him. I have cursed him more than any. Oh, pray, pray.”

“Pray,” cried the justice; “pray to thy familiars, woman! Take her along.”

“This is monstrous,” cried the founder, indignantly.

“Hold thy peace, Master Cobbe,” said Sir Thomas, impatiently; “and if thou dost interfere it will be at thy peril. Take her away, men, take her away.”

“No, no! no, no!” shrieked the horrified woman, before whose affrighted face the faggot and stake already loomed. “Mas’ Cobbe, save me – for pity’s sake, save me. I be not a witch. I only cursed in the naughtiness of my heart. Help me, Mas’ Cobbe; for thy dear child’s sake, help me, and I’ll tell thee all. I will not go. I will not go.”

The founder sprang forward to her help, but he was unarmed, and Sir Thomas drew his sword and placed himself before the prisoner.

“I warn thee, Master Cobbe,” he cried, “that this is a legal seizure. Stand back, sir, stand back. Quick, men, do your duty.”

It was a horrible scene, for the old woman clung to her door, and had to be literally torn away by the men, who, adding coarseness to the superstition of their superiors, felt no mercy for one whom they looked upon as being leagued with the powers of ill.

And now that the wise woman’s reign was over, and she was held to be harmless, those who had feared and sought counsel of her rose up to spit on the shivering form that was being dragged along the ground towards the tail of the cart. For we were a fine and manly race in the good old times, and those who represented us at Roehurst made no scruple about reviling and kicking the quivering, helpless creature, who struggled hard as she was dragged by the wrists, her clothes torn, her hair dishevelled, and her old white face looking from one to the other for the help that none would give.

“Out upon the witch!” they shrieked and yelled, drowning the poor wretch’s hoarse cries for mercy. “Burn her! Burn her!” rose in chorus; and the founder strove hard to reach her, but he was kept back by the increasing crowd, for the news that Mother Goodhugh was to be taken for a witch soon spread, and men, women, and children came panting up to join in execrating the helpless wretch.

Faint and exhausted, they bound her hands behind her back and her ankles tightly together, before, amidst tremendous shouting and yelling, she was lifted by four strong men, and literally thrown into, the cart, which was then set in motion, with Sir Thomas following behind with his sword drawn, and the people going before and crowding after, as the wheels sank down first on one side in the ruts, then on the other, revealing the wretched woman, who was now goaded to desperation, and had struggled up into a kneeling position, which she could hardly maintain for the rolling of the cart.

Every time she was nearly thrown down the crowd yelled with delight: and on some rustic genius throwing a clod of earth at her, his example was followed, and the poor wretch knelt there cowering from the shower of missiles sent into the cart.

At last she contrived to get her wrists loosed from the ill-tied cords; and, holding the cart-side with one hand, she raised the other, and shrieked out anathema after anathema against her persecutors, uttering such horrible curses against them that the less bold shrank away and the stoutest began to quail. But Mother Goodhugh’s reign of cursing was nearly at an end; for, as the founder indignantly watched the proceedings, a great lad close by him picked up and hurled a lump of sand-rock at the wretched creature, striking her full in the temple, and, amidst a shout of triumph, the miserable woman fell stunned and bleeding to the bottom of the cart.

“That were a good hurl, master,” cried the lout, with a broad grin.

“Yes,” said the founder, fiercely, “and so was that!”

As he spoke, he struck the great, broad-faced fellow straight in the cheek, and he rolled over into one of the cart-ruts, whilst the procession with Mother Goodhugh, fortunately insensible now to pain, turned a corner of the winding lane, and passed out of the founder’s sight.

How Roehurst kept Fête for a Wedding and a Death

Truly Satan must have been reigning upon earth in full fig when it was found necessary to execute thirty of his disciples at one time in Edinburgh. As for poor Mrs Hicks and her little daughter, aged nine, who were hanged at Huntingdon in 1716, they might have rejoiced at the opportunity of getting out of such a world of fools and ignorance. They must have been great sinners, though, for they had sold their souls to the devil, and – crowning atrocity! – they had raised a storm, and the recipe is handed down to posterity, for the modus operandi was “pulling off their stockings and making a lather of soap!”

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.