From the high ground where Wolsey now stood the view of the lake was beautiful. For nearly a mile its shining expanse was seen stretching out between banks of varied form, sometimes embayed, sometimes running out into little headlands, but everywhere clothed with timber almost to the water’s edge. Wild fowl skimmed over its glassy surface, or dipped in search of its finny prey, and here and there a heron might be detected standing in some shallow nook, and feasting on the smaller fry. A flight of cawing rooks were settling upon the tall trees on the right bank, and the voices of the thrush, the blackbird, and other feathered songsters burst in redundant melody from the nearer groves.
A verdant path, partly beneath the trees, and partly on the side of the lake, led Wolsey to the forester’s hut. Constructed of wood and clay, with a thatched roof, green with moss, and half overgrown with ivy, the little building was in admirable keeping with the surrounding scenery. Opposite the door, and opening upon the lake, stood a little boathouse, and beside it a few wooden steps, defended by a handrail, ran into the water. A few yards beyond the boathouse the brook before mentioned emptied its waters into the lake.
Gazing with much internal satisfaction at the hut, Wolsey bade Patch dismount, and ascertain whether Mabel was within. The buffoon obeyed, tried the door, and finding it fastened, knocked, but to no purpose.
After a pause of a few minutes, the cardinal was turning away in extreme disappointment, when a small skiff, rowed by a female hand, shot round an angle of the lake and swiftly approached them. A glance from Patch would have told Wolsey, had he required any such information, that this was the forester’s granddaughter. Her beauty quite ravished him, and drew from him an exclamation of wonder and delight. Features regular, exquisitely moulded, and of a joyous expression, a skin dyed like a peach by the sun, but so as to improve rather than impair its hue; eyes bright, laughing, and blue as a summer sky; ripe, ruddy lips, and pearly teeth; and hair of a light and glossy brown, constituted the sum of her attractions. Her sylph-like figure was charmingly displayed by the graceful exercise on which she was engaged, and her small hands, seemingly scarcely able to grasp an oar, impelled the skiff forwards with marvellous velocity, and apparently without much exertion on her part.
Unabashed by the presence of the strangers, though Wolsey’s attire could leave her in no doubt as to his high ecclesiastical dignity, she sprang ashore at the landing-place, and fastened her bark to the side of the boathouse.
“You are Mabel Lyndwood, I presume, fair maiden?” inquired the cardinal, in his blandest tones.
“Such is my name, your grace,” she replied; “for your garb tells me I am addressing Cardinal Wolsey.”
The cardinal graciously inclined his head.
“Chancing to ride in this part of the forest,” he said, “and having heard of your beauty, I came to see whether the reality equalled the description, and I find it far transcends it.”
Mabel blushed deeply, and cast down her eyes.
“Would that Henry could see her now!” thought the cardinal, “Anne Boleyn’s reign were nigh at an end. — How long have you dwelt in this cottage, fair maid?” he added aloud.
“My grandsire, Tristram Lyndwood, has lived here fifty years and more,” replied Mabel, “but I have only been its inmate within these few weeks. Before that time I lived at Chertsey, under the care of one of the lay sisters of the monastery there — Sister Anastasia.”
“And your parents — where are they?” asked the cardinal curiously.
“Alas! your grace, I have none,” replied Mabel with a sigh. “Tristram Lyndwood is my only living relative. He used to come over once a month to see me at Chertsey — and latterly, finding his dwelling lonely, for he lost the old dame who tended it for him, he brought me to dwell with him. Sister Anastasia was loth to part with me — and I was grieved to leave her — but I could not refuse my grandsire.”
“Of a surety not,” replied the cardinal musingly, and gazing hard at her. “And you know nothing of your parents?”
“Little beyond this,” replied Mabel:— “My father was a keeper of the forest, and being unhappily gored by a stag, perished of the wound — for a hurt from a hart’s horn, as your grace knows, is certain death; and my mother pined after him and speedily followed him to the grave. I was then placed by my grandsire with Sister Anastasia, as I have just related — and this is all my history.”
