IT was now the joyous month of June; and where is June so joyous aswithin the courts and halls of peerless Windsor? Where does the summersun shine so brightly as upon its stately gardens and broad terraces,its matchless parks, its silver belting river and its circumference ofproud and regal towers? Nowhere in the world. At all seasons Windsor ismagnificent: whether, in winter, she looks upon her garnitures of woodsstripped of their foliage--her river covered with ice--or the wideexpanse of country around her sheeted with snow--or, in autumn, gazeson the same scene--a world of golden-tinted leaves, brown meadows, orglowing cornfields. But summer is her season of beauty--June is themonth when her woods are fullest and greenest; when her groves areshadiest; her avenues most delicious; when her river sparkles like adiamond zone; when town and village, mansion and cot, church and tower,hill and vale, the distant capital itself--all within view--are seen tothe highest advantage. At such a season it is impossible to behold fromafar the heights of Windsor, crowned, like the Phrygian goddess, bya castled diadem, and backed by lordly woods, and withhold a burst ofenthusiasm and delight. And it is equally impossible, at such a season,to stand on the grand northern terrace, and gaze first at the proudpile enshrining the sovereign mistress of the land, and then gaze on theunequalled prospect spread out before it, embracing in its wide rangeevery kind of beauty that the country can boast, and not be struckwith the thought that the perfect and majestic castle--"In stateas wholesome as in state 'tis fit Worthy the owner, and the ownerit,"--together with the wide, and smiling, and populous districtaround it, form an apt representation of the British sovereign and herdominions. There stands the castle, dating back as far as the Conquest,and boasting since its foundation a succession of royal inmates, whileat its foot lies a region of unequalled fertility and beauty-full ofhappy homes, and loving, loyal hearts--a miniature of the old countryand its inhabitants. What though the smiling landscape may he darkenedby a passing cloud!--what though a momentary gloom may gather roundthe august brow of the proud pile!--the cloud will speedily vanish, thegloom disperse, and the bright and sunny scene look yet brighter andsunnier from the contrast.
It was the chance of the writer of these lines upon one occasion tobehold his sovereign under circumstances which he esteems singularlyfortunate. She was taking rapid exercise with the prince upon the southside of the garden-terrace. All at once the royal pair paused at thesummit of the ascent leading from George the Fourth's gateway. Theprince disappeared along the eastern terrace, leaving the queen alone.And there she stood, her slight, faultless figure sharply definedagainst the clear sky. Nothing was wanting to complete the picture: thegreat bay-windows of the Victoria Tower on the one hand--the balustradeof the terrace on the other--the home park beyond. It was thrilling tofeel that that small, solitary figure comprehended all the might andmajesty of England--and a thousand kindling aspirations were awakened bythe thought.
But it was, as has been said, the merry month of June, and WindsorCastle looked down in all its magnificence upon the pomp of woods, andupon the twelve fair and smiling counties lying within its ken. A joyousstir was within its courts--the gleam of arms and the fluttering ofbanners was seen upon its battlements and towers, and the ringing ofbells, the beating of drums, and the fanfares of trumpets, mingled withthe shouting of crowds and the discharge of ordnance.
Amidst this tumult a grave procession issued from the deanery, and tookits way across the lower quadrangle, which was thronged with officersand men-at-arms, in the direction of the lower gate. Just as it arrivedthere a distant gun was heard, and an answering peal was instantlyfired 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 dragonsinister, was reared upon the keep. All these preparations betokened theapproach 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 precededhim by a few hours, everything was ready for his reception, and thegreatest exertions were used to give splendour to it.
In spite of his stubborn and tyrannical nature, Henry was a popularmonarch, and never showed himself before his subjects but he gainedtheir applauses; his love of pomp, his handsome person, and manlydeportment, always winning him homage from the multitude. But atno period was he in a more critical position than the present. Themeditated divorce from Catherine of Arragon was a step which found nosympathy from the better portion of his subjects, while the ill-assortedunion of Anne Boleyn, an avowed Lutheran, which it was known wouldfollow it, was equally objectionable. The seeds of discontent had beenwidely sown in the capital; and tumults had occurred which, thoughpromptly checked, had nevertheless alarmed the king, coupled asthey were with the disapprobation of his ministers, the sneeringremonstrances of France, the menaces of the Papal See, and the openhostilities of Spain. But the characteristic obstinacy of his naturekept him firm to his point, and he resolved to carry it, be theconsequences what they might.
