“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.
How Herne the Hunter appeared to Henry on the Terrace.
Henry again sat down to his despatches, and employed himself upon them to a late hour. At length, feeling heated and oppressed, he arose, and opened a window. As he did so, he was almost blinded by a vivid flash of forked lightning. Ever ready to court danger, and convinced, from the intense gloom without, that a fearful storm was coming on, Henry resolved to go forth to witness it. With this view he quitted the closet, and passed through a small door opening on the northern terrace. The castle clock tolled the hour of midnight as he issued forth, and the darkness was so profound that he could scarcely see a foot before him. But he went on.
“Who goes there?” cried a voice, as he advanced, and a partisan was placed at his breast.
“The king!” replied Henry, in tones that would have left no doubt of the truth of the assertion, even if a gleam of lightning had not at the moment revealed his figure and countenance to the sentinel.
“I did not look for your majesty at such a time,” replied the man, lowering his pike. “Has your majesty no apprehension of the storm? I have watched it gathering in the valley, and it will be a dreadful one. If I might make bold to counsel you, I would advise you to seek instant shelter in the castle.”
“I have no fear, good fellow,” laughed the king. “Get thee in yon porch, and leave the terrace to me. I will warn thee when I leave it.”
As he spoke a tremendous peal of thunder broke overhead, and seemed to shake the strong pile to its foundations. Again the lightning rent the black canopy of heaven in various places, and shot down in forked flashes of the most dazzling brightness. A rack of clouds, heavily charged with electric fluid, hung right over the castle, and poured down all their fires upon it.
Henry paced slowly to and fro, utterly indifferent to the peril he ran—now watching the lightning as it shivered some oak in the home park, or lighted up the wide expanse of country around him—now listening to the roar of heaven's artillery; and he had just quitted the western extremity of the terrace, when the most terrific crash he had yet heard burst over him. The next instant a dozen forked flashes shot from the sky, while fiery coruscations blazed athwart it; and at the same moment a bolt struck the Wykeham Tower, beside which he had been recently standing. Startled by the appalling sound, he turned and beheld upon the battlemented parapet on his left a tall ghostly figure, whose antlered helm told him it was Herne the Hunter. Dilated against the flaming sky, the proportions of the demon seemed gigantic. His right hand was stretched forth towards the king, and in his left he held a rusty chain. Henry grasped the handle of his sword, and partly drew it, keeping his gaze fixed upon the figure.
“You thought you had got rid of me, Harry of England,” cried Herne, “but were you to lay the weight of this vast fabric upon me, I would break from under it—ho! ho!”
“What wouldst thou, infernal spirit?” cried Henry.
“I am come to keep company with you, Harry,” replied the demon; “this is a night when only you and I should be abroad. We know how to enjoy it. We like the music of the loud thunder, and the dance of the blithe lightning.”
“Avaunt, fiend!” cried Henry. “I will hold no converse with thee. Back to thy native hell!”
“You have no power over me, Harry,” rejoined the demon, his words mingling with the rolling of the thunder, “for your thoughts are evil, and you are about to do an accursed deed. You cannot dismiss me. Before the commission of every great crime—and many great crimes you will commit—I will always appear to you. And my last appearance shall he three days before your end—ha! ha!”
“Darest thou say this to me!” cried Henry furiously.
“I laugh at thy menaces,” rejoined Herne, amid another peal of thunder—“but I have not yet done. Harry of England! your career shall be stained in blood. Your wrath shall descend upon the heads of those who love you, and your love shall be fatal. Better Anne Boleyn fled this castle, and sought shelter in the lowliest hovel in the land, than become your spouse. For you will slay her—and not her alone. Another shall fall by your hand; and so, if you had your own will, would all!”
“What meanest thou by all?” demanded the king.
“You will learn in due season,” laughed the fiend. “But now mark me, Harry of England, thou fierce and bloody kin—thou shalt be drunken with the blood of thy wives; and thy end shall be a fearful one. Thou shalt linger out a living death—a mass of breathing corruption shalt thou become—and when dead the very hounds with which thou huntedst me shall lick thy blood!”
