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, capóns, 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 où Estranges, et en imagina nombre
qui ont garde son nom où
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 lé roy David, et manioit
fort gentilment fleuste et rebec; puis
s’accoustroit de tant et si merveilleuses
façons, que ses inventions, faisoient
d’elle lé parangon de toutes
des dames les plus sucrees de la
court; maïs nulle n’avoit sa
grace, laquelle, au dire d’un
ancien, passe vénusté’.”
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 cordelière 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 exécrations of the spectators below.
Having glutted his eyes with the horrible
sight, Henry descended from the tower, and returned
to Anne Boleyn.