How Tristram Lyndwood
and Mabel were liberated.
Intelligence of the queen’s
return was instantly conveyed to Anne Boleyn, and
filled her with indescribable alarm. All her visions
of power and splendour seemed to melt away at once.
She sent for her father, Lord Rochford, who hurried
to her in a state of the utmost anxiety, and closely
questioned her whether the extraordinary change had
not been occasioned by some imprudence of her own.
But she positively denied the charge, alleging that
she had parted with the king scarcely an hour before
on terms of the most perfect amity, and with the full
conviction that she had accomplished the cardinal’s
ruin.
“You should not have put forth
your hand against him till you were sure of striking
the blow,” said Rochford. “There is
no telling what secret influence he has over the king;
and there may yet be a hard battle to fight.
But not a moment must be lost in counteracting his
operations. Luckily, Suffolk is here, and his
enmity to the cardinal will make him a sure friend
to us. Pray Heaven you have not given the king
fresh occasion for jealousy! That is all I fear.”
And quitting his daughter, he sought
out Suffolk, who, alarmed at what appeared like a
restoration of Wolsey to favour, promised heartily
to co-operate with him in the struggle; and that no
time might be lost, the duke proceeded at once to
the royal closet, where he found the king pacing moodily
to and fro.
“Your majesty seems disturbed,” said the
duke.
“Disturbed! ay!”
exclaimed the king. “I have enough to disturb
me. I will never love again. I will forswear
the whole sex. Harkee, Suffolk, you are my brother,
my second self, and know all the secrets of my heart.
After the passionate devotion I have displayed for
Anne Boleyn after all I have done for her all
I have risked for her I have been deceived.”
“Impossible, my liege?” exclaimed Suffolk.
“Why, so I thought,” cried
Henry, “and I turned a deaf ear to all insinuations
thrown out against her, till proof was afforded which
I could no longer doubt.”
“And what was the amount of
the proof, my liege?” asked Suffolk.
“These letters,” said
Henry, handing them to him, “found on the person
of Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“But these only prove, my liege,
the existence of a former passion nothing
more,” remarked Suffolk, after he had scanned
them.
“But she vows eternal constancy
to him!” cried Henry; “says she shall
ever love him says so at the time she professes
devoted love for me! How can I trust her after
that? Suffolk, I feel she does not love me exclusively;
and my passion is so deep and devouring, that it demands
entire return. I must have her heart as well as
her person; and I feel I have only won her in my quality
of king.”
“I am persuaded your majesty
is mistaken,” said the duke. “Would
I could think so!” sighed Henry. “But
no no, I cannot be deceived. I will
conquer this fatal passion. Oh, Suffolk! it is
frightful to be the bondslave of a woman a
fickle, inconstant woman. But between the depths
of love and hate is but a step; and I can pass from
one to the other.”
“Do nothing rashly, my dear
liege,” said Suffolk; “nothing that may
bring with it after-repentance. Do not be swayed
by those who have inflamed your jealousy, and who
could practise upon it. Think the matter calmly
over, and then act. And till you have decided,
see neither Catherine nor Anne; and, above all, do
not admit Wolsey to your secret counsels.”
“You are his enemy, Suffolk,” said the
king sternly.
“I am your majesty’s friend,”
replied the duke. “I beseech you, yield
to me on this occasion, and I am sure of your thanks
hereafter.”
“Well, I believe you are right,
my good friend and brother,” said Henry, “and
I will curb my impulses of rage and jealousy.
To-morrow, before I see either the queen or Anne,
we will ride forth into the forest, and talk the matter
further over.”
“Your highness has come to a
wise determination,” said the duke.
“Oh, Suffolk!” sighed
Henry, “would I had never seen this siren!
She exercises a fearful control over me, and enslaves
my very soul.”
“I cannot say whether it is
for good or ill that you have met, my dear liege,”
replied Suffolk, “but I fancy I can discern the
way in which your ultimate decision will be taken.
But it is now near midnight. I wish your majesty
sound and untroubled repose.”
“Stay!” cried Henry, “I
am about to visit the Curfew Tower, and must take
you with me. I will explain my errand as we go.
I had some thought of sending you there in my stead.
Ha!” he exclaimed, glancing at his finger, “By
Saint Paul, it is gone!”
“What is gone, my liege?” asked Suffolk.
“My signet,” replied Henry,
“I missed it not till now. It has been
wrested from me by the fiend, during my walk from the
Curfew Tower. Let us not lose a moment, or the
prisoners will be set free by him, if they
have not been liberated already.”
So saying, he took a couple of dags a
species of short gun from a rest on the
wall, and giving one to Suffolk, thrust the other into
his girdle. Thus armed, they quitted the royal
lodgings, and hurried in the direction of the Curfew
Tower. Just as they reached the Horseshoe Cloisters,
the alarm-bell began to ring.
“Did I not tell you so?”
cried Henry furiously; “they have escaped.
Ha! it ceases! what has happened?”
About a quarter of an hour after the
king had quitted the Curfew Tower, a tall man, enveloped
in a cloak, and wearing a high conical cap, presented
himself to the arquebusier stationed at the entrance
to the dungeon, and desired to be admitted to the
prisoners.
“I have the king’s signet,”
he said, holding forth the ring. On seeing this,
the arquebusier, who recognised the ring, unlocked
the door, and admitted him. Mabel was kneeling
on the ground beside her grandsire, with her hands
raised as in prayer, but as the tall man entered the
vault, she started to her feet, and uttered a slight
scream.
“What is the matter, child?” cried Tristram..
“He is here! he is come!” cried
Mabel, in a tone of the deepest terror.
“Who the king?”
cried Tristram, looking up. “Ah! I
see! Herne is come to deliver me.”
“Do not go with him, grandsire,”
cried Mabel. “In the name of all the saints,
I implore you, do not.”
“Silence her!” said Herne
in a harsh, imperious voice, “or I leave you.”
The old man looked imploringly at his granddaughter.
“You know the conditions of your liberation?”
said Herne.
“I do I do,” replied Tristram
hastily, and with a shudder.
“Oh, grandfather!” cried
Mabel, falling at his feet, “do not, I conjure
you, make any conditions with this dreaded being, or
it will be at the expense of your salvation.
Better I should perish at the stake better
you should suffer the most ignominious death, than
this should be.”
“Do you accept them?” cried Herne, disregarding
her supplications.
Tristram answered in the affirmative.
“Recall your words, grandfather recall
your words!” cried Mabel. “I will
implore pardon for you on my knees from the king, and
he will not refuse me.”
“The pledge cannot be recalled,
damsel,” said Herne; “and it is to save
you from the king, as much as to accomplish his own
preservation, that your grandsire consents. He
would not have you a victim to Henry’s lust.”
And as he spoke, he divided the forester’s bonds
with his knife. “You must go with him,
Mabel,” he added.
“I will not!” she cried.
“Something warns me that a great danger awaits
me.”
“You must go, girl,” cried
Tristram angrily. “I will not leave you
to Henry’s lawless passion.”
Meanwhile, Herne had passed into one
of the large embrasures, and opened, by
means of a spring, an entrance to a secret staircase
in the wall. He then beckoned Tristram towards
him, and whispered some instructions in his ear.
“I understand,” replied the old man.
“Proceed to the cave,” cried Herne, “and
remain there till I join you.”
Tristram nodded assent.
“Come, Mabel!” he cried, advancing towards
her, and seizing her hand.
“Away!” cried Herne in a menacing tone.
Terrified by the formidable looks
and gestures of the demon, the poor girl offered no
resistance, and her grandfather drew her into the
opening, which was immediately closed after her.
About an hour after this, and when
it was near upon the stroke of midnight, the arquebusier
who had admitted the tall stranger to the dungeon,
and who had momentarily expected his coming forth,
opened the door to see what was going forward.
Great was his astonishment to find the cell empty!
After looking around in bewilderment, he rushed to
the chamber above, to tell his comrades what had happened.
“This is clearly the work of
the fiend,” said Shoreditch; “it is useless
to strive against him.”
“That tall black man was doubtless
Herne himself.” said Paddington. “I
am glad he did us no injury. I hope the king will
not provoke his malice further.”
“Well, we must inform Captain
Bouchier of the mischance,” said Shoreditch.
“I would not be in thy skin, Mat Bee, for a trifle.
The king will be here presently, and then ”
“It is impossible to penetrate
through the devices of the evil one,” interrupted
Mat. “I could have sworn it was the royal
signet, for I saw it on the king’s finger as
he delivered the order. I wish such another chance
of capturing the fiend would occur to me.”
As the words were uttered, the door
of a recess was thrown suddenly open, and Herne, in
his wild garb, with his antlered helm upon his brow,
and the rusty chain depending from his left arm, stood
before them. His appearance was so terrific and
unearthly that they all shrank aghast, and Mat Bee
fell with his face on the floor.
“I am here!” cried the
demon. “Now, braggart, wilt dare to seize
me?”
But not a hand was moved against him.
The whole party seemed transfixed with terror.
“You dare not brave my power,
and you are right,” cried Herne “a
wave of my hand would bring this old tower about your
ears a word would summon a legion of fiends
to torment you.”
“But do not utter it, I pray
you, good Herne excellent Herne,”
cried Mat Bee. “And, above all things,
do not wave your hand, for we have no desire to be
buried alive, have we, comrades? I
should never have said what I did if I had thought
your friendship within hearing.”
“Your royal master will as vainly
seek to contend with me as he did to bury me beneath
the oak-tree,” cried Herne. “If you
want me further, seek me in the upper chamber.”
And with these words he darted up
the ladder-like flight of steps and disappeared.
As soon as they recovered from the
fright that had enchained them, Shoreditch and Paddington
rushed forth into the area in front of the turret,
and shouting to those on the roof told them that Herne
was in the upper room a piece of information
which was altogether superfluous, as the hammering
had recommenced, and continued till the clock struck
twelve, when it stopped. Just then, it occurred
to Mat Bee to ring the alarm-bell, and he seized the
rope, and began to pull it; but the bell had scarcely
sounded, when the cord, severed from above, fell upon
his head.
At this juncture, the king and the
Duke of Suffolk arrived. When told what had happened,
though prepared for it, Henry burst into a terrible
passion, and bestowed a buffet on Mat Bee, that well
nigh broke his jaw, and sent him reeling to the farther
side of the chamber. He had not at first understood
that Herne was supposed to be in the upper room; but
as soon as he was made aware of the circumstance, he
cried out “Ah, dastards! have you
let him brave you thus? But I am glad of it.
His capture is reserved for my own hand.”
“Do not expose yourself to this
risk, my gracious liege,” said Suffolk.
“What! are you too a sharer
in their womanish fears, Suffolk?” cried Henry.
“I thought you had been made of stouter stuff.
If there is danger, I shall be the first to encounter
it. Come,” he added, snatching a torch
from an arquebusier. And, drawing his dag,
he hurried up the steep steps, while Suffolk followed
his example, and three or four arquebusiers
ventured after them.
Meanwhile Shoreditch and Paddington
ran out, and informed Bouchier that the king had arrived,
and was mounting in search of Herne, upon which the
captain, shaking off his fears, ordered his men to
follow him, and opening the little door at the top
of the stairs, began cautiously to descend, feeling
his way with his sword. He had got about half-way
down, when Henry sprang upon the platform. The
light of the torch fell upon the ghostly figure of
Herne, with his arms folded upon his breast, standing
near the pile of wood, lying between the two staircases.
So appalling was the appearance of the demon, that
Henry stood still to gaze at him, while Bouchier and
his men remained irresolute on the stairs. In
another moment, the Duke of Suffolk had gained the
platform, and the arquebusiers were seen near
the head of the stairs.
“At last, thou art in my power,
accursed being!” cried Henry. “Thou
art hemmed in on all sides, and canst not escape!”
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed Herne.
“This shall prove whether thou
art human or not,” cried Henry, taking deliberate
aim at him with the dag.
“Ho! ho! ho!” laughed
Herne. And as the report rang through the room,
he sank through the floor, and disappeared from view.
“Gone!” exclaimed Henry,
as the smoke cleared off; “gone! Holy Mary!
then it must indeed be the fiend. I made the middle
of his skull my aim, and if he had not been invulnerable,
the bullet must have pierced his brain.
“I heard it rebound from his
horned helmet, and drop to the floor,” said
Bouchier.
“What is that chest?”
cried Henry, pointing to a strange coffin-shaped box,
lying, as it seemed, on the exact spot where the demon
had disappeared.
No one had seen it before, though
all called to mind the mysterious hammering; and they
had no doubt that the coffin was the work of the demon.
“Break it open,” cried
Henry; “for aught we know, Herne may be concealed
within it.”
The order was reluctantly obeyed by
the arquebusiers. But no force was required,
for the lid was not nailed down; and when it was removed,
a human body in the last stage of decay was discovered.
“Pah! close it up,” cried
Henry, turning away in disgust. “How came
it there?”
“It must have been brought by
the powers of darkness,” said Bouchier; “no
such coffin was here when I searched the chamber two
hours ago. But see,” he suddenly added,
stooping down, and picking up a piece of paper which
had fallen from the coffin, “here is a scroll.”
“Give it me!” cried Henry;
and holding it to the light, he read the words, “The
body of Mark Fytton, the butcher, the victim of a tyrant’s
cruelty.”
Uttering a terrible imprecation, Henry
flung the paper from him; and bidding the arquebusiers
burn the body at the foot of the gallows without the
town, he quitted the tower without further search.