“And not an other word might I have from her. But I am assured there is some terrible matter afoot in this Palace; and I would I were safe thereout.
“I must close my letter somewhat shortly, for Doña Isabel de Alameda, that promised me to send it with one of hers that goeth to Cales (Cadiz), hath sent her brother’s son, Don Juan de Alameda (fictitious), to request the same, and I must not keep him awaiting. Be not thou disturbed, dear heart; God is as near to Tordesillas as to London, and He is stronger than all evil men and devils. Unto His keeping I commend thee. From Tordesillas, this Monday.
“Thine own to her little power, Annis Holland.
“I pray thee, make my commendations unto Mr Avery and all thine.”
When Christmas Day came, the Averys did what half London was doing: they walked down to Westminster, to the great pulpit set up in the King’s garden. Into the pulpit came a rather tall, spare old man, with a wrinkled face, a large Roman nose, shaggy eyebrows, and radiant, shining eyes. And before the sermon was over, the eyes had kindled with a live coal from the altar of the Lord, and the firm voice was ringing clearly to every corner of that vast gathering. The preacher was Hugh Latimer.
He was about to leave London the next morning for Grimsthorpe, where he had undertaken, at the request of the Duchess of Suffolk, to deliver to her and her household a series of lectures on the Lord’s Prayer. After the sermon, those quick bright eyes speedily found out Edward Underhill, and the old man came down from the pulpit and shook hands with him. Then he turned to Isoult Avery, who stood near. He remembered meeting her at Ampthill and Guildford, some ten years before; and he blessed her, and asked what family she had; and when she told him, “Three,” he said, “God bless them, and make them His childre.” Then he laid his hand upon little Kate’s head and blessed her; and then away, walking with a quick firm step, like a man whose work was but half done; with Augustine Bernher behind him, carrying the old man’s Bible.
This year Saint Nicholas “went not about.” The ceremony had previously taken place on his eve, December 5, when the priests carried his image round from house to house, and gave small presents to the children as from the saint. The modern American custom of “Santa Claus” is a relic of the old procession of Saint Nicholas; though the Dutch form of the name shows it to have been derived not from the English, but the Dutch, settlers. Kate’s Protestantism was not yet sufficiently intelligent to prevent her from regretting Saint Nicholas; but Dr Thorpe coaxed Esther to make a handful of sugar-plums, whereon he regaled his disappointed pet.
The close of the year brought treats for both parents and children. At Saint Paul’s, Bishop Ridley preached for five evenings together; and at Cheapside, with the new year, came the Lord of Misrule—again George Ferris—making his proclamations, and dining in state with the Lord Mayor. And at Shene, my Lord of Northumberland founded the first hot-house, and presented a nosegay of living flowers to the King on New Year’s Day.
So, in flowers and laughter, came in the awful year 1553—most awful year of all the century.
One morning in January, as Isoult stood waiting for John, to go with him to Latimer’s sermon, who should walk in but Philippa Basset, whose stay in Cheshire had been much longer than she anticipated. She brought many a scrap of Northern news, and Lady Bridget’s loving commendations to Isoult. And “Whither away?” asked she.