The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  Springing to his feet, Herne whooped joyfully, placed his bugle to his lips, and blew the dead mot. He then shouted to Fenwolf to call away and couple the hounds, and, striking off the deer’s right forefoot with his knife, presented it to Wyat. Several large leafy branches being gathered and laid upon the ground, the hart was placed upon them, and Herne commenced breaking him up, as the process of dismembering the deer is termed in the language of woodcraft. His first step was to cut off the animal’s head, which he performed by a single blow with his heavy trenchant knife.

  “Give the hounds the flesh,” he said, delivering the trophy to Fenwolf; “but keep the antlers, for it is a great deer of head.”

  Placing the head on a hunting-pole, Fenwolf withdrew to an open space among the trees, and, halloing to the others, they immediately cast off the hounds, who rushed towards him, leaping and baying at the stag’s head, which he alternately raised and lowered until they were sufficiently excited, when he threw it on the ground before them.

  While this was going forward the rest of the band were occupied in various ways — some striking a light with flint and steel — some gathering together sticks and dried leaves to form a fire — others producing various strange-shaped cooking utensils — while others were assisting their leader in his butcherly task, which he executed with infinite skill and expedition.

  As soon as the fire was kindled, Herne distributed certain portions of the venison among his followers, which were instantly thrown upon the embers to broil; while a few choice morsels were stewed in a pan with wine, and subsequently offered to the leader and Wyat.

  This hasty repast concluded, the demon ordered the fire to be extinguished, and the quarters of the deer to be carried to the cave. He then mounted his steed, and, attended by Wyat and the rest of his troop, except those engaged in executing his orders, galloped towards Snow Hill, where he speedily succeeded in unharbouring another noble hart.

  Away then went the whole party — stag, hounds, huntsmen, sweeping like a dark cloud down the hill, and crossing the wide moonlit glade, studded with noble trees, on the west of the great avenue.

  For a while the hart held a course parallel with the avenue; he then dashed across it, threaded the intricate woods on the opposite side, tracked a long glen, and leaping the pales, entered the home park. It almost seemed as if he designed to seek shelter within the castle, for he made straight towards it, and was only diverted by Herne himself, who, shooting past him with incredible swiftness, turned him towards the lower part of the park.

  Here the chase continued with unabated ardour, until, reaching the banks of the Thames, the hart plunged into it, and suffered himself to be carried noiselessly down the current. But Herne followed him along the banks, and when sufficiently near, dashed into the stream, and drove him again ashore.

  Once more they flew across the home park — once more they leaped its pales — once more they entered the great park — but this time the stag took the direction of Englefield Green. He was not, however, allowed to break forth into the open country; but, driven again into the thick woods, he held on with wondrous speed till the lake appeared in view. In another instant he was swimming across it.

  Before the eddies occasioned by the affrighted animal’s plunge had described a wide ring, Herne had quitted his steed, and was cleaving with rapid strokes the waters of the lake. Finding escape impossible, the hart turned to meet him, and sought to strike him with his horns, but as in the case of his ill-fated brother of the wood, the blow was warded by the antlered helm of the swimmer. The next moment the clear water was dyed with blood, and Herne, catching the gasping animal by the head, guided his body to shore.

  Again the process of breaking up the stag was gone through; and when Herne had concluded his task, he once more offered his gourd to Sir Thomas Wyat. Reckless of the consequences, the knight placed the flask to his lips, and draining it to the last drop, fell from his horse insensible.

  CHAPTER VII.

  How Wyat beheld Mabel Lyndwood — And how he was rowed by Morgan Fenwolf upon the Lake.

  When perfect consciousness returned to him, Wyat found himself lying upon a pallet in what he first took to be the cell of an anchorite; but as the recollection of recent events arose more distinctly before him, he guessed it to be a chamber connected with the sandstone cave. A small lamp, placed in a recess, lighted the cell; and upon a footstool by his bed stood a jug of water, and a cup containing some drink in which herbs had evidently been infused. Well-nigh emptying the jug, for he felt parched with thirst, Wyat attired himself, took up the lamp, and walked into the main cavern. No one was there, nor could he obtain any answer to his calls. Evidences, however, were not wanting to prove that a feast had recently been held there. On one side were the scarcely extinguished embers of a large wood fire; and in the midst of the chamber was a rude table, covered with drinking-horns and wooden platters, as well as with the remains of three or four haunches of venison. While contemplating this scene Wyat heard footsteps in one of the lateral passages, and presently afterwards Morgan Fenwolf made his appearance.

  “So you are come round at last, Sir Thomas,” observed the keeper, in a slightly sarcastic tone.

  “What has ailed me?” asked Wyat, in surprise.

  “You have had a fever for three days,” returned Fenwolf, “and have been raving like a madman.”

  “Three days!” muttered Wyat. “The false juggling fiend promised her to me on the third day.”

  “Fear not; Herne will be as good as his word,” said Fenwolf. “But will you go forth with me? I am about to visit my nets. It is a fine day, and a row on the lake will do you good.”

  Wyat acquiesced, and followed Fenwolf, who returned along the passage. It grew narrower at the sides and lower in the roof as they advanced, until at last they were compelled to move forward on their hands and knees. For some space the passage, or rather hole (for it was nothing more) ran on a level. A steep and tortuous ascent then commenced, which brought them to an outlet concealed by a large stone.

  Pushing it aside, Fenwolf crept forth, and immediately afterwards Wyat emerged into a grove, through which, on one side, the gleaming waters of the lake were discernible. The keeper’s first business was to replace the stone, which was so screened by brambles and bushes that it could not, unless careful search were made, be detected.

  Making his way through the trees to the side of the lake, Fenwolf marched along the greensward in the direction of Tristram Lyndwood’s cottage. Wyat mechanically followed him; but he was so pre-occupied that he scarcely heeded the fair Mabel, nor was it till after his embarkation in the skiff with the keeper, when she came forth to look at them, that he was at all struck with her beauty. He then inquired her name from Fenwolf.

  “She is called Mabel Lyndwood, and is an old forester’s granddaughter,” replied the other somewhat gruffly.

  “And do you seek her love?” asked Wyat.

  “Ay, and wherefore not?” asked Fenwolf, with a look of displeasure.

  “Nay, I know not, friend,” rejoined Wyat. “She is a comely damsel.”

  “What! — comelier than the Lady Anne?” demanded Fenwolf spitefully.

  “I said not so,” replied Wyat; “but she is very fair, and looks true-hearted.”

  Fenwolf glanced at him from under his brows; and plunging his oars into the water, soon carried him out of sight of the maiden.

  It was high noon, and the day was one of resplendent loveliness. The lake sparkled in the sunshine, and as they shot past its tiny bays and woody headlands, new beauties were every moment revealed to them. But while the scene softened Wyat’s feelings, it filled him with intolerable remorse, and so poignant did his emotions become, that he pressed his hands upon his eyes to shut out the lovely prospect. When he looked up again the scene was changed. The skiff had entered a narrow creek, arched over by huge trees, and looking as dark and gloomy as the rest of the lake was fair and smiling. It was closed in by a high overhanging bank, crested by two tall tre
es, whose tangled roots protruded through it like monstrous reptiles, while their branches cast a heavy shade over the deep, sluggish water.

  “Why have you come here?” demanded Wyat, looking uneasily round the forbidding spot.

  “You will discover anon,” replied Fenwolf moodily.

  “Go back into the sunshine, and take me to some pleasant bank — I will not land here,” said Wyat sternly.

  “Needs must when — I need not remind you of the proverb,” rejoined Fenwolf, with a sneer.

  “Give me the oars, thou malapert knave!” cried Wyat fiercely, “and I will put myself ashore.”

  “Keep quiet,” said Fenwolf; “you must perforce abide our master’s coming.”

  Wyat gazed at the keeper for a moment, as if with the intention of throwing him overboard; but abandoning the idea, he rose up in the boat, and caught at what he took to be a root of the tree above. To his surprise and alarm, it closed upon him with an iron grasp, and he felt himself dragged upwards, while the skiff, impelled by a sudden stroke from Morgan Fenwolf, shot from beneath him. All Wyat’s efforts to disengage himself were vain, and a wild, demoniacal laugh, echoed by a chorus of voices, proclaimed him in the power of Herne the Hunter. The next moment he was set on the top of the bank, while the demon greeted him with a mocking laugh.

  “So you thought to escape me, Sir Thomas Wyatt,” he cried, in a taunting tone; “but any such attempt will prove fruitless. The murderer may repent the blow when dealt; the thief may desire to restore the gold he has purloined; the barterer of his soul may rue his bargain; but they are Satan’s, nevertheless. You are mine, and nothing can redeem you!”

  “Woe is me that it should be so!” groaned Wyat.

  “Lamentation is useless and unworthy of you,” rejoined Herne scornfully. “Your wish will be speedily accomplished. This very night your kingly rival shall be placed in your hands.”

  “Ha!” exclaimed Wyat, the flame of jealousy again rising within his breast.

  “You can make your own terms with him for the Lady Anne,” pursued Herne. “His life will be at your disposal.”

  “Do you promise this?” cried Wyat.

  “Ay,” replied Herne. “Put yourself under the conduct of Fenwolf, and all shall happen as you desire. We shall meet again at night. I have other business on hand now. Meschines,” he added to one of his attendants, “go with Sir Thomas to the skiff.”

  The personage who received the command, and who was wildly and fantastically habited, beckoned Wyat to follow him, and after many twistings and turnings brought them to the edge of the lake, where the skiff was lying, with Fenwolf reclining at full length upon its benches. He arose, however, quickly at the appearance of Meschines, and asked him for some provisions, which the latter promised to bring, and while Wyat got into the skiff he disappeared, but returned a few minutes afterwards with a basket, which he gave to the keeper.

  Crossing the lake, Fenwolf then shaped his course towards a verdant bank enamelled with wild flowers, where he landed. The basket being opened, was found to contain a flask of wine and the better part of a venison pasty, of which Wyat, whose appetite was keen enough after his long fasting, ate heartily. He then stretched himself on the velvet sod, and dropped into a tranquil slumber which lasted to a late hour in the evening.

  He was roused from it by a hand laid on his shoulder, while a deep voice thundered in his ear— “Up, up, Sir Thomas, and follow me, and I will place the king in your hands!”

  CHAPTER VIII.

  How the King and the Duke of Suffolk were assailed by Herne’s Band — And what followed the Attack.

  Henry and Suffolk, on leaving the forester’s hut, took their way for a short space along the side of the lake, and then turned into a path leading through the trees up the eminence on the left. The king was in a joyous mood, and made no attempt to conceal the passion with which the fair damsel had inspired him.

  “I’ faith!” he cried, “the cardinal has a quick eye for a pretty wench. I have heard that he loves one in secret, and I am therefore the more beholden to him for discovering Mabel to me.”

  “You forget, my liege, that it is his object to withdraw your regards from the Lady Anne Boleyn,” remarked Suffolk.

  “I care not what his motive may be, as long as the result is so satisfactory,” returned Henry. “Confess now, Suffolk, you never beheld a figure so perfect, a complexion so blooming, or eyes so bright. As to her lips, by my soul, I never tasted such.”

  “And your majesty is not inexperienced in such matters,” laughed Suffolk. “For my own part, I was as much struck by her grace as by her beauty, and can scarcely persuade myself she can be nothing more than a mere forester’s grand-daughter.”

  “Wolsey told me there was a mystery about her birth,” rejoined Henry; “but, pest on it; her beauty drove all recollection of the matter out of my head. I will go back, and question her now.”

  “Your majesty forgets that your absence from the castle will occasion surprise, if not alarm,” said Suffolk. “The mystery will keep till to-morrow.”

  “Tut, tut! — I will return,” said the king perversely. And Suffolk, knowing his wilfulness, and that all remonstrance would prove fruitless, retraced his steps with him. They had not proceeded far when they perceived a female figure at the bottom of the ascent, just where the path turned off on the margin of the lake.

  “As I live, there she is!” exclaimed the king joyfully. “She has divined my wishes, and is come herself to tell me her history.”

  And he sprang forward, while Mabel advanced rapidly towards him.

  They met half-way, and Henry would have caught her in his arms, but she avoided him, exclaiming, in a tone of confusion and alarm, “Thank Heaven, I have found you, sire!”

  “Thank Heaven, too, sweetheart!” rejoined Henry. “I would not hide when you are the seeker. So you know me — ha?

  “I knew you at first,” replied Mabel confusedly. “I saw you at the great hunting party; and, once beheld, your majesty is not easily forgotten.”

  “Ha! by Saint George! you turn a compliment as soothly as the most practised dame at court,” cried Henry, catching her hand.

  “Beseech your majesty, release me!” returned Mabel, struggling to get free. “I did not follow you on the light errand you suppose, but to warn you of danger. Before you quitted my grandsire’s cottage I told you this part of the forest was haunted by plunderers and evil beings, and apprehensive lest some mischance might befall you, I opened the window softly to look after you—”

  “And you overheard me tell the Duke of Suffolk how much smitten I was with your beauty, ha?” interrupted the king, squeezing her hand— “and how resolved I was to make you mine — ha! sweetheart?”

  “The words I heard were of very different import, my liege,” rejoined Mabel. “You were menaced by miscreants, who purposed to waylay you before you could reach your steed.”

  “Let them come,” replied Henry carelessly; “they shall pay for their villainy. How many were there?”

  “Two, sire,” answered Mabel; “but one of them was Herne, the weird hunter of the forest. He said he would summon his band to make you captive. What can your strong arm, even aided by that of the Duke of Suffolk, avail against numbers?”

  “Captive! ha!” exclaimed the king. “Said the knave so?”

  “He did, sire,” replied Mabel; “and I knew it was Herne by his antlered helm.”

  “There is reason in what the damsel says, my liege,” interposed Suffolk. “If possible, you had better avoid an encounter with the villains.”

  “My hands itch to give them a lesson,” rejoined Henry. “But I will be ruled by you. God’s death! I will return to-morrow, and hunt them down like so many wolves.”

  “Where are your horses, sire?” asked Mabel.

  “Tied to a tree at the foot of the hill,” replied Henry. “But I have attendants midway between this spot and Snow Hill.”

  “This way, then!” said Mabel, breaking from him, and dart
ing into a narrow path among the trees.

  Henry ran after her, but was not agile enough to overtake her. At length she stopped.

  “If your majesty will pursue this path,” she cried, “you will come to an open space amid the trees, when, if you will direct your course towards a large beech-tree on the opposite side, you will find another narrow path, which will take you where you desire to go.”

  “But I cannot go alone,” cried Henry.

  Mabel, however, slipped past him, and was out of sight in an instant.

  Henry looked as if he meant to follow her, but Suffolk ventured to arrest him.

  “Do not tarry here longer, my gracious liege,” said the duke. “Danger is to be apprehended, and the sooner you rejoin your attendants the better. Return with them, if you please, but do not expose yourself further now.”

  Henry yielded, though reluctantly, and they walked on in silence. Ere long they arrived at the open space described by Mabel, and immediately perceived the large beech-tree, behind which they found the path. By this time the moon had arisen, and as they emerged upon the marsh they easily discovered a track, though not broader than a sheep-walk, leading along its edge. As they hurried across it, Suffolk occasionally cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, but he saw nothing to alarm him. The whole tract of marshy land on the left was hidden from view by a silvery mist.

  In a few minutes the king and his companion gained firmer ground, and ascending the gentle elevation on the other side of the marsh, made their way to a little knoll crowned by a huge oak, which commanded a fine view of the lake winding through the valley beyond. Henry, who was a few yards in advance of his companion, paused at a short distance from the tree, and being somewhat over-heated, took off his cap to wipe his brow, laughingly observing— “In good truth, Suffolk, we must henceforth be rated as miserable faineants, to be scared from our path by a silly wench’s tale of deerstealers and wild huntsmen. I am sorry I yielded to her entreaties. If Herne be still extant, he must be more than a century and a half old, for unless the legend is false, he flourished in the time of my predecessor, Richard the Second. I would I could see him!”