# The Chronicle of Clemendy/The Lord Maltworm's Second Tale

THE AFFAIR DONE AT THE HOUSE WITH THE LATTICE
IN THE time of Jehan de Hastings, third of that name, Baron of Burgavenny, and Earl of Pembroke, there came a young knight to the town of Abergavenny, having the style of Sir Philip Meyrick of Caerwent, and being on the whole rather a pleasant young gentleman. That is to say he was of moderate height, had yellow hair and blue eyes, and a cheerful grin, of the which commodity he was very liberal. You will know what I mean when I tell you that some ladies called him an impudent fellow, whilst others had nothing to say when Sir Philip's name was mentioned, but blushed and smiled a little to themselves, as people do when they have pleasant recollections. The knight was lodged, I believe, at the Priory, where he had an uncle, an old Canon of some eighty odd years, who had begun life by enjoying it, and still persisted in this course, only he had changed his methods; for a spark of twenty and a Canonicus of eighty go to work in different ways. On this good old ecclesiastic Sir Philip is supposed to have fastened, and at the Priory he lived some while snug and at his ease, though the Cellarius hinted once or twice to the Prior that all the casks in the cellar had sprung a leak of late, and that if things went on in this style much ​longer, they would infallibly run dry. But the Prior rebuked him for his want of faith and showed him plainly how the saints love monks and casks and take care of them, and even when hard put to it, have been known to work great miracles in their behalf. I suppose however you would be glad to hear some few particulars about Sir Philip, and how he came to test the barrels of Burgavenny and the faith of the monks. And if you have ever walked through Abergavenny with your heads on one side you will doubtless be inquisitive about that fine house a little way out of the town, that seems to have just stopped short of being a castle, and has an extensive and complicated coat of arms cut over the porch. But I am going to tell you about these matters, and you shall understand how this mansion was built, and what it had to do with Sir Philip Meyrick. Who, as I have said, was styled of Caerwent, and indeed he came from the neighbourhood of that town of an old Welsh family, whose pedigree kept getting longer and longer and their rent roll shorter and shorter as the Saxons followed the Romans, and the Danes the Saxons, and the Normans the Danes. Every century in fact added quarters to their shield, and subtracted carucates from their possessions, until uncivil people began to whisper that the Meyricks of Caerwent were decaying and would ere long be all uprooted from the soil or rooted under it; it did not matter which. But you may judge what a sound old family this was by the time it took them to fall to pieces, your modern houses gave a crack and ​thunder in a moment to the earth in a cloud of dust and mortar, and dirt of all sorts, but this old ancient race who had once ruled all Gwent, and had furnished the Calendar with three or four saints, merely dropped a stone here and there, and then went on quietly for another hundred years. However when Sir Philip took possession he found the house, the garden, a field or two, and little else; and the rain came through the roof and soaked him through when he was in bed. These circumstances would have discouraged many young gentlemen, but being a Meyrick he had the hole mended and sat down to do a little thinking, for he perceived that the family was in a languid state and needed to be revived. Sir Philip had, to be sure, that cheerful confidence in himself, which helps a man on in the world, and fills his cup for him, and it need not be said that he considered himself equal to the task of restoring his house and collecting together a few acres of that dust whence we come and which bears corn and oak trees as well as men—some say a good field of corn is worth more than a fool; but I suspect this opinion is heretical and unreasonable besides. Why? Because rain sometimes falls and spoils the ingathering of the wheat; whereas no rain beats down nor does the mildew destroy the plentiful and everlasting crop of folly, which is ripe all the year round and groweth more luxuriant every day. But I return to Sir Philip, who when he had laudably determined in one way or another to magnify once more the name of Meyrick, began to go farther and to consider in what way he should do this. ​And finding himself master of no arts but those of warfare and horsemanship, he determined to try what chivalry would do for him and made the journey oversea to France, the which realm one of our glorious kings was at that time engaged in tormenting. This expedition Sir Philip performed in company with a band of pretty fellows of Gwent, of whom some had made the country too warm for them, some found the times too dull at home, some like himself were desirous of mending divers rags and tatters in their estates. And I believe that this Silurian band did not disgrace their ancestors, and came to be much respected by the French as a sturdy set of men who made large gaps and cut to the bone. This was well enough, but yet Sir Philip did not find his pockets get any fuller, and heard no talk of a grant of land or lordship, or office about the Court, or government of an island, or any of those contentments which are good for an old decayed family. Hence he made his way home again, perceiving that chivalry was going to the devil, and that this war was a very unrighteous war that did nobody any good. For he was not so silly as to think that killing Peers of France, burning their towns and castles and pilling the people was in itself a comely undertaking; though he might have excused it if it had brought him one or two of those little easements that I have mentioned. After this disappointment he was for a few weeks perplexed as to what he should turn his hands to, and at last concluded to roam for a while about the country, keeping his eyes open and his ​brain clear, since no one knows after what fashion good luck shall come to us. It really is a very simple thing this finding of the golden cup at the foot of the rainbow, and a rainbow generally follows rain and storm and driving clouds. Some few there are who profess to care nothing for this quest and spend their days in the courtyard, looking down into the dim old well, and dazzling their eyes with the stars they see therein. They think themselves wise, and in point of fact they are quaint fellows, which perhaps comes to the same thing. But Sir Philip knew better than they, and had no intention of leading this dreamy sort of life, for his great ambition (or so he said) was to have at last a good monument over him in alabaster, carved artfully, with all his quarters painted