‘And therefore, dear husband, I conclude as follows. Even if my ancestors were humble, I hope by the grace of God and by my own efforts to lead a virtuous life. When I choose virtue, and eschew sin, then I will be a gentlewoman. And do you blame me for my poverty? Did not the Saviour, the incarnate God, choose a poor life on earth? Every man, woman and child will surely know that Jesus, king of heaven, would not have made a bad or sinful choice. Seneca and other philosophers tell us that cheerful and willing poverty is a great blessing. Whoever is satisfied with a slender purse, even though he does not have a shirt on his back, I hold rich indeed. He who is greedy is wretched; he longs for that which he cannot have. He that has nothing, and wants nothing, is a man of wealth; you may call him a knave, but I call him a spiritual knight. Poverty sings. You may know that quotation from Juvenal, to the effect that the poor man whistles and dances before thieves. Poverty may seem hateful but it is in truth a blessing. It encourages hard work. It teaches the wise man patience. It teaches the patient man wisdom. It may seem miserable. It may be a state no one wishes. But it brings us closer to God. It brings us self-knowledge. Poverty is the eyeglass through which we see our true friends. So therefore, dear husband, cease your complaining. I have done you no harm. Do not rebuke me for my poverty.
‘But then you tell me that I am old. I don’t know whether it is taught in any learned books, but I always believed that gentlemen were meant to reverence old age. You call an old man “father”, do you not? I am sure that I could find many authors who say so. Why, then, do you call me “foul” and “ancient”? At least you will not be a cuckold. Age and ugliness are the best guardians of chastity in existence. Nevertheless I know that you have a good appetite. I will satisfy it as best I can. So choose now one of two things. You can have me old and ugly until I die, in which case I will be your humble and faithful wife obedient in everything. Or you can have me young and beautiful, in which case you can expect many visitors in the house; the crowd may flock to another warm place, too, but I leave that to your imagination. Which will it be? Choose now and forever hold your peace.’
The knight thought about this and could not make up his mind. He sighed, and shook his head, and sighed again. Finally he said, ‘Dear wife, my lady and my love, I put myself in your hands. Choose whichever fate most pleases you. And choose the one most honourable to both of us. I don’t care which way you decide. As long as you want it.’
‘So am I in control?’ she asked him. ‘May I decide what is best for our marriage?’
‘Sure,’ he replied. ‘That suits me.’
‘Then kiss me. We no longer need to quarrel. By my oath I will now be both women for you. I will be beautiful and faithful, too. May I die a mad woman rather than let you down! I will be as good and true to you as any wife ever was or ever will be. And that’s not all. In the morning I will be as fair as any lady, empress or queen in the whole world. Do with me what you will. But now just lift up the curtain and look at me.’
The knight was amazed to find her as young and as beautiful as she had promised. He took her up in his arms joyfully, and kissed her a thousand times. True to her word, she obeyed him in everything. She never once displeased him. And so they lived together in peace and harmony for the rest of their lives. God send us all gentle husbands - especially if they are young and good in bed. Pray to God, too, that we women outlive them. Cursed be the men who will not obey their wives. And double curses to mean husbands! That is all I have to say.
Heere endeth the Wyves Tale of Bathe
The Friar’s Prologue
The Prologe of the Freres Tale
That worthy man, that Friar, had been frowning and glowering at the Summoner all the time that the Wife had been speaking. He had not forgotten their argument. But, for the sake of decency, he had not said anything vicious. Now he spoke up. ‘Dame Alison,’ he said, ‘good Wife of Bath, God send you a long life! I swear that you have touched upon a matter for debate by scholars, and you have acquitted yourself very well. But, ma dame, while we are riding here together our only task is to entertain one another. There is no need to engage in moral discussion. Leave that to the priests in their pulpits. So, if the rest of the company are agreed, I will now tell you a funny story about a summoner. I think you will all admit that there is nothing good to be said about that profession. Summoners are the pits. Of course I am not referring to any individual here.’ He glanced at the Summoner before continuing. ‘A summoner is a jackal. He runs up and down with writs of arrest for fornication. And of course, consequently, he gets beaten up all the time.’
