Windsor Castle

V

The Last Great Epoch in the History of the Castle.

A prince of consummate taste and fine conceptions, George the Fourth meditated, and, what is better, accomplished the restoration of the castle to more than its original grandeur. He was singularly fortunate in his architect. Sir Jeffry Wyatville was to him what William of Wykeham had been to Edward the Third. All the incongruities of successive reigns were removed: all, or nearly all, the injuries inflicted by time repaired; and when the work so well commenced was finished, the structure took its place as the noblest and most majestic palatial residence in existence.

To enter into a full detail of Wyatville’s achievements is beyond the scope of the present work; but a brief survey may be taken of them. Never was lofty design more fully realised. View the castle on the north, with its grand terrace of nearly a thousand feet in length, and high embattled walls; its superb facade, comprehending the stately Brunswick Tower; the Cornwall Tower, with its gorgeous window; George the Fourth’s Tower, including the great oriel window of the state drawing-room; the restored Stuart buildings, and those of Henry the Seventh and of Elizabeth; the renovated Norman Tower; the Powder Tower, with the line of walls as far as the Winchester Tower;—view this, and then turn to the east, and behold another front of marvellous beauty extending more than four hundred feet from north to south, and displaying the Prince of Wales’s Tower, the Chester, Clarence, and Victoria Towers—all of which have been raised above their former level, and enriched by great projecting windows;—behold also the beautiful sunken garden, with its fountain and orangery, its flights of steps, and charming pentagonal terrace;—proceed to the south front, of which the Victoria Tower, with its machicolated battlements and oriel window, forms so superb a feature at the eastern corner, the magnificent gateway receiving its name from George the Fourth, flanked by the York and Lancaster Towers, and opening in a continued line from the Long Walk; look at Saint George’s Gate, Edward the Third’s renovated tower, and the octagon tower beyond it; look at all these, and if they fail to excite a due appreciation of the genius that conceived them, gaze at the triumph of the whole, and which lords over all the rest—the Round Tower—gaze at it, and not here alone, but from the heights of the great park, from the vistas of the home park, from the bowers of Eton, the meads of Clewer and Datchet, from the Brocas, the gardens of the naval knights—from a hundred points; view it at sunrise when the royal standard is hoisted, or at sunset when it is lowered, near or at a distance, and it will be admitted to be the work of a prodigious architect!

But Wyatville’s alterations have not yet been fully considered. Pass through Saint George’s Gateway, and enter the grand quadrangle to which it leads. Let your eye wander round it, beginning with the inner sides of Edward the Third’s Tower and George the Fourth’s Gateway, and proceeding to the beautiful private entrance to the sovereign’s apartments, the grand range of windows of the eastern corridor, the proud towers of the gateway to the household, the tall pointed windows of Saint George’s Hall, the state entrance tower, with its noble windows, until it finally rests upon the Stuart buildings and King John’s Tower, at the angle of the pile.

Internally the alterations made by the architects have been of corresponding splendour and importance. Around the south and east sides of the court at which you are gazing, a spacious corridor has been constructed, five hundred and fifty feet in length, and connected with the different suites of apartments on these sides of the quadrangle; extensive alterations have been made in the domestic offices; the state apartments have been repaired and rearranged; Saint George’s Hall has been enlarged by the addition of the private chapel (the only questionable change), and restored to the Gothic style; and the Waterloo Chamber built to contain George the Fourth’s munificent gift to the nation of the splendid collection of portraits now occupying it.

“The first and most remarkable characteristic of operations of Sir Jeffry Wyatville on the exterior,” observes Mr. Poynter, “is the judgment with which he has preserved the castle of Edward the Third. Some additions have been made to it, and with striking effect—as the Brunswick Tower, and the western tower of George the Fourth’s Gate-way which so nobly terminates the approach from the great park. The more modern buildings on the north side have also been assimilated to the rest; but the architect has yielded to no temptation to substitute his own design for that of William of Wykeham, and no small difficulties have been combated and overcome for the sake of preserving the outline of the edifice, and maintaining the towers in their original position.”

The Winchester Tower, originally inhabited by William of Wykeham, was bestowed upon Sir Jeffry Wyatville as a residence by George the Fourth; and, on the resignation of the distinguished architect, was continued to him for life by the present queen.