on the stone and in the window above. To enjoy this benefit, and to lie like a Christian when he was dead, it was necessary to lie like one when he was alive; that is, of course, in a warm bed under a leaden roof, with a full belly. And he was too wise a man (though he was a young one) to vex his heart over his poor estate and ill success at the wars; for he understood the benefit of misfortune and early buffets, the which give a vast relish to the warm hearth and good wine of after years. Hence he proceeded cheerfully to his geographical studies, strolling discursively from town to town, from castle to castle, and from convent to convent; never hurrying himself in the least, and always finding out the pleasantest paths and the most sheltered nooks. In this pilgrimage he acquired ​an immense account of knowledge, and found out all the fine things our land is fertile in, tasting the full-flavoured gilded sausages of Uske Priory, products of the vineyards of Lantonia Abbey in Gloucester, the hams of Caerleon, and the larded meats and sweet cakes of Monmouth. And since he always made himself agreeable, sang a pretty French song, and kissed the black-eyed Silurian maidens with liberality and in a pleasing manner, Sir Philip was welcomed by all and enjoyed himself exceedingly, as he deserved to do. But he never forgot business in his amusements, still keeping his eyes open, and sharpening his wits every day against other folks' brains, as he sat in the snuggest seat of the common-room, or hall, or tavern, ever ready to catch the morsel which should satisfy him for the remainder of his days. After about a year of this life, wherein he learnt more than Oxford, Paris, Padua, and Salamanca could have taught him, he hit upon the notion of visiting his uncle, the old Canon Ambrosius, of Abergavenny; for he was a pious young man, and had heard tell that the cook of the Priory had a curious art of preserving ducks in hot sauces, and that his condiments were on the whole more ecclesiastical than any in the Marches. So between the desire of enjoying the conversation of this admirable cook, and of dutifully serving his uncle, who came of a jovial stock, namely the Ap Adams of Hafod, Sir Philip used more speed in his journey to the Grand Seignory of Burgavenny than he was accustomed, and had to sit very still for many days after he had got there. As ​for the old Canonicus he welcomed his nephew, made much of him, and saw that he had plenty to eat and drink, and was lodged well; and listened to the Silurian wisdom he had acquired in his wanderings, for the good man relished the sapience of the tankard and the sparkling black eyes, having himself compiled some Breviates of this pleasant philosophy in his younger days. To be short Sir Philip found himself in desirable quarters, and sometimes of a morning after he had been mortifying his flesh with the warm sauces of Master Cook and the cool juices of Master Cellarer, he would grow melancholy and think of turning monk himself, so that he might keep his throat in a continual state of mortification. But these pensive thoughts went off with his morning draught, after which he commonly went his rounds about Abergavenny to his own delight and that of the townsfolk, who loved a pretty man in a gay surcoat who could tell a merry tale. His chief guide and Cicero was a certain lawyer of the place, called John of Gloucester, the same being an officer of the Chancery of Burgavenny, and by no means bearing the gown in vain. He certainly did not look over sharp, being pudding-faced (if it be lawful to say so) and of a squat figure, but nevertheless his upper stories were well furnished, and he showed Sir Philip all the entertainments that were being performed in the town, and told him below what windows it was amusing to wait after dusk. By the advertisements he received of this witty lawyer Sir Philip threaded many a maze and soon knew the histories and adventures ​of the townsfolk very perfectly; but found nothing of solid advantage therein, until he had been in Abergavenny better than six months. And one evening as he was passing along a bye street with his companion, he saw a large well-compacted house, as fair as, or fairer than any in the town; but on the face of it there appeared but one lattice window, and this high up above the door. "Who dwells there?" said he to Master John. "Why nobody exactly knows," answered the lawyer, "for the inhabitants of this house are what is called quiet people who mind their own business so well that they give other folk no opportunity of helping them. But I believe that one Maurice Torlesse doth actually dwell here, with two servants, an old man and an old woman, very hideous to behold, and also his daughter whose name I know not, though I have seen her." "Where did you catch a sight of her?" asked Philip, pricking up his ears, for he loved mysteries. "At that very lattice I have once seen the lady, as I passed below, and by corpus Domini I thought I should have swooned away." "Was she then so foul to look upon?" "Sir Philip, Sir Philip, she was as fair as a lady of færy and had oh! (here the little man sighed deeply to himself) such eyes. 'Las! they pierced utterly to my heart, and taught me that all the beauties I had seen before were mere clumsy wenches. And I have seen her also going to the Mass and vesper-music at the Monastic Church, but shrouded and hidden by a thick veil and attended by the old hideous woman, who seems to be her governess." "Her father ​then keeps her very close?" "Right as he keeps his treasure, whereof I believe he hath good store; and I may tell you what a porter once told me; namely that going to the house on a certain day he was let in with his load and found the walls most chargeably adorned with hangings, and golden vessells on the cupboard finer than my lord has in the castle. But, as you may guess, he was in the street again before very long, and though he troubled himself to invent many ingenious tales as to what he had seen and heard, they are too improbable to be worth recounting." "And has this beautiful young lady no lovers?" "Not one, saving myself, who can never forget her." "Why in that case (with your leave) I can do no less than to be her sweetheart," said Sir Philip. "I love beautiful eyes, and golden vessells, and comely hangings, and have always used to look closely into such ware; and I believe this damsel will suit me well enough—that is if she be well proportioned." "I should judge that her taille is a rarer and more lautitious taille than that of Madam Phryne; but, by cock! if you win this lady you must be a very discreet knight, and a cunning, and a daring to boot; since Master Torlesse will have no gallants, keeps his doors bolted, and shoots bolts at any he sees lurking about." "Well, well, I must advise and consider, and