Of the Interview between
Henry and Catherine of Arragon in
the Urswick Chapel And
how it was interrupted.
It was now the joyous month of June;
and where is June so joyous as within the courts and
halls of peerless Windsor? Where does the summer
sun shine so brightly as upon its stately gardens and
broad terraces, its matchless parks, its silver belting
river and its circumference of proud and regal towers?
Nowhere in the world. At all seasons Windsor is
magnificent: whether, in winter, she looks upon
her garnitures of woods stripped of their foliage her
river covered with ice or the wide expanse
of country around her sheeted with snow or,
in autumn, gazes on the same scene a world
of golden-tinted leaves, brown meadows, or glowing
cornfields. But summer is her season of beauty June
is the month when her woods are fullest and greenest;
when her groves are shadiest; her avenues most delicious;
when her river sparkles like a diamond zone; when
town and village, mansion and cot, church and tower,
hill and vale, the distant capital itself all
within view are seen to the highest advantage.
At such a season it is impossible to behold from afar
the heights of Windsor, crowned, like the Phrygian
goddess, by a castled diadem, and backed by lordly
woods, and withhold a burst of enthusiasm and delight.
And it is equally impossible, at such a season, to
stand on the grand northern terrace, and gaze first
at the proud pile enshrining the sovereign mistress
of the land, and then gaze on the unequalled prospect
spread out before it, embracing in its wide range
every kind of beauty that the country can boast, and
not be struck with the thought that the perfect and
majestic castle “In state as wholesome
as in state ’tis fit Worthy the owner, and the
owner it,” together with the wide,
and smiling, and populous district around it, form
an apt representation of the British sovereign and
her dominions. There stands the castle, dating
back as far as the Conquest, and boasting since its
foundation a succession of royal inmates, while at
its foot lies a region of unequalled fertility and
beauty-full of happy homes, and loving, loyal hearts a
miniature of the old country and its inhabitants.
What though the smiling landscape may he darkened
by a passing cloud! what though a momentary
gloom may gather round the august brow of the proud
pile! the cloud will speedily vanish, the
gloom disperse, and the bright and sunny scene look
yet brighter and sunnier from the contrast.
It was the chance of the writer of
these lines upon one occasion to behold his sovereign
under circumstances which he esteems singularly fortunate.
She was taking rapid exercise with the prince upon
the south side of the garden-terrace. All at
once the royal pair paused at the summit of the ascent
leading from George the Fourth’s gateway.
The prince disappeared along the eastern terrace,
leaving the queen alone. And there she stood,
her slight, faultless figure sharply defined against
the clear sky. Nothing was wanting to complete
the picture: the great bay-windows of the Victoria
Tower on the one hand the balustrade of
the terrace on the other the home park beyond.
It was thrilling to feel that that small, solitary
figure comprehended all the might and majesty of England and
a thousand kindling aspirations were awakened by the
thought.
But it was, as has been said, the
merry month of June, and Windsor Castle looked down
in all its magnificence upon the pomp of woods, and
upon the twelve fair and smiling counties lying within
its ken. A joyous stir was within its courts the
gleam of arms and the fluttering of banners was seen
upon its battlements and towers, and the ringing of
bells, the beating of drums, and the fanfares
of trumpets, mingled with the shouting of crowds and
the discharge of ordnance.
Amidst this tumult a grave procession
issued from the deanery, and took its way across the
lower quadrangle, which was thronged with officers
and men-at-arms, in the direction of the lower gate.
Just as it arrived there a distant gun was heard,
and an answering peal was instantly fired from the
culverins of the Curfew Tower, while a broad standard,
emblazoned with the arms of France and England within
the garter, and having for supporters the English
lion crowned and the red dragon sinister, was reared
upon the keep. All these preparations betokened
the approach of the king, who was returning to the
castle after six weeks’ absence.
Though information of the king’s
visit to the castle had only preceded him by a few
hours, everything was ready for his reception, and
the greatest exertions were used to give splendour
to it.