All his efforts to win over Campeggio proved fruitless. The legate wasdeaf to his menaces or promises, well knowing that to aid Anne Boleynwould be to seriously affect the interests of the Church of Rome.
The affair, however, so long and so artfully delayed, was now drawing toa close. A court was appointed by the legates to be holden on the 18thof June, at Blackfriars, to try the question. Gardiner had been recalledfrom Rome to act as counsel for Henry; and the monarch, determiningto appear by proxy at the trial, left his palace at Bridewell the daybefore it was to come on, and set out with Anne Boleyn and his chiefattendants for Windsor Castle.
Whatever secret feelings might be entertained against him, Henry wasreceived by the inhabitants of Windsor with every demonstration ofloyalty and affection. Deafening shouts rent the air as he approached;blessings and good wishes were showered upon him; and hundreds of capswere flung into the air. But noticing that Anne Boleyn was received withevil looks and in stern silence, and construing this into an affront tohimself, Henry not only made slight and haughty acknowledgment of thewelcome given him, but looked out for some pretext to manifest hisdispleasure. Luckily none was afforded him, and he entered the castle ina sullen mood.
The day was spent in gentle exercise within the home park and on theterrace, and the king affected the utmost gaiety and indifference; butthose acquainted with him could readily perceive he was ill at ease.In the evening he remained for some time alone in his closet penningdespatches, and then summoning an attendant, ordered him to bringCaptain Bouchier into his presence.
"Well, Bouchier," he said, as the officer made his appearance, "have youobeyed my instructions in regard to Mabel Lyndwood?"
"I have, my liege," replied Bouchier. "In obedience to your majesty'scommands, immediately after your arrival at the castle I rode to theforester'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; "butI do not think she could have ever looked more beautiful."
"I am well assured of it," replied Henry. "The pressure of affairsduring 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 itthat 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 hadsomething further to declare."
"Your majesty will not have forgotten how you exterminated the band ofHerne the Hunter?" said Bouchier.
"Mother of Heaven, no!" cried the king, starting up; "I have notforgotten it. What of them?--Ha! have they come to life again?--do theyscour 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 Iknow it may have occurred. But Herne has been seen again in the forest.Several o
f the keepers have been scared by him--travellers have beenaffrighted and plundered--and no one will now cross the great park afternightfall."
"Amazement!" cried Henry, again seating himself; "once let the divorcebe settled, and I will effectually check the career of this lawless andmysterious being."
"Pray heaven your majesty may be able to do so!" replied Bouchier. "ButI have always been of opinion that the only way to get rid of thedemon would be by the aid of the Church. He is unassailable by mortalweapons."
"It would almost seem so," said the king. "And yet I do not like toyield to the notion."
"I shrewdly suspect that old Tristram Lyndwood, the grandsire of thedamsel upon whom your majesty has deigned to cast your regards, is insome way or other leagued with Herne," said Bouchier. "At all events, Isaw him with a tall hideous-looking personage, whose name I understandto be Valentine Hagthorne, and who, I feel persuaded, must be one of theremnants 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," repliedBouchier. "Besides, I could scarcely arrest Hagthorne without at thesame time securing the old forester, which might have alarmed thedamsel. 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 oldTristram, and keep him in custody till I have leisure to examine him."
"It shall be done as you desire, my liege," replied Bouchier, bowing anddeparting.
Shortly after this Henry, accompanied by Anne Boleyn, proceeded with hisattendants to Saint George's Chapel, and heard vespers performed. Justas he was about to return, an usher advanced towards him, and makinga profound reverence, said that a masked dame, whose habilimentsproclaimed 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 anaudience of your majesty, nor the time; but she would not be said nay,and therefore, at the risk of incurring your sovereign displeasure, Ihave ventured to proffer her request."
The usher omitted to state that his chief inducement to incur the riskwas a valuable ring, given him by the lady.
"Well, I will go to her," said the king. "I pray you, excuse me for ashort space, fair mistress," he added to Anne Boleyn.
And quitting the choir, he entered the northern aisle, and casting hiseyes down the line of noble columns by which it is flanked, and seeingno one, he concluded that the lady must have retired into the UrswickChapel. And so it proved; for on reaching this exquisite little shrinehe perceived a tall masked dame within it, clad in robes of the richestblack velvet. As he entered the chapel, the lady advanced towards him,and throwing herself on her knees, removed her mask--disclosing featuresstamped with sorrow and suffering, but still retaining an expression ofthe greatest dignity. They were those of Catherine of Arragon.
Uttering an angry exclamation, Henry turned on his heel and would haveleft her, but she clung to the skirts of his robe.