concoct plans and strategies, and call me a fool if I do not give you some parchments to engross before the year is done." With this they parted and Philip passed the night in trying to get some sense out of this queer sort of household, ​applying all his experience and rules of art to it, but nevertheless the morning found him muddled, for though he had heard of many pretty girls with three or four lovers, and understood the complications arising therefrom, a pretty girl with no lovers at all was an entirely new leaf in his book. He perceived therefore that he must gather more facts and look into the affair himself; and so made it his business to walk slowly between the church and the house of Master Torlesse, about Evensong time, in hopes to meet the lady who had done such damage to the heart of John of Gloucester. And this he did for a week and saw nothing; but one stormy rainy evening as he was loitering along a narrow passage, he perceived two persons coming swiftly and shyly towards him, who when they saw him seemed at first minded to turn back, but in the end pressed on, more hastily than before. And as they passed Sir Philip doffed his cap, and bowed low, equally to both, since he was not quite a fool, and knew that it is rather more important in the beginning of a love affair to have the good will of the governess than the mistress. But they seemed to make no account of his civility and courteous observance; and he could only mark that the young lady was indeed of a fine shape, richly dressed and specially scented, but so closely veiled that he could not lighten his heart with a glint of those marvellous eyes of hers. And as they fared along this passage, the trees that hung over the wall of it, wept and rained upon them, as the gusts of wind came up; and Sir Philip stood gazing dizzily, for ​though he had seen little, yet the strange influence of a perfect grace and beauty had fallen on his soul, so that his brain was mazed and wildered. But after a little while he followed the lady of his thoughts to the church, and found the monks at Evensong, and looking around saw the two figures kneeling together in a pew. Forthwith he set himself in a convenient place behind a pillar and watched them attentively, hoping the young lady might raise her veil, but she remained with head bent and enshrouded all through Evensong, and the service sung, went forth as if she saw no one save her old governess, who should certainly have been veiled herself, for her countenance was of a mystical and stupendous ugliness. In this wise Sir Philip saw his lady once or twice and still bowed low before her, and worshipped her presence, and likewise the presence of the hag, who, he thought, looked at him not unpleasantly; but he spoke not a word, for he considered that it was not yet time for speaking. And in the next place he began to linger in the neighbourhood of their house, casting many wistful glances up at the lattice, and expecting every moment to have a dose of boiling water, or maybe an iron bolt through his body, since Master Torlesse appeared from all accounts to be a man who did not like to have his mansion or his daughter stared at. But a really gallant gentleman cares nothing for the anger of parents or guardians, trusting in his own manly feature, the courage of his heart, above all in the très-noble and puissant God of Love, who still prevents and succours true, loyal, and stead​fast lovers, his liege subjects, delighting in their service and helping them to make a mock and a song of those silly persons who guard beauty, and think themselves strong enough to keep Love out of a lady's heart. It is this same Diou Damur that is Chancellor of the Schools of Lovers, and teaches therein by his professors (who have many names) a joyous Trivium and Quadrivium, giving some to drink of the red wine of Desire, feeding others with the sweet apples of Cozenge and Trompery, and making all more sharp and cunning than the subtlest doctors, or masters in philosophy. And those that serve him well he will never desert. Hence one night, about the time of the Compline-song, as Sir Philip paced to and fro beneath the high house of Master Maurice Torlesse, in the dusky radiance of a moon seven days old, he suddenly saw a light gleam through the lattice of his longing; then a hand pushed the cancels open, and lo! his lady looked forth upon him. "Come near," said she, in a voice sweet and plaintive as a virelai, that drew Sir Philip more strongly and graciously than the west wind draweth the ships of holy pilgrims to the port of their desire. And coming close under the wall he looked upwards to her face leaning out of the window, and gazed into her most beautiful brown eyes, which would have made St. Benedict himself tear up his Rule, and would have burnt up all stern Capitularies and Edicts in their liquid fire. But now they were pitiful and moist with tears, and as she spoke to her true knight her voice ever and again broke short. "Are you not young," said she, ​"or have you lost the desire to live, that you come to this house so often and so hardily. Certainly you cannot know what fashion of man my father is; but know now that the next time you hie hither will be the last, since he to-day oiled his cross-bow and bade Richard dig a grave, as he said, for a proper man." "And if you will look forth and smile upon me dying, I would it were now to-morrow and your father's bolt was sped. But understand O maiden most beauteous and adorable, that my heart and soul and life are yours altogether; I am your mere creature and desire but to gaze upon that super-excellent loveliness and worship it; and if you should scorn my service I shall indeed die more miserably than by any bolt or sword." Perhaps you may divine that while these pretty speeches, so gallantly phrased and amorously conceited were being delivered, the two were gazing either on other, and Sir Philip's eyes spoke more fairly and delivered more honest arguments than his lips; for you see he was too many feet below his mistress to make any effectual use of this latter organ; by the which a girl is more thoroughly convinced ex opere operato, in five minutes without a word being uttered than if her lover spoke like Demosthenes, Æschines, Cicero, and Chrysostom all at once. However the young knight did what he could with his fine blue eyes, and between them and his hardy and knightly orations, full of amorous doctrines and high courage, the maid began to feel a fluttering at her heart, and a strange delicious sensation that made her wish Sir Philip had a ladder. But ​as she heard her governess's footstep tottering along the passage, she merely answered "Sir Knight I do not quite conceive your meaning; but if you are not weary of the sun come not in my path to-morrow, since I am purposed to shrive me at the monastic