part being hung with arras representing the legend of Saint
George, placed there by Henry the Sixth, and the walls behind the
knights-companions adorned with other tapestries and rich stuffs.
The tables groaned with the weight of dishes, some of which may be
enumerated for the benefit of modern gastronomers. There were Georges on
horseback, chickens in brewis, cygnets, capons of high grease, carpes of
venison, herons, calvered salmon, custards planted with garters, tarts
closed with arms, godwits, peafowl, halibut engrailed, porpoise in
armour, pickled mullets, perch in foyle, venison pasties, hypocras
jelly, and mainemy royal.
Before the second course was served, the Garter, followed by Clarenceux
and Norroy, together with the heralds and pursuivants, advanced towards
the sovereign's canopy, and cried thrice in a loud voice, “Largesse!”
Upon this, all the knights-companions arose and took off their caps. The
Garter then proceeded to proclaim the king's titles in Latin and French,
and lastly in English, as follows:--“Of the most high, most excellent,
and most mighty monarch, Henry the Eighth, by the grace of God King of
England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and Sovereign of
the most noble Order of the Garter.”
This proclamation made, the treasurer of the household put ten golden
marks into the Garter's cap, who making a reverence to the sovereign,
retired from the hall with his followers.
“Come, my lord legate,” said Henry, when this ceremony was at an end,
“we will drink to my future queen. What ho! wine!” he added to the Earl
of Surrey, who officiated as cup-bearer.
“Your highness is not yet divorced from your present consort,” replied
Campeggio. “If it please you, I should prefer drinking the health of
Catherine of Arragon.”
“Well, as your eminence pleases,” replied the king, taking the goblet
from the hand of Surrey; “I shall not constrain you.”
And looking towards the gallery, he fixed his eyes on the Lady Anne and
drained the cup to the last drop.
“Would it were poison,” muttered Sir Thomas Wyat, who stood behind the
Earl of Surrey, and witnessed what was passing.
“Give not thy treasonable thoughts vent, gossip,” said Will Sommers,
who formed one of the group near the royal table, “or it may chance that
some one less friendly disposed towards thee than myself may overhear
them. I tell thee, the Lady Anne is lost to thee for ever. Think'st thou
aught of womankind would hesitate between a simple knight and a king? My
lord duke,” he added sharply to Richmond, who was looking round at him,
“you would rather be in yonder gallery than here.”
“Why so, knave?” asked the duke.
“Because the Fair Geraldine is there,” replied the jester. “And yet your
grace is not the person she would most desire to have with her.”
“Whom would she prefer?” inquired the duke angrily.
The jester nodded at Surrey, and laughed maliciously.
“You heard the health given by the king just now, my lord,” observed the
Duke of Suffolk to his neighbour the Duke of Norfolk; “it was a shrewd
hint to the lord legate which way his judgment should decline. Your
niece will assuredly be Queen of England.”
“I did not note what was said, my lord,” replied Norfolk; “I pray you
repeat it to me.”
Suffolk complied, and they continued in close debate until the
termination of the banquet, when the king, having saluted the company,
returned to the presence-chamber.
V.
Of the Ghostly Chase beheld by the Earl of Surrey and the
Duke of Richmond in Windsor Forest.
On that same night, and just as the castle clock was on the stroke of
twelve, the Earl of Surrey and the Duke of Richmond issued from the
upper gate, and took their way towards Herne's Oak. The moon was shining
brightly, and its beams silvered the foliage of the noble trees with
which the park was studded. The youthful friends soon reached the
blasted tree; but nothing was to be seen near it, and all looked so
tranquil, so free from malignant influence, that the Duke of Richmond
could not help laughing at his companion, telling him that the supposed
vision must have been the offspring of his over-excited fancy. Angry at
being thus doubted, the earl walked off, and plunged into the haunted
dell. The duke followed, but though they paused for some time beneath
the gnarled oak-tree, the spirit did not appear.
“And thus ends the adventure of Herne the Hunter!” laughed the duke,
as they emerged from the brake. “By my halidom, Surrey, I am grievously
disappointed. You must have mistaken some large stag, caught by its
antlers in the branches of the oak-tree, for the demon.”
“I have told you precisely what occurred,” replied Surrey angrily. “Ha!
there he is--look! look!”
And he pointed to a weird figure, mounted on a steed as weird-looking as
itself, galloping through the trees with extraordinary swiftness, at a
little distance from them. This ghostly rider wore the antlered helmet
described by Surrey, and seemed to be habited in a garb of deer-skins.
Before him flew a large owl, and a couple of great black dogs ran beside
him. Staring in speechless wonder at the sight, the two youths watched
the mysterious being scour a glade brightly illumined by the moon,
until, reaching the pales marking the confines of the Home Park, he
leaped them and disappeared.
“What think you of that?” cried Surrey, as soon as he had recovered from
his surprise, glancing triumphantly at the duke. “Was that the offspring
of my fancy?”
“It was a marvellous sight, truly!” exclaimed Richmond. “Would we had
our steeds to follow him.”
“We can follow him on foot,” replied the earl--“he is evidently gone
into the forest.”
And they set off at a quick pace in the direction taken by the ghostly
rider. Clambering the park pales, they crossed the road leading to
Old Windsor, and entered that part of the forest which, in more recent
times, has been enclosed and allotted to the grounds of Frogmore.
Tracking a long vista, they came to a thick dell, overgrown with
large oaks, at the bottom of which lay a small pool. Fleeter than his
companion, and therefore somewhat in advance of him, the Earl of Surrey,
as he approached this dell, perceived the spectral huntsman and his dogs
standing at the edge of the water. The earl instantly shouted to him,
and the horseman turning his head, shook his hand menacingly, while the
hounds glared fiercely at the intruder, and displayed their fangs, but
did not bark. As Surrey, however, despite this caution, continued to
advance, the huntsman took a strangely shaped horn that hung by his
side, and placing it to his lips, flames and thick smoke presently
issued from it, and before the vapour had cleared off, he and his dogs
had disappeared.. The witnesses of this marvellous spectacle crossed
themselves reverently, and descended to the brink of the pool; but the
numerous footprints of deer, that came there to drink, prevented them
from distinguishing any marks of the steed of the ghostly hunter.
“Shall we return, Surrey?” asked the duke.
“No,” replied the earl. “I am persuaded we shall see the mysterious
huntsman again. You can return, if you think proper. I will go on.”
“Nay, I will not leave you,” rejoined Richmond.
And they set off again at the same quick pace as before. Mounting a hill
covered with noble beeches and elms, a magnificent view of the castle
burst upon them, towering over the groves they had tracked, and looking
almost like the work of enchantment. Charmed with the view, the young
men continued to contemplate it for some time. They then struck off on
the right, and ascended still higher, until they came to a beautiful
grove of beeches cresting the hill where the equestrian statue of George
the Third is now placed. Skirting this grove, they disturbed a herd of
deer, which started up, and darted into the valley below.
At the foot of two fine beech-trees lay another small pool, and Surrey
almost expected to see the spectral huntsman beside it.
From this spot they could discern the whole of the valley beyond, and
they scanned it in the hope of perceiving the object of their search.
Though not comparable to the view on the nearer side, the prospect was
nevertheless exceedingly beautiful. Long vistas and glades stretched out
before them, while in the far distance might be seen glittering in the
moonbeams the lake or mere which in later days has received the name of
Virginia Water.
While they were gazing at this scene, a figure habited like a keeper of
the forest suddenly emerged from the trees at the lower end of one of
the glades. Persuaded that this person had some mysterious connection
with the ghostly huntsman, the earl determined to follow him, and
hastily mentioning his suspicions and design to Richmond, he hurried
down the hill. But before he accomplished the descent, the keeper was
gone.
At length, however, on looking about, they perceived him mounting the
rising ground on the left, and immediately started after him, taking
care to keep out of sight. The policy of this course was soon apparent.
Supposing himself no longer pursued, the keeper relaxed his pace, and
the others got nearer to him.
In this way both parties went on, the keeper still hurrying forward,
every now and then turning his head to see whether any one was on his
track, until he came to a road cut through the trees that brought him to
the edge of a descent leading to the lake. Just at this moment a
cloud passed over the moon, burying all in comparative obscurity.
The watchers, however, could perceive the keeper approach an ancient
beech-tree of enormous growth, and strike it thrice with the short
hunting-spear which he held in his grasp.
