The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “I intend no disrespect to your majesty,” replied Jane, “and I will, since you insist upon it, freely confess that I received the portrait from the king. I did not conceive there could be any harm in doing so, because I saw your majesty present your own portrait, the other day, to Sir Henry Norris.”

  Anne Boleyn turned as pale as death, and Jane Seymour perceived that she had her in her power.

  “I gave the portrait to Sir Henry as a recompense for an important service he rendered me,” said Anne, after a slight pause.

  “No doubt,” replied Jane; “and I marvel not that he should press it so fervently to his lips, seeing he must value the gift highly. The king likewise bestowed his portrait upon me for rendering him a service.”

  “And what was that?” asked Anne.

  “Nay, there your majesty must hold me excused,” replied the other. “It were to betray his highness’s confidence to declare it. I must refer you to him for explanation.”

  “Well, you are in the right to keep the secret,” said Anne, forcing a laugh. “I dare say there is no harm in the portrait — indeed, I am sure there is not, if it was given with the same intent that mine was bestowed upon Norris. And so we will say no more upon the matter, except that I beg you to be discreet with the king. If others should comment upon your conduct, I may be compelled to dismiss you.”

  “Your majesty shall be obeyed,” said Jane, with a look that intimated that the request had but slight weight with her.

  “Catherine will be avenged by means of this woman,” muttered Anne as she turned away. “I already feel some of the torments with which she threatened me. And she suspects Norris. I must impress more caution on him. Ah! when a man loves deeply, as he loves me, due restraint is seldom maintained.”

  But though alarmed, Anne was by no means aware of the critical position in which she stood. She could not persuade herself that she had entirely lost her influence with the king; and she thought that when his momentary passion had subsided, it would return to its old channels.

  She was mistaken. Jane Seymour was absolute mistress of his heart; and Anne was now as great a bar to him as she had before been an attraction. Had her conduct been irreproachable, it might have been difficult to remove her; but, unfortunately, she had placed herself at his mercy, by yielding to the impulses of vanity, and secretly encouraging the passion of Sir Henry Norris, groom of the stole.

  This favoured personage was somewhat above the middle size, squarely and strongly built. His features were regularly and finely formed, and he had a ruddy complexion, brown curling hair, good teeth, and fine eyes of a clear blue. He possessed great personal strength, was expert in all manly exercises, and shone especially at the jousts and the manege. He was of an ardent temperament, and Anne Boleyn had inspired him with so desperate a passion that he set at nought the fearful risk he ran to obtain her favour.

  In all this seemed traceable the hand of fate — in Henry’s passion for Jane Seymour, and Anne’s insane regard for Norris — as if in this way, and by the same means in which she herself had been wronged, the injured Catherine of Arragon was to be avenged.

  How far Henry’s suspicions of his consort’s regard for Norris had been roused did not at the time appear. Whatever he felt in secret, he took care that no outward manifestation should betray him. On the contrary he loaded Norris, who had always been a favourite with him, with new marks of regard, and encouraged rather than interdicted his approach to the queen.

  Things were in this state when the court proceeded to Windsor, as before related, on Saint George’s day.

  CHAPTER II.

  How Anne Boleyn received Proof of Henry’s Passion for Jane Seymour.

  On the day after the solemnisation of the Grand Feast of the Order of the Garter, a masqued fete of great splendour and magnificence was held within the castle. The whole of the state apartments were thrown open to the distinguished guests, and universal gaiety prevailed. No restraint was offered to the festivity by the king, for though he was known to be present, he did not choose to declare himself.

  The queen sat apart on a fauteuil in the deep embrasure of a window; and as various companies of fantastic characters advanced towards her, she more than once fancied she detected amongst them the king, but the voices convinced her of her mistake. As the evening was wearing, a mask in a blue domino drew near her, and whispered in a devoted and familiar tone, “My queen!”

  “Is it you, Norris?” demanded Anne, under her breath.