church, and if my father hear that you were to be seen on the way, he will assuredly cause you to die." And with that she clapped the window to, and Sir Philip was fain to begone, for he had noted the shy smile that played about her lips as she finished speaking, and understood her intent to perfection. Hence he betook himself to Master Cellarer at the priory, and astonished that good monk with his capacity for drinking, till the man crossed himself violently, thinking this guest was a kind of incarnate Wine-God, who had come over the hills to Abergavenny, as Bacchus came to Thebes, and would do damage to somebody ere he left it. Indeed Brother Toricellus expected every moment to see vine leaves wreathing round Philip's temples, and to hear cymbals clanging: but as a matter of fact the knight was only anxious to have his brain in good order, so that he might reason clearly, and see his way through this strange dædal of Love. At last he left the cellarer to his devotions, very solemnly and earnestly charging him to be moderate in his cups, and walked steadily to his lodging with about a gallon of French wine in his inwards and a fertile crop of ideas and conceptions in his brain. And the next morning he sought out his uncle, the old Canon, and explained the whole matter to him, dropping some hints as to a new rood-​screen for the quire when the marriage was concluded. The which hit Father Ambrosius in the soft place, for he was zealous for the good of the community: but yet when he heard the name of Torlesse he looked grave and explained to his nephew that this man was indeed a crusty customer, who was suspected of heresy by the church, but lived in peace by making large oblations to the parson and the prior. "Leave all that to me," answered the young knight, "but tell me who shall shrive Mistress Torlesse to-day?" "Father Andrew" answered the Canon. "And is he not a man somewhat resembling myself in figure?" "Yea, but stoops exceedingly and shambles in his walk." "That is well, and with your favour and his, I will take his place and inspect the conscience of the fair penitent, and prescribe a penance for her, better than any in Father Andrew's brain." To be short Sir Philip got on the blind side of Father Andrew and obtained the loan of his habit, and at the appointed time for hearing confessions, shambled with his eyes bent on the ground into what is now called the Herbert Chapel, and there awaited his mistress, with the cowl drawn over his head, and his hands on his knees, in the shriving pew. Thither also came the girl, pale and trembling between joy and fear, for her heart had been beating terribly all the way, and at every step she looked for her lover; and, to be sure, she had dreamt of nothing else all through the night, in her little chamber of the lattice. And having left her governess kneeling in the church, she came slowly and totteringly to the chapel, ​stopping now and then for a moment to lay her hand upon the tombs of the old lords, for she had scarce strength to walk. And as the false monk heard those footsteps, his heart also leapt, but joyfully, and when she was within a few paces of him he started up, and then those poor trembling limbs of hers were, you may be sure, rarely sustained, and the red maiden lips felt what delight there is in a kiss. Some there are who say that all this rapture is a mere fantasy, the concept of a mind extravagant and delirious, but I believe, for my part that it is as real as any other earthly thing. At all events young people will always take a certain pleasure in the business, and certainly this penitent and confessor did so kiss, fondle, hug, and caress, murmuring such fervent endearments and pretty phrases, that poor Eva de Braose must have heard them from her monument hard by, and moved her right hand a little nearer to her stony heart. In fine Mistress Torlesse made a very famous shrift, confessing in the first place that her name was Edith, and in the second that she accepted Sir Philip's service, and would take him for her true loyal lover. But she bade him by no means come before her window any more, since her father had a keen eye and a cool aim, "and," said she, "I would rather never see your face again, my darling, than have you die for love of me and my poor loveliness." Then Sir Philip (after that he had answered in a proper manner to this nice speech) began to enquire as to the old governess, and found that she was somewhat favourably inclined towards him, though she ​feared her master more than God, the saints, and the devil, but yet a little gold might work wonders with her. "Then give her this," said he, drawing forth a purse with a matter of twenty pieces in it, "and promise her five times as much on our wedding day." And after making certain arrangements and appointments, the time came for them to part, the which they did, not without some trouble, for at these farewells each desires to give the last caress, and to kiss but once more, and all this takes time. However Edith went away at last, and the Pseudo-Andrew shuffled back to the convent, and gave the priest back his vestments, assuring him that things were in a very prosperous state. And from that time Sir Philip knelt beside his Edith on most days whereon she came to Mass and Evensong, with the connivance of the ancient hideous governess, to whom he persisted in paying most lowly reverence, continually dropping little purses into her hand, the which he obtained from the Canon Ambrosius. And once or twice instead of going to the monastic quire his lady met him just outside the town, and they pleased themselves by walking beside the Gavenny hand in hand. And the more Sir Philip heard of Master Maurice Torlesse the less he liked him, for everything that could be told of him was bad, save only that he was undoubtedly very rich, and kept in his house chests full of good things; besants, rose-nobles, flagons, and chalices of gold, to wit. But it fell out one day (it was in autumn, as the story was told to me) when the lovers were parting fondly after their vesper-musick ​was duly and sweetly sung, Edith bade her lover by no means look for her on the morrow, "since," said she, "there will be a dreadful and violent storm of thunder and lightning and furious rain, that will slay many men, and beasts, and tear up the oaks on the mountain side, and pour the brooks and the river all across the land." At this prophecy Sir Philip was in no little astonishment, for the air was dry and not too clear, no cloud was in the sky, and the western heaven was filled with the clear red glow of the sunset. And with many questions he tried to make Edith tell him what her intent was, or how she knew of tempests before they fell, when there was no sign or apparent likelihood of the same; but she would not resolve him, replying with put-offs and