Produced by Grant Macandrew

WINDSOR CASTLE

By William H. Ainsworth

     "About, about!
     Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out."

     SHAKESPEARE, Merry Wives of Windsor

     "There is an old tale goes, that Herne the hunter,
     Sometime a keeper here in Windsor forest,
     Doth all the winter time, at still midnight,
     Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;
     And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,
     And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
     In a most hideous and dreadful manner:
     You have heard of such a spirit; and well you know,
     The superstitious idle-headed eld
     Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age,
     This tale of Herne the hunter for a truth."--ibid

WINDSOR CASTLE

BOOK I. ANNE BOLEYN

I.

     Of the Earl of Surrey's solitary Ramble in the Home Park--Of
     the Vision beheld by him in the Haunted Dell--And of his
     Meeting with Morgan Fenwolf, the Keeper, beneath Herne's
     Oak.

In the twentieth year of the reign of the right high and puissant King
Henry the Eighth, namely, in 1529, on the 21st of April, and on one
of the loveliest evenings that ever fell on the loveliest district in
England, a fair youth, having somewhat the appearance of a page, was
leaning over the terrace wall on the north side of Windsor Castle, and
gazing at the magnificent scene before him. On his right stretched the
broad green expanse forming the Home Park, studded with noble trees,
chiefly consisting of ancient oaks, of which England had already learnt
to be proud, thorns as old or older than the oaks, wide-spreading
beeches, tall elms, and hollies. The disposition of these trees was
picturesque and beautiful in the extreme. Here, at the end of a sweeping
vista, and in the midst of an open space covered with the greenest
sward, stood a mighty broad-armed oak, beneath whose ample boughs,
though as yet almost destitute of foliage, while the sod beneath them
could scarcely boast a head of fern, couched a herd of deer. There lay
a thicket of thorns skirting a sand-bank, burrowed by rabbits, on this
hand grew a dense and Druid-like grove, into whose intricacies the
slanting sunbeams pierced; on that extended a long glade, formed by a
natural avenue of oaks, across which, at intervals, deer were passing.
Nor were human figures wanting to give life and interest to the scene.
Adown the glade came two keepers of the forest, having each a couple of
buckhounds with them in leash, whose baying sounded cheerily amid the
woods. Nearer the castle, and bending their way towards it, marched a
party of falconers with their well-trained birds, whose skill they had
been approving upon their fists, their jesses ringing as they moved
along, while nearer still, and almost at the foot of the terrace wall,
was a minstrel playing on a rebec, to which a keeper, in a dress of
Lincoln green, with a bow over his shoulder, a quiver of arrows at his
back, and a comely damsel under his arm, was listening.

On the left, a view altogether different in character, though scarcely
less beautiful, was offered to the gaze. It was formed by the town of
Windsor, then not a third of its present size, but incomparably
more picturesque in appearance, consisting almost entirely of a long
straggling row of houses, chequered black and white, with tall gables,
and projecting storeys skirting the west and south sides of the castle,
by the silver windings of the river, traceable for miles, and reflecting
the glowing hues of the sky, by the venerable College of Eton,
embowered in a grove of trees, and by a vast tract of well-wooded and
well-cultivated country beyond it, interspersed with villages, churches,
old halls, monasteries, and abbeys.

Taking out his tablets, the youth, after some reflection, traced a few
lines upon them, and then, quitting the parapet, proceeded slowly, and
with a musing air, towards the north west angle of the terrace. He
could not be more than fifteen, perhaps not so much, but he was tall and
well-grown, with slight though remarkably well-proportioned limbs;
and it might have been safely predicted that, when arrived at years of
maturity, he would possess great personal vigour. His countenance was
full of thought and intelligence, and he had a broad lofty brow,
shaded by a profusion of light brown ringlets, a long, straight, and
finely-formed nose, a full, sensitive, and well-chiselled mouth, and
a pointed chin. His eyes were large, dark, and somewhat melancholy in
expression, and his complexion possessed that rich clear brown tint
constantly met with in Italy or Spain, though but seldom seen in
a native of our own colder clime. His dress was rich, but sombre,
consisting of a doublet of black satin, worked with threads of Venetian
gold; hose of the same material, and similarly embroidered; a shirt
curiously wrought with black silk, and fastened at the collar with black
enamelled clasps; a cloak of black velvet, passmented with gold, and
lined with crimson satin; a flat black velvet cap, set with pearls and
goldsmith's work, and adorned with a short white plume; and black velvet
buskins. His arms were rapier and dagger, both having gilt and graven
handles, and sheaths of black velvet.

As he moved along, the sound of voices chanting vespers arose from Saint
George's Chapel; and while he paused to listen to the solemn strains,
a door, in that part of the castle used as the king's privy lodgings,
opened, and a person advanced towards him. The new-comer had broad,
brown, martial-looking features, darkened still more by a thick
coal-black beard, clipped short in the fashion of the time, and a pair
of enormous moustachios. He was accoutred in a habergeon, which gleamed
from beneath the folds of a russet-coloured mantle, and wore a steel cap
in lieu of a bonnet on his head, while a long sword dangled from beneath
his cloak. When within a few paces of the youth, whose back was towards
him, and who did not hear his approach, he announced himself by a loud
cough, that proved the excellence of his lungs, and made the old walls
ring again, startling the jackdaws roosting in the battlements.

"What! composing a vesper hymn, my lord of Surrey?" he cried with a
laugh, as the other hastily thrust the tablets, which he had hitherto
held in his hand, into his bosom. "You will rival Master Skelton, the
poet laureate, and your friend Sir Thomas Wyat, too, ere long. But
will it please your lord-ship to quit for a moment the society of the
celestial Nine, and descend to earth, while I inform you that, acting
as your representative, I have given all needful directions for his
majesty's reception to-morrow?"

"You have not failed, I trust, to give orders to the groom of the
chambers for the lodging of my fair cousin, Mistress Anne Boleyn,
Captain Bouchier?" inquired the Earl of Surrey, with a significant
smile.

"Assuredly not, my lord!" replied the other, smiling in his turn. "She
will be lodged as royally as if she were Queen of England. Indeed, the
queen's own apartments are assigned her."

"It is well," rejoined Surrey. "And you have also provided for the
reception of the Pope's legate, Cardinal Campeggio?"

Bouchier bowed.

"And for Cardinal Wolsey?" pursued the other.

The captain bowed again.

"To save your lordship the necessity of asking any further questions,"
he said, "I may state briefly that I have done all as if you had done it
yourself."

"Be a little more particular, captain, I pray you," said Surrey.

"Willingly, my lord," replied Bouchier. "In your lord ship's name, then,
as vice-chamberlain, in which character I presented myself, I summoned
together the dean and canons of the College of St. George, the usher of
the black rod, the governor of the alms-knights, and the whole of the
officers of the household, and acquainted them, in a set speech-which, I
flatter myself, was quite equal to any that your lordship, with all your
poetical talents, could have delivered--that the king's highness, being
at Hampton Court with the two cardinals, Wolsey and Campeggio, debating
the matter of divorce from his queen, Catherine of Arragon, proposes to
hold the grand feast of the most noble order of the Garter at this his
castle of Windsor, on Saint George's Day--that is to say, the day after
to-morrow--and that it is therefore his majesty's sovereign pleasure
that the Chapel of St. George, in the said castle, be set forth and
adorned with its richest furniture; that the high altar be hung with
arras representing the patron saint of the order on horseback, and
garnished with the costliest images and ornaments in gold and silver;
that the pulpit be covered with crimson damask, inwrought with
flowers-de-luces of gold, portcullises, and roses; that the royal stall
be canopied with a rich cloth of state, with a haut-pas beneath it of
a foot high; that the stalls of the knights companions be decked with
cloth of tissue, with their scutcheons set at the back; and that all be
ready at the hour of tierce-hora tertia vespertina, as appointed by his
majesty's own statute--at which time the eve of the feast shall be held
to commence."

"Take breath, captain," laughed the earl.

"I have no need," replied Bouchier. "Furthermore, I delivered your
lordship's warrant from the lord chamberlain to the usher of the black
rod, to make ready and furnish Saint George's Hall, both for the supper
to-morrow and the grand feast on the following day; and I enjoined the
dean and canons of the college, the alms-knights, and all the other
officers of the order, to be in readiness for the occasion. And now,
having fulfilled my devoir, or rather your lordship's, I am content to
resign my post as vice-chamberlain, to resume my ordinary one, that of
your simple gentleman, and to attend you back to Hampton Court whenever
it shall please you to set forth."

"And that will not be for an hour, at the least," replied the earl; "for
I intend to take a solitary ramble in the Home Park."

"What I to seek inspiration for a song--or to meditate upon the charms
of the fair Geraldine, eh, my lord?" rejoined Bouchier. "But I will not
question you too shrewdly. Only let me caution you against going near
Herne's Oak. It is said that the demon hunter walks at nightfall, and
scares, if he does not injure, all those who cross his path. At curfew
toll I must quit the castle, and will then, with your attendants proceed
to the Garter, in Thames Street, where I will await your arrival. If we
reach Hampton Court by midnight, it will be time enough, and as the moon
will rise in an hour, we shall have a pleasant ride."

"Commend me to Bryan Bowntance, the worthy host of the Garter," said the
earl; "and bid him provide you with a bottle of his best sack in which
to drink my health."

"Fear me not," replied the other. "And I pray your lordship not to
neglect my caution respecting Herne the Hunter. In sober sooth, I have
heard strange stories of his appearance of late, and should not care to
go near the tree after dark."

The earl laughed somewhat sceptically, and the captain reiterating his
caution, they separated--Bouchier returning the way he came, and Surrey
proceeding towards a small drawbridge crossing the ditch on the eastern
side of the castle, and forming a means of communication with the Little
Park. He was challenged by a sentinel at the drawbridge, but on giving
the password he was allowed to cross it, and to pass through a gate on
the farther side opening upon the park.

Brushing the soft and dewy turf with a footstep almost as light and
bounding as that of a fawn, he speeded on for more than a quarter of a
mile, when he reached a noble beech-tree standing at the end of a clump
of timber. A number of rabbits were feeding beneath it, but at his
approach they instantly plunged into their burrows.

Here he halted to look at the castle. The sun had sunk behind it,
dilating its massive keep to almost its present height and tinging the
summits of the whole line of ramparts and towers, since rebuilt and
known as the Brunswick Tower, the Chester Tower, the Clarence Tower, and
the Victoria Tower, with rosy lustre.

Flinging himself at the foot of the beech-tree, the youthful earl
indulged his poetical reveries for a short time, and then, rising,
retraced his steps, and in a few minutes the whole of the south side of
the castle lay before him. The view comprehended the two fortifications
recently removed to make way for the York and Lancaster Towers, between
which stood a gate approached by a drawbridge; the Earl Marshal's Tower,
now styled from the monarch in whose reign it was erected, Edward the
Third's Tower; the black rod's lodgings; the Lieutenant's--now Henry the
Third's Tower; the line of embattled walls, constituting the lodgings of
the alms-knights; the tower tenanted by the governor of that body, and
still allotted to the same officer; Henry the Eight's Gateway, and the
Chancellor of the Garter's Tower--the latter terminating the line
of building. A few rosy beams tipped the pinnacles of Saint George's
Chapel, seen behind the towers above-mentioned, with fire; but, with
this exception, the whole of the mighty fabric looked cold and grey.

At this juncture the upper gate was opened, and Captain Bouchier and his
attendants issued from it, and passed over the drawbridge. The curfew
bell then tolled, the drawbridge was raised, the horsemen disappeared,
and no sound reached the listener's ear except the measured tread of the
sentinels on the ramparts, audible in the profound stillness.

The youthful earl made no attempt to join his followers, but having
gazed on the ancient pile before him till its battlements and towers
grew dim in the twilight, he struck into a footpath leading across the
park towards Datchet, and pursued it until it brought him near a dell
filled with thorns, hollies, and underwood, and overhung by mighty oaks,
into which he unhesitatingly plunged, and soon gained the deepest part
of it. Here, owing to the thickness of the hollies and the projecting
arms of other large overhanging timber, added to the uncertain light
above, the gloom was almost impervious, and he could scarcely see a
yard before him. Still, he pressed on unhesitatingly, and with a sort of
pleasurable sensation at the difficulties he was encountering. Suddenly,
however, he was startled by a blue phosphoric light streaming through
the bushes on the left, and, looking up, he beheld at the foot of an
enormous oak, whose giant roots protruded like twisted snakes from the
bank, a wild spectral-looking object, possessing some slight resemblance
to humanity, and habited, so far as it could be determined, in the skins
of deer, strangely disposed about its gaunt and tawny-coloured limbs. On
its head was seen a sort of helmet, formed of the skull of a stag, from
which branched a large pair of antlers; from its left arm hung a heavy
and rusty-looking chain, in the links of which burnt the phosphoric fire
before mentioned; while on its right wrist was perched a large horned
owl, with feathers erected, and red staring eyes.

Impressed with the superstitious feelings common to the age, the young
earl, fully believing he was in the presence of a supernatural being,
could scarcely, despite his courageous nature, which no ordinary matter
would have shaken, repress a cry. Crossing himself, he repeated, with
great fervency, a prayer, against evil spirits, and as he uttered it the
light was extinguished, and the spectral figure vanished. The clanking
of the chain was heard, succeeded by the hooting of the owl; then came a
horrible burst of laughter, then a fearful wail, and all was silent.

Up to this moment the young earl had stood still, as if spell-bound; but
being now convinced that the spirit had fled, he pressed forward, and,
ere many seconds, emerged from the brake. The full moon was rising as he
issued forth, and illuminating the glades and vistas, and the calmness
and beauty of all around seemed at total variance with the fearful
vision he had just witnessed. Throwing a shuddering glance at the
haunted dell, he was about to hurry towards the castle, when a large,
lightning-scathed, and solitary oak, standing a little distance from
him, attracted his attention.