The works within the castle were continued during the reign of William the Fourth, and at its close the actual cost of the buildings had reached the sum of 771,000, pounds and it has been asserted that the general expenditure up to the present time has exceeded a million and a half of money.

The view from the summit of the Round Tower is beyond description magnificent, and commands twelve counties—namely, Middlesex, Essex, Hertford, Berks, Bucks, Oxford, Wilts, Hants, Surrey, Sussex, Kent, and Bedford; while on a clear day the dome of Saint Paul’s may be distinguished from it. This tower was raised thirty-three feet by Sir Jeffry Wyatville, crowned with a machicolated battlement, and surmounted with a flag-tower.

The circumference of the castle is 4180 feet; the length from east to west, 1480 feet; and the area, exclusive of the terraces, about twelve acres.

For the present the works are suspended. But it is to be hoped that the design of Sir Jeffry Wyatville will be fully carried out in the lower ward, by the removal of such houses on the north as would lay Saint George’s Chapel open to view from this side; by the demolition of the old incongruous buildings lying westward of the bastion near the Hundred Steps, by the opening out of the pointed roof of the library; the repair and reconstruction in their original style of the Curfew, the Garter, and the Salisbury Towers; and the erection of a lower terrace extending outside the castle, from the bastion above mentioned to the point of termination of the improvements, and accessible from the town; the construction of which terrace would necessitate the removal of the disfiguring and encroaching houses on the east side of Thames Street. This accomplished, Crane’s ugly buildings removed, and the three western towers laid open to the court, the Horse-shoe Cloisters consistently repaired, Windsor Castle would indeed be complete. And fervently do we hope that this desirable event may be identified with the reign of VICTORIA.

THUS ENDS THE THIRD BOOK OF THE CHRONICLE OF WINDSOR CASTLE

BOOK IV. CARDINAL WOLSEY

I

Of the Interview between Henry and Catherine of Arragon in the Urswick Chapel—And how it was interrupted.

IT was now the joyous month of June; and where is June so joyous as within the courts and halls of peerless Windsor? Where does the summer sun shine so brightly as upon its stately gardens and broad terraces, its matchless parks, its silver belting river and its circumference of proud and regal towers? Nowhere in the world. At all seasons Windsor is magnificent: whether, in winter, she looks upon her garnitures of woods stripped of their foliage—her river covered with ice—or the wide expanse of country around her sheeted with snow—or, in autumn, gazes on the same scene—a world of golden-tinted leaves, brown meadows, or glowing cornfields. But summer is her season of beauty—June is the month when her woods are fullest and greenest; when her groves are shadiest; her avenues most delicious; when her river sparkles like a diamond zone; when town and village, mansion and cot, church and tower, hill and vale, the distant capital itself—all within view—are seen to the highest advantage. At such a season it is impossible to behold from afar the heights of Windsor, crowned, like the Phrygian goddess, by a castled diadem, and backed by lordly woods, and withhold a burst of enthusiasm and delight. And it is equally impossible, at such a season, to stand on the grand northern terrace, and gaze first at the proud pile enshrining the sovereign mistress of the land, and then gaze on the unequalled prospect spread out before it, embracing in its wide range every kind of beauty that the country can boast, and not be struck with the thought that the perfect and majestic castle—“In state as wholesome as in state ‘tis fit Worthy the owner, and the owner it,”—together with the wide, and smiling, and populous district around it, form an apt representation of the British sovereign and her dominions. There stands the castle, dating back as far as the Conquest, and boasting since its foundation a succession of royal inmates, while at its foot lies a region of unequalled fertility and beauty-full of happy homes, and loving, loyal hearts—a miniature of the old country and its inhabitants. What though the smiling landscape may he darkened by a passing cloud!—what though a momentary gloom may gather round the august brow of the proud pile!—the cloud will speedily vanish, the gloom disperse, and the bright and sunny scene look yet brighter and sunnier from the contrast.

