Edward Underhill, Esq. of the Band of Gentlemen Pensioners, surnamed, "The hot Gospeller." Examination and Imprisonment in August 1553; with anecdotes of the Time.

Cupido, (unto whose commandèment
The gentle kindred of goddis on high
And people infernal be obedient;
And all mortal folk servin busily),
Of the goddess son, Cytherea only;
Unto all those that, to our deity
Be subjects, heartily greeting, send we!

In general, we wollin that ye know
That Ladies of honour and reverence,
And other Gentlewomen havin sow[n]
Such seed of complaint in our audience,
Of men that do them outrage and offence;
That it our earis grieveth for to hear,
So piteous is the effect of this matere.

Passing all landis, on the little isle
That clepèd is Albion, they most complain,
They say that there, is crop and root of guile:
So can those men dissimulin and feign,
With standing dropis in their eyin twain;
When that their heartis feeleth no distress,
To blindin women with their doubleness.

Their wordis, spoken be so sighingly,
With so piteous a cheer and countenance
That every wight that meaneth truly
Deemeth they in heart havin such grievance.
They say, "So importable is their penance,
That but their lady lust to shew them grace
They, right anon, must starvin in the place."

"Ah, Lady mine!" they say, "I you ensure
As doth me grace! and I shall ever be,
While that my life may lasting and endure
To you as humble and low in each degree
As possible is, and keep all things in secre[t]
Right as your selfin listeth that I do!
And ellis mine heartè must burst in two."

Full hard it is, to know a manis heart
For outward may no man the truthè deem.
When word out of the mouth, may none astert
But it, by reason seemed a wight to queme,
So it is said of heart, as it would seem.
O faithful woman! full of innocence!
Thou art deceivèd by false appearance!

By process moveth oft woman's pity.
Weening all things were as these men ysay,
They grant them grace, of their benignity,
For that men shouldin not, for their sake die,
And with good heart, settin them in the way
Of blissful love: keepin it, if they con!
And thus, otherwhile, women bethe ywon.

And when this man, the pan hath by the steel
And fully is in his possession;
With that woman keepeth he no more to deal
After, if he may findin in the town
Any woman, his blind affection
Unto bestow. But evil mote he preve!
A man, for all his oaths, is hard to believe!

And for that every false Man hath a Make,
(As unto every wight is light to know)
When this traitor, this woman hath forsake,
He fast speedeth him unto his fellow.
Till he be there, his heart is on a low;
His false deceit ne may him not suffice,
But of his treason telleth all the wise.

Is this a fair avaunt? Is this honour?
A man himself accuse thus and defame!
Is it good to confess himself a traitor?
And bring a woman into slanderous name
And tell how he her body hath do shame?
No worship may he thus, to him conquer,
But great dislander unto him and her!

To her! Nay! Yet ywas it no reprefe;
For all for virtue was, that she ywrought!
But he that brewèd hath all this mischief,
That spake so fair, and falsely inward thought;
His, be the slander! as it by reason ought
And unto Her be thank perpetual
That, in such a need, helpin can so well.

Although through manis sleight and subtilty,
A silly simple and innocent woman
Betrayed is: no wonder! since the city
Of Troyè, as the story tellin can,
Betrayèd was, through the deceit of man,
And set on fire, and all down overthrown;
And finally destroyèd, as men knowèn.

Betrayin not men, cities great and kings?
What wight is it that can shape remedy
Against these falsely proposèd things?
When can the craft, such crafts to espy
But man? whose wit is e'er ready to apply
To thing that sowning is into falshede?
Woman! bethe 'ware of false men! I thee rede!

And, furthermore, have these men in usage
That where they not likely been to sped
Such as they been, with a double visage,
They procurin, for to pursue their need
He prayeth him, in his cause to proceed.
And largely guerdoneth she his travail.
Little wot women, how men them assail!

