“And will they put down the service-book, think you?” said he.
“They will put down everything save God,” said Mr Rose, solemnly; “and Him also, could they but get at Him.”
Before September was over, John and Isoult rode to the Limehurst to visit Mr Underhill. They found him in very good spirits for an invalid in a very weak condition, and he said he was improving every day, and had a long tale to tell them when his strength would permit. Mrs Underhill had been compelled to present herself before the Council in order to procure his release, and had there to endure a severe scolding from Lord Winchester for the relationship in which little Guilford had been placed to Lady Jane Grey. She bore it quietly, and got for her reward a letter to the keeper of Newgate, signed by Winchester, Sussex, Bedford, Rochester, and Sir Edward Waldegrave, ordering the release of Mr Underhill, who was to be bound before a magistrate, in conjunction with her brother, Mr Speryn, to appear when summoned.
The progress of the Retrogression—for such it may be fairly termed—was swifter than that of the Reformation had been. “Facilis descensus Averni,”—this is the usual course. High mass was restored in Saint Paul’s Cathedral, and in very few London churches were Gospel sermons yet preached. With bitter irony, liberty was granted to Bishop Ridley—to hear mass in the Tower Chapel. Liberty to commit idolatry was not likely to be used by Nicholas Ridley. The French Protestants were driven out, except a few named by the Ambassador; Cranmer, Latimer, Hooper, Coverdale, were cited before the Council; and on the 28th of September, the Queen came to the Tower, in readiness for her coronation.
At one o’clock on the 30th, the royal procession set forth, fitly preceded by a crowd of knights, doctors, bishops, and peers. After them rode the Council; and then the new Knights of the Bath, to create whom it had been the custom, the day previous to the coronation. The seal and mace were carried next, between the Lord Chancellor (Bishop Gardiner) and the Lord Treasurer, William Paulet, Marquis of Winchester. The old Duke of Norfolk followed, with Lord Arundel on his right, and Lord Oxford on his left, bearing the swords of state. Sir Edward Hastings, on foot, led the Queen’s horse. She sat in a chariot of tissue, trapped with red velvet, and drawn by six horses. Mary was dressed in blue velvet, bordered with ermine, and on her head she carried not only a caul of tinsel set with gold and stones, but also a garland of goldsmith’s work, so massive that she was observed to “bear up her head with her hands.” She was subject to violent headaches, and in all probability was suffering from one now. A canopy was borne over her chariot. In the second chariot, which was “all white, and six horses trapped with the same,” sat the heiress presumptive of England, the Princess Elizabeth, “with her face forward, and the Lady Anne of Cleve, with her back forward:” both ladies were attired in crimson velvet. Then came “four ladies of estate riding upon horses”—the eccentric old Duchess of Norfolk; the Marchioness of Winchester; Gertrude, the long-tried Marchioness of Exeter; and Mary Countess of Arundel, niece of Lady Lisle. Both riders and horses were apparelled in crimson velvet. The third chariot, covered with cloth of gold, and the horses similarly caparisoned, while the peeresses within were clad in crimson velvet—two ladies on horseback, in crimson velvet—the fourth and fifth chariots, and more ladies on horseback, to the total number of forty-six, and all in crimson velvet—these followed one another in due course. Last came the Queen’s women, riding upon horses trapped in crimson satin, and attired in the same material. Among them, the third of the eight maids of honour, looked out the sweet face of Anne Basset, gentlest of “her Highness’ women.” (Note 2.)
And so closed this crimson pageant, meet inauguration of England’s bloodiest reign. Of other pageants there was no lack; but I pass them by, as also the airy gyrations of Peter the Dutchman on the weathercock of Saint Paul’s.
On the west side of the Cathedral was a sight which more amazed the party of sight-seers from the Lamb than any other with which they had met that day. This was the Hot Gospeller, who had literally risen from his bed to see the pageant. Mr Edward Underhill sat upon a horse—but he shall describe his own appearance, for it must have been remarkable. “Scant able to sit, girded in a long night-gown, with double kerchiefs about my head, a great hat upon them, my beard dubed hard too, my face so leane and pale that I was the very image of death, wondered at of all that did behold me, unknown to any. My wife and neighbours were toto (too-too, an archaism for very) sorry that I would needs go forth, thinking I would not return alive. Then went I forth, having of either side of me a man to stay me... When the Queen passed by, ... many of my fellows the Pensioners and divers of the Council beheld me, and none of them all knew me.” (Note 3.)
“Why, Ned!” cried John, “are you able to sit thus on an horse and mix in crowds?”
“No,” said he.
“Then,” he answered, “what brought you hither?”