I.
Of the Interview between Henry and Catherine of Arragon in
the Urswick Chapel--And how it was interrupted.
IT was now the joyous month of June; and where is June so joyous as
within the courts and halls of peerless Windsor? Where does the summer
sun shine so brightly as upon its stately gardens and broad terraces,
its matchless parks, its silver belting river and its circumference of
proud and regal towers? Nowhere in the world. At all seasons Windsor is
magnificent: whether, in winter, she looks upon her garnitures of woods
stripped of their foliage--her river covered with ice--or the wide
expanse of country around her sheeted with snow--or, in autumn, gazes
on the same scene--a world of golden-tinted leaves, brown meadows, or
glowing cornfields. But summer is her season of beauty--June is the
month when her woods are fullest and greenest; when her groves are
shadiest; her avenues most delicious; when her river sparkles like a
diamond zone; when town and village, mansion and cot, church and tower,
hill and vale, the distant capital itself--all within view--are seen to
the highest advantage. At such a season it is impossible to behold from
afar the heights of Windsor, crowned, like the Phrygian goddess, by
a castled diadem, and backed by lordly woods, and withhold a burst of
enthusiasm and delight. And it is equally impossible, at such a season,
to stand on the grand northern terrace, and gaze first at the proud
pile enshrining the sovereign mistress of the land, and then gaze on the
unequalled prospect spread out before it, embracing in its wide range
every kind of beauty that the country can boast, and not be struck
with the thought that the perfect and majestic castle--“In state
as wholesome as in state 'tis fit Worthy the owner, and the owner
it,”--together with the wide, and smiling, and populous district
around it, form an apt representation of the British sovereign and her
dominions. There stands the castle, dating back as far as the Conquest,
and boasting since its foundation a succession of royal inmates, while
at its foot lies a region of unequalled fertility and beauty-full of
happy homes, and loving, loyal hearts--a miniature of the old country
and its inhabitants. What though the smiling landscape may he darkened
by a passing cloud!--what though a momentary gloom may gather round
the august brow of the proud pile!--the cloud will speedily vanish, the
gloom disperse, and the bright and sunny scene look yet brighter and
sunnier from the contrast.
It was the chance of the writer of these lines upon one occasion to
behold his sovereign under circumstances which he esteems singularly
fortunate. She was taking rapid exercise with the prince upon the south
side of the garden-terrace. All at once the royal pair paused at the
summit of the ascent leading from George the Fourth's gateway. The
prince disappeared along the eastern terrace, leaving the queen alone.
And there she stood, her slight, faultless figure sharply defined
against the clear sky. Nothing was wanting to complete the picture: the
great bay-windows of the Victoria Tower on the one hand--the balustrade
of the terrace on the other--the home park beyond. It was thrilling to
feel that that small, solitary figure comprehended all the might and
majesty of England--and a thousand kindling aspirations were awakened by
the thought.
But it was, as has been said, the merry month of June, and Windsor
Castle looked down in all its magnificence upon the pomp of woods, and
upon the twelve fair and smiling counties lying within its ken. A joyous
stir was within its courts--the gleam of arms and the fluttering of
banners was seen upon its battlements and towers, and the ringing of
bells, the beating of drums, and the fanfares of trumpets, mingled with
the shouting of crowds and the discharge of ordnance.
Amidst this tumult a grave procession issued from the deanery, and took
its way across the lower quadrangle, which was thronged with officers
and men-at-arms, in the direction of the lower gate. Just as it arrived
there a distant gun was heard, and an answering peal was instantly
fired from the culverins of the Curfew Tower, while a broad standard,
emblazoned with the arms of France and England within the garter,
and having for supporters the English lion crowned and the red dragon
sinister, was reared upon the keep. All these preparations betokened the
approach of the king, who was returning to the castle after six weeks'
absence.
Though information of the king's visit to the castle had only preceded
him by a few hours, everything was ready for his reception, and the
greatest exertions were used to give splendour to it.
In spite of his stubborn and tyrannical nature, Henry was a popular
monarch, and never showed himself before his subjects but he gained
their applauses; his love of pomp, his handsome person, and manly
deportment, always winning him homage from the multitude. But at
no period was he in a more critical position than the present. The
meditated divorce from Catherine of Arragon was a step which found no
sympathy from the better portion of his subjects, while the ill-assorted
union of Anne Boleyn, an avowed Lutheran, which it was known would
follow it, was equally objectionable. The seeds of discontent had been
widely sown in the capital; and tumults had occurred which, though
promptly checked, had nevertheless alarmed the king, coupled as
they were with the disapprobation of his ministers, the sneering
remonstrances of France, the menaces of the Papal See, and the open
hostilities of Spain. But the characteristic obstinacy of his nature
kept him firm to his point, and he resolved to carry it, be the
consequences what they might.
All his efforts to win over Campeggio proved fruitless. The legate was
deaf to his menaces or promises, well knowing that to aid Anne Boleyn
would be to seriously affect the interests of the Church of Rome.
The affair, however, so long and so artfully delayed, was now drawing to
a close. A court was appointed by the legates to be holden on the 18th
of June, at Blackfriars, to try the question. Gardiner had been recalled
from Rome to act as counsel for Henry; and the monarch, determining
to appear by proxy at the trial, left his palace at Bridewell the day
before it was to come on, and set out with Anne Boleyn and his chief
attendants for Windsor Castle.
Whatever secret feelings might be entertained against him, Henry was
received by the inhabitants of Windsor with every demonstration of
loyalty and affection. Deafening shouts rent the air as he approached;
blessings and good wishes were showered upon him; and hundreds of caps
were flung into the air. But noticing that Anne Boleyn was received with
evil looks and in stern silence, and construing this into an affront to
himself, Henry not only made slight and haughty acknowledgment of the
welcome given him, but looked out for some pretext to manifest his
displeasure. Luckily none was afforded him, and he entered the castle in
a sullen mood.
The day was spent in gentle exercise within the home park and on the
terrace, and the king affected the utmost gaiety and indifference; but
those acquainted with him could readily perceive he was ill at ease.
In the evening he remained for some time alone in his closet penning
despatches, and then summoning an attendant, ordered him to bring
Captain Bouchier into his presence.
“Well, Bouchier,” he said, as the officer made his appearance, “have you
obeyed my instructions in regard to Mabel Lyndwood?”
“I have, my liege,” replied Bouchier. “In obedience to your majesty's
commands, immediately after your arrival at the castle I rode to the
forester's hut, and ascertained that the damsel was still there.”
“And looking as beautiful as ever, I'll be sworn!” said the king.
“It was the first time I had seen her, my liege,” replied Bouchier; “but
I do not think she could have ever looked more beautiful.”
“I am well assured of it,” replied Henry. “The pressure of affairs
during my absence from the castle had banished her image from my mind;
but now it returns as forcibly as before. And you have so arranged it
that she will be brought hither to-morrow night?”
Bouchier replied in the affirmative.
“It is well,” pursued Henry; “but what more?--for you look as if you had
something further to declare.”
“Your majesty will not have forgotten how you exterminated the band of
Herne the Hunter?” said Bouchier.
“Mother of Heaven, no!” cried the king, starting up; “I have not
forgotten it. What of them?--Ha! have they come to life again?--do they
scour the parks once more? That were indeed a marvel!”
“What I have to relate is almost as great a marvel,” returned Bouchier.
“I have not heard of the resurrection of the band though for aught I
know it may have occurred. But Herne has been seen again in the forest.
Several of the keepers have been scared by him--travellers have been
affrighted and plundered--and no one will now cross the great park after
nightfall.”
“Amazement!” cried Henry, again seating himself; “once let the divorce
be settled, and I will effectually check the career of this lawless and
mysterious being.”
“Pray heaven your majesty may be able to do so!” replied Bouchier. “But
I have always been of opinion that the only way to get rid of the
demon would be by the aid of the Church. He is unassailable by mortal
weapons.”
“It would almost seem so,” said the king. “And yet I do not like to
yield to the notion.”
“I shrewdly suspect that old Tristram Lyndwood, the grandsire of the
damsel upon whom your majesty has deigned to cast your regards, is in
some way or other leagued with Herne,” said Bouchier. “At all events, I
saw him with a tall hideous-looking personage, whose name I understand
to be Valentine Hagthorne, and who, I feel persuaded, must be one of the
remnants of the demon hunter's band.”
“Why did you not arrest him?” inquired Henry.
“I did not like to do so without your majesty's authority,” replied
Bouchier. “Besides, I could scarcely arrest Hagthorne without at the
same time securing the old forester, which might have alarmed the
damsel. But I am ready to execute your injunctions now.”