This was the very tree connected with the wild legend of Herne the
Hunter, which Captain Bouchier had warned him not to approach, and he
now forcibly recalled the caution. Beneath it he perceived a figure,
which he at first took for that of the spectral hunter; but his fears
were relieved by a shout from the person, who at the same moment
appeared to catch sight of him.

Satisfied that, in the present instance, he had to do with a being of
this world, Surrey ran towards the tree, and on approaching it
perceived that the object of his alarm was a young man of very athletic
proportions, and evidently, from his garb, a keeper of the forest.

He was habited in a jerkin of Lincoln green cloth, with the royal badge
woven in silver on the breast, and his head was protected by a flat
green cloth cap, ornamented with a pheasant's tail. Under his right
arm he carried a crossbow; a long silver-tipped horn was slung in
his baldric; and he was armed with a short hanger, or wood-knife. His
features were harsh and prominent; and he had black beetling brows, a
large coarse mouth, and dark eyes, lighted up with a very sinister and
malignant expression.

He was attended by a large savage-looking staghound, whom he addressed
as Bawsey, and whose fierceness had to be restrained as Surrey
approached.

"Have you seen anything?" he demanded of the earl.

"I have seen Herne the Hunter himself, or the fiend in his likeness,"
replied Surrey.

And he briefly related the vision he had beheld.

"Ay, ay, you have seen the demon hunter, no doubt," replied the keeper
at the close of the recital. "I neither saw the light, nor heard the
laughter, nor the wailing cry you speak of; but Bawsey crouched at my
feet and whined, and I knew some evil thing was at hand. Heaven shield
us!" he exclaimed, as the hound crouched at his feet, and directed her
gaze towards the oak, uttering a low ominous whine, "she is at the same
trick again."

The earl glanced in the same direction, and half expected to see the
knotted trunk of the tree burst open and disclose the figure of the
spectral hunter. But nothing was visible--at least, to him, though it
would seem from the shaking limbs, fixed eyes, and ghastly visage of the
keeper, that some appalling object was presented to his gaze.

"Do you not see him?" cried the latter at length, in thrilling accents;
"he is circling the tree, and blasting it. There! he passes us now--do
you not see him?"

"No," replied Surrey; "but do not let us tarry here longer."

So saying he laid his hand upon the keeper's arm. The touch seemed to
rouse him to exertion: He uttered a fearful cry, and set off at a quick
pace along the park, followed by Bawsey, with her tail between her legs.
The earl kept up with him, and neither halted till they had left the
wizard oak at a considerable distance behind them.

"And so you did not see him?" said the keeper, in a tone of exhaustion,
as he wiped the thick drops from his brow.

"I did not," replied Surrey.

"That is passing strange," rejoined the other. "I myself have seen him
before, but never as he appeared to-night."

"You are a keeper of the forest, I presume, friend?" said Surrey. "How
are you named?"

"I am called Morgan Fenwolf," replied the keeper; "and you?"

"I am the Earl of Surrey;' returned the young noble.

"What!" exclaimed Fenwolf, making a reverence, "the son to his grace of
Norfolk?"

The earl replied in the affirmative.

"Why, then, you must be the young nobleman whom I used to see so often
with the king's son, the Duke of Richmond, three or four years ago,
at the castle?" rejoined Fenwolf "You are altogether grown out of my
recollection."

"Not unlikely," returned the earl. "I have been at Oxford, and have only
just completed my studies. This is the first time I have been at Windsor
since the period you mention."

"I have heard that the Duke of Richmond was at Oxford likewise,"
observed Fenwolf.

"We were at Cardinal College together," replied Surrey. "But the duke's
term was completed before mine. He is my senior by three years."

"I suppose your lordship is returning to the castle?" said Fenwolf.

"No," replied Surrey. "My attendants are waiting for me at the Garter,
and if you will accompany me thither, I will bestow a cup of good ale
upon you to recruit you after the fright you have undergone."

Fenwolf signified his graceful acquiescence, and they walked on in
silence, for the earl could not help dwelling upon the vision he had
witnessed, and his companion appeared equally abstracted. In this sort
they descended the hill near Henry the Eighth's Gate, and entered Thames
Street.

II.

     Of Bryan Bowntance, the Host of the Garter--Of the Duke of
     Shoreditch--Of the Bold Words uttered by Mark Fytton, the
     Butcher, and how he was cast into the Vault of the Curfew
     Tower.

Turning off on the right, the earl and his companion continued to
descend the hill until they came in sight of the Garter--a snug little
hostel, situated immediately beneath the Curfew Tower.

Before the porch were grouped the earl's attendants, most of whom
had dismounted, and were holding their steeds by the bridles. At
this juncture the door of the hostel opened, and a fat jolly-looking
personage, with a bald head and bushy grey beard, and clad in a brown
serge doublet, and hose to match, issued forth, bearing a foaming jug of
ale and a horn cup. His appearance was welcomed by a joyful shout from
the attendants.

"Come, my masters!" he cried, filling the horn, "here is a cup of stout
Windsor ale in which to drink the health of our jolly monarch, bluff
King Hal; and there's no harm, I trust, in calling him so."

"Marry, is there not, mine host;" cried the foremost attendant. "I spoke
of him as such in his own hearing not long ago, and he laughed at me
in right merry sort. I love the royal bully, and will drink his health
gladly, and Mistress Anne Boleyn's to boot."

And he emptied the horn.

"They tell me Mistress Anne Boleyn is coming to Windsor with the king
and the knights-companions to-morrow--is it so?" asked the host, again
filling the horn, and handing it to another attendant.

The person addressed nodded, but he was too much engrossed by the horn
to speak.

"Then there will be rare doings in the castle," chuckled the host; "and
many a lusty pot will be drained at the Garter. Alack-a-day! how times
are changed since I, Bryan Bowntance, first stepped into my father's
shoes, and became host of the Garter. It was in 1501--twenty-eight years
ago--when King Henry the Seventh, of blessed memory, ruled the land, and
when his elder son, Prince Arthur, was alive likewise. In that year the
young prince espoused Catherine of Arragon, our present queen, and soon
afterwards died; whereupon the old king, not liking--for he loved his
treasure better than his own flesh--to part with her dowry, gave her to
his second son, Henry, our gracious sovereign, whom God preserve! Folks
said then the match wouldn't come to good; and now we find they spoke
the truth, for it is likely to end in a divorce."

"Not so loud, mine host!" cried the foremost attendant; "here comes our
young master, the Earl of Surrey."

"Well, I care not," replied the host bluffly. "I've spoken no treason.
I love my king; and if he wishes to have a divorce, I hope his holiness
the Pope will grant him one, that's all."

As he said this, a loud noise was heard within the hostel, and a man was
suddenly and so forcibly driven forth, that he almost knocked down Bryan
Bowntance, who was rushing in to see what was the matter. The person
thus ejected, who was a powerfully-built young man, in a leathern
doublet, with his muscular arms bared to the shoulder, turned his rage
upon the host, and seized him by the throat with a grip that threatened
him with strangulation. Indeed, but for the intervention of the earl's
attendants, who rushed to his assistance, such might have been his fate.
As soon as he was liberated, Bryan cried in a voice of mingled rage and
surprise to his assailant, "Why, what's the matter, Mark Fytton?--are
you gone mad, or do you mistake me for a sheep or a bullock, that you
attack me in this fashion? My strong ale must have got into your addle
pate with a vengeance.

"The knave has been speaking treason of the king's highness," said the
tall man, whose doublet and hose of the finest green cloth, as well as
the how and quiverful of arrows at his back, proclaimed him an
archer--"and therefore we turned him out!"

"And you did well, Captain Barlow," cried the host.

"Call me rather the Duke of Shoreditch," rejoined the tall archer; "for
since his majesty conferred the title upon me, though it were but in
jest, when I won this silver bugle, I shall ever claim it. I am always
designated by my neighbours in Shoreditch as his grace; and I require
the same attention at your hands. To-morrow I shall have my comrades,
the Marquises of Clerkenwell, Islington, Hogsden, Pancras, and
Paddington, with me, and then you will see the gallant figure we shall
cut."

"I crave your grace's pardon for my want of respect," replied the host.
"I am not ignorant of the distinction conferred upon you at the last
match at the castle butts by the king. But to the matter in hand. What
treason hath Mark Fytton, the butcher, been talking?"

"I care not to repeat his words, mine host," replied the duke; "but
he hath spoken in unbecoming terms of his highness and Mistress Anne
Boleyn."

"He means not what he says," rejoined the host. "He is a loyal subject
of the king; but he is apt to get quarrelsome over his cups."

"Well said, honest Bryan," cried the duke; "you have one quality of a
good landlord--that of a peacemaker. Give the knave a cup of ale, and
let him wash down his foul words in a health to the king, wishing him a
speedy divorce and a new queen, and he shall then sit among us again."

"I do not desire to sit with you, you self-dubbed duke," rejoined Mark;
"but if you will doff your fine jerkin, and stand up with me on the
green, I will give you cause to remember laying hands on me."

"Well challenged, bold butcher!" cried one of Surrey's attendants. "You
shall be made a duke yourself."

"Or a cardinal," cried Mark. "I should not be the first of my brethren
who has met with such preferment."

"He derides the Church in the person of Cardinal Wolsey!" cried the
duke. "He is a blasphemer as well as traitor."

"Drink the king's health in a full cup, Mark," interposed the host,
anxious to set matters aright, "and keep your mischievous tongue between
your teeth."

"Beshrew me if I drink the king's health, or that of his minion, Anne
Boleyn!" cried Mark boldly. "But I will tell you what I will drink.
I will drink the health of King Henry's lawful consort, Catherine
of Arragon; and I will add to it a wish that the Pope may forge her
marriage chains to her royal husband faster than ever."

"A foolish wish," cried Bryan. "Why, Mark, you are clean crazed!"

"It is the king who is crazed, not me!" cried Mark. "He would sacrifice
his rightful consort to his unlawful passion; and you, base hirelings,
support the tyrant in his wrongful conduct!"

"Saints protect us!" exclaimed Bryan. "Why, this is flat treason. Mark,
I can no longer uphold you."

"Not if you do not desire to share his prison, mine host," cried the
Duke of Shoreditch. "You have all heard him call the king a tyrant.
Seize him, my masters!"

"Let them lay hands upon me if they dare!" cried the butcher resolutely.
"I have felled an ox with a blow of my fist before this, and I promise
you I will show them no better treatment."

Awed by Mark's determined manner, the bystanders kept aloof.

"I command you, in the king's name, to seize him!" roared Shoreditch.
"If he offers resistance he will assuredly be hanged."

"No one shall touch me!" cried Mark fiercely.

"That remains to be seen," said the foremost of the Earl of Surrey's
attendants. "Yield, fellow!"

"Never!" replied Mark; "and I warn you to keep off."

The attendant, however, advanced; but before he could lay hands on the
butcher he received a blow from his ox-like fist that sent him reeling
backwards for several paces, and finally stretched him at full length
upon the ground. His companions drew their swords, and would have
instantly fallen upon the sturdy offender, if Morgan Fenwolf, who, with
the Earl of Surrey, was standing among the spectators, had not rushed
forward, and, closing with Mark before the latter could strike a blow,
grappled with him, and held him fast till he was secured, and his arms
tied behind him.

"And so it is you, Morgan Fenwolf, who have served me this ill turn,
eh?" cried the butcher, regarding him fiercely. "I now believe all I
have heard of you."

"What have you heard of him?" asked Surrey, advancing.

"That he has dealings with the fiend--with Herne the Hunter," replied
Mark. "If I am hanged for a traitor, he ought to be burnt for a wizard."

"Heed not what the villain says, my good fellow," said the Duke of
Shoreditch; "you have captured him bravely, and I will take care your
conduct is duly reported to his majesty. To the castle with him! To
the castle! He will lodge to-night in the deepest dungeon of yon
fortification," pointing to the Curfew Tower above them, "there to await
the king's judgment; and to-morrow night it will be well for him if he
is not swinging from the gibbet near the bridge. Bring him along."

And followed by Morgan Fenwolf and the others, with the prisoner, he
strode up the hill.

Long before this Captain Bouchier had issued from the hostel and joined
the earl, and they walked together after the crowd. In a few minutes the
Duke of Shoreditch reached Henry the Eighth's Gate, where he shouted to
a sentinel, and told him what had occurred. After some delay a wicket in
the gate was opened, and the chief persons of the party were allowed to
pass through it with the prisoner, who was assigned to the custody of a
couple of arquebusiers.

By this time an officer had arrived, and it was agreed, at the
suggestion of the Duke of Shoreditch, to take the offender to the Curfew
Tower. Accordingly they crossed the lower ward, and passing beneath an
archway near the semicircular range of habitations allotted to the
petty canons, traversed the space before the west end of Saint George's
Chapel, and descending a short flight of stone steps at the left, and
threading a narrow passage, presently arrived at the arched entrance in
the Curfew, whose hoary walls shone brightly in the moonlight.

They had to knock for some time against the stout oak door before any
notice was taken of the summons. At length an old man, who acted as
bellringer, thrust his head out of one of the narrow pointed windows
above, and demanded their business. Satisfied with the reply, he
descended, and, opening the door, admitted them into a lofty chamber,
the roof of which was composed of stout planks, crossed by heavy oaken
rafters, and supported by beams of the same material. On the left a
steep ladder-like flight of wooden steps led to an upper room, and from
a hole in the roof descended a bell-rope, which was fastened to one of
the beams, showing the use to which the chamber was put.

Some further consultation was now held among the party as to the
propriety of leaving the prisoner in this chamber under the guard of the
arquebusiers, but it was at last decided against doing so, and the old
bellringer being called upon for the keys of the dungeon beneath, he
speedily produced them. They then went forth, and descending a flight of
stone steps on the left, came to a low strong door, which they unlocked,
and obtained admission to a large octangular chamber with a vaulted
roof, and deep embrasures terminated by narrow loopholes. The light of
a lamp carried by the bellringer showed the dreary extent of the vault,
and the enormous thickness of its walls.

