The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “Behold him, then!” cried a harsh voice from behind.

  Turning at the sound, Henry perceived a tall dark figure of hideous physiognomy and strange attire, helmed with a huge pair of antlers, standing between him and the oak-tree. So sudden was the appearance of the figure, that in spite of himself the king slightly started.

  “What art thou — ha?” he demanded.

  “What I have said,” replied the demon. “I am Herne the Hunter. Welcome to my domain, Harry of England. You are lord of the castle, but I am lord of the forest. Ha! ha!”

  “I am lord both of the forest and the castle — yea, of all this broad land, false fiend!” cried the king, “and none shall dispute it with me. In the name of the most holy faith, of which I am the defender, I command thee to avoid my path. Get thee backwards, Satan!”

  The demon laughed derisively.

  “Harry of England, advance towards me, and you advance upon your peril,” he rejoined.

  “Avaunt, I say!” cried the king. “In the name of the blessed Trinity, and of all holy angels and saints, I strike!”

  And he whirled the staff round his head. But ere the weapon could descend, a flash of dazzling fire encircled the demon, amidst which he vanished.

  “Heaven protect us!” exclaimed Henry, appalled.

  At this juncture the sound of a horn was heard, and a number of wild figures in fantastic garbs — some mounted on swarthy steeds, and accompanied by hounds, others on foot-issued from the adjoining covert, and hurried towards the spot occupied by the king.

  “Aha!” exclaimed Henry— “more of the same sort. Hell, it would seem, has let loose her hosts; but I have no fear of them. Stand by me, Suffolk.”

  “To the death, sire,” replied the duke, drawing his sword. By this time one of the foremost of the impish crew had reached the king, and commanded him to yield himself prisoner.

  “Dost know whom thou askest to yield, dog?” cried Henry furiously.

  “Yea,” replied the other, “thou art the king!”

  “Then down on thy knees, traitor!” roared Henry; “down all of ye, and sue for mercy.”

  “For mercy — ha! ha!” rejoined the other; “it is thy turn to sue for mercy, tyrant! We acknowledge no other ruler than Herne the Hunter.”

  “Then seek him in hell!” cried Henry, dealing the speaker a tremendous blow on the head with his staff, which brought him senseless to the ground.

  The others immediately closed round him, and endeavoured to seize the king.

  “Ha! dogs — ha! traitors!” vociferated Henry, plying his staff with great activity, and bringing down an assailant at each stroke; “do you dare to lay hands upon our sacred person? Back! back!”

  The determined resistance offered by the king, supported as he was by Suffolk, paralysed his assailants, who seemed more bent upon securing his person than doing him injury. But Suffolk’s attention was presently diverted by the attack of a fierce black hound, set upon him by a stout fellow in a bearded mask. After a hard struggle, and not before he had been severely bitten in the arm, the duke contrived to despatch his assailant.

  “This to avenge poor Bawsey!” cried the man who had set on the hound, stabbing at Suffolk with his knife.

  But the duke parried the blow, and, disarming his antagonist, forced him to the ground, and tearing off his mask, disclosed the features of Morgan Fenwolf.

  Meanwhile, Henry had been placed in considerable jeopardy. Like Suffolk, he had slaughtered a hound, and, in aiming a blow at the villain who set it on, his foot slipped, and he lay at his mercy. The wretch raised his knife, and was in the act of striking when a sword was passed through his body. The blow was decisive; the king instantly arose, and the rest of his assailants-horse as well as foot — disheartened by what had occurred, beat a hasty retreat. Harry turned to look for his deliverer, and uttered an exclamation of astonishment and anger.

  “Ah! God’s death!” he cried, “can I believe my eyes? Is it you, Sir Thomas Wyat?”

  “Ay,” replied the other.

  “What do you here? Ha!” demanded the king. “You should be in Paris.”

  “I have tarried for revenge,” replied Wyat.

  “Revenge! — ha!” cried Henry. “On whom?”

  “On you,” replied Wyat.