These awful words, involving a fearful prophecy, which was afterwards, as will be shown, strangely fulfilled, were so mixed up with the rolling of the thunder that Henry could scarcely distinguish one sound from the other. At the close of the latter speech a flash of lightning of such dazzling brilliancy shot down past him, that he remained for some moments almost blinded; and when he recovered his powers of vision the demon had vanished.
How Mabel Lyndwood was taken to the Castle by NicholasClamp—And how they encountered Morgan Fenwolf by the way.
THE storm which had fallen so heavily on the castle had likewise visited the lake, and alarmed the inmates of the little dwelling on its banks. Both the forester and his grand-daughter were roused from their beds, and they sat together in the chief apartment of the cottage, listening to the awful rolling of the thunder, and watching the blue flashing of the lightning. The storm was of unusually long duration, and continued for more than an hour with unintermitted violence. It then paused; the thunder rolled off, and the flashes of lightning grew fainter and less frequent. During the storm Mabel continued on her knees, addressing the most earnest prayers to the Virgin for her preservation and that of her grandfather; but the old forester, though evidently much alarmed, uttered not a single supplication, but remained sitting in his chair with a sullen, scared look. As the thunder died away, he recovered his composure, and addressed himself to soothe the fears of his granddaughter. In this he had partially succeeded, and was urging her again to seek her couch, when the storm recommenced with fresh fury. Mabel once more fell on her knees, and the old man resumed his sullen posture. Another dreadful half-hour, marked by a succession of terrible peals and vivid flashes, succeeded, when, amidst an awful pause, Mabel ventured to address her old relative.
“Why do you not pray, grandfather?” she said, regarding him uneasily. “Sister Anastasia and good Father Anselm always taught me to utter an Ave and cross myself during a thunderstorm. Why do you not pray, grandfather?”
“Do not trouble me. I have no fear.”
“But your cheeks and lips are blanched,” rejoined Mabel; “and I observed you shudder during that last awful crash. Pray, grandfather, pray!”
“Peace, wench, and mind your own business!” returned the old man angrily. “The storm will soon be over—it cannot last long in this way.”
“The saints preserve us!” cried Mabel, as a tremendous concussion was heard overhead, followed by a strong sulphureous smell. “The cottage is struck!”
“It is—it is!” cried Tristram, springing to his feet and rushing forth.
For a few minutes Mabel continued in a state of stupefaction. She then staggered to the door, and beheld her grandfather occupied with two dark figures, whom she recognised as Valentine Hagthorne and Morgan Fenwolf, in extinguishing the flames, which were bursting from the thatched roof of the hut. Surprise and terror held her silent, and the others were so busily engaged that they did not notice her.
At last, by their united efforts, the fire was got under without material damage to the little building, and Mabel retired, expecting her grandsire to return; but as he did not do so, and as almost instantly afterwards the plash of oars was heard en the lake, she flew to the window, and beheld him, by the gleam of the lightning, seated in the skiff with Morgan Fenwolf, while Valentine Hagthorne had mounted a black horse, and was galloping swiftly away. Mabel saw no more. Overcome by fright, she sank on the ground insensible. When she recovered the storm had entirely ceased. A heavy shower had fallen, but the sky was now perfectly clear, and day had begun to dawn. Mabel went to the door of the hut, and looked forth for her grandfather, but he was nowhere to be seen. She remained gazing at the now peaceful lake till the sun had fairly risen, when, feeling more composed, she retired to rest, and sleep, which had been banished from them during the greater part of the night, now fell upon her lovely eyelids.
When she awoke, the day was far advanced, but still old Tristram had not returned; and with a heavy heart she set about her household concerns. The thought, however, of her anticipated visit to the castle speedily dispelled her anxiety, and she began to make preparations for setting out, attiring herself with unusual care. Bouchier had not experienced much difficulty in persuading her to obey the king's behest, and by his artful representations he had likewise induced her grandfather to give his consent to the visit—the old forester only stipulating that she should be escorted there and back by a falconer, named Nicholas Clamp, in whom he could put trust; to which proposition Bouchier readily assented.
At length five o'clock, the appointed hour, arrived, and with it came Nicholas Clamp. He was a tall, middle-aged man, with yellow hair, clipped closely over his brows, and a beard and moustaches to match. His attire resembled that of a keeper of the forest, and consisted of a doublet and hose of green cloth; but he did not carry a bugle or hunting-knife. His sole weapon was a stout quarter-staff. After some little hesitation Mabel consented to accompany the falconer, and they set forth together.