Harry Bailey, our Host, interrupted him. ‘Good Friar,’ he said, ‘please be polite. A man of the cloth ought to be courteous to others. We will have no arguments between ourselves. Get on with your story. And leave the Summoner alone.’
‘Let him say what he likes,’ the Summoner replied. ‘It doesn’t worry me. When my turn comes, I will pay him back in kind. I will tell him all about friars, false flatterers as they are. I have a lot of dirty stories about them that I will keep in reserve. He will learn what it is to be a friar.’
‘Peace. No more.’ Our Host put up his hand. ‘Now, good master Friar, will you please tell your story without more delay? It is getting late.’
The Friar cleared his throat.
The Friar’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Freres Tale
Once upon a time there was living in my district an archdeacon, a man of great position who sat in judgment on all sorts of matters - fornication, witchcraft, bawdy, slander, adultery. That kind of thing. He laid down the law on robbery, violations of contract, making of wills, failure to take the sacraments, usury and simony. He was tough, but he was really hard on those caught in the act of lechery. He made them pay for it. Did they sing! Then there were those who did not pay the proper taxes to the Church. If any parish priest complained about them, they were severely punished by the archdeacon. They never escaped a very heavy fine. If anyone gave a small offering in church, or a small tithe, he was in trouble. He was in the archdeacon’s black book before he could be hooked by the bishop’s staff. The archdeacon had all the authority he needed; he represented Church justice, after all.
Now among his officers there was a summoner. There was no more crafty man in England. He had his own secret network of spies, who told him exactly what was going on. So he could go easy on one or two adulterers, as long as they led him to a score of others. I can see that our Summoner here is becoming angry. His nose is twitching like the snout on a March hare. But I will not spare him on that account. I will reveal all. He has no authority among us, does he? He cannot punish us now or ever -
‘That is what all the harlots say,’ exclaimed the Summoner. ‘You can’t touch us. We are in the liberties. No wonder a harlot like you follows suit.’
‘Stop this!’ Our Host was very firm. ‘God’s punishment on you if you carry on like this! Continue with your story, sir Friar, and pay no attention to the Summoner. Don’t spare his blushes.’
‘Thank you, Mr Bailey. As I was saying -’
This false thief, this villain, this summoner, had any number of pimps ready to inform on their clients. They were like tame hawks in his hand. They had known most of these lechers a long time, and were quite happy to spill all their secrets. So they were the summoner’s confidential agents. And he made a lot of money out of them. The archdeacon never knew the half of it. He never got the half of it, either. He had to be content with less. The men themselves were happy to bribe the summoner, of course. He could have called them to court, on pain of excommunication. Many of them could not even read his summons. So they filled his purse. They plied him with ale in the tavern. Just as Judas was a thief, taking the money given to him for safe-keeping by the apostles, so likewise was he. Let me give him his full title: he was a thief, a fraud, a lecher and a summoner. He had some women to service him. They were prostitutes, of course, and they whispered in his ear if Sir Robert, or Sir Hugh, or plain Jack, had fucked the
m. So he and the women were in league together. He would make up some false summons, bring them to judgment, fine the man and let off the woman.
‘Friend,’ he would say, ‘I will strike the woman’s name from the record for your sake. You don’t want it known, do you? Don’t worry. Everything is settled. I am your friend. I want to help you.’ He knew of more ways to extort money than I could recount to you. It would take me years. There is no hunting dog that does not know a wounded deer from a healthy one. It was the same with him. He could smell a lecher, or an adulterer, or a whore, a mile away. Since that was the way he earned his living, he bounded after them with his tongue hanging out.
So it happened that, one day, this worthy summoner was after some new prey. He was about to pay a call on an elderly woman, an old trout from whom he was about to extort money on some trumped-up charge or other. It so happened that, as he was riding through the forest, he came upon a jolly yeoman; this young man was carrying his bow, with bright, sharp arrows. He was wearing a green jacket, and a smart black cap with tassels. ‘Hail and well met!’ called out the summoner.