"Hear me a moment, Henry--my king--my husband--one single moment--hearme!" cried Catherine, in tones of such passionate anguish that he couldnot 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 withkisses. "I am indeed your own true Kate--your faithful, loving, lawfulwife!"
"Rise, madam!" cried Henry coldly; "this posture beseems not Catherine ofArragon."
"I obey you now as I have ever done," she replied, rising; "though ifI followed the prompting of my heart, I should not quit my knees till Ihad gained my suit."
"You have, done wrong in coming here, Catherine, at this juncture," saidHenry, "and may compel me to some harsh measure which I would willinglyhave avoided."
"No one knows I am here," replied the queen, "except two faithfulattendants, who are vowed to secrecy; and I shall depart as I came."
"I am glad you have taken these precautions," replied Henry. "Now speakfreely, but again I must bid you be brief."
"I will be as brief as I can," replied the queen; "but I pray youbear with me, Henry, if I unhappily weary you. I am full of misery andaffliction, 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 forthmy soul in tears before you. Oh, Henry, after twenty years' duty andto be brought to this unspeakable shame--to be cast from you withdishonour--to be supplanted by another--it is terrible!"
"If you have only come here to utter reproaches, madam, I must put anend to the interview," said Henry, frowning.
"I do not reproach you, Henry," replied Catherine meekly, "I only wishto show you the depth and extent of my affection. I only implore you todo me right and justice--not to bring shame upon me to cover your ownwrongful action. Have compassion upon the princess our daughter--spareher, 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 longlived, and I am resolved to abandon it."
"An unworthy prevarication," replied Catherine, "by which you seek towork my ruin, and accomplish your union with Anne Boleyn. And you willno doubt succeed; for what can I, a feeble woman, and a stranger in yourcountry, do to prevent it? You will succeed, I say--you will divorce meand place her upon the throne. But mark my words, Henry, she will notlong remain there."
The king smiled bitterly
"She will bring dishonour upon you," pursued Catherine. "The woman whohas no regard for ties so sacred as those which bind us will not respectother obligations."
"No more of this!" cried Henry. "You suffer your resentment to carry youtoo far."
"Too far!" exclaimed Catherine. "Too far!--Is to warn you that you areabout to take a wanton to your bed--and that you will bitterly repentyour folly when too late, going too far? It is my duty, Henry, no lessthan 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 meto utter," replied Catherine. "I conjure you by my strong and triedaffection--by the tenderness that has for years subsisted between us--byyour hopes of temporal prosperity and spiritual welfare--by all you holddear and sacred--to pause while there is yet time. Let the legates meetto-morrow--let them pronounce sentence against me and as surely as thosefatal words are uttered, my heart will break."
"Tut, tut!" exclaimed Henry impatiently, "you will live many years inhappy retirement."
"I will die as I have lived--a queen," replied Catherine; "but mylife will not be long. Now, answer me truly--if Anne Boleyn plays youfalse--"
"She never will play me false!" interrupted Henry.
"I say if she does," pursued Catherine, "and you are satisfied of herguilt, will you be content with divorcing her as you divorce me?"
"No, by my father's head!" cried Henry fiercely. "If such a thing wereto happen, which I hold impossible, she should expiate her offence onthe 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 atleast have vengeance, though it will come when I am in my tomb. But itwill 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. "Thedaughter of Ferdinand of Spain and Isabella of Castile, with thebest blood of Europe in her veins, would despise herself if she couldentertain so paltry a feeling towards one born so much beneath her asAnne Boleyn."
"As you will, madam," rejoined Henry. "It is time our interviewterminated."
"Not yet, Henry--for the love of Heaven, not y
et!" implored Catherine."Oh, bethink you by whom we were joined together!--by your father, Henrythe Seventh--one of the wisest princes that ever sat on a throne; and bythe sanction of my own father, Ferdinand the Fifth, one of the justest.Would they have sanctioned the match if it had been unlawful? Were theydestitute 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 withmisery. 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--toour illustrious progenitors--and to our people, to make it," repliedCatherine. "I should be unworthy to be your consort if I actedotherwise--and I will never, in thought, word, or deed, do aughtderogatory to that title. You may divorce me, but I will never assent toit; 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 prayyou, resume your mask, and withdraw. What I have said will convince youthat your stay is useless."
"I perceive it," replied Catherine. "Farewell, Henry--farewell, lovedhusband 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 asCatherine had replaced her mask. "Ah! your majesty looks confused. Ifear I have interrupted some amorous conference."