"A night's solitary confinement in this place will be of infinite
service to our prisoner," said the Duke of Shoreditch, gazing around.
"I'll be sworn he is ready to bite off the foolish tongue that has
brought him to such a pass."

The butcher made no reply, but being released by the arquebusiers, sat
down upon a bench that constituted the sole furniture of the vault.

"Shall I leave him the lamp?" asked the bellringer; "he may beguile the
time by reading the names of former prisoners scratched on the walls and
in the embrasures."

"No; he shall not even have that miserable satisfaction," returned the
Duke of Shoreditch. "He shall be left in the darkness to his own bad and
bitter thoughts."

With this the party withdrew, and the door was fastened upon the
prisoner. An arquebusier was stationed at the foot of the steps; and
the Earl of Surrey and Captain Bouchier having fully satisfied their
curiosity, shaped their course towards the castle gate. On their way
thither the earl looked about for Morgan Fenwolf, but could nowhere
discern him. He then passed through the wicket with Bouchier, and
proceeding to the Garter, they mounted their steeds, and galloped off
towards Datchet, and thence to Staines and Hampton Court.

III.

     Of the Grand Procession to Windsor Castle--Of the Meeting of
     King Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn at the Lower Gate-Of
     their Entrance into the Castle--And how the Butcher was
     Hanged from the Curfew Tower.

A joyous day was it for Windsor and great were the preparations made by
its loyal inhabitants for a suitable reception to their sovereign. At
an early hour the town was thronged with strangers from the neighbouring
villages, and later on crowds began to arrive from London, some having
come along the highway on horseback, and others having rowed in various
craft up the river. All were clad in holiday attire, and the streets
presented an appearance of unwonted bustle and gaiety. The Maypole
in Bachelors' Acre was hung with flowers. Several booths, with flags
floating above them, were erected in the same place, where ale, mead,
and hypocras, together with cold pasties, hams, capons, and large joints
of beef and mutton, might be obtained. Mummers and minstrels were in
attendance, and every kind of diversion was going forward. Here was one
party wrestling; there another, casting the bar; on this side a set
of rustics were dancing a merry round with a bevy of buxom Berkshire
lasses; on that stood a fourth group, listening to a youth playing on
the recorders. At one end of the Acre large fires were lighted, before
which two whole oxen were roasting, provided in honour of the occasion
by the mayor and burgesses of the town; at the other, butts were set
against which the Duke of Shoreditch and his companions, the five
marquises, were practising. The duke himself shot admirably, and never
failed to hit the bulls-eye; but the great feat of the day was performed
by Morgan Fenwolf, who thrice split the duke's shafts as they stuck in
the mark.

"Well done!" cried the duke, as he witnessed the achievement; "why, you
shoot as bravely as Herne the Hunter. Old wives tell us he used to split
the arrows of his comrades in that fashion."

"He must have learnt the trick from Herne himself in the forest," cried
one of the bystanders.

Morgan Fenwolf looked fiercely round in search of the speaker, but
could not discern him. He, however, shot no more, and refusing a cup of
hypocras offered him by Shoreditch, disappeared among the crowd.

Soon after this the booths were emptied, the bar thrown down, the
Maypole and the butts deserted, and the whole of Bachelors' Acre cleared
of its occupants--except those who were compelled to attend to the
mighty spits turning before the fires--by the loud discharge of ordnance
from the castle gates, accompanied by the ringing of bells, announcing
that the mayor and burgesses of Windsor, together with the officers of
the Order of the Garter, were setting forth to Datchet Bridge to meet
the royal procession.

Those who most promptly obeyed this summons beheld the lower castle
gate, built by the then reigning monarch, open, while from it issued
four trumpeters clad in emblazoned coats, with silken bandrols depending
from their horns, blowing loud fanfares. They were followed by twelve
henchmen, walking four abreast, arrayed in scarlet tunics, with the
royal cypher H.R. worked in gold on the breast, and carrying gilt
poleaxes over their shoulders. Next came a company of archers, equipped
in helm and brigandine, and armed with long pikes, glittering, as did
their steel accoutrements, in the bright sunshine. They were succeeded
by the bailiffs and burgesses of the town, riding three abreast, and
enveloped in gowns of scarlet cloth; after which rode the mayor of
Windsor in a gown of crimson velvet, and attended by two footmen, in
white and red damask, carrying white wands. The mayor was followed by a
company of the town guard, with partisans over the shoulders. Then
came the sheriff of the county and his attendants. Next followed the
twenty-six alms-knights (for such was their number), walking two and
two, and wearing red mantles, with a scutcheon of Saint George on the
shoulder, but without the garter surrounding it. Then came the thirteen
petty canons, in murrey-coloured gowns, with the arms of Saint George
wrought in a roundel on the shoulder; then the twelve canons, similarly
attired; and lastly the dean of the college, in his cope.

A slight pause ensued, and the chief officers of the Garter made their
appearance. First walked the Black Rod, clothed in a russet-coloured
mantle, faced with alternate panes of blue and red, emblazoned with
flower-de-luces of gold and crowned lions. He carried a small black rod,
the ensign of his office, surmounted with the lion of England in silver.
After the Black Rod came the Garter, habited in a gown of crimson satin,
paned and emblazoned like that of the officer who preceded him, hearing
a white crown with a sceptre upon it, and having a gilt crown in lieu
of a cap upon his head. The Garter was followed by the register, a
grave personage, in a black gown, with a surplice over it, covered by a
mantelet of furs. Then came the chancellor of the Order, in his robe of
murrey-coloured velvet lined with sarcenet, with a badge on the shoulder
consisting of a gold rose, enclosed in a garter wrought with pearls of
damask gold. Lastly came the Bishop of Winchester, the prelate of the
Order, wearing his mitre, and habited in a robe of crimson velvet
lined with white taffeta, faced with blue, and embroidered on the right
shoulder with a scutcheon of Saint George, encompassed with the Garter,
and adorned with cordons of blue silk mingled with gold.

Brought up by a rear guard of halberdiers, the procession moved slowly
along Thames Street, the houses of which, as well as those in Peascod
Street, were all more or less decorated--the humbler sort being covered
with branches of trees, intermingled with garlands of flowers, while the
better description was hung with pieces of tapestry, carpets, and
rich stuffs. Nor should it pass unnoticed that the loyalty of Bryan
Bowntance, the host of the Garter, had exhibited itself in an arch
thrown across the road opposite his house, adorned with various
coloured ribbons and flowers, in the midst of which was a large shield,
exhibiting the letters, b. and h. (in mystic allusion to Henry and Anne
Boleyn) intermingled and surrounded by love-knots.

Turning off on the left into the lower road, skirting the north of the
castle, and following the course of the river to Datchet, by which
it was understood the royal cavalcade would make its approach, the
procession arrived at an open space by the side of the river, where it
came to a halt, and the dean, chancellor, and prelate, together with
other officers of the Garter, embarked in a barge moored to the bank,
which was towed slowly down the stream in the direction of Datchet
Bridge--a band of minstrels stationed within it playing all the time.

Meanwhile the rest of the cavalcade, having again set for ward, pursued
their course along the banks of the river, proceeding at a foot's pace,
and accompanied by crowds of spectators, cheering them as they moved
along. The day was bright and beautiful, and nothing was wanting to
enhance the beauty of the spectacle. On the left flowed the silver
Thames, crowded with craft, filled with richly-dressed personages of
both sexes, amid which floated the pompous barge appropriated to the
officers of the Garter, which was hung with banners and streamers, and
decorated at the sides with targets, emblazoned with the arms of
St. George. On the greensward edging the stream marched a brilliant
cavalcade, and on the right lay the old woods of the Home Park, with
long vistas opening through them, giving exquisite peeps of the towers
and battlements of the castle.

Half an hour brought the cavalcade to Datchet Bridge, at the foot of
which a pavilion was erected for the accommodation of the mayor and
burgesses. And here, having dismounted, they awaited the king's arrival.

Shortly after this a cloud of dust on the Staines Road seemed to
announce the approach of the royal party, and all rushed forth and held
themselves in readiness to meet it. But the dust appeared to have been
raised by a company of horsemen, headed by Captain Bouchier, who rode up
the next moment. Courteously saluting the mayor, Bouchier informed him
that Mistress Anne Boleyn was close behind, and that it was the king's
pleasure that she should be attended in all state to the lower gate of
the castle, there to await his coming, as he himself intended to enter
it with her. The mayor replied that the sovereign's behests should be
implicitly obeyed, and he thereupon stationed himself at the farther
side of the bridge in expectation of Anne Boleyn's arrival.

Presently the sound of trumpets smote his ear, and a numerous and
splendid retinue was seen advancing, consisting of nobles, knights,
esquires, and gentlemen, ranged according to their degrees, and all
sumptuously apparelled in cloths of gold and silver, and velvets of
various colours, richly embroidered. Besides these, there were pages
and other attendants in the liveries of their masters, together with
sergeants of the guard and henchmen in their full accoutrements.
Among the nobles were the Dukes of Norfolk and Suffolk--the king being
desirous of honouring as much as possible her whom he had resolved to
make his queen. The former was clothed in tissue, embroidered with roses
of gold, with a baldric across his body of massive gold, and was mounted
on a charger likewise trapped in gold; and the latter wore a mantle of
cloth of silver, pounced in the form of letters, and lined with blue
velvet, while his horse was trapped hardwise in harness embroidered with
bullion gold curiously wrought. Both also wore the collar of the Order
of the Garter. Near them rode Sir Thomas Boleyn, who, conscious of the
dignity to which his daughter was to be advanced, comported himself with
almost intolerable haughtiness.

Immediately behind Sir Thomas Boleyn came a sumptuous litter covered
with cloth of gold, drawn by four white palfreys caparisoned in white
damask down to the ground, and each having a page in white and blue
satin at its head. Over the litter was borne a canopy of cloth of gold
supported by four gilt staves, and ornamented at the corners with silver
bells, ringing forth sweet music as it moved along. Each staff was borne
by a knight, of whom sixteen were in attendance to relieve one another
when fatigued.

In this litter sat Anne Boleyn. She wore a surcoat of white tissue,
and a mantle of the same material lined with ermine. Her gown, which,
however, was now concealed by the surcoat, was of cloth of gold tissue,
raised with pearls of silver damask, with a stomacher of purple gold
similarly raised, and large open sleeves lined with chequered tissue.
Around her neck she wore a chain of orient pearls, from which depended
a diamond cross. A black velvet cap, richly embroidered with pearls and
other precious stones, and ornamented with a small white plume, covered
her head; and her small feet were hidden in blue velvet brodequins,
decorated with diamond stars.

Anne Boleyn's features were exquisitely formed, and though not regular,
far more charming than if they had been so. Her nose was slightly
aquiline, but not enough so to detract from its beauty, and had a little
retrousse; point that completed its attraction. The rest of her features
were delicately chiselled: the chin being beautifully rounded, the brow
smooth and white as snow, while the rose could not vie with the bloom of
her cheek. Her neck--alas! that the fell hand of the executioner should
ever touch it--was long and slender, her eyes large and blue, and of
irresistible witchery--sometimes scorching the beholder like a sunbeam,
anon melting him with soul-subduing softness.

Of her accomplishments other opportunities will be found to speak; but
it may be mentioned that she was skilled on many instruments, danced and
sang divinely, and had rare powers of conversation and wit. If to these
she had not added the dangerous desire to please, and the wish to hold
other hearts than the royal one she had enslaved, in thraldom, all
might, perhaps, have been well. But, alas like many other beautiful
women, she had a strong tendency to coquetry. How severely she suffered
for it, it is the purpose of this history to relate. An excellent
description of her has been given by a contemporary writer, the Comte de
Chateaubriand, who, while somewhat disparaging her personal attractions,
speaks in rapturous terms of her accomplishments: "Anne," writes
the Comte, "avait un esprit si deslie qui c'estoit a qui l'ouiroit
desgoiser; et ci venoitelle a poetiser, telle qu' Orpheus, elle eust
faict les ours et rochers attentifs: puis saltoit, balloit, et dancoit
toutes dances Anglaises ou Estranges, et en imagina nombre qui ont garde
son nom ou celluy du galant pour qui les feit: puis scavoit tous les
jeux, qu'elle jouoit avec non plus d'heur que d'habilite puis chantoit
comme syrene, s'accompagnant de luth; harpoit mieueix que le roy David,
et manioit fort gentilment fleuste et rebec; puis s'accoustroit de tant
et si merveilleuses facons, que ses inventions, faisoient d'elle le
parangon de toutes des dames les plus sucrees de la court; mais nulle
n'avoit sa grace, laquelle, au dire d'un ancien, passe venuste'." Such
was the opinion of one who knew her well during her residence at the
French court, when in attendance on Mary of England, consort of Louis
XII., and afterwards Duchess of Suffolk.

At this moment Anne's eyes were fixed with some tenderness upon one of
the supporters of her canopy on the right--a very handsome young man,
attired in a doublet and hose of black tylsent, paned and cut, and
whose tall, well-proportioned figure was seen to the greatest advantage,
inasmuch as he had divested himself of his mantle, for his better
convenience in walking.

"I fear me you will fatigue yourself, Sir Thomas Wyat," said Anne
Boleyn, in tones of musical sweetness, which made the heart beat and the
colour mount to the cheeks of him she addressed. "You had better allow
Sir Thomas Arundel or Sir John Hulstone to relieve you."

"I can feel no fatigue when near you, madam," replied Wyat, in a low
tone.

A slight blush overspread Anne's features, and she raised her
embroidered kerchief to her lips.

"If I had that kerchief I would wear it at the next lists, and defy all
comers," said Wyat.