  “What!” vociferated Henry, foaming with rage. “Is it you, traitor, who have devised this damnable plot? — is it you who would make your king a captive? — you who slay him? Have you leagued yourself with fiends?”

  But Wyat made no answer; and though he lowered the point of his sword, he regarded the king sternly.

  A female figure now rushed forward, and bending before the king, cried in an imploring voice— “Spare him, sire — spare him! He is no party to the attack. I was near him in yon wood, and he stirred not forth till he saw your life in danger. He then delivered you from the assassin.”

  “I did so because I reserved him for my own hand,” said Wyat.

  “You hear him confess his treason,” cried Henry; “down on your knees, villain, or I will strike you to my feet.”

  “He has just saved your life, my liege,” cried the supplicant. “Oh, spare him!”

  “What make you here, Mabel?” cried Henry angrily. “I followed your majesty unseen,” she replied, in some confusion, “and reached yon wood just as the attack commenced. I did not dare to advance farther.”

  “You should have gone home — gone home,” rejoined the king. “Wyat,” he continued, in a tone of stern reproach, “you were once a loyal subject. What means this change?”

  “It means that you have robbed me of a mistress,” replied Wyat; “and for this cause I have damned myself.”

  “Pardon him!-oh, pardon him, sire,” cried Mabel.

  “I cannot understand you, Wyat,” said Henry, after a pause; “but I have myself suffered from the pangs of jealousy. You have saved my life, and I will spare yours.”

  “Sire!” cried Wyat.

  “Suffolk,” exclaimed Henry, looking towards the duke, who was holding Fenwolf by the throat, “shall I be justified in letting him go free?

  “Strike! — strike!” cried a deep voice in Wyat’s ear; “your rival is now in your power.”

  “Far be it from me to thwart your majesty’s generous impulses,” rejoined Suffolk. “It is true that Wyat has saved your life; and if he had been disposed to take it, you have this moment exposed yourself to him.”

  “Sir Thomas Wyat,” said the king, turning to him, “you have my full and free pardon. Quit this forest instantly, and make your way to Paris. If you are found within it to-morrow you will be lodged in the Tower.”

  Wyat knelt down, and would have pressed Henry’s hand to his lips, but the latter pushed him aside.

  “No — no! Not now — on your return.”

  Thus rebuffed, Wyat strode away, and as he passed the tree he heard a voice exclaim, “You have escaped him, but think not to escape me!”

  “And now, sweetheart,” said Henry, turning to Mabel, “since you are so far on the way, you shall go with me to the castle.”

  “On no account, my liege,” she returned; “my grandsire will wonder what has become of me. He must already be in great alarm.”

  “But I will send an attendant to quiet his fears,” urged Henry.

  “That would only serve to increase them,” she rejoined. “Nay, I must go.”

  And breaking from him, she darted swiftly down the hill, and glanced across the marsh like a moonbeam.

  “Plague on it!” cried Henry, “I have again forgotten to question her about her birth.”

  “Shall I despatch this knave, my liege?” cried Suffolk, pointing with his sword to Fenwolf.

  “By no means,” said the king; “something may be learnt from him. Hark thee, thou felon hound; if thou indeed servest the fiend, thou seest he deserts thee, as he does all who put faith in him.”

  “I see it,” replied Fenwolf, who, finding resistance vain, had folded his hands doggedly upon his breast.
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  “Then confess thy evil practices,” said the king.

  “Give me my life, and I will,” replied Fenwolf. And as he uttered the words, he caught sight of the dark figure of Herne, stationed at the side of the oak, with its right arm raised menacingly.

  “What seest thou?” cried Henry, remarking his fixed gaze towards the tree, and glancing in that direction.

  Fenwolf made no reply.

  Henry went up to the tree, and walked round it, but he could see nothing.

  “I will scour the forest to-morrow,” he muttered, “and hang every knave I find within it who cannot give a good account of himself.”

  “Ho! ho! ho!” laughed a voice, which seemed to proceed from the branches of the tree. Henry looked up, but no one was visible.

