Showing how Morgan Fenwolf
escaped from the Garter Tower.
Half-an-hour afterwards Fenwolf was
visited by the Duke of Suffolk and a canon of the
college; and the guard-chamber being cleared, the duke
enjoined him to make clear his bosom by confession.
“I hold it my duty to tell you,
prisoner,” said Suffolk, “that there is
no hope of your life. The king’s highness
is determined to make a fearful example of you and
all your companions in crime; but he does not seek
to destroy your soul, and has therefore sent this holy
man to you, with the desire that you may open your
heart to him, and by confession and repentance save
yourself from eternal perdition.”
“Confession will profit me nothing,”
said Fenwolf moodily. “I cannot pray if
I would.”
“You cannot be so utterly lost,
my son,” rejoined the canon. “Hell
may have woven her dark chains round you, but not
so firmly but that the hand of Heaven can burst them.”
“You waste time in seeking to
persuade me,” returned Fenwolf.
“You are not ignorant of the
punishment inflicted upon those condemned for sorcery,
my son?” demanded the canon.
“It is the stake, is it not?” replied
Fenwolf
“Ay,” replied the canon;
“but even that fiery trial will fail to purge
out your offences without penitence. My lord of
Suffolk, this wretched man’s condition demands
special attention. It will profit the Church
much to win his soul from the fiend. Let him,
I pray you, be removed to the dungeon beneath the
Garter Tower, where a priest shall visit him, and
pray by his side till daybreak.”
“It will be useless, father,” said Fenwolf.
“I do not despair, my son,”
replied the canon; “and when I see you again
in the morning I trust to find you in a better frame
of mind.”
The duke then gave directions to the
guard to remove the prisoner, and after some further
conference with the canon, returned to the royal apartments.
Meanwhile, the canon shaped his course
towards the Horseshoe Cloisters, a range of buildings
so designated from their form, and situated at the
west end of St. George’s Chapel, and he had scarcely
entered them when he heard footsteps behind him, and
turning at the sound, beheld a Franciscan friar, for
so his habit of the coarsest grey cloth, tied with
a cord round the waist, proclaimed him. The friar
was very tall and gaunt, and his cowl was drawn over
his face so as to conceal his features.
“What would you, brother?”
inquired the canon, halting. “I have a
request to make of you, reverend sir,” replied
the friar, with a lowly inclination of the head.
“I have just arrived from Chertsey Abbey, whither
I have been tarrying for the last three days, and while
conversing with the guard at the gate, I saw a prisoner
brought into the castle charged with heinous offences,
and amongst others, with dealings with the fiend.”
“You have been rightly informed,
brother,” rejoined the canon.
“And have I also been rightly
informed that you desire a priest to pass the night
with him, reverend sir?” returned the friar.
“If so, I would crave permission to undertake
the office. Two souls, as deeply laden as that
of this poor wretch, have been snatched from the jaws
of Satan by my efforts, and I do not despair of success
now.”
“Since you are so confident,
brother,” said the canon, “I commit him
readily to your hands. I was about to seek other
aid, but your offer comes opportunely. With Heaven’s
help I doubt not you will achieve a victory over the
evil one.”
As the latter words were uttered a
sudden pain seemed to seize the friar. Staggering
slightly, he caught at the railing of the cloisters
for support, but he instantly recovered himself.
“It is nothing, reverend sir,”
he said, seeing that the good canon regarded him anxiously.
“Long vigils and fasting have made me liable
to frequent attacks of giddiness, but they pass as
quickly as they come. Will it please you to go
with me, and direct the guard to admit me to the prisoner?”
The canon assented; and crossing the
quadrangle, they returned to the gateway.
Meanwhile, the prisoner had been removed
to the lower chamber of the Garter Tower. This
fortification, one of the oldest in the castle, being
coeval with the Curfew Tower, is now in a state of
grievous neglect and ruin. Unroofed, unfloored,
filled with rubbish, masked by the yard walls of the
adjoining habitations, with one side entirely pulled
down, and a great breach in front, it is solely owing
to the solid and rock-like construction of its masonry
that it is indebted for partial preservation.
Still, notwithstanding its dilapidated condition, and
that it is the mere shell of its former self, its appearance
is highly picturesque. The walls are of prodigious
thickness, and the deep embrasures within them
are almost perfect; while a secret staircase may still
be tracked partly round the building. Amid the
rubbish choking up its lower chamber grows a young
tree, green and flourishing-a type, it is to be hoped,
of the restoration of the structure.
Conducted to a low vaulted chamber
in this tower, the prisoner was cast upon its floor-for
he was still hound hand and foot-and left alone and
in darkness. But he was not destined to continue
in this state long. The door of the dungeon opened,
and the guard ushered in the tall Franciscan friar.
“What ho! dog of a prisoner,”
he cried, “here is a holy man come to pass the
night with you in prayer.”
“He may take his Ave Maries
and Paternósters elsewhere-I want them not,”
replied Fenwolf moodily.
“You would prefer my bringing
Herne the Hunter, no doubt,” rejoined the guard,
laughing at his own jest; “but this is a physician
for your soul. The saints help you in your good
work, father; you will have no easy task.”
“Set down the light, my son,”
cried the friar harshly, “and leave us; my task
will be easily accomplished.”
Placing the lamp on the stone floor
of the dungeon, the guard withdrew, and locked the
door after him.
“Do you repent, my son?”
demanded the friar, as soon as they were alone.
“Certes, I repent having put
faith in a treacherous fiend, who has deserted me-but
that is all,” replied Fenwolf, with his face
turned to the ground.
“Will you put faith in me, if
I promise you deliverance?” demanded the friar.
“You promise more than you can
perform, as most of your brethren do,” rejoined
the other.
“You will not say so if you look up,”
said the friar.
Fenwolf started at the words, which
were pronounced in a different tone from that previously
adopted by the speaker, and raised himself as far
as his bonds would permit him. The friar had thrown
hack his cowl, and disclosed features of appalling
hideousness, lighted up by a diabolical grin.
“You here!” cried Fenwolf.
“You doubted me,” rejoined
Herne, “but I never desert a follower.
Besides, I wish to show the royal Harry that my power
is equal to his own.”
“But how are we to get out of
this dungeon?” asked Fenwolf, gazing round apprehensively.
“My way out will be easy enough,”
replied Herne; “but your escape is attended
with more difficulty. You remember how we went
to the vaulted chamber in the Curfew Tower on the
night when Mark Fytton, the butcher, was confined
within it?”
“I do,” replied Fenwolf;
“but I can think of nothing while I am tied
thus.”
Heme instantly drew forth a hunting-knife,
and cutting Fenwolf’s bonds asunder, the latter
started to his feet.
“If that bull-headed butcher
would have joined me, I would have liberated him as
I am about to liberate you,” pursued Herne.
“But to return to the matter in hand. You
recollect the secret passage we then tracked?
There is just such another staircase in this tower.”
And stepping to the farther side of
the chamber, he touched a small knob in the wall,
and a stone flew hack, disclosing an aperture just
large enough to allow a man to pass through it.
“There is your road to freedom,”
he said, pointing to the hole. “Creep along
that narrow passage, and it will bring you to a small
loophole in the wall, not many feet from the ground.
The loophole is guarded by a bar of iron, but it is
moved by a spring in the upper part of the stone in
which it appears to be mortised. This impediment
removed, you will easily force your way through the
loophole. Drop cautiously, for fear of the sentinels
on the walls; then make your way to the forest, and
if you ’scape the arquebusiers who are
scouring it, conceal yourself in the sandstone cave
below the beech-tree.”
“And what of you?” asked Fenwoif.
“I have more to do here,” replied Herne
impatiently-"away!”
Thus dismissed, Fenwolf entered the
aperture, which was instantly closed after him by
Herne. Carefully following the instructions of
his leader, the keeper passed through the loophole,
let himself drop softly down, and keeping close to
the walls of the tower till he heard the sentinels
move off, darted swiftly across the street and made
good his escape.
Meanwhile Herne drew the cowl over
his head, and stepping to the door, knocked loudly
against it.
“What would you, father?” cried the guard
from without.
“Enter, my son, and you shall know,” replied
Herne.
The next moment the door was unlocked,
and the guard advanced into the dungeon.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, snatching
up the lamp and looking around, “where is the
prisoner?”
“Gone,” replied Herne.
“What! has the fiend flown away
with him?” cried the man, in mixed astonishment
and alarm.
“He has been set free by Herne
the Hunter!” cried the demon. “Tell
all who question thee so, and relate what thou now
seest.”
At the words a bright blue flame illumined
the chamber, in the midst of which was seen the tall
dark figure of Herne. His Franciscan’s gown
had dropped to his feet, and he appeared habited in
his wild deer-skin garb. With a loud cry, the
guard fell senseless on the ground.
A few minutes after this, as was subsequently
ascertained, a tall Franciscan friar threaded the
cloisters behind Saint George’s Chapel, and
giving the word to the sentinels, passed through the
outer door communicating with the steep descent leading
to the town.