"You shall have it, then," rejoined Anne. "I love all chivalrous
exploits, and will do my best to encourage them."

"Take heed, Sir Thomas," said Sir Francis Weston, the knight who held
the staff on the other side, "or we shall have the canopy down. Let Sir
Thomas Arundel relieve you."

"No," rejoined Wyat, recovering himself; "I will not rest till we come
to the bridge."

"You are in no haste to possess the kerchief," said Anne petulantly.

"There you wrong me, madam!" cried Sir Thomas eagerly.

"What ho, good fellows!" he shouted to the attendants at the palfreys'
heads, "your lady desires you to stop."

"And I desire them to go on--I, Will Sommers, jester to the high and
mighty King Harry the Eighth!" cried a voice of mock authority behind
the knight. "What if Sir Thomas Wyat has undertaken to carry the canopy
farther than any of his companions, is that a reason he should be
relieved? Of a surety not--go on, I say!"

The person who thus spoke then stepped forward, and threw a glance so
full of significance at Anne Boleyn that she did not care to dispute the
order, but, on the contrary, laughingly acquiesced in it.

Will Sommers--the king's jester, as he described himself--was a small
middle-aged personage, with a physiognomy in which good nature and
malice, folly and shrewdness, were so oddly blended, that it was
difficult to say which predominated. His look was cunning and sarcastic,
but it was tempered by great drollery and oddity of manner, and he
laughed so heartily at his own jests and jibes, that it was scarcely
possible to help joining him. His attire consisted of a long loose gown
of spotted crimson silk, with the royal cipher woven in front in gold;
hose of blue cloth, guarded with red and black cloth; and red cordovan
buskins. A sash tied round his waist served him instead of a girdle, and
he wore a trencher-shaped velvet cap on his head, with a white tufted
feather in it. In his hand he carried a small horn. He was generally
attended by a monkey, habited in a crimson doublet and hood, which sat
upon his shoulder, and played very diverting tricks, but the animal was
not with him on the present occasion.

Will Sommers was a great favourite with the king, and ventured upon
familiarities which no one else dared to use with him. The favour in
which he stood with his royal master procured him admittance to his
presence at all hours and at all seasons, and his influence, though
seldom exerted, was very great. He was especially serviceable in turning
aside the edge of the king's displeasure, and more frequently exerted
himself to allay the storm than to raise it. His principal hostility was
directed against Wolsey, whose arrogance and grasping practices were the
constant subjects of his railing. It was seldom, such was his privileged
character, and the protection he enjoyed from the sovereign, that any of
the courtiers resented his remarks; but Sir Thomas Wyat's feelings being
now deeply interested, he turned sharply round, and said, "How now, thou
meddling varlet, what business hast thou to interfere?"

"I interfere to prove my authority, gossip Wyat," replied Sommers,
"and to show that, varlet as I am, I am as powerful as Mistress Anne
Boleyn--nay, that I am yet more powerful, because I am obeyed, while she
is not."

"Were I at liberty," said Sir Thomas angrily, "I would make thee repent
thine insolence."

"But thou art not at liberty, good gossip," replied the jester,
screaming with laughter; "thou art tied like a slave to the oar, and
cannot free thyself from it--ha! ha!" Having enjoyed the knight's
discomposure for a few seconds, he advanced towards him, and whispered
in his ear, "Don't mistake me, gossip. I have done thee good service in
preventing thee from taking that kerchief. Hadst thou received it in the
presence of these witnesses, thou wouldst have been lodged in the
Round Tower of Windsor Castle to-morrow, instead of feasting with the
knights-companions in Saint George's Hall."

"I believe thou art right, gossip," said Wyat in the same tone.

"Rest assured I am," replied Sommers; "and I further more counsel thee to
decline this dangerous gift altogether, and to think no more of the fair
profferer, or if thou must think of her, let it be as of one beyond thy
reach. Cross not the lion's path; take a friendly hint from the jackal."

And without waiting for a reply, he darted away, and mingled with the
cavalcade in the rear.

Immediately behind Anne Boleyn's litter rode a company of henchmen of
the royal household, armed with gilt partisans. Next succeeded a
chariot covered with red cloth of gold, and drawn by four horses
richly caparisoned, containing the old Duchess of Norfolk and the old
Marchioness of Dorset. Then came the king's natural son, the Duke of
Richmond--a young man formed on the same large scale, and distinguished
by the same haughty port, and the same bluff manner, as his royal
sire. The duke's mother was the Lady Talboys, esteemed one of the
most beautiful women of the age, and who had for a long time held
the capricious monarch captive. Henry was warmly attached to his son,
showered favours without number upon him, and might have done yet more
if fate had not snatched him away at an early age.

Though scarcely eighteen, the Duke of Richmond looked more than
twenty, and his lips and chin were clothed with a well-grown though
closely-clipped beard. He was magnificently habited in a doublet of
cloth of gold of bawdekin, the placard and sleeves of which were wrought
with flat gold, and fastened with aiglets. A girdle of crimson velvet,
enriched with precious stones, encircled his waist, and sustained a
poniard and a Toledo sword, damascened with gold. Over all he wore a
loose robe, or housse, of scarlet mohair, trimmed with minever, and was
further decorated with the collar of the Order of the Garter. His
cap was of white velvet, ornamented with emeralds, and from the side
depended a small azure plume. He rode a magnificent black charger,
trapped in housings of cloth of gold, powdered with ermine.

By the duke's side rode the Earl of Surrey attired--as upon the previous
day, and mounted on a fiery Arabian, trapped in crimson velvet fringed
with Venetian gold. Both nobles were attended by their esquires in their
liveries.

Behind them came a chariot covered with cloth of silver, and drawn,
like the first, by four horses in rich housings, containing two very
beautiful damsels, one of whom attracted so much of the attention of
the youthful nobles, that it was with difficulty they could preserve due
order of march. The young dame in question was about seventeen; her face
was oval in form, with features of the utmost delicacy and regularity.
Her complexion was fair and pale, and contrasted strikingly with her
jetty brows and magnificent black eyes, of oriental size, tenderness,
and lustre. Her dark and luxuriant tresses were confined by a cap of
black velvet faced with white satin, and ornamented with pearls. Her
gown was of white satin worked with gold, and had long open pendent
sleeves, while from her slender and marble neck hung a cordeliere--a
species of necklace imitated from the cord worn by Franciscan friars,
and formed of crimson silk twisted with threads of Venetian gold..

This fair creature was the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, daughter of Gerald
Fitzgerald, ninth Earl of Kildare, who claimed descent from the Geraldi
family of Florence; but she was generally known by the appellation of
the Fair Geraldine--a title bestowed upon her, on account of her beauty,
by the king, and by which she still lives, and will continue to live, as
long as poetry endures, in the deathless and enchanting strains of her
lover, the Earl of Surrey. At the instance of her mother, Lady Kildare,
the Fair Geraldine was brought up with the Princess Mary, afterwards
Queen of England; but she had been lately assigned by the royal order as
one of the attendants--a post equivalent to that of maid of honour--to
Anne Boleyn.

Her companion was the Lady Mary Howard, the sister of the Earl of
Surrey, a nymph about her own age, and possessed of great personal
attractions, having nobly-formed features, radiant blue eyes, light
tresses, and a complexion of dazzling clearness. Lady Mary Howard
nourished a passion for the Duke of Richmond, whom she saw with secret
chagrin captivated by the superior charms of the Fair Geraldine. Her
uneasiness, however, was in some degree abated by the knowledge, which
as confidante of the latter she had obtained, that her brother was
master of her heart. Lady Mary was dressed in blue velvet, cut and lined
with cloth of gold, and wore a headgear of white velvet, ornamented with
pearls.

Just as the cavalcade came in sight of Datchet Bridge, the Duke of
Richmond turned his horse's head, and rode up to the side of the chariot
on which the Fair Geraldine was sitting.

"I am come to tell you of a marvellous adventure that befell Surrey in
the Home Park at Windsor last night," he said. "He declares he has seen
the demon hunter, Herne."

"Then pray let the Earl of Surrey relate the adventure to us himself,"
replied the Fair Geraldine. "No one can tell a story so well as the hero
of it."

The duke signed to the youthful earl, who was glancing rather wistfully
at them, and he immediately joined them, while Richmond passed over to
the Lady Mary Howard. Surrey then proceeded to relate what had happened
to him in the park, and the fair Geraldine listened to his recital with
breathless interest.

"Heaven shield us from evil spirits!" she exclaimed, crossing herself.
"But what is the history of this wicked hunter, my lord? and why did he
incur such a dreadful doom?"

"I know nothing more than that he was a keeper in the forest, who,
having committed some heinous crime, hanged himself from a branch of the
oak beneath which I found the keeper, Morgan Fenwolf, and which still
bears his name," replied the earl. "For this unrighteous act he cannot
obtain rest, but is condemned to wander through the forest at midnight,
where he wreaks his vengeance in blasting the trees."

"The legend I have heard differs from yours," observed the Duke of
Richmond: "it runs that the spirit by which the forest is haunted is a
wood-demon, who assumes the shape of the ghostly hunter, and seeks to
tempt or terrify the keepers to sell their souls to him."

"Your grace's legend is the better of the two," said Lady Mary Howard,
"or rather, I should say, the more probable. I trust the evil spirit did
not make you any such offer, brother of Surrey?"

The earl gravely shook his head.

"If I were to meet him, and he offered me my heart's dearest wish, I
fear he would prevail with me," observed the duke, glancing tenderly at
the Fair Geraldine.

"Tush!--the subject is too serious for jesting, Richmond," said Surrey
almost sternly.

"His grace, as is usual in compacts with the fiend, might have reason to
rue his bargain," observed Lady Mary Howard peevishly.

"If the Earl of Surrey were my brother," remarked the Fair Geraldine
to the Lady Mary, "I would interdict him from roaming in the park after
nightfall."

"He is very wilful," said Lady Mary, smiling, "and holds my commands but
lightly."

"Let the Fair Geraldine lay hers upon me, and she shall not have to
reproach me with disobedience," rejoined the earl.

"I must interpose to prevent their utterance," cried Richmond, with a
somewhat jealous look at his friend, "for I have determined to know more
of this mystery, and shall require the earl's assistance to unravel it.
I think I remember Morgan Fenwolf, the keeper, and will send for him to
the castle, and question him. But in any case, I and Surrey will visit
Herne's Oak to-night."

The remonstrances of both ladies were interrupted by the sudden
appearance of Will Sommers.

"What ho! my lords--to your places! to your places!" cried the jester,
in a shrill angry voice. "See ye not we are close upon Datchet Bridge?
Ye can converse with these fair dames at a more fitting season; but it
is the king's pleasure that the cavalcade should make a goodly show. To
your places, I say!"

Laughing at the jester's peremptory injunction, the two young nobles
nevertheless obeyed it, and, bending almost to the saddle-bow to the
ladies, resumed their posts.

The concourse assembled on Datchet Bridge welcomed Anne Boleyn's arrival
with loud acclamations, while joyous strains proceeded from sackbut and
psaltery, and echoing blasts from the trumpets. Caps were flung into
the air, and a piece of ordnance was fired from the barge, which was
presently afterwards answered by the castle guns. Having paid his
homage to Anne Boleyn, the mayor rejoined the company of bailiffs and
burgesses, and the whole cavalcade crossed the bridge, winding their
way slowly along the banks of the river, the barge, with the minstrels
playing in it, accompanying them the while. In this way they reached
Windsor; and as Anne Boleyn gazed up at the lordly castle above which
the royal standard now floated, proud and aspiring thoughts swelled her
heart, and she longed for the hour when she should approach it as its
mistress. Just then her eye chanced on Sir Thomas Wyat, who was riding
behind her amongst the knights, and she felt, though it might cost her a
struggle, that love would yield to ambition.

Leaving the barge and its occupants to await the king's arrival, the
cavalcade ascended Thames Street, and were welcomed everywhere with
acclamations and rejoicing. Bryan Bowntance, who had stationed himself
on the right of the arch in front of his house, attempted to address
Anne Boleyn, but could not bring forth a word. His failure, how ever,
was more successful than his speech might have been, inasmuch as it
excited abundance of merriment.

Arrived at the area in front of the lower gateway, Anne Boleyn's litter
was drawn up in the midst of it, and the whole of the cavalcade
grouping around her, presented a magnificent sight to the archers and
arquebusiers stationed on the towers and walls.

Just at this moment a signal gun was heard from Datchet Bridge,
announcing that the king had reached it, and the Dukes of Suffolk,
Norfolk, and Richmond, together with the Earl of Surrey, Sir Thomas
Wyat, and a few of their gentle men, rode back to meet him. They had
scarcely, however, reached the foot of the hill when the royal party
appeared in view, for the king with his characteristic impatience, on
drawing near the castle, had urged his attendants quickly forward.

First came half a dozen trumpeters, with silken bandrols fluttering in
the breeze, blowing loud flourishes. Then a party of halberdiers, whose
leaders had pennons streaming from the tops of their tall pikes. Next
came two gentlemen ushers bareheaded, but mounted and richly habited,
belonging to the Cardinal of York, who cried out as they pressed
forward, "On before, my masters, on before!--make way for my lord's
grace."

Then came a sergeant-of-arms bearing a great mace of silver, and two
gentlemen carrying each a pillar of silver. Next rode a gentleman
carrying the cardinal's hat, and after him came Wolsey himself, mounted
on a mule trapped in crimson velvet, with a saddle covered with the same
stuff, and gilt stirrups. His large person was arrayed in robes of
the finest crimson satin engrained, and a silk cap of the same colour
contrasted by its brightness with the pale purple tint of his sullen,
morose, and bloated features. The cardinal took no notice of the clamour
around him, but now and then, when an expression of dislike was uttered
against him, for he had already begun to be unpopular with the people,
he would raise his eyes and direct a withering glance at the hardy
speaker. But these expressions were few, for, though tottering, Wolsey
was yet too formidable to be insulted with impunity. On either side of
him were two mounted attend ants, each caring a gilt poleaxe, who, if he
had given the word, would have instantly chastised the insolence of
the bystanders, while behind him rode his two cross-bearers upon homes
trapped in scarlet.