kisses, and twining her arms fast round his neck, so that he had to be content with these doubtful though pleasant explanations. And as he went home he saw an old husband working in the fields, whom he asked plainly if he thought a storm was approaching, receiving for answer that there could be no better prospect of fine weather; though the man, who was a wary old Silurist, ended his reply by saying "so we should think, however," but this he always did, knowing by long experience that there is no certitude or sure opinion in mortal affairs. But he always excepted one thing, and still stiffly maintained that strong ale was a good drink and a desirable. In this as we know, he was right, as he was in his all but universal cautel judicious and philosophical, notably in this matter of the weather, for on the morrow there burst a ​terrible and destroying storm over the town, bearing rain in torrents, and winds that hurled down wall and tower, flung heavy stones into the air, and tore up tall trees and whirled them as though they had been hazel saplings. And all the sky crashed with thunder, and the lightning seemed as if it shot up into the black accursed air from the rocks of the Grat Skirrid and the mighty dome of the Blorenge, and the peak of the Sugar Loaf; and the waters of the Uske and the Gavenny boiled and seethed and streamed out all upon the land. Then did the great bells of the Priory chime out, and the bells of St. John's, and of the Churches of St. Michael and St. Teilo, and the two St. Davids, even till the quires of the mountains were ringing down the storm and matching the voices of the bells with the roaring of the thunder. In this wise they of course got the storm under at last, for no tempest can withstand the chime of bells, if they be rung aright; but everybody wished the wind and lightning had given in a little sooner before half-a-dozen men, a score of beasts, and as many sheep and horses had been struck dead; to say nothing of houses in flames or else quite ruinated. But it was noted that of late years there had been several of these cursed storms at Abergavenny, and some tried to prove that the weather like everything else was getting into a bad predicament and wanted the Holy Father after it. As for Sir Philip, he was in a perturbed state of mind, not wishing to have a prophetess to wife, believing that such personages were well enough in the old time, but now ​inconvenient, and likely to bring a man into trouble with the Archdeacon and the ecclesiastical courts. Wherefore he pressed his sweetheart strongly to tell him how she came to know anything about futurity, and perceived that his words annoyed her and drew tears into her eyes, and made her lips tremble. So with comforting the poor girl, stroking her soft hair, and kissing away the tears he forgot all about his perplexities, till he was alone again. And then they bothered him worse than before, because he saw that she was afraid to resolve him, the which made Sir Philip suspect that this was a bad business. After such sort a good many interviews were held between them, always with the same beginning and end; and Philip was so strongly bound with love's tendrils that he could not break away; but he got rather thin about the face, and a hogshead of Bordeaux wine lost all but the scent and fragrance of what it had once held. In these days Brother Toricellus the Cellarer would not patiently listen to anyone who affirmed Sir Philip Meyrick of Caerwent to be made of the same stuff as common men. "The times are coming," he would say, "when the Prior, the Sub-Prior, the Canons, and you and I, unworthy brethren and chiefest of sinners, shall drink water; de torrente in via bibemus, for there will soon be no wine left in the casks;" and all the monks grew pale and crossed themselves, for they began to think Sir Philip was a Silenus sent to chastise them for their shortcomings and misdemeanours. But Brother Toricellus, a man without faith, had led them astray, and made them ​shoot wide of the mark. But about a month after the storm, as Sir Philip and Edith were talking in their accustomed manner, he pressing her to clear up his doubts, and she sadly and silently hanging down her head, her love for him prevailed, and she said at last, "Well then if it must be so, come to the back of our house tomorrow evening, at four o'clock, and wait by the door of the garden wall till I open to you. But if you die, your death will be of your own seeking, and my soul shall soon follow yours, for I am not able to live apart from you, my true knight. But if you will enter this perilous tourney, put on a surcoat of green, a green cap, and be prepared to lie closely and privily." With that she burst into tears and clung to her lover, weeping as if her heart was rent in twain. But Sir Philip was overjoyed at her words, and went to his comrade the lawyer, and told him that the Romance was getting into its last books. "And John," said he, "prepare choice skins, and cut your quills very aptly, for I will have my marriage deeds executed by you and by none else." At this the lawyer puckered up his mouth, and put his hand to his head, for musing, he conceived that rolls pertaining to other matters might have to be made out. But he willingly obtained for Sir Philip a green surcoat and cap of soft cloth; "She will make you hide among leaves," said he. "So I suppose" answered the knight, "and look you, I'll have my sword not very far from me, and if there be a burial, 'twill not be of a Meyrick of Caerwent." So, like a knight of færy, he went all in green, ​to the appointed place, by a door in a high wall; and sat down on the grass, with his hand on his sword, looking somewhat grimly on it, for Master Torlesse had put him to great inconvenience and trouble, and he would have relished no task better than that of piercing this sour old devil to the heart. It was on occasions of this kind that Sir Philip's jaws shut tight down, and his brows and moustache went up, and between ourselves I should have preferred to let him alone, if I had seen him in such a mood, for to speak the truth when he was in the humour, and his teeth were clenched, he would have fought all the hosts of hell. Requiem aeternum, he was a true son of Gwent and a very perfect knight. But when the dials marked four of the afternoon, Sir Philip heard a gentle rustle at his back, and looking up he saw the door slowly open, and his lady standing with a pale face, beckoning to him. Then did Sir Philip enter, and found himself in a thick grove of trees, growing close to one another, and after that with one long and solemn kiss they had kissed each other's lips, she set him in his place, where he could lie down and look through the leaves, and forwith left him, telling him not to stir nor make a sound, on peril of his life. And for the next