‘The same to you!’ the yeoman replied. ‘Where are you riding today beneath the greenwood trees? Are you going far?’
‘No. Not really. I am travelling only a short distance. I have to collect the rent for the lord of my manor. And earn myself a little fee for the trouble.’
‘Oh, so you are a bailiff?’
‘That’s right.’ He would not admit, out of shame, that he was actually a summoner. He might as well pour shit on his head.
‘Good God,’ said the yeoman. ‘What a coincidence. I am a bailiff, too. Isn’t that something?’ Then he grew more confidential. ‘The trouble is that I don’t know this area at all. So I would be very happy to make your acquaintance, brother with brother, and learn a thing or two. I have gold and silver in my box here. And if you should ever venture into my shire, in turn, I will be very happy to look after you.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ the summoner replied. He held out his hand. ‘Put it here.’ Then they shook hands, swore an oath that they would be true to each other until death, and rode on together in great good spirits. The summoner was as full of gossip as a carrion crow is full of worms. So he kept on questioning the yeoman about this and that. ‘Now tell me this,’ he asked him. ‘Where exactly do you live? Where would I be able to find you?’
The yeoman answered him softly. ‘I live far off in the north country. I hope very much to see you there. I will give you such directions, before we part, that you will never mistake my dwelling.’
‘Now, dear brother,’ the summoner went on. ‘Tell me this as well. Just between the two of us, riding together. Since you are a bailiff like me, let me know some of your tricks. How I can make the most of my position? You know what I mean. Don’t hold back for fear of offending me. You won’t do that. We are all sinners. Just tell me. How do you do it?’
‘I will tell you the truth, brother bailiff. I will be straight with you. My wages are low, and my lord is very demanding. I have a hard time of it, I can tell you, and so I am forced to live by bribery and extortion. I admit it. I take as much as I can. Sometimes I use low cunning, and sometimes I use force. That’s the way I earn my living. There’s nothing more to say.’
‘Snap,’ said the summoner. ‘It’s the same with me, too. I’ll steal anything, God knows, as long as it is not too heavy or too hot. What I earn privately is my own business. I don’t lose any sleep over it. If I didn’t steal, I wouldn’t live. It’s as simple as that. And I’m not about to confess my sins to the priest. I have no pity. I have no conscience. These holy confessors can go fuck themselves. So there, sir, we are well mated and well met. Just one more thing. What do they call you?’
The yeoman began smiling, when he asked the question. ‘Do you really want to know my name? To tell you the truth, I am a fiend. My dwelling is in hell. I ride about the world searching for gains. I like to find out if men like you will give me anything. That is the only profit I can earn. We are engaged in the same trade, you see. To get something, anything, is the sum of my endeavour. I will ride to the end of the world to find my prey. I am riding now.’
‘God in heaven,’ the summoner replied. ‘What are you saying? I really thought that you were a yeoman. You have the shape of a man, just like mine. Do you have the same form in hell, where you chiefly dwell?’
‘Certainly not. We have no shape in hell. But we can adopt whatever form we fancy, or else make it appear so. I can appear as a human being, or as an ape; I can even take on the form of a bright angel. Why are you surprised? A second-rate conjuror can deceive you easily enough. So why cannot I? I have more experience, after all.’
‘So you are telling me that you can ride around in different shapes. You are only a yeoman for a short while?’
‘Of course. I take whatever shape is necessary. To trap my prey.’
‘Why, sir fiend, do you go to all this trouble?’