“A simple yet a curious one,” said Wolsey, still musing. “You are the fairest maid of low degree I ever beheld. You saw the king at the chase the other day, Mabel?”
“Truly, did I, your grace,” she replied, her eyes brightening and her colour rising; “and a right noble king he is.”
“And as gentle and winning as he is goodly to look upon,” said Wolsey, smiling.
“Report says otherwise,” rejoined Mabel.
“Report speaks falsely,” cried Wolsey; “I know him well, and he is what I describe him.”
“I am glad to hear it,” replied Mabel; “and I must own I formed the same opinion myself — for the smile he threw upon me was one of the sweetest and kindliest I ever beheld.”
“Since you confess so much, fair maiden,” rejoined Wolsey, “I will be equally frank, and tell you it was from the king’s own lips I heard of your beauty.”
“Your grace!” she exclaimed.
“Well, well,” said Wolsey, smiling, “if the king is bewitched, I cannot marvel at it. And now, good day, fair maiden; you will hear more of me.”
“Your grace will not refuse me your blessing?” said Mabel.
“Assuredly not, my child,” replied Wolsey, stretching his hands over her. “All good angels and saints bless you, and hold you in their keeping. Mark my words: a great destiny awaits you; but in all changes, rest assured you will find a friend in Cardinal Wolsey.”
“Your grace overwhelms me with kindness,” cried Mabel; “nor can I conceive how I have found an interest in your eyes — unless Sister Anastasia or Father Anslem, of Chertsey Abbey, may have mentioned me to you.”
“You have found a more potent advocate with me than either Sister Anastasia or Father Anselm,” replied Wolsey; “and now, farewell.”
And turning the head of his mule, he rode slowly away.
On the same day there was a great banquet in the castle, and, as usual, Wolsey took his station on the right of the sovereign, while the papal legate occupied a place on the left. Watching a favourable opportunity, Wolsey observed to Henry that he had been riding that morning in the forest, and had seen the loveliest damsel that eyes ever fell upon.
“Ah! by our Lady! and who may she be?” asked the king curiously.
“She can boast little in regard to birth, being grandchild to an old forester,” replied Wolsey; “but your majesty saw her at the hunting party the other day.”
“Ah, now I bethink me of her,” said Henry. “A comely damsel, in good sooth.”
“I know not where her match is to be found,” cried the cardinal. “Would your majesty had seen her skim over the lake in a fairy boat managed by herself, as I beheld her this morning. You would have taken her for a water-sprite, except that no water-sprite was half so beautiful.”
“You speak in raptures, cardinal,” cried Henry. “I must see this damsel again. Where does she dwell? I have heard, but it has slipped my memory.”
“In a hut near the great lake,” replied Wolsey. “There is some mystery attached to her birth, which I have not yet fathomed.”
“Leave me to unriddle it,” replied the king laughingly.
And he turned to talk on other subjects to Campeggio, but Wolsey felt satisfied that the device was successful. Nor was he mistaken. As Henry retired from the banquet, he motioned the Duke of Suffolk towards him, and said, in an undertone— “I shall go forth at dusk to-morrow even in disguise, and shall require your attendance.”
“On a love affair?” asked the duke, in the same tone.
“Perchance,” replied Henry; “but I will explain myself more fully anon.”
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This muttered colloquy was overheard by Patch, and faithfully reported by him to the cardinal.
CHAPTER III.
Of the Visit of the Two Guildford Merchants to the Forester’s Hut.
Tristam Lyndwood did not return home till late in the evening; and when informed of the cardinal’s visit, he shook his head gravely.
“I am sorry we went to the hunting party,” he observed. “Valentine Hagthorne said mischief would come of it, and I wish I had attended to his advice.”
“I see no mischief in the matter, grandsire,” cried Mabel. “On the contrary, I think I have met with excellent fortune. The good cardinal promises me a high destiny, and says the king himself noticed me.”
“Would his regards had fallen anywhere than on you,” rejoined Tristram. “But I warrant me you told the cardinal your history — all you know of it, at least.”
