“None would avail against him,” murmured the Fair Geraldine. “Lead me forth; I shall die if I stay here.”
Supporting her in his arms, Surrey complied, but they had scarcely gained the entrance of the arbour, when a tall figure stood before them. It was the Duke of Richmond. A gleam of moonlight penetrating through the leaves, fell upon the group, and rendered them distinctly visible to each other.
“Soh!” exclaimed the duke, after regarding the pair in silence for a moment, “I have not been misinformed. You have contrived a meeting here.”
“Richmond,” said Surrey sternly, “we once were dear and loving friends, and we are still honourable foes. I know that I am safe with you. I know you will breathe no word about this meeting, either to the Fair Geraldine’s prejudice or mine.
“You judge me rightly, my lord,” replied the duke, in a tone of equal sternness. “I have no thought of betraying you; though, by a word to my royal father, I could prevent all chance of future rivalry on your part. I shall, however, demand a strict account from you on liberation.”
“Your grace acts as beseems a loyal gentleman,” replied Surrey. “Hereafter I will not fail to account to you for my conduct in any way you please.”
“Oh! let me interpose between you, my lords,” cried the Fair Geraldine, “to prevent the disastrous consequences of this quarrel. I have already told your grace I cannot love you, and that my heart is devoted to the Earl of Surrey. Let me appeal to your noble nature — to your generosity — not to persist in a hopeless suit.”
“You have conquered madam,” said the duke, after a pause. “I have been to blame in this matter. But I will make amends for my error. Surrey, I relinquish her to you.”
“My friend!” exclaimed the earl, casting himself into the duke’s arms.
“I will now endeavour to heal the wounds I have unwittingly occasioned,” said the Fair Geraldine. “I am surprised your grace should be insensible to attractions so far superior to mine as those of the Lady Mary Howard.”
“The Lady Mary is very beautiful, I confess,” said the duke; “and if you had not been in the way, I should assuredly have been her captive.”
“I ought not to betray the secret, perhaps,” hesitated the Fair Geraldine, “but gratitude prompts me to do so. The lady is not so blind to your grace’s merits as I have been.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed the duke. “If it be so, Surrey, we may yet be brothers as well as friends.”
“And that it is so I can avouch, Richmond,” rejoined the earl, “for I am in my sister’s secret as well as the Fair Geraldine. But now that this explanation has taken place, I must entreat your grace to conduct the Fair Geraldine back to her lodgings, while I regain, the best way I can, my chamber in the Round Tower.”
“I marvel how you escaped from it,” said Richmond; “but I suppose it was by the connivance of the officer.”
“He who set me free — who brought the Fair Geraldine hither — and who, I suspect, acquainted you with our meeting, was no other than Herne the Hunter,” replied Surrey.
“You amaze me!” exclaimed the duke; “it was indeed a tall dark man, muffled in a cloak, who informed me that you were to meet at midnight in King James’s bower in the moat, and I therefore came to surprise you.”
“Your informant was Herne,” replied Surrey.
“Right!” exclaimed the demon, stepping from behind a tree, where he had hitherto remained concealed; “it was I — I, Herne the Hunter. And I contrived the meeting in anticipation of a far different result from that which has ensued. But I now tell you, my lord of Surrey, that it is idle to indulge a passion for the Fair Geraldine. You will never wed her.”
“False fiend, thou liest!” cried Surrey.
“Time will show,” replied Herne. “I repeat, you will wed another — and more, I tell you, you are blinder than Richmond has shown himself — for the most illustrious damsel in the kingdom has regarded you with eyes of affection, and yet you have not perceived it.”
“The Princess Mary?” demanded Richmond.
“Ay, the Princess Mary,” repeated Herne. “How say you now, my lord? — will you let ambition usurp the place of love?”
“No,” replied Surrey. “But I will hold no further converse with thee. Thou wouldst tempt to perdition. Hence, fiend!”
“Unless you trust yourself to my guidance, you will never reach your chamber,” rejoined Herne, with a mocking laugh. “The iron door in the mound cannot be opened on this side, and you well know what the consequence of a discovery will be. Come, or I leave you to your fate.” And he moved down the path on the right.