  “It is,” he replied. “Oh, madam! I have been gazing at you the whole evening, but have not dared to approach you till now.”

  “I am sorry you have addressed me at all, Norris,” she rejoined. “Your regard for me has been noticed by others, and may reach the king’s ears. You must promise never to address me in the language of passion again.”

  “If I may not utter my love I shall go mad,” replied Norris. “After raising me to the verge of Paradise, do not thrust me to the depths of Tartarus.”

  “I have neither raised you nor do I cast you down,” rejoined Anne. “That I am sensible of your devotion, and grateful for it, I admit, but nothing more. My love and allegiance are due to the king.”

  “True,” replied Norris bitterly; “they are so, but he is wholly insensible to your merits. At this very moment he is pouring his love-vows in the ear of Jane Seymour.”

  “Ah! is he so?” cried Anne. “Let me have proof of his perfidy, and I may incline a more favourable ear to you.”

  “I will instantly obtain you the proof, madam,” replied Norris, bowing and departing.

  Scarcely had he quitted the queen, and mixed with the throng of dancers, than he felt a pressure upon his arm, and turning at the touch, beheld a tall monk, the lower part of whose face was muffled up, leaving only a pair of fierce black eyes and a large aquiline nose visible.

  “I know what you want, Sir Henry Norris,” said the tall monk in a low deep voice; “you wish to give the queen proof of her royal lord’s inconstancy. It is easily done. Come with me.”

  “Who are you?” demanded Norris doubtfully.

  “What matters it who I am?” rejoined the other; “I am one of the masquers, and chance to know what is passing around me. I do not inquire into your motives, and therefore you have no right to inquire into mine.”

  “It is not for my own satisfaction that I desire this proof,” said Norris, “because I would rather shield the king’s indiscretions than betray them. But the queen has conceived suspicions which she is determined to verify.”

  “Think not to impose upon me,” replied the monk with a sneer. “Bring the queen this way, and she shall be fully satisfied.”

  “I can run no risk in trusting you,” said Norris, “and therefore I accept your offer.”

  “Say no more,” cried the monk disdainfully, “I will await you here.”

  And Norris returned to the queen.

  “Have you discovered anything?” she cried.

  “Come with me, madam,” said Norris, bowing and taking her hand.

  Proceeding thus they glided through the throng of dancers, who respectfully cleared a passage for them as they walked along until they approached the spot where the tall monk was standing. As they drew near him he moved on, and Norris and the queen followed in silence. Passing from the great hall in which the crowd of dancers were assembled, they descended a short flight of steps, at the foot of which the monk paused, and pointed with his right hand to a chamber, partly screened by the folds of a curtain.

  At this intimation the queen and her companion stepped quickly on, and as she advanced, Anne Boleyn perceived Jane Seymour and the king seated on a couch within the apartment. Henry was habited like a pilgrim, but he had thrown down his hat, ornamented with the scallop-shell, his vizard, and his staff, and had just forced his fair companion to unmask.

  At the sight, Anne was transfixed with jealous rage, and was for the moment almost unconscious of the presence of Norris, or of the monk, who remained behind th
e curtain, pointing to what was taking place.

  “Your majesty is determined to expose my blushes,” said Jane Seymour, slightly struggling with her royal lover.

  “Nay, I only want to be satisfied that it is really yourself, sweetheart,” cried Henry passionately. “It was in mercy to me, I suppose, that you insisted upon shrouding those beauteous features from my view.

  “Hear you that, madam?” whispered Norris to Anne.

  The queen answered by a convulsive clasp of the hand.

  “Your majesty but jests with me,” said Jane Seymour. “Jests!” cried Henry passionately. “By my faith! I never understood the power of beauty till now. No charms ever moved my heart like yours; nor shall I know a moment’s peace till you become mine.”

  “I am grieved to hear it, my liege,” replied Jane Seymour, “for I never can be yours, unless as your queen.”

  Again Norris hazarded a whisper to Anne Boleyn, which was answered by another nervous grasp of the hand.

  “That is as much as to say,” pursued Jane, seeing the gloomy reverie into which her royal lover was thrown, “I can give your majesty no hopes at all.”

  “You have been schooled by Anne Boleyn, sweetheart,” said Henry.

  “How so, my liege?” demanded Jane Seymour.

  “Those are the very words she used to me when I wooed her, and which induced me to divorce Catherine of Arragon,” replied Henry. “Now they may bring about her own removal.”

  “Just Heaven!” murmured Anne.

  “I dare not listen to your majesty,” said Jane Seymour, in a tremulous tone; “and yet, if I dared speak—”

  “Speak on, fearlessly, sweetheart,” said Henry.

  “Then I am well assured,” said Jane, “that the queen no longer loves you; nay, that she loves another.”

  “It is false, minion!” cried Anne Boleyn, rushing forward, while Norris hastily retreated, “it is false! It is you who would deceive the king for your own purposes. But I have fortunately been brought hither to prevent the injury you would do me. Oh, Henry! have I deserved this of you?”

  “You have chanced to overhear part of a scene in a masquerade, madam — that is all,” said the king.

  “I have chanced to arrive most opportunely for myself,” said Anne. “As for this slanderous and deceitful minion, I shall dismiss her from my service. If your majesty is determined to prove faithless to me, it shall not be with one of my own dames.”

  “Catherine of Arragon should have made that speech,” retorted Jane Seymour bitterly. “She had reason to complain that she was supplanted by one much beneath her. And she never played the king falsely.”

  “Nor have I!” cried Anne fiercely. “If I had my will, I should strike thee dead for the insinuation. Henry, my lord — my love — if you have any regard for me, instantly dismiss Jane Seymour.”

  “It may not be, madam,” replied Henry in a freezing tone; “she has done nothing to deserve dismissal. If any one is to blame in the matter, it is myself.”

  “And will you allow her to make these accusations against me without punishment?” cried Anne.

  “Peace, madam!” cried the king sternly; “and thank my good-nature that I go no further into the matter. If you are weary of the masque, I pray you retire to your own apartments. For myself, I shall lead Jane Seymour to the bransle.”

  “And if your majesty should need a partner,” said Jane, walking up to Anne and speaking in a low tone, “you will doubtless find Sir Henry Norris disengaged.”

  The queen looked as if stricken by a thunderbolt. She heard the triumphant laugh of her rival; she saw her led forth, all smiles and beauty and triumph, by the king to the dance, and she covered her face in agony. While she was in this state, a deep voice breathed in her ears, “The vengeance of Catherine of Arragon begins to work!”

  Looking up, she beheld the tall figure of the monk retreating from the chamber.

  CHAPTER III.

  What passed between Norris and the Tall Monk.

  Tottering to the seat which Henry and Jane had just quitted, Anne sank into it. After a little time, having in some degree recovered her composure, she was about to return to the great hall, when Norris appeared.

  “I did not deceive you, madam,” he said, “when I told you the king was insensible to your charms; he only lives for Jane Seymour.”

  “Would I could dismiss her!” cried Anne furiously.

  “If you were to do so, she would soon be replaced by another,” rejoined Norris. “The king delights only in change. With him, the last face is ever the most beautiful.”

  “You speak fearful treason, sir!” replied Anne; “but I believe it to be the truth.”

  “Oh, then, madam!” pursued Norris, “since the king is so regardless of you, why trouble yourself about him? There are those who would sacrifice a thousand lives, if they possessed them, for your love.”

  “I fear it is the same with all men,” rejoined Anne. “A woman’s heart is a bauble which, when obtained, is speedily tossed aside.”

  “Your majesty judges our sex too harshly,” said Norris. “If I had the same fortune as the king, I should never change.”

  “The king himself once thought so — once swore so,” replied Anne petulantly. “It is the common parlance of lovers. But I may not listen to such discourse longer.”

  “Oh, madam!” cried Norris, “you misjudge me greatly. My heart is not made of the same stuff as that of the royal Henry. I can love deeply — devotedly — lastingly.”

  “Know you not that by these rash speeches you place your head in jeopardy?” said Anne.

  “I would rather lose it than not be permitted to love you,” he replied.

  “But your rashness endangers me,” said the queen. “Your passion has already been noticed by Jane Seymour, and the slightest further indiscretion will be fatal.”

  “Nay, if that be so,” cried Norris, “and your majesty should be placed in peril on my account, I will banish myself from the court, and from your presence, whatever the effort cost me.”

  “No,” replied Anne, “I will not tax you so hardly. I do not think,” she added tenderly, “deserted as I am by the king, that I could spare you.”

  “You confess, then, that I have inspired you with some regard?” he cried rapturously.

  “Do not indulge in these transports, Norris,” said Anne mournfully. “Your passion will only lead to your destruction — perchance to mine. Let the certainty that I do love, content you, and seek not to tempt your fate further.”

  “Oh, madam! you make me the happiest of men by the avowal,” he cried. “I envy not now the king, for I feel raised above him by your love.”

  “You must join the revel, Norris,” said Anne; “your absence from it will be observed.”

  And extending her hand to him, he knelt down and pressed it passionately to his lips.

  “Ah! we are observed,” she cried suddenly, and almost with a shriek. “Rise, sir!”

  Norris instantly sprang to his feet, and, to his inexpressible dismay, saw the figure of a tall monk gliding away. Throwing a meaning look at the almost sinking queen, he followed the mysterious observer into the great hall, determined to rid himself of him in some way before he should have time to make any revelations.

  Avoiding the brilliant throng, the monk entered the adjoining corridor, and descending the great staircase, passed into the upper quadrangle. From thence he proceeded towards the cloisters near St. George’s Chapel, where he was overtaken by Norris, who had followed him closely.

  “What would you with me, Sir Henry Norris?” cried the monk, halting.

  “You may guess,” said Norris, sternly and drawing his sword. “There are secrets which are dangerous to the possessor. Unless you swear never to betray what you have seen and heard, you die.”

  The tall monk laughed derisively.

  “You know that your life is in my power,” he said, “and therefore you threaten mine. Well, e’en take it, if you can.”

  As he s
poke, he drew a sword from beneath his robe, and stood upon his defence. After a few passes, Norris’s weapon was beaten from his grasp.

  “You are now completely at my mercy,” said the monk, “and I have nothing to do but to call the guard, and declare all I have heard to the king.”

  “I would rather you plunged your sword into my heart,” said Norris.

  “There is one way — and only one — by which my secrecy may be purchased,” said the monk.

  “Name it,” replied Norris. “Were it to be purchased by my soul’s perdition, I would embrace it.”

  “You have hit the point exactly,” rejoined the monk drily. “Can you not guess with whom you have to deal?”

  “Partly,” replied Norris “I never found such force in mortal arm as you have displayed.”

  “Probably not,” laughed the other: “most of those who have ventured against me have found their match. But come with me into the park, and you shall learn the condition of my secrecy.”

  “I cannot quit the castle,” replied Norris; “but I will take you to my lodgings, where we shall be wholly unobserved.”

  And crossing the lower ward, they proceeded to the tower on the south side of it, now appropriated to the governor of the alms knights.

  About an hour after this Norris returned to the revel. His whole demeanour was altered, and his looks ghastly. He sought the queen, who had returned to the seat in the embrasure.

  “What has happened?” said Anne, in a low tone, as he approached her. “Have you killed him?”

  “No,” he replied; “but I have purchased our safety at a terrible price.”

  “You alarm me, Norris; what mean you?” she cried. “I mean this,” he answered, regarding her with passionate earnestness: “that you must love me now, for I have perilled my salvation for you. That tall monk was Herne the Hunter.”

  CHAPTER IV.

  Of the Secret Interview between Norris and Anne Boleyn, and of the Dissimulation practised by the King.