That same night there was a terrible thunderstorm, and in the morning the body of Herne was found hanging from a lightning-stricken tree in the Little Park. He had killed himself.
For a time nothing unusual happened; then strange stories began to get about of a ghostly huntsman, in figure like the dead Herne, with stag’s horns growing from his head, who rode through the forest at night on a fierce black charger, harrying the King’s deer. This proved to be only too true as the depleted herds of deer soon proved, and the keepers were threatened with dire punishment if the depredations were not stopped.
The keepers, greatly alarmed, went the next night to Herne’s oak to see if the story were true; and there they were met by the dark stranger. But now there was no doubt as to his identity. He appeared in a flash of sulphurous flame, and they knew him to be the Evil One. He told the terrified men that Herne would appear to them soon, and that they must do exactly what he bade them do, otherwise he would seize their souls.
Soon Herne appeared, a ghostly figure with huge antlers, and commanded his fellow-keepers to assemble at the oak the next midnight with horses and hounds equipped for the chase. They had to obey, and night after night, led by the ghostly huntsman, the party swept through the forest.
Their wild doings naturally quickly reached the ears of the King, and he summoned the keepers, demanding an explanation. In terror they confessed how they had plotted Herne’s ruin, and the King, furious at their impious action, caused all of them to be hanged upon Herne’s oak.
But the ghostly chase still went on, they say, and even to this day in the dark midnight hours some people believe you may hear, far away in the Great Park, the distant sound of a huntsman’s horn, and see flashing through the trees the ghostly chase led by an antlered man on a huge black horse.
Herne’s oak has gone now. It stood in the Home Park, a grim withered riven stump near the footpath to Datchet, until some fifty or sixty years ago; and few cared to pass it at midnight.
But Windsor Park in daytime has nothing eerie about it. It, and the wide bracken-covered, sandy forest country that surrounds it, is delightful in Spring, or on a hot summer’s day. Or in autumn, when the leaves and bracken are turning, one must go far to find a more beautiful district. The whole country is steeped in history and romance.
From Windsor, with its magnificent castle—and just across the river, historic Eton—the forest district stretches away south and west for miles. Here, although so close to London, one may find the solitude and rest that many travel far afield to seek—and fail to find.
