Kitabı oku: «Windsor Castle», sayfa 24
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 the 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.
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 spoke, 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.”
IV
Of the Secret Interview between Norris and Anne Boleyn, and of the Dissimulation practised by the King.
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.