In spite of his stubborn and tyrannical
nature, Henry was a popular monarch, and never showed
himself before his subjects but he gained their applauses;
his love of pomp, his handsome person, and manly deportment,
always winning him homage from the multitude.
But at no period was he in a more critical position
than the present. The meditated divorce from
Catherine of Arragon was a step which found no sympathy
from the better portion of his subjects, while the
ill-assorted union of Anne Boleyn, an avowed Lutheran,
which it was known would follow it, was equally objectionable.
The seeds of discontent had been widely sown in the
capital; and tumults had occurred which, though promptly
checked, had nevertheless alarmed the king, coupled
as they were with the disapprobation of his ministers,
the sneering remonstrances of France, the menaces
of the Papal See, and the open hostilities of Spain.
But the characteristic obstinacy of his nature kept
him firm to his point, and he resolved to carry it,
be the consequences what they might.
All his efforts to win over Campeggio
proved fruitless. The legate was deaf to his
menaces or promises, well knowing that to aid Anne
Boleyn would be to seriously affect the interests
of the Church of Rome.
The affair, however, so long and so
artfully delayed, was now drawing to a close.
A court was appointed by the legates to be holden on
the 18th of June, at Blackfriars, to try the question.
Gardiner had been recalled from Rome to act as counsel
for Henry; and the monarch, determining to appear
by proxy at the trial, left his palace at Bridewell
the day before it was to come on, and set out with
Anne Boleyn and his chief attendants for Windsor Castle.
Whatever secret feelings might be
entertained against him, Henry was received by the
inhabitants of Windsor with every demonstration of
loyalty and affection. Deafening shouts rent the
air as he approached; blessings and good wishes were
showered upon him; and hundreds of caps were flung
into the air. But noticing that Anne Boleyn was
received with evil looks and in stern silence, and
construing this into an affront to himself, Henry
not only made slight and haughty acknowledgment of
the welcome given him, but looked out for some pretext
to manifest his displeasure. Luckily none was
afforded him, and he entered the castle in a sullen
mood.
The day was spent in gentle exercise
within the home park and on the terrace, and the king
affected the utmost gaiety and indifference; but those
acquainted with him could readily perceive he was ill
at ease. In the evening he remained for some
time alone in his closet penning despatches, and then
summoning an attendant, ordered him to bring Captain
Bouchier into his presence.
“Well, Bouchier,” he said,
as the officer made his appearance, “have you
obeyed my instructions in regard to Mabel Lyndwood?”
“I have, my liege,” replied
Bouchier. “In obedience to your majesty’s
commands, immediately after your arrival at the castle
I rode to the forester’s hut, and ascertained
that the damsel was still there.”
“And looking as beautiful as
ever, I’ll be sworn!” said the king.
“It was the first time I had
seen her, my liege,” replied Bouchier; “but
I do not think she could have ever looked more beautiful.”
“I am well assured of it,”
replied Henry. “The pressure of affairs
during my absence from the castle had banished her
image from my mind; but now it returns as forcibly
as before. And you have so arranged it that she
will be brought hither to-morrow night?”
Bouchier replied in the affirmative.
“It is well,” pursued
Henry; “but what more? for you look
as if you had something further to declare.”
“Your majesty will not have
forgotten how you exterminated the band of Herne the
Hunter?” said Bouchier.
“Mother of Heaven, no!”
cried the king, starting up; “I have not forgotten
it. What of them? Ha! have they come
to life again? do they scour the parks
once more? That were indeed a marvel!”
“What I have to relate is almost
as great a marvel,” returned Bouchier.
“I have not heard of the resurrection of the
band though for aught I know it may have occurred.
But Herne has been seen again in the forest.
Several of the keepers have been scared by him travellers
have been affrighted and plundered and
no one will now cross the great park after nightfall.”
“Amazement!” cried Henry,
again seating himself; “once let the divorce
be settled, and I will effectually check the career
of this lawless and mysterious being.”
“Pray heaven your majesty may
be able to do so!” replied Bouchier. “But
I have always been of opinion that the only way to
get rid of the demon would be by the aid of the Church.