Wolsey's princely retinue was followed by a litter of crimson velvet, in
which lay the pope's legate, Cardinal Campeggio, whose infirmities
were so great that he could not move without assistance. Campeggio was
likewise attended by a numerous train.

After a long line of lords, knights, and esquires, came Henry the
Eighth. He was apparelled in a robe of crimson velvet furred with
ermines, and wore a doublet of raised gold, the placard of which was
embroidered with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, large pearls, and other
precious stones. About his neck was a baldric of balas rubies, and over
his robe he wore the collar of the Order of the Garter. His horse, a
charger of the largest size, and well able to sustain his vast weight,
was trapped in crimson velvet, purfled with ermines. His knights and
esquires were clothed in purple velvet, and his henchmen in scarlet
tunics of the same make as those worn by the warders of the Tower at the
present day.

Henry was in his thirty-eighth year, and though somewhat overgrown and
heavy, had lost none of his activity, and but little of the grace of his
noble proportions. His size and breadth of limb were well displayed in
his magnificent habiliment. His countenance was handsome and manly, with
a certain broad burly look, thoroughly English in its character, which
won him much admiration from his subjects; and though it might be
objected that the eyes were too small, and the mouth somewhat too
diminutive, it could not be denied that the general expression of the
face was kingly in the extreme. A prince of a more "royal presence"
than Henry the Eighth was never seen, and though he had many and grave
faults, want of dignity was not amongst the number.

Henry entered Windsor amid the acclamations of the spectators, the
fanfares of trumpeters, and the roar of ordnance from the castle walls.

Meanwhile, Anne Boleyn, having descended from her litter, which passed
through the gate into the lower ward, stood with her ladies beneath the
canopy awaiting his arrival.

A wide clear space was preserved before her, into which, however, Wolsey
penetrated, and, dismounting, placed himself so that he could witness
the meeting between her and the king. Behind him stood the jester, Will
Sommers, who was equally curious with himself. The litter of Cardinal
Campeggio passed through the gateway and proceeded to the lodgings
reserved for his eminence.

Scarcely had Wolsey taken up his station than Henry rode up, and,
alighting, consigned his horse to a page, and, followed by the Duke
of Richmond and the Earl of Surrey, advanced towards Anne Boleyn, who
immediately stepped forward to meet him.

"Fair mistress," he said, taking her hand, and regarding her with a look
of passionate devotion, "I welcome you to this my castle of Windsor,
and trust soon to make you as absolute mistress of it as I am lord and
master."

Anne Boleyn blushed, and cast down her eyes, and Sir Thomas Wyat, who
stood at some little distance with his hand upon his saddle, regarding
her, felt that any hopes he might have entertained were utterly
annihilated.

"Heard you that, my lord cardinal?" said Will Sommers to Wolsey. "She
will soon be mistress here. As she comes in, you go out--mind that!"

The cardinal made no answer further than was conveyed by the deepened
colour of his cheeks.

Amid continued fanfares and acclamations, Harry then led Anne Boleyn
through the gateway, followed by the ladies in waiting, who were joined
by Richmond and Surrey. The prelate, chancellor, register, black rod,
and other officers of the Garter, together with the whole of the
royal retinue who had dismounted, came after them. A vast concourse
of spectators, extending almost as far as the Lieutenant's Tower, was
collected in front of the alms-knights' houses; but a wide space had
been kept clear by the henchmen for the passage of the sovereign and his
train, and along this Henry proceeded with Anne Boleyn, in the direction
of the upper ward. Just as he reached the Norman Tower, and passed the
entrance to the keep, the Duke of Shoreditch, who was standing beneath
the gateway, advanced towards him and prostrated himself on one knee.

"May it please your majesty," said Shoreditch, "I last night arrested
a butcher of Windsor for uttering words highly disrespectful of your
highness, and of the fair and virtuous lady by your side."

"Ah! God's death!" exclaimed the king. "Where is the traitor? Bring him
before us."

"He is here," replied Shoreditch.

And immediately Mark Fytton was brought forward by a couple of
halberdiers. He still preserved his undaunted demeanour, and gazed
sternly at the king.

"So, fellow, thou hast dared to speak disrespectfully of us--ha!" cried
Henry.

"I have spoken the truth," replied the butcher fearlessly. "I have said
you were about to divorce your lawful consort, Catherine of Arragon, and
to take the minion, Anne Boleyn, who stands beside you, to your bed. And
I added, it was a wrongful act."

"Foul befall thy lying tongue for saying so!" replied Henry furiously.
"I have a mind to pluck it from thy throat, and cast it to the dogs.
What ho! guards, take this caitiff to the summit of the highest tower of
the castle--the Curfew Tower--and hang him from it, so that all my loyal
subjects in Windsor may see how traitors are served."

"Your highness has judged him justly," said Anne Boleyn. "You say so
now, Mistress Anne Boleyn," rejoined the butcher; "but you yourself
shall one day stand in as much peril of your life as I do, and shall
plead as vainly as I should, were I to plead at all, which I will never
do to this inexorable tyrant. You will then remember my end."

"Away with him!" cried Henry. "I myself will go to the Garter Tower to
see it done. Farewell for a short while, sweetheart. I will read these
partisans of Catherine a terrible lesson."

As the butcher was hurried off to the Curfew Tower, the king proceeded
with his attendants to the Garter Tower, and ascended to its summit.

In less than ten minutes a stout pole, like the mast of a ship, was
thrust through the battlements of the Curfew Tower, on the side looking
towards the town. To this pole a rope, of some dozen feet in length,
and having a noose at one end, was firmly secured. The butcher was then
brought forth, bound hand and foot, and the noose was thrown over his
neck.

While this was passing, the wretched man descried a person looking at
him from a window in a wooden structure projecting from the side of the
tower.

"What, are you there, Morgan Fenwolf?" he cried. "Remember what passed
between us in the dungeon last night, and be warned! You will not meet
your end as firmly as I meet mine?"

"Make thy shrift quickly, fellow, if thou hast aught to say," interposed
one of the halberdiers.

"I have no shrift to make," rejoined the butcher. "I have already
settled my account with Heaven. God preserve Queen Catherine!"

As he uttered these words, he was thrust off from the battlements by
the halberdiers, and his body swung into the abyss amid the hootings and
execrations of the spectators below.

Having glutted his eyes with the horrible sight, Henry descended from
the tower, and returned to Anne Boleyn.

IV.

     How King Henry the Eighth held a Chapter of the Garter--How
     he attended Vespers and Matins in Saint George's Chapel--And
     how he feasted with the Knights--Companions in Saint
     George's Hall.

From a balcony overlooking the upper ward, Anne Boleyn beheld the
king's approach on his return from the Garter Tower, and waving her hand
smilingly to him, she withdrew into the presence-chamber. Hastening to
her, Henry found her surrounded by her ladies of honour, by the chief
of the nobles and knights who had composed her train from Hampton Court,
and by the Cardinals Wolsey and Campeggio; and having exchanged a few
words with her, he took her hand, and led her to the upper part of the
chamber, where two chairs of state were set beneath a canopy of crimson
velvet embroidered with the royal arms, and placed her in the seat
hitherto allotted to Catherine of Arragon. A smile of triumph irradiated
Anne's lovely countenance at this mark of distinction, nor was her
satisfaction diminished as Henry turned to address the assemblage.

"My lords," he said, "ye are right well aware of the scruples of
conscience I entertain in regard to my marriage with my brother's widow,
Catherine of Arragon. The more I weigh the matter, the more convinced am
I of its unlawfulness; and were it possible to blind myself to my sinful
condition, the preachers, who openly rebuke me from the pulpit, would
take care to remind me of it. Misunderstand me not, my lords. I have no
ground of complaint against the queen. Far otherwise. She is a lady
of most excellent character--full of devotion, loyalty, nobility, and
gentleness. And if I could divest myself of my misgivings, so far from
seeking to put her from me, I should cherish her with the greatest
tenderness. Ye may marvel that I have delayed the divorce thus long. But
it is only of late that my eyes have been opened; and the step was hard
to take. Old affections clung to me--old chains restrained me--nor could
I, without compunction, separate myself from one who has ever been to me
a virtuous and devoted consort."

"Thou hast undergone a martyrdom, gossip," observed Will Sommers, who
had posted himself at the foot of the canopy, near the king, "and shalt
henceforth be denominated Saint Henry."

The gravity of the hearers might have been discomposed by this remark,
but for the stern looks of the king.

"Ye may make a jest of my scruples, my lords," he continued, "and think
I hold them lightly; but my treatise on the subject, which has cost
me much labour and meditation, will avouch to the contrary. What would
befall this realm if my marriage were called in question after my
decease? The same trouble and confusion would ensue that followed on the
death of my noble grandfather, King Edward the Fourth. To prevent such
mischance I have resolved, most reluctantly, to put away my present
queen, and to take another consort, by whom I trust to raise up a worthy
successor and inheritor of my kingdom."

A murmur of applause followed this speech, and the two cardinals
exchanged significant glances, which were not unobserved by the king.

"I doubt not ye will all approve the choice I shall make," he pursued,
looking fiercely at Wolsey, and taking Anne Boleyn's hand, who arose
as he turned to her. "And now, fair mistress," he added to her, "as an
earnest of the regard I have for you, and of the honours I intend you,
I hereby create you Marchioness of Pembroke, and bestow upon you a
thousand marks a year in land, and another thousand to be paid out of my
treasury to support your dignity."

"Your majesty is too generous," replied Anne, bending the knee, and
kissing his hand.

"Not a whit, sweetheart--not a whit," replied Henry, tenderly raising
her; "this is but a slight mark of my goodwill. Sir Thomas Boleyn," he
added to her father, "henceforth your style and title will be that of
Viscount Rochford, and your patent will be made out at the same time as
that of your daughter, the Marchioness of Pembroke. I also elect you a
knight-companion of the most honourable Order of the Garter, and your
investiture and installation will take place to-day."

Having received the thanks and homage of the newly-created noble, Henry
descended from the canopy, and passed into an inner room with the Lady
Anne, where a collation was prepared for them. Their slight meal over,
Anne took up her lute, and playing a lively prelude, sang two or
three French songs with so much skill and grace, that Henry, who was
passionately fond of music, was quite enraptured. Two delightful hours
having passed by, almost imperceptibly, an usher approached the king,
and whispering a few words to him, he reluctantly withdrew, and Anne
retired with her ladies to an inner apartment.

On reaching his closet, the king's attendants proceeded to array him in
a surcoat of crimson velvet, powdered with garters embroidered in silk
and gold, with the motto--boni soft qui mal y pense--wrought within
them. Over the surcoat was thrown a mantle of blue velvet with a
magnificent train, lined with white damask, and having on the left
shoulder a large garter, wrought in pearls and Venice twists, containing
the motto, and encircling the arms of Saint George--argent, a cross
gules. The royal habiliments were completed by a hood of the same stuff
as the surcoat, decorated like it with small embroidered garters, and
lined with white satin. From the king's neck was suspended the collar
of the Great George, composed of pieces of gold, fashioned like garters,
the ground of which was enamelled, and the letters gold.

While Henry was thus arrayed, the knights-companions, robed in their
mantles, hoods, and collars, entered the closet, and waiting till he
was ready, marched before him into the presence-chamber, where were
assembled the two provincial kings-at-arms, Clarenceux and Norroy, the
heralds, and pursuivants, wearing their coats-of-arms, together with the
band of pensioners, carrying gilt poleaxes, and drawn up in two lines.
At the king's approach, one of the gentlemen-ushers who carried the
sword of state, with the point resting upon the ground, delivered it
to the Duke of Richmond,--the latter having been appointed to bear it
before the king during all the proceedings of the feast. Meanwhile, the
knights-companions having drawn up on either side of the canopy, Henry
advanced with a slow and stately step towards it, his train borne by
the Earl of Surrey, Sir Thomas Wyat, and other nobles and knights. As he
ascended the canopy, and faced the assemblage, the Duke of Richmond
and the chief officers of the Order drew up a little on his right. The
knights-companions then made their salutation to him, which he returned
by removing his jewelled cap with infinite grace and dignity, and
as soon as he was again covered they put on their caps, and ranging
themselves in order, set forward to Saint George's Chapel.

Quitting the royal lodgings, and passing through the gateway of the
Norman Tower, the procession wound its way along the base of the Round
Tower, the battlements of which bristled with spearmen, as did the walls
on the right, and the summit of the Winchester Tower, and crossing the
middle ward, skirted the tomb-house, then newly erected by Wolsey, and
threading a narrow passage between it and Saint George's Chapel, entered
the north-east door of the latter structure.

Dividing, on their entrance into the chapel, into two lines, the
attendants of the knights-companions flanked either side of the north
aisle; while between them walked the alms-knights, the verger, the
prebends of the college, and the officers-of-arms, who proceeded as far
as the west door of the choir, where they stopped. A slight pause then
ensued, after which the king, the knights-companions, and the chief
officers of the Order, entered the chapter-house--a chamber situated at
the north-east corner of the chapel--leaving the Duke of Richmond, the
sword-bearer, Lard Rochford, the knight-elect, the train-bearers, and
pensioners outside. The door of the chapter-house being closed by
the black-rod, the king proceeded to the upper end of the
vestments-board--as the table was designated--where a chair, cushions,
and cloth of state were provided for him; the knights-companions, whose
stalls in the choir were on the same side as his own, seating themselves
on his right, and those whose posts were on the prince's side taking
their places on the left. The prelate and the chancellor stood at the
upper end of the table; the Garter and register at the foot; while the
door was kept by the black-rod.

