Windsor Castle

“My grandsire, Tristram Lyndwood, has lived here fifty years and more,” replied Mabel, “but I have only been its inmate within these few weeks. Before that time I lived at Chertsey, under the care of one of the lay sisters of the monastery there—Sister Anastasia.”

“And your parents—where are they?” asked the cardinal curiously.

“Alas! your grace, I have none,” replied Mabel with a sigh. “Tristram Lyndwood is my only living relative. He used to come over once a month to see me at Chertsey—and latterly, finding his dwelling lonely, for he lost the old dame who tended it for him, he brought me to dwell with him. Sister Anastasia was loth to part with me—and I was grieved to leave her—but I could not refuse my grandsire.”

“Of a surety not,” replied the cardinal musingly, and gazing hard at her. “And you know nothing of your parents?”

“Little beyond this,” replied Mabel:—“My father was a keeper of the forest, and being unhappily gored by a stag, perished of the wound—for a hurt from a hart’s horn, as your grace knows, is certain death; and my mother pined after him and speedily followed him to the grave. I was then placed by my grandsire with Sister Anastasia, as I have just related—and this is all my history.”

“A simple yet a curious one,” said Wolsey, still musing. “You are the fairest maid of low degree I ever beheld. You saw the king at the chase the other day, Mabel?”

“Truly, did I, your grace,” she replied, her eyes brightening and her colour rising; “and a right noble king he is.”

“And as gentle and winning as he is goodly to look upon,” said Wolsey, smiling.

“Report says otherwise,” rejoined Mabel.

“Report speaks falsely,” cried Wolsey; “I know him well, and he is what I describe him.”

“I am glad to hear it,” replied Mabel; “and I must own I formed the same opinion myself—for the smile he threw upon me was one of the sweetest and kindliest I ever beheld.”

“Since you confess so much, fair maiden,” rejoined Wolsey, “I will be equally frank, and tell you it was from the king’s own lips I heard of your beauty.”

“Your grace!” she exclaimed.

“Well, well,” said Wolsey, smiling, “if the king is bewitched, I cannot marvel at it. And now, good day, fair maiden; you will hear more of me.”

“Your grace will not refuse me your blessing?” said Mabel.

“Assuredly not, my child,” replied Wolsey, stretching his hands over her. “All good angels and saints bless you, and hold you in their keeping. Mark my words: a great destiny awaits you; but in all changes, rest assured you will find a friend in Cardinal Wolsey.”

“Your grace overwhelms me with kindness,” cried Mabel; “nor can I conceive how I have found an interest in your eyes—unless Sister Anastasia or Father Anslem, of Chertsey Abbey, may have mentioned me to you.”

“You have found a more potent advocate with me than either Sister Anastasia or Father Anselm,” replied Wolsey; “and now, farewell.”

And turning the head of his mule, he rode slowly away.

On the same day there was a great banquet in the castle, and, as usual, Wolsey took his station on the right of the sovereign, while the papal legate occupied a place on the left. Watching a favourable opportunity, Wolsey observed to Henry that he had been riding that morning in the forest, and had seen the loveliest damsel that eyes ever fell upon.

“Ah! by our Lady! and who may she be?” asked the king curiously.

“She can boast little in regard to birth, being grandchild to an old forester,” replied Wolsey; “but your majesty saw her at the hunting party the other day.”

“Ah, now I bethink me of her,” said Henry. “A comely damsel, in good sooth.”

“I know not where her match is to be found,” cried the cardinal. “Would your majesty had seen her skim over the lake in a fairy boat managed by herself, as I beheld her this morning. You would have taken her for a water-sprite, except that no water-sprite was half so beautiful.”

“You speak in raptures, cardinal,” cried Henry. “I must see this damsel again. Where does she dwell? I have heard, but it has slipped my memory.”

“In a hut near the great lake,” replied Wolsey. “There is some mystery attached to her birth, which I have not yet fathomed.”

“Leave me to unriddle it,” replied the king laughingly.

And he turned to talk on other subjects to Campeggio, but Wolsey felt satisfied that the device was successful. Nor was he mistaken. As Henry retired from the banquet, he motioned the Duke of Suffolk towards him, and said, in an undertone—“I shall go forth at dusk to-morrow even in disguise, and shall require your attendance.”

“On a love affair?” asked the duke, in the same tone.

“Perchance,” replied Henry; “but I will explain myself more fully anon.”