hour or two the knight had full leisure allotted him, wherein to meditate on this strange case, and what he was to see that should explain his sweetheart's foreknowledge of the storm. As for the garden he found it ordinary enough, in nothing different from other closes, unless for one or two flowers of exceeding sweet fragrance ​and rare beauty, the which he had never seen before. But when he had turned over everything in his mind a good many times, and was feeling puzzled, weary, and very thirsty, he saw a tall old man, grey-bearded and hawk-nosed, come into the midst of the pleasaunce from the house, the same being in fact Master Torlesse, and his habit was a dark brown cloak with long hanging sleeves of tawny yellow, a black undervest, and a yellow cap on his head, shaped like a cap of maintenance, having on the front of it a jewell in silver, being the image of an eagle holding a serpent in its beak. And in his right hand was a long black wand, and from his baldrick hung a sword, and what Sir Philip saw afterwards you will find in the chests of the Court In Banco Domini of the old Lordship and Grand Seigneury of Burgavenny. The which parchments are marked on the outside "In the affair of the pardon of Philippus Meyrick de Caerwent, Miles Auratus, for the murder of Mauritius called Torlesse, a man of unknown lineage and estate." And as I myself, by the favour of the Clerk, have seen these strange documents, have indeed fingered them and held them under my nose for many hours together till I seemed to hear an ancient law-man reciting and droning the dim old story in my ears, I will make an abbreviature and digest of it for you using as far as I can the phrase of the original. The which beginneth somewhat as follows. In the year of our Saviour MCCCLXXII, the forty-fifth year of our Sovereign Lord King Edward third of that name since the Conquest, the fourth of our Lord ​Jehan third of that name, Baron of Burgavenny, Earl of Pembroke, Lieutenant of Acquitaine, and Lord Marcher of Wales; on St. Denys his day at eleven o'clock in the forenoon there came before us, Guillaume de Oskington, being the judge appointed under the seal of our Lord Jehan aforesaid, to rightly and duly discharge, do and execute justice in his Lordship of Burgavenny, Clement la Touche Prior of the Convent of St. Mary the Virgin, in the town of Abergavenny, the same appearing in the stead of the Canon Ambrosius, who professes that he is from age and infirmity unable himself to appear and plead his petition. And Prior Clement the above-named ecclesiastic, being honourably received by us, and we having allowed him to plead in the place of the Canon Ambrosius, he has humbly sued that a pardon shall be made out, granted, and published to the person named Philip Meyrick, a knight, who, having been delivered into the hands of our Master Sergeant, is now in the prison of the Court, and there awaits his trial on the ground that he did violently and maliciously take away the life of a certain Maurice Torlesse, an inhabitant of this town, unduly, unlawfully, feloniously and against the peace of our Lord Jehan, third of that name. And we having consented to receive this petition and to hear testimony and witness upon it, so that, if it may be, it shall be supported, buttressed, and firmly established out of the mouths of several persons, who have professed themselves willing to give evidence before us, Guillaume de Oskington, on this behalf; we have caused ​our clerk to write down the matter of their depositions, so that the truth of this affair may be the more clearly known and understanded. And in the first place has come before us John of Gloucester, a lawyer of the Chancery of this Lordship, who has read to the Court the relation of this affair taken down by him in cursive characters from the lips of Sir Philip Meyrick, to the which document Sir Philip Meyrick has affixed his seal in token that it is the truth. And in this deed is shown how the petitioner having become enamoured of Mistress Edith Torlesse. . . . (Here I shall leave out a page, for we have heard all this before) . . . . and that after he had lain hidden in the grove, as he conceives for the space of two hours, he saw the late Maurice Torlesse come into the garden and stand in the midst thereof, holding in his hand a long wand, the which is now in the keeping of the court. And he affirms that up to this time it was as fine and as dry a day, as he had ever seen, and that there were no clouds to be made out from one side of heaven to the other. But he states that Maurice Torlesse, standing in the midst of the close, first struck the earth with his wand, then throwing up both his hands, with the palms turned out and open. Forthwith the ground began to tremble and shake, and to heave up and down, sending out evil vapours, which curled in wreaths and floated in the air. Then Maurice Torlesse struck the earth a second time, pronouncing with a loud voice the name Sabiao; and the earth shook more violently, and in the one place piled itself into the similitude of ​mountains, and in another fell as it were into valleys; and springs of water burst forth and flowed between the hills like to brooks and rivers. Then was the bare earth covered with grass and trees and cornfields, and whilst the wizard continually uttered invocations (which the petitioner does not recollect, for he professes not to be a clerk, and affirms moreover that with this wild monstrous work his brain was muddled) slowly was built up in a valley below a bare round hill, twice the height of an ant-hill, the walls of a town, and the houses of it, and without one gate was a castle, and without the other gate a quire. Then the mansions and churches and farmsteads and cabins appeared on the face of the country around, and cattle and horses and sheep were made, and last of all men and women walking through the town, or labouring in the fields. Then did Sir Philip Meyrick perceive that he saw before him in little, the likeness of the town of Abergavenny; and the hills were the Blorenge, and Skirrid, and Sugar Loaf, and the streams the Honthy and Gavenny and Uske. But as he beheld this wonder the wreaths of accursed smoke, which came forth from the earth, began to mix with one another, and to gather together, and spread out above the earth, like clouds, and to drift across the mountains, as Maurice Torlesse continually waved his wand above them. Then did they change to a black colour, and seemed like ink, and the wizard smote the earth, where it resembled the cleft of the Great Skirrid, and flame gushed out from the end of the wand and ran all along the clouds as it had ​been lightning, and a noise of thunder began to sound, and the clouds poured forth a storm of rain upon the earth. But whilst all this was being done in little by art magic and devilish