‘There are many reasons, dear summoner. Now is not the time to explain them. The day is short. It is already past nine, and I have not yet found my quarry. I must attend to business, if you don’t mind, and not spend the time revealing all my plans. Don’t take this the wrong way, brother, but I doubt that you are capable of understanding them in any case. You asked me why we take such trouble. Well. Sometimes we are the instruments of God himself, fulfilling His commandment. He wreaks his will on humankind in various ways and for various reasons. We have no strength or purpose without Him. That is certain. Sometimes, if we ask kindly enough, we are allowed to afflict the body rather than the soul. Job is a case in point. We certainly punished him. There are occasions when we can do some harm to the soul as well as to the body. That’s the fun part. There are other times when we can attack the soul, but not the body. It all depends. It works out well, in any case. I’ll tell you why. If anybody can resist our temptations, then he or she will go to heaven. That was not our intention, of course. We want the soul to settle down with us. And there are even occasions when we act as servants to mankind. Take the case of Archbishop Dunstan. He used to be able to control us devils. I myself have served one of the apostles in a lowly way. But that’s a long story.’
‘Can you tell me this?’ The summoner was now thoroughly absorbed in the conversation. ‘Is it true that you make your new bodies out of the elements themselves? Out of the wind and the fire?’
‘Not really. Sometimes we create the illusion of that. Yet there are other times when we reanimate the bodies of the dead and rise from their graves. Did you hear about the witch of Endor, who conjured up the spirit of Samuel before King Saul of Israel? Some people claim that it was not Samuel at all. I don’t know. I am not a theologian. But I’ll warn you of one thing. I won’t deceive you. Soon enough you will find out about our changing shapes. You will not need to learn anything from me. You will know the truth from experience. You will be able to lecture on it, write books about it more learned than those of Virgil and of Dante. Come on. Let us ride. I enjoy being in your company. I’ll stay with you until you tell me to piss off.’
‘That’s not going to happen,’ the summoner replied. ‘I am a yeoman, and widely respected. I am known to keep my word, and I would stick to it even if you were Satan himself. We are brothers, you and I, and we will be true to one another. We will help each other in our various trades. You take what you can, and I shall do the same. We are both businessmen, after all. But if one of us makes a killing, then he should share it with the other. That is fair, don’t you think?’
‘I grant you that,’ the fiend said. ‘On my honour.’
So they rode forth on their way. They passed through the forest and very soon came up to the village where the summoner hoped to exact some tribute. Here they happened to see a cart filled with hay, being driven with some difficulty by a carter. The road was deep in mud, and the wheels were lodged in it. They could not be moved. The carter was frantic, and kept on shouting at the horses. ‘Come on, Brock!�
�� he screamed. ‘Come on, Scot! What are you stopping for? Get a move on! The devil take the lot of you, as whole as you were born! I have gone through hell today because of you. Well, you can go to the devil - hay, cart and horses!’
‘This is going to be fun,’ the summoner murmured to his companion. ‘Did you hear what that oaf said? Did you hear the carter? He offered you the cart and the hay. And his three horses. What do you say to that?’
‘Not much. He doesn’t really mean it, you see. If you don’t believe me, go and ask him. Just wait for a moment. You will learn that I am right.’
The carter began to strike his horses on their hindquarters, all the while urging them on with the reins, until finally they began to move. They put their heads down and dragged the cart from the mire. ‘That’s good,’ the carter exclaimed. ‘Jesus Christ bless you! Well done, you dappled beauties! All the saints in heaven preserve you. You have got us free.’
‘What did I tell you?’ the fiend asked the summoner. ‘This is a lesson for you, dear friend. The carter said one thing, but he thought another. Let’s be on our way. I am going to earn nothing here. This is a waste of time.’
So they rode through the village. Just as they came to the edge of it, the summoner rode up to his companion and whispered in his ear again. ‘There is an old woman living around here, who would sooner risk her neck than lose a penny. I’ll get some money out of her, so help me. Otherwise she will end up in court. She hasn’t done anything wrong, of course, but that doesn’t matter. The important thing is to get her. You haven’t had much luck so far, but I’ll show you how it’s done. Just watch.’
When they came up to the old widow’s door, the summoner began beating on it. ‘Come out, you old trout!’ he shouted. ‘Have you got some priest or friar with you? You old hag!’
‘Who is knocking?’ The old woman opened the door a fraction. ‘God save us! What do you want, dear sir?’ She knew that he was the summoner.
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