Windsor Castle. Ainsworth William Harrison
she presented it to the Earl of Surrey.
“This cross encloses the relic,” she continued; “wear it, and may it protect you from all ill!”
Surrey’s pale cheek glowed as he took the gift. “I will never past with it but with life,” he cried, pressing the cross to his lips, and afterwards placing it next his heart.
“I would have given half my dukedom to be so favoured,” said Richmond moodily.
And quitting the little group, he walked towards the Lady Anne. “Henry,” said the Lady Mary, taking her brother aside, “you will lose your friend.”
“I care not,” replied Surrey.
“But you may incur his enmity,” pursued the Lady Mary. “I saw the glance he threw at you just now, and it was exactly like the king’s terrible look when offended.”
“Again I say I care not,” replied Surrey. “Armed with this relic, I defy all hostility.”
“It will avail little against Richmond’s rivalry and opposition,” rejoined his sister.
“We shall see,” retorted Surrey. “Were the king himself my rival, I would not resign my pretensions to the Fair Geraldine.”
“Bravely resolved, my lord,” said Sir Thomas Wyat, who, having overheard the exclamation, advanced towards him. “Heaven grant you may never be placed in such jeopardy!”
“I say amen to that prayer, Sir Thomas,” rejoined Surrey “I would not prove disloyal, and yet under such circumstances—”
“What would you do?” interrupted Wyat.
“My brother is but a hasty boy, and has not learned discretion, Sir Thomas,” interposed the Lady Mary, trying by a significant glance to impose silence on the earl.
“Young as he is, he loves well and truly,” remarked Wyat, in a sombre tone.
“What is all this?” inquired the Fair Geraldine, who had been gazing through the casement into the court below.
“I was merely expressing a wish that Surrey may never have a monarch for a rival, fair lady,” replied Wyat.
“It matters little who may be his rival,” rejoined Geraldine, “provided she he loves be constant.”
“Right, lady, right,” said Wyat, with great bitterness. At this moment Will Sommers approached them. “I come to bid you to the Lady Anne’s presence, Sir Thomas, and you to the king’s, my lord of Surrey,” said the jester. “I noticed what has just taken place,” he remarked to the latter, as they proceeded towards the royal canopy, beneath which Henry and the Lady Anne Boleyn were seated; “but Richmond will not relinquish her tamely, for all that.”
Anne Boleyn had summoned Sir Thomas Wyat, in order to gratify her vanity by showing him the unbounded influence she possessed over his royal rival; and the half-suppressed agony displayed by the unfortunate lover at the exhibition afforded her a pleasure such as only the most refined coquette can feel.
Surrey was sent for by the king to receive instructions, in his quality of vice-chamberlain, respecting a tilting-match and hunting-party to be held on successive days—the one in the upper quadrangle of the castle, the other in the forest.
Anxious, now that he was somewhat calmer, to avoid a rupture with Richmond, Surrey, as soon as he had received the king’s instructions, drew near the duke; and the latter, who had likewise reasoned himself out of his resentment, was speedily appeased, and they became, to all appearance, as good friends as ever.
Soon afterwards the Lady Anne and her dames retired, and the court breaking up, the two young nobles strolled forth to the stately terrace at the north of the castle, where, while gazing at the glorious view it commanded, they talked over the mysterious event of the previous night.
“I cannot help suspecting that the keeper we beheld with the demon hunter was Morgan Fenwolf,” remarked the earl. “Suppose we make inquiry whether he was at home last night. We can readily find out his dwelling from Bryan Bowntance, the host of the Garter.”
Richmond acquiesced in the proposal, and they accordingly proceeded to the cloisters of Saint George’s Chapel, and threading some tortuous passages contrived among the canons’ houses, passed through a small porch, guarded by a sentinel, and opening upon a precipitous and somewhat dangerous flight of steps, hewn out of the rock and leading to the town.
None except the more important members of the royal household were allowed to use this means of exit from the castle, but, of course, the privilege extended to Richmond and Surrey. Here in later times, and when the castle was not so strictly guarded, a more convenient approach was built, and designated, from the number of its stairs, “The Hundred Steps.”
Having accomplished the descent in safety, and given the password to the sentinel at the foot of the steps, the two young nobles emerged into the street, and the first object they beheld was the body of the miserable butcher swinging from the summit of the Curfew Tower, where it was left by order of the king.
Averting their gaze from this ghastly spectacle, they took their way up Thames Street, and soon reached the Garter. Honest Bryan was seated on a bench before the dwelling, with a flagon of his own ale beside him, and rising as he saw the others approach, he made them a profound salutation.
Upon leaning what they sought, he told them that Morgan Fenwolf dwelt in a small cottage by the river-side not far from the bridge, and if it pleased them, he would guide them to it himself—an offer which they gladly accepted.
“Do you know anything of this Fenwolf?” asked Surrey, as they proceeded on their way.
“Nothing particular,” replied Bryan, with some hesitation. “There are some strange reports about him, but I don’t believe ‘em.”
“What reports are they, friend?” asked the Duke of Richmond.
“Why, your grace, one ought to be cautious what one says, for fear of bringing an innocent man into trouble,” returned the host. “But if the truth must be spoken, people do say that Morgan Fenwolf is in league with the devil—or with Herne the Hunter, which is the same thing.”
Richmond exchanged a look with his friend.
“Folks say strange sights have been seen in the forest of late,” pursued Bryan—“and it may be so. But I myself have seen nothing—but then, to be sure, I never go there. The keepers used to talk of Herne the Hunter when I was a lad, but I believe it was only a tale to frighten deer-stealers; and I fancy it’s much the same thing now.”
Neither Surrey nor Richmond made any remark, and they presently reached the keeper’s dwelling.
It was a small wooden tenement standing, as the host had stated, on the bank of the river, about a bow-shot from the bridge. The door was opened by Bryan, and the party entered without further ceremony. They found no one within except an old woman, with harsh, wrinkled features, and a glance as ill-omened as that of a witch, whom Bryan Bowntance told them was Fenwolf’s mother. This old crone regarded the intruders uneasily.
“Where is your son, dame?” demanded the duke.
“On his walk in the forest,” replied the old crone bluntly.
“What time did he go forth?” inquired Surrey.
“An hour before daybreak, as is his custom,” returned the woman, in the same short tone as before.
“You are sure he slept at home last night, dame?” said Surrey.
“As sure as I am that the question is asked me,” she replied. “I can show you the very bed on which he slept, if you desire to see it. He retired soon after sunset—slept soundly, as he always sleeps—and arose as I have told you. I lighted a fire, and made him some hot pottage myself.”
“If she speaks the truth, you must be mistaken,” observed Richmond in a whisper to his friend.
“I do not believe her,” replied Surrey, in the same tone. “Show us his chamber, dame.”
The old crone sullenly complied,