_Gloucester_.--Talking of hawking--nothing else, my
lord.--Shakspere.
On arriving at the palace, Sir Osborne found that he had been sent for
by the king; and hurrying his steps towards the privy chamber, he was
met by Henry himself, bearing a hawk upon his hand, and armed with a
stout leaping-pole, as if prepared for the field. "Come, sir knight,"
cried the king, "if you would see sport, follow quick. Bennet has just
marked a heron go down by the side of the river, and I am resolved to
fly young Jacob here, that his wings may not rust. Follow quick!"
Thus speaking, the king made all speed out of the palace; and cutting
partly across the park, and round the base of the hill, soon reached
the edge of the river, where slower progress became necessary, and he
could converse with the young knight without interrupting his sport.
Their conversation, however, was solely about hawking and its
accessories; and winding along by the side of the sedges with which
the bank was lined, they tried to raise the game by cries, and by
beating the rushes with the leaping-pole.
For a long way no heron made its appearance; and Henry was beginning
to get impatient, just in the same proportion as he had been eager in
setting out. Unwilling, however, to yield his sport, after persisting
some time in endeavouring, with the aid of Sir Osborne, to make the
prey take flight, he sent back the only attendant that had followed
him for a dog, and went on slowly with the knight, pursuing the course
of the river. When they had proceeded about two hundred yards, and had
arrived at a spot where the bank rose into a little mound, the knight
paused, while Henry, rather crossed with not having instantly met with
the amusement he expected, sauntered on, bending his eyes upon the
ground.
"Hist, your grace! hist!" cried Sir Osborne: "I have him!"
"Where, man? where?" cried Henry, looking round without seeing
anything. "'Odslife, where?"
"Here, your grace! here!" replied the knight. "Do you not see him,
with one leg raised and the claw contracted, gazing on the water as
intently as a lady in a looking-glass, by that branch of a tree that
is floating down?"
"Ha! yes, yes!" cried Henry. "The long neck and the blue back! 'Tis
he. Whoop! sir heron! whoop! Cry him up, Maurice! cry him up!"
Sir Osborne joined his voice to the king's; and their united efforts
reaching the ears of the long-legged fowl they were in search of, he
speedily spread his wings, stretched out his neck, and rose heavily
from the water. With a whoop and a cry the king slipped the jesses of
his falcon, and flew him after the heron, who, for a moment, not
perceiving the adversary that pursued him, took his flight over the
fields, instead of rising high. On went the heron, on went the falcon,
and on went Henry after them; till, coming to a little muddy creek,
which thereabouts found its way into the river, the king planted his
pole with his accustomed activity, and threw himself forward for the
leap. Unfortunately, however, at the very moment that his whole weight
was cast upon the pole, in the midst of the spring, the wood snapped,
and in an instant Sir Osborne saw the king fall flat on his face, and
nearly disappear in the ooze and water with which the creek was
filled. Henry struggled to free himself, but in vain; for the tenacity
of the mud prevented his raising his head, so that in another minute
he must inevitably have been drowned, had not Sir Osborne plunged in
to his aid, and lifted his face above the water, thus giving him room
to breathe. Short as had been the time, however, that respiration had
been impeded, the king's powers were nearly exhausted, and even with
the knight's assistance he could not raise himself from the position
in which he had fallen.
Though an unsafe experiment for both, considering the mud and slime
with which they were entangled, nothing remained for Sir Osborne but
to take the king in his arms, and endeavour to carry him to the bank;
and this at length he accomplished, sometimes slipping, and sometimes
staggering, from the uncertain nature of the footing and the heavy
burden that he carried; but, still supported by his vast strength, he
contrived to keep himself from falling, proceeding slowly and
carefully forward, and assuring himself of the firmness of each step
before he took another.[14]
With a feeling of inexpressible gladness, he seated Henry on the bank,
and kneeling beside him expressed his hopes that he had received no
injury. "No," said the king, faintly; "no. But, Maurice, you have
saved my life. Thank God, and thank you!"
