LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 690, 5 September 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE KNIGHT'S SECRET. Thomas Erpingham was knighted, by I Henry the Fourth, for good and valiant service. This Sir Thomas Erpingham, Knight of Iho Garter, aftewards /ought by the side of Henry the Fifth in his French wars, and was made Warden of the Cinque .Ports; but retired to Norwich, his native place. He married a beautiful, pious lady, and, after a turbulent career, and the horrors of war, desired to end his days in charity. Being wealthy, and of one inind, he aud Lady Erpingham built a goodly church in the city, and also erected and endowed a religious house for twelve monks and a prior, close to the Knight's house, and parted only by a hisjh wall. But, though the retired soldier wished to be at peace with all men, two of his friars were of another mind ; Friar John and Friar Richard hated each other, and could by no means be reconciled; neither had ever a good word for t'other: and at last Friar John gave Friar Richard a fair excuse for his invectives. Lady Erpingham came ever to matins in the convent, and Friar John would always await her coming, and attend her through the cloister, with ducks, and cringes, and open adulation ; whereat she smiled, being, in truth, a most innocent lady, affable to all, and slow to think ill of any man. But Richard denounced John as a licentious monk; and some watched and whispered ; others rebuked Richard ; for it was against the monastic rule to put an ill construction where the matter might be innocent. But Richard stood his ground; and, unfortunately, Richard was right; misunderstanding the lady's courtesy and charity, brother John thought his fawning advances were encouraged, and this bred in him such impudence, that one day he sent her a fulsome love-letter, and had the hardihood to beg for a private interview. The lady, when she opened this letter, could hardly believe her senses, and at last, as gentlewomen will be both unsuspicious, and suspicious, in the wrong place, she made up her mind that the poor, good, ridiculous friar could never have been so wicked as to write this ; nay, but it was her husband's doing, and a trial of her virtue; he was older than herself, and great love is oft tainted with jealousy. This brought tears into her eyes, to think she should be doubted; but soon anger dried them, and she took occasion to put the letter suddenly into Sir Richard's hand, and fixed her eyes on him so keenly that, if there had been a flaw in his conjugal armour, no doubt those eyes had pierced it. The Knight read the letter, and turned black and white with rage; his eyes sparkled with fury, and he looked so fearful that the lady was very sorry she had shown him the letter, and begged him not to take a madman's folly to heart. «Not take it to heart!' said he. ' What ! these beggarly shavelings that I have housed and fed, and so lessened my estate and thine —they shall corrupt thee, and rob me of my one earthly treasure ! sit thou down and write.' ' Write—Richard—what ?—to whom ?' 'Do as I bid thee, dame,' said he, sternly, ' and no more words.' Those were days when husbands Commanded, and wives obeyed; so she sat down, trembling, and took the pen. Then he made her write a letter back to the friar, and say she compassionated his love, and her husband was to ride towards London that night, and her servant, on whom she could depend, should admit him to her by a side door of the house. Friar John, at the appointed time, took care to be in the town—for he knew the laybrother, who kept the gate of the priory, would not let him out so late. He came to the side door, and was admitted by a servant of the Knight, a reckless old soldier who cared for neither man nor devil, as the saying is, but only for his master. This man took him into a room, and left him ; then went for the Kni»ht—he was not far off. Now the unlucky monk, being come to the conquest of a beautiful lady, as he vainly thought, had fine linen on, and perfumed like a civet. The Knight smelt these perfumes, and rushed in upon him with his man, like dogs upon the odoriferous fox, and, in a fury, without giving him time to call for help, or to say one prayer, strangled him, and left him dead. But death breeds calm ; the Knignt's rage abated that moment, and he saw he had done a foul and remorseless deed. He would have given half his estate to bring the offender back to life. Half his estate ? his whole estate, ay, and his life, were now gone from him : they were forfeited to the law. So did he pass from rage to remorse, and from remorse to fear. The rough soldier, seeing him so stricken, made light of all, except the danger of discovery. ' Come, noble sir,' said he, ' let us bestir ourselves, and take him back to the priory, and there bestow him ; so shall we ne'er be known in it.' Thus urged, the Knight roused himself, and he and his man brought the body out, and got it as far as the wall that did part the house from the monastery. Here they were puzzled awhile ; but the man remembered a short ladder in the back yard, that was high enough for this job. So they set the ladder, and, with much ado, got the body up it, and then drew the ladder up, and set it again on the other side; and so, with infinite trouble, the soldier got him into the priory. The next thing was to make it appear Friar John had died a natural death. Accordingly he set him up on a rickety chair he found in the yard; balanced him, and left him ; mounted the wall again, let himself down, and then dropped into the Knight's premises. He found the Knight walking in great perturbation, and they went into the house. ' Now good master, said this stout soldier, 'go you to bed, and think no"more ou't.' ' To bed !' groaned the Knight, in agony. ' Why should I go there ? I cannot sleep. Methinks I shall never sleep again,' ' Then give me the cellar key, good sir. I'll draw a stoup of Canary.' ' Ay, wine !' cried the Knight: ' for my blood runs cold in my veins.' _ The servant lighted a rousing fire in the dining hall, and warmed and spiced some generous wine, after the fashion of the day ; and there sat these two, over the fire, awaiting daylight and its revelations. But, meantime, the night was fruitful in events. The prior, informed of Friar Richard's uncharitable interpretations, had con- i