The signal remaining unanswered, he quitted the tree, and shaped his
course along the side of a hill on the right. Keeping under the
shelter of the thicket on the top of the same hill, Surrey and Richmond
followed, and saw him direct his steps towards another beech-tree of
almost double the girth of that he had just visited. Arrived at this
mighty tree, he struck it with his spear, while a large owl, seated on
a leafless branch, began to hoot; a bat circled the tree; and two large
snakes, glistening in the moonlight, glided from its roots. As the tree
was stricken for the third time, the same weird figure that the watchers
had seen ride along the Home Park burst from its riften trunk, and
addressed its summoner in tones apparently menacing and imperious, but
whose import was lost upon the listeners. The curiosity of the beholders
was roused to the highest pitch, but an undefinable awe prevented them
from rushing forward.
Suddenly the demon hunter waved a pike with which he was armed, and
uttered a peculiar cry, resembling the hooting of an owl. At this sound,
and as if by magic, a couple of steeds, accompanied by the two hounds,
started from the brake. In an instant the demon huntsman vaulted upon
the hack of the horse nearest to him, and the keeper almost as quickly
mounted the other. The pair then galloped off through the glen, the owl
flying before them, and the hounds coursing by their side.
The two friends gazed at each other, for some time, in speechless
wonder. Taking heart, they then descended to the haunted tree, but could
perceive no traces of the strange being by whom it had been recently
tenanted. After a while they retraced their course towards the castle,
hoping they might once more encounter the wild huntsman. Nor were they
disappointed. As they crossed a glen, a noble stag darted by. Close at
its heels came the two black hounds, and after them the riders hurrying
forward at a furious pace, their steeds appearing to breathe forth flame
and smoke.
In an instant the huntsmen and hounds were gone, and the trampling of
the horses died away in the distance. Soon afterwards a low sound, like
the winding of a horn, broke upon the ear, and the listeners had no
doubt that the buck was brought down. They hurried in the direction
of the sound, but though the view was wholly unobstructed for a
considerable distance, they could see nothing either of horsemen,
hounds, or deer.
VI.
How the Fair Geraldine bestowed a Relic upon her Lover--How
Surrey and Richmond rode in the Forest at Midnight--And
where they found the Body of Mark Fytton, the Butcher.
Surrey and Richmond agreed to say nothing for the present of their
mysterious adventure in the forest; but their haggard looks, as they
presented themselves to the Lady Anne Boleyn in the reception-chamber on
the following morning, proclaimed that something had happened, and they
had to undergo much questioning from the Fair Geraldine and the Lady
Mary Howard.
“I never saw you so out of spirits, my lord,” remarked the Fair
Geraldine to Surrey; “you must have spent the whole night in study--or
what is more probable, you have again seen Herne the Hunter. Confess
now, you have been in the forest.”
“I will confess anything you please,” replied Surrey evasively.
“And what have you seen?--a stranger vision than the first?” rejoined
the Fair Geraldine.
“Since your ladyship answers for me, there is no need for explanation on
my part,” rejoined Surrey, with a faint laugh. “And know you not, that
those who encounter super natural beings are generally bound to profound
secrecy?”
“Such, I hope, is not your case, Henry?” cried the Lady Mary Howard, in
alarm;--“nor yours, my lord?” she added to the Duke of Richmond.
“I am bound equally with Surrey,” returned the duke mysteriously
“You pique my curiosity, my lords,” said the Fair Geraldine; “and since
there is no other way of gratifying it, if the Lady Mary Howard will
accompany me, we will ourselves venture into the forest, and try whether
we cannot have a meeting with this wild huntsman. Shall we go to-night?
“Not for worlds,” replied the Lady Mary, shuddering; “were I to see
Herne, I should die of fright.”
“Your alarm is groundless,” observed Richmond gallantly. “The presence
of two beings, fair and pure as yourself and the Lady Elizabeth
Fitzgerald, would scare away aught of evil.”
The Lady Mary thanked him with a beaming smile, but the Fair Geraldine
could not suppress a slight laugh.
“Your grace is highly flattering,” she said. “But, with all faith
in beauty and purity, I should place most reliance in a relic I
possess--the virtue of which has often been approved against evil
spirits. It was given by a monk--who had been sorely tempted by a demon,
and who owed his deliverance to it--to my ancestor, Luigi Geraldi of
Florence; and from him it descended to me.”
“Would I had an opportunity of proving its efficacy!” exclaimed the Earl
of Surrey.
“You shall prove it, if you choose,” rejoined the Fair Geraldine. “I
will give you the relic on condition that you never part with it to
friend or foe.”
And detaching a small cross of gold, suspended by a chain from her neck,
she presented it to the Earl of Surrey.
“This cross encloses the relic,” she continued; “wear it, and may it
protect you from all ill!”
Surrey's pale cheek glowed as he took the gift. “I will never past
with it but with life,” he cried, pressing the cross to his lips, and
afterwards placing it next his heart.
“I would have given half my dukedom to be so favoured,” said Richmond
moodily.
And quitting the little group, he walked towards the Lady Anne. “Henry,”
said the Lady Mary, taking her brother aside, “you will lose your
friend.”
“I care not,” replied Surrey.
“But you may incur his enmity,” pursued the Lady Mary. “I saw the glance
he threw at you just now, and it was exactly like the king's terrible
look when offended.”
“Again I say I care not,” replied Surrey. “Armed with this relic, I defy
all hostility.”
“It will avail little against Richmond's rivalry and opposition,”
rejoined his sister.
“We shall see,” retorted Surrey. “Were the king himself my rival, I
would not resign my pretensions to the Fair Geraldine.”
“Bravely resolved, my lord,” said Sir Thomas Wyat, who, having overheard
the exclamation, advanced towards him. “Heaven grant you may never be
placed in such jeopardy!”
“I say amen to that prayer, Sir Thomas,” rejoined Surrey “I would not
prove disloyal, and yet under such circumstances--”
“What would you do?” interrupted Wyat.
“My brother is but a hasty boy, and has not learned discretion, Sir
Thomas,” interposed the Lady Mary, trying by a significant glance to
impose silence on the earl.
“Young as he is, he loves well and truly,” remarked Wyat, in a sombre
tone.
“What is all this?” inquired the Fair Geraldine, who had been gazing
through the casement into the court below.
“I was merely expressing a wish that Surrey may never have a monarch for
a rival, fair lady,” replied Wyat.
“It matters little who may be his rival,” rejoined Geraldine, “provided
she he loves be constant.”
“Right, lady, right,” said Wyat, with great bitterness. At this moment
Will Sommers approached them. “I come to bid you to the Lady Anne's
presence, Sir Thomas, and you to the king's, my lord of Surrey,” said
the jester. “I noticed what has just taken place,” he remarked to the
latter, as they proceeded towards the royal canopy, beneath which Henry
and the Lady Anne Boleyn were seated; “but Richmond will not relinquish
her tamely, for all that.”
Anne Boleyn had summoned Sir Thomas Wyat, in order to gratify her vanity
by showing him the unbounded influence she possessed over his royal
rival; and the half-suppressed agony displayed by the unfortunate lover
at the exhibition afforded her a pleasure such as only the most refined
coquette can feel.
Surrey was sent for by the king to receive instructions, in his quality
of vice-chamberlain, respecting a tilting-match and hunting-party to be
held on successive days--the one in the upper quadrangle of the castle,
the other in the forest.
Anxious, now that he was somewhat calmer, to avoid a rupture with
Richmond, Surrey, as soon as he had received the king's instructions,
drew near the duke; and the latter, who had likewise reasoned himself
out of his resentment, was speedily appeased, and they became, to all
appearance, as good friends as ever.
Soon afterwards the Lady Anne and her dames retired, and the court
breaking up, the two young nobles strolled forth to the stately terrace
at the north of the castle, where, while gazing at the glorious view it
commanded, they talked over the mysterious event of the previous night.
“I cannot help suspecting that the keeper we beheld with the demon
hunter was Morgan Fenwolf,” remarked the earl. “Suppose we make inquiry
whether he was at home last night. We can readily find out his dwelling
from Bryan Bowntance, the host of the Garter.”
Richmond acquiesced in the proposal, and they accordingly proceeded
to the cloisters of Saint George's Chapel, and threading some tortuous
passages contrived among the canons' houses, passed through a small
porch, guarded by a sentinel, and opening upon a precipitous and
somewhat dangerous flight of steps, hewn out of the rock and leading to
the town.
None except the more important members of the royal household were
allowed to use this means of exit from the castle, but, of course, the
privilege extended to Richmond and Surrey. Here in later times, and when
the castle was not so strictly guarded, a more convenient approach
was built, and designated, from the number of its stairs, “The Hundred
Steps.”