Another wretch, unto his fellow saith,
"Thou fishest fair! She which that thee hath fired
Is false, inconstant, and she hath no faith.
She for the road, of folk is so desired;
And, as an horse, from day to day she is hired!
That when thou twinnest from her company,
Cometh another; and bleared is thine eye!

Now prick on fast! and ridin thy journey
While thou art there! For she, behind thy back,
So liberal is, she will nothing withsay,
But smartly of another take a smack.
And thus farin these women all the pack
Whoso them trusteth, hanged mote he be!
Ever they desire change and novelty."

Wherefore proceedeth this, but of envy?
For that he himself, her ne winnin may,
He speaketh her reprefe and villainy;
As manis blabbing tongue is wont alway.
Thus divers men full often make assay,
For to disturbin folk in sundry wise,
For they may not eschuin their emprise.

Many one eke would speakin for no good,
That hath in love his timè spent and used.
Men wist, his Lady his asking withstood;
Ere that he were of her, plainly refused.
Or waste and vain all that he had ymused:
Wherefore he can none other remedy,
But on his Lady, shapeth him to lie.

"Every woman," he saith, "is light to get,
Can none say, 'Nay!' if she be well ysought;
Whoso may leisure have with her to treat
Of his purpose, ne shall be failin ought
But he on madness be so deep ybrought
That he shende all with open homeliness
That loven women. They doting! as I guess."

To slaunder women thus, what may profit
To gentleness? namely, that them arm should
In defence of women, and them delight
As that the Order of Gentleness would?
If that a man list gentle to be held
He must all eschew that thereto is contrary.
A slanderous tongue is his great enemy!

A foul vice it is, of tongue to be light.
For whoso mochil clappeth, gabbeth oft.
The Tongue of Man so swift is, and so wight
That when it is yraisèd up on loft,
Reason is shewed so slowly and soft,
That it him never overtakin may.
Lord! so these men been trusty in assay!

Albeit that men find one woman nice,
Inconstant, recheless, and variable,
Deignous and proud, full fillèd of malice,
Without faith or love, and deceivable,
Sly, quaint, false, in all untrust culpable,
Wicked or fierce, or full of cruelty:
Yet followeth not that such, all women be!

When the high GOD, angellis formèd had:
Amongis them all formed, were there none
That foundin were malicious and bad?
Yet all men wotin, there were many one
That for their pride fell from heaven anon.
Should we, forthy, give all angels proud name?
Nay, he that that sustaineth, is to blame!

Of twelve Apostles, one a traitor was;
The remenant yet good werin and true.
So if it happen men findin, percase,
A woman false; such, good is to eschew:
And deem not all that they therefore be untrue.
I see well, that menis own falseness
Them causeth, woman for to trust the less.

O, every man ought have a heart tender
To a woman, and deem her honourable;
Whether her shape be thick, or else slender,
Or she be good or bad! It is no fable.
Every wight wot, that wit hath reasonable,
That of a woman, he descendèd is:
Then is it shame of her to speak amiss!

A wicked tree, good fruit may none forth bring;
For such the fruit, is aye as is the tree.
Take heed of whom thou take thy beginning!
Let thy mother be mirror unto thee!
Honour her, if thou wilt honoured be!
Despiseth her then not, in no manere!
Lest that thereby thy wickedness appear.

An old proverb there said is, in English,
That bird or fowl, soothly, is dishonest
What that he be, and holdin full churlish
That useth to defoulin his own nest.
Men to say well of women, it is the best:
And naught to despisin them, ne deprave;
If that they will their honour keep or save.

The Ladies ever complain them on Clerks
That they have made bookis of their defame;
In which they despise women and their works,
And speakin of them great reproof and shame:
And causèless give them a wicked name.
Thus they despisèd be, on every side,
Dislanderèd and blown upon full wide.

Those sorry books make mention
How women betrayed in especial
Adam, David, Sampson, and Solomon,
And many one more; who may rehearse them all,
The treasons that they havin done, and shall?
The world their malice may not comprehend
(As Clerkis feign), for it ne hath none end.