The evening was delightful, and their way through the woods was marked by numberless points of beauty. Mabel said little, for her thoughts were running upon her grandfather, and upon his prolonged and mysterious absence; but the falconer talked of the damage done by the thunderstorm, which he declared was the most awful he had ever witnessed; and he pointed out to her several trees struck by the lightning. Proceeding in this way, they gained a road leading from Blacknest, when, from behind a large oak, the trunk of which had concealed him from view, Morgan Fenwolf started forth, and planted himself in their path. The gear of the proscribed keeper was wild and ragged, his locks matted and disordered, his demeanour savage, and his whole appearance forbidding and alarming.
“I have been waiting for you for some time, Mabel Lyndwood,” he said. “You must go with me to your grandfather.”
“My grandfather would never send you for me,” replied Mabel; “but if he did, I will not trust myself with you.”
“The saints preserve us!” cried Nicholas Clamp. “Can I believe my eyes!—do I behold Morgan Fenwolf!”
“Come with me, Mabel,” cried Fenwolf, disregarding him.
But she returned a peremptory refusal.
“She shall not stir an inch!” cried the falconer. “It is thou, Morgan Fenwolf, who must go with me. Thou art a proscribed felon, and thy life is forfeit to the king. Yield thee, dog, as my prisoner!”
“Thy prisoner!” echoed Fenwolf scornfully. “It would take three such as thou art to make me captive! Mabel Lyndwood, in your grandfather's name, I command you to come with me, and let Nick Clamp look to himself if he dares to hinder you.”
“Nick will do something more than hinder her,” rejoined the falconer, brandishing his staff, and rushing upon the other. “Felon hound! I command thee to yield!”
Before the falconer could reach him, Morgan Fenwolf plucked a long hunting-knife from his girdle, and made a desperate stab at his assailant. But Clamp avoided the blow, and striking Fenwolf on the shins, immediately afterwards closed with him.
The result was still doubtful, when the struggle was suddenly interrupted by the trampling of horse approaching from the side of Windsor; and at the sound Morgan Fenwolf disengaged himself from his antagonist and plunged into the adjoining wood. The next moment Captain Bouchier rode up, followed by a small band of halberdiers, and receiving information from the falconer of what had occurred, darted with his men into the wood in search of the fugitive. Nicholas Clamp and his companion did not await the issue of the search, but proceeded on their way.
As they walked at a brisk pace, they reached the long avenue in about half-an-hour, and took their way down it. When within a mile of the castle they were overtaken by Bouchier and his followers, and the falconer was much disappointed to learn that they had failed in tracking Morgan Fenwolf to his lair. After addressing a few complimentary words to the maiden, Bouchier rode on.
Soon after this the pair quitted the great park, and passing through a row of straggling houses, divided by gardens and closes, which skirted the foot of Castle Hill, presently reached the lower gate. They were admitted without difficulty; but just as they entered the lower ward the falconer was hailed by Shoreditch and Paddington, who at the moment issued from the doorway of the guard-room.
Clamp obeyed the call and went towards them, and it was evident, from the gestures of the archers, that they were making inquiries about Mabel, whose appearance seemed to interest them greatly. After a brief conversation with the falconer they approached her, and, respectfully addressing her, begged leave to attend her to the royal lodgings, whither they understood she was going. No objection being made to the proposal by Mabel, the party directed their course towards the middle ward.
Passing through the gateway of the Norman Tower, they stopped before a low portal in a picturesque Gothic wing of the castle, with projecting walls and bay-windows, which had been erected in the preceding reign of Henry the Seventh, and was consequently still in all its freshness and beauty.
How Mabel was received by the Party in the Kitchen—And ofthe Quarrel between the two Jesters.