It was the chance of the writer of these lines upon one occasion to behold his sovereign under circumstances which he esteems singularly fortunate. She was taking rapid exercise with the prince upon the south side of the garden-terrace. All at once the royal pair paused at the summit of the ascent leading from George the Fourth’s gateway. The prince disappeared along the eastern terrace, leaving the queen alone. And there she stood, her slight, faultless figure sharply defined against the clear sky. Nothing was wanting to complete the picture: the great bay-windows of the Victoria Tower on the one hand—the balustrade of the terrace on the other—the home park beyond. It was thrilling to feel that that small, solitary figure comprehended all the might and majesty of England—and a thousand kindling aspirations were awakened by the thought.

But it was, as has been said, the merry month of June, and Windsor Castle looked down in all its magnificence upon the pomp of woods, and upon the twelve fair and smiling counties lying within its ken. A joyous stir was within its courts—the gleam of arms and the fluttering of banners was seen upon its battlements and towers, and the ringing of bells, the beating of drums, and the fanfares of trumpets, mingled with the shouting of crowds and the discharge of ordnance.

Amidst this tumult a grave procession issued from the deanery, and took its way across the lower quadrangle, which was thronged with officers and men-at-arms, in the direction of the lower gate. Just as it arrived there a distant gun was heard, and an answering peal was instantly fired from the culverins of the Curfew Tower, while a broad standard, emblazoned with the arms of France and England within the garter, and having for supporters the English lion crowned and the red dragon sinister, was reared upon the keep. All these preparations betokened the approach of the king, who was returning to the castle after six weeks’ absence.

Though information of the king’s visit to the castle had only preceded him by a few hours, everything was ready for his reception, and the greatest exertions were used to give splendour to it.

In spite of his stubborn and tyrannical nature, Henry was a popular monarch, and never showed himself before his subjects but he gained their applauses; his love of pomp, his handsome person, and manly deportment, always winning him homage from the multitude. But at no period was he in a more critical position than the present. The meditated divorce from Catherine of Arragon was a step which found no sympathy from the better portion of his subjects, while the ill-assorted union of Anne Boleyn, an avowed Lutheran, which it was known would follow it, was equally objectionable. The seeds of discontent had been widely sown in the capital; and tumults had occurred which, though promptly checked, had nevertheless alarmed the king, coupled as they were with the disapprobation of his ministers, the sneering remonstrances of France, the menaces of the Papal See, and the open hostilities of Spain. But the characteristic obstinacy of his nature kept him firm to his point, and he resolved to carry it, be the consequences what they might.

All his efforts to win over Campeggio proved fruitless. The legate was deaf to his menaces or promises, well knowing that to aid Anne Boleyn would be to seriously affect the interests of the Church of Rome.

The affair, however, so long and so artfully delayed, was now drawing to a close. A court was appointed by the legates to be holden on the 18th of June, at Blackfriars, to try the question. Gardiner had been recalled from Rome to act as counsel for Henry; and the monarch, determining to appear by proxy at the trial, left his palace at Bridewell the day before it was to come on, and set out with Anne Boleyn and his chief attendants for Windsor Castle.

Whatever secret feelings might be entertained against him, Henry was received by the inhabitants of Windsor with every demonstration of loyalty and affection. Deafening shouts rent the air as he approached; blessings and good wishes were showered upon him; and hundreds of caps were flung into the air. But noticing that Anne Boleyn was received with evil looks and in stern silence, and construing this into an affront to himself, Henry not only made slight and haughty acknowledgment of the welcome given him, but looked out for some pretext to manifest his displeasure. Luckily none was afforded him, and he entered the castle in a sullen mood.

The day was spent in gentle exercise within the home park and on the terrace, and the king affected the utmost gaiety and indifference; but those acquainted with him could readily perceive he was ill at ease. In the evening he remained for some time alone in his closet penning despatches, and then summoning an attendant, ordered him to bring Captain Bouchier into his presence.

“Well, Bouchier,” he said, as the officer made his appearance, “have you obeyed my instructions in regard to Mabel Lyndwood?”

“I have, my liege,” replied Bouchier. “In obedience to your majesty’s commands, immediately after your arrival at the castle I rode to the forester’s hut, and ascertained that the damsel was still there.”

“And looking as beautiful as ever, I’ll be sworn!” said the king.

“It was the first time I had seen her, my liege,” replied Bouchier; “but I do not think she could have ever looked more beautiful.”