Having accomplished the descent in safety, and given the password to the
sentinel at the foot of the steps, the two young nobles emerged into the
street, and the first object they beheld was the body of the miserable
butcher swinging from the summit of the Curfew Tower, where it was left
by order of the king.
Averting their gaze from this ghastly spectacle, they took their way up
Thames Street, and soon reached the Garter. Honest Bryan was seated on a
bench before the dwelling, with a flagon of his own ale beside him,
and rising as he saw the others approach, he made them a profound
salutation.
Upon leaning what they sought, he told them that Morgan Fenwolf dwelt
in a small cottage by the river-side not far from the bridge, and if
it pleased them, he would guide them to it himself--an offer which they
gladly accepted.
“Do you know anything of this Fenwolf?” asked Surrey, as they proceeded
on their way.
“Nothing particular,” replied Bryan, with some hesitation. “There are
some strange reports about him, but I don't believe 'em.”
“What reports are they, friend?” asked the Duke of Richmond.
“Why, your grace, one ought to be cautious what one says, for fear of
bringing an innocent man into trouble,” returned the host. “But if the
truth must be spoken, people do say that Morgan Fenwolf is in league
with the devil--or with Herne the Hunter, which is the same thing.”
Richmond exchanged a look with his friend.
“Folks say strange sights have been seen in the forest of late,” pursued
Bryan--“and it may be so. But I myself have seen nothing--but then, to
be sure, I never go there. The keepers used to talk of Herne the
Hunter when I was a lad, but I believe it was only a tale to frighten
deer-stealers; and I fancy it's much the same thing now.”
Neither Surrey nor Richmond made any remark, and they presently reached
the keeper's dwelling.
It was a small wooden tenement standing, as the host had stated, on the
bank of the river, about a bow-shot from the bridge. The door was opened
by Bryan, and the party entered without further ceremony. They found
no one within except an old woman, with harsh, wrinkled features, and a
glance as ill-omened as that of a witch, whom Bryan Bowntance told them
was Fenwolf's mother. This old crone regarded the intruders uneasily.
“Where is your son, dame?” demanded the duke.
“On his walk in the forest,” replied the old crone bluntly.
“What time did he go forth?” inquired Surrey.
“An hour before daybreak, as is his custom,” returned the woman, in the
same short tone as before.
“You are sure he slept at home last night, dame?” said Surrey.
“As sure as I am that the question is asked me,” she replied. “I can
show you the very bed on which he slept, if you desire to see it. He
retired soon after sunset--slept soundly, as he always sleeps--and arose
as I have told you. I lighted a fire, and made him some hot pottage
myself.”
“If she speaks the truth, you must be mistaken,” observed Richmond in a
whisper to his friend.
“I do not believe her,” replied Surrey, in the same tone. “Show us his
chamber, dame.”
The old crone sullenly complied, and, throwing open a side door,
disclosed an inner apartment, in which there was a small bed. There
was nothing noticeable in the room except a couple of fishing-nets, a
hunting-spear, and an old cross-bow. A small open casement looked upon
the river, whose clear sparkling waters flowed immediately beneath it.
Surrey approached the window, and obtained a fine view of the Brocas
meads on the one hand, and the embowered college of Eton on the other.
His attention, however, was diverted by a fierce barking without, and
the next moment, in spite of the vociferations of the old woman, a large
black staghound, which Surrey recognised as Fenwolf's dog, Bawsey, burst
through the door, and rushed furiously towards him. Surrey drew his
dagger to defend himself from the hound's attack, but the precaution
was needless. Bawsey's fierceness changed suddenly to the most abject
submission, and with a terrified howl, she retreated from the room with'
her tail between her legs. Even the old woman uttered a cry of surprise.
“Lord help us!” exclaimed Bryan; “was ever the like o' that seen? Your
lordship must have a strange mastery over dogs. That hound,” he added,
in a whisper, “is said to be a familiar spirit.”
“The virtue of the relic is approved,” observed Surrey to Richmond, in
an undertone.
“It would seem so,” replied the duke.
The old woman now thought proper to assume a more respectful demeanour
towards her visitors, and inquired whether her son should attend upon
them on his return from the forest, but they said it was unnecessary.
“The king is about to have a grand hunting-party the day after
to-morrow,” observed Surrey, “and we wished to give your son some
instructions respecting it. They can, however, be delivered to another
keeper.”
And they departed with Bryan, and returned to the castle. At midnight
they again issued forth. Their steeds awaited them near the upper gate,
and, mounting, they galloped across the greensward in the direction of
Herne's Oak. Discerning no trace of the ghostly huntsman, they shaped
their course towards the forest.
Urging their steeds to their utmost speed, and skirting the long avenue,
they did not draw the rein till they reached the eminence beyond it;
having climbed which, they dashed down the farther side at the same
swift pace as before. The ride greatly excited them, but they saw
nothing of the wild huntsman; nor did any sound salute their ears except
the tramp of their own horses, or the occasional darting forth of a
startled deer.
Less than a quarter of an hour brought them to the haunted beech-tree;
but all was as silent and solitary here as at the blasted oak. In vain
Surrey smote the tree. No answer was returned to the summons; and,
finding all efforts to evoke the demon fruitless, they quitted the
spot, and, turning their horses' heads to the right, slowly ascended the
hill-side.
Before they had gained the brow of the hill the faint blast of a horn
saluted their ears, apparently proceeding from the valley near the
lake. They instantly stopped and looked in that direction, but could
see nothing. Presently, however, the blast was repeated more loudly than
before, and, guided by the sound, they discerned the spectral huntsman
riding beneath the trees at some quarter of a mile's distance.
Striking spurs into their steeds, they instantly gave him chase; but
though he lured them on through thicket and over glade--now climbing
a hill, now plunging into a valley, until their steeds began to show
symptoms of exhaustion--they got no nearer to him; and at length, as
they drew near the Home Park, to which he had gradually led them, he
disappeared from view.
“I will take my station near the blasted oak,” said Surrey, galloping
towards it: “the demon is sure to revisit his favourite tree before
cock-crowing.”
“What is that?” cried the Earl of Surrey, pointing to a strange and
ghastly-looking object depending from the tree. “Some one has hanged
himself! It may be the caitiff, Morgan Fenwolf.”
With one accord they dashed forward, and as they drew nearer the tree,
they perceived that the object that had attracted their attention was
the body of Mark Fytton, the butcher, which they had so recently seen
swinging from the summit of the Curfew Tower. It was now suspended from
an arm of the wizard oak.
A small scroll was stuck upon the breast of the corpse, and, taking it
off, Surrey read these words, traced in uncouth characters--“Mark Fytton
is now one of the band of Herne the Hunter.”
“By my fay, this passes all comprehension,” said Richmond, after a few
moments' silence. “This castle and forest seem under the sway of the
powers of darkness. Let us return. I have had enough of adventure for
to-night.”
And he rode towards the castle, followed more slowly by the earl.
VII.
How the Earl of Surrey and the Fair Geraldine plighted their
troth in the Cloisters of Saint George's Chapel.
Barriers were erected on the following day in the upper ward of the
castle, and the Lady Anne and her dames assembled in the balcony in
front of the royal lodgings, which was decorated with arras, costly
carpets, and rich stuffs, to view the spectacle.
Perfect in all manly accomplishments, Henry splintered several lances
with his brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk, who formed an admirable
match for him in point of weight and strength; and at last, though he
did not succeed in unhorsing the duke, he struck off his helmet, the
clasp of which, it was whispered, was left designedly unfastened; and
being thereupon declared the victor, he received the prize--a scarf
embroidered by her own hands--from the fair Anne herself.
He then retired from the lists, leaving them free for the younger
knights to run a course at the ring. The first to enter the arena was
Sir Thomas Wyat; and as he was known to be a skilful jouster, it was
expected he would come off triumphantly. But a glance from the royal
balcony rendered his arm unsteady, and he missed the mark.
Next came the Duke of Richmond, superbly accoutred. Laughing at Wyat's
ill success, he bowed to the Fair Geraldine, and taking a lance from his
esquire, placed it in the rest, and rode gallantly forward. But he was
equally unsuccessful, and retired, looking deeply chagrined.
The third knight who presented himself was Surrey. Mounted on his
favourite black Arabian--a steed which, though of fiery temper, obeyed
his slightest movement--his light symmetrical figure was seen to the
greatest advantage in his close-fitting habiliments of silk and velvet.
Without venturing a look at the royal balcony, the earl couched his
lance, and bounding forward, bore away the ring on its point.
