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 Jam 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 companons, 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.
“Luckily, the king had quitted the castle, but they felt certain they 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 fiendship 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