“Let a party of men go in search of Hagthorne to-night,” replied Henry;
“and while Mabel is brought to the castle to-morrow, do you arrest old
Tristram, and keep him in custody till I have leisure to examine him.”
“It shall be done as you desire, my liege,” replied Bouchier, bowing and
departing.
Shortly after this Henry, accompanied by Anne Boleyn, proceeded with his
attendants to Saint George's Chapel, and heard vespers performed. Just
as he was about to return, an usher advanced towards him, and making
a profound reverence, said that a masked dame, whose habiliments
proclaimed her of the highest rank, craved a moment's audience of him.
“Where is she?” demanded Henry.
“In the north aisle, an't please your majesty,” replied the usher,
“near the Urswick Chapel. I told her that this was not the place for an
audience of your majesty, nor the time; but she would not be said nay,
and therefore, at the risk of incurring your sovereign displeasure, I
have ventured to proffer her request.”
The usher omitted to state that his chief inducement to incur the risk
was a valuable ring, given him by the lady.
“Well, I will go to her,” said the king. “I pray you, excuse me for a
short space, fair mistress,” he added to Anne Boleyn.
And quitting the choir, he entered the northern aisle, and casting his
eyes down the line of noble columns by which it is flanked, and seeing
no one, he concluded that the lady must have retired into the Urswick
Chapel. And so it proved; for on reaching this exquisite little shrine
he perceived a tall masked dame within it, clad in robes of the richest
black velvet. As he entered the chapel, the lady advanced towards him,
and throwing herself on her knees, removed her mask--disclosing features
stamped with sorrow and suffering, but still retaining an expression of
the greatest dignity. They were those of Catherine of Arragon.
Uttering an angry exclamation, Henry turned on his heel and would have
left her, but she clung to the skirts of his robe.
“Hear me a moment, Henry--my king--my husband--one single moment--hear
me!” cried Catherine, in tones of such passionate anguish that he could
not resist the appeal.
“Be brief, then, Kate,” he rejoined, taking her hand to raise her.
“Blessings on you for the word!” cried the queen, covering his hand with
kisses. “I am indeed your own true Kate--your faithful, loving, lawful
wife!”
“Rise, madam!” cried Henry coldly; “this posture beseems not Catherine of
Arragon.”
“I obey you now as I have ever done,” she replied, rising; “though if
I followed the prompting of my heart, I should not quit my knees till I
had gained my suit.”
“You have, done wrong in coming here, Catherine, at this juncture,” said
Henry, “and may compel me to some harsh measure which I would willingly
have avoided.”
“No one knows I am here,” replied the queen, “except two faithful
attendants, who are vowed to secrecy; and I shall depart as I came.”
“I am glad you have taken these precautions,” replied Henry. “Now speak
freely, but again I must bid you be brief.”
“I will be as brief as I can,” replied the queen; “but I pray you
bear with me, Henry, if I unhappily weary you. I am full of misery and
affliction, and never was daughter and wife of king wretched as I am.
Pity me, Henry--pity me! But that I restrain myself, I should pour forth
my soul in tears before you. Oh, Henry, after twenty years' duty and
to be brought to this unspeakable shame--to be cast from you with
dishonour--to be supplanted by another--it is terrible!”
“If you have only come here to utter reproaches, madam, I must put an
end to the interview,” said Henry, frowning.
“I do not reproach you, Henry,” replied Catherine meekly, “I only wish
to show you the depth and extent of my affection. I only implore you to
do me right and justice--not to bring shame upon me to cover your own
wrongful action. Have compassion upon the princess our daughter--spare
her, if you will not spare me!”
“You sue in vain, Catherine,” replied Henry. “I lament your condition,
but my eyes are fully opened to the sinful state in which I have so long
lived, and I am resolved to abandon it.”
“An unworthy prevarication,” replied Catherine, “by which you seek to
work my ruin, and accomplish your union with Anne Boleyn. And you will
no doubt succeed; for what can I, a feeble woman, and a stranger in your
country, do to prevent it? You will succeed, I say--you will divorce me
and place her upon the throne. But mark my words, Henry, she will not
long remain there.”
The king smiled bitterly
“She will bring dishonour upon you,” pursued Catherine. “The woman who
has no regard for ties so sacred as those which bind us will not respect
other obligations.”
“No more of this!” cried Henry. “You suffer your resentment to carry you
too far.”
“Too far!” exclaimed Catherine. “Too far!--Is to warn you that you are
about to take a wanton to your bed--and that you will bitterly repent
your folly when too late, going too far? It is my duty, Henry, no less
than my desire, thus to warn you ere the irrevocable step be taken.”
“Have you said all you wish to say, madam?” demanded the king.
“No, my dear liege, not a hundredth part of what my heart prompts me
to utter,” replied Catherine. “I conjure you by my strong and tried
affection--by the tenderness that has for years subsisted between us--by
your hopes of temporal prosperity and spiritual welfare--by all you hold
dear and sacred--to pause while there is yet time. Let the legates meet
to-morrow--let them pronounce sentence against me and as surely as those
fatal words are uttered, my heart will break.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Henry impatiently, “you will live many years in
happy retirement.”
“I will die as I have lived--a queen,” replied Catherine; “but my
life will not be long. Now, answer me truly--if Anne Boleyn plays you
false--”
“She never will play me false!” interrupted Henry.
“I say if she does,” pursued Catherine, “and you are satisfied of her
guilt, will you be content with divorcing her as you divorce me?”
“No, by my father's head!” cried Henry fiercely. “If such a thing were
to happen, which I hold impossible, she should expiate her offence on
the scaffold.”
“Give me your hand on that,” said Catherine.
“I give you my hand upon it,” he replied.
“Enough,” said the queen: “if I cannot have right and justice I shall at
least have vengeance, though it will come when I am in my tomb. But it
will come, and that is sufficient.”
“This is the frenzy of jealousy, Catherine,” said Henry.
“No, Henry; it is not jealousy,” replied the queen, with dignity. “The
daughter of Ferdinand of Spain and Isabella of Castile, with the
best blood of Europe in her veins, would despise herself if she could
entertain so paltry a feeling towards one born so much beneath her as
Anne Boleyn.”
“As you will, madam,” rejoined Henry. “It is time our interview
terminated.”
“Not yet, Henry--for the love of Heaven, not yet!” implored Catherine.
“Oh, bethink you by whom we were joined together!--by your father, Henry
the Seventh--one of the wisest princes that ever sat on a throne; and by
the sanction of my own father, Ferdinand the Fifth, one of the justest.
Would they have sanctioned the match if it had been unlawful? Were they
destitute of good counsellors? Were they indifferent to the future?”
“You had better reserve these arguments for the legates' ears tomorrow,
madam,” said Henry sternly.
“I shall urge them there with all the force I can,” replied Catherine,
“for I will leave nought untried to hinder an event so fraught with
misery. But I feel the struggle will be hopeless.”
“Then why make it?” rejoined Henry.
“Because it is due to you--to myself--to the princess our daughter--to
our illustrious progenitors--and to our people, to make it,” replied
Catherine. “I should be unworthy to be your consort if I acted
otherwise--and I will never, in thought, word, or deed, do aught
derogatory to that title. You may divorce me, but I will never assent to
it; you may wed Anne Boleyn, but she will never be your lawful spouse;
and you may cast me from your palace, but I will never go willingly.”
“I know you to be contumacious, madam,” replied Henry. “And now, I pray
you, resume your mask, and withdraw. What I have said will convince you
that your stay is useless.”
“I perceive it,” replied Catherine. “Farewell, Henry--farewell, loved
husband of my heart--farewell for ever!”
“Your mask--your mask, madam!” cried Henry impatiently. “God's death!
footsteps are approaching. Lot no one enter here!” he cried aloud.
“I will come in,” said Anne Boleyn, stepping into the chapel just as
Catherine had replaced her mask. “Ah! your majesty looks confused. I
fear I have interrupted some amorous conference.”
“Come with me, Anne,” said Henry, taking her arm, and trying to draw her
away--“come with me.”
“Not till I learn who your lady--love is,” replied Anne pettishly. “You
affect to be jealous of me, my liege, but I have much more reason to be
jealous of you. When you were last at Windsor, I heard you paid a
secret visit to a fair maiden near the lake in the park, and now you are
holding an interview with a masked dame here. Nay, I care not for your
gestures of silence. I will speak.”
“You are distraught, sweetheart,” cried the king. “Come away.”
“No,” replied Anne. “Lot this dame be dismissed.”
“I shall not go at your bidding, minion!” cried Catherine fiercely.
“Ah!” cried Anne, starting, “whom have we here?”
“One you had better have avoided,” whispered Henry.
“The queen!” exclaimed Anne, with a look of dismay.
