Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Geoffrey Chaucer

  Greet was the drede and eek the repentance

  Of hem that hadden wrong suspeccioun

  Upon this sely innocent Custance;

  And, for this miracle, in conclusioun,

  And by Custances mediacioun,

  The king, and many another in that place,

  Converted was, thanked be Cristes grace!

  This false knight was slayn for his untrouthe

  By jugement of Alia hastily;

  An Emperor’s daughter stands alone;

  She has no one to whom she can make her moan.

  Oh blood royal, who stands in this dread,

  Far be your friends at your great need!

  This Alla king has such compassion,

  As a gentle heart is filled with pity,

  That from his eyes ran the water down.

  “Now hastily do fetch a book,” said he,

  “And if this knight will swear how that she

  This woman slew, yet will we think carefully

  Who shall be her executioner.”

  A British book, written with Gospels,

  Was fetched, and in this book he swore anon

  She guilty was, and in the meanwhile

  A hand him smote upon the neck-bone,

  And down he fell as a stone,

  And both his eyes burst out of his face

  In sight of everybody in that place.

  A voice was heard by everyone there,

  That said, “You have slandered, guiltless,

  The daughter of holy church in God’s presence;

  Thus have you done, and yet I held my peace!”

  By this miracle astonished was all the gathering;

  As bewildered folk they stood every one,

  For dread of vengeance, save Constance alone.

  Great was the dread and also the repentance

  Of those who had wrongly suspected

  This true innocent, Constance;

  And for this miracle, in conclusion,

  And by Constance’s mediation,

  The king—and many another in that place—

  Converted was, thanked be Christ’s grace!

  This false knight was slain for his untruth

  By judgement of Alla swiftly;

  And yet Custance hadde of his deeth gret routhe.

  And after this Jesus, of his mercy,

  Made Alla wedden ful solempnely

  This holy mayden, that is so bright and shene,

  And thus hath Crist y-maad Custance a quene.

  But who was woful, if I shal nat lye,

  Of this wedding but Donegild, and na mo,

  The kinges moder, ful of tirannye?

  Hir thoughte hir cursed herte brast a-two;

  She wolde noght hir sone had do so;

  Hir thoughte a despit, that he sholde take

  So strange a creature un-to his make.

  Me list nat of the chaf nor of the stree

  Maken so long a tale, as of the corn.

  What sholde I tellen of the royaltee

  At mariage, or which cours gooth biforn,

  Who bloweth in a trompe or in an horn?

  The fruit of every tale is for to seye;

  They ete, and drinke, and daunce, and singe, and pleye.

  They goon to bedde, as it was skile and right;

  For, thogh that wyves been ful holy thinges,

  They moste take in pacience at night

  Swich maner necessaries as been plesinges

  To folk that han y-wedded hem with ringes,

  And leye a lyte hir holinesse asyde

  As for the tyme; it may no bet bityde.

  On hir he gat a knave-child anoon,

  And to a bishop and his constable eke

  He took his wyf to kepe, whan he is goon

  To Scotland-ward, his fo-men for to seke;

  Now faire Custance, that is so humble and meke,

  So longe is goon with childe, til that stille

  She halt hir chambre, abyding Cristes wille.

  And yet Constance had of his death great pity.

  And after this Jesus, of his mercy,

  Made Alla wed full solemnly

  This holy maiden, who was so bright and shining;

  And thus Christ made Constance a queen.

  But who was woeful, if I shall not lie,

  Of this wedding but Donegild, and no others,

  The king’s mother, full of tyranny?

  She thought her cursed heart would break in two.

  She would not that her son had done so;

  She thought it an insult that he should take

  So strange a creature to be his mate.

  I care not about the chaff, nor the straw,

  Of this long tale—only the kernel.

  What should I tell of the royalty

  At marriage, or which course went before;

  Or who blew a trumpet or a horn?

  The heart of every tale is what we should tell:

  They ate, and drank, and danced, and sung, and played.

  They went to bed, as it was reasonable and right;

  For though wives be full holy things,

  They must take in patience at night

  Such necessities as be pleasing

  To folk who have wedded them with rings,

  And lay a little of their holiness aside,

  For awhile—that is in life the way.

  On her he begot a boy child anon,

  And to a bishop, and his constable also,

  He gave his wife to keep, while he was gone

  To Scotland-ward, his enemies to seek.

  Now fair Constance, who is so humble and meek,

  So long is gone with child, that still

  She stayed in her chamber, awaiting Christ’s will.

  The tyme is come, a knave-child she ber;

  Mauricius at the font-stoon they him calle;

  This constable dooth forth come a messager,

  And wroot un-to his king, that cleped was Alle,

  How that this blisful tyding is bifalle,

  And othere tydings speedful for to seye;

  He tak‘th the lettre, and forth he gooth his weye.