This muttered colloquy was overheard by Patch, and faithfully reported by him to the cardinal.

III

Of the Visit of the Two Guildford Merchants to the Forester’s Hut.

Tristam Lyndwood did not return home till late in the evening; and when informed of the cardinal’s visit, he shook his head gravely.

“I am sorry we went to the hunting party,” he observed. “Valentine Hagthorne said mischief would come of it, and I wish I had attended to his advice.”

“I see no mischief in the matter, grandsire,” cried Mabel. “On the contrary, I think I have met with excellent fortune. The good cardinal promises me a high destiny, and says the king himself noticed me.”

“Would his regards had fallen anywhere than on you,” rejoined Tristram. “But I warrant me you told the cardinal your history—all you know of it, at least.”

“I did so,” she replied; “nor did I know I was doing any harm.”

“Answer no such inquiries in future,” said Tristram angrily.

“But, grandfather, I could not refuse to answer the cardinal,” she replied, in a deprecating voice.

“No more excuses, but attend to my injunctions,” said Tristram. “Have you seen Morgan Fenwolf to-day?”

“No; and I care not if I never see him again,” she replied pettishly.

“You dislike him strangely, Mab,” rejoined her grandfather; “he is the best keeper in the forest, and makes no secret of his love for you.”

“The very reason why I dislike him,” she returned.

“By the same rule, if what the cardinal stated be true—though, trust me, he was but jesting—you ought to dislike the king. But get my supper. I have need of it, for I have fasted long.”

Mabel hastened to obey, and set a mess of hot pottage and other viands before him. Little more conversation passed between them, for the old man was weary, and sought his couch early.

That night Mabel did nothing but dream of the king—of stately chambers, rich apparel, and countless attendants. She awoke, and finding herself in a lowly cottage, and without a single attendant, was, like other dreamers of imaginary splendour, greatly discontented.

The next morning her grandsire went again to Bray Wood, and she was left to muse upon the event of the previous day. While busied about some trifling occupation, the door suddenly opened, and Morgan Fenwolf entered the cottage. He was followed by a tall man, with a countenance of extreme paleness, but a noble and commanding figure. There was something so striking in the appearance of the latter person, that it riveted the attention of Mabel. But no corresponding effect was produced on the stranger, for he scarcely bestowed a look upon her.

Morgan Fenwolf hastily asked whether her grandsire was at home, or near at hand, and being answered in the negative, appeared much disappointed. He then said that he must borrow the skiff for a short while, as he wished to visit some nets on the lake. Mabel readily assented, and the stranger quitted the house, while Fenwolf lingered to offer some attention to Mabel, which was so ill received that he was fain to hurry forth to the boathouse, where he embarked with his companion. As soon as the plash of oars announced their departure, Mabel went forth to watch them. The stranger, who was seated in the stern of the boat, for the first time fixed his large melancholy eyes full upon her, and did not withdraw his gaze till an angle of the lake hid him from view.

Marvelling who he could be, and reproaching herself for not questioning Fenwolf on the subject, Mabel resolved to repair the error when the skiff was brought back. But the opportunity did not speedily occur. Hours flew by, the shades of evening drew on, but neither Fenwolf nor the stranger returned.

Soon after dusk her grandfather came home. He did not express the least astonishment at Fenwolf’s prolonged absence, but said that he was sure to be back in the course of the evening, and the skiff was not wanted.

“He will bring us a fine jack or a carp for dinner to-morrow, I’ll warrant me,” he said. “If he had returned in time we might have had fish for supper. No matter. I must make shift with the mutton pie and a rasher of bacon. Morgan did not mention the name of his companion, you say?”

“He did not,” replied Mabel; “but I hope he will bring him with him. He is the goodliest gentleman I ever beheld.”

“What! a goodlier gentleman than the king!” cried Tristram.

“Nay, they should not be compared,” replied Mabel: “the one is stout and burly; the other slight, long-visaged, and pale, but handsome withal—very handsome.”

“Well, I daresay I shall see him anon,” said Tristram. “And now for supper, for I am as sharp-set as a wolf; and so is old Hubert,” he added, glancing affectionately at the hound by which he was attended.

Mabel placed the better part of a huge pie before him, which the old forester attacked with great zeal. He then fell to work upon some slices of bacon toasted over the embers by his granddaughter, and having washed them down with a jug of mead, declared he had supped famously. While taking care of himself, he did not forget his hound. From time to time he threw him morsels of the pie, and when he had done he gave him a large platterful of bones.