A pause now ensued, and the young knight endeavoured, as well as
circumstances would permit, to cleanse the countenance and hands of
the monarch from the effects of the fall. While he was thus employed,
the king gradually recovered his breath and strength, and from time to
time uttered a word or two of thanks or directions, till at last
Bennet, the attendant, was seen approaching with the dog.
"Stay, stay, Sir Osborne," said the monarch; "here comes Bennet. We
will send him for fresh clothes. Where is the falcon? By my faith, I
owe you much; ay, as much as life! Whistle for the falcon; I have not
breath."
Sir Osborne uttered a long falconer's whistle, and in a moment the
bird hovered above them, and perched upon the hand the monarch
extended to it, showing by its bloody beak and claws that it had
struck the prey. Nearly at the same time came up Bennet, who, as may
be supposed, expressed no small terror and surprise at beholding the
king in such a situation, and was preparing to fill the air with
ejaculations and lamentations, when Henry stopped him in the midst.
"No, Bennet, no!" cried he; "keep all that for when I _am_ dead quite!
Ha, man! 'twill be time enough then. Thanks to Sir Osborne, I am not
dead at present. Here, take this bird. I have lost both hood and
jesses in that foul creek. Hie to the manor, Bennet, and fetch me a
large cloak with a hood, and another for Sir Osborne. We will not
return all draggled with the ooze; ha, Maurice! Quick, Bennet! But
mind, man; not a word of this misadventure, on your life!"
"Ah! your grace knows that I am discreet," replied the footman.
"Ay, as discreet as the babbling echo, or a jay, or a magpie," cried
Henry; "but get thee gone, quick! and return by the path we came, for
we follow slowly. Lend me your arm, Sir Osborne. We will round by yon
little bridge. A curse upon the leaping-pole, say I! By my fay, I will
have all the creeks in England stopped. I owe my life to you, but
hereafter we will speak of that: I will find means to repay it."
"I am more than repaid, your grace," said Sir Osborne, "by the
knowledge that, but for my poor aid, England might have lost her king,
and within a few hours the whole realm might have been drowned in
tears."
"Ay, poor souls! I do believe they would regret me," said the monarch;
"for, heaven knows, it is my wish to see them happy. A king's best
elegy is to be found in the tears of his subjects, Sir Osborne; and
every king should strive to merit their love when living and their
regret when dead."
Strange as it may seem, to those accustomed to picture themselves
Henry the Eighth as the sanguinary and remorseless tyrant which he
appeared in later years, such were the sentiments with which he set
out in his regal career, while youth, prosperity, and power were all
in their first freshness: 'twas the tale of the spoiled child, which
was always good-humoured when it was pleased. Now the first twelve
years of Henry's reign offered nought but pleasure, and during their
lapse he appeared a gay, light-hearted, gallant monarch, fit to rule
and win the hearts of a brave people; for nothing yet had arisen to
call into action the mighty vices that lay latent in his nature.
Gradually, however, luxury produced disease, and disease pain, and
pain called up cruelty; while long prosperity and uncontradicted sway
made him imperious, irascible, and almost frantic under opposition.
But such was not the case now, and it was only the close observer of
human nature that could at all perceive in the young and splendid
monarch the traits that promised what he would afterwards become.
Discoursing on the unlucky termination of their sport, Henry proceeded
with Sir Osborne into the park, and there awaited the coming of the
servant with their cloaks; feeling a sort of foppish unwillingness to
enter the palace in the state in which his fall had left him, his
whole dress being stiff with mud, and both face and hands in anything
but a comely condition. Many men might have taken advantage of Sir
Osborne's situation to urge their suit; but notwithstanding the very
great claim that the accident of the morning had given him upon Henry,
the knight was hardly satisfied that it had occurred. He deemed that,
in common decency, he should be obliged to delay the communication
which he had proposed to make that very evening, and thereby allow
Wolsey to arrive before the event was decided, which for every reason
he had hoped to avoid. Were he to press his suit now, it would seem,
he thought, surprising from the king's gratitude what his justice
might have denied, and indelicately to solicit a high reward for an
accidental service. His great hope, however, was that in the course of
the evening the king might himself renew the subject, and, by offering
some token of his thanks, afford him an opportunity of pleading for
justice for his father and himself.