He is unassailable by mortal weapons.”
“It would almost seem so,”
said the king. “And yet I do not like to
yield to the notion.”
“I shrewdly suspect that old
Tristram Lyndwood, the grandsire of the damsel upon
whom your majesty has deigned to cast your regards,
is in some way or other leagued with Herne,”
said Bouchier. “At all events, I saw him
with a tall hideous-looking personage, whose name I
understand to be Valentine Hagthorne, and who, I feel
persuaded, must be one of the remnants of the demon
hunter’s band.”
“Why did you not arrest him?” inquired
Henry.
“I did not like to do so without
your majesty’s authority,” replied Bouchier.
“Besides, I could scarcely arrest Hagthorne without
at the same time securing the old forester, which
might have alarmed the damsel. But I am ready
to execute your injunctions now.”
“Let a party of men go in search
of Hagthorne to-night,” replied Henry; “and
while Mabel is brought to the castle to-morrow, do
you arrest old Tristram, and keep him in custody till
I have leisure to examine him.”
“It shall be done as you desire,
my liege,” replied Bouchier, bowing and departing.
Shortly after this Henry, accompanied
by Anne Boleyn, proceeded with his attendants to Saint
George’s Chapel, and heard vespers performed.
Just as he was about to return, an usher advanced
towards him, and making a profound reverence, said
that a masked dame, whose habiliments proclaimed her
of the highest rank, craved a moment’s audience
of him.
“Where is she?” demanded Henry.
“In the north aisle, an’t
please your majesty,” replied the usher, “near
the Urswick Chapel. I told her that this was not
the place for an audience of your majesty, nor the
time; but she would not be said nay, and therefore,
at the risk of incurring your sovereign displeasure,
I have ventured to proffer her request.”
The usher omitted to state that his
chief inducement to incur the risk was a valuable
ring, given him by the lady.
“Well, I will go to her,”
said the king. “I pray you, excuse me for
a short space, fair mistress,” he added to Anne
Boleyn.
And quitting the choir, he entered
the northern aisle, and casting his eyes down the
line of noble columns by which it is flanked, and seeing
no one, he concluded that the lady must have retired
into the Urswick Chapel. And so it proved; for
on reaching this exquisite little shrine he perceived
a tall masked dame within it, clad in robes of the
richest black velvet. As he entered the chapel,
the lady advanced towards him, and throwing herself
on her knees, removed her mask disclosing
features stamped with sorrow and suffering, but still
retaining an expression of the greatest dignity.
They were those of Catherine of Arragon.
Uttering an angry exclamation, Henry
turned on his heel and would have left her, but she
clung to the skirts of his robe.
“Hear me a moment, Henry my
king my husband one single moment hear
me!” cried Catherine, in tones of such passionate
anguish that he could not resist the appeal.
“Be brief, then, Kate,”
he rejoined, taking her hand to raise her.
“Blessings on you for the word!”
cried the queen, covering his hand with kisses.
“I am indeed your own true Kate your
faithful, loving, lawful wife!”
“Rise, madam!” cried Henry
coldly; “this posture beseems not Catherine of
Arragon.”
“I obey you now as I have ever
done,” she replied, rising; “though if
I followed the prompting of my heart, I should not
quit my knees till I had gained my suit.”
“You have, done wrong in coming
here, Catherine, at this juncture,” said Henry,
“and may compel me to some harsh measure which
I would willingly have avoided.”
“No one knows I am here,”
replied the queen, “except two faithful attendants,
who are vowed to secrecy; and I shall depart as I came.”
“I am glad you have taken these
precautions,” replied Henry. “Now
speak freely, but again I must bid you be brief.”
“I will be as brief as I can,”
replied the queen; “but I pray you bear with
me, Henry, if I unhappily weary you. I am full
of misery and affliction, and never was daughter and
wife of king wretched as I am. Pity me, Henry pity
me! But that I restrain myself, I should pour
forth my soul in tears before you. Oh, Henry,
after twenty years’ duty and to be brought to
this unspeakable shame to be cast from you
with dishonour to be supplanted by another it
is terrible!”
“If you have only come here
to utter reproaches, madam, I must put an end to the
interview,” said Henry, frowning.
“I do not reproach you, Henry,”
replied Catherine meekly, “I only wish to show
you the depth and extent of my affection. I only
implore you to do me right and justice not
to bring shame upon me to cover your own wrongful
action. Have compassion upon the princess our
daughter spare her, if you will not spare
me!”
“You sue in vain, Catherine,”
replied Henry. “I lament your condition,
but my eyes are fully opened to the sinful state in
which I have so long lived, and I am resolved to abandon
it.”
“An unworthy prevarication,”
replied Catherine, “by which you seek to work
my ruin, and accomplish your union with Anne Boleyn.
And you will no doubt succeed; for what can I, a feeble
woman, and a stranger in your country, do to prevent
it? You will succeed, I say you will
divorce me and place her upon the throne. But
mark my words, Henry, she will not long remain there.”
The king smiled bitterly
“She will bring dishonour upon
you,” pursued Catherine. “The woman
who has no regard for ties so sacred as those which
bind us will not respect other obligations.”
“No more of this!” cried
Henry. “You suffer your resentment to carry
you too far.”
“Too far!” exclaimed Catherine.
“Too far! Is to warn you that you
are about to take a wanton to your bed and
that you will bitterly repent your folly when too
late, going too far? It is my duty, Henry, no
less than my desire, thus to warn you ere the irrevocable
step be taken.”
“Have you said all you wish
to say, madam?” demanded the king.
“No, my dear liege, not a hundredth
part of what my heart prompts me to utter,”
replied Catherine. “I conjure you by my
strong and tried affection by the tenderness
that has for years subsisted between us by
your hopes of temporal prosperity and spiritual welfare by
all you hold dear and sacred to pause while
there is yet time. Let the legates meet to-morrow let
them pronounce sentence against me and as surely as
those fatal words are uttered, my heart will break.”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed
Henry impatiently, “you will live many years
in happy retirement.”
“I will die as I have lived a
queen,” replied Catherine; “but my life
will not be long. Now, answer me truly if
Anne Boleyn plays you false ”
“She never will play me false!” interrupted
Henry.
“I say if she does,” pursued
Catherine, “and you are satisfied of her guilt,
will you be content with divorcing her as you divorce
me?”
“No, by my father’s head!”
cried Henry fiercely. “If such a thing were
to happen, which I hold impossible, she should expiate
her offence on the scaffold.”
“Give me your hand on that,” said Catherine.
“I give you my hand upon it,” he replied.
“Enough,” said the queen:
“if I cannot have right and justice I shall at
least have vengeance, though it will come when I am
in my tomb. But it will come, and that is sufficient.”
“This is the frenzy of jealousy, Catherine,”
said Henry.
“No, Henry; it is not jealousy,”
replied the queen, with dignity. “The daughter
of Ferdinand of Spain and Isabella of Castile, with
the best blood of Europe in her veins, would despise
herself if she could entertain so paltry a feeling
towards one born so much beneath her as Anne Boleyn.”
“As you will, madam,”
rejoined Henry. “It is time our interview
terminated.”
“Not yet, Henry for
the love of Heaven, not yet!” implored Catherine.
“Oh, bethink you by whom we were joined together! by
your father, Henry the Seventh one of the
wisest princes that ever sat on a throne; and by the
sanction of my own father, Ferdinand the Fifth, one
of the justest. Would they have sanctioned the
match if it had been unlawful? Were they destitute
of good counsellors? Were they indifferent to
the future?”
“You had better reserve these
arguments for the legates’ ears tomorrow, madam,”
said Henry sternly.
“I shall urge them there with
all the force I can,” replied Catherine, “for
I will leave nought untried to hinder an event so fraught
with misery. But I feel the struggle will be
hopeless.”
“Then why make it?” rejoined Henry.
“Because it is due to you to
myself to the princess our daughter to
our illustrious progenitors and to our people,
to make it,” replied Catherine. “I
should be unworthy to be your consort if I acted otherwise and
I will never, in thought, word, or deed, do aught
derogatory to that title. You may divorce me,
but I will never assent to it; you may wed Anne Boleyn,
but she will never be your lawful spouse; and you
may cast me from your palace, but I will never go willingly.”
“I know you to be contumacious,
madam,” replied Henry. “And now, I
pray you, resume your mask, and withdraw. What
I have said will convince you that your stay is useless.”
“I perceive it,” replied
Catherine. “Farewell, Henry farewell,
loved husband of my heart farewell for
ever!”
“Your mask your mask,
madam!” cried Henry impatiently. “God’s
death! footsteps are approaching. Lot no one
enter here!” he cried aloud.
“I will come in,” said
Anne Boleyn, stepping into the chapel just as Catherine
had replaced her mask. “Ah! your majesty
looks confused. I fear I have interrupted some
amorous conference.”
“Come with me, Anne,”
said Henry, taking her arm, and trying to draw her
away “come with me.”
“Not till I learn who your lady love
is,” replied Anne pettishly. “You
affect to be jealous of me, my liege, but I have much
more reason to be jealous of you. When you were
last at Windsor, I heard you paid a secret visit to
a fair maiden near the lake in the park, and now you
are holding an interview with a masked dame here.
Nay, I care not for your gestures of silence.
I will speak.”
“You are distraught, sweetheart,”
cried the king. “Come away.”
“No,” replied Anne. “Lot this
dame be dismissed.”
“I shall not go at your bidding, minion!”
cried Catherine fiercely.
“Ah!” cried Anne, starting, “whom
have we here?”
“One you had better have avoided,” whispered
Henry.
“The queen!” exclaimed Anne, with a look
of dismay.
“Ay, the queen!” echoed
Catherine, unmasking. “Henry, if you have
any respect left for me, I pray you order this woman
from my presence. Lot me depart in peace.”
“Lady Anne, I pray you retire,”
said Henry. But Anne stood her ground resolutely.
“Nay, let her stay, then,”
said the queen; “and I promise you she shall
repent her rashness. And do you stay too, Henry,
and regard well her whom you are about to make your
spouse. Question your sister Mary, somewhile
consort to Louis the Twelfth and now Duchess of Suffolk question
her as to the character and conduct of Anne Boleyn
when she was her attendant at the court of France ask
whether she had never to reprove her for levity question
the Lord Percy as to her love for him question
Sir Thomas Wyat, and a host of others.”
“All these charges are false
and calumnious!” cried Anne Boleyn.
“Let the king inquire and judge
for himself,” rejoined Catherine; “and
if he weds you, let him look well to you, or you will
make him a scoff to all honourable men. And now,
as you have come between him and me as
you have divided husband and wife for the
intent, whether successful or not, I denounce you
before Heaven, and invoke its wrath upon your head.
Night and day I will pray that you may be brought to
shame; and when I shall be called hence, as I maybe
soon, I will appear before the throne of the Most
High, and summon you to judgment.”
“Take me from her, Henry!”
cried Anne faintly; “her violence affrights
me.”
“No, you shall stay,”
said Catherine, grasping her arm and detaining her;
“you shall hear your doom. You imagine your
career will be a brilliant one, and that you will
be able to wield the sceptre you wrongfully wrest
from me; but it will moulder into dust in your hand the
crown unjustly placed upon your brow will fall to the
ground, and it will bring the head with it.”
“Take me away, Henry, I implore you!”
cried Anne.
“You shall hear me out,”
pursued Catherine, exerting all her strength, and
maintaining her grasp, “or I will follow you
down yon aisles, and pour forth my malediction against
you in the hearing of all your attendants. You
have braved me, and shall feel my power. Look
at her, Henry see how she shrinks before
the gaze of an injured woman. Look me in the
face, minion you cannot! you
dare not!”
“Oh, Henry!” sobbed Anne.
“You have brought it upon yourself,” said
the king.
“She has,” replied Catherine;
“and, unless she pauses and repents, she will
bring yet more upon her head. You suffer now,
minion, but how will you feel when, in your turn,
you are despised, neglected, and supplanted by a rival when
the false glitter of your charms having passed away,
Henry will see only your faults, and will open his
eyes to all I now tell him?”
A sob was all the answer Anne could return.
“You will feel as I feel towards
you,” pursued the queen “hatred
towards her; but you will not have the consolations
I enjoy. You will have merited your fate, and
you will then think upon me and my woes, and will
bitterly, but unavailingly, repent your conduct.
And now, Henry,” she exclaimed, turning solemnly
to him, “you have pledged your royal word to
me, and given me your hand upon it, that if you find
this woman false to you she shall expiate her offence
on the block. I call upon you to ratify the pledge
in her presence.”
“I do so, Catherine,”
replied the king. “The mere suspicion of
her guilt shall be enough.”
“Henry!” exclaimed Anne.
“I have said it,” replied the king.
“Tremble, then, Anne Boleyn!”
cried Catherine, “tremble! and when you are
adjudged to die the death of an adulteress, bethink
you of the prediction of the queen you have injured.
I may not live to witness your fate, but we shall
meet before the throne of an eternal Judge.”
“Oh, Henry, this is too much!”
gasped Anne, and she sank fainting into his arms.
“Begone!” cried the king
furiously. “You have killed her!”
“It were well for us both if
I had done so,” replied Catherine. “But
she will recover to work my misery and her own.
To your hands I commit her punishment. May God
bless you, Henry!”
With this she replaced her mask, and quitted the chapel.
Henry, meanwhile, anxious to avoid
the comments of his attendants, exerted himself to
restore Anne Boleyn to sensibility, and his efforts
were speedily successful.
“Is it then reality?”
gasped Anne, as she gazed around. “I hoped
it was a hideous dream. Oh, Henry, this has been
frightful! But you will not kill me, as she predicted?
Swear to me you will not!”
“Why should you be alarmed?”
rejoined the king. “If you are faithful,
you have nothing to fear.”
“But you said suspicion, Henry you
said suspicion!” cried Anne.
“You must put the greater guard
upon your conduct,” rejoined the king moodily.
“I begin to think there is some truth in Catherine’s
insinuations.”
“Oh no, I swear to you there
is not,” said Anne “I have trifled
with the gallants of Francis’s court, and have
listened, perhaps too complacently, to the love-vows
of Percy and Wyat, but when your majesty deigned to
cast eyes upon me, all others vanished as the stars
of night before the rising of the god of day.
Henry, I love you deeply, devotedly but
Catherine’s terrible imprecations make me feel
more keenly than I have ever done before the extent
of the wrong I am about to inflict upon her and
I fear that retributive punishment will follow it.”
“You will do her no wrong,”
replied Henry. “I am satisfied of the justice
of the divorce, and of its necessity; and if my purposed
union with you were out of the question, I should
demand it. Be the fault on my head.”
“Your words restore me in some
measure, my liege,” said Anne. “I
love you too well not to risk body and soul for you.
I am yours for ever ah!” she exclaimed,
with a fearful look.
“What ails you, sweetheart?” exclaimed
the king.
“I thought I saw a face at the
window,” she replied “a black
and hideous face like that of a fiend.”
“It was mere fancy,” replied
the king. “Your mind is disturbed by what
has occurred. You had better join your attendants,
and retire to your own apartments.”
“Oh, Henry!” cried Anne “do
not judge me unheard do not believe what
any false tongue may utter against me. I love
only you and can love only you. I would not wrong
you, even in thought, for worlds.”
“I believe you, sweetheart,” replied the
king tenderly.
So saying, he led her down the aisle
to her attendants. They then proceeded together
to the royal lodgings, where Anne retired to her own
apartments, and Henry withdrew to his private chamber.