Amid the plaudits of the spectators, he then careered around the arena,
and approaching the royal balcony, raised his lance, and proffered the
ring to the Fair Geraldine, who blushingly received it. Henry, though by
no means pleased with Surrey's success, earned as it was at the expense
of his son, complimented him upon his skill, and Anne Boleyn joined
warmly in his praises.
The lists were then closed, and the royal party retired to partake of
refreshments; after which they proceeded to the butts erected in the
broad mead at the north of the castle, where the Duke of Shoreditch and
his companions shot a well-contested match with the long-bow.
During these sports, Surrey placed himself as near as he could to the
Fair Geraldine, and though but few opportunities occurred of exchanging
a syllable with her, his looks spoke a sufficiently intelligible
language. At last, just as they were about to return to the palace, he
breathed in an imploring tone in her ear--
“You will attend vespers at Saint George's Chapel this evening. Return
through the cloisters. Grant me a moment's interview alone there.”
“I cannot promise,” replied the Fair Geraldine. And she followed in the
train of the Lady Anne.
The earl's request had not been unheard. As the royal train proceeded
towards the castle, Will Sommers contrived to approach the Duke of
Richmond, and said to him, in a jeering tone “You ran but indifferently
at the ring to-day, gossip. The galliard Surrey rode better, and carried
off the prize.”
“Pest on thee, scurril knave--be silent!” cried Richmond angrily;
“failure is bad enough without thy taunts.”
“If you had only missed the ring, gossip, I should have thought nothing
of it,” pursued Will Sommers; “but you lost a golden opportunity of
ingratiating yourself with your lady-love. All your hopes are now at an
end. A word in your ear--the Fair Geraldine will meet Surrey alone this
evening.”
“Thou liest, knave!” cried the duke fiercely.
“Your grace will find the contrary, if you will be at Wolsey's
tomb-house at vesper-time,” replied the jester.
“I will be there,” replied the duke; “but if I am brought on a bootless
errand, not even my royal father shall save thee from chastisement.”
“I will bear any chastisement your grace may choose to inflict upon
me, if I prove not the truth of my assertion,” replied Sommers. And he
dropped into the rear of the train.
The two friends, as if by mutual consent, avoided each other during
the rest of the day--Surrey feeling he could not unburden his heart to
Richmond, and Richmond brooding jealously over the intelligence he had
received from the jester.
At the appointed hour the duke proceeded to the lower ward, and
stationed himself near Wolsey's tomb-house. Just as he arrived there,
the vesper hymn arose from the adjoining fane, and its solemn strains
somewhat soothed his troubled spirit. But they died away; and as the
jester came not, Richmond grew impatient, and began to fear he had been
duped by his informant. At length the service concluded, and, losing all
patience, he was about to depart, when the jester peered round the lower
angle of the tomb-house, and beckoned to him. Obeying the summons,
the duke followed his conductor down the arched passage leading to the
cloisters.
“Tread softly, gossip, or you will alarm them,” said Sommers, in a low
tone.
They turned the corner of the cloisters; and there, near the entrance of
the chapel, stood the youthful pair--the Fair Geraldine half reclining
upon the earl's breast, while his arm encircled her slender waist.
“There!” whispered the jester, chuckling maliciously, “there! did I speak
falsely--eh, gossip?”
Richmond laid his hand upon his sword.
“Hist!” said the jester; “hear what the Fair Geraldine has to say.”
“We must meet no more thus, Surrey,” she murmured:
“I feel I was wrong in granting the interview, but I could not help it.
If, when a few more years have flown over your head, your heart remains
unchanged.”
“It will never change!” interrupted Surrey. “I here solemnly pledge my
troth to you.”
“And I return the pledge,” replied the Fair Geraldine earnestly. “I vow
to be yours, and yours only.”
“Would that Richmond could hear your vow!” said Surrey; “it would
extinguish his hopes.”
“He has heard it!” cried the duke, advancing. “But his hopes are not yet
extinguished.”
The Fair Geraldine uttered a slight scream, and disengaged herself from
the earl.
“Richmond, you have acted unworthily in thus playing the spy,” said
Surrey angrily.
“None but a spy can surprise interviews like these,” rejoined Richmond
bitterly. “The Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald had better have kept her
chamber, than come here to plight her troth with a boy, who will change
his mind before his beard is grown.”
“Your grace shall find the boy man enough to avenge an insult,” rejoined
Surrey sternly.
“I am glad to hear it,” returned the duke. “Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, I
must pray you to return to your lodgings. The king's jester will attend
you. This way, my lord.”
Too much exasperated to hesitate, Surrey followed the duke down the
passage, and the next moment the clashing of swords was heard. The Fair
Geraldine screamed loudly, and Will Sommers began to think the jest had
been carried too far.
“What is to be done?” he cried. “If the king hears of this quarrel, he
will assuredly place the Earl of Surrey in arrest. I now repent having
brought the duke here.”
“You acted most maliciously,” cried the Fair Geraldine; “but fly, and
prevent further mischief.”
Thus urged, the jester ran towards the lower ward, and finding an
officer of the guard and a couple of halberdiers near the entrance
of St. George's Chapel, told them what was taking place, and they
immediately hastened with him to the scene of the conflict.
“My lords!” cried the officer to the combatants, “I command you to lay
down your weapons.”
But finding no respect paid to his injunctions, he rushed between them,
and with the aid of the halberdiers, forcibly separated them.
“My lord of Surrey,” said the officer, “you are my prisoner. I demand
your sword.”
“On what plea, sir?” rejoined the other.
“You have drawn it against the king's son--and the act is treason,”
replied the officer. “I shall take you to the guard house until the
king's pleasure is known.”
“But I provoked the earl to the conflict,” said Richmond: “I was the
aggressor.”
“Your grace will represent the matter as you see fit to your royal
father,” rejoined the officer. “I shall fulfil my duty. My lord, to the
guard-house!”
“I will procure your instant liberation, Surrey,” said Richmond.
The earl was then led away, and conveyed to a chamber in the lower part
of Henry the Eighth's gate, now used as a place of military punishment,
and denominated the “black hole.”
VIII.
Of Tristram Lyndwood, the old Forester, and his Grand-
daughter Mabel--Of the Peril in which the Lady Anne Boleyn
was placed during the chase--And by whom she was rescued.
In consequence of the announcement that a grand hunting party would be
held in the forest, all the verderers, rangers, and keepers assembled at
an early hour on the fourth day after the king's arrival at Windsor in
an open space on the west side of the great avenue, where a wooden stand
was erected, canopied over with green boughs and festooned with garlands
of flowers, for the accommodation of the Lady Anne Boleyn and her dames,
who, it was understood, would be present at the chase.
At a little distance from the stand an extensive covert was fenced round
with stout poles, to which nets were attached so as to form a haye or
preserve, where the game intended for the royal sport was confined;
and though many of the animals thus brought together were of hostile
natures, they were all so terrified, and seemingly so conscious of the
danger impending over them, that they did not molest each other.
The foxes and martins, of which there were abundance, slunk into the
brushwood with the hares and rabbits, but left their prey untouched. The
harts made violent efforts to break forth, and, entangling their horns
in the nets, were with difficulty extricated and driven back; while the
timid does, not daring to follow them, stood warily watching the result
of the struggle.
Amongst the antlered captives was a fine buck, which, having been once
before hunted by the king, was styled a “hart royal,” and this noble
animal would certainly have effected his escape if he had not been
attacked and driven back by Morgan Fenwolf, who throughout the morning's
proceedings displayed great energy and skill. The compliments bestowed
on Fenwolf for his address by the chief verderer excited the jealousy
of some of his comrades, and more than one asserted that he had been
assisted in his task by some evil being, and that Bawsey herself was no
better than a familiar spirit in the form of a hound.
Morgan Fenwolf scouted these remarks; and he was supported by some
others among the keepers, who declared that it required no supernatural
aid to accomplish what he had done--that he was nothing more than a good
huntsman, who could ride fast and boldly--that he was skilled in all the
exercises of the chase, and possessed a stanch and well-trained hound.
The party then sat down to breakfast beneath the trees, and the talk
fell upon Herne the Hunter, and his frequent appearance of late in the
forest (for most of the keepers had heard of or encountered the spectral
huntsman); and while they were discussing this topic, and a plentiful
allowance of cold meat, bread, ale, and mead at the same time, two
persons were seen approaching along a vista on the right, who specially
attracted their attention and caused Morgan Fenwolf to drop the
hunting-knife with which he was carving his viands, and start to his
feet.