Addressing himself to a stout-built yeoman of the guard, who was standing within the doorway, Nicholas Clamp demanded admittance to the kitchen, and the man having detained them for a few moments, during which he regarded Mabel with a very offensive stare, ushered them into a small hall, and from thence into a narrow passage connected with it. Lighted by narrow loopholes pierced through the walls, which were of immense thickness, this passage described the outer side of the whole upper quadrangle, and communicated with many other lateral passages and winding stairs leading to the chambers allotted to the household or to the state apartments. Tracking it for some time, Nicholas Clamp at length turned off on the right, and, crossing a sort of ante-room, led the way into a large chamber with stone walls and a coved and groined roof, lighted by a great window at the lower end. This was the royal kitchen, and in it yawned no fewer than seven huge arched fireplaces, in which fires were burning, and before which various goodly joints were being roasted, while a number of cooks and scullions were congregated round them. At a large table in the centre of the kitchen were seated some half-dozen yeomen of the guard, together with the clerk of the kitchen, the chief bargeman, and the royal cutler, or bladesmith, as he was termed.
These worthies were doing ample justice to a chine of beef, a wild-boar pie, a couple of fat capons, a peacock pasty, a mess of pickled lobsters, and other excellent and inviting dishes with which the board was loaded. Neither did they neglect to wash down the viands with copious draughts of ale and mead from great pots and flagons placed beside them. Behind this party stood Giovanni Joungevello, an Italian minstrel, much in favour with Anne Boleyn, and Domingo Lamellino, or Lamelyn—as he was familiarly termed—a Lombard, who pretended to some knowledge of chirurgery, astrology, and alchemy, and who was a constant attendant on Henry. At the head of the bench, on the right of the table, sat Will Sommers. The jester was not partaking of the repast, but was chatting with Simon Quanden, the chief cook, a good-humoured personage, round-bellied as a tun, and blessed with a spouse, yclept Deborah, as fond of good cheer, as fat, and as good-humoured as himself. Behind the cook stood the cellarman, known by the appellation of Jack of the Bottles, and at his feet were two playful little turnspits, with long backs, and short forelegs, as crooked almost as sickles.
On seeing Mabel, Will Sommers immediately arose, and advancing towards her with a mincing step, bowed with an air of mock ceremony, and said in an affected tone, “Welcome, fair mistress, to the king's kitchen. We are all right glad to see you; are we not, mates?”
“Ay, that we are!” replied a chorus of voices.
“By my troth, the wench is wondrously beautiful!” said Kit Coo, one of the yeomen of the guard.
“No wonder the king is smitten with her,” said Launcelot Rutter, the bladesmith; “her eyes shine like a dagger's point.”
“And she carries herself like a wafter on the river,” said the bargeman.
“Her complexion is as good as if I had given her some of my sovereign balsam of beauty,” said Domingo Lamelyn.
“Much better,” observed Joungevello, the minstrel; “I shall write a canzonet in her praise, and sing it before the king.”
“And get flouted for thy pains by the Lady Anne,” said Kit Coo.
“The damsel is not so comely as I expected to find her,” observed Amice Lovekyn, one of the serving-women, to Hector Cutbeard, the clerk of the kitchen.
“Why, if you come to that, she is not to be compared to you, pretty Amice,” said Cutbeard, who was a red-nosed, red-faced fellow, with a twinkling merry eye.
“Nay, I meant not that,” replied Amice, retreating.
“Excuse my getting up to receive you, fair mistress,” cried Simon Quanden, who seemed fixed to his chair; “I have been bustling about all day, and am sore fatigued—sore fatigued. But will you not take something? A sugared cate, and a glass of hypocras jelly, or a slice of capon? Go to the damsel, dame, and prevail on her to eat.”
“That will I,” replied Deborah. “What shall it be, sweetheart? We have a well-stored larder here. You have only to ask and have.”
“I thank you, but I am in want of nothing,” replied Mabel.
“Nay, that is against all rule, sweetheart,” said Deborah; “no one enters the king's kitchen without tasting his royal cheer.”
“I am sorry I must prove an exception, then,” returned Mabel, smiling; “for I have no appetite.”
“Well, well, I will not force you to eat against your will,” replied the good dame “But a cup of wine will do you good after your walk.”
“I will wait upon her,” said the Duke of Shoreditch.' who vied with Paddington and Nick Clamp in attention to the damsel.
“Let me pray you to cast your eyes upon these two dogs, fair Mabel,” said Will Sommers, pointing to the two turn-spits, “they are special favourites of the king's highness. They are much attached to the cook, their master; but their chief love is towards each other, and nothing can keep them apart.”
