The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling

Once upon a time there was living in Oxford an old codger, a rich old carpenter; he followed his trade faithfully enough, but he also took paying guests into his house. One of these lodgers was a poor student who had finished the university course but was more interested in learning all the arts of astrology. He knew a number of ‘operations’ and ‘conclusions’ and ‘calculations’ – I don’t know the precise terms for every one of them, but he knew enough to work out the days of rain and the days of drought. He also had a ready answer when anyone asked him to prophesy the future. He was polite. He was courteous. His name was Nicholas.

He also had an eye for the ladies, and he knew how to get them into bed without any fuss. He was as mild-ma

Now his landlord had recently taken a new wife. Alison was a sparkler, eighteen years old, and of course the carpenter loved her madly. Yet he was so jealous that he took great care to keep her to himself. She was young and lusty; he was old and crusty. What if someone should beguile her? He was too stupid to have read the works of Cato. Otherwise he would have learned that it is better for a man to marry a woman who is his equal. People should marry according to their age and rank. Winter and spring do not mix, especially in bed. Well he had made his bed, according to his wish, and now he must lie in it.

This young wife was a beauty, as small and delicate as a little squirrel; she used to wear a girdle of striped silk. She had an apron, as white as morning milk, with as many folds and flounces as a wedding dress. Above it she wore a white shift, with its collar embroidered back and front; the collar itself was of black silk, very alluring. The ribbons of her white cap were also black. Her head-band was set back, so that you could see her forehead. The forehead is the plain of Venus. And then there were her eyes. Such lecherous eyes. She had plucked her eyebrows so that they made a slender arch, a delicate black matching the ribbons of her cap. She was more delicious and refreshing than the sight of a tree filled with early fruit. She was softer than the wool of a lamb. From her girdle there hung a purse of leather, swinging on tassels of silk and adorned with glowing brass. No man in the world could have imagined such a frisker. Alison was a giglet. A fisgig. No wench ever had a merrier complexion, either, with cheeks as shiny as a new gold coin. And when she sang her voice was as light and lively as that of any swallow perched upon a barn. She could skip and play delightfully, just like a kid or calf following its mother. Her mouth was as sweet as honey mixed with mead, her breath like the perfume of apples laid in stores of heather. She was as skittish as a winsome colt, as slender as a mast and as straight as the bolt of a crossbow. She had a brooch pi

Now so it happened that one fine day, while the old carpenter was working at Osney Abbey, sweet Nicholas began to flirt and play with her. He was, like many students, a crafty and resourceful young man. What does he do? He begins to caress her cunt, saying to her, ‘You know if I don’t have you, then I will die for love of you.’ Then his hand wandered further down, and he began to stroke her thighs. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, ‘make love to me now or, God help me, I will lie down and die. Fuck me or I am finished.’ But she leaped up as fast as a colt about to have its hooves shod, and instantly turned her head away. ‘Sod you, Nicholas!’ she screamed at him. ‘Do you really think I’m going to kiss you? Sod off. Take your hands off me, too. Or else I’ll cry “rape!”’

So Nicholas began to apologize, and then from apology he went to excuse, and from excuse to offer. He got his way in the end, of course. By the time he had finished coaxing and charming her, she was practically begging for it. ‘We have a problem,’ she told him. ‘My husband is so full of jealousy that we have to be careful. We have to wait. Otherwise he will kill me. I am not joking. We have to keep this a secret.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A scholar can outwit a carpenter any time. What else is the use of education?’

So they agreed with one another to bide their time, and wait for the right moment. Nicholas gave her a kiss, and ran his hands up and down the inside of her thighs. Then he went back to his chamber, took up his harp and began to play a lively melody.

Now it so happened that, on the next holy day, Alison went to the parish church in order to worship the Saviour. She had finished her work, and had made sure to wash her face so that it shone, as any good wife would. In this church there was a clerk in holy orders, with the name of Absolon. He had the most lovely blond curls, which were stretched out like a halo all over his head. But he was no saint. His hair was carefully parted, with more art than nature. His complexion was ruddy, and his eyes as grey as a dove’s wing. He had tracery on his shoes, as if they were stained-glass windows. And he wore red hose, tight and shapely. His clothes were tight, too, the better to show off his figure; he wore a tunic of light blue, its laces knotted at the waist. Above that he do