As soon as the king and the knights were seated, intimation was given by
an usher to the black-rod that the newly elected knight, Lord Rochford,
was without. The intelligence being communicated to the king, he ordered
the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk to bring him into his presence.
The injunction was obeyed, and the knight-elect presently made
his appearance, the Garter marching before him to the king. Bowing
reverently to the sovereign, Rochford, in a brief speech, expressed his
gratitude for the signal honour conferred upon him, and at its close
set his left foot upon a gilt stool, placed for him by the Garter, who
pronounced the following admonition:--"My good lord, the loving company
of the Order of the Garter have received you as their brother and
fellow. In token whereof, they give you this garter, which God grant you
may receive and wear from henceforth to His praise and glory, and to the
exaltation and honour of the noble Order and yourself."

Meanwhile the garter was girded on the leg of the newly-elected knight,
and buckled by the Duke of Suffolk. This done, he knelt before the king,
who hung a gold chain, with the image of Saint George attached to
it, about his neck, while another admonition was pronounced by
the chancellor. Rochford then arose, bowed to the monarch, to the
knights-companions, who returned his salutations, and the investiture
was complete.

Other affairs of the chapter were next discussed. Certain officers
nominated since the last meeting, were sworn; letters from absent
knights-companions, praying to be excused from attendance, were
read--and their pleas, except in the instance of Sir Thomas Cheney,
allowed. After reading the excuse of the latter, Henry uttered an angry
oath, declaring he would deprive him of his vote in the chapter-house,
banish him from his stall, and mulct him a hundred marks, to be paid
at Saint George's altar, when Will Sommers, who was permitted to be
present, whispered in his ear that the offender was kept away by the
devices of Wolsey, because he was known to be friendly to the divorce,
and to the interests of the lady Anne.

"Aha! by Saint Mary, is it so?" exclaimed Henry, knitting his brows.
"This shall be looked into. I have hanged a butcher just now. Let the
butcher's son take warning by his fate. He has bearded me long enough.
See that Sir Thomas Cheney be sent for with all despatch. I will hear
the truth from his own lips."

He then arose, and quitting the chapter-house, proceeded with the
knights-companions to the choir--the roof and walls of the sacred
structure resounding with the solemn notes of the organ as they
traversed the aisle. The first to enter the choir were the alms-knights,
who passed through the door in a body, and making low obeisances
toward the altar and the royal stall, divided into two lines. They
were succeeded by the prebends of the College, who, making similar
obeisances, stationed themselves in front of the benches before the
stalls of the knights-companions. Next followed the pursuivants,
heralds, and provincial kings-of-arms, making like reverences,
and ranging themselves with the alms-knights. Then came the
knights-companions, who performed double reverences like the others, and
took their stations under their stalls; then came the black-rod, Garter,
and register, who having gone through the same ceremony as the others,
proceeded to their form, which was placed on the south side of the choir
before the sovereign's stall; then came the chancellor and prelate,
whose form was likewise placed before the royal stall, but nearer to it
than that allotted to the other officers; and, lastly, Henry himself,
with the sword borne before him by the Duke of Richmond, who as he
approached the steps of his stall bowed reverently towards the altar,
and made another obeisance before seating himself.

Meanwhile the Duke of Richmond posted himself in front of the royal
stall, the Earl of Oxford, as lord chamberlain, taking his station on
the king's right, and the Earl of Surrey, as vice-chamberlain, on the
left. As these arrangements were made, the two cardinals arrived, and
proceeded to the altar.

Mass was then said, and nothing could be more striking than the
appearance of the chapel during its performance. The glorious choir with
its groined and pendent roof, its walls adorned with the richest stuffs,
its exquisitely carved stalls, above which hung the banners of the
knights-companions, together with their helmets, crests, and swords, its
sumptuously--decorated altar, glittering with costly vessels, its pulpit
hung with crimson damask interwoven with gold, the magnificent and
varied dresses of the assemblage--all these constituted a picture of
surpassing splendour.

Vespers over, the king and his train departed with the same ceremonies
and in the same order as had been observed on their entrance to the
choir.

On returning to the royal lodgings, Henry proceeded to his closet, where
having divested himself of his mantle, he went in search of the Lady
Anne. He found her walking with her dames on the stately terrace at the
north of the castle, and the attendants retiring as he joined her, he
was left at full liberty for amorous converse. After pacing the terrace
for some time, he adjourned with Anne to her own apartments, where he
remained till summoned to supper with the knights-companions in Saint
George's Hall.

The next morning betimes, it being the day of the Patron Saint of the
Order of the Garter, a numerous cavalcade assembled in the upper ward of
the castle, to conduct the king to hear matins in Saint George's Chapel.
In order to render the sight as imposing as possible, Henry had arranged
that the procession should take place on horseback, and the whole of the
retinue were accordingly mounted. The large quadrangle was filled with
steeds and their attendants, and the castle walls resounded with the
fanfares of trumpets and the beating of kettledrums. The most attractive
feature of the procession in the eyes of the beholders was the Lady
Anne, who, mounted on a snow-white palfrey richly trapped, rode on the
right of the king. She was dressed in a rich gown of raised cloth of
gold; and had a coronet of black velvet, decorated with orient pearls,
on her head. Never had she looked so lovely as on this occasion, and the
king's passion increased as he gazed upon her. Henry himself was more
sumptuously attired than on the preceding day. He wore a robe of purple
velvet, made somewhat like a frock, embroidered with flat damask gold,
and small lace intermixed. His doublet was very curiously embroidered,
the sleeves and breast being lined with cloth of gold, and fastened with
great buttons of diamonds and rubies. His sword and girdle were adorned
with magnificent emeralds, and his bonnet glistened with precious
stones. His charger was trapped in cloth of gold, traversed
lattice-wise, square, embroidered with gold damask, pearled on every
side, and having buckles and pendants of fine gold. By his side ran
ten footmen, richly attired in velvet and goldsmith's work. They were
followed by the pages of honour, mounted on great horses, trapped in
crimson velvet embroidered with new devices and knots of gold.

In this state Henry and his favourite proceeded to the great
western door of Saint George's Chapel. Here twelve gentlemen of the
privy-chamber attended with a canopy of cloth of gold, which they bore
over the king's bead, and that of the Lady Anne, as she walked beside
him to the entrance of the choir, where they separated--he proceeding
to his stall, and she to a closet at the north-east corner of the choir
over the altar, while her ladies repaired to one adjoining it.

Matins then commenced, and at the appointed part of the service the dean
of the college took a silver box, containing the heart of Saint George,
bestowed upon King Henry the Fifth by the Emperor Sigismund, and after
incense had been shed upon it by one of the canons, presented it to the
king and the knights-companions to kiss.

After the offertory, a carpet was spread on the steps before the altar,
the alms-knights, pursuivants, and heralds stationing themselves on
either side of it. The Garter then descended from his seat, and waving
his rod, the knights-companions descended likewise, but remained before
their stalls. The black-rod next descended, and proceeding towards the
altar, a groom of the wardrobe brought him a small carpet of cloth of
gold, and a cushion of the same stuff, which were placed on the larger
carpet, the cushion being set on the head of the steps. Taking a large
gilt bason to receive the offerings, the prelate stationed himself with
one of the prebends in the midst of the altar. The king then rose from
his stall, and making a reverence as before, proceeded to the altar,
attended by the Garter, register, and chancellor, together with the
Duke of Richmond bearing the sword; and having reached the upper step,
prostrated himself on the cushion, while the black-rod bending the knee
delivered a chain of gold, intended afterwards to be redeemed, to the
Duke of Suffolk, who was appointed to make the royal offering, and who
placed it in the bason held by the prelate. This ceremony over, the king
got up, and with similar reverences returned to his stall. Then the two
provincial kings, Clarenceux and Norroy, proceeded along the choir, and
making due reverences to the altar and the sovereign, bowed to the two
senior knights; who thereupon advanced towards the altar, and kneeling
down, made their offering. The other imitated their example, coming
forward according to their seniority.

The service ended, the officers and knights-companions quitted the
chapel in the same order they had entered it, the king being received
under the canopy at the door of the choir, and passing through the
west entrance of the chapel, where he waited for the Lady Anne. On
her arrival they both mounted their steeds, and rode up to the royal
lodgings amid flourishes of trumpets and acclamations. Dismounting
at the great gate, Henry proceeded to the presence-chamber, where the
knights-companions had assembled, and having received their salutations,
retired to his closet. Here he remained in deep consultation with the
Duke of Suffolk for some hours, when it having been announced to him
that the first course of the banquet was served, he came forth,
and proceeded to the presence-chamber, where he greeted the
knights-companions, who were there assembled, and who immediately
put themselves in order of procession. After this, the alms-knights,
prebends, and officers-of-arms passed on through the guard-chamber into
Saint George's Hall. They were followed by the knights-companions, who
drew up in double file, the seniors taking the uppermost place; and
through these lines the king passed, his train borne up as before, until
reaching the table set apart for him beneath a canopy, he turned
round and received the knights' reverences. The Earl of Oxford, as
vice-chamberlain, then brought him a ewer containing water, the Earl of
Surrey a bason, and Lord Rochford a napkin. Henry having performed his
ablutions, grace was said by the prelate, after which the king seated
himself beneath the canopy in an ancient chair with a curiously carved
back representing the exploit of Saint George, which had once belonged
to the founder, King Edward the Third, and called up the two cardinals,
who by this time had entered the hall, and who remained standing beside
him, one on either hand, during the repast.

As soon as the king was seated, the knights-companions put on their
caps, and retired to the table prepared for them on the right side of
the hall, where they seated themselves according to their degree--the
Duke of Richmond occupying the first place, the Duke of Suffolk the
second, and the Duke of Norfolk the third. On the opposite side of the
hall was a long beaufet covered with flasks of wine, meats, and dishes,
for the service of the knights' table. Before this stood the attendants,
near whom were drawn up two lines of pensioners bearing the second
course on great gilt dishes, and headed by the sewer. In front of the
sewer were the treasurer and comptroller of the household, each bearing
a white wand; next them stood the officers-of-arms in two lines, headed
by the Garter. The bottom of the hall was thronged with yeomen of the
guard, halberdiers, and henchmen. In a gallery at the lower end were
stationed a band of minstrels, and near them sat the Lady Anne and her
dames to view the proceedings.

The appearance of the hall during the banquet was magnificent, the upper
part being hung with arras representing the legend of Saint
George, placed there by Henry the Sixth, and the walls behind the
knights-companions adorned with other tapestries and rich stuffs.
The tables groaned with the weight of dishes, some of which may be
enumerated for the benefit of modern gastronomers. There were Georges on
horseback, chickens in brewis, cygnets, capons of high grease, carpes of
venison, herons, calvered salmon, custards planted with garters, tarts
closed with arms, godwits, peafowl, halibut engrailed, porpoise in
armour, pickled mullets, perch in foyle, venison pasties, hypocras
jelly, and mainemy royal.

Before the second course was served, the Garter, followed by Clarenceux
and Norroy, together with the heralds and pursuivants, advanced towards
the sovereign's canopy, and cried thrice in a loud voice, "Largesse!"

Upon this, all the knights-companions arose and took off their caps. The
Garter then proceeded to proclaim the king's titles in Latin and French,
and lastly in English, as follows:--"Of the most high, most excellent,
and most mighty monarch, Henry the Eighth, by the grace of God King of
England, France, and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, and Sovereign of
the most noble Order of the Garter."

This proclamation made, the treasurer of the household put ten golden
marks into the Garter's cap, who making a reverence to the sovereign,
retired from the hall with his followers.

"Come, my lord legate," said Henry, when this ceremony was at an end,
"we will drink to my future queen. What ho! wine!" he added to the Earl
of Surrey, who officiated as cup-bearer.

"Your highness is not yet divorced from your present consort," replied
Campeggio. "If it please you, I should prefer drinking the health of
Catherine of Arragon."

"Well, as your eminence pleases," replied the king, taking the goblet
from the hand of Surrey; "I shall not constrain you."

And looking towards the gallery, he fixed his eyes on the Lady Anne and
drained the cup to the last drop.

"Would it were poison," muttered Sir Thomas Wyat, who stood behind the
Earl of Surrey, and witnessed what was passing.

"Give not thy treasonable thoughts vent, gossip," said Will Sommers,
who formed one of the group near the royal table, "or it may chance that
some one less friendly disposed towards thee than myself may overhear
them. I tell thee, the Lady Anne is lost to thee for ever. Think'st thou
aught of womankind would hesitate between a simple knight and a king? My
lord duke," he added sharply to Richmond, who was looking round at him,
"you would rather be in yonder gallery than here."

"Why so, knave?" asked the duke.

"Because the Fair Geraldine is there," replied the jester. "And yet your
grace is not the person she would most desire to have with her."

"Whom would she prefer?" inquired the duke angrily.

The jester nodded at Surrey, and laughed maliciously.

"You heard the health given by the king just now, my lord," observed the
Duke of Suffolk to his neighbour the Duke of Norfolk; "it was a shrewd
hint to the lord legate which way his judgment should decline. Your
niece will assuredly be Queen of England."

"I did not note what was said, my lord," replied Norfolk; "I pray you
repeat it to me."

Suffolk complied, and they continued in close debate until the
termination of the banquet, when the king, having saluted the company,
returned to the presence-chamber.

V.

     Of the Ghostly Chase beheld by the Earl of Surrey and the
     Duke of Richmond in Windsor Forest.