"Come with me, Anne," said Henry, taking her arm, and trying to draw heraway--"come with me."
"Not till I learn who your lady--love is," replied Anne pettishly. "Youaffect to be jealous of me, my liege, but I have much more reason to bejealous of you. When you were last at Windsor, I heard you paid asecret visit to a fair maiden near the lake in the park, and now you areholding an interview with a masked dame here. Nay, I care not for yourgestures 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 anyrespect left for me, I pray you order this woman from my presence. Lotme depart in peace."
"Lady Anne, I pray you retire," said Henry. But Anne stood her groundresolutely.
"Nay, let her stay, then," said the queen; "and I promise you she shallrepent her rashness. And do you stay too, Henry, and regard well herwhom you are about to make your spouse. Question your sisterMary, somewhile consort to Louis the Twelfth and now Duchess ofSuffolk--question her as to the character and conduct of Anne Boleynwhen she was her attendant at the court of France--ask whether she hadnever to reprove her for levity--question the Lord Percy as to her lovefor 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 ifhe weds you, let him look well to you, or you will make him a scoff toall honourable men. And now, as you have come between him and me--asyou have divided husband and wife--for the intent, whether successful ornot, 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 Ishall be called hence, as I maybe soon, I will appear before the throneof the Most High, and summon you to judgment."
"Take me from her, Henry!" cried Anne faintly; "her violence affrightsme."
"No, you shall stay," said Catherine, grasping her arm and detainingher; "you shall hear your doom. You imagine your career will be abrilliant one, and that you will be able to wield the sceptre youwrongfully wrest from me; but it will moulder into dust in yourhand--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 yourattendants. 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 mein 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, shewill bring yet more upon her head. You suffer now, minion, but how willyou feel when, in your turn, you are despised, neglected, and supplantedby 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 nowtell him?"
A sob was all the answer Anne could return.
"You will feel as I feel towards you," pursued the queen--"hatredtowards her; but you will not have the consolations I enjoy. You willhave merited your fate, and you will then think upon me and my woes, andwill bitterly, but unavailingly, repent your conduct. And now, Henry,"she exclaimed, turning solemnly to him, "you have pledged your royalword to me, and given me your hand upon it, that if you find this womanfalse to you she shall expiate her offence on the block. I call upon youto ratify the pledge in her presence."
"I do so, Catherine," replied the king. "The mere suspicion of her guiltshall be enough."
"Henry!" exclaimed Anne.
"I have said it," replied the king.
"Tremble, then, Anne Boleyn!" cried Catherine, "tremble! and when youare adjudged to die the death of an adulteress, bethink you of theprediction of the queen you have injured. I may not live to witness yourfate, but we shall meet before the throne of an eternal Judge."
"Oh, Henry, this is too much!" gasped Anne, and she sank fainting intohis arms.
"Begone!" cried the king furiously. "You have killed her!"
"It were well for us both if I had done so," replied Catherine. "But shewill recover to work my misery and her own. To your hands I commit herpunishment. 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 effortswere speedily successful.
"Is it then reality?" gasped Anne, as she gazed around. "I hoped it wasa hideous dream. Oh, Henry, this has been frightful! But you will notkill 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 theking moodily. "I begin to think there is some truth in Catherine'sinsinuations."
"Oh no, I swear to you there is not," said Anne--"I have trifledwith the gallants of Francis's court, and have listened, perhaps toocomplacently, to the love-vows of Percy and Wyat, but when your majestydeigned to cast eyes upon me, all others vanished as the stars ofnight before the rising of the god of day. Henry, I love you deeply,devotedly--but Catherine's terrible imprecations make me feel morekeenly than I have ever done before the extent of the wrong I am aboutto inflict upon her--and I fear that retributive punishment will followit."
"You will do her no wrong," replied Henry. "I am satisfied of thejustice of the divorce, and of its necessity; and if my purposed unionwith you were out of the question, I should demand it. Be the fault onmy head."
"Your words restore me in some measur
e, my liege," said Anne. "Ilove you too well not to risk body and soul for you. I am yours forever--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 andhideous face like that of a fiend."
"It was mere fancy," replied the king. "Your mind is disturbed by whathas occurred. You had better join your attendants, and retire to yourown apartments."
"Oh, Henry!" cried Anne--"do not judge me unheard--do not believe whatany false tongue may utter against me. I love only you and can love onlyyou. 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 thenproceeded together to the royal lodgings, where Anne retired to her ownapartments, and Henry withdrew to his private chamber.
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