The new-comers were an old man and a comely young damsel. The former,
though nearer seventy than sixty, was still hale and athletic, with
fresh complexion, somewhat tanned by the sun, and a keen grey eye,
which had lost nothing of its fire. He was habited in a stout leathern
doublet, hose of the same material, and boots rudely fashioned out of
untanned ox-hide, and drawn above the knee. In his girdle was thrust a
large hunting-knife; a horn with a silver mouthpiece depended from his
shoulder, and he wore a long bow and a quiver full of arrows at his
back. A flat bonnet, made of fox-skin and ornamented with a raven's
wing, covered his hair, which was as white as silver.
But it was not upon this old forester, for such his attire proclaimed
him, that the attention of the beholders, and of Morgan Fenwolf in
especial, was fixed, but upon his companion. Amongst the many lovely and
high-born dames who had so recently graced the procession to the castle
were few, if any, comparable to this lowly damsel. Her dress--probably
owing to the pride felt in her by her old relative was somewhat superior
to her station. A tightly-laced green kirtle displayed to perfection her
slight but exquisitely-formed figure A gown of orange-coloured cloth,
sufficiently short to display her small ankles, and a pair of green
buskins, embroidered with silver, together with a collar of the whitest
and finest linen, though shamed by the neck it concealed, and fastened
by a small clasp, completed her attire. Her girdle was embroidered with
silver, and her sleeves were fastened by aiglets of the same metal.
“How proud old Tristram Lyndwood seems of his granddaughter,” remarked
one of the keepers.
“And with reason,” replied another. “Mabel Lyndwood is the comeliest
lass in Berkshire.”
“Ay, marry is she,” rejoined the first speaker; “and, to my thinking,
she is a fairer and sweeter flower than any that blooms in yon stately
castle--the flower that finds so much favour in the eyes of our royal
Hal not excepted.”
“Have a care, Gabriel Lapp,” observed another keeper. “Recollect that
Mark Fytton, the butcher, was hanged for speaking slightingly of the
Lady Anne Boleyn; and you may share his fate if you disparage her
beauty.”
“Na I meant not to disparage the Lady Anne,” replied Gabriel. “Hal
may marry her when he will, and divorce her as soon afterwards as he
pleases, for aught I care. If he marries fifty wives, I shall like him
all the better. The more the merrier, say I. But if he sets eyes on Mab
Lyndwood it may somewhat unsettle his love for the Lady Anne.”
“Tush, Gabriel!” said Morgan Fenwolf, darting an angry look at him.
“What business have you to insinuate that the king would heed other than
the lady of his love?”
“You are jealous, Morgan Fenwolf,” rejoined Gabriel, with a malignant
grin. “We all know you are in love with Mabel yourself.”
“And we all know, likewise, that Mabel will have nothing to say to you!”
cried another keeper, while the others laughed in chorus. “Come and sit
down beside us, Morgan, and finish your breakfast.”
But the keeper turned moodily away, and hied towards Tristram Lyndwood
and his granddaughter. The old forester shook him cordially by the hand,
and after questioning him as to what had taken place, and hearing how
he had managed to drive the hart royal into the haye, clapped him on the
shoulder and said, “Thou art a brave huntsman, Morgan. I wish Mab could
only think as well of thee as I do.”
To this speech Mabel not only paid no attention, but looked studiously
another way.
“I am glad your grandfather has brought you out to see the chase to-day,
Mabel,” observed Morgan Fenwolf.
“I dame not to see the chase, but the king,” she replied, somewhat
petulantly.
“It is not every fair maid who would confess so much,” observed Fenwolf,
frowning.
“Then I am franker than some of my sex,” replied Mabel. “But who is the
strange man looking at us from behind that tree, grandfather!
“I see no one,” replied the old forester.
“Neither do I,” added Morgan Fenwolf, with a shudder. “You are wilfully
blind,” rejoined Mabel. “But see, the person I mentioned stalks forth.
Now, perhaps, he is visible to you both.”
And as she spoke, a tall wild-looking figure, armed with a
hunting-spear, emerged from the trees and advanced towards them. The
garb of the newcomer somewhat resembled that of a forester; but his
arms and lower limbs were destitute of covering, and appeared singularly
muscular, while his skin was swarthy as that of a gipsy. His jet-black
hair hung in elf-locks over his savage-looking features.
In another moment he was beside them, and fixed his dark piercing eyes
on Mabel in such a manner as to compel her to avert her gaze.
“What brings you here this morning, Tristram Lyndwood?” he demanded, in
a hoarse imperious tone.
“The same motive that brought you, Valentine Hagthorne,” replied the old
forester--“to see the royal chase.”
“This, I suppose, is your granddaughter?” pursued Hagthorne.
“Ay,” replied Tristram bluntly.
“Strange I should never have seen her before,” rejoined the other. “She
is very fair. Be ruled by me, friend Tristram--take her home again. If
she sees the king, ill will come of it. You know, or should know, his
character.”
“Hagthorne advises well,” interposed Fenwolf. “Mabel will be better at
home.”
“But she has no intention of returning at present,” replied Mabel. “You
brought me here for pastime, dear grandfather, and will not take me back
at the recommendation of this strange man?”
“Content you, child--content you,” replied Tristram kindly. “You shall
remain where you are.”
“You will repent it!” cried Hagthorne.
And hastily darting among the trees, he disappeared from view.
Affecting to laugh at the occurrence, though evidently annoyed by it,
the old forester led his granddaughter towards the stand, where he was
cordially greeted by the keepers, most of whom, while expressing their
pleasure at seeing him, strove to render themselves agreeable in the
eyes of Mabel.
From this scene Morgan Fenwolf kept aloof, and remained leaning against
a tree, with his eyes riveted upon the damsel. He was roused from his
reverie by a slight tap upon the shoulder; and turning at the touch,
beheld Valentine Hagthorne. Obedient to a sign from the latter, he
followed him amongst the trees, and they both plunged into a dell.
An hour or two after this, when the sun was higher in the heavens, and
the dew dried upon the greensward, the king and a large company of lords
and ladies rode forth from the upper gate of the castle, and taking
their way along the great avenue, struck off on the right when about
half-way up it, and shaped their course towards the haye.
A goodly sight it was to see this gallant company riding beneath the
trees; and pleasant was it, also, to listen to the blithe sound of
their voices, amid which Anne Boleyn's musical laugh could be plainly
distinguished. Henry was attended by his customary band of archers and
yeomen of the guard, and by the Duke of Shoreditch and his followers. On
reaching the haye, the king dismounted, and assisting the Lady Anne from
her steed, ascended the stand with her.
He then took a small and beautifully fashioned bow from an attendant,
and stringing it, presented it to her.
“I trust this will not prove too strong for your fair hands,” he said.
“I will make shift to draw it,” replied Anne, raising the bow, and
gracefully pulling the string. “Would I could wound your majesty as
surely as I shall hit the first roe that passes.”
“That were a needless labour,” rejoined Henry, “seeing that you have
already stricken me to the heart. You should cure the wound you have
already made, sweetheart-not inflict a new one.”
At this juncture the chief verderer, mounted on a powerful steed, and
followed by two keepers, each holding a couple of stag-hounds in leash,
rode up to the royal stand, and placing his horn to his lips, blew three
long mootes from it. At the same moment part of the network of the haye
was lifted up, and a roebuck set free.
By the management of the keepers, the animal was driven past the royal
stand; and Anne Boleyn, who had drawn an arrow nearly to the head, let
it fly with such good aim that she pierced the buck to the heart. A loud
shout from the spectators rewarded the prowess of the fair huntress; and
Henry was so enchanted, that he bent the knee to her, and pressed
her hand to his lips. Satisfied, however, with the' achievement, Anne
prudently declined another shot. Henry then took a bow from one of the
archers, and other roes being turned out, he approved upon them his
unerring skill as a marksman.
Meanwhile, the hounds, being held in leash, kept up a loud and incessant
baying; and Henry, wearying of his slaughterous sport, turned to Anne,
and asked her whether she was disposed for the chase. She answered in
the affirmative, and the king motioned his henchmen to bring forward the
steeds.
In doing this, he caught sight of Mabel, who was standing with her
grandsire among the keepers, at a little distance from the stand, and,
struck with her extraordinary beauty, he regarded her for a moment
intently, and then called to Gabriel Lapp, who chanced to be near him,
and demanded her name.
“It is Mabel Lyndwood, an't please your majesty,” replied Gabriel. “She
is granddaughter to old Tristram Lyndwood, who dwells at Black Nest,
near the lake, at the farther extremity of Windsor Forest, and who
was forester to your royal father, King Henry the Seventh, of blessed
memory.”