“Go with him, Surrey,” cried Richmond.
Pressing the Fair Geraldine to his breast, the Earl committed her to the charge of his friend, and tearing himself away, followed the steps of the demon. He had not proceeded far when he heard his name pronounced by a voice issuing from the tree above him. Looking up, he saw Herne in one of the topmost branches, and at a sign, instantly climbed up to him. The thick foliage screened them from observation, and Surrey concluded his guide was awaiting the disappearance of the sentinel, who was at that moment approaching the tree. But such apparently was not the other’s intentions; for the man had scarcely passed than Herne sprang upon the ramparts, and the poor fellow turning at the sound, was almost scared out of his senses at the sight of the dreaded fiend. Dropping his halbert, he fell upon his face with a stifled cry. Herne then motioned Surrey to descend, and they marched together quickly to a low door opening into the keep. Passing through it, and ascending a flight of steps, they stood upon the landing at the top of the staircase communicating with the Norman Tower, and adjoining the entrance to Surrey’s chamber.
Apparently familiar with the spot, Herne took down a large key from a nail in the wall, against which it hung, and unlocked the door.
“Enter,” he said to Surrey, “and do not forget the debt you owe to Herne the Hunter.”
And as the earl stepped into the chamber, the door was locked behind him.
CHAPTER II.
How Sir Thomas Wyat found Mabel in the Sandstone Cave, and what happened to him there
A week after the foregoing occurrence, the Earl of Surrey was set free. But his joy at regaining his liberty was damped by learning that the Fair Geraldine had departed for Ireland. She had left the tenderest messages for him with his sister, the Lady Mary Howard, accompanied with assurances of unalterable attachment.
But other changes had taken place, which were calculated to afford him some consolation. Ever since the night on which he had been told the Lady Mary was not indifferent to him, Richmond had devoted himself entirely to her; and matters had already proceeded so far, that he had asked her in marriage of the Duke of Norfolk, who, after ascertaining the king’s pleasure on the subject, had gladly given his consent, and the youthful pair were affianced to each other. Surrey and Richmond now became closer friends than ever; and if, amid the thousand distractions of Henry’s gay and festive court, the young earl did not forget the Fair Geraldine, he did not, at least, find the time hang heavily on his hands.
About a week after Wolsey’s dismissal, while the court was still sojourning at Windsor, Surrey proposed to Richmond to ride one morning with him in the great park. The Duke willingly assented, and mounting their steeds, they galloped towards Snow Hill, wholly unattended. While mounting this charming ascent at a more leisurely pace, the earl said to his companion, “I will now tell you why I proposed this ride to you, Richmond. I have long determined to follow up the adventure of Herne the Hunter, and I wish to confer with you about it, and ascertain whether you are disposed to join me.”
“I know not what to say, Surrey,” replied the duke gravely, and speaking in a low tone. “The king, my father, failed in his endeavours to expel the demon, who still lords it in the forest.”
“The greater glory to us if we succeed,” said Surrey.
“I will take counsel with Lady Mary on the subject before I give an answer,” rejoined Richmond
.
“Then there is little doubt what your grace’s decision will be,” laughed Surrey. “To speak truth, it was the fear of your consulting her that made me bring you here. What say you to a ride in the forest to-morrow night?”
“I have little fancy for it,” replied Richmond; “and if you will be ruled by me, you will not attempt the enterprise yourself.”
“My resolution is taken,” said the earl; “but now, since we have reached the brow of the hill, let us push forward to the lake.”
A rapid ride of some twenty minutes brought them to the edge of the lake, and they proceeded along the verdant path leading to the forester’s hut. On arriving at the dwelling, it appeared wholly deserted, but they nevertheless dismounted, and tying their horses to the trees at the back of the cottage, entered it. While they were examining the lower room, the plash of oars reached their ears, and rushing to the window, they descried the skiff rapidly approaching the shore. A man was seated within it, whose attire, though sombre, seemed to proclaim him of some rank, but as his back was towards them, they could not discern his features. In another instant the skiff touched the strand, and the rower leaping ashore, proved to be Sir Thomas Wyat. On making this discovery they both ran out to him, and the warmest greetings passed between them. When these were over, Surrey expressed his surprise to Wyat at seeing him there, declaring he was wholly unaware of his return from the court of France.