“Old Hubert has served me faithfully nigh twenty years,” he said, patting the hound’s shaggy neck, “and must not be neglected.”

Throwing a log of wood on the fire, he drew his chair into the ingle-nook, and disposed himself to slumber. Meanwhile, Mabel busied herself about her household concern, and was singing a lulling melody to her grandfather, in a voice of exquisite sweetness, when a loud tap was heard at the door. Tristram roused himself from his doze, and old Hubert growled menacingly.

“Quiet, Hubert—quiet!” cried Tristram. “It cannot be Morgan Fenwolf,” he added. “He would never knock thus. Come in, friend, whoever thou art.”

At this invitation two persons darkened the doorway. The foremost was a man of bulky frame and burly demeanour. He was attired in a buff jerkin, over which he wore a loose great surcoat; had a flat velvet cap on his head; and carried a stout staff in his hand. His face was broad and handsome, though his features could scarcely be discerned in the doubtful light to which they were submitted. A reddish-coloured beard clothed his chin. His companion, who appeared a trifle the taller of the two, and equally robust, was wrapped in a cloak of dark green camlet.

“Give you good e’en, friend,” said the foremost stranger to the forester. “We are belated travellers, on our way from Guildford to Windsor, and, seeing your cottage, have called to obtain some refreshment before we cross the great park. We do not ask you to bestow a meal upon us, but will gladly pay for the best your larder affords.”

“You shall have it, and welcome, my masters,” replied Tristram, “but I am afraid my humble fare will scarcely suit you.”

“Fear nothing,” replied the other; “we have good appetites, and are not over dainty. Beshrew me, friend,” he added, regarding Mabel, “you have a comely daughter.”

“She is my granddaughter, sir,” replied Tristram.

“Well, your granddaughter, then,” said the other; “by the mass, a lovely wench. We have none such in Guildford, and I doubt if the king hath such in Windsor Castle. What say you, Charles Brandon?”

“It were treason to agree with you, Harry La Roy,” replied Brandon, laughing, “for they say the king visits with the halter all those who disparage the charms of the Lady Anne Boleyn. But, comparisons apart, this damsel is very fair.”

“You will discompose her, my masters, if you praise her thus to her face,” said Tristram somewhat testily. “Here, Mab, bring forth all my scanty larder affords, and put some rashers of bacon on the fire.”

“Cold meat and bread will suffice for us,” said Harry: “we will not trouble the damsel to play the cook.”

With this Mabel, who appeared a good deal embarrassed by the presence of the strangers, spread a cloth of snow-white linen on the little table, and placed the remains of the pie and a large oven cake before them. The new-comers sate down, and ate heartily of the humble viands, he who had answered to the name of Harry frequently stopping in the course of his repast to compliment his fair attendant.

“By our Lady, I have never been so waited on before,” he added, rising and removing his stool towards the fire, while his companion took up a position, with his back against the wall, near the fireplace. “And now, my pretty Mabel, have you never a cup of ale to wash down the pie?”

“I can offer you a draught of right good mead, master,” said Tristram; “and that is the only liquor my cottage can furnish.”

“Nothing can be better,” replied Harry. “The mead, by all means.”

While Mabel went to draw the liquor, Tristram fixed his eyes on Harry, whose features were now fully revealed by the light of the fire.

“Why do you look at me so hard, friend?” demanded Harry bluffly.

“I have seen some one very like you, master,” replied Tristram, “and one whom it is no light honour to resemble.”

“You mean the king,” returned Harry, laughing. “You are not the first person who has thought me like him.”

“You are vain of the likeness, I see, master,” replied Tristram, joining in the laugh. “How say you, Mab?” he added to his granddaughter, who at that moment returned with a jug and a couple of drinking-horns. “Whom does this gentleman resemble?”

“No one,” returned Mabel, without raising her eyes.

“No one,” echoed Harry, chucking her under the chin. “Look me full in the face, and you will find out your mistake. Marry, if I were the royal Henry, instead of what I am, a plain Guildford merchant, I should prefer you to Anne Boleyn.”

“Is that said in good sooth, sir?” asked Mabel, slightly raising her eyes, and instantly dropping them before the ardent gaze of the self-styled merchant.

“In good sooth and sober truth,” replied Henry, rounding his arm and placing his hand on his lusty thigh in true royal fashion.

