The Tower Of London by W. Harrison Ainsworth

“Then perish in thy sins, unbeliever,” replied Gardiner sternly.

And he arose, and taking off his mitre, the whole assemblage knelt down, while the terrible denunciation of the Catholic church against a heretic was solemnly pronounced. This done, mass was performed, hymns were chanted, and the prisoner was conducted to his cell.

The brief remainder of his life was passed by Underhill in deep but silent devotion; for his jailers, who never left him, would not suffer him to pray aloud, or even to kneel; and strove, though vainly, to distract him, by singing ribald songs, plucking his beard and garments, and offering other interruptions.

The place appointed as the scene of his last earthly suffering was a square patch of ground, marked by a border of white flint stones, then, and even now, totally destitute of herbage, in front of Saint Peter’s Chapel on the Green, where the scaffold for those executed within the Tower was ordinarily erected, and where Anne Boleyn and Catherine Howard were beheaded. On this spot a strong stake was driven deeply into the ground, and at a little distance from it was piled a large stack of fagots. An iron ring was fixed to the centre of the stake, and to the ring was attached a broad iron girdle, destined to encircle the body of the victim.

As night set in, a large band of halberdiers marched into the Green, and stationed themselves round the stake. Long before this, sombre groups had gathered together at various points, and eyed the proceedings in moody silence. None of the curiosity, none of the excitement ordinarily manifested upon such occasions, was now exhibited. Underhill’s crime had checked the strong tide of sympathy which would otherwise have run in his favour. Still, as he had been pardoned by the queen, and was condemned for his religious opinions only, deep commiseration was felt for him. It was not, however, for him that the assemblage looked grave, but for themselves. Most of them were of the reformed faith, and they argued—and with reason—that this was only the commencement of a season of trouble; and that the next victim might be one of their own family. With such sentiments, it is not to be wondered at that they looked on sternly and suspiciously, and with the strongest disposition, though it was not manifested, otherwise than by looks, to interrupt the proceedings. As it grew dark, and faces could no longer be discerned, loud murmurings arose, and it was deemed expedient to double the guard, and to place in custody some of the most clamorous. By this means, all disposition to tumult was checked, and profound silence ensued. Meanwhile, numbers continued to flock thither, until, long before the appointed hour arrived, the whole area from the lieutenant’s lodgings to Saint Peter’s Chapel was densely thronged.

As the bell ceased tolling the hour of midnight, a lugubrious procession slowly issued from beneath the gloomy archway of the Coal Harbour Gate. First came four yeomen of the guard walking two and two, and bearing banners of black silk, displaying large white crosses. Then twelve deacons in the same order, in robes of black silk and flat caps, each carrying a long lighted wax taper. Then a priest’s assistant, in a white surplice, with a red cross in front, bareheaded, and swinging a large bell heavily to and fro. Then two young priests, likewise bareheaded, and in white surplices, each holding a lighted taper in a massive silver candlestick. Then an old priest with the mitre. Then two chantry-priests in their robes singing the Miserere. Then four Carmelite monks, each with a large rosary hanging from his wrist, supporting a richly gilt square canopy, decorated at each corner with a sculptured cross, beneath which walked Bonner, in his scarlet chimere and white rochet. Then came Feckenham and other prelates, followed by two more chantry-priests singing the same doleful hymn as their predecessors. Then came a long train of halberdiers. Then the prisoner, clothed in sackcloth and barefooted, walking between two friars of the lowly order of Saint Francis, who besought him, in piteous tones, to repent ere it was too late. And lastly, the rear was brought up by a company of archers of the queen’s bodyguard.