“Will Sommers speaks the truth,” rejoined Simon Quanden. “Hob and Nob, for so they are named, are fast friends. When Hob gets into the box to turn the spit, Nob will watch beside it till his brother is tired, and then he will take his place. They always eat out of the same platter, and drink out of the same cup. I once separated them for a few hours to see what would happen, but they howled so piteously, that I was forced to bring them together again. It would have done your heart good to witness their meeting, and to see how they leaped and rolled with delight. Here, Hob,” he added, taking a cake from his apron pocket, “divide this with thy brother.”
Placing his paws upon his master's knees, the nearest turnspit took the cake in his mouth, and proceeding towards Nob, broke it into two pieces, and pushed the larger portion towards him.
While Mabel was admiring this display of sagacity and affection a bustling step was heard behind her, and turning, she beheld a strange figure in a parti-coloured gown and hose, with a fool's cap and bells on his head, whom she immediately recognised as the cardinal's jester, Patch. The new-comer recognised her too, stared in astonishment, and gave a leering look at Will Sommers.
“What brings you here, gossip Patch?” cried Will Sommers. “I thought you were in attendance upon your master, at the court at Blackfriars.”
“So I have been,” replied Patch, “and I am only just arrived with his grace.”
“What! is the decision pronounced?” cried Will Sommers eagerly. “Is the queen divorced? Is the king single again? Let us hear the sentence.”
“Ay, the sentence!—the sentence!” resounded on all hands.
Stimulated by curiosity, the whole of the party rose from the table; Simon Quanden got out of his chair; the other cooks left their joints to scorch at the fire; the scullions suspended their work; and Hob and Nob fixed their large inquiring black eyes upon the jester.
“I never talk thirsting,” said Patch, marching to the table, and filling himself a flagon of mead. “Here's to you, fair maiden,” he added, kissing the cup to Mabel, and swallowing its contents at a draught. “And now be seated, my masters, and you shall hear all I have to relate, and it will be told in a few words. The court is adjourned for three days, Queen Catherine having demanded that time to prepare her allegations, and the delay has been granted her.”
“Pest on it!—the delay is some trick of your crafty and double-dealing master,” cried Will Sommers. “Were I the king, I know how I would deal with him.”
“What wouldst thou do, thou scurril knave?” cried Patch angrily.
“I would strip him of his ill-gotten wealth, and leave him only thee—a fitting attendant—of all his thousand servitors,” replied Will.
“This shall to his grace's ears,” screamed Patch, amid the laughter of the company—“and see whether your back does not smart for it.”
“I fear him not,” replied Will Sommers. “I have not yet told the king my master of the rare wine we found in his cellar.”
“What wine was that, Will?” cried Jack of the Bottles.
“You shall hear,” replied Will Sommers, enjoying the disconcerted look of the other jester. “I was at the palace at Hampton, when this scant-witted knave invited me to taste some of his master's wine, and accordingly to the cellar we went. 'This wine will surprise you,' quoth he, as we broached the first hogshead. And truly it did surprise me, for no wine followed the gimlet. So we went on to another, and another, and another, till we tried half a score of them, and all with the same result. Upon this I seized a hammer which was lying by and sounded the casks, but none of them seeming empty, I at last broke the lid of one—and what do you think it contained?”
A variety of responses were returned by the laughing assemblage, during which Patch sought to impose silence upon his opponent. But Will Sommers was not to be checked.
“It contained neither vinegar, nor oil, nor lead,” he said, “but gold; ay, solid bars of gold-ingots. Every hogshead was worth ten thousand pounds, and more.”
“Credit him not, my masters,” cried Patch, amid the roars of the company; “the whole is a mere fable—an invention. His grace has no such treasure. The truth is, Will Sommers got drunk upon some choice Malmsey, and then dreamed he had been broaching casks of gold.”
“It is no fable, as you and your master will find when the king comes to sift the matter,” replied Will. “This will be a richer result to him than was ever produced by your alchemical experiments, good Signor Domingo Lamelyn.”
“It is false!—I say false!” screamed Patch, “let the cellars be searched, and I will stake my head nothing is found.”
“Stake thy cap, and there may be some meaning in it,” said Will, plucking Patch's cap from his head and elevating it on his truncheon. “Here is an emblem of the Cardinal of York,” he cried, pointing to it.
