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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 fu
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 bigy
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 ca
‘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 them. 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?’