On that same night, and just as the castle clock was on the stroke of
twelve, the Earl of Surrey and the Duke of Richmond issued from the
upper gate, and took their way towards Herne's Oak. The moon was shining
brightly, and its beams silvered the foliage of the noble trees with
which the park was studded. The youthful friends soon reached the
blasted tree; but nothing was to be seen near it, and all looked so
tranquil, so free from malignant influence, that the Duke of Richmond
could not help laughing at his companion, telling him that the supposed
vision must have been the offspring of his over-excited fancy. Angry at
being thus doubted, the earl walked off, and plunged into the haunted
dell. The duke followed, but though they paused for some time beneath
the gnarled oak-tree, the spirit did not appear.

"And thus ends the adventure of Herne the Hunter!" laughed the duke,
as they emerged from the brake. "By my halidom, Surrey, I am grievously
disappointed. You must have mistaken some large stag, caught by its
antlers in the branches of the oak-tree, for the demon."

"I have told you precisely what occurred," replied Surrey angrily. "Ha!
there he is--look! look!"

And he pointed to a weird figure, mounted on a steed as weird-looking as
itself, galloping through the trees with extraordinary swiftness, at a
little distance from them. This ghostly rider wore the antlered helmet
described by Surrey, and seemed to be habited in a garb of deer-skins.
Before him flew a large owl, and a couple of great black dogs ran beside
him. Staring in speechless wonder at the sight, the two youths watched
the mysterious being scour a glade brightly illumined by the moon,
until, reaching the pales marking the confines of the Home Park, he
leaped them and disappeared.

"What think you of that?" cried Surrey, as soon as he had recovered from
his surprise, glancing triumphantly at the duke. "Was that the offspring
of my fancy?"

"It was a marvellous sight, truly!" exclaimed Richmond. "Would we had
our steeds to follow him."

"We can follow him on foot," replied the earl--"he is evidently gone
into the forest."

And they set off at a quick pace in the direction taken by the ghostly
rider. Clambering the park pales, they crossed the road leading to
Old Windsor, and entered that part of the forest which, in more recent
times, has been enclosed and allotted to the grounds of Frogmore.
Tracking a long vista, they came to a thick dell, overgrown with
large oaks, at the bottom of which lay a small pool. Fleeter than his
companion, and therefore somewhat in advance of him, the Earl of Surrey,
as he approached this dell, perceived the spectral huntsman and his dogs
standing at the edge of the water. The earl instantly shouted to him,
and the horseman turning his head, shook his hand menacingly, while the
hounds glared fiercely at the intruder, and displayed their fangs, but
did not bark. As Surrey, however, despite this caution, continued to
advance, the huntsman took a strangely shaped horn that hung by his
side, and placing it to his lips, flames and thick smoke presently
issued from it, and before the vapour had cleared off, he and his dogs
had disappeared.. The witnesses of this marvellous spectacle crossed
themselves reverently, and descended to the brink of the pool; but the
numerous footprints of deer, that came there to drink, prevented them
from distinguishing any marks of the steed of the ghostly hunter.

"Shall we return, Surrey?" asked the duke.

"No," replied the earl. "I am persuaded we shall see the mysterious
huntsman again. You can return, if you think proper. I will go on."

"Nay, I will not leave you," rejoined Richmond.

And they set off again at the same quick pace as before. Mounting a hill
covered with noble beeches and elms, a magnificent view of the castle
burst upon them, towering over the groves they had tracked, and looking
almost like the work of enchantment. Charmed with the view, the young
men continued to contemplate it for some time. They then struck off on
the right, and ascended still higher, until they came to a beautiful
grove of beeches cresting the hill where the equestrian statue of George
the Third is now placed. Skirting this grove, they disturbed a herd of
deer, which started up, and darted into the valley below.

At the foot of two fine beech-trees lay another small pool, and Surrey
almost expected to see the spectral huntsman beside it.

From this spot they could discern the whole of the valley beyond, and
they scanned it in the hope of perceiving the object of their search.
Though not comparable to the view on the nearer side, the prospect was
nevertheless exceedingly beautiful. Long vistas and glades stretched out
before them, while in the far distance might be seen glittering in the
moonbeams the lake or mere which in later days has received the name of
Virginia Water.

While they were gazing at this scene, a figure habited like a keeper of
the forest suddenly emerged from the trees at the lower end of one of
the glades. Persuaded that this person had some mysterious connection
with the ghostly huntsman, the earl determined to follow him, and
hastily mentioning his suspicions and design to Richmond, he hurried
down the hill. But before he accomplished the descent, the keeper was
gone.

At length, however, on looking about, they perceived him mounting the
rising ground on the left, and immediately started after him, taking
care to keep out of sight. The policy of this course was soon apparent.
Supposing himself no longer pursued, the keeper relaxed his pace, and
the others got nearer to him.

In this way both parties went on, the keeper still hurrying forward,
every now and then turning his head to see whether any one was on his
track, until he came to a road cut through the trees that brought him to
the edge of a descent leading to the lake. Just at this moment a
cloud passed over the moon, burying all in comparative obscurity.
The watchers, however, could perceive the keeper approach an ancient
beech-tree of enormous growth, and strike it thrice with the short
hunting-spear which he held in his grasp.

The signal remaining unanswered, he quitted the tree, and shaped his
course along the side of a hill on the right. Keeping under the
shelter of the thicket on the top of the same hill, Surrey and Richmond
followed, and saw him direct his steps towards another beech-tree of
almost double the girth of that he had just visited. Arrived at this
mighty tree, he struck it with his spear, while a large owl, seated on
a leafless branch, began to hoot; a bat circled the tree; and two large
snakes, glistening in the moonlight, glided from its roots. As the tree
was stricken for the third time, the same weird figure that the watchers
had seen ride along the Home Park burst from its riften trunk, and
addressed its summoner in tones apparently menacing and imperious, but
whose import was lost upon the listeners. The curiosity of the beholders
was roused to the highest pitch, but an undefinable awe prevented them
from rushing forward.

Suddenly the demon hunter waved a pike with which he was armed, and
uttered a peculiar cry, resembling the hooting of an owl. At this sound,
and as if by magic, a couple of steeds, accompanied by the two hounds,
started from the brake. In an instant the demon huntsman vaulted upon
the hack of the horse nearest to him, and the keeper almost as quickly
mounted the other. The pair then galloped off through the glen, the owl
flying before them, and the hounds coursing by their side.

The two friends gazed at each other, for some time, in speechless
wonder. Taking heart, they then descended to the haunted tree, but could
perceive no traces of the strange being by whom it had been recently
tenanted. After a while they retraced their course towards the castle,
hoping they might once more encounter the wild huntsman. Nor were they
disappointed. As they crossed a glen, a noble stag darted by. Close at
its heels came the two black hounds, and after them the riders hurrying
forward at a furious pace, their steeds appearing to breathe forth flame
and smoke.

In an instant the huntsmen and hounds were gone, and the trampling of
the horses died away in the distance. Soon afterwards a low sound, like
the winding of a horn, broke upon the ear, and the listeners had no
doubt that the buck was brought down. They hurried in the direction
of the sound, but though the view was wholly unobstructed for a
considerable distance, they could see nothing either of horsemen,
hounds, or deer.

VI.

     How the Fair Geraldine bestowed a Relic upon her Lover--How
     Surrey and Richmond rode in the Forest at Midnight--And
     where they found the Body of Mark Fytton, the Butcher.

Surrey and Richmond agreed to say nothing for the present of their
mysterious adventure in the forest; but their haggard looks, as they
presented themselves to the Lady Anne Boleyn in the reception-chamber on
the following morning, proclaimed that something had happened, and they
had to undergo much questioning from the Fair Geraldine and the Lady
Mary Howard.

"I never saw you so out of spirits, my lord," remarked the Fair
Geraldine to Surrey; "you must have spent the whole night in study--or
what is more probable, you have again seen Herne the Hunter. Confess
now, you have been in the forest."

"I will confess anything you please," replied Surrey evasively.

"And what have you seen?--a stranger vision than the first?" rejoined
the Fair Geraldine.

"Since your ladyship answers for me, there is no need for explanation on
my part," rejoined Surrey, with a faint laugh. "And know you not, that
those who encounter super natural beings are generally bound to profound
secrecy?"

"Such, I hope, is not your case, Henry?" cried the Lady Mary Howard, in
alarm;--"nor yours, my lord?" she added to the Duke of Richmond.

"I am bound equally with Surrey," returned the duke mysteriously

"You pique my curiosity, my lords," said the Fair Geraldine; "and since
there is no other way of gratifying it, if the Lady Mary Howard will
accompany me, we will ourselves venture into the forest, and try whether
we cannot have a meeting with this wild huntsman. Shall we go to-night?

"Not for worlds," replied the Lady Mary, shuddering; "were I to see
Herne, I should die of fright."

"Your alarm is groundless," observed Richmond gallantly. "The presence
of two beings, fair and pure as yourself and the Lady Elizabeth
Fitzgerald, would scare away aught of evil."

The Lady Mary thanked him with a beaming smile, but the Fair Geraldine
could not suppress a slight laugh.

"Your grace is highly flattering," she said. "But, with all faith
in beauty and purity, I should place most reliance in a relic I
possess--the virtue of which has often been approved against evil
spirits. It was given by a monk--who had been sorely tempted by a demon,
and who owed his deliverance to it--to my ancestor, Luigi Geraldi of
Florence; and from him it descended to me."

"Would I had an opportunity of proving its efficacy!" exclaimed the Earl
of Surrey.

"You shall prove it, if you choose," rejoined the Fair Geraldine. "I
will give you the relic on condition that you never part with it to
friend or foe."

And detaching a small cross of gold, suspended by a chain from her neck,
she presented it to the Earl of Surrey.

"This cross encloses the relic," she continued; "wear it, and may it
protect you from all ill!"

Surrey's pale cheek glowed as he took the gift. "I will never past
with it but with life," he cried, pressing the cross to his lips, and
afterwards placing it next his heart.

"I would have given half my dukedom to be so favoured," said Richmond
moodily.

And quitting the little group, he walked towards the Lady Anne. "Henry,"
said the Lady Mary, taking her brother aside, "you will lose your
friend."

"I care not," replied Surrey.

"But you may incur his enmity," pursued the Lady Mary. "I saw the glance
he threw at you just now, and it was exactly like the king's terrible
look when offended."

"Again I say I care not," replied Surrey. "Armed with this relic, I defy
all hostility."

"It will avail little against Richmond's rivalry and opposition,"
rejoined his sister.

"We shall see," retorted Surrey. "Were the king himself my rival, I
would not resign my pretensions to the Fair Geraldine."

"Bravely resolved, my lord," said Sir Thomas Wyat, who, having overheard
the exclamation, advanced towards him. "Heaven grant you may never be
placed in such jeopardy!"

"I say amen to that prayer, Sir Thomas," rejoined Surrey "I would not
prove disloyal, and yet under such circumstances--"

"What would you do?" interrupted Wyat.

"My brother is but a hasty boy, and has not learned discretion, Sir
Thomas," interposed the Lady Mary, trying by a significant glance to
impose silence on the earl.

"Young as he is, he loves well and truly," remarked Wyat, in a sombre
tone.

"What is all this?" inquired the Fair Geraldine, who had been gazing
through the casement into the court below.

"I was merely expressing a wish that Surrey may never have a monarch for
a rival, fair lady," replied Wyat.

"It matters little who may be his rival," rejoined Geraldine, "provided
she he loves be constant."

"Right, lady, right," said Wyat, with great bitterness. At this moment
Will Sommers approached them. "I come to bid you to the Lady Anne's
presence, Sir Thomas, and you to the king's, my lord of Surrey," said
the jester. "I noticed what has just taken place," he remarked to the
latter, as they proceeded towards the royal canopy, beneath which Henry
and the Lady Anne Boleyn were seated; "but Richmond will not relinquish
her tamely, for all that."

Anne Boleyn had summoned Sir Thomas Wyat, in order to gratify her vanity
by showing him the unbounded influence she possessed over his royal
rival; and the half-suppressed agony displayed by the unfortunate lover
at the exhibition afforded her a pleasure such as only the most refined
coquette can feel.

Surrey was sent for by the king to receive instructions, in his quality
of vice-chamberlain, respecting a tilting-match and hunting-party to be
held on successive days--the one in the upper quadrangle of the castle,
the other in the forest.

Anxious, now that he was somewhat calmer, to avoid a rupture with
Richmond, Surrey, as soon as he had received the king's instructions,
drew near the duke; and the latter, who had likewise reasoned himself
out of his resentment, was speedily appeased, and they became, to all
appearance, as good friends as ever.

Soon afterwards the Lady Anne and her dames retired, and the court
breaking up, the two young nobles strolled forth to the stately terrace
at the north of the castle, where, while gazing at the glorious view it
commanded, they talked over the mysterious event of the previous night.

"I cannot help suspecting that the keeper we beheld with the demon
hunter was Morgan Fenwolf," remarked the earl. "Suppose we make inquiry
whether he was at home last night. We can readily find out his dwelling
from Bryan Bowntance, the host of the Garter."

Richmond acquiesced in the proposal, and they accordingly proceeded
to the cloisters of Saint George's Chapel, and threading some tortuous
passages contrived among the canons' houses, passed through a small
porch, guarded by a sentinel, and opening upon a precipitous and
somewhat dangerous flight of steps, hewn out of the rock and leading to
the town.

None except the more important members of the royal household were
allowed to use this means of exit from the castle, but, of course, the
privilege extended to Richmond and Surrey. Here in later times, and when
the castle was not so strictly guarded, a more convenient approach
was built, and designated, from the number of its stairs, "The Hundred
Steps."

Having accomplished the descent in safety, and given the password to the
sentinel at the foot of the steps, the two young nobles emerged into the
street, and the first object they beheld was the body of the miserable
butcher swinging from the summit of the Curfew Tower, where it was left
by order of the king.

Averting their gaze from this ghastly spectacle, they took their way up
Thames Street, and soon reached the Garter. Honest Bryan was seated on a
bench before the dwelling, with a flagon of his own ale beside him,
and rising as he saw the others approach, he made them a profound
salutation.

