Windsor Castle by William Harrison Ainsworth (read along books TXT) 📕

I see either the queen or Anne, we will ride forth into the forest, and talk the matter further over.”

“Your highness has come to a wise determination,” said the duke.

“Oh, Suffolk!” sighed Henry, “would I had never seen this siren! She exercises a fearful control over me, and enslaves my very soul.”

“I cannot say whether it is for good or ill that you have met, my dear liege,” replied Suffolk, “but I fancy I can discern the way in which your ultimate decision will be taken. But it is now near midnight. I wish your majesty sound and untroubled repose.”

“Stay!” cried Henry, “I am about to visit the Curfew Tower, and must take you with me. I will explain my errand as we go. I had some thought of sending you there in my stead. Ha!” he exclaimed, glancing at his finger, “By Saint Paul, it is gone!”

“What is gone, my liege?” asked Suffolk.

“My signet,” replied Henry, “I missed it not till now. It has been wrested from me by the fiend, during my walk from the Curfew Tower. Let us not lose a moment, or the prisoners will be set free by him,—if they have not been liberated already.”

So saying, he took a couple of dags—a species of short gun—from a rest on the wall, and giving one to Suffolk, thrust the other into his girdle. Thus armed, they quitted the royal lodgings, and hurried in the direction of the Curfew Tower. Just as they reached the Horseshoe Cloisters, the alarm-bell began to ring.

“Did I not tell you so?” cried Henry furiously; “they have escaped. Ha! it ceases!—what has happened?”

About a quarter of an hour after the king had quitted the Curfew Tower, a tall man, enveloped in a cloak, and wearing a high conical cap, presented himself to the arquebusier stationed at the entrance to the dungeon, and desired to be admitted to the prisoners.

“I have the king's signet,” he said, holding forth the ring. On seeing this, the arquebusier, who recognised the ring, unlocked the door, and admitted him. Mabel was kneeling on the ground beside her grandsire, with her hands raised as in prayer, but as the tall man entered the vault, she started to her feet, and uttered a slight scream.

“What is the matter, child?” cried Tristram..

“He is here!—he is come!” cried Mabel, in a tone of the deepest terror.

“Who—the king?” cried Tristram, looking up. “Ah! I see! Herne is come to deliver me.”

“Do not go with him, grandsire,” cried Mabel. “In the name of all the saints, I implore you, do not.”

“Silence her!” said Herne in a harsh, imperious voice, “or I leave you.”

The old man looked imploringly at his granddaughter.

“You know the conditions of your liberation?” said Herne.

“I do—I do,” replied Tristram hastily, and with a shudder.

“Oh, grandfather!” cried Mabel, falling at his feet, “do not, I conjure you, make any conditions with this dreaded being, or it will be at the expense of your salvation. Better I should perish at the stake—better you should suffer the most ignominious death, than this should be.”

“Do you accept them?” cried Herne, disregarding her supplications.

Tristram answered in the affirmative.

“Recall your words, grandfather—recall your words!” cried Mabel. “I will implore pardon for you on my knees from the king, and he will not refuse me.”

“The pledge cannot be recalled, damsel,” said Herne; “and it is to save you from the king, as much as to accomplish his own preservation, that your grandsire consents. He would not have you a victim to Henry's lust.” And as he spoke, he divided the forester's bonds with his knife. “You must go with him, Mabel,” he added.

“I will not!” she cried. “Something warns me that a great danger awaits me.”

“You must go, girl,” cried Tristram angrily. “I will not leave you to Henry's lawless passion.”

Meanwhile, Herne had passed into one of the large embrasures, and opened, by means of a spring, an entrance to a secret staircase in the wall. He then beckoned Tristram towards him, and whispered some instructions in his ear.

“I understand,” replied the old man.

“Proceed to the cave,” cried Herne, “and remain there till I join you.”

Tristram nodded assent.

“Come, Mabel!” he cried, advancing towards her, and seizing her hand.

“Away!” cried Herne in a menacing tone.

Terrified by the formidable looks and gestures of the demon, the poor girl offered no resistance, and her grandfather drew her into the opening, which was immediately closed after her.

About an hour after this, and when it was near upon the stroke of midnight, the arquebusier who had admitted the tall stranger to the dungeon, and who had momentarily expected his coming forth, opened the door to see what was going forward. Great was his astonishment to find the cell empty! After looking around in bewilderment, he rushed to the chamber above, to tell his comrades what had happened.

“This is clearly the work of the fiend,” said Shoreditch; “it is useless to strive against him.”

“That tall black man was doubtless Herne himself.” said Paddington. “I am glad he did us no injury. I hope the king will not provoke his malice further.”

“Well, we must inform Captain Bouchier of the mischance,” said Shoreditch. “I would not be in thy skin, Mat Bee, for a trifle. The king will be here presently, and then—”

“It is impossible to penetrate through the devices of the evil one,” interrupted Mat. “I could have sworn it was the royal signet, for I saw it on the king's finger as he delivered the order. I wish such another chance of capturing the fiend would occur to me.”

As the words were uttered, the door of a recess was thrown suddenly open, and Herne, in his wild garb, with his antlered helm upon his brow, and the rusty chain depending from his left arm, stood before them. His appearance was so terrific and unearthly that they all shrank aghast, and Mat Bee fell with his face on the floor.

“I am here!” cried the demon. “Now, braggart, wilt dare to seize me?”

But not a hand was moved against him. The whole party seemed transfixed with terror.

“You dare not brave my power, and you are right,” cried Herne—“a wave of my hand would bring this old tower about your ears—a word would summon a legion of fiends to torment you.”

“But do not utter it, I pray you, good Herne—excellent Herne,” cried Mat Bee. “And, above all things, do not wave your hand, for we have