As the queen-dowager sat down alone in front of the closet, all the other ladies remaining standing, Norroy advanced, and in his accustomed formula besought their charitable prayers for the repose of the departed king’s soul. A requiem was next chanted, and mass performed by the Bishop of Winchester and the other prelates.
On the conclusion of the service, the whole assemblage quitted the church, leaving the choir vacant of all save the watchers by the body, the number of whom was greatly increased.
Profuse as had been the display of hospitality at Sion, it was far exceeded at Windsor. A grand banquet was given to the nobles and other distinguished personages in Saint George’s Hall, the lord protector, with the council, the mourners, and the ambassadors, occupying seats on the dais. Tables were likewise spread in the various refectories, at which the numerous esquires, captains of the guard, heralds, pursuivants, and others, sat down. The four enormous fireplaces in the great kitchen scarcely sufficed to supply the wants of so many guests. Our three giants found their way to the larder, and were well cared for by the yeomen and grooms. Prodigious was the quantity they consumed.
Night had far advanced ere the feasting had ended. Even then there were lingerers at some tables. Much bustle, moreover, still prevailed, not only within but without the Castle. In the courts of both upper and lower wards, yeomen, ushers, grooms, and serving-men of all descriptions, were continually passing and repassing.
The terraces, however, were deserted, though the extreme beauty of the night might well have tempted some of the many guests to enjoy a moonlight walk upon them. Towards midnight, a postern door in one of the towers on the south side of the Castle opened, and Sir Thomas Seymour and his esquire issued from it. Both were wrapped in black velvet mantles furred with sable. They proceeded quickly towards the eastern terrace, without pausing to gaze at the glorious prospect of wood and glade that lay stretched out beneath them, and, having made the half circuit of the walls, reached the northern terrace, which was thrown into deep shade, the moon being on the opposite side of the heavens. Far out into the meads below was projected the irregular shadow of the mighty pile, but the silver Thames glittered in the moonlight, and the collegiate church of Eton slumbered peacefully amidst its groves. A holy calm seemed to rest upon the scene, but Seymour refused to yield to its influence. He had other matter in hand, which agitated his soul. Roused by the bell striking midnight, he passed, with his esquire, through an archway communicating with the lower ward, and proceeded to Saint George’s Chapel. Making for the lateral door on the left of the Bray Chapel, he found several yeomen of the guard stationed at it, together with two gentlemen ushers belonging to the queen-dowager’s suite. On beholding the latter, his heart leaped with joy. He knew that Catherine was within the church, and he at once entered it with his esquire. The aisles and nave were plunged in gloom, and looked all the more sombre from the contrast they offered to the choir, which was brilliantly illumined. The watchers were stationed around the catafalque; chaplains were standing at the high altar; and a dirge was being sung by the choristers. Halting near a pillar in the south aisle, Seymour despatched Ugo to the choir. After a short absence the esquire returned, and said, “The queen is there—kneeling at the altar beside the coffin.”
“I will await her coming forth. Retire, until I summon thee.”
Full quarter of an hour elapsed ere Seymour’s vigilance was rewarded. At the end of that time Catherine issued from the choir. As Sir Thomas expected, she was wholly unattended, and was proceeding slowly towards the door near the Bray Chapel, when Seymour stepped from behind the pillar, and placed himself in her path.
“Pardon me, Catherine! pardon me, queen of my heart!” he cried, half prostrating himself before her.
Much startled, she would have retired, but he seized her hand and detained her.
“You must—you shall hear me, Catherine,” he cried.
“Be brief then,” she rejoined, “and release my hand.”
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