The discomfited falconers waited not long in the park before they were
rejoined by the servant bearing the cloaks which the king had
commanded; but although they soon reached the palace, the clammy
wetness of his whole dress caused several slight shiverings to pass
over the limbs of Henry, and after some persuasion by Sir Osborne he
was induced to ask the counsel of his surgeon, who recommended him
instantly to bathe, and then endeavour to sleep.
This was, of course, a signal for the young knight to withdraw; and
taking leave of the king, he retired to his apartments to change his
own dress, which was not in a much more comfortable state than that of
the monarch. Our old friend Longpole soon answered to his call; and
while aiding him in his arrangements, without any comment upon the
state of his clothes, which he seemed to regard as nothing
extraordinary, the honest custrel often paused to give a glance at his
master's face, as one who has something to communicate, the nature of
which may not be very palatable to the hearer.
"Well, Longpole," said the knight, after observing several of these
looks, "when you have trussed these three points, you shall tell me
what is the matter, for I see you have something on your mind."
"I only wished to ask your worship," said the custrel, "if you had
seen him; for he's lurking about here, like a blackbird under a
cherry-tree."
"Seen whom?" demanded the knight.
"Why, the devil, your worship," replied Longpole. "I've seen him
twice."
"Indeed!" said Sir Osborne; "and pray what did his infernal highness
say to you when you did see him? Or rather, what do you mean?"
"Why, I mean, sir," replied the other, "that I have seen Sir Payan
Wileton twice here in the park during yesterday, if it was not his
ghost; for he looked deadly pale, and I fancied I could smell a sort
of brimstony smell. Now, I wot, a cunning priest would have told by
the flavour whether 'twas purgatory half and half, or unadulterated
hell: though, if he's not there, hell's empty."
"Hush!" said Sir Osborne; "speak not so lightly. When was this?"
"The first time I saw him, sir," answered the yeoman, "was yesterday
in the forenoon, soon after the justs, when I took a stroll out into
the park with Mistress Geraldine, the Lady Katrine's maid, for a
little fresh air after the peck of dust I had broken my fast upon in
the field. We had got, I don't know how, your worship, into that
lonely part under the hill, when beneath one of the trees hard by I
saw Sir Payan standing stock-still, with his hand in the bosom of his
doublet. His colour was always little better than that of a turnip,
but now it looked like a turnip boiled."
"Did he speak to you?" demanded Sir Osborne, "or give any sign that he
recognised you?"
"He did not speak," replied Longpole; "but when he saw me, he quietly
slipped his hand out of the bosom of his doublet, and getting it down
to the hilt of his poniard, kept fingering it with a sort of
affectionate squeeze, as much as to say, 'Dearly beloved, how I should
like to pluck you out of your leathern case, and furnish you with one
of flesh and blood!' He was ever fond of playing with his poniard; and
when he spoke to you, if it were but of sousing a toast, he would draw
it in and out of the scabbard all the time, as though he were afraid
of losing the acquaintance if he did not keep up the intimacy."
"You neither spoke nor took any notice, I hope," said Sir Osborne.
"Oh, no, your worship!" answered the custrel; "I did not even give him
_bon jour_, though he was fond of talking French to me when he wished
to say something privately. I only twitched Mistress Geraldine over to
the other side, and passed him by close; thinking to myself, 'If I see
your dagger in the air, I'll go nigh to sweep your head off with my
broadsword, if I have to run to France for it;' but seeing that I
looked him in the face, he turned him round upon his heel, with a draw
down of the corner of his mouth, which meant a great deal if it were
rightly read.