  This messager, to doon his avantage,

  Un-to the kinges moder rydeth swythe,

  And salueth hir ful faire in his langage,

  “Madame,” quod he, “ye may be glad and blythe,

  And thanke god an hundred thousand sythe;

  My lady quene hath child, with-outen doute,

  To joye and blisse of al this regne aboute.

  Lo, heer the lettres seled of this thing,

  That I mot bere with al the haste I may;

  If ye wol aught un-to your sone the king,

  I am your servant, bothe night and day.“

  Donegild answerde, ”as now at this tyme, nay;

  But heer al night I wol thou take thy reste,

  Tomorwe wol I seye thee what me leste.”

  This messager drank sadly ale and wyn,

  And stolen were his lettres prively

  Out of his box, whyl he sleep as a swyn;

  And countrefeted was ful subtilly

  Another lettre, wroght ful sinfully,

  Un-to the king direct of this matere

  Fro his constable, as ye shal after here.

  The lettre spak, “the queen delivered was

  Of so horrible a feendly creature,

  That in the castel noon so hardy was

  That any whyle dorste ther endure.

  The moder was an elf, by aventure

  The time came that a boy child she bore;

  Maurice at the baptismal font they him called.

  This constable sent for a messenger,

  And wrote to his king, who was called Alia,

  How this blissful tiding had occurred,

  And other tidings useful for to say.

  He took the letter, and went forth his way.

  This messenger, to do himself good,

  Unto the ki
ng’s mother swiftly rode,

  And saluted her full fair in his language:

  “Madame,” said he, “you may be glad and blithe,

  And thank God a hundred thousand times!

  My lady queen has a child, without doubt,

  To the joy and bliss of this reign about.

  “Look, here the letters sealed of this thing,

  That I might bear with all the haste that I may.

  If you wish to send something to your son the king,

  I am your servant, both night and day.”

  Donegild answered, “At this time, nay;

  But here all night I would you take your rest.

  Tomorrow will I tell you what I wish.”

  This messenger drank steadily ale and wine,

  And stolen were his letters secretly

  From his box, while he slept as a swine;

  And counterfeited was full subtly

  Another letter, wrought full sinfully,

  Unto the king direct of this matter

  From his constable, as you shall after hear.

  The letter said the queen delivered was

  Of so horrible a fiendish creature

  That in the castle no one so hardy was

  Who for any while dared they endure.

  The mother was an evil spirit, by chance

  Y-come, by charmes or by sorcerye,

  And every wight hateth hir companye.”

  Wo was this king whan he this lettre had seyn,

  But to no wighte he tolde his sorwes sore,

  But of his owene honde he wroot ageyn,

  “Welcome the sonde of Crist for evermore

  To me, that am now lerned in his lore;

  Lord, welcome be thy lust and thy plesaunce,

  My lust I putte al in thyn ordinaunce!

  Kepeth this child, al be it foul or fair,

  And eek my wyf, un-to myn hoom-cominge;

  Crist, whan him list, may sende me an heir

  More agreable than this to my lykinge.”

  This lettre he seleth, prively wepinge,

  Which to the messager was take sone,

  And forth he gooth, ther is na more to done.

  O messager, fulfild of dronkenesse,

  Strong is thy breeth, thy limes faltren ay,

  And thou biwreyest alle secreenesse.

  Thy mind is lorn, thou janglest as a jay,

  Thy face is turned in a newe array!

  Ther dronkenesse regneth in any route,

  Ther is no conseil hid, with-outen doute.

  O Donegild, I ne have noon English digne

  Un-to thy malice and thy tirannye!

  And therfor to the feend I thee resigne,

  Let him endyten of thy traitorye!

  Fy, mannish, fy! o nay, by god, I lye,

  Fy, feendly spirit, for I dar wel telle,

  Though thou heer walke, thy spirit is in helle!

  This messager comth fro the king agayn,

  And at the kinges modres court he lighte,

  And she was of this messager ful fayn,

  Come, by charms or sorcery,

  And every person hated her company.

  Woe was this king when he this letter had seen,

  But to no person he told his sorrows sore,

  But in his own hand he wrote again,

  “Welcome the dispensation of Christ for evermore

  To me who knows his lore!

  Lord, welcome be your wish and pleasure;

  My will I put all in your hands.

  “Keep this child, albeit foul or fair,

  And also my wife, until my homecoming.

  Christ, when he wishes, may send me an heir

  More agreeable than this to my liking.”

  This letter he sealed, privately weeping,

  Which to the messenger was taken anon,

  And forth he went; there was no more to be done.