Ovid, in his book callèd Remedy
Of Love, great reproof of woman ywriteth,
Wherein, I know that he did great folly;
And every wight who, in such case, him delighteth.
A Clerkis custom is, when he enditeth
Of women (be it prose, or rhyme, or verse)
Say, "They be wicked!" all know he the reverse.

And the book Scholars learned in their childhead
For they of women beware should in age,
And to lovin them, ever be in dread.
Sith to deceive, is all their courage,
They say, of peril, men should cast the advantage,
Namely, of such as men havin bewrapped:
For many a man, by woman hath mishapped.

No charge is what so these Clerkis ysain
Of all their writing, I ne do ne cure
All their labour and travail is in vain
For between me and my Lady Nature
Shall not be suffred, while the world may 'dure.
Thus these Clerkis, by their cruel tyranny,
On silly women, kithin their mastery.

Whilom, for many of them were in my chain
Ytied; and now, for unwieldy age
And unlust, they may not to love attain:
And sain, now, that "Love is but very dotage!"
Thus, for they themselfin lackin courage,
They folk excitin by their wicked saws
For to rebell against Me, and my laws!

But, maugre them that blamin women most,
Such is the force of mine impression
That, suddenly, I can fell all their boast,
And all their wrong imagination.
It shall not be in their election,
The foulest slut in all the town to refuse;
If that me lust, for all that they can muse:

But her in heart, as brenningly desire
As though she were a Duchess, or a Queen;
So can I folkis heartis set on fire
And, as me list, sendin them joy or teen.
They that to women ben ywhet so keen,
My sharpè piercing strokis! how they smite!
Shall feel and knowin, how they kerve and bite!

Pardie! this Clerk, this subtle sly Ovid,
And many another deceivèd have be
Of women, as it is knowin full wide.
What! no men more! and that is great dainty
So excellent a Clerk as was he!
And other more, that couldin full well preach
Betrapped were, for aught that they could teach!

And trusteth well, that it is no marvail!
For women knowin plainly their intent.
They wist how softily they could assail
Them; and what falsehood they, in heartè meant:
And thus they Clerkis, in their danger hent,
With one venom, another is destroyed!
And thus these Clerkis often were annoyed.

These Ladies, ne these gentles ne'ertheless,
Where none of those that wroughtin in this wise;
But such women as werin vertueless
They quiltin thus, these old Clerkis wise.
To Clerkis muchil less ought to suffice
Than to dispravin women generally;
For worship shallin they none get thereby.

If that these men, that lovers them pretend,
To women werin faithful, good, and true,
And dread them to deceive, or to offend;
Women, to love them wouldin not eschew.
But, every day, hath man an heart new!
It, upon one abidin can, no while.
What force is it, such a wight to beguile?

Men bearing, eke, the women upon hand
That lightly, and withoutin any pain
They women be; they can no wight withstand
That his disease list to them to complain!
They be so frail, they may them not refrain!
But whoso liketh them, may lightly have;
So be their heartis easy in to grave.

To Master Jean de Meun, as I suppose,
Then, it was a lewd occupation,
In making of the Romance of the Rose,
So many a sly imagination,
And perils for to rollin up and down,
The long process, so many a slight cautel
For to deceive a silly damosel!

Nought can I say, ne my wit comprehend,
That art, and pain, and subtilty should fail
For to conquer, and soon to make an end;
When men, a feeble place shullin assail:
And soon, also, to vanquish a battle
Of which no wight may makin resistance;
Ne heart hath none, to make any defence.

Then mote it follow, of necessity,
Sith art asketh so great engine and pain
A woman to deceive, what so she be?
Of constancy be they not so barren
As that some of these silly Clerkis feign;
But they be, as women oughtin to be,
Sad, constant, and full fillèd of pity.