“I am well assured of it,” replied Henry. “The pressure of affairs during my absence from the castle had banished her image from my mind; but now it returns as forcibly as before. And you have so arranged it that she will be brought hither to-morrow night?”

Bouchier replied in the affirmative.

“It is well,” pursued Henry; “but what more?—for you look as if you had something further to declare.”

“Your majesty will not have forgotten how you exterminated the band of Herne the Hunter?” said Bouchier.

“Mother of Heaven, no!” cried the king, starting up; “I have not forgotten it. What of them?—Ha! have they come to life again?—do they scour the parks once more? That were indeed a marvel!”

“What I have to relate is almost as great a marvel,” returned Bouchier. “I have not heard of the resurrection of the band though for aught I know it may have occurred. But Herne has been seen again in the forest. Several of the keepers have been scared by him—travellers have been affrighted and plundered—and no one will now cross the great park after nightfall.”

“Amazement!” cried Henry, again seating himself; “once let the divorce be settled, and I will effectually check the career of this lawless and mysterious being.”

“Pray heaven your majesty may be able to do so!” replied Bouchier. “But I have always been of opinion that the only way to get rid of the demon would be by the aid of the Church. He is unassailable by mortal weapons.”

“It would almost seem so,” said the king. “And yet I do not like to yield to the notion.”

“I shrewdly suspect that old Tristram Lyndwood, the grandsire of the damsel upon whom your majesty has deigned to cast your regards, is in some way or other leagued with Herne,” said Bouchier. “At all events, I saw him with a tall hideous-looking personage, whose name I understand to be Valentine Hagthorne, and who, I feel persuaded, must be one of the remnants of the demon hunter’s band.”

“Why did you not arrest him?” inquired Henry.

“I did not like to do so without your majesty’s authority,” replied Bouchier. “Besides, I could scarcely arrest Hagthorne without at the same time securing the old forester, which might have alarmed the damsel. But I am ready to execute your injunctions now.”

“Let a party of men go in search of Hagthorne to-night,” replied Henry; “and while Mabel is brought to the castle to-morrow, do you arrest old Tristram, and keep him in custody till I have leisure to examine him.”

“It shall be done as you desire, my liege,” replied Bouchier, bowing and departing.

Shortly after this Henry, accompanied by Anne Boleyn, proceeded with his attendants to Saint George’s Chapel, and heard vespers performed. Just as he was about to return, an usher advanced towards him, and making a profound reverence, said that a masked dame, whose habiliments proclaimed her of the highest rank, craved a moment’s audience of him.

“Where is she?” demanded Henry.

“In the north aisle, an’t please your majesty,” replied the usher, “near the Urswick Chapel. I told her that this was not the place for an audience of your majesty, nor the time; but she would not be said nay, and therefore, at the risk of incurring your sovereign displeasure, I have ventured to proffer her request.”

The usher omitted to state that his chief inducement to incur the risk was a valuable ring, given him by the lady.

“Well, I will go to her,” said the king. “I pray you, excuse me for a short space, fair mistress,” he added to Anne Boleyn.

And quitting the choir, he entered the northern aisle, and casting his eyes down the line of noble columns by which it is flanked, and seeing no one, he concluded that the lady must have retired into the Urswick Chapel. And so it proved; for on reaching this exquisite little shrine he perceived a tall masked dame within it, clad in robes of the richest black velvet. As he entered the chapel, the lady advanced towards him, and throwing herself on her knees, removed her mask—disclosing features stamped with sorrow and suffering, but still retaining an expression of the greatest dignity. They were those of Catherine of Arragon.

Uttering an angry exclamation, Henry turned on his heel and would have left her, but she clung to the skirts of his robe.

“Hear me a moment, Henry—my king—my husband—one single moment—hear me!” cried Catherine, in tones of such passionate anguish that he could not resist the appeal.

“Be brief, then, Kate,” he rejoined, taking her hand to raise her.

“Blessings on you for the word!” cried the queen, covering his hand with kisses. “I am indeed your own true Kate—your faithful, loving, lawful wife!”

“Rise, madam!” cried Henry coldly; “this posture beseems not Catherine of Arragon.”

“I obey you now as I have ever done,” she replied, rising; “though if I followed the prompting of my heart, I should not quit my knees till I had gained my suit.”