  Oh messenger, filled with drunkenness,

  Strong is your breath, your limbs falter ever,

  And you betray all secrecy.

  Your mind is lost, you chatter as a jay,

  Your face has a new look.

  Your drunkenness reigns with any group,

  There are no secrets kept, without doubt.

  Oh Donegild, I have no English fit

  For your malice and your tyranny!

  And therefore to the fiend I you commend;

  Let him indite of your treachery!

  Fie, mannish, fie!—oh nay, by God, I lie—

  Fie, fiendish spirit, for I dare well tell,

  Though you here walk, your spirit is in hell!

  This messenger came from the king again,

  And at the king’s mother’s court he alighted,

  And she was of this messenger full eager,

  And plesed him in al that ever she mighte.

  He drank, and wel his girdel underpighte.

  He slepeth, and he snoreth in his gyse

  Al night, un-til the sonne gan aryse.

  Eft were his lettres stolen everichon

  And countrefeted lettres in this wyse;

  “The king comandeth his constable anon,

  Up peyne of hanging, and on heigh juyse,

  That he ne sholde suffren in no wyse

  Custance in-with his regne for t‘abyde

  Thre dayes and a quarter of a tyde;

  But in the same ship as he hir fond,

  Hir and hir yonge sone, and al hir gere,

  He sholde putte, and croude hir fro the lond,

  And charge hir that she never eft come there.”

  O my Custance, wel may thy goost have fere

  And sleping in thy dreem been in penance,

  When Donegild caste al this ordinance!

  This messager on morwe, whan he wook,

  Un-to the castel halt the nexte wey,

  And to the constable he the lettre took;

  And whan that he this pitous lettre sey,

  Ful ofte he seyde “allas!” and “weylawey!”

  “Lord Crist,” quod he, “how may this world endure?

  So ful of sinne is many a creature!

  O mighty god, if that it be thy wille,

  Sith thou art rightful juge, how may it be

  That thou wolt suffren innocents to spille,

  And wikked folk regne in prosperitee?

  O good Custance, allas! so wo is me

  That I mot be thy tormentour, or deye

  On shames deeth; ther is noon other weye!”

  Wepen bothe yonge and olde in al that place,

  Whan that the king this cursed lettre sente,

  And pleased him in every way that she might.

  He drank, and put them down,

  He slept, and snorted in his way

  All night, till the sun began to rise.

  Again his letters were stolen every one,

  “And counterfeited letters in this way:

  The king commands his constable anon,

  Upon pain of hanging, and by high court,

  That he should suffer in no way

  Constance in his realm to abide

  More than three days and a quarter tide;

  “But in the same ship as he her found,

  Her, and her young son, and all her gear,

  He should put, and drive her from the land,

  And charge her that she never should return.”

  Oh my Constance, well may your spirit fear,

  And, sleeping, in your dream be misery,

  When Donegild plotted this ordinance.

  This messenger in the morning, when he woke,

  Unto the castle took the shortest way,

  And to the constable he the letter took;

  And when that he this piteous letter saw,

  Full often he said, “Alas and wellaway!”

  “Lord Christ,” said he, “how may this world endure,

  So full of sin is many a creature?

  “Oh mighty God, if it be your will,
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  Since you are rightful judge, how may it be

  That you would suffer innocence to die,

  And wicked folk reign in prosperity?

  Oh good Constance, alas, so woe is me

  That I must be your tormentor, or die

  Myself; there is no other way.”

  Wept both young and old in all that place

  When the king this cursed letter sent,

  And Custance, with a deedly pale face,

  The ferthe day toward hir ship she wente.

  But natheles she taketh in good entente

  The wille of Crist, and, kneling on the stronde,

  She seyde, “lord! ay wel-com be thy sonde!

  He that me kepte fro the false blame

  Whyl I was on the londe amonges yow,

  He can me kepe from harme and eek fro shame

  In salte see, al-thogh I see nat how.

  As strong as ever he was, he is yet now.

  In him triste I, and in his moder dere,

  That is to me my seyl and eek my stere.”

  Her litel child lay weping in hir arm,

  And kneling, pitously to him she seyde,

  “Pees, litel sone, I wol do thee non harm.”

  With that hir kerchef of hir heed she breyde,

  And over his litel yen she it leyde;

  And in hir arm she lulleth it ful faste,

  And in-to heven hir yen up she caste.

  “Moder,” quod she, “and mayde bright, Marye,

  Sooth is that thurgh wommannes eggement

  Mankind was lorn and damned ay to dye,

  For which thy child was on a croys y-rent;

  Thy blisful yen sawe al his torment;

  Than is ther no comparison bitwene