A roar of laughter from the company followed this sally, and Hob and Nob looked up in placid wonderment.
“I shall die with laughing,” cried Simon Quanden, holding his fat sides, and addressing his spouse, who was leaning upon his shoulder.
In the meantime Patch sprang to his feet, and, gesticulating with rage and fury, cried, “Thou hast done well to steal my cap and bells, for they belong of right to thee. Add my folly to thy own, and thou wilt be a fitting servant to thy master; or e'en give him the cap, and then there will be a pair of ye.”
“Who is the fool now, I should like to know?” rejoined Will Sommers gravely. “I call you all to witness that he has spoken treason.”
While this was passing Shoreditch had advanced with a flagon of Malmsey to Mabel, but she was so interested in the quarrel between the two jesters that she heeded him not; neither did she attend to Nicholas Clamp, who was trying to explain to her what was going forward. But just as Patch's indiscreet speech was uttered an usher entered the kitchen and announced the approach of the king.
Of the Combat between Will Sommers and Patch—And how itterminated.
Mabel's heart fluttered violently at the usher's announcement, and for a moment the colour deserted her cheek, while the next instant she was covered with blushes. As to poor Patch, feeling that his indiscretion might place him in great jeopardy and seriously affect his master, to whom he was devotedly attached, he cast a piteous and imploring look at his antagonist, but was answered only by a derisive laugh, coupled with an expressive gesture to intimate that a halter would be his fate. Fearful that mischief might ensue, the good-natured Simon Quanden got out of his chair and earnestly besought Will not to carry matters too far; but the jester remained implacable.
It was not unusual with Henry to visit the different offices of the castle and converse freely and familiarly with the members of his household, but it was by no means safe to trust to the continuance of his good humour, or in the slightest degree to presume upon it. It is well known that his taste for variety of character often led him, like the renowned Caliph Haroun Al Raschid, to mix with the lower classes of his subjects in disguise, at which times many extraordinary adventures are said to have befallen him. His present visit to the kitchen, therefore, would have occasioned no surprise to its occupants if it had not occurred so soon after the cardinal's arrival. But it was this circumstance, in fact, that sent him thither. The intelligence brought by Wolsey of the adjournment of the court for three days, under the plea of giving the queen time for her allegations, was so unlooked for by Henry that he quitted the cardinal in high displeasure, and was about to repair to Anne Boleyn, when he encountered Bouchier, who told him that Mabel Lyndwood had been brought to the castle, and her grandsire arrested. The information changed Henry's intentions at once, and he proceeded with Bouchier and some other attendants to the kitchen, where he was given to understand he should find the damsel.
Many a furtive glance was thrown at the king, for no one dared openly to regard him as he approached the forester's fair granddaughter. But he tarried only a moment beside her, chucked her under the chin, and, whispering a word or two in her ear that heightened her blushes, passed on to the spot where the two jesters were standing.
“What dost thou here, knave?” he said to Will Sommers.
“I might rather ask that question of your majesty,” replied Will; “and I would do so but that I require not to be told.”
“I have come to see what passeth in my household,” replied the king, throwing himself into the chair lately occupied by the chief cook. “Ah, Hob and Nob, my merry rascals,” he cried, patting the turnspits, who ran towards him and thrust their noses against his hand, “ye are as gamesome and loving as ever, I see. Give me a manchet for them, Master Cook, and let not the proceedings in the kitchen be stayed for my presence. I would not have my supper delayed, or the roasts spoiled, for any false ceremony. And now, Will, what hast thou to say that thou lookest so hard at me?”
“I have a heavy charge to bring against this knave, an' please your majesty,” replied Will Sommers, pointing to Patch.
“What! hath he retorted upon thee too sharply?” replied the king, laughing. “If so, challenge him to the combat, and settle the grievance with thy lathen dagger. But refer not the matter to me. I am no judge in fools' quarrels.”
“Your own excepted,” muttered Will. “This is not a quarrel that can be so adjusted,” he added aloud. “I charge this rascal Patch with speaking disrespectfully of your highness in the hearing of the whole kitchen. And I also charge his master the cardinal with having secreted in his cellars at Hampton a vast amount of treasure, obtained by extortion, privy dealings with foreign powers, and other iniquitous practices, and which ought of right to find its way to your royal exchequer.”
