The Works of William Harrison Ainsworth

by William Harrison Ainsworth

  “You cannot do better than follow my example in everything,” observed Charles, significantly.

  “Such is my intention, sire,” she returned. “And I will therefore add another ten thousand pounds to the marriage-portion which you have bestowed on Dorinda.”

  “Just what I expected from your ladyship!” cried the king, approvingly.

  Here the Duchess of Portsmouth embraced Dorinda; and kissing her on both cheeks, offered her her warmest congratulations. “I congratulate you also,” she added to Talbot.

  “How much I am indebted to your grace!” cried the young man, earnestly.

  “You are more indebted to the Count de Bellegarde than you are to me,” she replied.

  “I can accept no thanks, for I do not deserve them,” said the count. “But I wish you all possible happiness, and I am sure you will have it.”

  Dorinda, as may well be supposed, did not return to the ball-room. Indeed, she was much overcome; and after reiterating the expression of her gratitude to his majesty and the duchess, she retired with her aunt.

  Talbot, however, was in too joyous a mood to quit the festive scene; and the Count de Bellegarde betook himself to the card-room, where he won some money.

  He was among the punters at the basset-table, when he heard the Duke of Buckingham talking to Talbot Harland. The duke spoke in a low voice; but by slightly shifting his position, he caught what was said.

  “I have a little affair on hand, at which I want your company,” observed Buckingham. “It is not an ordinary duel, so you need have no scruples at disobeying his majesty. You are only required to see fair play.”

  “If that is all, your grace may command me,” replied Talbot. “I would not for the world offend his majesty after his great generosity to me. When does the meeting take place?”

  “On the third night from this, on Cranbourne Chase, at midnight,” replied Buckingham.

  “On Cranbourne Chase at midnight!” exclaimed Talbot, surprised, and half repenting the promise he had given. ““a mysterious meeting, indeed.”

  “No more now,” said the duke. “I will tell you all about it to-morrow.”

  “He will come,” thought Bellegarde.

  CHAPTER VIII

  ON CRANBOURNE CHASE AT MIDNIGHT

  The Count de Bellegarde had taken his departure from Windsor Castle, leaving behind him a blank that could not be easily filled up.

  He did not trust himself to another private interview with the Duchess of Portsmouth, though she desired it; but sent his excuses.

  On taking leave of the king, he said, with a surprisingly grave countenance, “I fear I must bid your majesty a lasting adieu.”

  “Why so?” asked Charles.

  “I have some idea of shutting myself up in the monastery of La Trappe.”

  “To practise penitence for your past life, ha!” cried Charles. “You have much to repent, no doubt. But think twice before you turn monk. Severe discipline won’t suit you, my friend. There is no joking, believe me, in those gloomy cells.”

  “It will be a change. If your majesty does not see me again within a month, you may be sure that I have turned Trappist.”

  “Heaven forbid! But should such a dreadful misfortune happen, may you rise to be an abbot. Farewell, most holy father! Come back soon to give me your benediction.”

  Charles thought the count was jesting; but he afterwards viewed the matter in a very different light.

  The appointed night arrived.

  A night well fitted for such a meeting — bright and calm. Fleecy clouds covered the sky, and a full moon poured down its radiance upon the towers of the castle, and silvered the pompous woods of the Great Park.

  Although it wanted nearly an hour to midnight, Claude Duval and his squire were riding slowly and silently towards the place of rendezvous. They had come from the forester’s hut, and had tracked a narrow road that led through the thick woods then clothing the summit of Snow Hill.

  From this eminence, the view of Windsor Castle is superb; and on such a lovely moonlight night as we have described, the beauty of the scene was enhanced.

  On issuing from the sombre thicket, Duval halted to gaze on the splendid prospect spread out before him. His eye ranged over the rich woodland tract, and rested long on the grand pile towering in the distance.

  What thoughts occupied his mind at the time, we shall not inquire. Folding his hands upon his breast, he fell into a profound reverie, from which he was at last aroused by Sabine.

  “Why do you look so scared?” he asked.

  “I have just seen my father,” she rejoined.

  The answer startled him.

  “Seen your father?” he exclaimed.

