Late, as I have heard, on the afternoon of November 20, 1558, a man riding between Oxford and Worcester, with the news of the queen's death, caught sight of the gateway tower at Coton End, which is plainly visible from the road. Though he had already drunk that day as much ale as would have sufficed him for a week when the queen was well, yet much wants more. He calculated he had time to stop and taste the Squire's brewing, which he judged, from the look of the tower, might be worth his news; and he rode through the gate and railed at his nag for stumbling.
Half way across the Chase he met Sir Anthony. The old gentleman was walking out, with his staff in his hand and his dogs behind him, to take the air before supper. The man, while he was still a hundred paces off, began to wave his hat and shout something, which ale and excitement rendered unintelligible.
"What is the matter?" said Sir Anthony to himself. And he stood still.
"The queen is dead!" shouted the messenger, swaying in his saddle.
The knight stared.
"Ay, sure!" he ejaculated after a while. And he took off his hat. "Is it true, man?"
"As true as that I left London yesterday afternoon and have never drawn rein since!" swore the knave, who had been three days on the road, and had drunk at every hostel and at half the manor-houses between London and Oxford.
"God rest her soul!" said Sir Anthony piously, still in somewhat of a maze. "And do you come in! Come in, man, and take something."
But the messenger had got his formula by heart, and was not to be defrauded of any part of it.
"God save the queen!" he shouted. And out of respect for the knight, he slipped from his saddle and promptly fell on his back in the road.