“Ha! is it so?” cried Henry.
But he was prevented from further remark by Anne Boleyn, who, perceiving
how his attention was attracted, suddenly interposed.
“Your majesty spoke of the chase,” she said impatiently. “But perhaps you
have found other pastime more diverting?”
“Not so--not so, sweetheart,” he replied hastily.
“There is a hart royal in the haye,” said Gabriel Lapp. “Is it your
majesty's pleasure that I set him free?
“It is, good fellow--it is,” replied the king.
And as Gabriel hastened to the netted fencework, and prepared to
drive forth the hart, Henry assisted Anne Boleyn, who could not help
exhibiting some slight jealous pique, to mount her steed, and having
sprung into his own saddle, they waited the liberation of the buck,
which was accomplished in a somewhat unexpected manner.
Separated from the rest of the herd, the noble animal made a sudden dart
towards Gabriel, and upsetting him in his wild career, darted past the
king, and made towards the upper part of the forest. In another instant
the hounds were un coupled and at his heels, while Henry and Anne urged
their steeds after him, the king shouting at the top of his lusty
voice. The rest of the royal party followed as they might, and the woods
resounded with their joyous cries.
The hart royal proved himself worthy of his designation. Dashing forward
with extraordinary swiftness, he rapidly gained upon his pursuers--for
though Henry, by putting his courser to his utmost speed, could have
kept near him, he did not choose to quit his fair companion.
In this way they scoured the forest, until the king, seeing they should
be speedily distanced, commanded Sir Thomas Wyat, who, with the Dukes of
Suffolk and Norfolk, was riding close behind him, to cross by the
lower ground on the left, and turn the stag. Wyat instantly obeyed,
and plunging his spurs deeply into his horse's sides, started off at a
furious pace, and was soon after seen shaping his rapid course through a
devious glade.
Meanwhile, Henry and his fair companion rode on without relaxing their
pace, until they reached the summit of a knoll, crowned by an old oak
and beech-tree, and commanding a superb view of the castle, where they
drew in the rein.
From this eminence they could witness the progress of the chase, as it
continued in the valley beyond. An ardent lover of hunting, the king
watched it with the deepest interest, rose in his saddle, and uttering
various exclamations, showed, from his impatience, that he was only
restrained by the stronger passion of love from joining it.
Ere long, stag, hounds, and huntsmen were lost amid a thicket, and
nothing could be distinguished but a distant baying and shouts. At last
even these sounds died away.
Henry, who had ill brooked the previous restraint, now grew so
impatient, that Anne begged him to set off after them, when suddenly the
cry of hounds burst upon their ears, and the hart was seen issuing from
the dell, closely followed by his pursuers.
The affrighted animal, to the king's great satisfaction, made his way
directly towards the spot where he was stationed; but on reaching the
side of the knoll, and seeing his new foes, he darted off on the right,
and tried to regain the thicket below. But he was turned by another band
of keepers, and again driven towards the knoll.
Scarcely had Sir Thomas Wyat reined in his steed by the side of the
king, than the hart again appeared bounding up the hill. Anne Boleyn,
who had turned her horse's head to obtain a better view of the hunt,
alarmed by the animal's menacing appearance, tried to get out of
his way. But it was too late. Hemmed in on all sides, and driven to
desperation by the cries of hounds and huntsmen in front, the hart
lowered his horns, and made a furious push at her.
Dreadfully alarmed, Anne drew in the rein so suddenly and sharply, that
she almost pulled her steed back upon his haunches; and in trying to
avoid the stag's attack, caught hold of Sir Thomas Wyat, who was close
beside her. In all probability she would have received some serious
injury from the infuriated animal, who was just about to repeat his
assault and more successfully, when a bolt from a cross-bow, discharged
by Morgan Fenwolf, who suddenly made his appearance from behind the
beech-tree, brought him to the ground.
But Anne Boleyn escaped one danger only to encounter another equally
serious. On seeing her fling herself into the arms of Sir Thomas Wyat,
Henry regarded her in stern displeasure for a moment, and then calling
angrily to his train, without so much as deigning to inquire whether
she had sustained any damage from the accident, or making the slightest
remark upon her conduct, rode sullenly towards the castle.
IX.
By what means Sir Thomas Wyat obtained an Interview with
Anne Boleyn--And how the Earl of Surrey saved them from the
King's anger.
The incident above related gave new life to the adherents of Catherine
of Arragon, while it filled those devoted to Anne Boleyn with alarm.
Immediately on Anne's return to the castle Lord Rochford had a private
interview with her, and bitterly reproached her for endangering her
splendid prospects. Anne treated the matter very lightly--said it was
only a temporary gust of jealousy--and added that the king would be at
her feet again before the day was past.
“You are over-confident, mistress!” cried Rochford angrily. “Henry is
not an ordinary gallant.”
“It is you who are mistaken, father,” replied Anne. “The king differs
in no respect from any of his love-smitten subjects. I have him in my
toils, and will not let him escape.”
“You have a tiger in your toils, daughter, and take heed he breaks not
forcibly through them,” rejoined Rochford. “Henry is more wayward than
you suppose him. Once let him take up a notion, and nothing can shake
him from it. He has resolved upon the divorce as much from self-will as
from any other consideration. If you regain your position with him, of
which you seem so confident, do not consider yourself secure--not even
when you are crowned queen--but be warned by Catherine of Arragon.”
“Catherine has not the art to retain him,” said Anne. “Henry will never
divorce me.”
“Take care he does not rid himself of you in a more summary manner,
daughter,” rejoined Rochford. “If you would stand well with him, you
must study his lightest word, look, and action--humour him in every
whim--and yield to every caprice. Above all, you must exhibit no
jealousy.”
“You are wrong in all but the last, father,” returned Anne. “Henry is
not to be pleased by such nice attention to his humours. It is because
I have shown myself careless of them that I have captivated him. But
I will take care not to exhibit jealousy, and, sooth to say, I do not
think I shall have cause.”
“Be not too sure of that,” replied Rochford. “And at all events, let not
the king have cause to be jealous of you. I trust Wyat will be banished
from court. But if he is not, do not let him approach you more.”
“Poor Sir Thomas!” sighed Anne. “He loved me very dearly.”
“But what is his love compared to the king's?” cried Rochford. “Tut,
tut, girl! think no more of him.”
“I will not, my lord,” she rejoined; “I see the prudence of your
counsel, and will obey it. Leave me, I pray you. I will soon win back
the affections of the king.”
No sooner had Rochford quitted the chamber than the arras at the farther
end was raised, and Wyat stepped from behind it. His first proceeding
was to bar the door.
“What means this, Sir Thomas?” cried Anne in alarm. “How have you
obtained admittance here?”
“Through the secret staircase,” replied Wyat, bending the knee before
her.
“Rise, sir!” cried Anne, in great alarm. “Return, I beseech you, as you
came. You have greatly endangered me by coming here. If you are seen to
leave this chamber, it will be in vain to assert my innocence to Henry.
Oh, Sir Thomas! you cannot love me, or you would not have done this.”
“Not love you, Anne!” he repeated bitterly; “not love you I Words cannot
speak my devotion. I would lay down my head on the scaffold to prove it.
But for my love for you, I would throw open that door, and walk forth so
that all might see me--so that Henry might experience some part of the
anguish I now feel.”
“But you will not do so, good Sir Thomas--dear Sir Thomas,” cried Anne
Boleyn, in alarm.
“Have no fear,” rejoined Wyat, with some contempt; “I will sacrifice
even vengeance to love.”
“Sir Thomas, I had tolerated this too long,” said Anne. “Begone--you
terrify me.”
“It is my last interview with you, Anne,” said Wyat imploringly; “do
not abridge it. Oh, bethink you of the happy hours we have passed
together--of the vows we have interchanged--of the protestations you
have listened to, and returned--ay, returned, Anne. Are all these
forgotten?”
“Not forgotten, Sir Thomas,” replied Anne mournfully; “but they must not
be recalled. I cannot listen to you longer. You must go. Heaven grant
you may get hence in safety!”
“Anne,” replied Wyat in a sombre tone, “the thought of Henry's happiness
drives me mad. I feel that I am grown a traitor--that I could slay him.”
“Sir Thomas!” she exclaimed, in mingled fear and anger.
“I will not go,” he continued, flinging himself into a seat. “Let them
put what construction they will upon my presence. I shall at least wring
Henry's heart. I shall see him suffer as I have suffered; and I shall be
content.”