“Ay, the queen!” echoed Catherine, unmasking. “Henry, if you have any
respect left for me, I pray you order this woman from my presence. Lot
me depart in peace.”
“Lady Anne, I pray you retire,” said Henry. But Anne stood her ground
resolutely.
“Nay, let her stay, then,” said the queen; “and I promise you she shall
repent her rashness. And do you stay too, Henry, and regard well her
whom you are about to make your spouse. Question your sister
Mary, somewhile consort to Louis the Twelfth and now Duchess of
Suffolk--question her as to the character and conduct of Anne Boleyn
when she was her attendant at the court of France--ask whether she had
never to reprove her for levity--question the Lord Percy as to her love
for him--question Sir Thomas Wyat, and a host of others.”
“All these charges are false and calumnious!” cried Anne Boleyn.
“Let the king inquire and judge for himself,” rejoined Catherine; “and if
he weds you, let him look well to you, or you will make him a scoff to
all honourable men. And now, as you have come between him and me--as
you have divided husband and wife--for the intent, whether successful or
not, I denounce you before Heaven, and invoke its wrath upon your head.
Night and day I will pray that you may be brought to shame; and when I
shall be called hence, as I maybe soon, I will appear before the throne
of the Most High, and summon you to judgment.”
“Take me from her, Henry!” cried Anne faintly; “her violence affrights
me.”
“No, you shall stay,” said Catherine, grasping her arm and detaining
her; “you shall hear your doom. You imagine your career will be a
brilliant one, and that you will be able to wield the sceptre you
wrongfully wrest from me; but it will moulder into dust in your
hand--the crown unjustly placed upon your brow will fall to the ground,
and it will bring the head with it.”
“Take me away, Henry, I implore you!” cried Anne.
“You shall hear me out,” pursued Catherine, exerting all her strength,
and maintaining her grasp, “or I will follow you down yon aisles,
and pour forth my malediction against you in the hearing of all your
attendants. You have braved me, and shall feel my power. Look at her,
Henry--see how she shrinks before the gaze of an injured woman. Look me
in the face, minion--you cannot!--you dare not!”
“Oh, Henry!” sobbed Anne.
“You have brought it upon yourself,” said the king.
“She has,” replied Catherine; “and, unless she pauses and repents, she
will bring yet more upon her head. You suffer now, minion, but how will
you feel when, in your turn, you are despised, neglected, and supplanted
by a rival--when the false glitter of your charms having passed away,
Henry will see only your faults, and will open his eyes to all I now
tell him?”
A sob was all the answer Anne could return.
“You will feel as I feel towards you,” pursued the queen--“hatred
towards her; but you will not have the consolations I enjoy. You will
have merited your fate, and you will then think upon me and my woes, and
will bitterly, but unavailingly, repent your conduct. And now, Henry,”
she exclaimed, turning solemnly to him, “you have pledged your royal
word to me, and given me your hand upon it, that if you find this woman
false to you she shall expiate her offence on the block. I call upon you
to ratify the pledge in her presence.”
“I do so, Catherine,” replied the king. “The mere suspicion of her guilt
shall be enough.”
“Henry!” exclaimed Anne.
“I have said it,” replied the king.
“Tremble, then, Anne Boleyn!” cried Catherine, “tremble! and when you
are adjudged to die the death of an adulteress, bethink you of the
prediction of the queen you have injured. I may not live to witness your
fate, but we shall meet before the throne of an eternal Judge.”
“Oh, Henry, this is too much!” gasped Anne, and she sank fainting into
his arms.
“Begone!” cried the king furiously. “You have killed her!”
“It were well for us both if I had done so,” replied Catherine. “But she
will recover to work my misery and her own. To your hands I commit her
punishment. May God bless you, Henry!”
With this she replaced her mask, and quitted the chapel.
Henry, meanwhile, anxious to avoid the comments of his attendants,
exerted himself to restore Anne Boleyn to sensibility, and his efforts
were speedily successful.
“Is it then reality?” gasped Anne, as she gazed around. “I hoped it was
a hideous dream. Oh, Henry, this has been frightful! But you will not
kill me, as she predicted? Swear to me you will not!”
“Why should you be alarmed?” rejoined the king. “If you are faithful,
you have nothing to fear.”
“But you said suspicion, Henry--you said suspicion!” cried Anne.
“You must put the greater guard upon your conduct,” rejoined the
king moodily. “I begin to think there is some truth in Catherine's
insinuations.”
“Oh no, I swear to you there is not,” said Anne--“I have trifled
with the gallants of Francis's court, and have listened, perhaps too
complacently, to the love-vows of Percy and Wyat, but when your majesty
deigned to cast eyes upon me, all others vanished as the stars of
night before the rising of the god of day. Henry, I love you deeply,
devotedly--but Catherine's terrible imprecations make me feel more
keenly than I have ever done before the extent of the wrong I am about
to inflict upon her--and I fear that retributive punishment will follow
it.”
“You will do her no wrong,” replied Henry. “I am satisfied of the
justice of the divorce, and of its necessity; and if my purposed union
with you were out of the question, I should demand it. Be the fault on
my head.”
“Your words restore me in some measure, my liege,” said Anne. “I
love you too well not to risk body and soul for you. I am yours for
ever--ah!” she exclaimed, with a fearful look.
“What ails you, sweetheart?” exclaimed the king.
“I thought I saw a face at the window,” she replied--“a black and
hideous face like that of a fiend.”
“It was mere fancy,” replied the king. “Your mind is disturbed by what
has occurred. You had better join your attendants, and retire to your
own apartments.”
“Oh, Henry!” cried Anne--“do not judge me unheard--do not believe what
any false tongue may utter against me. I love only you and can love only
you. I would not wrong you, even in thought, for worlds.”
“I believe you, sweetheart,” replied the king tenderly.
So saying, he led her down the aisle to her attendants. They then
proceeded together to the royal lodgings, where Anne retired to her own
apartments, and Henry withdrew to his private chamber.
II.
How Herne the Hunter appeared to Henry on the Terrace.
Henry again sat down to his despatches, and employed himself upon them
to a late hour. At length, feeling heated and oppressed, he arose, and
opened a window. As he did so, he was almost blinded by a vivid flash
of forked lightning. Ever ready to court danger, and convinced, from
the intense gloom without, that a fearful storm was coming on, Henry
resolved to go forth to witness it. With this view he quitted the
closet, and passed through a small door opening on the northern terrace.
The castle clock tolled the hour of midnight as he issued forth, and the
darkness was so profound that he could scarcely see a foot before him.
But he went on.
“Who goes there?” cried a voice, as he advanced, and a partisan was
placed at his breast.
“The king!” replied Henry, in tones that would have left no doubt of
the truth of the assertion, even if a gleam of lightning had not at the
moment revealed his figure and countenance to the sentinel.
“I did not look for your majesty at such a time,” replied the man,
lowering his pike. “Has your majesty no apprehension of the storm? I
have watched it gathering in the valley, and it will be a dreadful one.
If I might make bold to counsel you, I would advise you to seek instant
shelter in the castle.”
“I have no fear, good fellow,” laughed the king. “Get thee in yon porch,
and leave the terrace to me. I will warn thee when I leave it.”
As he spoke a tremendous peal of thunder broke overhead, and seemed to
shake the strong pile to its foundations. Again the lightning rent
the black canopy of heaven in various places, and shot down in forked
flashes of the most dazzling brightness. A rack of clouds, heavily
charged with electric fluid, hung right over the castle, and poured down
all their fires upon it.
Henry paced slowly to and fro, utterly indifferent to the peril he
ran--now watching the lightning as it shivered some oak in the home
park, or lighted up the wide expanse of country around him--now
listening to the roar of heaven's artillery; and he had just quitted the
western extremity of the terrace, when the most terrific crash he had
yet heard burst over him. The next instant a dozen forked flashes shot
from the sky, while fiery coruscations blazed athwart it; and at the
same moment a bolt struck the Wykeham Tower, beside which he had been
recently standing. Startled by the appalling sound, he turned and beheld
upon the battlemented parapet on his left a tall ghostly figure, whose
antlered helm told him it was Herne the Hunter. Dilated against the
flaming sky, the proportions of the demon seemed gigantic. His right
hand was stretched forth towards the king, and in his left he held a
rusty chain. Henry grasped the handle of his sword, and partly drew it,
keeping his gaze fixed upon the figure.
“You thought you had got rid of me, Harry of England,” cried Herne, “but
were you to lay the weight of this vast fabric upon me, I would break
from under it--ho! ho!”
“What wouldst thou, infernal spirit?” cried Henry.
“I am come to keep company with you, Harry,” replied the demon; “this is
a night when only you and I should be abroad. We know how to enjoy
it. We like the music of the loud thunder, and the dance of the blithe
lightning.”
“Avaunt, fiend!” cried Henry. “I will hold no converse with thee. Back
to thy native hell!”
“You have no power over me, Harry,” rejoined the demon, his words
mingling with the rolling of the thunder, “for your thoughts are evil,
and you are about to do an accursed deed. You cannot dismiss me. Before
the commission of every great crime--and many great crimes you will
commit--I will always appear to you. And my last appearance shall he
three days before your end--ha! ha!”
“Darest thou say this to me!” cried Henry furiously.
“I laugh at thy menaces,” rejoined Herne, amid another peal of
thunder--“but I have not yet done. Harry of England! your career shall
be stained in blood. Your wrath shall descend upon the heads of those
who love you, and your love shall be fatal. Better Anne Boleyn fled
this castle, and sought shelter in the lowliest hovel in the land, than
become your spouse. For you will slay her--and not her alone. Another
shall fall by your hand; and so, if you had your own will, would all!”
“What meanest thou by all?” demanded the king.
“You will learn in due season,” laughed the fiend. “But now mark me,
Harry of England, thou fierce and bloody kin--thou shalt be drunken with
the blood of thy wives; and thy end shall be a fearful one. Thou shalt
linger out a living death--a mass of breathing corruption shalt thou
become--and when dead the very hounds with which thou huntedst me shall
lick thy blood!”
These awful words, involving a fearful prophecy, which was afterwards,
as will be shown, strangely fulfilled, were so mixed up with the rolling
of the thunder that Henry could scarcely distinguish one sound from the
other. At the close of the latter speech a flash of lightning of such
dazzling brilliancy shot down past him, that he remained for some
moments almost blinded; and when he recovered his powers of vision the
demon had vanished.
III.
How Mabel Lyndwood was taken to the Castle by Nicholas
Clamp--And how they encountered Morgan Fenwolf by the way.
THE storm which had fallen so heavily on the castle had likewise visited
the lake, and alarmed the inmates of the little dwelling on its banks.
Both the forester and his grand-daughter were roused from their beds,
and they sat together in the chief apartment of the cottage, listening
to the awful rolling of the thunder, and watching the blue flashing of
the lightning. The storm was of unusually long duration, and continued
for more than an hour with unintermitted violence. It then paused; the
thunder rolled off, and the flashes of lightning grew fainter and less
frequent. During the storm Mabel continued on her knees, addressing the
most earnest prayers to the Virgin for her preservation and that of
her grandfather; but the old forester, though evidently much alarmed,
uttered not a single supplication, but remained sitting in his chair
with a sullen, scared look. As the thunder died away, he recovered
his composure, and addressed himself to soothe the fears of his
granddaughter. In this he had partially succeeded, and was urging her
again to seek her couch, when the storm recommenced with fresh fury.
Mabel once more fell on her knees, and the old man resumed his sullen
posture. Another dreadful half-hour, marked by a succession of terrible
peals and vivid flashes, succeeded, when, amidst an awful pause, Mabel
ventured to address her old relative.
“Why do you not pray, grandfather?” she said, regarding him uneasily.
“Sister Anastasia and good Father Anselm always taught me to utter
an Ave and cross myself during a thunderstorm. Why do you not pray,
grandfather?”
“Do not trouble me. I have no fear.”
“But your cheeks and lips are blanched,” rejoined Mabel; “and I observed
you shudder during that last awful crash. Pray, grandfather, pray!”
“Peace, wench, and mind your own business!” returned the old man
angrily. “The storm will soon be over--it cannot last long in this way.”
“The saints preserve us!” cried Mabel, as a tremendous concussion was
heard overhead, followed by a strong sulphureous smell. “The cottage is
struck!”
“It is--it is!” cried Tristram, springing to his feet and rushing forth.
For a few minutes Mabel continued in a state of stupefaction. She then
staggered to the door, and beheld her grandfather occupied with two dark
figures, whom she recognised as Valentine Hagthorne and Morgan Fenwolf,
in extinguishing the flames, which were bursting from the thatched roof
of the hut. Surprise and terror held her silent, and the others were so
busily engaged that they did not notice her.
At last, by their united efforts, the fire was got under without
material damage to the little building, and Mabel retired, expecting her
grandsire to return; but as he did not do so, and as almost instantly
afterwards the plash of oars was heard en the lake, she flew to the
window, and beheld him, by the gleam of the lightning, seated in the
skiff with Morgan Fenwolf, while Valentine Hagthorne had mounted a black
horse, and was galloping swiftly away. Mabel saw no more. Overcome by
fright, she sank on the ground insensible. When she recovered the storm
had entirely ceased. A heavy shower had fallen, but the sky was now
perfectly clear, and day had begun to dawn. Mabel went to the door of
the hut, and looked forth for her grandfather, but he was nowhere to
be seen. She remained gazing at the now peaceful lake till the sun had
fairly risen, when, feeling more composed, she retired to rest, and
sleep, which had been banished from them during the greater part of the
night, now fell upon her lovely eyelids.
When she awoke, the day was far advanced, but still old Tristram had not
returned; and with a heavy heart she set about her household concerns.
The thought, however, of her anticipated visit to the castle speedily
dispelled her anxiety, and she began to make preparations for setting
out, attiring herself with unusual care. Bouchier had not experienced
much difficulty in persuading her to obey the king's behest, and by his
artful representations he had likewise induced her grandfather to give
his consent to the visit--the old forester only stipulating that she
should be escorted there and back by a falconer, named Nicholas Clamp,
in whom he could put trust; to which proposition Bouchier readily
assented.
At length five o'clock, the appointed hour, arrived, and with it came
Nicholas Clamp. He was a tall, middle-aged man, with yellow hair,
clipped closely over his brows, and a beard and moustaches to match.
His attire resembled that of a keeper of the forest, and consisted of
a doublet and hose of green cloth; but he did not carry a bugle or
hunting-knife. His sole weapon was a stout quarter-staff. After some
little hesitation Mabel consented to accompany the falconer, and they
set forth together.
The evening was delightful, and their way through the woods was marked
by numberless points of beauty. Mabel said little, for her thoughts
were running upon her grandfather, and upon his prolonged and mysterious
absence; but the falconer talked of the damage done by the thunderstorm,
which he declared was the most awful he had ever witnessed; and he
pointed out to her several trees struck by the lightning. Proceeding in
this way, they gained a road leading from Blacknest, when, from behind
a large oak, the trunk of which had concealed him from view, Morgan
Fenwolf started forth, and planted himself in their path. The gear
of the proscribed keeper was wild and ragged, his locks matted and
disordered, his demeanour savage, and his whole appearance forbidding
and alarming.
“I have been waiting for you for some time, Mabel Lyndwood,” he said.
“You must go with me to your grandfather.”
“My grandfather would never send you for me,” replied Mabel; “but if he
did, I will not trust myself with you.”
“The saints preserve us!” cried Nicholas Clamp. “Can I believe my
eyes!--do I behold Morgan Fenwolf!”
“Come with me, Mabel,” cried Fenwolf, disregarding him.
But she returned a peremptory refusal.
“She shall not stir an inch!” cried the falconer. “It is thou, Morgan
Fenwolf, who must go with me. Thou art a proscribed felon, and thy life
is forfeit to the king. Yield thee, dog, as my prisoner!”
“Thy prisoner!” echoed Fenwolf scornfully. “It would take three such as
thou art to make me captive! Mabel Lyndwood, in your grandfather's name,
I command you to come with me, and let Nick Clamp look to himself if he
dares to hinder you.”
“Nick will do something more than hinder her,” rejoined the falconer,
brandishing his staff, and rushing upon the other. “Felon hound! I
command thee to yield!”
Before the falconer could reach him, Morgan Fenwolf plucked a long
hunting-knife from his girdle, and made a desperate stab at his
assailant. But Clamp avoided the blow, and striking Fenwolf on the
shins, immediately afterwards closed with him.
The result was still doubtful, when the struggle was suddenly
interrupted by the trampling of horse approaching from the side of
Windsor; and at the sound Morgan Fenwolf disengaged himself from his
antagonist and plunged into the adjoining wood. The next moment Captain
Bouchier rode up, followed by a small band of halberdiers, and receiving
information from the falconer of what had occurred, darted with his
men into the wood in search of the fugitive. Nicholas Clamp and his
companion did not await the issue of the search, but proceeded on their
way.
As they walked at a brisk pace, they reached the long avenue in about
half-an-hour, and took their way down it. When within a mile of the
castle they were overtaken by Bouchier and his followers, and the
falconer was much disappointed to learn that they had failed in tracking
Morgan Fenwolf to his lair. After addressing a few complimentary words
to the maiden, Bouchier rode on.
Soon after this the pair quitted the great park, and passing through a
row of straggling houses, divided by gardens and closes, which skirted
the foot of Castle Hill, presently reached the lower gate. They were
admitted without difficulty; but just as they entered the lower ward
the falconer was hailed by Shoreditch and Paddington, who at the moment
issued from the doorway of the guard-room.
Clamp obeyed the call and went towards them, and it was evident, from
the gestures of the archers, that they were making inquiries about
Mabel, whose appearance seemed to interest them greatly. After a brief
conversation with the falconer they approached her, and, respectfully
addressing her, begged leave to attend her to the royal lodgings,
whither they understood she was going. No objection being made to the
proposal by Mabel, the party directed their course towards the middle
ward.
Passing through the gateway of the Norman Tower, they stopped before a
low portal in a picturesque Gothic wing of the castle, with projecting
walls and bay-windows, which had been erected in the preceding reign of
Henry the Seventh, and was consequently still in all its freshness and
beauty.
IV.
How Mabel was received by the Party in the Kitchen--And of
the Quarrel between the two Jesters.
Addressing himself to a stout-built yeoman of the guard, who was
standing within the doorway, Nicholas Clamp demanded admittance to the
kitchen, and the man having detained them for a few moments, during
which he regarded Mabel with a very offensive stare, ushered them into
a small hall, and from thence into a narrow passage connected with it.
Lighted by narrow loopholes pierced through the walls, which were of
immense thickness, this passage described the outer side of the whole
upper quadrangle, and communicated with many other lateral passages and
winding stairs leading to the chambers allotted to the household or
to the state apartments. Tracking it for some time, Nicholas Clamp at
length turned off on the right, and, crossing a sort of ante-room, led
the way into a large chamber with stone walls and a coved and groined
roof, lighted by a great window at the lower end. This was the royal
kitchen, and in it yawned no fewer than seven huge arched fireplaces,
in which fires were burning, and before which various goodly joints were
being roasted, while a number of cooks and scullions were congregated
round them. At a large table in the centre of the kitchen were seated
some half-dozen yeomen of the guard, together with the clerk of the
kitchen, the chief bargeman, and the royal cutler, or bladesmith, as he
was termed.
These worthies were doing ample justice to a chine of beef, a wild-boar
pie, a couple of fat capons, a peacock pasty, a mess of pickled
lobsters, and other excellent and inviting dishes with which the board
was loaded. Neither did they neglect to wash down the viands with
copious draughts of ale and mead from great pots and flagons placed
beside them. Behind this party stood Giovanni Joungevello, an Italian
minstrel, much in favour with Anne Boleyn, and Domingo Lamellino, or
Lamelyn--as he was familiarly termed--a Lombard, who pretended to some
knowledge of chirurgery, astrology, and alchemy, and who was a constant
attendant on Henry. At the head of the bench, on the right of the table,
sat Will Sommers. The jester was not partaking of the repast, but was
chatting with Simon Quanden, the chief cook, a good-humoured personage,
round-bellied as a tun, and blessed with a spouse, yclept Deborah, as
fond of good cheer, as fat, and as good-humoured as himself. Behind
the cook stood the cellarman, known by the appellation of Jack of the
Bottles, and at his feet were two playful little turnspits, with long
backs, and short forelegs, as crooked almost as sickles.
On seeing Mabel, Will Sommers immediately arose, and advancing towards
her with a mincing step, bowed with an air of mock ceremony, and said in
an affected tone, “Welcome, fair mistress, to the king's kitchen. We are
all right glad to see you; are we not, mates?”
“Ay, that we are!” replied a chorus of voices.
“By my troth, the wench is wondrously beautiful!” said Kit Coo, one of
the yeomen of the guard.
“No wonder the king is smitten with her,” said Launcelot Rutter, the
bladesmith; “her eyes shine like a dagger's point.”
“And she carries herself like a wafter on the river,” said the bargeman.
“Her complexion is as good as if I had given her some of my sovereign
balsam of beauty,” said Domingo Lamelyn.
“Much better,” observed Joungevello, the minstrel; “I shall write a
canzonet in her praise, and sing it before the king.”
“And get flouted for thy pains by the Lady Anne,” said Kit Coo.
“The damsel is not so comely as I expected to find her,” observed Amice
Lovekyn, one of the serving-women, to Hector Cutbeard, the clerk of the
kitchen.
“Why, if you come to that, she is not to be compared to you, pretty
Amice,” said Cutbeard, who was a red-nosed, red-faced fellow, with a
twinkling merry eye.
“Nay, I meant not that,” replied Amice, retreating.
“Excuse my getting up to receive you, fair mistress,” cried Simon
Quanden, who seemed fixed to his chair; “I have been bustling about
all day, and am sore fatigued--sore fatigued. But will you not take
something? A sugared cate, and a glass of hypocras jelly, or a slice of
capon? Go to the damsel, dame, and prevail on her to eat.”
“That will I,” replied Deborah. “What shall it be, sweetheart? We have a
well-stored larder here. You have only to ask and have.”
“I thank you, but I am in want of nothing,” replied Mabel.
“Nay, that is against all rule, sweetheart,” said Deborah; “no one enters
the king's kitchen without tasting his royal cheer.”
“I am sorry I must prove an exception, then,” returned Mabel, smiling;
“for I have no appetite.”
“Well, well, I will not force you to eat against your will,” replied the
good dame “But a cup of wine will do you good after your walk.”
“I will wait upon her,” said the Duke of Shoreditch.' who vied with
Paddington and Nick Clamp in attention to the damsel.
“Let me pray you to cast your eyes upon these two dogs, fair Mabel,”
said Will Sommers, pointing to the two turn-spits, “they are special
favourites of the king's highness. They are much attached to the cook,
their master; but their chief love is towards each other, and nothing
can keep them apart.”
“Will Sommers speaks the truth,” rejoined Simon Quanden. “Hob and Nob,
for so they are named, are fast friends. When Hob gets into the box to
turn the spit, Nob will watch beside it till his brother is tired, and
then he will take his place. They always eat out of the same platter,
and drink out of the same cup. I once separated them for a few hours to
see what would happen, but they howled so piteously, that I was forced
to bring them together again. It would have done your heart good to
witness their meeting, and to see how they leaped and rolled with
delight. Here, Hob,” he added, taking a cake from his apron pocket,
“divide this with thy brother.”
Placing his paws upon his master's knees, the nearest turnspit took the
cake in his mouth, and proceeding towards Nob, broke it into two pieces,
and pushed the larger portion towards him.
While Mabel was admiring this display of sagacity and affection a
bustling step was heard behind her, and turning, she beheld a strange
figure in a parti-coloured gown and hose, with a fool's cap and bells
on his head, whom she immediately recognised as the cardinal's jester,
Patch. The new-comer recognised her too, stared in astonishment, and
gave a leering look at Will Sommers.
“What brings you here, gossip Patch?” cried Will Sommers. “I thought you
were in attendance upon your master, at the court at Blackfriars.”
“So I have been,” replied Patch, “and I am only just arrived with his
grace.”
“What! is the decision pronounced?” cried Will Sommers eagerly. “Is the
queen divorced? Is the king single again? Let us hear the sentence.”
“Ay, the sentence!--the sentence!” resounded on all hands.
Stimulated by curiosity, the whole of the party rose from the table;
Simon Quanden got out of his chair; the other cooks left their joints to
scorch at the fire; the scullions suspended their work; and Hob and Nob
fixed their large inquiring black eyes upon the jester.
“I never talk thirsting,” said Patch, marching to the table, and filling
himself a flagon of mead. “Here's to you, fair maiden,” he added,
kissing the cup to Mabel, and swallowing its contents at a draught. “And
now be seated, my masters, and you shall hear all I have to relate, and
it will be told in a few words. The court is adjourned for three days,
Queen Catherine having demanded that time to prepare her allegations,
and the delay has been granted her.”
“Pest on it!--the delay is some trick of your crafty and double-dealing
master,” cried Will Sommers. “Were I the king, I know how I would deal
with him.”
“What wouldst thou do, thou scurril knave?” cried Patch angrily.
“I would strip him of his ill-gotten wealth, and leave him only thee--a
fitting attendant--of all his thousand servitors,” replied Will.
“This shall to his grace's ears,” screamed Patch, amid the laughter of
the company--“and see whether your back does not smart for it.”
“I fear him not,” replied Will Sommers. “I have not yet told the king my
master of the rare wine we found in his cellar.”
“What wine was that, Will?” cried Jack of the Bottles.
“You shall hear,” replied Will Sommers, enjoying the disconcerted
look of the other jester. “I was at the palace at Hampton, when this
scant-witted knave invited me to taste some of his master's wine, and
accordingly to the cellar we went. 'This wine will surprise you,' quoth
he, as we broached the first hogshead. And truly it did surprise me, for
no wine followed the gimlet. So we went on to another, and another,
and another, till we tried half a score of them, and all with the same
result. Upon this I seized a hammer which was lying by and sounded
the casks, but none of them seeming empty, I at last broke the lid of
one--and what do you think it contained?”
A variety of responses were returned by the laughing assemblage, during
which Patch sought to impose silence upon his opponent. But Will Sommers
was not to be checked.
“It contained neither vinegar, nor oil, nor lead,” he said, “but gold;
ay, solid bars of gold-ingots. Every hogshead was worth ten thousand
pounds, and more.”
“Credit him not, my masters,” cried Patch, amid the roars of the
company; “the whole is a mere fable--an invention. His grace has no such
treasure. The truth is, Will Sommers got drunk upon some choice Malmsey,
and then dreamed he had been broaching casks of gold.”
“It is no fable, as you and your master will find when the king comes
to sift the matter,” replied Will. “This will be a richer result to
him than was ever produced by your alchemical experiments, good Signor
Domingo Lamelyn.”
“It is false!--I say false!” screamed Patch, “let the cellars be
searched, and I will stake my head nothing is found.”
“Stake thy cap, and there may be some meaning in it,” said Will,
plucking Patch's cap from his head and elevating it on his truncheon.
“Here is an emblem of the Cardinal of York,” he cried, pointing to it.
A roar of laughter from the company followed this sally, and Hob and Nob
looked up in placid wonderment.
“I shall die with laughing,” cried Simon Quanden, holding his fat sides,
and addressing his spouse, who was leaning upon his shoulder.
In the meantime Patch sprang to his feet, and, gesticulating with rage
and fury, cried, “Thou hast done well to steal my cap and bells, for
they belong of right to thee. Add my folly to thy own, and thou wilt
be a fitting servant to thy master; or e'en give him the cap, and then
there will be a pair of ye.”
“Who is the fool now, I should like to know?” rejoined Will Sommers
gravely. “I call you all to witness that he has spoken treason.”
While this was passing Shoreditch had advanced with a flagon of Malmsey
to Mabel, but she was so interested in the quarrel between the two
jesters that she heeded him not; neither did she attend to Nicholas
Clamp, who was trying to explain to her what was going forward. But just
as Patch's indiscreet speech was uttered an usher entered the kitchen
and announced the approach of the king.
V.
Of the Combat between Will Sommers and Patch--And how it
terminated.
Mabel's heart fluttered violently at the usher's announcement, and for
a moment the colour deserted her cheek, while the next instant she was
covered with blushes. As to poor Patch, feeling that his indiscretion
might place him in great jeopardy and seriously affect his master, to
whom he was devotedly attached, he cast a piteous and imploring look at
his antagonist, but was answered only by a derisive laugh, coupled
with an expressive gesture to intimate that a halter would be his fate.
Fearful that mischief might ensue, the good-natured Simon Quanden got
out of his chair and earnestly besought Will not to carry matters too
far; but the jester remained implacable.
It was not unusual with Henry to visit the different offices of the
castle and converse freely and familiarly with the members of his
household, but it was by no means safe to trust to the continuance of
his good humour, or in the slightest degree to presume upon it. It is
well known that his taste for variety of character often led him, like
the renowned Caliph Haroun Al Raschid, to mix with the lower classes of
his subjects in disguise, at which times many extraordinary adventures
are said to have befallen him. His present visit to the kitchen,
therefore, would have occasioned no surprise to its occupants if it
had not occurred so soon after the cardinal's arrival. But it was this
circumstance, in fact, that sent him thither. The intelligence brought
by Wolsey of the adjournment of the court for three days, under the plea
of giving the queen time for her allegations, was so unlooked for by
Henry that he quitted the cardinal in high displeasure, and was about to
repair to Anne Boleyn, when he encountered Bouchier, who told him
that Mabel Lyndwood had been brought to the castle, and her grandsire
arrested. The information changed Henry's intentions at once, and he
proceeded with Bouchier and some other attendants to the kitchen, where
he was given to understand he should find the damsel.
Many a furtive glance was thrown at the king, for no one dared openly
to regard him as he approached the forester's fair granddaughter. But
he tarried only a moment beside her, chucked her under the chin, and,
whispering a word or two in her ear that heightened her blushes, passed
on to the spot where the two jesters were standing.
“What dost thou here, knave?” he said to Will Sommers.
“I might rather ask that question of your majesty,” replied Will; “and I
would do so but that I require not to be told.”
“I have come to see what passeth in my household,” replied the king,
throwing himself into the chair lately occupied by the chief cook. “Ah,
Hob and Nob, my merry rascals,” he cried, patting the turnspits, who ran
towards him and thrust their noses against his hand, “ye are as gamesome
and loving as ever, I see. Give me a manchet for them, Master Cook,
and let not the proceedings in the kitchen be stayed for my presence. I
would not have my supper delayed, or the roasts spoiled, for any false
ceremony. And now, Will, what hast thou to say that thou lookest so hard
at me?”
“I have a heavy charge to bring against this knave, an' please your
majesty,” replied Will Sommers, pointing to Patch.
“What! hath he retorted upon thee too sharply?” replied the king,
laughing. “If so, challenge him to the combat, and settle the grievance
with thy lathen dagger. But refer not the matter to me. I am no judge in
fools' quarrels.”
“Your own excepted,” muttered Will. “This is not a quarrel that can be
so adjusted,” he added aloud. “I charge this rascal Patch with speaking
disrespectfully of your highness in the hearing of the whole kitchen.
And I also charge his master the cardinal with having secreted in his
cellars at Hampton a vast amount of treasure, obtained by extortion,
privy dealings with foreign powers, and other iniquitous practices, and
which ought of right to find its way to your royal exchequer.”
“'And which shall find its way thither, if thou dost not avouch a
fable,” replied the king.
“Your majesty shall judge,” rejoined Will. And he repeated the story
which he had just before related.
“Can this be true?” exclaimed Henry at its close.
“It is false, your highness, every word of it,” cried Patch, throwing
himself at the king's feet, “except so far as relates to our visits to
the cellar, where, I shame to speak it, we drank so much that our senses
clean forsook us. As to my indiscreet speech touching your majesty,
neither disrespect nor disloyalty were intended by it. I was goaded to
the rejoinder by the sharp sting of this hornet.”
“The matter of the treasure shall be inquired into without delay,” said
Henry. “As to the quarrel, it shall be settled thus. Get both of you
upon that table. A flour-bag shall be given to each; and he who is first
knocked off shall be held vanquished.”
The king's judgment was received with as much applause as dared be
exhibited by the hearers; and in an instant the board was cleared, and a
couple of flour-bags partly filled delivered to the combatants by Simon
Quanden, who bestirred himself with unwonted activity on the occasion.
Leaping upon the table, amid the smothered mirth of the assemblage,
the two jesters placed themselves opposite each other, and grinned such
comical defiance that the king roared with laughter. After a variety of
odd movements and feints on either side, Patch tried to bring down his
adversary by a tremendous two-handed blow; but in dealing it, the weight
of the hag dragged him forward, and well-nigh pitched him head foremost
upon the floor. As it was, he fell on his face upon the table, and in
this position received several heavy blows upon the prominent part of
his back from Will Sommers. Ere long, however, he managed to regain his
legs, and, smarting with pain, attacked his opponent furiously in
his turn. For a short space fortune seemed to favour him. His bag
had slightly burst, and the flour, showering from it with every blow,
well-nigh blinded his adversary, whom he drove to the very edge of the
table. At this critical juncture Will managed to bring down his bag full
upon his opponent's sconce, and the force of the blow bursting it, Patch
was covered from crown to foot with flour, and blinded in his turn. The
appearance of the combatants was now so exquisitely ridiculous, that the
king leaned back in his chair to indulge his laughter, and the mirth of
the spectators could no longer be kept within decorous limits. The very
turnspits barked in laughing concert.
“Well fought on both sides!” cried Henry; “it were hard to say which
will prove the victor. Now, knaves, to it again--ha! ha!--to it again!”
Once more the bags were wielded, descended, and the blows were so well
directed on either side, that both combatants fell backwards. Again the
king's laughter rose loud and long. Again the merriment of the other
beholders was redoubled. Again Hob and Nob barked joyously, and tried
to spring on to the table to take part in the conflict. Amid the general
glee, the combatants rose and renewed the fight, dealing blows thick
and fast--for the bags were now considerably lightened of their
contents--until they were completely hidden from view by a cloud of
white dust.
“We cannot see the fray,” remarked Henry; “but we can hear the din of
battle. Which will prove the victor, I marvel?”
“I am for Will Sommers,” cried Bouchier.
“And I for Patch,” said Simon Quanden. “Latterly he hath seemed to me to
have the advantage.”
“It is decided!” cried the king, rising, as one of the combatants was
knocked off the table, and fell to the floor with a great noise. “Who is
it?”
“Patch,” replied a faint voice. And through the cloud of dust struggled
forth the forlorn figure of the cardinal's jester, while Will Sommers
leaped triumphantly to the ground.
“Get thee to a wash-tub, knave, and cleanse thyself,” said Henry,
laughing. “In consideration of the punishment thou hast undergone, I
pardon thee thy treasonable speech.”
So saying, he rose, and walked towards Mabel, who had been quite as much
alarmed as amused by the scene which had just taken place.
“I hope you have been as well cared for, damsel,” he said, “since your
arrival at the castle, as you cared for the Duke of Suffolk and myself
when we visited your cottage?
“I have had everything I require, my liege,” replied Mabel timidly.
“Dame Quanden will take charge of you till to-morrow,” rejoined the
king, “when you will enter upon the service of one of our dames.”
“Your majesty is very considerate,” said Mabel, “but I would rather go
back at early dawn to my grandsire.”
“That is needless,” rejoined the king sternly. “Your grandsire is in the
castle.”
“I am glad to hear it!” exclaimed Mabel. And then, altering her tone, for
she did not like the expression of the king's countenance, she added, “I
hope he has not incurred your majesty's displeasure.”
“I trust he will be able to clear himself, Mabel,” said Henry, “but he
labours under the grave suspicion of leaguing with lawless men.”
Mabel shuddered, for the thought of what she had witnessed on the
previous night during the storm rushed forcibly to her recollection. The
king noticed her uneasiness, and added, in a gentler tone, “If he makes
such confession as will bring the others to justice, he has nothing to
fear. Dame Quanden, I commit this maiden to your charge. To-morrow she
will take her place as attendant to the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”
So saying, he moved off with Bouchier and the rest of his attendants,
leaving Mabel to the care of the cook's good humoured spouse, who seeing
her eyes filled with tears, strove to cheer her, and led her towards a
small side-table, where she pressed wine and cates upon her.
“Be of good cheer, sweetheart,” she said, in a soothing tone; “no harm
will befall your grandfather. You are much too high in favour with the
king for that.”
“I liked the king much better as I saw him at our cottage, good dame,”
replied Mabel, smiling through her tears, “in the guise of a Guildford
merchant. He seemed scarcely to notice me just now.”
“That was because so many eyes were upon you, sweet-heart,” replied
Deborah; “but sooth to say, I should be better pleased if he did not
notice you at all.”
Mabel blushed, and hung her head.
“I am glad you are to be an attendant on the Lady Fitzgerald,” pursued
Deborah, “for she is the fairest young lady at court, and as good and
gentle as she is fair, and I am sure you will find her a kind mistress.
I will tell you something about her. She is beloved by the king's son,
the Duke of Richmond, but she requites not his passion, for her heart
is fixed on the youthful Earl of Surrey. Alack-a-day! the noble rivals
quarrelled and crossed swords about her; but as luck would have it, they
were separated before any mischief was done. The king was very wroth
with Lord Surrey, and ordered him to be imprisoned for two months in the
Round Tower, in this castle, where he is now, though his term has very
nearly expired.”
“How I pity him, to be thus harshly treated!” remarked Mabel, her eyes
swimming with tears, “and the Lady Elizabeth too! I shall delight to
serve her.”
“I am told the earl passes the whole of his time in poring over books
and writing love-verses and sonnets,” said Deborah. “It seems strange
that one so young should be a poet; but I suppose he caught the art from
his friend Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“Is he a friend of Sir Thomas Wyat?” asked Mabel quickly.
“His close friend,” replied Deborah; “except the Duke of Richmond,
now his rival, he had none closer. Have you ever seen Sir Thomas,
sweetheart?”
“Yes, for a few moments,” replied Mabel confusedly.
“I heard that he lingered for a short time in the forest before his
departure for Paris,” said Dame Quanden. “There was a strange rumour
that he had joined the band of Herne the Hunter. But that must have been
untrue.”
“Is he returned from France?” inquired Mabel, without heeding the
remark.
“I fancy not,” replied the good dame. “At all events, he is not come to
the castle. Know you not,” she added, in a low confidential tone, “that
the king is jealous of him? He was a former suitor to the Lady Anne
Boleyn, and desperately in love with her; and it is supposed that his
mission to France was only a pretext to get him out of the way.”
“I suspected as much,” replied Mabel. “Alas! for Sir Thomas; and alas!
for the Earl of Surrey.”
“And alas! for Mabel Lyndwood, if she allows her heart to be fixed upon
the king,” said Deborah.
While this was passing the business of the kitchen, which had been
interrupted by the various incidents above related, and especially by
the conflict between the two jesters, was hurried forward, and for some
time all was bustle and confusion.
But as soon as the supper was served, and all his duties were fully
discharged, Simon Quanden, who had been bustling about, sat down in his
easy-chair, and recruited himself with a toast and a sack posset. Hob
and Nob had their supper at the same time, and the party at the table,
which had been increased by the two archers and Nicholas Clamp, attacked
with renewed vigour a fresh supply of mead and ale, which had been
provided for them by Jack of the Bottles.
The conversation then turned upon Herne the Hunter; and as all had heard
more or less about him, and some had seen him, while few knew the legend
connected with him, Hector Cutbeard volunteered to relate it; upon which
all the party gathered closer together, and Mabel and Deborah left off
talking, and drew near to listen.
VI.
The Legend of Herne the Hunter.
“Nearly a century and a half ago,” commenced Cutbeard, about the middle
of the reign of Richard the Second, there was among the keepers of the
forest a young man named Herne. He was expert beyond his fellows in all
matters of woodcraft, and consequently in great favour with the king,
who was himself devoted to the chase. Whenever he stayed at the castle,
King Richard, like our own royal Harry, would pass his time in hunting,
hawking, or shooting with the long-bow; and on all these occasions the
young keeper was his constant attendant. If a hart was to be chased,
Herne and his two black hounds of Saint Hubert's breed would hunt him
down with marvellous speed; if a wild boar was to be reared, a badger
digged out, a fox unkennelled, a marten bayed, or an otter vented, Herne
was chosen for the task. No one could fly a falcon so well as Herne--no
one could break up a deer so quickly or so skilfully as him. But in
proportion as he grew in favour with the king, the young keeper was
hated by his comrades, and they concerted together how to ruin him.
All their efforts, however, were ineffectual, and rather tended to his
advantage than injury.
“One day it chanced that the king hunted in the forest with his
favourite, the Earl of Oxford, when a great deer of head was
unharboured, and a tremendous chase ensued, the hart leading his
pursuers within a few miles of Hungerford, whither the borders of the
forest then extended. All the followers of the king, even the Earl of
Oxford, had by this time dropped off, and the royal huntsman was only
attended by Herne, who kept close behind him. At last the hart, driven
to desperation, stood at bay, and gored the king's horse as he came up
in such a manner that it reared and threw its rider. Another instant,
and the horns of the infuriated animal would have been plunged into the
body of the king, if Herne had not flung himself between the prostrate
monarch and his assailant, and received the stroke intended for him.
Though desperately wounded, the young hunter contrived slightly to raise
himself, and plunged his knife into the hart's throat, while the king
regained his feet.
“Gazing with the utmost concern at his unfortunate deliverer, King
Richard demanded what he could do for him.
“'Nothing, sire--nothing,' replied Herne, with a groan. I shall require
nothing but a grave from you, for I have received a wound that will
speedily bring me to it.'
“'Not so, I trust, good fellow,' replied the king, in a tone meant to
be encouraging, though his looks showed that his heart misgave him; 'my
best leech shall attend you.'
“'No skill will avail me now,' replied Herne sadly. 'A hurt from hart's
horn bringeth to the bier.'
“'I hope the proverb will not be justified in thy case,' rejoined the
king; 'and I promise thee, if thou dost recover, thou shalt have the
post of head keeper of the forest, with twenty nobles a year for wages.
If, unhappily, thy forebodings are realised, I will give the same sum to
be laid out in masses for thy soul.'
“'I humbly thank your highness,' replied the young man, 'and I accept
the latter offer, seeing it is the only one likely to profit me.'
“With this he put his horn to his lips, and winding the dead mot feebly,
fell back senseless. Much moved, the king rode off for succour; and
blowing a lusty call on his bugle, was presently joined by the Earl
of Oxford and some of his followers, among whom were the keepers. The
latter were secretly rejoiced on hearing what had befallen Herne, but
they feigned the greatest affliction, and hastened with the king to the
spot where the body was lying stretched out beside that of the hart.
“'It is almost a pity his soul cannot pass away thus,' said King
Richard, gazing compassionately at him, 'for he will only revive to
anguish and speedy death.'”
“'Your highness is right,' replied the chief keeper, a grim old
man named Osmond Crooke, kneeling beside him, and half drawing his
hunting-knife; 'it were better to put him out of his misery.'
“'What! slay the man who has just saved my own life!' cried the king.
'I will consent to no such infamous deed. I would give a large reward to
any one who could cure him.'
“As the words were uttered, a tall dark man, in a strange garb,
and mounted on a black wild-looking steed, whom no one had hitherto
observed, sprang to the ground and advanced towards the king.
“'I take your offer, sire,' said this personage, in a harsh voice. I
will cure him.'
“'Who art thou, fellow?' demanded King Richard doubtfully.
“'I am a forester,' replied the tall man, 'but I understand somewhat of
chirurgery and leechcraft.'
“'And woodcraft, too, I'll be sworn, fellow,' said the king 'Thou hast,
or I am mistaken, made free with some of my venison.'
“'He looks marvellously like Arnold Sheafe, who was outlawed for
deer-stealing,' said Osmond Crooke, regarding him steadfastly.
“'I am no outlaw, neither am I called Arnold Sheafe,' replied the other.
'My name is Philip Urswick, and I can render a good account of myself
when it shall please the king's highness to interrogate me. I dwell on
the heath near Bagshot, which you passed today in the chase, and where I
joined you.'
“'I noted you not,' said Osmond.
“'Nor I--nor I!' cried the other keepers.
“'That may be; but I saw you,' rejoined Urswick contemptuously; 'and I
tell you there is not one among you to be compared with the brave hunter
who lies there. You have all pronounced his case hopeless. I repeat I
can cure him if the king will make it worth my while.'
“'Make good thy words, fellow,' replied the king; 'and thou shalt not
only be amply rewarded, but shalt have a free pardon for any offence
thou mayest have committed.'
“'Enough,' replied Urswick. And taking a large, keen-edged hunting-knife
from his girdle, he cut off the head of the hart close to the point
where the neck joins the skull, and then laid it open from the extremity
of the under-lip to the nuke. 'This must be bound on the head of the
wounded man,' he said.
“The keepers stared in astonishment. But the king commanded that the
strange order should be obeyed. Upon which the bleeding skull was
fastened upon the head of the keeper with leathern thongs.
“'I will now answer for his perfect cure in a month's time,' said
Urswick to the king; 'but I shall require to watch over him myself till
all danger is at an end. I pray your highness to command these keepers
to transport him to my hut.'
“'You hear what he says, knaves?' cried the king; 'do his bidding, and
carefully, or ye shall answer to me with your lives.'
“Accordingly a litter was formed with branches of trees, and on this the
body of Herne, with the hart's head still bound to it, was conveyed by
the keepers to Urswick's hut, a small dwelling, situated in the wildest
part of Bagshot Heath. After placing the body upon a bed of dried fern,
the keepers were about to depart, when Osmond Crooke observed to the
forester, 'I am now certain thou art Arnold Sheafe.'
“'It matters not who I am, since I have the king's pardon,' replied the
other, laughing disdainfully.
“'Thou hast yet to earn it,' said Osmond.
“'Leave that to me,' replied Urswick. 'There is more fear that thou wilt
lose thy post as chief keeper, which the king has promised to Herne,
than that I shall fail.'
“'Would the deer had killed him outright!' growled Osmond.
“And the savage wish was echoed by the other keepers. “'I see you all
hate him bitterly,' said Urswick. 'What will you give me for revenge?'
“'We have little to give, save a fat buck on occasions,' replied Osmond;
'and, in all likelihood, thou canst help thyself to venison.'
“'Will you swear to grant the first request I may make of you--provided
it shall be in your power?' demanded Urswick.
“'Readily' they replied.
“'Enough' said Urswick. 'I must keep faith with the king. Herne will
recover, but he will lose all his skill as an archer, all his craft as a
hunter.'
“'If thou canst accomplish this thou art the fiend himself' cried
Osmond, trembling.
“'Fiend or not,' replied Urswick, with a triumphant laugh, 'ye have made
a compact with me, and must fulfil it. Now begone. I must attend to the
wounded man.'
“And the keepers, full of secret misgiving, departed.
“At the precise time promised, Herne, attended by Urswick, presented
himself to the king. He looked thin and pale, but all danger was past.
King Richard gave the forester a purse full of nobles, and added a
silver bugle to the gift. He then appointed Herne his chief keeper,
hung a chain of gold round his neck, and ordered him to be lodged in the
castle.
“About a week after this, Herne, having entirely regained his strength,
accompanied the king on a hunting expedition to the forest, and they
had scarcely entered it when his horse started and threw him. Up to
that moment such an accident had never happened to him, for he was an
excellent horseman, and he arose greatly discomfited, while the keepers
eyed each other askance. Soon after this a buck was started, and though
Herne was bravely mounted on a black steed bestowed on him on account of
its swiftness by the king, he was the last in the chase.
“'Thou art out of practice,' said the king, laughing, as he came up.
“'I know not what ails me,' replied Herne gloomily.
“'It cannot be thy steed's fault,' said the king, 'for he is usually as
fleet as the wind. But I will give thee an opportunity of gaining credit
in another way. Thou seest yon buck. He cannot be seventy yards off, and
I have seen thee hit the mark at twice the distance. Bring him down.'
“Herne raised his crossbow, and let fly the bolt; but it missed its
mark, and the buck, startled by the noise, dashed down the brake wholly
uninjured.
“King Richard's brow grew dark, and Herne uttered an exclamation of rage
and despair.
“'Thou shalt have a third and yet easier trial,' said the king. Old
Osmond Crooke shall lend thee his bow, and thy quarry shall be yon
magot-pie.'
“As he spoke, the arrow sped. But it quivered in the trunk of the tree,
some yards from the bird. The unfortunate shooter looked distracted;
but King Richard made no remark, until, towards the close of the day,
he said to him, 'Thou must regain thy craft, friend Herne, or I cannot
continue thee as my chief keeper.'
“The keepers congratulated each other in secret, for they felt that
their malice was about to be gratified.
“The next day Herne went forth, as he thought, alone, but he was watched
by his enemies. Not a shaft would go true, and he found that he had
completely lost his mastery over hound and horse. The day after that he
again rode forth to hunt with the king, and his failures made him the
laughing-stock of the party. Richard at length dismissed him with these
words, 'Take repose for a week, and then thou shalt have a further
trial. If thou dost not then succeed, I must perforce discharge thee
from thy post.'
“Instead of returning to the castle, Herne rode off wildly into the
forest, where he remained till eventide. He then returned with ghastly
looks and a strange appearance, having the links of a rusty chain which
he had plucked from a gibbet hanging from his left arm, and the hart's
antlered skull, which he had procured from Urswick, fixed like a helm
upon his head. His whole demeanour showed that he was crazed; and his
condition, which might have moved the compassion of his foes, only
provoked their laughter. After committing the wildest extravagances, he
burst from all restraint, and disappeared among the trees of the home
park.
“An hour after this a pedlar, who was crossing the park from Datchet,
found him suspended by a rope from a branch of the oak-tree which you
have all seen, and which bears his name. Despair had driven him to the
dreadful deed. Instead of cutting him down, the pedlar ran to the castle
to relate what he had witnessed; and the keepers, satisfied that their
revenge was now fully accomplished, hastened with him to the tree. But
the body was gone; and all that proclaimed it had been there, was the
rope hanging from the branch. Search was everywhere made for the missing
body, but without effect. When the matter was related to the king he was
much troubled, and would fain have had masses said for the repose of the
soul of the unfortunate keeper, but the priests refused to perform them,
alleging that he had 'committed self-destruction, and was therefore out
of the pale of the Church.
“On that night, a terrible thunderstorm occurred--as terrible, it may
be, as that of last night--and during its continuance, the oak on which
Herne had hanged himself was blasted by the lightning.
“Old Osmond was immediately reinstated in his post of chief keeper; but
he had little time for rejoicing, for he found that the same spell that
had bound Herne had fallen upon him. His bolts and arrows went wide of
their mark, his hounds lost their scent, and his falcon would not be
lured back. Half frantic, and afraid of exposing himself to the taunts
of his companions, he feigned illness, and left his comrade, Roger
Barfoot, to take his place. But the same ill-luck befell Barfoot, and
he returned in woeful plight, without a single head of game. Four others
were equally unfortunate, and it was now clear that the whole party were
bewitched.