  “God’s death — derided!” he roared. “Man or devil, thou shalt feel my wrath.”

  “Ho! ho! ho!” again laughed the voice.

  Stamping with rage, Henry swore a great oath, and smote the trunk of the tree with his sword.

  “Your majesty will search in vain,” said Suffolk; “it is clearly the fiend with whom you have to deal, and the aid of holy priests must be obtained to drive him from the forest.”

  “Ho! ho! ho!” again laughed the voice.

  A party of horsemen now appeared in view. They proved to be the royal attendants, who had ridden forward in search of the king, and were instantly hailed by Henry and Suffolk. They were headed by Captain Bouchier, who at a sign from the king instantly dismounted.

  “Give me your horse, Bouchier,” said Henry, “and do you and half-a-dozen of your men remain on guard at this tree till I send a troop of arquebusiers to relieve you. When they arrive, station them near it, and let them remain here till I return in the morning. If any one appears, make him a prisoner.”

  “Your majesty’s orders shall be faithfully obeyed,” replied Bouchier.

  Bound hand and foot, Fenwolf was thrown upon the back of a horse, and guarded by two halberdiers, who were prepared to strike him dead on the slightest movement. In this way he was conveyed to the castle, and placed in the guard-chamber of the lower gate till further orders should be issued respecting him.

  CHAPTER IX.

  Showing how Morgan Fenwolf escaped from the Garter Tower.

  Half-an-hour afterwards Fenwolf was visited by the Duke of Suffolk and a canon of the college; and the guard-chamber being cleared, the duke enjoined him to make clear his bosom by confession.

  “I hold it my duty to tell you, prisoner,” said Suffolk, “that there is no hope of your life. The king’s highness is determined to make a fearful example of you and all your companions in crime; but he does not seek to destroy your soul, and has therefore sent this holy man to you, with the desire that you may open your heart to him, and by confession and repentance save yourself from eternal perdition.”

  “Confession will profit me nothing,” said Fenwolf moodily. “I cannot pray if I would.”

  “You cannot be so utterly lost, my son,” rejoined the canon. “Hell may have woven her dark chains round you, but not so firmly but that the hand of Heaven can burst them.”

  “You waste time in seeking to persuade me,” returned Fenwolf.

  “You are not ignorant of the punishment inflicted upon those condemned for sorcery, my son?” demanded the canon.

  “It is the stake, is it not?” replied Fenwolf

  “Ay,” replied the canon; “but even that fiery trial will fail to purge out your offences without penitence. My lord of Suffolk, this wretched man’s condition demands special attention. It will profit the Church much to win his soul from the fiend. Let him, I pray you, be removed to the dungeon beneath the Garter Tower, where a priest shall visit him, and pray by his side till daybreak.”

  “It will be useless, father,” said Fenwolf.

  “I do not despair, my son,” replied the canon; “and when I see you again in the morning I trust to find you in a better frame of mind.”

  The duke then gave directions to the guard to remove the prisoner, and after some further conference with the canon, returned to the royal apartments.

  Meanwhile, the canon shaped his course towards the Horseshoe Cloisters, a range of buildings so designated from their form, and situated at the west end of St. George’s Chapel, and he had scarcely entered them when he heard footsteps behind him, and turning at the sound, beheld a Franciscan friar, for so his habit of the coarsest grey cloth, tied with a cord round the waist, proclaimed him. The friar was very tall and gaunt, and his cowl was drawn over his face so as to conceal his features.

  “What would you, brother?” inquired the canon, halting. “I have a request to make of you, reverend sir,” replied the friar, with a lowly inclination of the head. “I have just arrived from Chertsey Abbey, whither I have been tarrying for the last three days, and while conversing with the guard at the gate, I saw a prisoner brought into the castle charged with heinous offences, and amongst others, with dealings with the fiend.”

  “You have been rightly informed, brother,” rejoined the canon.

  “And have I also been rightly informed that you desire a priest to pass the night with him, reverend sir?” returned the friar. “If so, I would crave permission to undertake the office. Two souls, as deeply laden as that of this poor wretch, have been snatched from the jaws of Satan by my efforts, and I do not despair of success now.”