“This is not like you, Wyat,” cried Anne, in great alarm. “You were wont
to be noble, generous, kind. You will not act thus disloyally?
“Who has acted disloyally, Anne?” cried Wyat, springing to his feet, and
fixing his dark eyes, blazing with jealous fury, upon her--“you or I?
Have you not sacrificed your old affections at the shrine of ambition?
Are you not about to give yourself to one to whom--unless you are
foresworn--you cannot give your heart? Better had you been the mistress
of Allington Castle--better the wife of a humble knight like myself,
than the queen of the ruthless Henry.”
“No more of this, Wyat,” said Anne.
“Better far you should perish by his tyranny for a supposed fault now
than hereafter,” pursued Wyat fiercely. “Think not Henry will respect
you more than her who had been eight-and-twenty years his wife. No;
when he is tired of your charms--when some other dame, fair as yourself,
shall enslave his fancy, he will cast you off, or, as your father truly
intimated, will seek a readier means of ridding himself of you. Then you
will think of the different fate that might have been yours if you had
adhered to your early love.”
“Wyat! Wyat! I cannot bear this--in mercy spare me!” cried Anne.
“I am glad to see you weep,” said Wyat; “your tears make you look more
like your former self.”
“Oh, Wyat, do not view my conduct too harshly!” she said. “Few of my sex
would have acted other than I have done.”
“I do not think so,” replied Wyat sternly; “nor will I forego my
vengeance. Anne, you shall die. You know Henry too well to doubt your
fate if he finds me here.”
“You cannot mean this,” she rejoined, with difficulty repressing a
scream; “but if I perish, you will perish with me.”
“I wish to do so,” he rejoined, with a bitter laugh.
“Wyat,” cried Anne, throwing herself on her knees before him, “by your
former love for me, I implore you to spare me! Do not disgrace me thus.”
But Wyat continued inexorable.
“O God!” exclaimed Anne, wringing her hands in agony. A terrible silence
ensued, during which Anne regarded Wyat, but she could discern no change
in his countenance.
At this juncture the tapestry was again raised, and the Earl of Surrey
issued from it.
“You here, my lord?” said Anne, rushing towards him.
“I am come to save you, madame,” said the earl. “I have been just
liberated from arrest, and was about to implore your intercession with
the king, when I learned he had been informed by one of his pages that
a man was in your chamber. Luckily, he knows not who it is, and while he
was summoning his attendants to accompany him, I hurried hither by the
secret staircase. I have arrived in time. Fly--fly! Sir Thomas Wyat!”
But Wyat moved not.
At this moment footsteps were heard approaching the door--the handle
was tried--and the stern voice of the king was heard commanding that it
might be opened.
“Will you destroy me, Wyat?” cried Anne.
“You have destroyed yourself,” he rejoined.
“Why stay you here, Sir Thomas?” said Surrey, seizing his arm. “You may
yet escape. By heaven! if you move not, I will stab you to the heart!”
“You would do me a favour, young man,” said Wyat coldly; “but I will go.
I yield to love, and not to you, tyrant!” he added, shaking his hand
at the door. “May the worst pangs of jealously rend your heart!” And he
disappeared behind the arras.
“I hear voices,” cried Henry from without. “God's death! madam, open the
door--or I will burst it open!”
“Oh, heaven! what is to be done?” cried Anne Boleyn, in despair.
“Open the door, and leave all to me, madam,” said Surrey; “I will save
you, though it cost me my life!”
Anne pressed his hand, with a look of ineffable gratitude, and Surrey
concealed himself behind the arras.
The door was opened, and Henry rushed in, followed by Richmond, Norfolk,
Suffolk, and a host of attendants.
“Ah! God's death! where is the traitor?” roared the king, gazing round.
“Why is my privacy thus broken upon?” said Anne, assuming a look of
indignation.
“Your privacy!” echoed Henry, in a tone of deep derision--“Your privacy!
--ha!--ha! You bear yourself bravely, it must be confessed. My lords,
you heard the voices as well as myself. Where is Sir Thomas Wyat?”
“He is not here,” replied Anne firmly.
“Aha! we shall see that, mistress,” rejoined Henry fiercely. “But if Sir
Thomas Wyat is not here, who is? for I am well assured that some one is
hidden in your chamber.”
“What if there be?” rejoined Anne coldly.
“Ah! by Saint Mary, you confess it!” cried the king. “Let the traitor
come forth.”
“Your majesty shall not need to bid twice,” said Surrey, issuing from
his concealment.
“The Earl of Surrey!” exclaimed Henry, in surprise. “How come you here,
my lord? Methought you were under arrest at the guard-house.”
“He was set free by my orders,” said the Duke of Richmond.
“First of all I must entreat your majesty to turn your resentment
against me,” said the earl. “I am solely to blame, and I would not have
the Lady Anne suffer for my fault. I forced myself into her presence.
She knew not of my coming.”
“And wherefore did you so, my lord?” demanded Henry sternly.
“Liberated from the guard-house at the Duke of Richmond's instance, my
liege, I came to entreat the Lady Anne to mediate between me and
your majesty, and to use her influence with your highness to have me
betrothed to the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”
“Is this so, madam?” asked the king.
Anne bowed her head.
“But why was the door barred?” demanded Henry, again frowning
suspiciously.
“I barred it myself,” said Surrey, “and vowed that the Lady Anne should
not go forth till she had granted my request.”
“By our lady you have placed yourself in peril, my lord,” said Henry
sternly.
“Your majesty will bear in mind his youth,” said the Duke of Norfolk
anxiously.
“For my sake overlook the indiscretion,” cried the Duke of Richmond.
“It will not, perhaps, avail him to hope that it may be overlooked for
mine,” added Anne Boleyn.
“The offence must not pass unpunished,” said Henry musingly. “My lord of
Surrey, you must be content to remain for two months a prisoner in the
Round Tower of this castle.”
“Your majesty!” cried Richmond, bending the knee in supplication.
“The sentence is passed,” replied Henry coldly; “and the earl may thank
you it is not heavier. Richmond, you will think no more of the fair
Geraldine; and it is my pleasure, Lady Anne, that the young dame
withdraw from the court for a short while.”
“Your majesty shall be obeyed,” said Anne; “but--”
“But me no buts, sweetheart,” said the king peremptorily. “Surrey's
explanation is satisfactory so far as it goes, but I was told Sir Thomas
Wyat was here.”
“Sir Thomas Wyat is here,” said Will Sommers, pointing out the knight,
who had just joined the throng of courtiers at the door.
“I have hurried hither from my chamber, my liege,” said Wyat, stepping
forward, “hearing there was some inquiry concerning me.”
“Is your majesty now satisfied?” asked Anne Boleyn.
“Why, ay, sweetheart, well enough,” rejoined Henry. “Sir Thomas Wyat,
we have a special mission for you to the court of our brother of France.
You will set out to-morrow.”
Wyat bowed.
“You have saved your head, gossip,” whispered Will Sommers in the
knight's ear. “A visit to Francis the First is better than a visit to
the Tower.”
“Retire, my lords,” said Henry to the assemblage; “we owe some apology
to the Lady Anne for our intrusion, and desire an opportunity to make
it.”
Upon this the chamber was instantly cleared of its occupants, and the
Earl of Surrey was conducted, under a guard, to the Round Tower.
Henry, however, did not find it an easy matter to make peace with the
Lady Anne. Conscious of the advantage she had gained, she determined not
to relinquish it, and, after half an hour's vain suing, her royal lover
proposed a turn in the long gallery, upon which her apartments opened.
Here they continued conversing--Henry pleading in the most passionate
manner, and Anne maintaining a show of offended pride.
At last she exhibited some signs of relenting, and Henry led her into
a recess in the gallery, lighted by a window filled with magnificent
stained glass. In this recess was a seat and a small table, on which
stood a vase filled with flowers, arranged by Anne's own hand; and here
the monarch hoped to adjust his differences with her.
Meanwhile, word having reached Wolsey and Campeggio of the new cause of
jealousy which the king had received, it was instantly resolved that the
former should present to him, while in his present favourable mood, a
despatch received that morning from Catherine of Arragon.
Armed with the letter, Wolsey repaired to the king's closet. Not finding
him there, and being given to understand by an usher that he was in
the great gallery, he proceeded thither. As he walked softly along
the polished oak floor, he heard voices in one of the recesses, and
distinguished the tones of Henry and Anne Boleyn.
Henry was clasping the snowy fingers of his favourite, and gazing
passionately at her, as the cardinal approached.
“Your majesty shall not detain my hand,” said Anne, “unless you swear to
me, by your crown, that you will not again be jealous without cause.”