“You have, done wrong in coming here, Catherine, at this juncture,” said Henry, “and may compel me to some harsh measure which I would willingly have avoided.”

“No one knows I am here,” replied the queen, “except two faithful attendants, who are vowed to secrecy; and I shall depart as I came.”

“I am glad you have taken these precautions,” replied Henry. “Now speak freely, but again I must bid you be brief.”

“I will be as brief as I can,” replied the queen; “but I pray you bear with me, Henry, if I unhappily weary you. I am full of misery and affliction, and never was daughter and wife of king wretched as I am. Pity me, Henry—pity me! But that I restrain myself, I should pour forth my soul in tears before you. Oh, Henry, after twenty years’ duty and to be brought to this unspeakable shame—to be cast from you with dishonour—to be supplanted by another—it is terrible!”

“If you have only come here to utter reproaches, madam, I must put an end to the interview,” said Henry, frowning.

“I do not reproach you, Henry,” replied Catherine meekly, “I only wish to show you the depth and extent of my affection. I only implore you to do me right and justice—not to bring shame upon me to cover your own wrongful action. Have compassion upon the princess our daughter—spare her, if you will not spare me!”

“You sue in vain, Catherine,” replied Henry. “I lament your condition, but my eyes are fully opened to the sinful state in which I have so long lived, and I am resolved to abandon it.”

“An unworthy prevarication,” replied Catherine, “by which you seek to work my ruin, and accomplish your union with Anne Boleyn. And you will no doubt succeed; for what can I, a feeble woman, and a stranger in your country, do to prevent it? You will succeed, I say—you will divorce me and place her upon the throne. But mark my words, Henry, she will not long remain there.”

The king smiled bitterly

“She will bring dishonour upon you,” pursued Catherine. “The woman who has no regard for ties so sacred as those which bind us will not respect other obligations.”

“No more of this!” cried Henry. “You suffer your resentment to carry you too far.”

“Too far!” exclaimed Catherine. “Too far!—Is to warn you that you are about to take a wanton to your bed—and that you will bitterly repent your folly when too late, going too far? It is my duty, Henry, no less than my desire, thus to warn you ere the irrevocable step be taken.”

“Have you said all you wish to say, madam?” demanded the king.

“No, my dear liege, not a hundredth part of what my heart prompts me to utter,” replied Catherine. “I conjure you by my strong and tried affection—by the tenderness that has for years subsisted between us—by your hopes of temporal prosperity and spiritual welfare—by all you hold dear and sacred—to pause while there is yet time. Let the legates meet to-morrow—let them pronounce sentence against me and as surely as those fatal words are uttered, my heart will break.”

“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Henry impatiently, “you will live many years in happy retirement.”

“I will die as I have lived—a queen,” replied Catherine; “but my life will not be long. Now, answer me truly—if Anne Boleyn plays you false—”

“She never will play me false!” interrupted Henry.

“I say if she does,” pursued Catherine, “and you are satisfied of her guilt, will you be content with divorcing her as you divorce me?”

“No, by my father’s head!” cried Henry fiercely. “If such a thing were to happen, which I hold impossible, she should expiate her offence on the scaffold.”

“Give me your hand on that,” said Catherine.

“I give you my hand upon it,” he replied.

“Enough,” said the queen: “if I cannot have right and justice I shall at least have vengeance, though it will come when I am in my tomb. But it will come, and that is sufficient.”

“This is the frenzy of jealousy, Catherine,” said Henry.

“No, Henry; it is not jealousy,” replied the queen, with dignity. “The daughter of Ferdinand of Spain and Isabella of Castile, with the best blood of Europe in her veins, would despise herself if she could entertain so paltry a feeling towards one born so much beneath her as Anne Boleyn.”

“As you will, madam,” rejoined Henry. “It is time our interview terminated.”

“Not yet, Henry—for the love of Heaven, not yet!” implored Catherine. “Oh, bethink you by whom we were joined together!—by your father, Henry the Seventh—one of the wisest princes that ever sat on a throne; and by the sanction of my own father, Ferdinand the Fifth, one of the justest. Would they have sanctioned the match if it had been unlawful? Were they destitute of good counsellors? Were they indifferent to the future?”