The butcher made no reply, but being released by the arquebusiers, sat down upon a bench that constituted the sole furniture of the vault.
“Shall I leave him the lamp?” asked the bellringer; “he may beguile the time by reading the names of former prisoners scratched on the walls and in the embrasures.”
“No; he shall not even have that miserable satisfaction,” returned the Duke of Shoreditch. “He shall be left in the darkness to his own bad and bitter thoughts.”
With this the party withdrew, and the door was fastened upon the prisoner. An arquebusier was stationed at the foot of the steps; and the Earl of Surrey and Captain Bouchier having fully satisfied their curiosity, shaped their course towards the castle gate. On their way thither the earl looked about for Morgan Fenwolf, but could nowhere discern him. He then passed through the wicket with Bouchier, and proceeding to the Garter, they mounted their steeds, and galloped off towards Datchet, and thence to Staines and Hampton Court.
III.
Of the Grand Procession to Windsor Castle—Of the Meeting of
King Henry the Eighth and Anne Boleyn at the Lower Gate-Of
their Entrance into the Castle—And how the Butcher was
Hanged from the Curfew Tower.
A joyous day was it for Windsor and great were the preparations made by its loyal inhabitants for a suitable reception to their sovereign. At an early hour the town was thronged with strangers from the neighbouring villages, and later on crowds began to arrive from London, some having come along the highway on horseback, and others having rowed in various craft up the river. All were clad in holiday attire, and the streets presented an appearance of unwonted bustle and gaiety. The Maypole in Bachelors' Acre was hung with flowers. Several booths, with flags floating above them, were erected in the same place, where ale, mead, and hypocras, together with cold pasties, hams, capons, and large joints of beef and mutton, might be obtained. Mummers and minstrels were in attendance, and every kind of diversion was going forward. Here was one party wrestling; there another, casting the bar; on this side a set of rustics were dancing a merry round with a bevy of buxom Berkshire lasses; on that stood a fourth group, listening to a youth playing on the recorders. At one end of the Acre large fires were lighted, before which two whole oxen were roasting, provided in honour of the occasion by the mayor and burgesses of the town; at the other, butts were set against which the Duke of Shoreditch and his companions, the five marquises, were practising. The duke himself shot admirably, and never failed to hit the bulls-eye; but the great feat of the day was performed by Morgan Fenwolf, who thrice split the duke's shafts as they stuck in the mark.
“Well done!” cried the duke, as he witnessed the achievement; “why, you shoot as bravely as Herne the Hunter. Old wives tell us he used to split the arrows of his comrades in that fashion.”
“He must have learnt the trick from Herne himself in the forest,” cried one of the bystanders.