"Why, first, it meant--I hate you sufficiently to pretend to despise
you. Then--I'll murder you whenever I can do so safely; and again it
went to say--Give my best love to your master, and tell him he'll hear
more of me soon."
"By my faith! a good reading, and, I doubt not, a true one," replied
the knight; "but we must try and render his malice of no avail. And
now, tell me, when did you see him the second time?"
"The second time was after dinner, sir," said Longpole, "when his
grace the king, yourself, and the Duke of Suffolk kept the barriers
against all comers."
"He did not try the field, did he?" demanded Sir Osborne.
"Oh, no!" replied Longpole; "he stood looking on at a good distance,
wrapped up in a cloak, so that it needed sharp eyes to recognise him;
but I saw him all the time fix his eyes upon you, so like a cat before
a mouse-hole, that I thought every minute to see him overspring the
barrier and take you by the throat. Depend upon it that good and
honest knight, like his german-cousin, Satan, never travels for any
good, and we shall hear more of him."
"I doubt it not," answered Sir Osborne; "and we must guard against
him. But now, Longpole, a word or two to you. Did you give the packet,
as I directed you, to Mistress Geraldine, Lady Katrine's woman?"
"I did, your worship," answered Longpole, somewhat surprised at the
serious air that came over his lord's countenance: "I gave it
immediately I received it from your hands."
"That was right," replied Sir Osborne. "And now, let me say to you, my
good Heartley, that I have remarked you often with this same girl
Geraldine, and it seems to me that you are seeking her love."
"Oh! good now! your worship," cried Longpole; "if you prohibit me from
making love, it's all over with me. Indeed, your worship, I could not
do without it. It is meat, drink, and sleep to me; better than a
stirrup-cup when I rise in the morning, or a sleeping cup when I go to
bed at night. 'Faith I could not sleep without being in love. There,
when I was with Sir Payan, where there was nothing to fall in love
with but the portrait of his grandmother against the wall, I could not
sleep o' nights at all, and was forced to take to deer-stealing, just
for amusement. 'Odslife! your worship is hard on me. There, you have
a bellyful of love, all day long, from the highest ladies of the
court, and you would deny me as much as will lie in the palm of a
serving-woman."
"Nay, nay, Longpole!" said Sir Osborne, laughing; "you have taken me
up too hastily. All I meant to say was, merely, that seeing you are
evidently seeking this poor girl's love, you must not play her false.
I do not wish to imply that you would wrong her virtue: of that I am
sure you are incapable; but I mean you must not win her love, and then
leave her for another."
"Dear heart, no!" cried Longpole; "I would not for the world. Poor
little soul! she has suffered enough; so I'm now consoling her, your
worship. It's wonderful how soon a broken heart is patched up with a
little of the same stuff that broke it. It is the very reverse of
piecing a doublet; for in love you mend old love with new, and it's
almost as good as ever. However, some day soon we intend to ask your
worship's leave and the priest's blessing, and say all those odd
little words that tie two folks together."
"My leave and good wishes you shall have, Longpole," replied the
knight, "and all I can do to assist your purse. Hark! is not that the
trumpet to dinner? Give me my bonnet; I will down and dine at the
board of estate to-day, as I was not there yesterday."
On descending to the hall, Sir Osborne was instantly assailed by a
thousand questions respecting the accident which had befallen the
king; for, what between the diligent exertions of the attendants and
those of the surgeon, the news had already spread through the whole
court. In reply, the knight gave as brief and exact an account of the
whole occurrence as possible, endeavouring to stop the lying tongue of
Rumour by furnishing her with the truth at least. After dinner he
returned to his own apartments, and only left them once for a
momentary visit to Constance de Grey, remaining in hopes all the
evening that the king might send for him when he arose. Such hopes,
however, were in vain: day waned and night fell, and the knight's suit
was no farther advanced than when Sir Cesar warned him to hasten it in
the morning.