Chapter V: Book II: Herne the Hunter (1)

I.

Of the Compact between Sir Thomas Wyat and Herne the Hunter.

On the day after his secret interview with Anne Boleyn, Sir Thomas Wyat received despatches from the king for the court of France.

“His majesty bade me tell you to make your preparations quickly, Sir Thomas,” said the messenger who delivered the despatches; “he cares not how soon you set forth.”

“The king's pleasure shall be obeyed,” rejoined Wyat.

And the messenger retired.

Left alone, Wyat remained for some time in profound and melancholy thought. Heaving a deep sigh, he then arose, and paced the chamber with rapid strides.

“Yes, it is better thus,” he ejaculated. “If I remain near her, I shall do some desperate deed. Better--far better--I should go. And yet to leave her with Henry--to know that he is ever near her--that he drinks in the music of her voice, and basks in the sunshine of her smile--while I am driven forth to darkness and despair--the thought is madness! I will not obey the hateful mandate! I will stay and defy him!”

As he uttered aloud this wild and unguarded speech, the arras screening the door was drawn aside, and gave admittance to Wolsey.

Wyat's gaze sunk before the penetrating glance fixed upon him by the Cardinal.

“I did not come to play the eavesdropper, Sir Thomas,” said Wolsey; “but I have heard enough to place your life in my power. So you refuse to obey the king's injunctions. You refuse to proceed to Paris. You refuse to assist in bringing about the divorce, and prefer remaining here to brave your sovereign, and avenge yourself upon a fickle mistress. Ha?”

Wyat returned no answer.

“If such be your purpose,” pursued Wolsey, after a pause, during which he intently scrutinised the knight's countenance, “I will assist you in it. Be ruled by me, and you shall have a deep and full revenge.”

“Say on,” rejoined Wyat, his eyes blazing with infernal fire, and his hand involuntarily clutching the handle of his dagger.

“If I read you aright,” continued the cardinal, “you are arrived at that pitch of desperation when life itself becomes indifferent, and when but one object remains to be gained--”

“And that is vengeance!” interrupted Wyat fiercely. “Right, cardinal--right. I will have vengeance--terrible vengeance!”

“You shall. But I will not deceive you. You will purchase what you seek at the price of your own head.”

“I care not,” replied Wyat. “All sentiments of love and loyalty are swallowed up by jealousy and burning hate. Nothing but blood can allay the fever that consumes me. Show me how to slay him!”

“Him!” echoed the cardinal, in alarm and horror. “Wretch! would you kill your king? God forbid that I should counsel the injury of a hair of his head! I do not want you to play the assassin, Wyat,” he added more calmly, “but the just avenger. Liberate the king from the thraldom of the capricious siren who enslaves him, and you will do a service to the whole country. A word from you--a letter--a token--will cast her from the king, and place her on the block. And what matter? The gory scaffold were better than Henry's bed.”

“I cannot harm her,” cried Wyat distractedly. “I love her still, devotedly as ever. She was in my power yesterday, and without your aid, cardinal, I could have wreaked my vengeance upon her, if I had been so minded.”

“You were then in her chamber, as the king suspected?” cried Wolsey, with a look of exultation. “Trouble yourself no more, Sir Thomas. I will take the part of vengeance off your hands.”

“My indiscretion will avail you little, cardinal,” replied Wyat sternly. “A hasty word proves nothing. I will perish on the rack sooner than accuse Anne Boleyn. I am a desperate man, but not so desperate as you suppose me. A moment ago I might have been led on, by the murderous and traitorous impulse that prompted me, to lift my hand against the king, but I never could have injured her.”

“You are a madman!” cried Wolsey impatiently, “and it is a waste of time to argue with you. I wish you good speed on your journey. On your return you will find Anne Boleyn Queen of England.”

“And you disgraced,” rejoined Wyat, as, with a malignant and vindictive look, the cardinal quitted the chamber.

Again left alone, Wyat fell into another fit of despondency from which he roused himself with difficulty, and went forth to visit the Earl of Surrey in the Round Tower.

Some delay occurred before he could obtain access to the earl. The halberdier stationed at the entrance to the keep near the Norman Tower refused to admit him without the order of the officer in command of the tower, and as the latter was not in the way at the moment, Wyat had to remain without till he made his appearance.