“I came back about a month ago,” said Wyat. “His majesty supposes me at Allington; nor shall I return to court without a summons.”
“I am not sorry to hear it,” said Surrey; “but what are you doing here?”
“My errand is a strange and adventurous one,” replied Wyat. “You may have heard that before I departed for France I passed some days in the forest in company with Herne the Hunter. What then happened to me I may not disclose; but I vowed never to rest till I have freed this forest from the weird being who troubles it.”
“Say you so?” cried Surrey; “then you are most fortunately encountered, Sir Thomas, for I myself, as Richmond will tell you, am equally bent upon the fiend’s expulsion. We will be companions in the adventure.”
“We will speak of that anon,” replied Wyat. “I was sorry to find this cottage uninhabited, and the fair damsel who dwelt within it, when I beheld it last, gone. What has become of her?
“It is a strange story,” said Richmond. And he proceeded to relate all that was known to have befallen Mabel.
Wyat listened with profound attention to the recital, and at its close, said, “I think I can find a clue to this mystery, but to obtain it I must go alone. Meet me here at midnight to-morrow, and I doubt not we shall be able to accomplish our design.”
“May I not ask for some explanation of your scheme?” said Surrey.
“Not yet,” rejoined Wyat. “But I will freely confess to you that there is much danger in the enterprise — danger that I would not willingly any one should share with me, especially you, Surrey, to whom I owe so much. If you do not find me here, therefore, to-morrow night, conclude that I have perished, or am captive.”
“Well, be it as you will, Wyat,” said Surrey; “but I would gladly accompany you, and share your danger.”
“I know it, and I thank you,” returned Wyat, warmly grasping the other’s hand; “but much — nay, all — may remain to be done to-morrow night. You had better bring some force with you, for we may need it.”
“I will bring half a dozen stout archers,” replied Surrey— “and if you come not, depend upon it, I will either release you or avenge you.”
“I did not intend to prosecute this adventure further,” said Richmond; “but since you are both resolved to embark in it, I will not desert you.”
Soon after this, the friends separated, — Surrey and Richmond taking horse and returning to the castle, discoursing on the unlooked-for meeting with Wyat, while the latter again entered the skiff, and rowed down the lake. As soon as the hut was clear, two persons descended the steps of a ladder leading to a sort of loft in the roof, and sprang upon the floor of the hut.
“Ho! ho! Ho!” laughed the foremost, whose antlered helm and wild garb proclaimed him to be Herne; “they little dreamed who were the hearers of their conference. So they think to take me, Fenwolf — ha!”
“They know not whom they have to deal with,” rejoined the latter.
“They should do so by this time,” said Herne; “but I will tell thee why Sir Thomas Wyat has undertaken this enterprise. It is not to capture me, though that may be one object that moves him. But he wishes to see Mabel Lyndwood. The momentary glimpse he caught of her bright eyes was sufficient to inflame him.”
“Ah!” exclaimed Fenwolf, “think you so?”
“I am assured of it,” replied Herne. “He knows the secret of the cave, and will find her there.”
“But he will never return to tell what he has seen,” said Fenwolf moodily.
“I know not that,” replied Herne. “I have my own views respecting him. I want to renew my band.”
“He will never join you,” rejoined Fenwolf.
“What if I offer him Mabel as a bait?” said Herne.
“You will not do so, dread master?” rejoined Fenwolf, trembling and turning pale. “She belongs to me.”
“To thee, fool!” cried Herne, with a derisive laugh. “Thinkest thou I would resign such a treasure to thee? No, no. But rest easy, I will not give her to Wyat.”
“You mean her for yourself, then?” said Fenwolf.
“Darest thou to question me?” cried Herne, striking him with the hand armed with the iron gyves. “This to teach thee respect.”