“I did so,” she replied; “nor did I know I was doing any harm.”
“Answer no such inquiries in future,” said Tristram angrily.
“But, grandfather, I could not refuse to answer the cardinal,” she replied, in a deprecating voice.
“No more excuses, but attend to my injunctions,” said Tristram. “Have you seen Morgan Fenwolf to-day?”
“No; and I care not if I never see him again,” she replied pettishly.
“You dislike him strangely, Mab,” rejoined her grandfather; “he is the best keeper in the forest, and makes no secret of his love for you.”
“The very reason why I dislike him,” she returned.
“By the same rule, if what the cardinal stated be true — though, trust me, he was but jesting — you ought to dislike the king. But get my supper. I have need of it, for I have fasted long.”
Mabel hastened to obey, and set a mess of hot pottage and other viands before him. Little more conversation passed between them, for the old man was weary, and sought his couch early.
That night Mabel did nothing but dream of the king — of stately chambers, rich apparel, and countless attendants. She awoke, and finding herself in a lowly cottage, and without a single attendant, was, like other dreamers of imaginary splendour, greatly discontented.
The next morning her grandsire went again to Bray Wood, and she was left to muse upon the event of the previous day. While busied about some trifling occupation, the door suddenly opened, and Morgan Fenwolf entered the cottage. He was followed by a tall man, with a countenance of extreme paleness, but a noble and commanding figure. There was something so striking in the appearance of the latter person, that it riveted the attention of Mabel. But no corresponding effect was produced on the stranger, for he scarcely bestowed a look upon her.
Morgan Fenwolf hastily asked whether her grandsire was at home, or near at hand, and being answered in the negative, appeared much disappointed. He then said that he must borrow the skiff for a short while, as he wished to visit some nets on the lake. Mabel readily assented, and the stranger quitted the house, while Fenwolf lingered to offer some attention to Mabel, which was so ill received that he was fain to hurry forth to the boathouse, where he embarked with his companion. As soon as the plash of oars announced their departure, Mabel went forth to watch them. The stranger, who was seated in the stern of the boat, for the first time fixed his large melancholy eyes full upon her, and did not withdraw his gaze till an angle of the lake hid him from view.
Marvelling who he could be, and reproaching herself for not questioning Fenwolf on the subject, Mabel resolved to repair the error when the skiff was brought back. But the opportunity did not speedily occur. Hours flew by, the shades of evening drew on, but neither Fenwolf nor the stranger returned.
Soon after dusk her grandfather came home. He did not express the least astonishment at Fenwolf’s prolonged absence, but said that he was sure to be back in the course of the evening, and the skiff was not wanted.
“He will bring us a fine jack or a carp for dinner to-morrow, I’ll warrant me,” he said. “If he had returned in time we might have had fish for supper. No matter. I must make shift with the mutton pie and a rasher of bacon. Morgan did not mention the name of his companion, you say?”
“He did not,” replied Mabel; “but I hope he will bring him with him. He is the goodliest gentleman I ever beheld.”
“What! a goodlier gentleman than the king!” cried Tristram.
“Nay, they should not be compared,” replied Mabel: “the one is stout and burly; the other slight, long-visaged, and pale, but handsome withal — very handsome.”
“Well, I daresay I shall see him anon,” said Tristram. “And now for supper, for I am as sharp-set as a wolf; and so is old Hubert,” he added, glancing affectionately at the hound by which he was attended.
Mabel placed the better part of a huge pie before him, which the old forester attacked with great zeal. He then fell to work upon some slices of bacon toasted over the embers by his granddaughter, and having washed them down with a jug of mead, declared he had supped famously. While taking care of himself, he did not forget his hound. From time to time he threw him morsels of the pie, and when he had done he gave him a large platterful of bones.
“Old Hubert has served me faithfully nigh twenty years,” he said, patting the hound’s shaggy neck, “and must not be neglected.”