  “Since you are so confident, brother,” said the canon, “I commit him readily to your hands. I was about to seek other aid, but your offer comes opportunely. With Heaven’s help I doubt not you will achieve a victory over the evil one.”

  As the latter words were uttered a sudden pain seemed to seize the friar. Staggering slightly, he caught at the railing of the cloisters for support, but he instantly recovered himself.

  “It is nothing, reverend sir,” he said, seeing that the good canon regarded him anxiously. “Long vigils and fasting have made me liable to frequent attacks of giddiness, but they pass as quickly as they come. Will it please you to go with me, and direct the guard to admit me to the prisoner?”

  The canon assented; and crossing the quadrangle, they returned to the gateway.

  Meanwhile, the prisoner had been removed to the lower chamber of the Garter Tower. This fortification, one of the oldest in the castle, being coeval with the Curfew Tower, is now in a state of grievous neglect and ruin. Unroofed, unfloored, filled with rubbish, masked by the yard walls of the adjoining habitations, with one side entirely pulled down, and a great breach in front, it is solely owing to the solid and rock-like construction of its masonry that it is indebted for partial preservation. Still, notwithstanding its dilapidated condition, and that it is the mere shell of its former self, its appearance is highly picturesque. The walls are of prodigious thickness, and the deep embrasures within them are almost perfect; while a secret staircase may still be tracked partly round the building. Amid the rubbish choking up its lower chamber grows a young tree, green and flourishing — a type, it is to be hoped, of the restoration of the structure.

  Conducted to a low vaulted chamber in this tower, the prisoner was cast upon its floor — for he was still bound hand and foot — and left alone and in darkness. But he was not destined to continue in this state long. The door of the dungeon opened, and the guard ushered in the tall Franciscan friar.

  “What ho! dog of a prisoner,” he cried, “here is a holy man come to pass the night with you in prayer.”

  “He may take his Ave Maries and Paternosters elsewhere-I want them not,” replied Fenwolf moodily.

  “You would prefer my bringing Herne the Hunter, no doubt,” rejoined the guard, laughing at his own jest; “but this is a physician for your soul. The saints help you in your good work, father; you will have no easy task.”

  “Set down the light, my son,” cried the friar harshly, “and leave us; my task will be easily accomplished.”

  Placing the lamp on the stone floor of the dungeon, the guard withdrew, and locked the door after
him.

  “Do you repent, my son?” demanded the friar, as soon as they were alone.

  “Certes, I repent having put faith in a treacherous fiend, who has deserted me-but that is all,” replied Fenwolf, with his face turned to the ground.

  “Will you put faith in me, if I promise you deliverance?” demanded the friar.

  “You promise more than you can perform, as most of your brethren do,” rejoined the other.

  “You will not say so if you look up,” said the friar.

  Fenwolf started at the words, which were pronounced in a different tone from that previously adopted by the speaker, and raised himself as far as his bonds would permit him. The friar had thrown hack his cowl, and disclosed features of appalling hideousness, lighted up by a diabolical grin.

  “You here!” cried Fenwolf.

  “You doubted me,” rejoined Herne, “but I never desert a follower. Besides, I wish to show the royal Harry that my power is equal to his own.”

  “But how are we to get out of this dungeon?” asked Fenwolf, gazing round apprehensively.

  “My way out will be easy enough,” replied Herne; “but your escape is attended with more difficulty. You remember how we went to the vaulted chamber in the Curfew Tower on the night when Mark Fytton, the butcher, was confined within it?”

  “I do,” replied Fenwolf; “but I can think of nothing while I am tied thus.”

  Heme instantly drew forth a hunting-knife, and cutting Fenwolf’s bonds asunder, the latter started to his feet.

  “If that bull-headed butcher would have joined me, I would have liberated him as I am about to liberate you,” pursued Herne. “But to return to the matter in hand. You recollect the secret passage we then tracked? There is just such another staircase in this tower.”