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How The Earl Of Surrey And The Fair Geraldine Plighted Their Troth In The Cloisters Of Saint George's Chapel

How The Earl Of Surrey And The Fair Geraldine Met In King James's Bower In The Moat

Of The Combat Between Will Sommers And Patch

How King Henry The Eighth Held A Chapter Of The Garter

What Passed Between Anne Boleyn And The Duke Of Suffolk And How Herne The Hunter Appeared To Her In The Oratory

How Mabel Lyndwood Was Taken To The Castle By Nicholas Clamp

Showing How Morgan Fenwolf Escaped From The Garter Tower

Of The Meeting Of King Henry The Eighth And Anne Boleyn At The Lower Gate

In What Manner Herne Declared His Passion For Mabel

How The Fair Geraldine Bestowed A Relic Upon Her Lover



Least Viewed

How Tristram Lyndwood Was Interrogated By The King

Of The Interview Between Henry And Catherine Of Arragon In The Urswick Chapel

The Last Great Epoch In The History Of The Castle

Of The Mysterious Noise Heard In The Curfew Tower

Of The Desperate Resolution Formed By Tristram And Fenwolf And How The Train Was Laid

How Herne The Hunter Appeared To Henry On The Terrace

How Sir Thomas Wyat Found Mabel In The Sandstone Cave And What Happened To Him There

Comprising The Fourth Epoch In The History Of The Castle

How Anne Boleyn Received Proof Of Henry's Passion For Jane Seymour

How Sir Thomas Wyat Hunted With Herne






Of The Interview Between Henry And Catherine Of Arragon In The Urswick Chapel








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.





Next: How Herne The Hunter Appeared To Henry On The Terrace

Previous: The Last Great Epoch In The History Of The Castle



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