Throwing a log of wood on the fire, he drew his chair into the ingle-nook, and disposed himself to slumber. Meanwhile, Mabel busied herself about her household concern, and was singing a lulling melody to her grandfather, in a voice of exquisite sweetness, when a loud tap was heard at the door. Tristram roused himself from his doze, and old Hubert growled menacingly.
“Quiet, Hubert — quiet!” cried Tristram. “It cannot be Morgan Fenwolf,” he added. “He would never knock thus. Come in, friend, whoever thou art.”
At this invitation two persons darkened the doorway. The foremost was a man of bulky frame and burly demeanour. He was attired in a buff jerkin, over which he wore a loose great surcoat; had a flat velvet cap on his head; and carried a stout staff in his hand. His face was broad and handsome, though his features could scarcely be discerned in the doubtful light to which they were submitted. A reddish-coloured beard clothed his chin. His companion, who appeared a trifle the taller of the two, and equally robust, was wrapped in a cloak of dark green camlet.
“Give you good e’en, friend,” said the foremost stranger to the forester. “We are belated travellers, on our way from Guildford to Windsor, and, seeing your cottage, have called to obtain some refreshment before we cross the great park. We do not ask you to bestow a meal upon us, but will gladly pay for the best your larder affords.”
“You shall have it, and welcome, my masters,” replied Tristram, “but I am afraid my humble fare will scarcely suit you.”
“Fear nothing,” replied the other; “we have good appetites, and are not over dainty. Beshrew me, friend,” he added, regarding Mabel, “you have a comely daughter.”
“She is my granddaughter, sir,” replied Tristram.
“Well, your granddaughter, then,” said the other; “by the mass, a lovely wench. We have none such in Guildford, and I doubt if the king hath such in Windsor Castle. What say you, Charles Brandon?”
“It were treason to agree with you, Harry La Roy,” replied Brandon, laughing, “for they say the king visits with the halter all those who disparage the charms of the Lady Anne Boleyn. But, comparisons apart, this damsel is very fair.”
“You will discompose her, my masters, if you praise her thus to her face,” said Tristram somewhat testily. “Here, Mab, bring forth all my scanty larder affords, and put some rashers of bacon on the fire.”
“Cold meat and bread will suffice for us,” said Harry: “we will not trouble the damsel to play the cook.”
With this Mabel, who appeared a good deal embarrassed by the presence of the strangers, spread a cloth of snow-white linen on the little table, and placed the remains of the pie and a large oven cake before them. The new-comers sate down, and ate heartily o
f the humble viands, he who had answered to the name of Harry frequently stopping in the course of his repast to compliment his fair attendant.
“By our Lady, I have never been so waited on before,” he added, rising and removing his stool towards the fire, while his companion took up a position, with his back against the wall, near the fireplace. “And now, my pretty Mabel, have you never a cup of ale to wash down the pie?”
“I can offer you a draught of right good mead, master,” said Tristram; “and that is the only liquor my cottage can furnish.”
“Nothing can be better,” replied Harry. “The mead, by all means.”
While Mabel went to draw the liquor, Tristram fixed his eyes on Harry, whose features were now fully revealed by the light of the fire.
“Why do you look at me so hard, friend?” demanded Harry bluffly.
“I have seen some one very like you, master,” replied Tristram, “and one whom it is no light honour to resemble.”
“You mean the king,” returned Harry, laughing. “You are not the first person who has thought me like him.”
“You are vain of the likeness, I see, master,” replied Tristram, joining in the laugh. “How say you, Mab?” he added to his granddaughter, who at that moment returned with a jug and a couple of drinking-horns. “Whom does this gentleman resemble?”
“No one,” returned Mabel, without raising her eyes.
“No one,” echoed Harry, chucking her under the chin. “Look me full in the face, and you will find out your mistake. Marry, if I were the royal Henry, instead of what I am, a plain Guildford merchant, I should prefer you to Anne Boleyn.”
“Is that said in good sooth, sir?” asked Mabel, slightly raising her eyes, and instantly dropping them before the ardent gaze of the self-styled merchant.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 340