contrivance, the same was being performed in great, and in truth a very terrible storm of rain and thunder had fallen on Abergavenny, and the church bells were set ringing, at the sound whereof the wizard laughed aloud, and smote his clouds asunder so that he might look down upon the town and see here a burnt mansion, here a heap of ruins, and here a man scorched and blackened with the forking fire, or struggling for his life in the flood. But as he gazed thus, it is supposed that he must have glanced at his own garden, and so have seen Sir Philip Meyrick hiding amidst the trees; for without more ado, he drew his sword, and rushed furiously towards him, leaving the storm to take care of itself. And the petitioner deposeth that seeing this dreadful wizard coming thus with sword in hand, he was in some dismay, not for fear of his adversary's arm, but for terror of his art; and also because he was an old grey beard, whom to kill would bring no honour nor worship. Yet, seeing no choice in the matter, and not wishing to die by hands so vile and abominable, he called upon the Heavenly Host and especially upon his patron St. Philip the Apostle, and drawing his sword, went forth against Maurice Torlesse, and had need of all his capacity, or else he affirms he would have been pierced through at the first onset. But never has he had so bitter a fight, in any battle oversea against knights of renown ​and fame, mighty warriors clad cap-a-pé in steel harness, as against this old man, for the sword of him seemed to dart from all quarters at once, and ever sought to home within his heart. And in this fight Sir Philip Meyrick received ten grievous wounds, some of which did put his life in danger, but at last, he suddenly stepped back, and with all the hatred of his soul whirling his sword aloft cleft the wizard from top to toe, so that he died not long after. And at the death of him all his fantastic device of mountains and streams and the walled town seemed to melt away, and the clouds also as they appeared, in thin wreaths; and at that time the veritable storm of heaven ceased to rage. And this he professes is the whole truth of the matter, no more and no less, wherefore he craves of his liege Lord Jehan, third of that name, misericorde and pardon, for that the late Maurice Torlesse was a right foul and pestilent wizard, to send whom to his eternal torment of hell-fire was well done and thankworthy. And here endeth the relation and prayer of Sir Philip Meyrick, Knight of Caerwent; the which deed we have read and inspected, and declare that it is duly signed, sealed, witnessed, and attested.
Next have come before us, Guillaume de Oskington, Masters Robin Pyatt and Samuel Owen, surgeons, who state that they have had experience in sword cuts, spear thrusts, hacks, stabs, and the like wounds, having been in the wars oversea against the French and Spaniards. And they declare themselves to be competent persons, sufficiently ​learned in the ancient physical authors, and have produced for our satisfaction divers parchments the which we have read and find them sufficient witness and surety for the aptness of these persons. Who declare that they have made examination of the body of Sir Philip Meyrick, and have found upon it ten wounds, being about the head, midriff, arms and breast, and they declare that five of these wounds are grievous and should have been mortal, had not the blood of the wounded man been pure and uncorrupted, and his strength very great. And they have also examined the body of the late Maurice Torlesse, and find that it was cleft into two equal parts by a most admirable and artificial stroke, the which no bone or sinew could resist. And they have found no other wound upon the dead man, from his head to his feet. But craving the indulgence and consideration of the Court, they have prayed us to look favourably upon the accused knight, saying that a man who cuts so clean is too good for the axe or halter, since there are no traces of bungling or awkwardness about his handiwork.
Next has come before us Mistress Edith Torlesse, the sweetheart of Sir Philip Meyrick, who has shown us how this affair came about, confirming in all respects the words of the knight. And having lifted her veil, at our desire, she has answered all such questions as we have thought fit to put her, in a modest and maidenly manner; only with great difficulty confessing her father to have been a man in all respects malicious and cruel, but could say nothing ​as to his parentage, nor from whence he came at the first, for she knew nought on these matters. And having been interrogated by us, as to how she knew when her father was about to do these works of the devil, she has replied that from his laughter and glee she ever knew when he had this operation in his mind. And being further questioned by us, for what cause was it that her father would not give her in marriage, or allow her to meddle with love affairs, the which, obiter dicendo, we Guillaume de Oskington affirmed to be the natural, fit, and laudable employment for so rare a beauty and perfect grace of maidenhood; she has answered to us, not without blushes, that it was for fear lest her lover might come to be informed of her father's practices, and so bring him to ruin. And hereupon we have ended our interrogation, and have had this maiden honourably escorted back to her own house.
And lastly has come before us Dom. Anthony Flambard, a Canon of the Cathedral Church of St. Paul, in the City of London; an ecclesiastic well acquainted with the Canon Law, and a very sound and capable divine. Who, having read all the depositions relating to this affair of the murder of Maurice called Torlesse, and having talked at length with Sir Philip Meyrick and Mistress Edith Torlesse, has come to a thorough understanding of the matter; and has declared to us the whole nature and essence of the incantations whereby storms and tempests are drawn down to earth. And all his opinions and doctrines he has confirmed and maintained out of Holy Writ, the holy Fathers and ​Doctors of the Church, and out of the works of learned men of the Universities of Salamanca and Padua; so that in all of what he has said there are no mistakes at all. And he declares that this operation and invocation of tempests is done by means of devils and fiends of hell, and that it is a foul sin and shame in any Christian man to do such works. Wherefore he is of opinion (speaking with all submission toward my Lord Jehan de Hastings, third of that name, and this honourable Court) that Maurice Torlesse was fitly punished by the hands of Sir Philip Meyrick. Though he declares that he would this accursed wizard could have been taken alive and delivered into the hands of Holy Church, that a fit punishment might have been meted out to him, who was not worthy of so knightly a death.