How friendly was Medea to Jason
In his Conquering of the Fleece of Gold!
How falsely quit he, her true affection,
By whom victory he gate as he would!
How may this man, for shame, be so bold
To falsin her, that, from his death and shame
Him kept, and gate him so great a prize and name?

Of Troy also, the traitor Æneas,
The faithless wretch! how he himself forswore
To Dido, which that Queen of Carthage was
That him relievèd of his smartis sore!
What gentleness might she have doin more
Than she, with heart unfeigned, to him kidde?
And what mischief to her thereof betid!

In my Legend of Natures may men find
(Whoso yliketh therein for to read)
That oathis ne behest may man not bind
Of reprovable shame have they no dread
In manis heart truth ne hath no stead.
The soil is naught; there may no troth ygrow.
To women, namely, it is not unknow[n].

Clerkis feign also there is no malice
Like unto woman's wicked crabbedness.
O Woman! how shalt thou thyself chevice;
Sith men of thee, so mochil harm witness?
Beth ware! O Woman! of their fickleness.
Kepeth thine ownè! what men clap or crake!
And some of them shall smart, I undertake!

Malice of women! What is it to dread?
They slay no man, destroyin no cities,
Ne oppress people, ne them overlaid,
Betray Empires, Realms, or Duchies,
Nor bereaven men their landis, ne their mees,
Empoison folk, ne houses set on fire,
Ne false contractis makin for no hire.

Trust, Perfect Love, and Entire Charity,
Fervent Will, and Entalented Courage,
All thewis good, as sitteth well to be,
Have women, ere, of custom and usage.
And well they canin manis ire asuage,
With soft wordis, discreet and benign.
What they be inward, they show outward by sign!

Womanis heart unto no cruelty
Inclined is; but they be Charitable,
Piteous, Devout, Full of Humility,
Shamefast, Debonaire, and Amiable,
Dread full, and of wordis measurable:
What women, these have not, peradventure;
Followeth not the way of their nature.

Men sayin that our First Mother na'theless
Made all mankind lesin his liberty,
And nakid it of joyè, doubtless,
For GOD is hest disobeyèd she,
When she presumed to taste of the tree,
That GOD forbade, that she eat thereof should.
And ne had the Devil be, no more she would!

The envious swelling, that the Fiend our foe
Had unto man in heart, for his wealth,
Sent a serpent, and made her for to go
To deceive Eve; and thus was manis wealth
Bereft him by the Fiend, in a stealth,
The woman not knowing of the deceipt,
God wot! Full far was it from her conceipt!

Wherefore I say, that this good woman Eve
Our father Adam, ne deceived nought.
There may no man for a deceipt it prove
Properly, but that she, in heart and thought,
Had it compassed [1] first, ere she it wrought.
And for such was not her Impression,
Men may it call no Deceipt, by reason.

Ne no wight disceiveth, but he purpose!
The Fiend this deceipt cast, and nothing She.
Then it is wrong to deemin or suppose
That of his harm She should the causè be.
Wytith the Fiend, and his be the maugre!
And all excusèd have her innocence,
Save only, that she brake obedience!

And touching this, full fewè men there be,
Unnethis any, dare I safely say!
From day to day, as men may all day see,
But that the hest of GOD they disobey.
Have this in mindè, siris! I you pray.
If that ye be discreet and reasonable;
Ye will her hold the more excusable!

And where men say, "In man is stedfastness;
And woman is of her courage unstable."
Who may of Adam bear such a witness?
Tellith me this! Was he not changeable?
They both werin in one case semblable.
Save that willing, the Fiend deceived Eve;
And so did she not Adam, by your leave!

Yet was this sinnè happy to mankind,
The Fiend disceived was, for all his sleight;
For aught he could him in his sleightis wind.
For his trespass, came from heaven on height
GOD, to discharge man of his heavy weight
He, flesh and blood ytook of a Virgine,
And suffered death, him to deliver of pine.

And GOD, to whom there may nothing hid be,
If he, in woman knowen had such malice,
As men record of them in generalty;
Of our Lady, of Life Reparatrice
He n'old have be born: but that she of vice
Was void, and full of virtue, well He wist,
Endowid! of her, to be born Him list.

Her heapèd virtue hath such excellence
That all too lean is manis faculty
To declare it; and therefore in suspense
Her due praising put, needis must ybe.
But this I sayin, Verily, that she
Next GOD, best friend is, that to Man 'longeth.
The Key of Mercy by her girdle hangeth!

And of mercy, hath every man such need,
That razing that, farewel the joy of man!
And of her power, now takith right good heed!
She, mercy may well, and purchasin can.
Depleasith her not! Honoureth that woman!
And other women, honour for her sake!
And but ye do, your sorrow shall awake!

In any book also, where can ye find
That of the workis of death or of life,
Of Jesu spelleth or maketh any mind
That women, Him forsoke, for woe or strife?
Where was there any wight so ententife
Aboutin Him as woman? Provid none!
The Apostles him forsokin everichone.

Woman forsoke Him not! For all the faith
Of holy church in woman left only!
These are no lies, for thus Holy Writ saith,
Look! and ye shall so find it hardily!
And therefore I may well provin thereby
That in woman reigneth stable constancy;
And in men is change of variancy.

Thou Precious Gem! Of martyrs, Magarite!
That of thy blood, dreadest none effusion!
Thou Lover true! Thou Maiden mansuete!
Thou, constant Woman! in thy passion
Overcame the Fiendis temptation!
And many a wight, convertid thy doctrine,
Unto the faith of holy GOD, thou Virgin!

But, understandeth this! I commend her nought,
By encheson of her virginity.
Trusteth, it came never into thought!
For ever were I against Chastity.
And ever shall. But, lo, this moveth me!
Her loving heart; and, constant to her lay,
Drive out of my remembrance I ne may.

Now holdith this for firm, and for no lie!
That this true and just commendation
Of women, tell I for no flattery;
Nor because of pride or elation:
But only, too, for this intention
To give them courage of perseverance
In virtue; and their honour to advance.

The more the virtue, the less is the pride.
Virtue so digne is, and so noble in kind,
That Vice and he will not in fere abide.
He putteth vices clean out of his mind,
He flyeth from them, he leaveth them behind.
O, Woman! that of Virtue, art hostess;
Great is thy honour, and thy worthiness!

Then will I thus concludin and define.
We, you command! our ministers each one
That ready ye be, our hests to incline!
That of these falsè men, our rebell foen
Ye doin punishment! and that, anon!
Void them our Court! and banish them for ever!
So that therein more comin, may they never!

Fulfilled be it! Ceasing all delay,
Look that there be none excusation!
Written in the lusty month of May,
In our Palace, where many a million
Of lovers true, have habitation;
In the year of grace, joyful and jocond,
A thousand, four hundred and second.

Edward Underhill, Esq.
of the Band of Gentlemen Pensioners, surnamed, "The hot Gospeller."
Examination and Imprisonment in August 1553; with anecdotes of the Time.

[Harl. MS. 425.]
[Narratives of the Days of the Reformation. Camden Society. 1859.]

The next day [4th] after the Queen was come to the Tower [on the 3rd of August, 1553]; the foresaid ballet [ballad] came into the hands of Secretary [Sir John] Bourne; who straightways made inquiry for me, the said Edward, who dwelt at Limehurst [Limehouse]; which he having intelligence of, sent the Sheriff of Middlesex, with a company of bills and glaives [lances, with a cutting blade at the end of each]; who came unto my house, I being in my bed, and my wife being newly laid in childbed.

The High Constable, whose name was Thomas Ive, dwelt at the next house unto me, the said Edward; whom the Sheriff brought also with him. He, being my very friend, desired the Sheriff and his company to stay without, for [fear of af]frighting of my wife, being newly laid; and he would go and fetch me unto him. Who knocked at the door, saying, "He must speak with me."

I, lying so near that I might hear him, called unto him, willing him "to come unto me!" for that he was always my very friend, and earnest in the Gospel. Who declared unto me that the Sheriff, with a great company with him, was sent for me.

Whereupon I rose, made me ready, and came unto him, demanding, "What he would with me?"

"Sir," said he, "I have commandment from the Council to apprehend you, and forthwith to bring you unto them."

"Why," said I, "it is now ten o'clock in the night; ye cannot, now, carry me unto them!"

"No, Sir," said he, "you shall go with me to my house to London, where you shall have a bed: and to-morrow, I will bring you unto them at the Tower."

"In the name of GOD! [=most certainly]," said I: and so went with him, requiring [inquiring of] him, "If I might understand the cause."

"This needed not, then," said I; "any one messenger might have fetched me unto them": suspecting the cause to be, as it was indeed, the ballet.

On the morrow [5th of August, 1553], the Sheriff, seeing me nothing dismayed, thinking it to be some light matter, went not with me himself: but sent me unto the Tower with two of his men, waiting upon me with two bills [men with halberts], prisoner-like, who brought me unto the Council Chamber; being commanded to deliver me unto Secretary Bourne.

Thus standing waiting at the Council Chamber door, two or three of my fellows, the Pensioners, and my cousin-german Gilbert Wynter, Gentleman Usher unto the Lady Elizabeth [see p. 120], stood talking with me.

In the meantime, cometh Sir Edward Hastings [see Vol. III. p. 147], newly made Master of the Horse to the Queen, and seeing me standing there prisoner, frowning earnestly upon me, said, "Are you come? We will talk with you or your party, I warrant you!" and so went into the Council.

Undoubtedly, the apprehending of me was for this matter: but the great mercy of GOD so provided for me, that Master Hastings was not at my examination. For tarrying thus at the Chamber door, Doctor Cox [afterwards Bishop of Ely] was within; who came forth, and was sent to the Marshalsea. Then came forth the Lord Ferrers, [Viscount Hereford], and was committed to the Tower. Then it was dinner time, and all were commanded to depart until after dinner.

My two waiting men and I went to an alehouse to dinner; and, longing to know my pain [punishment], I made haste to get to the Council Chamber door, that I might be the first.

Immediately, as they had dined, Secretary Bourne came to the door, looking as a wolf doth for a lamb; unto whom my two keepers delivered me, standing next unto the door: for there were more behind me.

He took me in greedily, and shut to the door; leaving me at the nether [lower] end of the Chamber, he went unto the Council showing them of me: and then beckoned me to come near.

Then they began the table, and sat them down. The Earl of Bedford sat as chief, uppermost upon the bench. Next unto him, the Earl of Sussex; next him, Sir Richard Southwell.

On the side next me, sat the Earl of Arundel; next him, the Lord Paget. By them, stood Sir John Gage, then Constable of the Tower; the Earl of Bath, and Master [afterwards Sir John] Mason.

At the board's end, stood Serjeant Morgan [who, later on, condemned Lady Jane Grey] that afterwards died mad; and Secretary [Sir John] Bourne.

The Lord Wentworth [the Lord Deputy of Calais, when lost; see p. 173] stood in the bay window, talking with one, all the while of my examination, whom I knew not.

I kneeled down, saying, "Yes, truly, my Lord! Is that the cause I am called before your Honours?"

"Ay, marry," said Secretary Bourne, "you have one of them about you, I am sure."

Then he took one out of his bosom, and read it over distinctly; the Council giving diligent ear.

When he had ended, "I trust, my Lords," said I, "I have not offended the Queen's Majesty in this ballet; nor spoken against her title, but maintained it."

"You have, sir," said Morgan, "yes, I can divide your ballet, and make a distinction in it; and so prove at the least sedition in it."

"Lo," said Sir Richard Southwell, "how he can give a taunt! You maintain the Queen's title, with the help of an arrant heretic, Tyndale."

"You speak of Papists there, sir," said Master Mason, "I pray you, how define you a Papist?"

I look upon him, turning towards him; for he stood on the side of me, "Why, sir," said I, "it is not long since you could define a Papist better than I" [meaning that he had turned with the new change of religion]. With that some of them secretly smiled; as the Lords of Bedford, Arundel, Sussex, and Paget.

In great haste, Sir John Gage took the matter in hand, "Thou callest men Papists there," said he, "who be they that thou judgest to be Papists?"

I said, "Sir, I do name no man, and I came not hither to accuse any, nor none will I accuse; but your Honours do know that in this Controversy that hath been, some be called Papists, and some Protestants."

"But we must know whom thou judgest to be Papists, and that we command thee, upon thine allegiance to declare!"

"Sir," said I, "I think if you look among the priests in Paul's, ye shall find some old Mumpsimuses there."

"Mumpsimuses, knave!" said he, "Mumpsimuses! Thou art an heretic knave, by God's blood!"

"Ay, by the mass!" says the Earl of Bath, "I warrant him an heretic knave indeed."

"I beseech your Honours!" said I, speaking to the Lords that sat at table; for those other stood by, and were not then of the Council, "be my good Lords! I have offended no laws, and I have served the Queen's Majesty's father and brother a long time; and in their service have spent and consumed part of my living, never having, as yet, any preferment or recompense; and the rest of my fellows likewise, to our utter undoings, unless the Queen's Highness be good unto us. And for my part, I went not forth against Her Majesty; notwithstanding that I was commanded, nor liked those doings."

"No, but with your writings, you would set us together by the ears!" said the Earl of Arundel.

"He hath spent his living wantonly," saith Bourne, "and now saith he has spent it in the King's service; which I am sorry for. He is come of a worshipful house in Worcestershire."

"It is untruly said of you," said I, "that I have spent my living wantonly: for I never consumed any part thereof until I came into the King's service; which I do not repent, nor doubted of recompense, if either of my two masters had lived. I perceive you [to be] Bourne's son of Worcester; who was beholden unto my uncle Wynter, and therefore you have no cause to be my enemy: nor you never knew me, nor I you before now, which is too soon."

"So have I of you," said I, "how that Master Sheldon drave you out of Worcestershire, for your behaviour."

With that, came Sir Edward Hastings from the Queen, in great haste, saying, "My Lords! you must set all things apart, and come forthwith to the Queen."

Then said the Earl of Sussex, "Have this gentleman unto the Fleet until we may talk further with him!" though I was "knave," before, of Master Gage.

"Have the gentleman to Newgate!" saith Master Gage again, "Call a couple of the Guard here."

"Ay," saith Bourne, "and there shall be a letter sent to the keeper how he shall use him; for we have other manner of matters to him than these."

"Deliver him to Master [after Sir William] Garrard, the Sheriff [of London]," said he, "and bid him send him to Newgate."

"My Lord," said I, unto my Lord of Arundel, (for that he was next to me) as they were rising, "I trust you will not see me thus used, to be sent to Newgate. I am neither thief nor traitor."

"You are a naughty fellow!" said he, "you were always tutting in the Duke of Northumberland's ear, that you were!"

"I would he had given better ear unto me," said I; "it had not been with him then, as it is now" [waiting his trial in the Tower].

Master Hastings passing by me, I thought good to prove him; although he threatened me, before noon.

"Sir," said I, "I pray you speak for me, that I be not sent to Newgate; but rather unto the Fleet, which was first named. I have not offended. I am a Gentleman, as you know; and one of your fellows, when you were of that Band of the Pensioners."

Very quietly, he said unto me, "I was not at the talk, Master Underhill; and therefore I can say nothing to it." But I think he was well content with the place I was appointed to.

So went I forth with my two fellows of the Guard, who were glad they had the leading of me, for they were great Papists.

When we came to the Tower gate, where Sir John Brydges [afterwards Lord Chandos of Sudeley, see p. 128] had the charge, [who was there] with his brother Master Thomas; with whom I was well acquainted, (but not with Sir John) who, seeing the two of the Guard leading me, without their halberts, rebuked them; and stayed me while they went for their halberts.

His brother said unto me, "I am sorry you should be an offender, Master Underhill."

And so forth we went at the gate, where was a great throng of people to hear and see what prisoners were committed: and amongst whom stood, my friend Master Ive, the High Constable, my next neighbour.

One of the Guard went forth at the wicket before me, to take me by the arm, the other held me by the other arm; fearing, belike, I would have shifted [escaped] from them amongst the people.

When my friend, who had watched at the gate all the forenoon saw me thus led; he followed afar off, as Peter did Christ, to see what should become of me. Many also followed, some that knew me: some to learn who I was; for that I was in a gown of satin.

Thus passed we through the streets, well accompanied, unto Master Garrard, the Sheriff's house, in the Stocks Market. My friend Master Ive tarried at the gate.

These two of the Guard declared unto Master Sheriff, that they were commanded by the Council to deliver me unto him, and he to send me unto Newgate: saying, "Sir, if it please you, we will carry him thither."

With that, I stepped unto Master Sheriff, and, taking him a little aside, requested him that, forasmuch as their commission was but to deliver me unto him, and he to send me into Newgate, that he would send me by his officers: for the request was of mere malice.

"Masters!" said he, "you may depart! I will send my officers with this gentleman anon; when they be come in."

Then the Sheriff said sharply unto them, "What! do you think that I will not do the Council's commandment? You are discharged by delivering him unto me!"

My friend, Master Ive, seeing them depart and leave me behind, was very glad thereof: and tarried still at the gate to see farther.

All this talk in the Sheriff's hall, did my Lord Russell, son and heir to the Earl of Bedford, hear and see; who was at commandment [under arrest] in the Sheriff's house, and his chamber joining into the hall, wherein he might look: who was very sorry for me, for that I had been familiar with him in matters of religion, as well on the other side the seas as at home. He sent me on the morrow, 20s. [= about £10 now]; and every week as much, while I was in Newgate.

When these two companions of the Guard were gone, the Sheriff sent two of his officers with me, who took no bills with them, nor lead me; but followed a pretty way behind me: for as I said unto Master Sheriff, "But for order's sake and to save him blameless, I would have gone unto Newgate myself, at the Council's commandment, or his either."

When I came into the street, my friend Master Ive, seeing me have such liberty, and such distance betwixt me and the officers, he stepped before them, and so went talking with me through Cheapside: so that it was not well perceived that I was apprehended, but by the great company that followed.

The officers delivered me unto the Keeper of Newgate, as they were commanded: who unlocked a door, and willed me to go up the stairs into the Hall. My friend Ive went up with me; where we found three or four prisoners that had the liberty of the house.

After a little talk with my friend, I required him not to let my wife know that I was sent to Newgate, but [to say] to the Counter, until such time that she were near her churching: and that she should send me my night-gown, my Bible, and my Lute. And so he departed.

In a while after, it was supper time [i.e., about 5 p.m.]. The board was covered in the same hall. The Keeper, whose name was Alexander, and his wife came to supper; and half a dozen prisoners that were there for felonies: for I was the first, for religion, that was sent unto that prison; but the cause why, the Keeper knew not.

FOOTNOTES:

Edward Underhill, Esq. of the Band of Gentlemen Pensioners, surnamed, "The hot Gospeller." Examination and Imprisonment in August 1553; with anecdotes of the Time.

Edward Underhill, Esq.
of the Band of Gentlemen Pensioners, surnamed, "The hot Gospeller."
Examination and Imprisonment in August 1553; with anecdotes of the Time.