  “Yes; I saw him standing yonder, beside the wood. I saw him as plainly as I behold you now. Death-pale his countenance, and its expression very mournful.

  “Fear made me dumb, or I should have called out to you. He pointed to the wood, near the lake, and beckoned me to follow. Then I missed him.

  “After this warning, will you go on to meet certain destruction?”

  “If I am doomed, I am doomed,” rejoined Duval, shrugging his shoulders. “Your superstitious fears, and nothing else, conjured up this phantom.”

  Though he said this in an incredulous tone, he was evidently impressed, for he presently remarked, “I have something to add to the instructions I have already given you. Here is a letter, which you must deliver to the Duchess of Portsmouth. She has promised me, solemnly, to attend to my request. She will be your friend.”

  “I shall want no friend if I lose you,” she cried, in a despairing voice.

  “Do as I enjoin you,” he said, authoritatively.

  “Oh, if my fears are realized, I shall die!” she exclaimed.

  “Sabine, cast off this weakness, and be yourself! You will unman me, and my honor is at stake!”

  “You shall not hear another murmur,” she rejoined, submissively.

  They rode down the woody slopes, and startled a herd of deer couched beneath the oaks at the foot of the acclivity.

  As he cantered across the broad plain, Duval, with characteristic levity, began to hum a light French romance. His companion made no remark, though her heart was like to break.

  A distant bell tolled the hour of midnight. At the same instant, as if summoned by the strokes, two horsemen appeared on the part of the chase that was nearest the castle.

  “Yonder they are!” cried Duval, almost joyously.

  “I see them,” she replied, with a shudder. “Have you aught further to say to me?”

  “Only to bid you adieu, in case of the worst,” he replied.

  She pressed the hand he extended to her lips, and her tears fell on it.

  “You are forgetting your promise,” he cried.

  Having adjusted his mask, he galloped towards his adversary, who, with his second, was now riding quickly to meet him.

  As he galloped on, Duval resumed his romance, and sung it so loud and blithely, that it reached the ears of his antagonist.

  “Hark! he is singing,” observed the duke to Talbot Harland, who was riding by his side. ““almost a pity to kill so gay a galliard.”

  “I hope it may not be needful to kill him,” replied Talbot.

  Presently, Duval changed his melody, and began to sing a couplet of the duke’s famous ballad.

  “Does your grace hear that?” cried Talbot, laughing.

  “Ay,” replied the duke. “I like his humor amazingly.”

  When within fifty yards of each other, the adversaries drew in the rein, advancing at a footpace, till they met.

  Duval then uncovered, and bowed gracefully to the duke, who returned the salutation with lofty courtesy.

  Throughout the conversation that ensued, Duval spoke with the peculiar Gascon accent that he occasionally assumed.

  “Your servant, Mr. Talbot,” he said, bowing to him. ““not the first time we have met.”

  “But it will probably be the last,” rejoined Tal
bot, gravely.

  “Perhaps so,” said Duval, in a careless tone. “To business!”

  “Before proceeding, I have an observation to make,” said Talbot.

  “I am all attention,” replied Duval, bowing politely.

  “His grace the Duke of Buckingham is here, ready to fulfil his engagement,” pursued Talbot. “But I have to state, on his grace’s part, that, as he has no real animosity towards you, and as he has, however, reason to believe that your exploits have been intended as practical jests, he is willing to forego the combat, provided you will make an admission to that effect.”

  “I will make the admission for him,” cried, the squire, pressing eagerly forward. “All his exploits were practical jests — all!”

  “Back, Leon!” cried Duval. “Pardon this interruption, Mr. Harland,” he continued, as the squire dejectedly retired. “Have you more to add?”

  “Only one thing, to which I trust you will see no objection,” replied Talbot. “The duke will require you to unmask.”

  “Unmask? Ha!” cried Duval, sharply. “His grace has no right to make any such demand. With his first requisition I might have complied. Indeed, I will admit that all the feats which he has done me the honor to record in his matchless ballad were practical jests.”

  “I am very glad to hear it,” said Talbot. “After this frank admission —— — —”

  “Hear me out!” cried Duval. “I peremptorily refuse to unmask. This discussion is idle, and must cease. The duke of Buckingham has challenged me, and now he seeks to avoid the combat. I insist upon its taking place.”

  “I avoid the combat!” exclaimed Buckingham, with a disdainful laugh. “By St. George, that shall never be said!”

  A half-stifled cry burst from the squire, but it passed unheeded.

  “Are you prepared?” demanded Talbot, as each adversary drew a pistol from his holster.

  “Prepared!” they responded, as with one voice.

  “Ride off in opposite directions till I bid you stop. Return slowly, and fire when I give the word.”

  The injunction was obeyed. Each rode slowly off, till Talbot called out “Stop!” and then turned back.

  Not till they were within thirty yards of each other was the signal given.

  Both fired together.

  Duval discharged his pistol in the air, but the duke took deadly aim. The bullet lodged in his adversary’s breast.

  Duval uttered a cry, and fell back slightly; but he almost instantly recovered himself. With a wild shriek that betrayed her sex, Sabine flew towards him.

  At the same time, Talbot and the duke pressed forward, eager to render aid.

  “Off!” she cried, fiercely, and presenting a pistol at them as she spoke.

  “He shall not be unmasked while I have life. Your grace will not break your plighted word!”

  “No,” replied the duke, drawing back, while Talbot followed his example.

  “I am mortally hurt, but have enough strength left for flight,” groaned Duval. “Keep close beside me.”

  “Fear no pursuit from us,” cried Buckingham.

  The duke and Talbot watched them as they flew with lightning swiftness across the plain. Each moment the lookers-on expected to see the wounded man drop from the saddle. But, to their infinite surprise, he held on. He mounted the sides of Snow Hill, and disappeared with his companion in the wood on its brow.

  “He will die in the thicket,” observed Buckingham.

  But the duke was mistaken. Duval still clung to the saddle.

  “Oh, that we could reach the hut!” exclaimed Sabine.

  “Not there,” rejoined Duval. “Your father’s spirit pointed towards the lake. Take me thither — to the morass — you understand.”

  She divined his terrible purpose, but did not attempt to oppose it. She led him down the long sweeping glade, along which they flitted like phantoms.

  She guided him, swiftly and unerringly, through the thick woods encircling the lake, and brought him to the borders of the morass.

  “Now leave me. Farewell for ever!” he cried.

  And with a last effort, he forced his horse into the fatal swamp.

  Sabine remained looking on in a state of stupefaction.

  When all was over, she prepared to follow.

  “Leave you? Never !” she exclaimed. “I am yours in life, as in death!” —

  And she plunged in after him.

  The morass willingly offered them a grave in its oozy depths, and kept their secret well.

  A miserable pretender afterwards appeared as Claude Duval. With him we have nothing to do. He was very deservedly hanged.

  The Count de Bellegarde appeared no more at Whitehall; and the king, though amazed at his folly, never doubted that he had become a monk of La Trappe.

  TOWER HILL

  AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

  CONTENTS

  BOOK THE FIRST. ANNE OF CLEVES.

  I. How King Henry the Eighth rode to Rochester to meet his Fourth Bride.

  II. Cromwell, Earl of Essex.

  III. Francis Dereham.

  IV. Cromwell House.

  V. The Dowager Duchess of Norfolk.

  VI. How Henry First beheld Catherine Howard.

  VII. In what Manner Henry declared his Passion for Catherine Howard.

  VII. How Catherine declined the King’s Offer.

  IX. The Reception of Anne of Cleves at Blackheath.

  X. How the Royal Nuptials were solemnized at Greenwich Palace.

  XI. The Duke of Norfolk and the Bishop of Winchester.

  XII. The Conflict.

  XIII. How Adrian was tended by old Gervase.

  XIV. The Banquet at Winchester House.

  XV. How Catherine charmed the King by her Singing.

  BOOK THE SECOND. THE FALL OF CROMWELL.

  I. The Ruby Ring.

  II. Showing how Cromwell’s Designs were frustrated.

  III. The Council Chamber.

  IV. How Cromwell was arrested, and taken to the Tower.

  V. The Prison Chamber in the Beauchamp Tower.

  VI. The repudiated Queen.

  VII. How Catherine regained the Ring.

  VIII. The Masque.

  IX. The last Meeting between Cromwell and Cranmer.

  X. What occurred in St. John’s Chapel in the white Tower.

  XI. How the Lord Cromwell was beheaded on Tower Hill.

  BOOK THE THIRD. CATHERINE HOWARD.

  I. What passed between Catherine and Cranmer.

  II. Hampton Court.

  III. Cranmer remonstrates with Catherine.

  IV. The Queen receives a Visit from the old Duchess of Norfolk.

  V. The old Countess of Salisbury.

  VI. In what Manner the old Countess of Salisbury was put to Death.

  VII. How Dereham was appointed the Queen’s Secretary.

  VIII. The Royal Progress to the North.

  IX. How the Archbishop of York made his Submission to the King.

  X. York.

  XI. Pontefract Castle.

  XII. Celestin and Paschal.

  XIII. The fatal Meeting.

  XIV. An Encounter in the Corridor.

  XV. The Bishop of Lincoln.

  XVI. A Consultation.

  XVII. How Mary Lassells was interrogated.

  XVIII. How the Disclosure was made to the King.

  XIX. How Dereham was interrogated by the King.

  XX. How Adrian was arrested by the Earl of Hertford.

  XXI. Catherine’s Message to the King.

  XXII. Adrian is committed to the Tower.

  XXIII. Cranmer brings the King’s Response to Catherine.

  XXIV. The underground Dungeon.

  XXV. Dereham sends a Missive to Adrian.

  XXVI. The Torture-Chamber.

  XXVII. How Catherine was taken to the Tower.

  XXVIII. The old Palace in the Tower.

  XXIX. Another Tragedy on Tower Hill.

  XXX. The Sleeping-Potion.

&nbs
p; XXXI. The Midnight Exequies in St. John’s Chapel.

  XXXII. Catherine’s last Hours.

  BOOK THE FIRST. ANNE OF CLEVES.

  I. How King Henry the Eighth rode to Rochester to meet his Fourth Bride.

  ONE fine day, in the early part of the year 1539, his Majesty King Henry the Eighth, attended by some half-dozen horsemen, rode from his palace at Greenwich towards Rochester.

  The King was very sumptuously arrayed in a doublet of purple velvet, embroidered with gold of damask, the sleeves and breast being clasped with large diamond buttons. Round his neck he wore a splendid collar, garnished with rubies and pearls. His girdle was adorned with emeralds and other precious stones, as was the poniard that hung from it, and his velvet cap glittered with jewels.

  His charger was milk-white, with bridle and saddle of red morocco leather, and the steed had need to be powerful, considering the enormous weight of his rider.

  Despite the robust exercise which he took, habitual indulgence in the pleasures of the table had told its tale upon the King, and of late he had greatly increased in bulk. But be was still a magnificent personage. The expression of his countenance was stern and haughty, and his demeanour imperious.

  On this occasion, Henry was attended by his brother-in-law, Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, who was quite as large a man as himself, the Lord Dacre of the South, Lord Mountjoye, Sir Anthony Browne, Master of the Horse, and Adrian Culpepper, nephew to the Duke of Norfolk, a very handsome young gallant, and a great favourite with the King.

  All these were richly apparelled, the Duke of Suffolk being only surpassed by his Majesty in splendour; while Culpepper’s slight and graceful figure was shown to advantage in a doublet and hose of blue velvet, puffed with white satin.

  With them, and mounted on a palfrey, was a droll looking wight, whose vocation was proclaimed by his motley garb, the coxcomb on his head, and the bauble which he held in his hand. This was Will Sommers, the King’s jester. He was privileged to say what he pleased to his royal master. No one resented his jibes.

  Henry was in a remarkably good humour that day, as will not appear surprising when we mention that he was about to pay a private visit to his intended bride, the Princess Anne of Cleves, who had just arrived in England, and was lodged for the moment, with her suite, in the Episcopal Palace at Rochester. He was impatient to behold her, for he had heard rapturous descriptions of her beauty.