The Dedalus Book of Medieval Literature

by Brian Murdoch

  to where a fire was burning bright,

  for comfort on that wintry night.

  There they could take off their shoes

  and heavy outer garments, too.

  The farmer had a wife, and he

  had just one daughter, too, but she

  was very beautiful, shapely

  and she was aged about twenty.

  This daughter, then, had quickly come

  to help make the two men at home.

  The Abbot bade them all sit down,

  now that the day’s riding was done.

  They all sat down – the daughter too.

  The monk said to the Abbot, though

  that he should tell him in a word

  what this new creature might be called?

  Quickly the Abbot said: ‘Those beasts,

  my son? Those creatures are called geese.’

  The monk replied: ‘Crede mihi,

  those geese look pretty nice to me.

  Why is it that we don’t keep geese?

  They’d fit in well around the place

  in our great monastery grounds.’

  Then there was laughter all around.

  The farmer’s daughter and his wife

  could not imagine for their life

  why this well-built, good-looking youth

  could really not know, in all truth,

  what women were! So straightaway

  they asked the Abbot if he’d say

  whether the monk was maybe mad?

  The Abbot to the ladies said

  the things that we’ve already seen –

  how the young monk had always been

  inside the monastery. Now when

  she heard this tale, the daughter then

  took careful note of what was said,

  and one thought came into her head:

  ‘This monk is strong and handsome too.

  I’d like to see what he can do.

  Tonight we’ll see if this young man

  has any idea what you can

  do with a girl in bed!’ For she

  fancied the young monk terribly.

  Well now, to keep the story short:

  the girl did not reveal her thoughts

  nor her intent to anyone.

  Late, when the talking was all done,

  the monks then wished to take their rest.

  The farmer took care of his guests

  and ordered beds to be prepared.

  The daughter in this business shared,

  and she made sure that the young one

  was bedded down some distance from

  the Abbot, so that he – she said –

  could sleep peacefully in his bed.

  So everything was done as she

  arranged, and wanted it to be.

  When the two monks had both retired

  the farmer then dismissed his tired

  retinue, to take their ease,

  and let the monks sleep as they pleased.

  The young monk could not sleep at all

  because his mind was far too full

  of what the names of things had been

  which on their journey they had seen.

  The girl lay sleepless in her bed

  with many thoughts inside her head,

  like: how was she to carry out

  the deeds that she had thought about?

  So, once the whole house soundly slept,

  she got up, and naked she crept

  across to where he lay in bed.

  He felt her presence, and he said:

  ‘What’s going on? What can this be?’

  ‘It’s the young goose,’ she said, ‘it’s me.

  I find the night air very chill,

  and want to ask you if you will

  let me beneath your blankets, please,

  to warm myself in case I freeze.

  The cold is really so intense.’

  The monk, in all his innocence

  allowed her, but could not foresee

  what the next move in the game would be

  when she was settled in there, too.

  In fact, the young man could not do

  too much at all – he’d no idea

  of what they might get up to there

  in bedroom play. The girl, though, knew

  far better what there was to do,

  and thoroughly, and in a short

  time, to him all the rules she taught.

  The monk then made the fullest use

  he could of this willing young goose,

  and thought it was the best thing yet!

  They played till it began to get

  a little close to day, so she

  got up and whispered quietly:

  ‘Now, you must never say a word

  to anyone of what’s occurred

  tonight, for if the Abbot knew

  he’d very quickly kill the two

  of us without thinking.’

  She made it very clear to him

  that nothing ever must be said.

  When he agreed, she left his bed

  and went back quickly to her room

  full of delight at what she’d done,

  and that she’d managed to get there

  and nobody had noticed her

  slip back into her room once more.

  Soon after this it was the hour

  of sunrise, and a brand new dawn.

  The Abbot didn’t lie too long

  there in his bed. The monk, smiling,

  got up, and they both did the things

  that they had come to do, and once

  the business was complete and done,

  they thought they should no longer stay,

  but rather make their homeward way.

  When they had reached their home once more

  the young monk now came to the fore,

  as all the rest came to demand

  how he’d enjoyed the outside land.

  So he began to tell about

  the things they’d seen while they were out,

  and thus he told them more and more

  of things he’d never seen before.

  His talk provided them with fun,

  but he was crafty about one

  thing, and he never once let slip

  about how one night on their trip

  he’d had a share of goose, and he

  had got it absolutely free.

  He told no-one (she’d urged him so),

  and no-one ever got to know.

  But soon that festival fell due

  that breaks the winter’s dark in two –

  yes, Christmas time was close at hand.

  The Abbot sent a message, and

  summoned the cook and cellarer.

  He said: ‘Christmas will soon be here,

  and we have many tasks to do.

  Now,’ he went on, ‘it’s up to you

  to see we’re well looked after, for

  if we are working, then I’m sure

  our care needs to be of the best.’

  The other monks all acquiesced.

  The young monk was not far off, and

  he said: ‘Sir, if it’s your command

  that we be well looked after, so

  may I suggest something to do?

  That you, sir, order if you can

  a little goose for every man,

  and then I’m sure that no-one would

  in all his life feel half as good

  again, if he had such a thing.’

  The Abbot finished listening,

  then called for silence. It was so.

  But in a while he said: ‘You know,

  geese really are the things to take,

  the best provision you could make,

  the finest thing on earth, I’m sure.’

  The Abbot said: ‘My son, no more!

  Come, brother, no more of this kind

  of thing. Have you quite lost your mind,
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  and gone out of your wits as well?

  I’m sure I do not have to tell

  you that we eat no meat in here!

  Now, show contrition that’s sincere,

  and do a penance well today.’

  The monk he quickly sent away.

  And so he left, but still said yet:

  ‘Whatever punishment I get,

  if you’ve a goose, then good for you!

  They’re really nice, and well-shaped, too.’

  They drove him off, quite undismayed.

  The cook and cellarer both stayed

  and organised what food was due.

  And after that they all set to

  with prayers and masses, songs and hymns,

  and with so many holy things.

  But after the last mass was sung,

  the Abbot signalled to the young

  monk, and he took him to one side,

  far from the other monks, in quiet.

  He begged the young man earnestly

  that he should tell him secretly

  very precisely why he had

  so clearly said what he had said

  about the geese, and having one.

  The young man saw his earnest tone,

  and quickly told him all about

  what happened when they had been out,

  how, in the night, when on the loose,

  he’d got a share of little goose,

  and how she’d slipped into his bed

  and all the things they’d done and said.

  Now when the Abbot heard these words

  he sadly sighed, and then answered:

  ‘That was a girl – alas for you,

  your senseless body lay, it’s true,

  unlawfully with womankind!

  I should have kept all that in mind,

  and should have kept an eye on you.’

  With that, he told the monk to do

  the acts of penance he’d prescribe

  for sins committed while outside.

  The monk did penance then and there,

  but I’m not sure that this was fair!

  After all, when the monk was caught

  by sin, the Abbot was at fault,

  because if he had told the truth

  and not made such fun of the youth,

  then things would not have gone awry.

  It’s seldom good to trick or lie,

  they’re both dishonourable as well.

  What more is left for me to tell

  that I have not yet said to you?

  It’s my belief that it is true

  that monks exist in this country

  –a few, no more than two or three –

  who know a bit more than they should

  of women – and that’s far from good!

  Let them do penance, I’d commend;

  and here my story’s at an end.

  The title for the tale I’d choose

  is: ‘The Monk and the Little Goose,’

  because he loved the goose so fair

  and all the time was unaware

  that he’d been lured into the pit;

  but still, he did penance for it

  according to the Abbot’s word,

  and thus atoned where he had erred.

  And that’s the end! That’s all we need

  about the crafty goose’s deeds!

  The Well-Bred English Cock

  A very famous poem from a manuscript in the British Library containing songs and carols, mostly in English, written down probably at the start of the fifteenth century. A 1907 anthology drew a comparison with Chaucer’s description of Chaunteclere in the Nun’s Priest’s Tale, but this probably isn’t the kind of cock intended. It is here adapted a little to get rid of a few archaic and hence now opaque words. Gentil means ‘noble, well-bred.’

  I Have a Gentil Cok

  I have a gentle cock

  Croweth me day;

  He doth me risen early

  My matins for to say.

  I have a gentle cock

  Comes from breeding great;

  His comb is of red coral,

  His tail is of jet.

  I have a gentle cock

  Comes of kindred true;

  His comb is of red coral

  His tail of indigo.

  His legs are of azure,

  So gentle and so thin,

  His spurs are of silver white

  Set well into the skin.

  His eyes are both of crystal

  Locked into amber;

  And every night he perches him

  In my lady’s chamber.

  Dafydd ap Gwilym

  Something a little less well-bred, and on this occasion Welsh. There is a whole tradition of priapic poetry, verse that is far more clearly and specifically dedicated or addressed to the penis, going back to the Latin Carmina priapeia, and moving on to include folksongs, military and sporting songs, and blues (though these often hide behind terms like ‘jelly-roll’), as well as Robert Graves’ ‘Down, Wanton, Down.’ Dafydd ap Gwilym was a fourteenth century Welsh poet, and this catalogue of boasts is almost certainly by him, though some editors leave it out, and some manuscripts attribute it to a contemporary lady poet, which misses, so to speak, the point. The internal rhymes of the Welsh verse-form (cywydd) are, as is the case with all early Welsh verse-forms, completely impossible to imitate.

  Dafydd ap Gwilym

  Metrical Verses on the Subject of his Prick

  In God’s name, prick, I’ll have to stand

  watch over you with eye and hand,

  because you’ve got me sued, great rod,

  I’ll always have to be on guard!

  On seas of cunt you bob and float,

  we’ll put a choke-chain on your throat

  to rein you, and keep writs at bay,

  no matter what the poets say.

  You wicked, wicked rolling-pin,

  cod-born, don’t point up at my chin!

  God’s gift to ladies everywhere,

  the implement they’d store down there,

  fine decoy, with a gander’s shape,

  plumed like a yearling to the nape,

  wet-headed, with a milky brow,

  fast-thrusting shoot – stop growing now!

  All bent and blunt, you staff that slides

  and slots between a girl’s two sides,

  you monster-conger, with a hole,

  you shaped and turned hazelwood pole,

  you’re longer than a big man’s thigh,

  a tool used on a hundred nights,

  a bodkin longer than a post,

  old leather-prick’s the name you boast;

  a sceptre, causing lust to come,

  bolt-shooting at a girl’s bare bum,

  an organ pipe runs all the way,

  whistle-stop-fucking every day;

  you’ve just one eye, but all the same

  you see all women as fair game;

  round pizzle-pestle, banging gun

  (which sets on fire each little cunt),

  a roof-strut for a lady’s bower,

  a swinging bell that bonks the hour.

  Blunt tool, you hoed a fertile row,

  skin-trap, long nose with balls in tow,

  a trousers-worth of doing wrong,

  tough-necked as any goose, and long,

  false-hearted spike of wantonness,

  you’ve brought me lawsuits and distress!

  A writ for maintenance and keep!

  So – down, you baby-planter! Sleep!

  I can’t keep hold, I can’t resist,

  you thruster! Wicked thing! Desist!

  The wickedness lies in your head,

  but I, your lord, get blamed instead!

  MANNERS

  This is another varied heading, and not surprisingly, it includes things on drinking and gambling, just like most of the other sections, and also descriptions of various other excesses, usually in the form of warnings
against them, so that potential wickedness can be nipped in the bud.

  Sermons are good places to find details of excesses, and the first piece is on gluttony, from a Middle English Franciscan sermon from a manuscript in the Chapter Library at Worcester, dated between 1389 and 1404, the second English one in a mainly Latin collection. The Biblical support is largely omitted in this modernisation.

  The Second Worcester Sermon

  On excess in eating and drinking, a famous writer, John of Salisbury says in his book The Policraticon that the wicked tyrant Dionysius, King of Sicily, was in his youth fair of face, and had a body that was as beautiful and as lovely to look at as any man’s that might be found anywhere. But afterwards, when he had indulged in all the lusts and delights of the flesh and especially the love of food and drink, and the misrule that follows on from that, then he lost all his beauty and the strength of his body, and he fell into great sickness and disease, and among other things lost the sight of both eyes. For as John of Salisbury points out, there is nothing in the world that will as soon make a man fall into sickness and to lose his sight as the foul vice of gluttony, that is, excess of food and drink. Therefore for Christ’s sake beware of this vice and this sin, especially in the holy season of Lent. And just look at how many men it afflicts with the gout, and to how many folk it gives the dropsy, and brings many other sicknesses upon them before they are aware of it. And then, however much gold they have, and however much silver, because it is incurable they die through the effects of that sickness, and worse – if they die unrepentant, I can state quite firmly that they will be doomed to eternal death at the day of judgement. For even though gold and silver might sometimes help a man or woman in this world to get a doctor to help them from their illness, you can be assured that this will be of no use whatsoever there, because the doctors there have no interest in gold and silver, as the ones on earth do … So you can well see that this is a wicked and accursed vice, that not only befouls men and women in this world and brings about bodily death, but also leads afterwards to everlasting death. For there is no leper in the world that seems as foul and horrible in our sight as a glutton in the sight of God. For this doesn’t bring men and women into just the one deadly sin, but it makes them fall into many. It makes a man fall first into sloth, for when his belly is so full of food and drink he can do nothing. Sometimes he will be sluggish, sometimes sleepy, at other times too weary to serve God or do any other good work that might profit body and soul. It also makes a man fall into lechery, for when he is overcome with his excesses his reason is eclipsed, and he is ruled only by sensuality that teaches him to desire nothing but lusts and delights of the flesh. Truly, anyone who behaves like that is foully disfigured and robbed of all beauty. […] Also gluttony makes men and women not only blind in the body, but also in the spirit. It leads a man, as you can often see, into drunkenness, and then I tell you he is blind. Though he now sees three candles, yet another man sees but one, and I say he is blind. Truly he may not see what is good and what is evil, and his wits are dulled without and within. He is dulled by his delights in food and drink. I ask you, is this not a great blindness, do you not think, when a man has sat in the alehouse or the tavern all day, yes, and not only all day, but much of the night as well, and at the last he comes home as tight as a tick, shouts at his wife and tells off his children, beats his servants and can barely make it to bed …