While thus detained, he beheld Anne Boleyn and her royal lover mount their steeds in the upper ward, and ride forth, with their attendants, on a hawking expedition. Anne Boleyn bore a beautiful falcon on her wrist--Wyat's own gift to her in happier days--and looked full of coquetry, animation, and delight--without the vestige of a cloud upon her brow, or a care on her countenance. With increased bitterness of heart, he turned from the sight, and shrouded himself beneath the gateway of the Norman Tower.

Soon after this, the officer appeared, and at once according Wyat permission to see the earl, preceded him up the long flight of stone steps communicating with the upper part of the keep, and screened by an embattled and turreted structure, constituting a covered way to the Round Tower.

Arrived at the landing, the officer unlocked a door on the left, and ushered his companion into the prisoner's chamber.

Influenced by the circular shape of the structure in which it was situated, and of which it formed a segment, the farther part of this chamber was almost lost to view, and a number of cross-beams and wooden pillars added to its sombre and mysterious appearance. The walls were of enormous thickness, and a narrow loophole, terminating a deep embrasure, afforded but scanty light. Opposite the embrasure sat Surrey, at a small table covered with books and writing materials. A lute lay beside him on the floor, and there were several astrological and alchemical implements within reach.

So immersed was the youthful prisoner in study, that he was not aware, until a slight exclamation was uttered by Wyat, of the entrance of the latter. He then arose, and gave him welcome.

Nothing material passed between them as long as the officer remained in the chamber, but on his departure Surrey observed laughingly to his friend, “And how doth my fair cousin, the Lady Anne Boleyn?”

“She has just ridden forth with the king, to hawk in the park,” replied Wyat moodily. “For myself, l am ordered on a mission to France, but I could not depart without entreating your forgiveness for the jeopardy in which I have placed you. Would I could take your place.”

“Do not heed me,” replied Surrey; “I am well content with what has happened. Virgil and Homer, Dante and Petrarch, are the companions of my confinement; and in good sooth, I am glad to be alone. Amid the distractions of the court I could find little leisure for the muse.”

“Your situation is, in many respects, enviable, Surrey,” replied Wyat. “Disturbed by no jealous doubts and fears, you can beguile the tedious hours in the cultivation of your poetical tastes, or in study. Still, I must needs reproach myself with being the cause of your imprisonment.”

“I repeat, you have done me a service,” rejoined the earl, “I would lay down my life for my fair cousin, Anne Boleyn, and I am glad to be able to prove the sincerity of my regard for you, Wyat. I applaud the king's judgment in sending you to France, and if you will be counselled by me, you will stay there long enough to forget her who now occasions you so much uneasiness.”

“Will the Fair Geraldine be forgotten when the term of your imprisonment shall expire, my lord?” asked Wyat.

“Of a surety not,” replied the earl.

“And yet, in less than two months I shall return from France,” rejoined Wyat.

“Our cases are not alike,” said Surrey. “The Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald has plighted her troth to me.”

“Anne Boleyn vowed eternal constancy to me,” cried Wyat bitterly; “and you see how she kept her oath. The absent are always in danger; and few women are proof against ambition. Vanity--vanity is the rock they split upon. May you never experience from Richmond the wrong I have experienced from his father.”

“I have no fear,” replied Surrey.

As he spoke, there was a slight noise in that part of the chamber which was buried in darkness.

“Have we a listener here?” cried Wyat, grasping his sword.

“Not unless it be a four-legged one from the dungeons beneath,” replied Surrey. “But you were speaking of Richmond. He visited me this morning, and came to relate the particulars of a mysterious adventure that occurred to him last night.”

And the earl proceeded to detail what had befallen the duke in the forest.

“A marvellous story, truly!” said Wyat, pondering upon the relation. “I will seek out the demon huntsman myself.”

Again a noise similar to that heard a moment before resounded from the lower part of the room. Wyat immediately flew thither, and drawing his sword, searched about with its point, but ineffectually.

“It could not be fancy,” he said; “and yet nothing is to be found.”

“I do not like jesting about Herne the Hunter,” remarked Surrey, “after what I myself have seen. In your present frame of mind I advise you not to hazard an interview with the fiend. He has power over the desperate.”

Wyat returned no answer. He seemed lost in gloomy thought, and soon afterwards took his leave.

On returning to his lodgings, he summoned his attendants, and ordered them to proceed to Kingston, adding that he would join them there early the next morning. One of them, an old serving-man, noticing the exceeding haggardness of his looks, endeavoured to persuade him to go with them; but Wyat, with a harshness totally unlike his customary manner, which was gracious and kindly in the extreme, peremptorily refused.

“You look very ill, Sir Thomas,” said the old servant; “worse than I ever remember seeing you. Listen to my counsel, I beseech you. Plead ill health with the king in excuse of your mission to France, and retire for some months to recruit your strength and spirits at Allington.”

“Tush, Adam Twisden! I am well enough,” exclaimed Wyat impatiently. “Go and prepare my mails.”

“My dear, dear master,” cried old Adam, bending the knee before him, and pressing his hand to his lips; “something tells me that if I leave you now I shall never see you again. There is a paleness in your cheek, and a fire in your eye, such as I never before observed in you, or in mortal man. I tremble to say it, but you look like one possessed by the fiend. Forgive my boldness, sir. I speak from affection and duty. I was serving-man to your father, good Sir Henry Wyat, before you, and I love you as a son, while I honour you as a master. I have heard that there are evil beings in the forest--nay, even within the castle--who lure men to perdition by promising to accomplish their wicked desires. I trust no such being has crossed your path.”

“Make yourself easy, good Adam,” replied Wyat; “no fiend has tempted me.”

“Swear it, sir,” cried the old man eagerly--“swear it by the Holy Trinity.”

“By the Holy Trinity, I swear it,” replied Wyat.

As the words were uttered, the door behind the arras was suddenly shut with violence.

“Curses on you, villain! you have left the door open,” cried Wyat fiercely. “Our conversation has been overheard.”

“I will soon see by whom,” cried Adam, springing to his feet, and rushing towards the door, which opened upon a long corridor.

“Well!” cried Wyat, as Adam returned the next moment, with cheeks almost as white as his own--“was it the cardinal?”

“It was the devil, I believe!” replied the old man. “I could see no one.”

“It would not require supernatural power to retreat into an adjoining chamber!” replied Wyat, affecting an incredulity he was far from feeling.

“Your worship's adjuration was strangely interrupted,” cried the old man, crossing himself devoutly. “Saint Dunstan and Saint Christopher shield us from evil spirits!”

“A truce to your idle terrors, Adam,” said Wyat. “Take these packets,” he added, giving him Henry's despatches, “and guard them as you would your life. I am going on an expedition of some peril to-night, and do not choose to keep them about me. Bid the grooms have my steed in readiness an hour before midnight.”

“I hope your worship is not about to ride into the forest at that hour?” said Adam, trembling. “I was told by the stout archer, whom the king dubbed Duke of Shoreditch, that he and the Duke of Richmond ventured thither last night, and that they saw a legion of demons mounted on coal-black horses, and amongst them Mark Fytton, the butcher, who was hanged a few days ago from the Curfew Tower by the king's order, and whose body so strangely disappeared. Do not go into the forest, dear Sir Thomas!”

“No more of this!” cried Wyat fiercely. “Do as I bid you, and if I join you not before noon to-morrow, proceed to Rochester, and there await my coming.”

“I never expect to see you again, sir!” groaned the old man, as he took his leave.

The anxious concern evinced in his behalf by his old and trusty servant was not without effect on Sir Thomas Wyat, and made him hesitate in his design; but by-and-by another access of jealous rage came on, and overwhelmed all his better resolutions. He remained within his chamber to a late hour, and then issuing forth, proceeded to the terrace at the north of the castle, where he was challenged by a sentinel, but was suffered to pass on, on giving the watch-word.

The night was profoundly dark, and the whole of the glorious prospect commanded by the terrace shrouded from view. But Wyat's object in coming thither was to gaze, for the last time, at that part of the castle which enclosed Anne Boleyn, and knowing well the situation of her apartments, he fixed his eyes upon the windows; but although numerous lights streamed from the adjoining corridor, all here was buried in obscurity.

Suddenly, however, the chamber was illumined, and he beheld Henry and Anne Boleyn enter it, preceded by a band of attendants bearing tapers. It needed not Wyat's jealousy-sharpened gaze to read, even at that distance, the king's enamoured looks, or Anne Boleyn's responsive glances. He saw that one of Henry's arms encircled her waist, while the other caressed her yielding hand. They paused. Henry bent forward, and Anne half averted her head, but not so much so as to prevent the king from imprinting a long and fervid kiss upon her lips.

Terrible was its effect upon Wyat. An adder's bite would have been less painful. His hands convulsively clutched together; his hair stood erect upon his head; a shiver ran through his frame; and he tottered back several paces. When he recovered, Henry had bidden good-night to the object of his love, and, having nearly gained the door, turned and waved a tender valediction to her. As soon as he was gone, Anne looked round with a smile of ineffable pride and pleasure at her attendants, but a cloud of curtains dropping over the window shrouded her from the sight of her wretched lover.

In a state of agitation wholly indescribable, Wyat staggered towards the edge of the terrace--it might be with the design of flinging himself from it--but when within a few yards of the low parapet wall defending its precipitous side, he perceived a tall dark figure standing directly in his path, and halted. Whether the object he beheld was human or not he could not determine, but it seemed of more than mortal stature. It was wrapped in a long black cloak, and wore a high conical cap on its head. Before Wyat could speak the figure addressed him.

“You desire to see Herne the Hunter,” said the figure, in a deep, sepulchral tone. “Ride hence to the haunted beechtree near the marsh, at the farther side of the forest, and you will find him.”

“You are Herne--I feel it,” cried Wyat. “Why go into the forest? Speak now.”

And he stepped forward with the intention of grasping the figure, but it eluded him, and, with a mocking laugh, melted into the darkness.

Wyat advanced to the edge of the terrace and looked over the parapet, but he could see nothing except the tops of the tall trees springing from the side of the moat. Flying to the sentinel, he inquired whether any one had passed him, but the man returned an angry denial.

Awestricken and agitated, Wyat quitted the terrace, and, seeking his steed, mounted him, and galloped into the forest.

“If he I have seen be not indeed the fiend, he will scarcely outstrip me in the race,” he cried, as his steed bore him at a furious pace up the long avenue.

The gloom was here profound, being increased by the dense masses of foliage beneath which he was riding. By the time, however, that he reached the summit of Snow Hill the moon struggled through the clouds, and threw a wan glimmer over the leafy wilderness around. The deep slumber of the woods was unbroken by any sound save that of the frenzied rider bursting through them.

Well acquainted with the forest, Wyat held on a direct course. His brain was on fire, and the fury of his career increased his fearful excitement. Heedless of all impediments, he pressed forward--now dashing beneath overhanging boughs at the risk of his neck--now skirting the edge of a glen where a false step might have proved fatal.

On--on he went, his frenzy increasing each moment.

At length he reached the woody height overlooking the marshy tract that formed the limit of his ride. Once more the moon had withdrawn her lustre, and a huge indistinct black mass alone pointed out the position of the haunted tree. Around it wheeled a large white owl, distinguishable by its ghostly plumage through the gloom, like a sea-bird in a storm, and hooting bodingly as it winged its mystic flight. No other sound was heard, nor living object seen.

While gazing into the dreary expanse beneath him, Wyat for the first time since starting experienced a sensation of doubt and dread; and the warning of his old and faithful attendant rushed upon his mind. He tried to recite a prayer, but the words died away on his lips--neither would his fingers fashion the symbol of a cross.

But even these admonitions did not restrain him. Springing from his foaming and panting steed, and taking the bridle in his hand, he descended the side of the acclivity. Ever and anon a rustling among the grass told him that a snake, with which description of reptile the spot abounded, was gliding away from him. His horse, which had hitherto been all fire and impetuosity, now began to manifest symptoms of alarm, quivered in every limb, snorted, and required to be dragged along forcibly.

When within a few paces of the tree, its enormous rifted trunk became fully revealed to him; but no one was beside it. Wyat then stood still, and cried in a loud, commanding tone, “Spirit, I summon thee!--appear!”

At these words a sound like a peal of thunder rolled over head, accompanied by screeches of discordant laughter. Other strange and unearthly noises were heard, and amidst the din a blue phosphoric light issued from the yawning crevice in the tree, while a tall, gaunt figure, crested with an antlered helm, sprang from it. At the same moment a swarm of horribly grotesque, swart objects, looking like imps, appeared amid the branches of the tree, and grinned and gesticulated at Wyat, whose courage remained unshaken during the fearful ordeal. Not so his steed. After rearing and plunging violently, the affrighted animal broke its hold and darted off into the swamp, where it floundered and was lost.

“You have called me, Sir Thomas Wyat,” said the demon, in a sepulchral tone. “I am here. What would you?”

“My name being known to you, spirit of darkness, my errand should be also,” replied Wyat boldly.

“Your errand is known to me,” replied the demon. “You have lost a mistress, and would regain her?”

“I would give my soul to win her back from my kingly rival,” cried Wyat.

“I accept your offer,” rejoined the spirit. “Anne Boleyn shall be yours. Your hand upon the compact.”

Wyat stretched forth his hand, and grasped that of the demon.

His fingers were compressed as if by a vice, and he felt himself dragged towards the tree, while a stifling and sulphurous vapour rose around him. A black veil fell over his head, and was rapidly twined around his brow in thick folds.

Amid yells of fiendish laughter he was then lifted from the ground, thrust into the hollow of the tree, and thence, as it seemed to him, conveyed into a deep subterranean cave.

II.

In what manner Wolsey put his Scheme into Operation.

Foiled in his scheme of making Wyat the instrument of Anne Boleyn's overthrow, Wolsey determined to put into immediate operation the plan he had conceived of bringing forward a rival to her with the king. If a choice had been allowed him, he would have selected some high-born dame for the purpose; but as this was out of the question--and as, indeed, Henry had of late proved insensible to the attractions of all the beauties that crowded his court except Anne Boleyn--he trusted to the forester's fair granddaughter to accomplish his object. The source whence he had received intelligence of the king's admiration of Mabel Lyndwood was his jester, Patch--a shrewd varlet who, under the mask of folly, picked up many an important secret for his master, and was proportionately rewarded.

Before executing the scheme, it was necessary to ascertain whether the damsel's beauty was as extraordinary as it had been represented; and with this view, Wolsey mounted his mule one morning, and, accompanied by Patch and another attendant, rode towards the forest.

It was a bright and beautiful morning, and preoccupied as he was, the plotting cardinal could not be wholly insensible to the loveliness of the scene around him. Crossing Spring Hill, he paused at the head of a long glade, skirted on the right by noble beech-trees whose silver stems sparkled in the sun shine, and extending down to the thicket now called Cooke's Hill Wood. From this point, as from every other eminence on the northern side of the forest, a magnificent view of the castle was obtained.

The sight of the kingly pile, towering above its vassal woods, kindled high and ambitious thoughts in his breast.

“The lord of that proud structure has been for years swayed by me,” he mused, “and shall the royal puppet be at last wrested from me by a woman's hand? Not if I can hold my own.”

Roused by the reflection, he quickened his pace, and shaping his course towards Black Nest, reached in a short time the borders of a wide swamp lying between the great lake and another pool of water of less extent situated in the heart of the forest. This wild and dreary marsh, the haunt of the bittern and the plover, contrasted forcibly and disagreeably with the rich sylvan district he had just quitted.

“I should not like to cross this swamp at night,” he observed to Patch, who rode close behind him.

“Nor I, your grace,” replied the buffoon. “We might chance to be led by a will-o'-the-wisp to a watery grave.”

“Such treacherous fires are not confined to these regions, knave,” rejoined Wolsey. “Mankind are often lured, by delusive gleams of glory and power, into quagmires deep and pitfalls. Holy Virgin; what have we here?”

The exclamation was occasioned by a figure that suddenly emerged from the ground at a little distance on the right. Wolsey's mule swerved so much as almost to endanger his seat, and he called out in a loud angry tone to the author of the annoyance--“Who are you, knave? and what do you here?”

I am a keeper of the forest, an't please your grace, replied the other, doffing his cap, and disclosing harsh features which by no means recommended him to the cardinal, “and am named Morgan Fenwolf. I was crouching among the reeds to get a shot at a fat buck, when your approach called me to my feet.”

“By St. Jude! this is the very fellow, your grace, who shot the hart-royal the other day,” cried Patch.

“And so preserved the Lady Anne Boleyn,” rejoined the cardinal. “Art sure of it, knave?”

“As sure as your grace is of canonisation,” replied Patch. “That shot should have brought you a rich reward, friend--either from the king's highness or the Lady Anne,” remarked Wolsey to the keeper.

“It has brought me nothing,” rejoined Fenwolf sullenly.

“Hum!” exclaimed the cardinal. “Give the fellow a piece of gold, Patch.”

“Methinks I should have better earned your grace's bounty if I had let the hart work his will,” said Fenwolf, reluctantly receiving the coin.

“How, fellow?” cried the cardinal, knitting his brows.

“Nay, I mean no offence,” replied Fenwolf; “but the rumour goes that your grace and the Lady Anne are not well affected towards each other.”

“The rumour is false,” rejoined the cardinal, “and you can now contradict it on your own experience. Harkee, sirrah! where lies Tristram Lyndwood's hut?”

Fenwolf looked somewhat surprised and confused by the question.

“It lies on the other side of yonder rising ground, about half a mile hence,” he said. “But if your grace is seeking old Tristram, you will not find him. I parted with him, half-an-hour ago, on Hawk's Hill, and he was then on his way to the deer-pen at Bray Wood.”

“If I see his granddaughter Mabel, it will suffice,” rejoined the cardinal. “I am told she is a comely damsel. Is it so?”

“I am but an indifferent judge of beauty,” replied Fenwolf moodily.

“Lead my mule across this swamp, thou senseless loon,” said the cardinal, “and I will give thee my blessing.”

With a very ill grace Fenwolf complied, and conducted Wolsey to the farther side of the marsh.

“If your grace pursues the path over the hill,” he said, “and then strikes into the first opening on the right, it will bring you to the place you seek.” And, without waiting for the promised blessing, he disappeared among the trees.

On reaching the top of the hill, Wolsey descried the hut through an opening in the trees at a few hundred yards' distance. It was pleasantly situated on the brink of the lake, at the point where its width was greatest, and where it was fed by a brook that flowed into it from a large pool of water near Sunninghill.

From the high ground where Wolsey now stood the view of the lake was beautiful. For nearly a mile its shining expanse was seen stretching out between banks of varied form, sometimes embayed, sometimes running out into little headlands, but everywhere clothed with timber almost to the water's edge. Wild fowl skimmed over its glassy surface, or dipped in search of its finny prey, and here and there a heron might be detected standing in some shallow nook, and feasting on the smaller fry. A flight of cawing rooks were settling upon the tall trees on the right bank, and the voices of the thrush, the blackbird, and other feathered songsters burst in redundant melody from the nearer groves.

A verdant path, partly beneath the trees, and partly on the side of the lake, led Wolsey to the forester's hut. Constructed of wood and clay, with a thatched roof, green with moss, and half overgrown with ivy, the little building was in admirable keeping with the surrounding scenery. Opposite the door, and opening upon the lake, stood a little boathouse, and beside it a few wooden steps, defended by a handrail, ran into the water. A few yards beyond the boathouse the brook before mentioned emptied its waters into the lake.

Gazing with much internal satisfaction at the hut, Wolsey bade Patch dismount, and ascertain whether Mabel was within. The buffoon obeyed, tried the door, and finding it fastened, knocked, but to no purpose.

After a pause of a few minutes, the cardinal was turning away in extreme disappointment, when a small skiff, rowed by a female hand, shot round an angle of the lake and swiftly approached them. A glance from Patch would have told Wolsey, had he required any such information, that this was the forester's granddaughter. Her beauty quite ravished him, and drew from him an exclamation of wonder and delight. Features regular, exquisitely moulded, and of a joyous expression, a skin dyed like a peach by the sun, but so as to improve rather than impair its hue; eyes bright, laughing, and blue as a summer sky; ripe, ruddy lips, and pearly teeth; and hair of a light and glossy brown, constituted the sum of her attractions. Her sylph-like figure was charmingly displayed by the graceful exercise on which she was engaged, and her small hands, seemingly scarcely able to grasp an oar, impelled the skiff forwards with marvellous velocity, and apparently without much exertion on her part.

Unabashed by the presence of the strangers, though Wolsey's attire could leave her in no doubt as to his high ecclesiastical dignity, she sprang ashore at the landing-place, and fastened her bark to the side of the boathouse.

“You are Mabel Lyndwood, I presume, fair maiden?” inquired the cardinal, in his blandest tones.

“Such is my name, your grace,” she replied; “for your garb tells me I am addressing Cardinal Wolsey.”

The cardinal graciously inclined his head.

“Chancing to ride in this part of the forest,” he said, “and having heard of your beauty, I came to see whether the reality equalled the description, and I find it far transcends it.”

Mabel blushed deeply, and cast down her eyes.

“Would that Henry could see her now!” thought the cardinal, “Anne Boleyn's reign were nigh at an end.--How long have you dwelt in this cottage, fair maid?” he added aloud.

“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.”