“Were you the royal Henry, I should not care for your preference,” said Mabel more confidently. “My grandsire says the king changes his love as often as the moon changes—nay, oftener.”

“God’s death!—your grandsire is a false knave to say so! cried Harry.

“Heaven help us! you swear the king’s oaths,” said Mabel. “And wherefore not, sweetheart?” said Harry, checking himself. “It is enough to make one swear, and in a royal fashion too, to hear one’s liege lord unjustly accused. I have ever heard the king styled a mirror of constancy. How say you, Charles Brandon?—can you not give him a good character?”

“Oh! an excellent character,” said Brandon. “He is constancy itself—while the fit lasts,” he added, aside.

“You hear what my friend says, sweetheart,” observed Harry; “and I assure you he has the best opportunities of judging. But I’ll be sworn you did not believe your grand-sire when he thus maligned the king.”

“She contradicted me flatly,” said Tristram. “But pour out the mead, girl; our guests are waiting for it.”

While Mabel, in compliance with her grandsire’s directions, filled the horn, the door of the cottage was noiselessly opened by Morgan Fenwolf, who stepped in, followed by Bawsey. He stared inquisitively at the strangers, but both were so much occupied by the damsel that he remained unnoticed. A sign from the old forester told him he had better retire: jealous curiosity, however, detained him, and he tarried till Harry had received the cup from Mabel, and drained it to her health. He then drew back, closed the door softly, and joined a dark and mysterious figure, with hideous lineaments and an antlered helm upon its brows, lurking outside the cottage.

Meanwhile, a cup of mead having been offered to Brandon, he observed to his companion, “We must now be setting forth on our journey. Night is advancing, and we have five long miles to traverse across the great park.”

“I would stay where I am,” rejoined Harry, “and make a bench near the fire serve me in lieu of a couch, but that business requires our presence at the castle to-night. There is payment for our meal, friend,” he added, giving a mark to Tristram, “and as we shall probably return to-morrow night, we will call and have another supper with you. Provide us a capon, and some fish from the lake.”

“You pay as you swear, good sir, royally,” replied Tristram. “You shall have a better supper to-morrow night.”

“You have a dangerous journey before you, sir,” said Mabel. “They say there are plunderers and evil spirits in the great park.”

“I have no fear of any such, sweetheart,” replied Harry. “I have a strong arm to defend myself, and so has my friend Charles Brandon. And as to evil spirits, a kiss from you will shield me from all ill.”

And as he spoke, he drew her towards him, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted a score of rapid kisses on her lips.

“Hold! hold, master!” cried Tristram, rising angrily; “this may not be. ‘Tis an arrant abuse of hospitality.”

“Nay, be not offended, good friend,” replied Harry, laughing. “I am on the look-out for a wife, and I know not but I may take your granddaughter with me to Guildford.”

“She is not to be so lightly won,” cried Tristram; “for though I am but a poor forester, I rate her as highly as the haughtiest noble can rate his child.”

“And with reason,” said Harry. “Good-night, sweet-heart! By my crown, Suffolk!” he exclaimed to his companion, as he quitted the cottage, “she is an angel, and shall be mine.”

“Not if my arm serves me truly,” muttered Fenwolf, who, with his mysterious companion, had stationed himself at the window of the hut.

“Do him no injury,” returned the other; “he is only to be made captive-mark that. And now to apprise Sir Thomas Wyat. We must intercept them before they reach their horses.”

IV

How Herne the Hunter showed the Earl of Surrey the Fair Geraldine in a Vision.

On the third day after Surrey’s imprisonment in the keep, he was removed to the Norman Tower. The chamber allotted him was square, tolerably lofty, and had two narrow-pointed windows on either side, looking on the one hand into the upper quadrangle, and on the other into the middle ward. At the same time permission was accorded him to take exercise on the battlements of the Round Tower, or within the dry and grassy moat at its foot.

The Fair Geraldine, he was informed, had been sent to the royal palace at Greenwich; but her absence occasioned him little disquietude, because he knew, if she had remained at Windsor, he would not have been allowed to see her.

On the same day that Surrey was removed to the Norman Tower, the Duke of Richmond quitted the castle without assigning any motive for his departure, or even taking leave of his friend. At first some jealous mistrust that he might be gone to renew his suit to the Fair Geraldine troubled the earl; but he strongly combated the feeling, as calculated, if indulged, to destroy his tranquillity; and by fixing his thoughts sedulously on other subjects, he speedily succeeded in overcoming it.

On that night, while occupied in a translation of the Aeneid which he had commenced, he remained at his task till a late hour. The midnight bell had tolled, when, looking up, he was startled by perceiving a tall figure standing silent and motionless beside him.

Independently of the difficulty of accounting for its presence, the appearance of the figure was in itself sufficiently appalling. It was above the ordinary stature, and was enveloped in a long black cloak, while a tall, conical black cap, which added to its height, and increased the hideousness of its features, covered its head.

For a few minutes Surrey remained gazing at the figure in mute astonishment, during which it maintained the same motionless posture. At length he was able to murmur forth the interrogation, “Who art thou?”

“A friend,” replied the figure, in a sepulchral tone.

“Are you a man or spirit?” demanded Surrey.

“It matters not—I am a friend,” rejoined the figure.

“On what errand come you here?” asked Surrey.

“To serve you,” replied the figure; “to liberate you. You shall go hence with me, if you choose.”

“On what condition?” rejoined Surrey.

“We will speak of that when we are out of the castle, and on the green sod of the forest,” returned the figure.

“You tempt in vain,” cried Surrey. “I will not go with you. I recognise in you the demon hunter Herne.” The figure laughed hollowly—so hollowly that Surrey’s flesh crept upon his bones.

“You are right, lord of Surrey,” he said; “I am Herne the Hunter. You must join me. Sir Thomas Wyat is already one of my band.”

“You lie, false fiend!” rejoined Surrey. “Sir Thomas Wyat is in France.”

“It is you who lie, lord of Surrey,” replied Herne; “Sir Thomas Wyat is now in the great park. You shall see him in a few minutes, if you will come with me.”

“I disbelieve you, tempter!” cried Surrey indignantly. “Wyat is too good a Christian, and too worthy a knight, to league with a demon.”

Again Herne laughed bitterly.

“Sir Thomas Wyat told you he would seek me out,” said the demon. “He did so, and gave himself to me for Anne Boleyn.”

“But you have no power over her, demon?” cried Surrey, shuddering.

“You will learn whether I have or not, in due time,” replied Herne. “Do you refuse to go with me?”

“I refuse to deliver myself to perdition,” rejoined the earl.

“An idle fear,” rejoined Herne. “I care not for your soul—you will destroy it without my aid. I have need of you. You shall be back again in this chamber before the officer visits it in the morning, and no one shall be aware of your absence. Come, or I will bear you hence.”

“You dare not touch me,” replied Surrey, placing his hand upon his breast; “I am armed with a holy relic.”

“I know it,” said Herne; “and I feel its power, or I would not have trifled with you thus long. But it cannot shield you from a rival. You believe the Fair Geraldine constant—ha?”

“I know her to be so,” said Surrey.

A derisive laugh broke from Herne.

“Peace, mocking fiend!” cried Surrey furiously.

“I laugh to think how you are deceived,” said Herne. “Would you behold your mistress now?—would you see how she conducts herself during your absence?”

“If you choose to try me, I will not oppose the attempt,” replied Surrey; “but it will be futile.”

“Remove the relic from your person,” rejoined Herne. “Place it upon the table, within your grasp, and you shall see her.”

Surrey hesitated; but he was not proof against the low mocking laugh of the demon.

“No harm can result from it,” he cried at length, detaching the relic from his neck, and laying it on the table.

“Extinguish the light!” cried Herne, in a commanding voice.

Surrey instantly sprang to his feet, and dashed the lamp off the table. “Behold!” cried the demon.

And instantly a vision, representing the form and lineaments of the Fair Geraldine to the life, shone forth against the opposite wall of the chamber. At the feet of the visionary damsel knelt a shape resembling the Duke of Richmond. He was pressing the hand extended to him by the Fair Geraldine to his lips, and a smile of triumph irradiated his features.

“Such is man’s friendship—such woman’s constancy!” cried Herne. “Are you now satisfied?”

“I am, that you have deceived me, false spirit!” cried the earl. “I would not believe the Fair Geraldine inconstant, though all hell told me so.”

A terrible laugh broke from the demon, and the vision faded away. All became perfect darkness, and for a few moments the earl remained silent. He then called to the demon, but receiving no answer, put forth his hand towards the spot where he had stood. He was gone.

Confounded, Surrey returned to the table, and searched for the relic, but, with a feeling of indescribable anguish and self-reproach, found that it had likewise disappeared.