demned him to vigil and prayer on the bare pebbles of the yard, from midnight until three of the clock. But the sly Richard, at dusk, had conveyed a chair into the yard, to keep his knees off the cold hard stones. At midnight, when he came to his enforced devotions, lo! there sat a figure in the chair. He started, and took it for the prior, seated there to lecture him frr luxury; but peeping, he soon discovered it was Friar John. tie walked round and round him, talking at him. 'ln it brother John or brother Richard, who is to keep vigil to-night? I know but one friar in all thia house would sit stargazing in his brother's chair, when that brother wants it to pray in,' &c Brother John vouchsafed no reply ; and this stung brother Richard, and he burned for revenge. 'Sobe it then,' said he, ' since my place is taken, I will tell the prior, and keep vigil some other night.' With this he retired, and slammed the door. But, having thus disarmed, as he conceived, brother John's suspicion, he took up an enormous pebble, and slipped back on tip-toe, and getting near the angle of a wall, he flang his great pebble at brother John, and slipped hastily behind the wall: nevertheless, as he hid, he had the satisfaction of seeing his pebble, which weighed abcut a Etonc. strike brother John on ihe nape of the neck, and then there was a lumping noise and a great clatter, and Friar Richaid chuckled with pride aud delight at the success of his throw. However, he waited some minutes before he emerged, and then walked briskly out, like a new comer. There lay John fla,t, and the chair upset. Brother Richard ran to him, charged with hypocricsl sympathy, and found his euemy's face very white. He got alarmed, and felt his heart: he was stone dead. The poor monk, whose hatred was of a mere feminine sort and had never been deadly, was seized with remorse, and he beat his breast, and prayed in earnest, instead of repeating Pater-nosters, ' preces sine mence dictas,' as the srrefit Rraamus cilia them. But other feelings soon succeeded: his enmity to the deceased was well known, and this would be called murder, if the body was found in that yard; and his own life would pay the forfeit. Casting his eyes round for a place, where he might hide the body, he saw a ladder standing against the wall. This surprised him; but he was in no condition to puzzle over small riddles. Terror gave him force : he lifted the body, crawled up the ladder, and placed the body on the wall : it was wider than they build now : then they drew up the ladder, set it on the other side, and took his ghastly load down safely. Then, being naturally cunning and having his neck to save, he went and hid the ladder, took up the body, staggered with it as far as the porch of the Knight's house, and set it there bolt upright against one of the pillars. As he carried it out of the yard he heard a window in the Knight's house open. He could not see where the window was, nor whether he was watched, and recognised : but he feared the worst, and, such was his terror, he resolved to fly the place and bury himself in some distant monastery under another name. But how ? He was lame, and could not go ten miles in a day, whereas a hundred miles was little enough to make him secure. After homicide, theft is no great matter: he resolved to borrow the maltster's mare, and turn her adrift, when she had carried him beyond the hue and cry. So he went and knocked up the maltster, and told him the convent wanted flour, and he was to go betimes to the miller for a sack thereof. Now the convent was a good customer to the maltster, so he lent Friar Richard the mare, at a word, and told him where to find the saddle and bridle. Richard fed the mare for a journey, and saddled her; then he mounted, and rode at a foot-pace past the convent, meaning to go quietly through the town, making no stir, then away like the wind. But, as he paced by the Knight's house, he cast a look askant to see if that ghastly object still sat in the porch. No, the porch was empty. What might that mean ? Had he come to life ?—Had the murder been discovered ? He began to wonder and tremble. While he was in this mood, there was a great clatter behind him of horse's feet, and clashing armour, and he felt he was pursued. ***** The Knight and his man sat together, drinking hot spiced wine, and awaiting daylight. The Knight would not go to bed, yet he wanted a change. ' Will daylight never come ?' said he. ' 'Twill be here anon,' said the soldier : 'in half an hour.' The Knight said no, it would never come. The soldier said he would go and look at the sky, and tell him for certain. ' Be not long away,' said the Knight, with a shiver, 'or the dead friar 'will be taking thy place here, and pledging me.' ' Stuff!' said the soldier : ' he'll never trouble you more.' With this he marched out to consult the night, and almost ran against the dead friar seated in the porch, white and glaring ; this was too much even for the iron soldier ; he uttered a sharp yell, staggered hack, and burst into the room, gasping for breath. He got close to his master, and stammered out, ' The dead man .'—sitting in the porch !'— and crossed himself energetically, the first time these thirty years. The Knight stared and trembled : and so they drew close together, with their eyes over their shoulders. 'Wine !' cried the Knight. 'Ay,' said the soldier: 'but I go not alone. He'll be squatting on the cask else.' So they went together to the cellar, often looking round, and fetched two bottles. To he contmvrd.