“And this to prove whether thou art mortal or not!” rejoined Fenwolf, plucking his hunting-knife from his belt, and striking it with all his force against the other’s breast. But though surely and forcibly dealt, the blow glanced off as if the demon were cased in steel, and the intended assassin fell back in amazement, while an unearthly laugh rang in his ears. Never had Fenwolf seen Herne wear so formidable a look as he at that moment assumed. His giant frame dilated, his eyes flashed fire, and the expression of his countenance was so fearful that Fenwolf shielded his eyes with his hands.
“Ah, miserable dog!” thundered Herne; “dost thou think I am to be hurt by mortal hands, or mortal weapons? Thy former experience should have taught thee differently. But since thou hast provoked it, take thy fate!”
Uttering these words, he seized Fenwolf by the throat, clutching him with a terrific gripe, and in a few seconds the miserable wretch would have paid the penalty of his rashness, if a person had not at the moment appeared at the doorway. Flinging his prey hastily backwards, Herne turned at the interruption, and perceived old Tristram Lyndwood, who looked appalled at what he beheld.
“Ah, it is thou, Tristram?” cried Herne; “thou art just in time to witness the punishment of this rebellious hound.”
“Spare him, dread master! oh, spare him!” cried Tristram imploringly.
“Well,” said Herne, gazing at the half-strangled caitiff, “he may live. He will not offend again. But why hast thou ventured from thy hiding-place, Tristram?”
“I came to inform you that I have just observed a person row across the lake in the skiff,” replied the old man. “He appears to be taking the direction of the secret entrance to the cave.”
“It is Sir Thomas Wyat,” replied Herne, “I am aware of his proceedings. Stay with Fenwolf till he is able to move, and then proceed with him to the cave. But mark me, no violence must be done to Wyat if you find him there. Any neglect of my orders in this respect will be followed by severe punishment. I shall be at the cave ere long; but, meanwhile, I have other business to transact.”
And quitting the hut, he plunged into the wood.
Meanwhile, Sir Thomas Wyat, having crossed the lake, landed, and fastened the skiff to a tree, struck into the wood, and presently reached the open space in which lay the secret entrance to the cave. He was not long in finding the stone, though
it was so artfully concealed by the brushwood that it would have escaped any uninstructed eye, and removing it, the narrow entrance to the cave was revealed.
Committing himself to the protection of Heaven, Wyat entered, and having taken the precaution of drawing the stone after him, which was easily accomplished by a handle fixed to the inner side of it, he commenced the descent. At first, he had to creep along, but the passage gradually got higher, until at length, on reaching the level ground, he was able to stand upright. There was no light to guide him, but by feeling against the sides of the passage, he found that he was in the long gallery he had formerly threaded. Uncertain which way to turn, he determined to trust to chance for taking the right direction, and drawing his sword, proceeded slowly to the right.
For some time he encountered no obstacle, neither could he detect the slightest sound, but he perceived that the atmosphere grew damp, and that the sides of the passage were covered with moisture. Thus warned, he proceeded with great caution, and presently found, after emerging into a more open space, and striking off on the left, that he had arrived at the edge of the pool of water which he knew lay at the end of the large cavern.
While considering how he should next proceed, a faint gleam of light became visible at the upper end of the vault. Changing his position, for the pillars prevented him from seeing the source of the glimmer, he discovered that it issued from a lamp borne by a female hand, who he had no doubt was Mabel. On making this discovery, he sprang forwards, and called to her, but instantly repented his rashness, for as he uttered the cry the light was extinguished.
Wyat was now completely at a loss how to proceed. He was satisfied that Mabel was in the vault; but in what way to guide himself to her retreat he could not tell, and it was evident she herself would not assist him. Persuaded, however, if he could but make himself known, he should no longer be shunned, he entered one of the lateral passages, and ever and anon, as he proceeded, repeated Mabel’s name in a low, soft tone. The stratagem was successful. Presently he heard a light footstep approaching him, and a gentle voice inquired— “Who calls me?”
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 358