And we, Guillaume de Oskington, having received authority from my Lord Jehan, third of that name, Baron of Burgavenny, Earl of Pembroke, Lieutenant of Acquitaine, and Lord Marcher of Wales, in this behalf, for that our Lord aforesaid is now beyond seas in the service of our Lord the King; and having power in this affair either to give doom of death or life whichever shall seem good to us; having duly gone through all the evidence that could be brought before us, and having examined Sir Philip Meyrick of Caerwent, both publickly and privily, have determined to grant the petition of Clement la Touche, Prior of the Convent of St. Mary, the same being proctor for the Canon Ambrosius, as is aforesaid. And we have ​therefore caused a pardon to be made out in the form accustomed and sealed with the Great Seal of my Lord Jehan; and have decreed that Sir Philip Meyrick shall be forthwith enlarged from his captivity and be no more in the custody of our Master Sergeant; and that no fines nor amercements of any kind be taken from him, on this behalf, neither now, nor hereafter.
So the old record ends, and under the name of the good judge is the great waxen seal of the Barons of Burgavenny; which in those days was strong enough to open dungeons and shut them, to kill or to save. Hence it was that Sir Philip and Edith were brought together before the altar of the conventual church of St. Mary's, and became the bravest couple in all Gwent. And the first thing that Sir Philip did, after he had received Maurice Torlesse his estate by right of his wife, was to bear a thousand pieces of gold to the Prior, that the roodscreen and loft, with a fair rood and images of St. Mary and St. John, might be forthwith executed, the which was done so sumptuously and honestly that there was not another to compare with it in all the Marches of Wales. And every year Sir Philip made an oblation of a hogshead of French wine to the monastery, and he made build also the chapel of St. Philip, having an altar of alabaster, and a shrine adorned with jewells, and stories annealed in the window o'er the altar: and this he did because the saint had succoured him in his great necessity. And here he and his wife were buried, when they had lived for long years together happily and ​their last day was done, and a glorious tomb was made over them carved with images, and coat armour, very specially and decently cut out. But all this chapel, has since been ruined and prophaned by wicked men, on whose heads may God's curse alight, both here and hereafter. But the Prior Clement la Touche said to the Cellarer "Next time, Brother Toricellus, have a little more faith." In such wise was renewed again the house of Meyrick, and so firmly established that it hath never been more prosperous than now. But you see how foolishly the old wizard conducted his affairs, and what an ass he was to think he could subdue the God of Love, and shut his doors upon lovers. It was this folly of his that brought death and dishonour to him at last; for I daresay that if he had behaved like a sensible man, and treated Sir Philip courteously and honourably, his son-in-law would have looked over his little eccentricities and let him die in peace. But I suppose he would have made him live a good way off, because a father-in-law who deals in storms and is in the habit of pumping thunder, is by no means a desirable neighbour. However I dare say everything happened for the best, and certainly Sir Philip and his sweetheart got on very well without this unpleasant old personage, who not content with being a wizard, must needs be also a fool. But let all of us ever serve our Liege Lord Love, and worship him with a perfect worship; swearing still by the Ladies and the Peacock.
So did Nick Leonard bring his tale of the Lady of the ​Lattice to an end; and we clapped our hands, for we had relished it mightily all through, and thought it might compare with the story of Abergavenny told by Master Ambrose. The musicians praised it also to excess, for they had not heard anything quite like this before; though I should suspect that some fine strokes were lost upon them. And while we were discussing and pointing out to these good fellows the beauties and Silurian wisdom of the relation, we began to wonder at the marvellous art and grammar of the old wizard, who was able to perform such a magistery. All of us agreed that there is no such work done in our days, and Mosca said, "If you, sir, had not so clearly and evidently shown the matter to us, I should have thought this a thing impossible to men." "Why, signor," answered Nick, "you must know that it is not altogether of faith to believe the story, though I myself credit it entirely; as I do everything set forth and approved by the good judge Guillaume; and he it is plain believed every word of Sir Philip's deposition, or else had not granted him pardon. But I must in honesty tell you there is another account of the affair done at the House with the Lattice; the source of which is the mouths of evil-speakers, who are always ready to spit upon dead men's graves and to defile honourable families. These fellows tell us that Sir Philip was a profligate and idle rascal, my sweet Edith a harebrained foolish wench, and Maurice Torlesse an honest grave gentleman, who with much ado tried to keep his daughter a virtuous woman. And they declare that Sir ​Philip murdered the poor man in cold blood, and with his sweetheart concocted all the strange story of the incantation, because the elder would not give this rakish wastrel his daughter. But who would credit such an idle story? None I believe but a foolish, malicious personage, whose heart was galled with the dignity and worship of a right illustrious, honourable and ancient house. However 'tis of no more use to get warm and use strong language concerning this matter than any other; for trust me, gentlemen, all things are solved by sitting still, and not by walking about with cheeks puffed out with big words. Come Tom, spit out a tale, but by the Dogstar and the full moon in glory, let's have no more of your devilish alchemists or any theological tales or records." The good Rubrican was hurt by this address, for he had a great notion of his story of Caldicot, the which he considered a moral and profitable relation; however he suffered the insult to pass and stroked his stomach softly for a few seconds, then put his finger to his nose, and thus began.