“I swear it,” replied Henry.
“Were your majesty as devoted to me as you would have me believe, you
would soon bring this matter of the divorce to an issue,” said Anne.
“I would fain do so, sweetheart,” rejoined Henry; “but these cardinals
perplex me sorely.”
“I am told by one who overheard him, that Wolsey has declared the
divorce shall not be settled these two years,” said Anne; “in which case
it had better not be settled at all; for I care not to avow I cannot
brook so much delay. The warmth of my affection will grow icy cold by
that time.”
“It were enough to try the patience of the most forbearing,” rejoined
the king, smiling--“but it shall not be so--by this lily hand it shall
not! And now, sweetheart, are we entirely reconciled?
“Not yet,” replied Anne. “I shall claim a boon from your majesty before
I accord my entire forgiveness.”
“Name it,” said the king, still clasping her hand tenderly, and
intoxicated by the witchery of her glance.
“I ask an important favour,” said Anne, “but as it is one which will
benefit your majesty as much as myself, I have the less scruple in
requesting it. I ask the dismissal of one who has abused your favour,
who, by his extortion and rapacity, has in some degree alienated the
affections of your subjects from you, and who solely opposes your
divorce from Catherine of Arragon because he fears my influence may be
prejudicial to him.”
“You cannot mean Wolsey?” said Henry uneasily.
“Your majesty has guessed aright,” replied Anne.
“Wolsey has incurred my displeasure oft of late,” said Henry; “and yet
his fidelity--”
“Be not deceived, my liege,” said Anne; “he is faithful to you only so
far as serves his turn. He thinks he rules you.”
Before Henry could reply, the cardinal stepped forward.
“I bring your majesty a despatch, just received from the queen,” he
said.
“And you have been listening to our discourse?” rejoined Henry sternly.
“You have overheard--”
“Enough to convince me, if I had previously doubted it, that the Lady
Anne Boleyn is my mortal foe,” replied Wolsey.
“Foe though I am, I will make terms with your eminence,” said Anne.
“Expedite the divorce--you can do so if you will--and I am your fast
friend.”
“I know too well the value of your friendship, noble lady, not to do all
in my power to gain it,” replied Wolsey. “I will further the matter, if
possible. But it rests chiefly in the hands of his holiness Pope Clement
the Seventh.”
“If his majesty will listen to my counsel, he will throw off the pope's
yoke altogether,” rejoined Anne. “Nay, your eminence may frown at me
if you will. Such, I repeat, shall be my counsel. If the divorce is
speedily obtained, I am your friend: if not--look to yourself.”
“Do not appeal to me, Wolsey,” said Henry, smiling approval at Anne; “I
shall uphold her.”
“Will it please your majesty to peruse this despatch?” said Wolsey,
again offering Catherine's letter.
“Take it to my closet,” replied the king; “I will join you there. And
now at last we are good friends, sweetheart.”
“Excellent friends, my dear liege,” replied Anne; “but I shall never be
your queen while Wolsey holds his place.”
“Then, indeed, he shall lose it,” replied Henry.
“She is a bitter enemy, certes,” muttered Wolsey as he walked away. “I
must overthrow her quickly, or she will overthrow me. A rival must be
found--ay, a rival--but where? I was told that Henry cast eyes on a
comely forester's daughter at the chase this morning. She may do for the
nonce.”
X.
Of the Mysterious Disappearance of Herne the Hunter in the
Lake.
Unable to procure any mitigation of Surrey's sentence, the Duke of
Richmond proceeded to the Round Tower, where he found his friend in a
small chamber, endeavouring to beguile his captivity by study.
Richmond endeavoured to console him, and was glad to find him in better
spirits than he expected. Early youth is seldom long dejected, and
misfortunes, at that buoyant season, seem lighter than they appear later
on in life. The cause for which he suffered, moreover, sustained Surrey,
and confident of the Fair Geraldine's attachment, he cared little
for the restraint imposed upon him. On one point he expressed some
regret--namely, his inability to prosecute the adventure of Herne the
Hunter with the duke.
“I grieve that I cannot accompany you, Richmond,” he said; “but since
that is impossible, let me recommend you to take the stout archer who
goes by the name of the Duke of Shoreditch with you. He is the very man
you require.”
After some consideration the duke assented, and, promising to return on
the following day and report what had occurred he took his leave, and
went in search of the archer in question. Finding he had taken up his
quarters at the Garter, he sent for him and proposed the matter.
Shoreditch heard the duke's relation with astonishment, but expressed
the greatest willingness to accompany him, pledging himself, as Richmond
demanded, to profound secrecy on the subject.
At the appointed hour--namely, midnight--the duke quitted the castle,
and found Shoreditch waiting for him near the upper gate. The latter was
armed with a stout staff, and a bow and arrows.
“If we gain sight of the mysterious horseman to-night,” he said, “a
cloth-yard shaft shall try whether he is of mortal mould or not. If he
be not a demon, I will warrant he rides no more.”
Quitting the Home Park, they shaped their course at once towards the
forest. It was a stormy night, and the moon was obscured by thick
clouds. Before they reached the hill, at the end of the long avenue, a
heavy thunderstorm came on, and the lightning, playing among the trees,
seemed to reveal a thousand fantastic forms to their half-blinded gaze.
Presently the rain began to descend in torrents, and compelled them to
take refuge beneath a large beech-tree.
It was evident, notwithstanding his boasting, that the courage of
Shoreditch was waning fast, and he at last proposed to his leader that
they should return as soon as the rain abated. But the duke indignantly
rejected the proposal.
While they were thus sheltering themselves, the low winding of a horn
was heard. The sound was succeeded by the trampling of horses' hoofs,
and the next moment a vivid flash of lightning showed a hart darting
past, followed by a troop of some twenty ghostly horsemen, headed by the
demon hunter.
The Duke of Richmond bade his companion send a shaft after them; but the
latter was so overcome by terror that he could scarcely fix an arrow
on the string, and when he bent the bow, the shaft glanced from the
branches of an adjoining tree.
The storm continued with unabated fury for nearly an hour, at the
expiration of which time it partially cleared off, and though it was
still profoundly dark, the duke insisted upon going on. So they pressed
forward beneath the dripping trees and through the wet grass. Ever and
anon the moon broke through the rifted clouds, and shed a wild glimmer
upon the scene.
As they were tracking a glade on the farther side of the hill, the
spectral huntsmen again swept past them, and so closely that they could
almost touch their horses. To the duke's horror, he perceived among
them the body of the butcher, Mark Fytton, sitting erect upon a powerful
black steed.
By this time, Shoreditch, having somewhat regained his courage,
discharged another shaft at the troop. The arrow struck the body of the
butcher, and completely transfixed it, but did not check his career;
while wild and derisive laughter broke from the rest of the cavalcade.
The Duke of Richmond hurried after the band, trying to keep them in
sight; and Shoreditch, flinging down his bow, which he found useless,
and grasping his staff, endeavoured to keep up with him. But though they
ran swiftly down the glade, and tried to peer through the darkness, they
could see nothing more of the ghostly company.
After a while they arrived at a hillside, at the foot of which lay the
lake, whose darkling waters were just distinguishable through an opening
in the trees. As the duke was debating with himself whether to go on or
retrace his course, the trampling of a horse was heard behind them, and
looking in the direction of the sound, they beheld Herne the Hunter,
mounted on his swarthy steed and accompanied only by his two black
hounds, galloping furiously down the declivity. Before him flew the owl,
whooping as it sailed along the air.
The demon hunter was so close to them that they could perfectly discern
his horrible lineaments, the chain depending from his neck, and his
antlered helm. Richmond shouted to him, but the rider continued his
headlong course towards the lake, heedless of the call.
The two beholders rushed forward, but by this time the huntsman had
gained the edge of the lake. One of his sable hounds plunged into it,
and the owl skimmed over its surface. Even in the hasty view which the
duke caught of the flying figure, he fancied he perceived that it was
attended by a fantastic shadow, whether cast by itself or arising from
some supernatural cause he could not determine.
But what followed was equally marvellous and incomprehensible. As the
wild huntsman reached the brink of the lake, he placed a horn to his
mouth, and blew from it a bright blue flame, which illumined his own
dusky and hideous features, and shed a wild and unearthly glimmer over
the surrounding objects.
While enveloped in this flame, the demon plunged into the lake, and
apparently descended to its abysses, for as soon as the duke could
muster courage to approach its brink, nothing could be seen of him, his
steed, or his hounds.
THUS ENDS THE FIRST BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE