should be dismissed on his return, if not more severely punished. At
last, after taking counsel together, they resolved to consult Urswick,
who they doubted not could remove the spell. Accordingly, they went to
Bagshot Heath, and related their story to him. When they had done, he
said, 'The curse of Herne's blood is upon you, and can only be removed
in one way. As you return to the castle, go to the tree on which he
destroyed himself, and you may learn how to act.'
“The keepers would have questioned him further, but he refused to
answer, and dismissed them.
“The shades of evening had fallen as they quitted Bagshot; and it was
midnight as they entered the home park, and proceeded towards the fatal
oak. It was pitchy dark, and they could only distinguish the tree by
its white, scathed trunk. All at once, a blue flame, like a
will-o'-the-wisp, appeared, flitted thrice round the tree, and then
remained stationary, its light falling upon a figure in a wild garb,
with a rusty chain hanging from its left arm, and an antlered helm upon
its head. They knew it to be Herne, and instantly fell down before him,
while a burst of terrible laughter sounded in their ears.
“Without heeding them further, the spirit darted round the tree,
rattling its chain, and uttering appalling imprecations. It then
stopped, and turning to the terrified beholders, bade them, in a hollow
voice, bring hounds and horses as for the chase on the following night
and vanished.
“Filled with dread, the keepers returned home, and the next day Old
Osmond again sought the forester, and told him what had occurred.
“'You must obey the spirit's injunctions, or worse mischief will befall
you,' said Urswick. 'Go to the tree, mounted as for a hunting-party,
and take the black steed given to Herne by the king, and the two black
hounds with you. You will see what will ensue.' And without another word
he dismissed him.
“Osmond told his comrades what the forester had said, and though they
were filled with alarm, they resolved upon compliance. At midnight,
therefore, they rode towards the tree with the black hounds in leash,
and leading Herne's favourite horse, saddled and bridled. As they drew
near, they again saw the terrible shape stalking round the tree, and
heard the fearful imprecations.
“His spells ended, Herne called to Osmond to bring him his steed; and
the old man tremblingly obeyed. In an instant the mysterious being
vaulted on its back, and in a voice of resistless authority cried, 'To
the forest!--to the forest!' With this, he dashed forward, and the whole
party, hounds and men, hurried after him.
“They rode at a furious pace for five or six miles over the great park,
the keepers wondering where their unearthly leader was taking them, and
almost fancying they were hurrying to perdition, when they descended
a hillside leading to the marsh, and halted before a huge beech-tree,
where Herne dismounted and pronounced certain mystic words, accompanying
them with strange gestures.
“Presently, he became silent and motionless. A flash of fire then burst
from the roots of the tree, and the forester Urswick stood before him.
But his aspect was more terrible and commanding than it had seemed
heretofore to the keepers.
“'Welcome, Herne,' he cried; 'welcome, lord of the forest. And you his
comrades, and soon to be his followers, welcome too. The time is come
for the fulfilment of your promise to me. I require you to form a band
for Herne the Hunter, and to serve him as leader. Swear to obey him, and
the spell that hangs over you shall be broken. If not, I leave you to
the king's justice.'
“Not daring to refuse compliance, the keepers took the oath
proposed--and a fearful one it was! As soon as it was Urswick vanished,
as he came, in a flash of fire. Herne, then commanded the others to
dismount, and made them prostrate themselves before him, and pay him
homage.
“This done, he blew a strike on his horn, rode swiftly up the hillside,
and a stag being unharboured, the chase commenced. Many a fat buck was
hunted and slaughtered that night; and an hour before daybreak, Herne
commanded them to lay the four finest and fattest at the foot of the
beech-tree, and then dismissed them, bidding them meet him at midnight
at the scathed oak in the home park.
“They came as they were commanded; but fearful of detection, they
adopted strange disguises, not unlike those worn by the caitiffs who
were put to death, a few weeks ago, by the king in the great park.
Night after night they thus went forth, thinning the herds of deer,
and committing other outrages and depredations. Nor were their dark
proceedings altogether unnoticed. Belated travellers crossing the forest
beheld them, and related what they had seen; others watched for them,
but they were so effectually disguised that they escaped detection.
“At last, however, the king returned to the castle, and accounts of the
strange doings in the forest were instantly brought to him. Astonished
at what he heard, and determined to ascertain the truth of the
statement, he ordered the keepers to attend him that night in an
expedition to the forest, when he hoped to encounter the demon huntsman
and his hand. Much alarmed, Osmond Crooke, who acted as spokesman,
endeavoured, by representing the risk he would incur, to dissuade the
king from the enterprise; but he would not be deterred, and they now
gave themselves up for lost.
“As the castle clock tolled forth the hour of midnight, Richard,
accompanied by a numerous guard, and attended by the keepers, issued
from the gates, and rode towards the scathed oak. As they drew near the
tree, the figure of Herne, mounted on his black steed, was discerned
beneath it. Deep fear fell upon all the beholders, but chiefly upon the
guilty keepers, at the sight. The king, however, pressed forward, and
cried, 'Why does thou disturb the quietude of night, accursed spirit?'
“Because I desire vengeance!' replied Herne, in a hollow voice. 'I
was brought to my present woeful condition by Osmond Crooke and his
comrades.'
“'But you died by your own hand,--did you not?' demanded King Richard.
“'Yea,' replied Herne; 'but I was driven to the deed by an infernal
spell laid upon me by the malice of the wretches I have denounced. Hang
them upon this tree, and I will trouble these woods no longer whilst
thou reignest!'
“The king looked round at the keepers. They all remained obdurate,
except Roger Barfoot, who, falling on his knees, confessed his guilt,
and accused the others.
“It is enough,' cried the king to Herne; 'they shall all suffer for
their offence.'
“Upon this a flash of fire enveloped the spirit and his horse, and he
vanished.
“The king kept his word. Osmond and his comrades were all hanged upon
the scathed tree, nor was Herne seen again in the forest while
Richard sat upon the throne. But he reappeared with a new band at the
commencement of the rule of Henry the Fourth, and again hunted the deer
at night. His band was destroyed, but he defied all attempts at capture;
and so it has continued to our own time, for not one of the seven
monarchs who have held the castle since Richard's day have been able to
drive him from the forest.”
“Nor will the present monarch be able to drive him thence,” said a deep
voice. “As long as Windsor Forest endures, Herne the Hunter will haunt
it.”
All turned at the exclamation and saw that it proceeded from a tall dark
man, in an archer's garb, standing behind Simon Quanden's chair.
“Thou hast told thy legend fairly enough, good clerk of the kitchen,”
continued this personage; “but thou art wrong on many material points.”
“I have related the story as it was related to me,” said Cutbeard
somewhat nettled at the remark; “but perhaps you will set me right where
I have erred.”
“It is true that Herne was a keeper in the reign of Richard the Second,”
replied the tall archer. “It is true also that he was expert in all
matters of woodcraft, and that he was in high favour with the king; but
he was bewitched by a lovely damsel, and not by a weird forester. He
carried off a nun and dwelt with her in a cave in the forest where he
assembled his brother keepers, and treated them to the king's venison
and the king's wine.
“A sacreligious villain and a reprobate!” exclaimed Launcelot Rutter.
“His mistress was fair enough, I will warrant her,” said Kit Coo.
“She was the very image of this damsel,” rejoined the tall archer,
pointing to Mabel, “and fair enough to work his ruin, for it was through
her that the fiend tempted him. The charms that proved his undoing were
fatal to her also, for in a fit of jealousy he slew her. The remorse
occasioned by this deed made him destroy himself.”
“Well, your version of the legend may be the correct one, for aught I
know, worthy sir,” said Cutbeard; “but I see not that it accounts for
Herne's antlers so well as mine, unless he were wedded to the nun, who
you say played him false. But how came you to know she resembled Mabel
Lyndwood?”
“Ay, I was thinking of that myself,” said Simon Quanden. “How do you
know that, master?”
“Because I have seen her picture,” replied the tall archer.
“Painted by Satan's chief limner, I suppose?” rejoined Cutbeard.
“He who painted it had seen her,” replied the tall archer sternly. “But,
as I have said, it was the very image of this damsel.”
And as he uttered the words, he quitted the kitchen.
“Who is that archer?” demanded Cutbeard, looking after him. But no one
could answer the question, nor could any one tell when he had entered
the kitchen.
“Strange!” exclaimed Simon Quanden, crossing himself. “Have you ever
seen him before, Mabel?”
“I almost think I have,” she replied, with a slight shudder.
“I half suspect he is Herne himself,” whispered the Duke of Shoreditch
to Paddington.
“It may be,” responded the other; “his glance made my blood run cold.”
“You look somewhat fatigued, sweetheart,” said Deborah, observing
Mabel's uneasiness. “Come with me and I will show you to a chamber.”
Glad to escape Mabel followed the good dame out of the kitchen, and they
ascended a winding staircase which brought them to a commodious chamber
in the upper part of Henry the Seventh's buildings, where Deborah sat
down with her young charge and volunteered a great deal of good advice
to her, which the other listened to with becoming attention, and
promised to profit by it.
VII.
Of the Mysterious Noise heard in the Curfew Tower.
On quitting the kitchen, Henry, having been informed by Bouchier that
Tristram Lyndwood was lodged in the prison-chamber in the lower gateway,
proceeded thither to question him. He found the old man seated on a
bench, with his hands tied behind him; but though evidently much alarmed
at his situation, he could not be brought either by threats or proffers
to make any confession.
Out of patience, at length, the king ordered him to be conveyed to
the dungeon beneath the Curfew Tower, and personally superintended his
removal.
“I will find a means of shaking his obstinacy,” said Henry, as he
quitted the vault with Bouchier. “If I cannot move him by other means,
I may through his granddaughter I will interrogate him in her presence
to-night.”
“To-night, sire!” exclaimed Bouchier.
“Ay, to-night,” repeated the king. “I am resolved, even if it should
cost the life of this maiden, whose charms have moved me so, to break
the infernal machinery woven around me. And now as I think it not
unlikely the miscreant Herne may attempt the prisoner's deliverance,
let the strictest watch be kept over the tower. Station an arquebusier
throughout the night at the door of the dungeon, and another at the
entrance to the chamber on the ground floor. Your own post must be on
the roof of the fortification, that you may watch if any attempt is made
to scale it from the town side, or to get in through the loopholes.
Keep a sharp lookout Bouchier, for I shall hold you responsible if any
mischance occurs.”
“I will do my best, my liege,” replied Bouchier; “and were it with a
mortal foe I had to contend, I should have no fear. But what vigilance
can avail against a fiend?”
“You have heard my injunctions, and will attend to them,” rejoined the
king harshly. “I shall return anon to the examination.”
So saying, he departed.
Brave as a lion on ordinary occasions, Bouchier entered upon his present
duty with reluctance and misgiving; and he found the arquebusiers by
whom he was attended, albeit stout soldiers, equally uneasy. Herne had
now become an object of general dread throughout the castle; and the
possibility of an encounter with him was enough to daunt the boldest
breast. Disguising his alarm, Bouchier issued his directions in an
authoritative tone, and then mounted with three arquebusiers to the
summit of the tower. It was now dark, but the moon soon arose, and her
beams rendered every object as distinguishable as daylight would have
done, so that watch was easily kept. But nothing occurred to occasion
alarm, until all at once, a noise like that of a hammer stricken against
a board, was heard in the chamber below.
Drawing his sword, Bouchier hurried down the steps leading into this
chamber, which was buried in darkness, and advanced so precipitately
and incautiously into the gloom, that he struck his head against a
crossbeam. The violence of the blow stunned him for a moment, but as
soon as he recovered, he called to the guard in the lower chamber to
bring up a torch. The order was promptly obeyed; but, meanwhile, the
sound had ceased, and, though they searched about, they could not
discover the occasion of it.
This, however, was not so wonderful for the singular construction of the
chamber, with its numerous crossbeams, its deep embrasures and recesses,
its insecure and uneven floor, its steep ladder-like staircases, was
highly favourable to concealment, it being utterly impossible, owing
to the intersections of the beams, for the searchers to see far before
them, or to move about quickly. In the midst of the chamber was a large
wooden compartment enclosing the cumbrous and uncouth machinery of the
castle clock, and through the box ran the cord communicating with the
belfry above. At that time, pieces of ordnance were mounted in all
the embrasures, but there is now only one gun, placed in a porthole
commanding Thames Street, and the long thoroughfare leading to Eton. The
view from this porthole of the groves of Eton, and of the lovely
plains on the north-west, watered by the river, is enchanting beyond
description.
Viewed from a recess which has been partly closed, the appearance of
this chamber is equally picturesque and singular; and it is scarcely
possible to pass beneath its huge beams or to gaze at the fantastic yet
striking combinations they form in connection with the deep embrasures,
the steep staircases and trap-doors, and not feel that the whole place
belongs to romance, and that a multitude of strange and startling
stories must be connected with it. The old architects were indeed great
romancers, and built for the painter and the poet.
Bouchier and his companion crept about under the great meshwork of
beams-peered into all the embrasures, and beneath the carriages of
the culverins. There was a heap of planks and beams lying on the floor
between the two staircases, but no one was near it.
The result of their investigations did not tend to decrease their alarm.
Bouchier would fain have had the man keep watch in the chamber, but
neither threats nor entreaties could induce him to remain there. He
was therefore sent below, and the captain returned to the roof. He had
scarcely emerged upon the leads when the hammering recommenced more
violently than before. In vain Bouchier ordered his men to go down. No
one would stir; and superstitious fear had by this time obtained such
mastery over the captain, that he hesitated to descend alone. To add to
his vexation, the arquebusier had taken the torch with him, so that he
should have to proceed in darkness.
At length he mustered up courage to make the attempt; but he paused
between each step, peering through the gloom, and half fancying he could
discern the figure of Herne near the spot where the pile of wood lay.
Certain it was that the sound of diabolical laughter, mingled with the
rattling of the chain and the sharp blows of the hammer, smote his
ears. The laughter became yet louder as Bouchier advanced, the hammering
ceased, and the clanking of the chain showed that its mysterious wearer
was approaching the foot of the steps to meet him. But the captain
had not nerve enough for the encounter. Invoking the protection of the
saints, he beat a precipitate retreat, and closed the little door at the
head of the steps after him.
The demon was apparently satisfied with the alarm he had occasioned, for
the hammering was not renewed at that time.
VIII.
Showing the Vacillations of the King between Wolsey and Anne
Boleyn.
Before returning to the state apartments, Henry took a turn on the
ramparts on the north side of the castle, between the Curfew Tower
and the Winchester Tower, and lingered for a short time on the bastion
commanding that part of the acclivity where the approach, called the
Hundred Steps, is now contrived. Here he cautioned the sentinels to be
doubly vigilant throughout the night, and having gazed for a moment at
the placid stream flowing at the foot of the castle, and tinged with the
last rays of the setting sun, he proceeded to the royal lodgings, and
entered the banquet chamber, where supper was already served.
Wolsey sat on his right hand, but he did not vouchsafe him a single
word, addressing the whole of his discourse to the Duke of Suffolk, who
was placed on his left. As soon as the repast was over, he retired to
his closet. But the cardinal would not be so repulsed, and sent one of
his gentlemen to crave a moment's audience of the king, which with some
reluctance was accorded.
“Well, cardinal,” cried Henry, as Wolsey presented himself, and the
usher withdrew. “You are playing a deep game with me, as you think; but
take heed, for I see through it.” “I pray you dismiss these suspicions
from your mind, my liege,” said Wolsey. “No servant was ever more
faithful to his master than I have been to you.”
“No servant ever took better care of himself,” cried the king fiercely.
“Not alone have you wronged me to enrich yourself, but you are ever
intriguing with my enemies. I have nourished in my breast a viper; but I
will cast you off--will crush you as I would the noxious reptile.”
And he stamped upon the floor, as if he could have trampled the cardinal
beneath his foot.
“Beseech you calm yourself, my liege,” replied Wolsey, in the soft and
deprecatory tone which he had seldom known to fail with the king. “I
have never thought of my own aggrandisement, but as it was likely to
advance your power. For the countless benefits I have received at your
hands, my soul overflows with gratitude. You have raised me from the
meanest condition to the highest. You have made me your confidant, your
adviser, your treasurer, and with no improper boldness I say it, your
friend. But I defy the enemies who have poisoned your ears against me,
to prove that I have ever abused the trust placed in me. The sole fault
that can be imputed to me is, that I have meddled more with temporal
matters than with spiritual, and it is a crime for which I must answer
before Heaven. But I have so acted because I felt that I might thereby
best serve your highness. If I have aspired to the papal throne--which
you well know I have--it has been that I might be yet a more powerful
friend to your majesty, and render you what you are entitled to be, the
first prince in Christendom.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed the king, who was, nevertheless, moved by the
artful appeal.
“The gifts I have received from foreign princes,” pursued Wolsey, seeing
the effect he had produced, “the wealth I have amassed, have all been
with a view of benefiting your majesty.” “Humph!” exclaimed the king.
“To prove that I speak the truth, sire,” continued the wily cardinal,
“the palace at Hampton Court, which I have just completed--”
“And at a cost more lavish than I myself should have expended on it,”
interrupted the king angrily.
“If I had destined it for myself, I should not have spent a tithe of
what I have done,” rejoined Wolsey. “Your highness's unjust accusations
force me to declare my intentions somewhat prematurely. Deign,” he
cried, throwing at the king's feet, “deign to accept that palace and all
within it. You were pleased, during your late residence there, to express
your approval of it. And I trust it will find equal favour in your eyes,
now that it is your own.”
“By holy Mary, a royal gift!” cried Henry. “Rise, You are not the
grasping, selfish person you have been represented.”
“Declare as much to my enemies, sire, and I shall be more content. You
will find the palace better worth acceptance than at first sight might
appear.”
“How so?” cried the king.
“Your highness will be pleased to take this key,” said the cardinal; “it
is the key of the cellar.”
“You have some choice wine there,” cried Henry significantly; “given you
by some religious house, or sent you by some foreign potentate, ha!”
“It is wine that a king might prize,” replied the cardinal. “Your
majesty will find a hundred hogsheads in that cellar, and each hogshead
filled with gold.”
“You amaze me!” cried the king, feigning astonishment. “And all this you
freely give me?”
“Freely and fully, sire,” replied Wolsey. “Nay, I have saved it for you.
Men think I have cared for myself, whereas I have cared only for your
majesty. Oh! my dear liege, by the devotion I have just approved to you,
and which I would also approve, if needful, with my life, I beseech you
to consider well before you raise Anne Boleyn to the throne. In giving
you this counsel, I know I hazard the favour I have just regained. But
even at that hazard, I must offer it. Your infatuation blinds you to
the terrible consequences of the step. The union is odious to all your
subjects, but most of all to those not tainted with the new heresies and
opinions. It will never be forgiven by the Emperor Charles the Fifth,
who will seek to avenge the indignity offered to his illustrious
relative; while Francis will gladly make it a pretext for breaking his
truce with you. Add to this the displeasure of the Apostolic See, and it
must be apparent that, powerful as you are, your position will be one of
infinite peril.”
“Thus far advanced, I cannot honourably abandon the divorce,” said
Henry.
“Nor do I advise its abandonment, sire,” replied Wolsey; “but do not let
it be a means of injuring you with all men. Do not let a mal-alliance
place your very throne in jeopardy; as, with your own subjects and all
foreign powers against you, must necessarily be the case.”
“You speak warmly, cardinal,” said Henry.
“My zeal prompts me to do so,” replied Wolsey. “Anne Boleyn is in no
respect worthy of the honour you propose her.”
“And whom do you think more worthy?” demanded Henry.
“Those whom I have already recommended to your majesty, the Duchess
d'Alencon, or the Princess Renee,” replied Wolsey; “by a union with
either of whom you would secure the cordial co-operation of Francis,
and the interests of the see of Rome, which, in the event of a war with
Spain, you may need.”
“No, Wolsey,” replied Henry, taking a hasty turn across the chamber; “no
considerations of interests or security shall induce me to give up Anne.
I love her too well for that. Let the lion Charles roar, the fox Francis
snarl, and the hydra-headed Clement launch forth his flames, I will
remain firm to my purpose. I will not play the hypocrite with you,
whatever I may do with others. I cast off Catherine that I may wed Anne,
because I cannot otherwise obtain her. And shall I now, when I
have dared so much, and when the prize is within my grasp, abandon
it?--Never! Threats, expostulations, entreaties are alike unavailing.”
“I grieve to hear it, my liege,” replied Wolsey, heaving a deep sigh.
“It is an ill-omened union, and will bring woe to you, woe to your
realm, and woe to the Catholic Church.”
“And woe to you also, false cardinal,” cried Anne Boleyn, throwing aside
the arras, and stepping forward. “I have overheard what has passed;
and from my heart of hearts I thank you, Henry, for the love you have
displayed for me. But I here solemnly vow never to give my hand to you
till Wolsey is dismissed from your counsels.”
“Anne!” exclaimed the king.
“My own enmity I could forego,” pursued Anne vehemently, “but I cannot
forgive him his duplicity and perfidy towards you. He has just proffered
you his splendid palace of Hampton, and his treasures; and wherefore?--I
will tell you: because he feared they would be wrested from him. His
jester had acquainted him with the discovery just made of the secret
hoard, and he was therefore compelled to have recourse to this desperate
move. But I was apprized of his intentions by Will Sommers, and have
come in time to foil him.”
“By my faith, I believe you are right, sweetheart,” said the king.
“Go, tell your allies, Francis and Clement, that the king's love for me
outweighs his fear of them,” cried Anne, laughing spitefully. “As for
you, I regard you as nothing.”
“Vain woman, your pride will be abased,” rejoined Wolsey bitterly.
“Vain man, you are already abased,” replied Anne. “A few weeks ago I
would have made terms with you. Now I am your mortal enemy, and will
never rest till I have procured your downfall.”
“The king will have an amiable consort, truly,” sneered Wolsey.
“He will have one who can love him and hate his foes,” replied Anne;
“and not one who would side with them and thee, as would be the case
with the Duchess d'Alencon or the Princess Renee. Henry, you know the
sole terms on which you can procure my hand.”
The king nodded a playful affirmative.
“Then dismiss him at once, disgrace him,” said Anne.
“Nay, nay,” replied Henry, “the divorce is not yet passed. You are
angered now, and will view matters more coolly to-morrow.”
“I shall never change my resolution,” she replied.
“If my dismissal and disgrace can save my sovereign, I pray him to
sacrifice me without hesitation,” said Wolsey; “but while I have liberty
of speech with him, and aught of power remaining, I will use it to his
advantage. I pray your majesty suffer me to retire.”
And receiving a sign of acquiescence from the king, he withdrew, amid
the triumphant laughter of Anne.
IX.
How Tristram Lyndwood was interrogated by the King.
Anne Boleyn remained with her royal lover for a few minutes to pour
forth her gratitude for the attachment he had displayed to her, and to
confirm the advantage she had gained over Wolsey. As soon as she
was gone, Henry summoned an usher, and giving him some instructions
respecting Mabel Lyndwood, proceeded to the Curfew Tower.
Nothing was said to him of the strange noise that had been heard in
the upper chamber, for the arquebusiers were fearful of exciting his
displeasure by a confession of their alarm, and he descended at once to
the dungeon.
“Well, fellow,” he cried, sternly regarding the captive, who arose at
his entrance, “you have now had ample time for reflection, and I trust
are in a better frame of mind than when I last spoke with you. I command
you to declare all you know concerning Herne the Hunter, and to give
me such information respecting the proscribed felon, Morgan Fenwolf, as
will enable me to accomplish his capture.”
“I have already told your highness that my mouth is sealed by an oath of
secrecy,” replied Tristram, humbly, but firmly.
“Obstinate dog! thou shalt either speak, or I will hang thee from the
top of this tower, as I hanged Mark Fytton the butcher,” roared Henry.
“You will execute your sovereign pleasure, my liege,” said the old man.
“My life is in your hands. It is little matter whether it is closed now
or a year hence. I have well nigh run out my term.”
“If thou carest not for thyself, thou mayest not be equally indifferent
to another,” cried the king. “What ho! bring in his granddaughter.”
The old man started at the command, and trembled violently. The next
moment, Mabel was led into the dungeon by Shoreditch and Paddington.
Behind her came Nicholas Clamp. On seeing her grandsire, she uttered a
loud cry and would have rushed towards him, but she was held back by her
companions.
“Oh grandfather!” she cried, “what have you done?-why do I find you
here?”
Tristram groaned, and averted his head.
“He is charged with felony and sorcery,” said the king sternly, “and you,
maiden, come under the same suspicion.”
“Believe it not, sire,” cried the old man, flinging himself at Henry's
feet; “oh, believe it not. Whatever you may judge of me, believe her
innocent. She was brought up most devoutly, by a lay sister of the
monastery at Chertsey; and she knows nothing, save by report, of what
passes in the forest.”
“Yet she has seen and conversed with Morgan Fenwolf,” the king.
“Not since he was outlawed,” said Tristram.
“I saw him to--day, as I was brought to the castle,” cried Mabel,
“and--” but recollecting that she might implicate her grandfather, she
suddenly stopped.
“What said he?--ha!” demanded the king.
“I will tell your majesty what passed,” interposed Nicholas Clamp,
stepping forward, “for I was with the damsel at the time. He came upon
us suddenly from behind a great tree, and ordered her to accompany him
to her grandsire.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the king.
“But he had no authority for what he said, I am well convinced,” pursued
Clamp. “Mabel disbelieved him and refused to go, and I should have
captured him if the fiend he serves had not lent him a helping hand.”
“What says the prisoner himself to this?” observed the king. “Didst thou
send Fenwolf on the errand?”
“I did,” replied Tristram. “I sent him to prevent her from going to the
castle.”
Mabel sobbed audibly.
“Thou art condemned by thy own confession, caitiff,” said the king,
“and thou knowest upon what terms alone thou canst save thyself from the
hangman, and thy grand-daughter from the stake.”
“Oh, mercy, sire, mercy!” shrieked Mabel.
“Your fate rests with your grandsire,” said the king sternly. “If he
chooses to be your executioner he will remain silent.”
“Oh, speak, grandsire, speak!” cried Mabel. “What matters the violation
of an unholy vow?”
“Give me till to-morrow for consideration, sire,” said the old man.
“Thou shalt have till midnight,” replied the king; “and till then Mabel
shall remain with thee.”
“I would rather be left alone,” said Tristram.
“I doubt it not,” replied the king; “but it shall not be.” And without
bestowing a look at Mabel, whose supplications he feared might shake
his purpose, he quitted the vault with his attendants, leaving her alone
with her grandsire.
“I shall return at midnight,” he said to the arquebusier stationed at
the door; “and meanwhile let no one enter the dungeon--not even the Duke
of Suffolk--unless,” he added, holding forth his hand to display a ring,
“he shall bring this signet.”
X.
Of the Brief Advantage gained by the Queen and the Cardinal.
As the king, wholly unattended--for he had left the archers at the
Curfew Tower--was passing at the back of Saint George's Chapel, near the
north transept, he paused for a moment to look at the embattled entrance
to the New Commons--a structure erected in the eleventh year of his own
reign by James Denton, a canon, and afterwards Dean of Lichfield, for
the accommodation of such chantry priests and choristers as had no place
in the college. Over the doorway, surmounted by a niche, ran (and still
runs) the inscription--
“AEDES PRO SACELLANORUM CHORISTARUM COVIVIIS EXTRUCTA, A.D. 1519.”
The building has since been converted into one of the canons' houses.
While he was contemplating this beautiful gateway, which was glimmering
in the bright moonlight, a tall figure suddenly darted from behind one
of the buttresses of the chapel, and seized his left arm with an
iron grasp. The suddenness of the attack took him by surprise; but he
instantly recovered himself, plucked away his arm, and, drawing his
sword, made a pass at his assailant, who, however, avoided the thrust,
and darted with inconceivable swiftness through the archway leading to
the cloisters. Though Henry followed as quickly as he could, he lost
sight of the fugitive, but just as he was about to enter the passage
running between the tomb-house and the chapel, he perceived a person in
the south ambulatory evidently anxious to conceal himself, and, rushing
up to him and dragging him to the light he found it was no other than
the cardinal's jester, Patch.
“What does thou here, knave?” cried Henry angrily.
“I am waiting for my master, the cardinal,” replied the jester,
terrified out of his wits.
“Waiting for him here!” cried the king. “Where is he?”
“In that house,” replied Patch, pointing to a beautiful bay-window,
full of stained glass, overhanging the exquisite arches of the north
ambulatory.
“Why, that is Doctor Sampson's dwelling,” cried Henry; “he who was
chaplain to the queen, and is a strong opponent of the divorce. What doth
he there?”
“I am sure I know not,” replied Patch, whose terror increased each
moment. “Perhaps I have mistaken the house. Indeed, I am sure it must be
Doctor Voysey's, the next door.”
“Thou liest, knave!” cried Henry fiercely; “thy manner convinces me
there is some treasonable practice going forward. But I will soon find
it out. Attempt to give the alarm, and I will cut thy throat.”
With this he proceeded to the back of the north ambulatory, and finding
the door he sought unfastened, raised the latch and walked softly in.
But before he got half-way down the passage, Doctor Sampson himself
issued from an inner room with a lamp in his hand. He started on seeing
the king, and exhibited great alarm.
“The Cardinal of York is here--I know it,” said Henry in a deep whisper.
“Lead me to him.”
“Oh, go not forward, my gracious liege!” cried Sampson, placing himself
in his path.
“Wherefore not?” rejoined the king. “Ha! what voice is that I heard in
the upper chamber? Is she here, and with Wolsey? Out of my way, man,”
he added, pushing the canon aside, and rushing up the short wooden
staircase.
When Wolsey returned from his interview with the king, which had been
so unluckily interrupted by Anne Boleyn, he found his ante-chamber
beset with a crowd of suitors to whose solicitations he was compelled to
listen, and having been detained in this manner for nearly half an hour,
he at length retired into an inner room.
“Vile sycophants!” he muttered, “they bow the knee before me, and pay me
greater homage than they render the king, but though they have fed upon
my bounty and risen by my help, not one of them, if he was aware of my
true position, but would desert me. Not one of them but would lend a
helping hand to crush me. Not one but would rejoice in my downfall. But
they have not deceived me. I knew them from the first--saw through their
hollowness and despised them. While power lasts to me, I will punish
some of them. While power lasts!” he repeated. “Have I any power
remaining? I have already given up Hampton and my treasures to the king;
and the work of spoliation once commenced, the royal plunderer will not
be content till he has robbed me of all; while his minion, Anne Boleyn,
has vowed my destruction. Well, I will not yield tamely, nor fall
unavenged.”
As these thoughts passed through his mind, Patch, who had waited for
a favourable moment to approach him, delivered him a small billet
carefully sealed, and fastened with a silken thread. Wolsey took it,
and broke it open; and as his eye eagerly scanned its contents, the
expression of his countenance totally changed. A flash of joy and
triumph irradiated his fallen features; and thrusting the note into
the folds of his robe, he inquired of the jester by whom it had been
brought, and how long.
“It was brought by a messenger from Doctor Sampson,” replied Patch, “and
was committed to me with special injunctions to deliver it to your grace
immediately on your return, and secretly.”
The cardinal sat down, and for a few moments appeared lost in deep
reflection; he then arose, and telling Patch he should return presently,
quitted the chamber. But the jester, who was of an inquisitive turn, and
did not like to be confined to half a secret, determined to follow him,
and accordingly tracked him along the great corridor, down a winding
staircase, through a private door near the Norman Gateway, across the
middle ward, and finally saw him enter Doctor Sampson's dwelling, at the
back of the north ambulatory. He was reconnoitring the windows of the
house from the opposite side of the cloisters in the hope of discovering
something, when he was caught, as before mentioned, by the king.
Wolsey, meanwhile, was received by Doctor Sampson at the doorway of
his dwelling, and ushered by him into a chamber on the upper floor,
wainscoted with curiously carved and lustrously black oak. A silver lamp
was burning the on the table, and in the recess of the window, which
was screened by thick curtains, sat a majestic lady, who rose on the
cardinal's entrance. It was Catherine of Arragon.
“I attend your pleasure, madam,” said Wolsey, with a profound
inclination.
“You have been long in answering my summons,” said the queen; “but
I could not expect greater promptitude. Time was when a summons from
Catherine of Arragon would have been quickly and cheerfully attended to;
when the proudest noble in the land would have borne her message to you,
and when you would have passed through crowds to her audience-chamber.
Now another holds her place, and she is obliged secretly to enter the
castle where she once ruled, to despatch a valet to her enemy, to attend
his pleasure, and to receive him in the dwelling of an humble canon.
Times are changed with me, Wolsey--sadly changed.”
“I have been in attendance on the king, madam, or I should have been
with you sooner,” replied Wolsey. “It grieves me sorely to see you
here.”
“I want not your pity,” replied the queen proudly. “I did not send for
you to gratify your malice by exposing my abject state. I did not send
for you to insult me by false sympathy; but in the hope that your own
interest would induce you to redress the wrongs you have done me.”
“Alas! madam, I fear it is now too late to repair the error I have
committed,” said Wolsey, in a tone of affected penitence and sorrow.
“You admit, then, that it was an error,” cried Catherine. “Well, that
is something. Oh! that you had paused before you began this evil
work--before you had raised a storm which will destroy me and yourself.
Your quarrel with my nephew the Emperor Charles has cost me dear, but it
will cost you yet more dearly.”
“I deserve all your reproaches, madam,” said Wolsey, with feigned
meekness; “and I will bear them without a murmur. But you have sent for
me for some specific object, I presume?”
“I sent for you to give me aid, as much for your own sake as mine,”
replied the queen, “for you are in equal danger. Prevent this
divorce--foil Anne--and you retain the king's favour. Our interests are
so far leagued together, that you must serve me to serve yourself. My
object is to gain time to enable my friends to act. Your colleague is
secretly favourable to me. Pronounce no sentence here, but let the cause
be removed to Rome. My nephew the emperor will prevail upon the Pope to
decide in my favour.”
“I dare not thus brave the king's displeasure, madam;” replied Wolsey.
“Dissembler!” exclaimed Catherine. “I now perceive the insincerity of
your professions. This much I have said to try you. And now to my real
motive for sending for you. I have in my possession certain letters,
that will ruin Anne Boleyn with the king.”
“Ha!” exclaimed the cardinal joyfully; “if that be the case, all the
rest will be easy. Let me see the letters, I pray you, madam.”
Before Catherine could reply, the door was thrown violently open, and
the king stood before them.
“Soh!” roared Henry, casting a terrible look at Wolsey, “I have caught
you at your treasonable practices at last! And you, madam,” he added,
turning to Catherine, who meekly, but steadily, returned his gaze, “what
brings you here again? Because I pardoned your indiscretion yesterday,
think not I shall always be so lenient. You will leave the castle
instantly. As to Wolsey, he shall render me a strict account of his
conduct.”
“I have nothing to declare, my liege,” replied Wolsey, recovering
himself, “I leave it to the queen to explain why I came hither.”
“The explanation shall be given at once,” said Catherine. “I sent for
the cardinal to request him to lay before your majesty these two letters
from Anne Boleyn to Sir Thomas Wyat, that you might judge whether one
who could write thus would make you a fitting consort. You disbelieved
my charge of levity yesterday. Read these, sire, and judge whether I
spoke the truth.”
Henry glanced at the letters, and his brow grew dark.
“What say you to them, my liege?” cried Catherine, with a glance of
triumph. “In the one she vows eternal constancy to Sir Thomas Wyat, and
in the other--written after her engagement to you--he tells him that
though they can never meet as heretofore, she will always love him.”
“Ten thousand furies!” cried the king. “Where got you these letters,
madam?”
“They were given to me by a tall dark man, as I quitted the castle last
night,” said the queen. “He said they were taken from the person of Sir
Thomas Wyat while he lay concealed in the forest in the cave of Herne
the Hunter.”
“If I thought she wrote them,” cried Henry, in an access jealous fury,
“I would cast her off for ever.”
“Methinks your majesty should be able to judge whether they are true or
false,” said Catherine. “I know her writing well--too well, alas!--and
am satisfied they are genuine.”
“I am well assured that Wyat was concealed in the Lady Anne's chamber
when your majesty demanded admittance and could not obtain it--when the
Earl of Surrey sacrificed himself for her, and for his friend,” said
Wolsey.
“Perdition!” exclaimed the king, striking his brow with his clenched
hand. “Oh, Catherine!” he continued, after a pause, during which she
intently watched the workings of his countenance, “and it was for this
light-hearted creature I was about to cast you off.”
“I forgive you, sire--I forgive you!” exclaimed the queen, clasping his
hands, and bedewing them with grateful tears. “You have been deceived.
Heaven keep you in the same mind!”
“You have preserved me,” said Henry, “but you must not tarry here. Come
with me to the royal lodgings.”
“No, Henry,” replied Catherine, with a shudder, “not while she is
there.”
“Make no conditions, madam,” whispered Wolsey. “Go.”
“She shall be removed to-morrow,” said Henry.
“In that case I am content to smother my feelings,” said the queen.
“Come, then, Kate,” said Henry, taking her hand. “Lord cardinal, you
will attend us.”
“Right gladly, my liege,” replied Wolsey. “If this mood will only
endure,” he muttered, “all will go well. But his jealousy must not be
allowed to cool. Would that Wyat were here!”
Doctor Sampson could scarcely credit his senses as he beheld the august
pair come forth together, and a word from Wolsey explaining what had
occurred, threw him into transports of delight. But the surprise of the
good canon was nothing to that exhibited as Henry and Catherine entered
the royal lodgings, and the king ordered his own apartments to be
instantly prepared for her majesty's reception.
XI.
How Tristram Lyndwood and Mabel were liberated.
Intelligence of the queen's return was instantly conveyed to Anne
Boleyn, and filled her with indescribable alarm. All her visions of
power and splendour seemed to melt away at once. She sent for her
father, Lord Rochford, who hurried to her in a state of the utmost
anxiety, and closely questioned her whether the extraordinary change had
not been occasioned by some imprudence of her own. But she positively
denied the charge, alleging that she had parted with the king scarcely
an hour before on terms of the most perfect amity, and with the full
conviction that she had accomplished the cardinal's ruin.
“You should not have put forth your hand against him till you were sure
of striking the blow,” said Rochford. “There is no telling what secret
influence he has over the king; and there may yet be a hard battle to
fight. But not a moment must be lost in counteracting his operations.
Luckily, Suffolk is here, and his enmity to the cardinal will make him
a sure friend to us. Pray Heaven you have not given the king fresh
occasion for jealousy! That is all I fear.”
And quitting his daughter, he sought out Suffolk, who, alarmed at what
appeared like a restoration of Wolsey to favour, promised heartily to
co-operate with him in the struggle; and that no time might be lost,
the duke proceeded at once to the royal closet, where he found the king
pacing moodily to and fro.
“Your majesty seems disturbed,” said the duke.
“Disturbed!--ay!” exclaimed the king. “I have enough to disturb me. I
will never love again. I will forswear the whole sex. Harkee, Suffolk,
you are my brother, my second self, and know all the secrets of
my heart. After the passionate devotion I have displayed for Anne
Boleyn--after all I have done for her--all I have risked for her--I have
been deceived.”
“Impossible, my liege?” exclaimed Suffolk.
“Why, so I thought,” cried Henry, “and I turned a deaf ear to all
insinuations thrown out against her, till proof was afforded which I
could no longer doubt.”
“And what was the amount of the proof, my liege?” asked Suffolk.
“These letters,” said Henry, handing them to him, “found on the person
of Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“But these only prove, my liege, the existence of a former
passion--nothing more,” remarked Suffolk, after he had scanned them.
“But she vows eternal constancy to him!” cried Henry; “says she shall
ever love him--says so at the time she professes devoted love for me!
How can I trust her after that? Suffolk, I feel she does not love me
exclusively; and my passion is so deep and devouring, that it demands
entire return. I must have her heart as well as her person; and I feel I
have only won her in my quality of king.”
“I am persuaded your majesty is mistaken,” said the duke. “Would I
could think so!” sighed Henry. “But no--no, I cannot be deceived. I
will conquer this fatal passion. Oh, Suffolk! it is frightful to be the
bondslave of a woman--a fickle, inconstant woman. But between the depths
of love and hate is but a step; and I can pass from one to the other.”
“Do nothing rashly, my dear liege,” said Suffolk; “nothing that may
bring with it after-repentance. Do not be swayed by those who have
inflamed your jealousy, and who could practise upon it. Think the
matter calmly over, and then act. And till you have decided, see neither
Catherine nor Anne; and, above all, do not admit Wolsey to your secret
counsels.”
“You are his enemy, Suffolk,” said the king sternly.
“I am your majesty's friend,” replied the duke. “I beseech you, yield to
me on this occasion, and I am sure of your thanks hereafter.”
“Well, I believe you are right, my good friend and brother,” said Henry,
“and I will curb my impulses of rage and jealousy. To-morrow, before I
see either the queen or Anne, we will ride forth into the forest, and
talk the matter further over.”
“Your highness has come to a wise determination,” said the duke.
“Oh, Suffolk!” sighed Henry, “would I had never seen this siren! She
exercises a fearful control over me, and enslaves my very soul.”
“I cannot say whether it is for good or ill that you have met, my dear
liege,” replied Suffolk, “but I fancy I can discern the way in which
your ultimate decision will be taken. But it is now near midnight. I
wish your majesty sound and untroubled repose.”
“Stay!” cried Henry, “I am about to visit the Curfew Tower, and must
take you with me. I will explain my errand as we go. I had some thought
of sending you there in my stead. Ha!” he exclaimed, glancing at his
finger, “By Saint Paul, it is gone!”
“What is gone, my liege?” asked Suffolk.
“My signet,” replied Henry, “I missed it not till now. It has been
wrested from me by the fiend, during my walk from the Curfew Tower. Let
us not lose a moment, or the prisoners will be set free by him,--if they
have not been liberated already.”
So saying, he took a couple of dags--a species of short gun--from a
rest on the wall, and giving one to Suffolk, thrust the other into his
girdle. Thus armed, they quitted the royal lodgings, and hurried in
the direction of the Curfew Tower. Just as they reached the Horseshoe
Cloisters, the alarm-bell began to ring.
“Did I not tell you so?” cried Henry furiously; “they have escaped. Ha!
it ceases!--what has happened?”
About a quarter of an hour after the king had quitted the Curfew Tower,
a tall man, enveloped in a cloak, and wearing a high conical cap,
presented himself to the arquebusier stationed at the entrance to the
dungeon, and desired to be admitted to the prisoners.
“I have the king's signet,” he said, holding forth the ring. On seeing
this, the arquebusier, who recognised the ring, unlocked the door, and
admitted him. Mabel was kneeling on the ground beside her grandsire,
with her hands raised as in prayer, but as the tall man entered the
vault, she started to her feet, and uttered a slight scream.
“What is the matter, child?” cried Tristram..
“He is here!--he is come!” cried Mabel, in a tone of the deepest terror.
“Who--the king?” cried Tristram, looking up. “Ah! I see! Herne is come
to deliver me.”
“Do not go with him, grandsire,” cried Mabel. “In the name of all the
saints, I implore you, do not.”
“Silence her!” said Herne in a harsh, imperious voice, “or I leave you.”
The old man looked imploringly at his granddaughter.
“You know the conditions of your liberation?” said Herne.
“I do--I do,” replied Tristram hastily, and with a shudder.
“Oh, grandfather!” cried Mabel, falling at his feet, “do not, I conjure
you, make any conditions with this dreaded being, or it will be at the
expense of your salvation. Better I should perish at the stake--better
you should suffer the most ignominious death, than this should be.”
“Do you accept them?” cried Herne, disregarding her supplications.
Tristram answered in the affirmative.
“Recall your words, grandfather--recall your words!” cried Mabel. “I
will implore pardon for you on my knees from the king, and he will not
refuse me.”
“The pledge cannot be recalled, damsel,” said Herne; “and it is to save
you from the king, as much as to accomplish his own preservation, that
your grandsire consents. He would not have you a victim to Henry's
lust.” And as he spoke, he divided the forester's bonds with his knife.
“You must go with him, Mabel,” he added.
“I will not!” she cried. “Something warns me that a great danger awaits
me.”
“You must go, girl,” cried Tristram angrily. “I will not leave you to
Henry's lawless passion.”
Meanwhile, Herne had passed into one of the large embrasures, and
opened, by means of a spring, an entrance to a secret staircase in
the wall. He then beckoned Tristram towards him, and whispered some
instructions in his ear.
“I understand,” replied the old man.
“Proceed to the cave,” cried Herne, “and remain there till I join you.”
Tristram nodded assent.
“Come, Mabel!” he cried, advancing towards her, and seizing her hand.
“Away!” cried Herne in a menacing tone.
Terrified by the formidable looks and gestures of the demon, the poor
girl offered no resistance, and her grandfather drew her into the
opening, which was immediately closed after her.
About an hour after this, and when it was near upon the stroke of
midnight, the arquebusier who had admitted the tall stranger to the
dungeon, and who had momentarily expected his coming forth, opened the
door to see what was going forward. Great was his astonishment to find
the cell empty! After looking around in bewilderment, he rushed to the
chamber above, to tell his comrades what had happened.
“This is clearly the work of the fiend,” said Shoreditch; “it is useless
to strive against him.”
“That tall black man was doubtless Herne himself.” said Paddington. “I
am glad he did us no injury. I hope the king will not provoke his malice
further.”
“Well, we must inform Captain Bouchier of the mischance,” said
Shoreditch. “I would not be in thy skin, Mat Bee, for a trifle. The king
will be here presently, and then--”
“It is impossible to penetrate through the devices of the evil one,”
interrupted Mat. “I could have sworn it was the royal signet, for I saw
it on the king's finger as he delivered the order. I wish such another
chance of capturing the fiend would occur to me.”
As the words were uttered, the door of a recess was thrown suddenly
open, and Herne, in his wild garb, with his antlered helm upon his brow,
and the rusty chain depending from his left arm, stood before them. His
appearance was so terrific and unearthly that they all shrank aghast,
and Mat Bee fell with his face on the floor.
“I am here!” cried the demon. “Now, braggart, wilt dare to seize me?”
But not a hand was moved against him. The whole party seemed transfixed
with terror.
“You dare not brave my power, and you are right,” cried Herne--“a wave
of my hand would bring this old tower about your ears--a word would
summon a legion of fiends to torment you.”
“But do not utter it, I pray you, good Herne--excellent Herne,” cried
Mat Bee. “And, above all things, do not wave your hand, for we have no
desire to be buried alive,--have we, comrades? I should never have said
what I did if I had thought your friendship within hearing.”
“Your royal master will as vainly seek to contend with me as he did to
bury me beneath the oak-tree,” cried Herne. “If you want me further,
seek me in the upper chamber.”
And with these words he darted up the ladder-like flight of steps and
disappeared.
As soon as they recovered from the fright that had enchained them,
Shoreditch and Paddington rushed forth into the area in front of the
turret, and shouting to those on the roof told them that Herne was in
the upper room--a piece of information which was altogether superfluous,
as the hammering had recommenced, and continued till the clock struck
twelve, when it stopped. Just then, it occurred to Mat Bee to ring the
alarm-bell, and he seized the rope, and began to pull it; but the bell
had scarcely sounded, when the cord, severed from above, fell upon his
head.
At this juncture, the king and the Duke of Suffolk arrived. When told
what had happened, though prepared for it, Henry burst into a terrible
passion, and bestowed a buffet on Mat Bee, that well nigh broke his jaw,
and sent him reeling to the farther side of the chamber. He had not at
first understood that Herne was supposed to be in the upper room; but
as soon as he was made aware of the circumstance, he cried out--“Ah,
dastards! have you let him brave you thus? But I am glad of it. His
capture is reserved for my own hand.”
“Do not expose yourself to this risk, my gracious liege,” said Suffolk.
“What! are you too a sharer in their womanish fears, Suffolk?” cried
Henry. “I thought you had been made of stouter stuff. If there is
danger, I shall be the first to encounter it. Come,” he added, snatching
a torch from an arquebusier. And, drawing his dag, he hurried up the
steep steps, while Suffolk followed his example, and three or four
arquebusiers ventured after them.
Meanwhile Shoreditch and Paddington ran out, and informed Bouchier that
the king had arrived, and was mounting in search of Herne, upon which
the captain, shaking off his fears, ordered his men to follow him, and
opening the little door at the top of the stairs, began cautiously to
descend, feeling his way with his sword. He had got about half-way down,
when Henry sprang upon the platform. The light of the torch fell upon
the ghostly figure of Herne, with his arms folded upon his breast,
standing near the pile of wood, lying between the two staircases. So
appalling was the appearance of the demon, that Henry stood still to
gaze at him, while Bouchier and his men remained irresolute on the
stairs. In another moment, the Duke of Suffolk had gained the platform,
and the arquebusiers were seen near the head of the stairs.
“At last, thou art in my power, accursed being!” cried Henry. “Thou art
hemmed in on all sides, and canst not escape!”
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed Herne.
“This shall prove whether thou art human or not,” cried Henry, taking
deliberate aim at him with the dag.
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed Herne. And as the report rang through the room, he
sank through the floor, and disappeared from view.
“Gone!” exclaimed Henry, as the smoke cleared off; “gone! Holy Mary!
then it must indeed be the fiend. I made the middle of his skull my aim,
and if he had not been invulnerable, the bullet must have pierced his
brain.
“I heard it rebound from his horned helmet, and drop to the floor,” said
Bouchier.
“What is that chest?” cried Henry, pointing to a strange coffin-shaped
box, lying, as it seemed, on the exact spot where the demon had
disappeared.
No one had seen it before, though all called to mind the mysterious
hammering; and they had no doubt that the coffin was the work of the
demon.
“Break it open,” cried Henry; “for aught we know, Herne may be concealed
within it.”
The order was reluctantly obeyed by the arquebusiers. But no force was
required, for the lid was not nailed down; and when it was removed, a
human body in the last stage of decay was discovered.
“Pah! close it up,” cried Henry, turning away in disgust. “How came it
there?”
“It must have been brought by the powers of darkness,” said Bouchier;
“no such coffin was here when I searched the chamber two hours ago. But
see,” he suddenly added, stooping down, and picking up a piece of paper
which had fallen from the coffin, “here is a scroll.”
“Give it me!” cried Henry; and holding it to the light, he read the
words, “The body of Mark Fytton, the butcher, the victim of a tyrant's
cruelty.”
Uttering a terrible imprecation, Henry flung the paper from him; and
bidding the arquebusiers burn the body at the foot of the gallows
without the town, he quitted the tower without further search.
XII.
How Wolsey was disgraced by the King.
On the following day, a reconciliation took place between the king and
Anne Boleyn. During a ride in the great park with his royal brother,
Suffolk not only convinced him of the groundlessness of his jealousy,
but contrived to incense him strongly against Wolsey. Thus the queen and
the cardinal lost the momentary advantage they had gained, while Anne's
power was raised yet higher. Yielding to her entreaties not to see
Catherine again, nor to hold further conference with Wolsey until the
sentence of the court should be pronounced, Henry left the castle that
very day, and proceeded to his palace of Bridewell. The distress of the
unhappy queen at this sudden revolution of affairs may be conceived.
Distrusting Wolsey, and putting her sole reliance on Heaven and the
goodness of her cause, she withdrew to Blackfriars, where she remained
till the court met. As to the cardinal himself, driven desperate by
his situation, and exasperated by the treatment he had experienced,
he resolved, at whatever risk, to thwart Henry's schemes, and revenge
himself upon Anne Boleyn.
Thus matters continued till the court met as before in the
Parliament-chamber, at Blackfriars. On this occasion Henry was present,
and took his place under a cloth of estate,--the queen sitting at some
distance below him. Opposite them were the legates, with the Archbishop
of Canterbury, and the whole of the bishops. The aspect of the
assemblage was grave and anxious. Many eyes were turned on Henry, who
looked gloomy and menacing, but the chief object of interest was the
queen, who, though pale as death, had never in her highest days of power
worn a more majestic and dignified air than on this occasion.
The proceedings of the court then commenced, and the king being called
by the crier, he immediately answered to the summons. Catherine was next
called, and instead of replying, she marched towards the canopy beneath
which the king was seated, prostrated herself, and poured forth a most
pathetic and eloquent appeal to him, at the close of which she arose,
and making a profound reverence, walked out of the court, leaning upon
the arm of her general receiver, Griffith. Henry desired the crier to
call her back, but she would not return; and seeing the effect produced
by her address upon the auditory, he endeavoured to efface it by an
eulogium on her character and virtues, accompanied by an expression of
deep regret at the step he was compelled to take in separating himself
from her. But his hypocrisy availed him little, and his speech was
received with looks of ill-disguised incredulity. Some further discourse
then took place between the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Bishop
of Rochester; but as the queen had absented herself, the court was
adjourned to the next day, when it again met, and as she did not then
appear, though summoned, she was pronounced contumacious. After repeated
adjournments, the last session was held, and judgment demanded on the
part of the king, when Campeggio, as had been arranged between him and
Wolsey, declined to pronounce it until he had referred the matter to the
Pope, and the court was dissolved.
About two months after this event, during which time the legate's
commission had been revoked, while Henry was revolving the expediency of
accomplishing the divorce through the medium of his own ecclesiastical
courts, and without reference to that of Rome, a despatch was received
from the Pope by the two cardinals, requiring them to cite the king
to appear before him by attorney on a certain day. At the time of the
arrival of this instrument, Campeggio chanced to be staying with Wolsey
at his palace at Esher, and as the king was then holding his court at
Windsor, they both set out for the castle on the following day, attended
by a retinue of nearly a hundred horsemen, splendidly equipped.
It was now the middle of September, and the woods, instead of presenting
one uniform mass of green, glowed with an infinite variety of lovely
tints. And yet, despite the beauty of the scene, there was something
melancholy in witnessing the decline of the year, as marked by those old
woods, and by the paths that led through them, so thickly strewn with
leaves. Wolsey was greatly affected. “These noble trees will ere long
bereft of all their glories,” he thought, “and so, most likely, will it
be with me, and perhaps my winter may come sooner than theirs!”
The cardinal and his train had crossed Staines Bridge, and passing
through Egham, had entered the great park near Englefield Green. They
were proceeding along the high ridge overlooking the woody region
between it and the castle, when a joyous shout in the glades beneath
reached them, and looking down, they saw the king accompanied by Anne
Boleyn, and attended by his falconers and a large company of horsemen,
pursuing the sport of hawking. The royal party appeared so much
interested in their sport that they did not notice the cardinal and his
train, and were soon out of sight. But as Wolsey descended Snow Hill,
and entered the long avenue, he heard the trampling of horses at a
little distance, and shortly afterwards, Henry and Anne issued from out
the trees. They were somewhat more than a bow-shot in advance of the
cardinal; but instead of halting till he came up, the king had no sooner
ascertained who it was, than, despatching a messenger to the castle, who
was seen galloping swiftly down the avenue, he rode off with Anne Boleyn
towards the opposite side of the park. Though deeply mortified by the
slight, Wolsey concealed his vexation from his brother cardinal, and
pursued his way to the castle, before which he presently arrived. The
gate was thrown open at his approach, but he had scarcely entered
the lower ward when Sir Henry Norris, the king's groom of the stole,
advanced to meet him, and, with a sorrowful expression of countenance,
said that his royal master had so many guests at the castle, that he
could not accommodate him and his train.
“I understand your drift, sir,” replied Wolsey; “you would tell me I am
not welcome. Well, then, his eminence Cardinal Campeggio and myself must
take up our lodging at some hostel in the town, for it is necessary we
should see the king.”
“If your grace is content to dismiss your attendants,” said Norris in a
low tone, “you and Cardinal Campeggio can be lodged in Henry the Third's
Tower. Thus much I will take upon me; but I dare not admit you to the
royal lodgings.”
Wolsey tried to look unconcerned, and calling to his gentleman usher,
George Cavendish, gave him some instructions in a low voice, upon which
the other immediately placed himself at the head of the retinue, and
ordered them to quit the castle with him, leaving only the jester,
Patch, to attend upon his master. Campeggio's attendants being
comparatively speaking, few in number, were allowed to remain, and
his litter was conveyed to Henry the Third's Tower--a fortification
standing, as already stated, in the south side of the lower ward, near
the edge of the dry moat surrounding the Round Tower. At the steps of
this tower Wolsey dismounted, and was about to follow Campeggio into
the doorway, when Will Sommers, who had heard of his arrival, stepped
forward, and with a salutation of mock formality, said, “I am sure it
will grieve the king, my master, not to be able to accommodate your
grace's train; but since it is larger than his own, you will scarce
blame his want of hospitality.”
“Nor the courtesy of his attendants,” rejoined Wolsey sharply. “I am in
no mood for thy jesting now. Stand aside, sirrah, or I will have the rod
applied to thy back!”
“Take care the king does not apply the rod to your own, lord cardinal,”
retorted Will Sommers. “If he scourges you according to your deserts,
your skin will be redder than your robe.” And his mocking laugh pursued
Wolsey like the hiss of a snake into the tower.
Some two hours after this, Henry and his attendants returned from the
chase. The king seemed in a blithe humour, and Wolsey saw him laugh
heartily as Will Sommers pointed with his bauble towards Henry the
Third's Tower. The cardinal received no invitation to the royal banquet;
and the answer to his solicitation for an interview was, that he and
Campeggio would be received in the presence-chamber on the following
morning, but not before.
That night a great revel was held in the castle. Masquing, dancing,
and feasting filled up the evening, and the joyous sounds and strains
reached Wolsey in his seclusion, and forced him to contrast it with his
recent position, when he would have been second only to the king in the
entertainment. He laid his head upon his pillow, but not to rest, and
while tossing feverishly about his couch, he saw the arras with which
the walls were covered, move, and a tall, dark figure step from behind
it. The cardinal would have awakened his jester, who slept in a small
truckle-bed at his feet, but the strange visitor motioned him to be
still.
“You may conjecture who I am, cardinal,” he said, “but in case you
should doubt, I will tell you. I am Herne the Hunter! And now to my
errand. There is a damsel, whom you once saw in the forest near the
great lake, and whom you promised to befriend. You can assist her
now--to-morrow it may be out of your power.”
“I have enough to do to aid myself, without meddling with what concerns
me not,” said Wolsey.
“This damsel does concern you,” cried Herne. “Read this, and you will
see in what way.”
And he tossed a letter to Wolsey, who glanced at it by the light of the
lamp.
“Ha! is it so?” he exclaimed. “Is she--”
“Hush!” cried Herne, “or you will wake this sleeper. It is as you
suppose. Will you not aid her now? Will you not bestow some of your
treasure upon her before it is wholly wrested from you by the king? I
will do aught you wish, secretly and swiftly.”
“Go, then, to my palace at Esher,” cried the cardinal. “Take this key
to my treasurer--it is the key of my coffers. Bid him deliver to you the
six caskets in the cabinet in the gilt chamber. Here is a token by which
he will know that you came from me,” he added, delivering him a small
chain of gold, “for it has been so agreed between us. But you will be
sure to give the treasure to Mabel.”
“Fear nothing,” replied Herne. And stretching forth his hand to receive
the key and the chain, he glided behind the tapestry, and disappeared.
This strange incident gave some diversion to Wolsey's thought; but ere
long they returned to their former channel. Sleep would not be summoned,
and as soon as the first glimpse of day appeared, he arose, and wrapping
his robe around him, left his room and ascended a winding staircase
leading to the roof of the tower.
The morning promised to be fine, but it was then hazy, and the greater
part of the forest was wrapped in mist. The castle, however, was seen to
great advantage. Above Wolsey rose the vast fabric of the Round Tower,
on the summit of which the broad standard was at that moment being
unfurled; while the different battlements and towers arose majestically
around. But Wolsey's gaze rested chiefly upon the exquisite mausoleum
lying immediately beneath him; in which he had partly prepared
for himself a magnificent monument. A sharp pang shook him as he
contemplated it, and he cried aloud, “My very tomb will be wrested from
me by this rapacious monarch; and after all my care and all my cost, I
know not where I shall rest my bones!”
Saddened by the reflection, he descended to his chamber, and again threw
himself on the couch.
But Wolsey was not the only person in the castle who had passed a
sleepless night. Of the host of his enemies many had been kept awake by
the anticipation of his downfall on the morrow; and among these was
Anne Boleyn, who had received an assurance from the king that her enmity
should at length be fully gratified.
At the appointed hour, the two cardinals, proceeded to the royal
lodgings. They were detained for some time in the ante-chamber, where
Wolsey was exposed to the taunts and sneers of the courtiers, who had
lately so servilely fawned upon him. At length, they were ushered
into the presence chamber, at the upper end of which beneath a canopy
emblazoned with the royal arms woven in gold, sat Henry, with Anne
Boleyn on his right hand. At the foot of the throne stood Will Sommers,
and near him the Dukes of Richmond and Suffolk. Norfolk, Rochford, and
a number of other nobles, all open enemies of Wolsey, were also present.
Henry watched the advance of the cardinals with a stern look, and after
they had made an obeisance to him, he motioned them to rise.
“You have sought an interview with me, my lords,” he said, with
suppressed rage. “What would you?”
“We have brought an instrument to you, my liege,” said Wolsey, “which
has just been received from his holiness the Pope.”
“Declare its nature,” said Henry.
“It is a citation,” replied Wolsey, “enjoining your high ness to appear
by attorney in the papal court, under a penalty of ten thousand ducats.”
And he presented a parchment, stamped with the great seal of Rome, to
the king, who glanced his eye fiercely over it, and then dashed it to
the ground, with an explosion of fury terrible to hear and to witness.
“Ha! by Saint George!” he cried; “am I as nothing, that the Pope dares
to insult me thus?”
“It is a mere judicial form your majesty,” interposed Campeggio, “and
is chiefly sent by his holiness to let you know we have no further
jurisdiction in the matter of the divorce.”
“I will take care you have not, nor his holiness either,” roared the
king. “By my father's head, he shall find I will be no longer trifled
with.”
“But, my liege,” cried Campeggio.
“Peace!” cried the king. “I will hear no apologies nor excuses. The
insult has been offered, and cannot be effaced. As for you, Wolsey--”
“Sire!” exclaimed the cardinal, shrinking before the whirlwind of
passion, which seemed to menace his utter extermination.
“As for you, I say,” pursued Henry, extending his hand towards him,
while his eyes flashed fire, “who by your outrageous pride have so long
overshadowed our honour--who by your insatiate avarice and appetite for
wealth have oppressed our subjects--who by your manifold acts of bribery
and extortion have impoverished our realm, and by your cruelty and
partiality have subverted the due course of justice and turned it to
your ends--the time is come when you shall receive due punishment for
your offences.”
“You wrong me, my dear liege,” cried Wolsey abjectly. “These are the
accusations of my enemies. Grant me a patient hearing, and I will
explain all.”
“I would not sharpen the king's resentment against you, lord cardinal,”
said Anne Boleyn, “for it is keen enough; but I cannot permit you to
say that these charges are merely hostile. Those who would support
the king's honour and dignity must desire to see you removed from his
counsels.”
“I am ready to take thy place, lord cardinal,” said Will Sommers; “and
will exchange my bauble for thy chancellor's mace, and my fool's cap for
thy cardinal's hat.”
“Peace!” thundered the king. “Stand not between me and the object of my
wrath. Your accusers are not one but many, Wolsey; nay, the whole of my
people cry out for justice against you. And they shall have it. But you
shall hear the charges they bring. Firstly, contrary to our prerogative,
and for your own advancement and profit, you have obtained authority
legatine from the Pope; by which authority you have not only spoiled and
taken away their substance from many religious houses, but have usurped
much of our own jurisdiction. You have also made a treaty with the
King of France for the Pope without our consent, and concluded another
friendly treaty with the Duke of Ferrara, under our great seal, and
in our name, without our warrant. And furthermore you have presumed to
couple yourself with our royal self in your letters and instructions, as
if you were on an equality with us.”
“Ha! ha! 'The king and I would have you do thus!' 'The king and I give
you our hearty thanks!' Ran it not so, cardinal?” cried Will Sommers.
“You will soon win the cap and bells.”
“In exercise of your legatine authority,” pursued the king, “you have
given away benefices contrary to our crown and dignity, for the which
you are in danger of forfeiture of your lands and goods.”
“A premunire, cardinal,” cried Will Sommers. “A premunire!--ha! ha!”
“Then it has been your practice to receive all the ambassadors to our
court first at your own palace,” continued Henry, “to hear their charges
and intentions, and to instruct them as you might see fit. You have also
so practised that all our letters sent from beyond sea have first come
to your own hands, by which you have acquainted yourself with their
contents, and compelled us and our council to follow your devices.
You have also written to all our ambassadors abroad in your own name
concerning our affairs, without our authority; and received letters in
return from them by which you have sought to compass your own purposes.
By your ambition and pride you have undone many of our poor subjects;
have suppressed religious houses, and received their possessions; have
seized upon the goods of wealthy spiritual men deceased; constrained all
ordinaries yearly to compound with you; have gotten riches for yourself
and servants by subversion of the laws, and by abuse of your authority
in causing divers pardons of the Pope to be suspended until you, by
promise of a yearly pension, chose to revive them; and also by crafty
and untrue tales have sought to create dissention among our nobles.”
“That we can all avouch for,” cried Suffolk. “It was never merry in
England while there were cardinals among us.”
“Of all men in England your grace should be the last to say so,”
rejoined Wolsey; “for if I had not been cardinal, you would not have had
a head upon your shoulders to utter the taunt.”
“No more of this!” cried the king. “You have misdemeaned yourself in
our court by keeping up as great state in our absence as if we had been
there in person, and presumptuously have dared to join and imprint your
badge, the cardinal's hat, under our arms, graven on our coins struck at
York. And lastly, whenever in open Parliament allusion hath been made
to heresies and erroneous sects, you have failed to correct and notice
them, to the danger of the whole body of good and Christian people of
this our realm.”
“This last charge ought to win me favour in the eyes of one who
professes the Opinions of Luther,” said Wolsey to Anne. “But I deny it,
as I do all the rest.”
“I will listen to no defence, Wolsey,” replied the king. “I will
make you a terrible example to others how they offend us and our laws
hereafter.”
“Do not condemn me unheard!” cried the cardinal, prostrating himself.
“I have heard too much, and I will hear no more!” cried the king
fiercely. “I dismiss you from my presence for ever. If you are innocent,
as you aver, justice will be done you.. If you are guilty, as I believe
you to be, look not for leniency from me, for I will show you none.”
And, seating himself, he turned to Anne, and said, in a low tone, “Are
you content, sweetheart?”
“I am,” she replied. “I shall not now break my vow. False cardinal,” she
added aloud, “your reign is at an end.”
“Your own may not be much longer, madam,” rejoined Wolsey bitterly. “The
shadow of the axe,” he added, pointing to the reflection of a partisan
on the floor, “is at your feet. Ere long it may rise to the head.”
And, accompanied by Campeggio, he slowly quitted the presence-chamber.
THUS ENDS THE FOURTH BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE