Henry’s attentions to Jane Seymour at the masqued fete were so marked, that the whole court was made aware of his passion. But it was not anticipated that any serious and extraordinary consequences would result from the intoxication — far less that the queen herself would be removed to make way for her successful rival. It was afterwards, however, remembered that at this time Henry held frequent, long, and grave conferences with the Dukes of Suffolk and Norfolk, and appeared to be engrossed in the meditation of some project.
After the scene at the revel, Anne did not make another exhibition of jealousy; but it was not that she was reconciled to her situation, or in any way free from uneasiness. On the contrary, the unhappy Catherine of Arragon did not suffer more in secret; but she knew, from experience, that with her royal consort all reproaches would be unavailing.
One morning, when she was alone within her chamber, her father, who was now Earl of Wiltshire, obtained admittance to her.
“You have a troubled look, my dear lord,” she said, as she motioned him to a seat.
“And with good reason,” he replied. “Oh, Anne! words cannot express my anxiety at the present state of things.”
“It will speedily pass by, my lord,” she replied; “the king will soon be tired of his new idol.”
“Not before he has overthrown the old one, I fear,” rejoined the earl. “Jane Seymour’s charms have usurped entire sovereignty over him. With all her air of ingenuousness and simplicity, the minion is artful and dangerous She has a high mark, I am persuaded — no less than the throne.”
“But Henry cannot wed her — he cannot divorce me,” said Anne.
“So thought Catherine of Arragon,” replied her father; “and yet she was divorced. Anne, I am convinced a plot is hatching against you.”
“You do not fear for my life, father?” she cried, trembling.
“I trust there are no grounds for charges against you by which it might be brought in jeopardy,” replied the earl gravely.
“None, father — none!” she exclaimed.
“I am glad of it,” rejoined the earl; “for I have heard that the king said to one who suggested another divorce to him, ‘No, if the queen comes within the scope of the divorce, she also comes within the pale of the scaffold.’”
“A pledge was extorted from him to that effect,” said Anne, in a hollow voice.
“That an attempt will be made against you, I firmly believe,” replied the earl; “but if you are wholly innocent you have nothing to fear.”
“Oh, father! I know not that,” cried Anne. “Innocence avails little with the stony-hearted Henry.”
“It will prove your best safeguard,” said the earl. “And now farewell, daughter! Heaven guard you! Keep the strictest watch upon yourself.”
So saying, he quitted the apartment, and as soon as she was left alone, the unhappy Anne burst into an agony of tears.
From this state of affliction she was roused by hearing her own name pronounced in low accents, and looking up, she beheld Sir Henry Norris.
“Oh, Norris!” she said, in a tone of reproach, “you have come hither to destroy me.”
“No one knows of my coming,” he said; “at least, no one who will betray me. I was brought hither by one who will take care we are not observed.”
“By Herne?” demanded Anne.
Norris answered in the affirmative.
“Would you had never leagued yourself with him!” she cried; “I fear the rash act will bring destruction upon us both.”
“It is too late to retract now,” he replied; “besides, there was no help for it. I sacrificed myself to preserve you.”
“But will the sacrifice preserve me?” she cried. “I fear not. I have just been told that the king is preparing some terrible measure against me — that he meditates removing me, to make way for Jane Seymour.”
“You have heard the truth, madam,” replied Norris, “he will try to bring you to the block.”
“And with him, to try is to achieve,” said Anne. “Oh, Norris! it is a fearful thing to contemplate such a death!”
“But why contemplate it, madam?” said Norris; “why, if you are satisfied that the king has such designs against you — why, if you feel that he will succeed, tarry for the fatal blow? Fly with me — fly with one who loves you, and will devote his whole life to you — who regards you, not as the queen, but as Anne Boleyn. Relinquish this false and hollow grandeur, and fly with me to happiness and peace.”
“And relinquish my throne to Jane Seymour?” rejoined Anne “Never! I feel that all you assert is true — that my present position is hazardous — that Jane Seymour is in the ascendant, while I am on the decline, if not wholly sunk — that you love me entirely, and would devote your life to me — still, with all these motives for dread, I cannot prevail upon myself voluntarily to give up my title, and to abandon my post to a rival.”
“You do not love me, then, as I love you, Anne,” said Norris. “If I were a king, I would abandon my throne for you.”
“You think so now, Norris, because you are not king,” she replied. “But I am queen, and will remain so, till I am forced to abandon my dignity.”
“I understand, madam,” rejoined Norris gloomily. “But oh I bethink you to what risks you expose yourself. You know the king’s terrible determination — his vindictiveness, his ferocity.”
“Full well,” she replied— “full well; but I will rather die a queen than live disgrace and ruined. In wedding Henry the Eighth, I laid my account to certain risks, and those I must brave.”
Before Norris could urge anything further, the door was suddenly opened, and a tall dark figure entered the chamber, and said hastily— “The king is at hand.”
“One word more, and it is my last,” said Norris to Anne. “Will you fly with me to-night? — all shall be ready.”
“I cannot,” replied Anne.
“Away!” cried Herne, dragging Norris forcibly behind the tapestry.
Scarcely had they disappeared when Henry entered the chamber. He was in a gayer mood than had been usual with him of late.
“I am come to tell you, madam,” he said, “that I am about to hold jousts in the castle on the first of May, at which your good brother and mine, the Lord Rochford, will be the challenger, while I myself shall be the defendant. You will adjudge the prize.”
“Why not make Jane Seymour queen of the jousts?” said Anne, unable to resist the remark.
“She will be present at them,” said Henry, “but I have my own reasons,” he added significantly, “for not wishing her to appear as queen on this occasion.”
“Whatever may be your reasons, the wish is sufficient for me,” said Anne. “Nay, will you tarry a moment with me? It is long since we have had any converse in private together.”
“I am busy at this moment,” replied Henry bluffly; “but what is it you would say to me?”
“I would only reproach you for some lack of tenderness, and much neglect,” said Anne. “Oh, Henry! do you remember how you swore by your life — your crown — your faith — all that you held sacred or dear — that you would love me ever?”
“And so I would, if I could,” replied the king; “but unfortunately the heart is not entirely under control. Have you yourself, for instance, experienced no change in your affections?”
“No,” replied Anne. “I have certainly suffered severely from your too evident regard for Jane Seymour; but, though deeply mortified and distressed, I have never for a moment been shaken in my love for your majesty.”
“A loyal and loving reply,” said Henry. “I thought I had perceived some slight diminution in your regard.”
“You did yourself grievous injustice by the supposition,” replied Anne.
“I would fain believe so,” said the king; “but there are some persons who would persuade me that you have not only lost your affection for me, but have even cast eyes of regard on another.”
“Those who told you so lied!” cried Anne passionately. “Never woman was freer
from such imputation than myself.”
“Never woman was more consummate hypocrite,” muttered Henry.
“You do not credit me, I see,” cried Anne.
“If I did not, I should know how to act,” replied the king. “You remember my pledge?”
“Full well,” replied Anne; “and if love and duty would not restrain me, fear would.”
“So I felt,” rejoined the king; “but there are some of your sex upon whom nothing will operate as a warning — so faithless and inconstant are they by nature. It has been hinted to me that you are one of these; but I cannot think it. I can never believe that a woman for whom I have placed my very throne in jeopardy — for whom I have divorced my queen-whose family I have elevated and ennobled — and whom I have placed upon the throne would play me false. It is monstrous-incredible!”
“It is — it is!” replied Anne.
“And now farewell,” said Henry. “I have stayed longer than I intended, and I should not have mentioned these accusations, which I regard as wholly groundless, unless you had reproached me.”
And he quitted the chamber, leaving Anne in a strange state of perplexity and terror.
CHAPTER V.
What happened at the Jousts.
The first of May arrived; and though destined to set in darkness and despair, it arose in sunshine and smiles.
All were astir at an early hour within the castle, and preparations were made for the approaching show. Lists were erected in the upper quadrangle, and the whole of the vast area was strewn with sand. In front of the royal lodgings was raised a gallery, the centre of which, being set apart for the queen and her dames, was covered with cloth of gold and crimson velvet, on which the royal arms were gorgeously emblazoned. The two wings were likewise richly decorated, and adorned with scutcheons and pennons, while from the battlements of the eastern side of the court were hung a couple of long flags.
As soon as these preparations were completed, a throng of pages, esquires, armourers, archers, and henchmen, entered it from the Norman gateway, and took up positions within the barriers, the space without the pales being kept by a double line of halberdiers. Next came the trumpeters, mounted on richly caparisoned horses, and having their clarions decorated with silken bandrols, fringed with gold. Stationing themselves at the principal entrance of the lists, they were speedily joined by the heralds, pursuivants, and other officers of the tilt-yard.
Presently afterwards, the Duke of Suffolk, who was appointed judge of the lists, appeared, and rode round the arena to see that all was in order. Apparently well satisfied with the survey, he dismounted, and proceeded to the gallery.
Meanwhile, the crowd within the court was increased by a great influx of the different members of the household, amongst whom were Shoreditch, Paddington, and Hector Cutbeard.
“Marry, this promises to be a splendid sight!” said the clerk of the kitchen; “the king will, no doubt, do his devoir gallantly for the sake of the bright eyes that will look upon him.”
“You mean the queen’s, of course?” said Shoreditch.
“I mean hers who may be queen,” replied Cutbeard; “Mistress Jane Seymour.”
“May be queen!” exclaimed Shoreditch. “You surely do not think the king will divorce his present consort?”
“Stranger things have happened,” replied Cutbeard significantly. “If I am not greatly out of my reckoning,” he added, “these are the last jousts Queen Anne will behold.”
“The saints forefend!” cried Shoreditch; “what reason have you for thinking so?”
“That I may not declare,” replied Cutbeard; “but before the jousts are over you will see whether I have been rightly informed or not.”
“Hush!” exclaimed Shoreditch. “There is a tall monk eyeing us strangely; and I am not certain that he has not overheard what you have said.”
“He is welcome to the intelligence,” replied Cutbeard; “the end will prove its truth.”
Though this was uttered in a confident tone, he nevertheless glanced with some misgiving at the monk, who stood behind Paddington. The object of the investigation was a very tall man, with a cowl drawn over his brow. He had a ragged black beard, fierce dark eyes, and a complexion like bronze. Seeing Cutboard’s glance anxiously fixed upon him, he advanced towards him, and said in a low tone— “You have nothing to fear from me; but talk not so loud if you value your head.”
So saying he proceeded to another part of the lists.
“Who is that tall monk?” asked Paddington.
“Devil knows!” answered Cutbeard; “I never saw him before. But he has a villainous cut-throat look.”
Soon afterwards a flourish of trumpets was heard, and amid their joyous bruit the queen, sumptuously arrayed in cloth of gold and ermine, and having a small crown upon her brow, entered the gallery, and took her seat within it. Never had she looked more beautiful than on this fatal morning, and in the eyes of all the beholders she completely eclipsed her rival, Jane Seymour. The latter, who stood on her right hard, and was exquisitely attired, had a thoughtful and anxious air, as if some grave matter weighed upon her.
While the queen’s attendants were taking their places, Lord Rochford, accompanied by Sir Henry Norris and the Earls of Surrey and Essex, entered the lists. The four knights were completely armed, and mounted on powerful steeds barded with rich cloth of gold, embroidered with silver letters. Each had a great crimson plume in his helmet. They rode singly round the arena, and bowed as they passed the royal gallery, Norris bending almost to his saddle-bow while performing his salutation to the queen.
The field being thus taken by the challengers, who retired to the upper end of the court, a trumpet was thrice sounded by a herald, and an answer was immediately made by another herald stationed opposite Henry the Seventh’s buildings. When the clamour ceased, the king fully armed, and followed by the Marquis of Dorset, Sir Thomas Wyat, and the Lord Clifford, rode into the lists.
Henry was equipped in a superb suit of armour, inlaid with gold, and having a breastplate of the globose form, then in vogue; his helmet was decorated with a large snow-white plume. The trappings of his steed were of crimson velvet, embroidered with the royal arms, and edged with great letters of massive gold bullion, full of pearls and precious stones. He was attended by a hundred gentlemen, armourers, and other officers, arrayed in white velvet.
Having ridden round the court like the others, and addressed his salutation exclusively to Jane Seymour, Henry took his station with his companions near the base of the Round Tower, the summit of which was covered with spectators, as were the towers and battlements around.
A trumpet was now sounded, and the king and the Lord Rochford having each taken a lance from his esquire, awaited the signal to start from the Duke of Suffolk, who was seated in the left wing of the royal gallery. It was not long delayed. As the clarion sounded clearly and loudly for the third time, he called out that the champions might go.
No sooner were the words uttered, than the thundering tramp of the steeds resounded, and the opponents met midway. Both their lances were shivered; but as the king did not, in the slightest degree, change his position, he was held to have the best of it. Courses were then run by the others, with varied success, the Marquis of Dorset being unhorsed by Sir Henry Norris, whose prowess was rewarded by the plaudits of the assemblage, and what was infinitely more dear to him, by the smiles of the queen.
“You have ridden well, Norris,” cried Henry, advancing towards him. “Place yourself opposite me, and let us splinter a lance together.”
As Norris reined back his steed, in compliance with the injunction, the tall monk stepped from out the line, and drawing near him, said, “If you wish to prove victorious, aim at the upper part of the king’s helmet.” And with these words he withdrew.
By the time Norris had placed his lance in the rest, the trumpet sounded. The next moment the word was given, and the champions started. Henry rode with great impetuosity, and struck Norris in the gorget with such goo
d will that both he and his steed were shaken.
But Norris was more fortunate. Following the advice of the monk, he made the upper part of the king’s helmet his mark, and the blow was so well dealt, that, though he did not dislodge the royal horseman, it drove back his steed on its haunches.
The success was so unequivocal that Norris was at once declared the victor by the judge. No applause, however, followed the decision, from a fear of giving offence to the king.
Norris dismounted, and committing his steed to the care of an esquire, and his lance to a page, took off his helmet and advanced towards the royal gallery, near which the Earl of Surrey and Sir Thomas Wyat were standing talking with the other dames. As Norris drew near, Anne leaned over the edge of the gallery, and smiled at him tenderly, and, whether by design or accident, let fall her embroidered handkerchief.
Norris stooped to pick it up, regarding her as he did so with a glance of the most passionate devotion. A terrible gaze, however, was fixed on the unfortunate pair at that moment. It was that of the king. While Henry was careering in front of the gallery to display himself before Jane Seymour, a tall monk approached him, and said, “Look at Sir Henry Norris!”
Thus addressed, Henry raised his beaver, that he might see more distinctly, and beheld Norris take up the embroidered handkerchief, which he recognised as one that he had given, in the early days of his affection, to the queen.
The sight stung him almost to madness, and he had great difficulty in repressing his choler. But if this slight action, heightened to importance, as it was, by the looks of the parties, roused his ire, it was nothing to what followed. Instead of restoring it to the queen, Norris, unconscious of the danger in which he stood, pressed the handkerchief fervently to his lips.
“I am hitherto the victor of the jousts,” he said; “may I keep this as the prize?”
Anne smiled assent.
“It is the proudest I ever obtained,” pursued Norris. And he placed it within his helmet.
“Does your majesty see that?” cried the tall monk, who still remained standing near the king.
The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth Page 363