“'And which shall find its way thither, if thou dost not avouch a fable,” replied the king.
“Your majesty shall judge,” rejoined Will. And he repeated the story which he had just before related.
“Can this be true?” exclaimed Henry at its close.
“It is false, your highness, every word of it,” cried Patch, throwing himself at the king's feet, “except so far as relates to our visits to the cellar, where, I shame to speak it, we drank so much that our senses clean forsook us. As to my indiscreet speech touching your majesty, neither disrespect nor disloyalty were intended by it. I was goaded to the rejoinder by the sharp sting of this hornet.”
“The matter of the treasure shall be inquired into without delay,” said Henry. “As to the quarrel, it shall be settled thus. Get both of you upon that table. A flour-bag shall be given to each; and he who is first knocked off shall be held vanquished.”
The king's judgment was received with as much applause as dared be exhibited by the hearers; and in an instant the board was cleared, and a couple of flour-bags partly filled delivered to the combatants by Simon Quanden, who bestirred himself with unwonted activity on the occasion.
Leaping upon the table, amid the smothered mirth of the assemblage, the two jesters placed themselves opposite each other, and grinned such comical defiance that the king roared with laughter. After a variety of odd movements and feints on either side, Patch tried to bring down his adversary by a tremendous two-handed blow; but in dealing it, the weight of the hag dragged him forward, and well-nigh pitched him head foremost upon the floor. As it was, he fell on his face upon the table, and in this position received several heavy blows upon the prominent part of his back from Will Sommers. Ere long, however, he managed to regain his legs, and, smarting with pain, attacked his opponent furiously in his turn. For a short space fortune seemed to favour him. His bag had slightly burst, and the flour, showering from it with every blow, well-nigh blinded his adversary, whom he drove to the very edge of the table. At this critical juncture Will managed to bring down his bag full upon his opponent's sconce, and the force of the blow bursting it, Patch was covered from crown to foot with flour, and blinded in his turn. The appearance of the combatants was now so exquisitely ridiculous, that the king leaned back in his chair to indulge his laughter, and the mirth of the spectators could no longer be kept within decorous limits. The very turnspits barked in laughing concert.
“Well fought on both sides!” cried Henry; “it were hard to say which will prove the victor. Now, knaves, to it again—ha! ha!—to it again!”
Once more the bags were wielded, descended, and the blows were so well directed on either side, that both combatants fell backwards. Again the king's laughter rose loud and long. Again the merriment of the other beholders was redoubled. Again Hob and Nob barked joyously, and tried to spring on to the table to take part in the conflict. Amid the general glee, the combatants rose and renewed the fight, dealing blows thick and fast—for the bags were now considerably lightened of their contents—until they were completely hidden from view by a cloud of white dust.
“We cannot see the fray,” remarked Henry; “but we can hear the din of battle. Which will prove the victor, I marvel?”
“I am for Will Sommers,” cried Bouchier.
“And I for Patch,” said Simon Quanden. “Latterly he hath seemed to me to have the advantage.”
“It is decided!” cried the king, rising, as one of the combatants was knocked off the table, and fell to the floor with a great noise. “Who is it?”
“Patch,” replied a faint voice. And through the cloud of dust struggled forth the forlorn figure of the cardinal's jester, while Will Sommers leaped triumphantly to the ground.
“Get thee to a wash-tub, knave, and cleanse thyself,” said Henry, laughing. “In consideration of the punishment thou hast undergone, I pardon thee thy treasonable speech.”
So saying, he rose, and walked towards Mabel, who had been quite as much alarmed as amused by the scene which had just taken place.
“I hope you have been as well cared for, damsel,” he said, “since your arrival at the castle, as you cared for the Duke of Suffolk and myself when we visited your cottage?
“I have had everything I require, my liege,” replied Mabel timidly.
“Dame Quanden will take charge of you till to-morrow,” rejoined the king, “when you will enter upon the service of one of our dames.”
“Your majesty is very considerate,” said Mabel, “but I would rather go back at early dawn to my grandsire.”
“That is needless,” rejoined the king sternly. “Your grandsire is in the castle.”
“I am glad to hear it!” exclaimed Mabel. And then, altering her tone, for she did not like the expression of the king's countenance, she added, “I hope he has not incurred your majesty's displeasure.”
“I trust he will be able to clear himself, Mabel,” said Henry, “but he labours under the grave suspicion of leaguing with lawless men.”
Mabel shuddered, for the thought of what she had witnessed on the previous night during the storm rushed forcibly to her recollection. The king noticed her uneasiness, and added, in a gentler tone, “If he makes such confession as will bring the others to justice, he has nothing to fear. Dame Quanden, I commit this maiden to your charge. To-morrow she will take her place as attendant to the Lady Elizabeth Fitzgerald.”
So saying, he moved off with Bouchier and the rest of his attendants, leaving Mabel to the care of the cook's good humoured spouse, who seeing her eyes filled with tears, strove to cheer her, and led her towards a small side-table, where she pressed wine and cates upon her.
“Be of good cheer, sweetheart,” she said, in a soothing tone; “no harm will befall your grandfather. You are much too high in favour with the king for that.”
“I liked the king much better as I saw him at our cottage, good dame,” replied Mabel, smiling through her tears, “in the guise of a Guildford merchant. He seemed scarcely to notice me just now.”
“That was because so many eyes were upon you, sweet-heart,” replied Deborah; “but sooth to say, I should be better pleased if he did not notice you at all.”
Mabel blushed, and hung her head.
“I am glad you are to be an attendant on the Lady Fitzgerald,” pursued Deborah, “for she is the fairest young lady at court, and as good and gentle as she is fair, and I am sure you will find her a kind mistress. I will tell you something about her. She is beloved by the king's son, the Duke of Richmond, but she requites not his passion, for her heart is fixed on the youthful Earl of Surrey. Alack-a-day! the noble rivals quarrelled and crossed swords about her; but as luck would have it, they were separated before any mischief was done. The king was very wroth with Lord Surrey, and ordered him to be imprisoned for two months in the Round Tower, in this castle, where he is now, though his term has very nearly expired.”
“How I pity him, to be thus harshly treated!” remarked Mabel, her eyes swimming with tears, “and the Lady Elizabeth too! I shall delight to serve her.”
“I am told the earl passes the whole of his time in poring over books and writing love-verses and sonnets,” said Deborah. “It seems strange that one so young should be a poet; but I suppose he caught the art from his friend Sir Thomas Wyat.”
“Is he a friend of Sir Thomas Wyat?” asked Mabel quickly.
“His close friend,” replied Deborah; “except the Duke of Richmond, now his rival, he had none closer. Have you ever seen Sir Thomas, sweetheart?”
“Yes, for a few moments,” replied Mabel confusedly.
“I heard that he lingered for a short time in the forest before his departure for Paris,” said Dame Quanden. “There was a strange rumour that he had joined the band of Herne the Hunter. But that must have been untrue.”
“Is he returned from France?” inquired Mabel, without heeding the remark.
“I fancy not,” replied the good dame. “At all events, he is not come to the castle. Know you not,” she added, in a low confidential tone, “that the king is jealous of him? He was a former suitor to the Lady Anne Boleyn, and desperately in love with her; and it is supposed that his mission to France was only a pretext to get him out of the way.”
“I suspected as much,” replied Mabel. “Alas! for Sir Thomas; and alas! for the Earl of Surrey.”
“And alas! for Mabel Lyndwood, if she allows her heart to be fixed upon the king,” said Deborah.
While this was passing the business of the kitchen, which had been interrupted by the various incidents above related, and especially by the conflict between the two jesters, was hurried forward, and for some time all was bustle and confusion.
But as soon as the supper was served, and all his duties were fully discharged, Simon Quanden, who had been bustling about, sat down in his easy-chair, and recruited himself with a toast and a sack posset. Hob and Nob had their supper at the same time, and the party at the table, which had been increased by the two archers and Nicholas Clamp, attacked with renewed vigour a fresh supply of mead and ale, which had been provided for them by Jack of the Bottles.
The conversation then turned upon Herne the Hunter; and as all had heard more or less about him, and some had seen him, while few knew the legend connected with him, Hector Cutbeard volunteered to relate it; upon which all the party gathered closer together, and Mabel and Deborah left off talking, and drew near to listen.