Upon leaning what they sought, he told them that Morgan Fenwolf dwelt
in a small cottage by the river-side not far from the bridge, and if
it pleased them, he would guide them to it himself--an offer which they
gladly accepted.

"Do you know anything of this Fenwolf?" asked Surrey, as they proceeded
on their way.

"Nothing particular," replied Bryan, with some hesitation. "There are
some strange reports about him, but I don't believe 'em."

"What reports are they, friend?" asked the Duke of Richmond.

"Why, your grace, one ought to be cautious what one says, for fear of
bringing an innocent man into trouble," returned the host. "But if the
truth must be spoken, people do say that Morgan Fenwolf is in league
with the devil--or with Herne the Hunter, which is the same thing."

Richmond exchanged a look with his friend.

"Folks say strange sights have been seen in the forest of late," pursued
Bryan--"and it may be so. But I myself have seen nothing--but then, to
be sure, I never go there. The keepers used to talk of Herne the
Hunter when I was a lad, but I believe it was only a tale to frighten
deer-stealers; and I fancy it's much the same thing now."

Neither Surrey nor Richmond made any remark, and they presently reached
the keeper's dwelling.

It was a small wooden tenement standing, as the host had stated, on the
bank of the river, about a bow-shot from the bridge. The door was opened
by Bryan, and the party entered without further ceremony. They found
no one within except an old woman, with harsh, wrinkled features, and a
glance as ill-omened as that of a witch, whom Bryan Bowntance told them
was Fenwolf's mother. This old crone regarded the intruders uneasily.

"Where is your son, dame?" demanded the duke.

"On his walk in the forest," replied the old crone bluntly.

"What time did he go forth?" inquired Surrey.

"An hour before daybreak, as is his custom," returned the woman, in the
same short tone as before.

"You are sure he slept at home last night, dame?" said Surrey.

"As sure as I am that the question is asked me," she replied. "I can
show you the very bed on which he slept, if you desire to see it. He
retired soon after sunset--slept soundly, as he always sleeps--and arose
as I have told you. I lighted a fire, and made him some hot pottage
myself."

"If she speaks the truth, you must be mistaken," observed Richmond in a
whisper to his friend.

"I do not believe her," replied Surrey, in the same tone. "Show us his
chamber, dame."

The old crone sullenly complied, and, throwing open a side door,
disclosed an inner apartment, in which there was a small bed. There
was nothing noticeable in the room except a couple of fishing-nets, a
hunting-spear, and an old cross-bow. A small open casement looked upon
the river, whose clear sparkling waters flowed immediately beneath it.

Surrey approached the window, and obtained a fine view of the Brocas
meads on the one hand, and the embowered college of Eton on the other.
His attention, however, was diverted by a fierce barking without, and
the next moment, in spite of the vociferations of the old woman, a large
black staghound, which Surrey recognised as Fenwolf's dog, Bawsey, burst
through the door, and rushed furiously towards him. Surrey drew his
dagger to defend himself from the hound's attack, but the precaution
was needless. Bawsey's fierceness changed suddenly to the most abject
submission, and with a terrified howl, she retreated from the room with'
her tail between her legs. Even the old woman uttered a cry of surprise.

"Lord help us!" exclaimed Bryan; "was ever the like o' that seen? Your
lordship must have a strange mastery over dogs. That hound," he added,
in a whisper, "is said to be a familiar spirit."

"The virtue of the relic is approved," observed Surrey to Richmond, in
an undertone.

"It would seem so," replied the duke.

The old woman now thought proper to assume a more respectful demeanour
towards her visitors, and inquired whether her son should attend upon
them on his return from the forest, but they said it was unnecessary.

"The king is about to have a grand hunting-party the day after
to-morrow," observed Surrey, "and we wished to give your son some
instructions respecting it. They can, however, be delivered to another
keeper."

And they departed with Bryan, and returned to the castle. At midnight
they again issued forth. Their steeds awaited them near the upper gate,
and, mounting, they galloped across the greensward in the direction of
Herne's Oak. Discerning no trace of the ghostly huntsman, they shaped
their course towards the forest.

Urging their steeds to their utmost speed, and skirting the long avenue,
they did not draw the rein till they reached the eminence beyond it;
having climbed which, they dashed down the farther side at the same
swift pace as before. The ride greatly excited them, but they saw
nothing of the wild huntsman; nor did any sound salute their ears except
the tramp of their own horses, or the occasional darting forth of a
startled deer.

Less than a quarter of an hour brought them to the haunted beech-tree;
but all was as silent and solitary here as at the blasted oak. In vain
Surrey smote the tree. No answer was returned to the summons; and,
finding all efforts to evoke the demon fruitless, they quitted the
spot, and, turning their horses' heads to the right, slowly ascended the
hill-side.

Before they had gained the brow of the hill the faint blast of a horn
saluted their ears, apparently proceeding from the valley near the
lake. They instantly stopped and looked in that direction, but could
see nothing. Presently, however, the blast was repeated more loudly than
before, and, guided by the sound, they discerned the spectral huntsman
riding beneath the trees at some quarter of a mile's distance.

Striking spurs into their steeds, they instantly gave him chase; but
though he lured them on through thicket and over glade--now climbing
a hill, now plunging into a valley, until their steeds began to show
symptoms of exhaustion--they got no nearer to him; and at length, as
they drew near the Home Park, to which he had gradually led them, he
disappeared from view.

"I will take my station near the blasted oak," said Surrey, galloping
towards it: "the demon is sure to revisit his favourite tree before
cock-crowing."

"What is that?" cried the Earl of Surrey, pointing to a strange and
ghastly-looking object depending from the tree. "Some one has hanged
himself! It may be the caitiff, Morgan Fenwolf."

With one accord they dashed forward, and as they drew nearer the tree,
they perceived that the object that had attracted their attention was
the body of Mark Fytton, the butcher, which they had so recently seen
swinging from the summit of the Curfew Tower. It was now suspended from
an arm of the wizard oak.

A small scroll was stuck upon the breast of the corpse, and, taking it
off, Surrey read these words, traced in uncouth characters--"Mark Fytton
is now one of the band of Herne the Hunter."

"By my fay, this passes all comprehension," said Richmond, after a few
moments' silence. "This castle and forest seem under the sway of the
powers of darkness. Let us return. I have had enough of adventure for
to-night."

And he rode towards the castle, followed more slowly by the earl.

VII.

     How the Earl of Surrey and the Fair Geraldine plighted their
     troth in the Cloisters of Saint George's Chapel.

Barriers were erected on the following day in the upper ward of the
castle, and the Lady Anne and her dames assembled in the balcony in
front of the royal lodgings, which was decorated with arras, costly
carpets, and rich stuffs, to view the spectacle.

Perfect in all manly accomplishments, Henry splintered several lances
with his brother-in-law, the Duke of Suffolk, who formed an admirable
match for him in point of weight and strength; and at last, though he
did not succeed in unhorsing the duke, he struck off his helmet, the
clasp of which, it was whispered, was left designedly unfastened; and
being thereupon declared the victor, he received the prize--a scarf
embroidered by her own hands--from the fair Anne herself.

He then retired from the lists, leaving them free for the younger
knights to run a course at the ring. The first to enter the arena was
Sir Thomas Wyat; and as he was known to be a skilful jouster, it was
expected he would come off triumphantly. But a glance from the royal
balcony rendered his arm unsteady, and he missed the mark.

Next came the Duke of Richmond, superbly accoutred. Laughing at Wyat's
ill success, he bowed to the Fair Geraldine, and taking a lance from his
esquire, placed it in the rest, and rode gallantly forward. But he was
equally unsuccessful, and retired, looking deeply chagrined.

The third knight who presented himself was Surrey. Mounted on his
favourite black Arabian--a steed which, though of fiery temper, obeyed
his slightest movement--his light symmetrical figure was seen to the
greatest advantage in his close-fitting habiliments of silk and velvet.
Without venturing a look at the royal balcony, the earl couched his
lance, and bounding forward, bore away the ring on its point.

Amid the plaudits of the spectators, he then careered around the arena,
and approaching the royal balcony, raised his lance, and proffered the
ring to the Fair Geraldine, who blushingly received it. Henry, though by
no means pleased with Surrey's success, earned as it was at the expense
of his son, complimented him upon his skill, and Anne Boleyn joined
warmly in his praises.

The lists were then closed, and the royal party retired to partake of
refreshments; after which they proceeded to the butts erected in the
broad mead at the north of the castle, where the Duke of Shoreditch and
his companions shot a well-contested match with the long-bow.

During these sports, Surrey placed himself as near as he could to the
Fair Geraldine, and though but few opportunities occurred of exchanging
a syllable with her, his looks spoke a sufficiently intelligible
language. At last, just as they were about to return to the palace, he
breathed in an imploring tone in her ear--

"You will attend vespers at Saint George's Chapel this evening. Return
through the cloisters. Grant me a moment's interview alone there."

"I cannot promise," replied the Fair Geraldine. And she followed in the
train of the Lady Anne.

The earl's request had not been unheard. As the royal train proceeded
towards the castle, Will Sommers contrived to approach the Duke of
Richmond, and said to him, in a jeering tone "You ran but indifferently
at the ring to-day, gossip. The galliard Surrey rode better, and carried
off the prize."

"Pest on thee, scurril knave--be silent!" cried Richmond angrily;
"failure is bad enough without thy taunts."

"If you had only missed the ring, gossip, I should have thought nothing
of it," pursued Will Sommers; "but you lost a golden opportunity of
ingratiating yourself with your lady-love. All your hopes are now at an
end. A word in your ear--the Fair Geraldine will meet Surrey alone this
evening."

"Thou liest, knave!" cried the duke fiercely.

"Your grace will find the contrary, if you will be at Wolsey's
tomb-house at vesper-time," replied the jester.

"I will be there," replied the duke; "but if I am brought on a bootless
errand, not even my royal father shall save thee from chastisement."

"I will bear any chastisement your grace may choose to inflict upon
me, if I prove not the truth of my assertion," replied Sommers. And he
dropped into the rear of the train.

The two friends, as if by mutual consent, avoided each other during
the rest of the day--Surrey feeling he could not unburden his heart to
Richmond, and Richmond brooding jealously over the intelligence he had
received from the jester.

At the appointed hour the duke proceeded to the lower ward, and
stationed himself near Wolsey's tomb-house. Just as he arrived there,
the vesper hymn arose from the adjoining fane, and its solemn strains
somewhat soothed his troubled spirit. But they died away; and as the
jester came not, Richmond grew impatient, and began to fear he had been
duped by his informant. At length the service concluded, and, losing all
patience, he was about to depart, when the jester peered round the lower
angle of the tomb-house, and beckoned to him. Obeying the summons,
the duke followed his conductor down the arched passage leading to the
cloisters.

"Tread softly, gossip, or you will alarm them," said Sommers, in a low
tone.

They turned the corner of the cloisters; and there, near the entrance of
the chapel, stood the youthful pair--the Fair Geraldine half reclining
upon the earl's breast, while his arm encircled her slender waist.

"There!" whispered the jester, chuckling maliciously, "there! did I speak
falsely--eh, gossip?"

Richmond laid his hand upon his sword.

"Hist!" said the jester; "hear what the Fair Geraldine has to say."

"We must meet no more thus, Surrey," she murmured:

"I feel I was wrong in granting the interview, but I could not help it.
If, when a few more years have flown over your head, your heart remains
unchanged."

"It will never change!" interrupted Surrey. "I here solemnly pledge my
troth to you."

"And I return the pledge," replied the Fair Geraldine earnestly. "I vow
to be yours, and yours only."

"Would that Richmond could hear your vow!" said Surrey; "it would
extinguish his hopes."

"He has heard it!" cried the duke, advancing. "But his hopes are not yet
extinguished."

The Fair Geraldine uttered a slight scream, and disengaged herself from
the earl.

"Richmond, you have acted unworthily in thus playing the spy," said
Surrey angrily.

"None but a spy can surprise interviews like these," rejoined Richmond
bitterly. "The Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald had better have kept her
chamber, than come here to plight her troth with a boy, who will change
his mind before his beard is grown."

"Your grace shall find the boy man enough to avenge an insult," rejoined
Surrey sternly.

"I am glad to hear it," returned the duke. "Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald, I
must pray you to return to your lodgings. The king's jester will attend
you. This way, my lord."

Too much exasperated to hesitate, Surrey followed the duke down the
passage, and the next moment the clashing of swords was heard. The Fair
Geraldine screamed loudly, and Will Sommers began to think the jest had
been carried too far.

"What is to be done?" he cried. "If the king hears of this quarrel, he
will assuredly place the Earl of Surrey in arrest. I now repent having
brought the duke here."

"You acted most maliciously," cried the Fair Geraldine; "but fly, and
prevent further mischief."

Thus urged, the jester ran towards the lower ward, and finding an
officer of the guard and a couple of halberdiers near the entrance
of St. George's Chapel, told them what was taking place, and they
immediately hastened with him to the scene of the conflict.

"My lords!" cried the officer to the combatants, "I command you to lay
down your weapons."

But finding no respect paid to his injunctions, he rushed between them,
and with the aid of the halberdiers, forcibly separated them.

"My lord of Surrey," said the officer, "you are my prisoner. I demand
your sword."

"On what plea, sir?" rejoined the other.

"You have drawn it against the king's son--and the act is treason,"
replied the officer. "I shall take you to the guard house until the
king's pleasure is known."

"But I provoked the earl to the conflict," said Richmond: "I was the
aggressor."

"Your grace will represent the matter as you see fit to your royal
father," rejoined the officer. "I shall fulfil my duty. My lord, to the
guard-house!"

"I will procure your instant liberation, Surrey," said Richmond.

The earl was then led away, and conveyed to a chamber in the lower part
of Henry the Eighth's gate, now used as a place of military punishment,
and denominated the "black hole."

VIII.