The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (27 page)

The kind nurse of digestion and appetite, sleep, began to descend upon the party. Hypnos, the son of Night, let it be known that after much toil, and after much drink, it was time to rest. So he kissed them all. He yawned, and bid them all to lie down. Their blood was thick and heavy. ‘Cherish your blood,’ he said. ‘It is nature’s friend.’ By now they were all yawning, too. They thanked him for his advice, and laid themselves down to rest. It was the best thing to do.

I shall not describe their dreams. They were filled with drink and, in that state, dreams have no meaning. They all slept until prime, nine o’clock – all of them, that is, except Canacee. She had been very sensible, as women are, and had gone to bed early after thanking and blessing her father. She did not want to look ill or pale on the following day; she wanted to look fresh and gay. So she slept a moderate amount, and then awoke. On opening her eyes she thought once more of the ring, and the magic mirror; she was so excited that she must have changed colour twenty times. Even in her sleep she had dreamed of that mirror. It had made such an impression on her. So just before the sun began to rise she called her governess to her bedside, telling her that she wanted to dress and get ready for the day. The old crone, who considered herself to be as wise as her mistress, readily answered. ‘Where will you go, ma dame,’ she asked her, ‘when everyone else is still in bed?’

‘I want to get up. I have had enough sleep. I want to walk about and take the air.’

So the governess clapped her hands and summoned the maidservants, a dozen or more, to attend their mistress. Then up rose Canacee, as bright and rosy as the sun itself. It was already warm, the sun having risen into Aries, and so the princess walked out blithely into the light. She was gaily dressed for the season and, with five or six of her attendants, she enjoyed the fragrance of the early morning. Together they made their way down a green avenue in the park.

The mist rising from the fresh earth made the sun seem roseate and large; it was so fair a sight that all of the ladies were glad at heart. It was a lovely season. It was a wonderful morning. All the birds began to sing. And, as they sang, Canacee understood them perfectly. She could follow their meaning note by note. I forgot to mention one thing, you see. She had put on the ring.

No one wants to hear a long story without a point, or a story in which the point is long delayed. All the fun goes. The patience wears thin. The narrative loses its savour. So, without more ado, I will put an end to this walk in the park.

Canacee was having a delightful time, when suddenly she came to a dry and withered tree as white as chalk. In its branches perched a falcon that set up such a shriek that the whole wood resounded with her cries. The bird had beaten herself so badly, with both of her wings, that her red blood ran down the white tree. She kept up her bitter lament all the time, stabbing her breast with her beak. There was no beast, no tiger, so cruel that it would not have pitied her. All the animals of wood and forest would have wept with her, if they had been capable of tears. There had never been a falcon so fair of shape and form, so beautiful of plumage, so noble of nature. She seemed to be a peregrine falcon from some foreign land; she was perched on the tree, but she had lost so much blood that several times she was close to swooning. She might have fallen out of the tree.

Now the fair princess, Canacee, who wore the ring, understood everything that the falcon had said. She could listen to her, and reply to her in her language. In fact she was so filled with pity for the bird that she might have died. So she hastened up to the tree, looking up through its branches at the falcon; then she spread wide the skirt of her dress, in case the bird fell through lack of blood. Canacee stood there for a long time, saying nothing, until eventually she spoke out loud.

‘What is the cause of all this pain, if you can tell me? You are in hell, I know. What is the reason? Are you mourning a death? Or the loss of love? Those are the two reasons for sorrow such as yours. No other woe comes near to them. You are injuring yourself so grievously that fear or fury must be goading you. There is no one, as far as I can see, hunting you. Have pity on your own sufferings. For the love of God, tell me. How can I help you? I have never, in all the world, seen a bird or beast enduring so much self-inflicted pain. You are killing me with your sorrow. I feel such sympathy for you. I entreat you. Please come down from the tree. I am the daughter of a noble king. If I know the cause of your suffering, I will try to alleviate it as best as I can. As far as it lies within my power, so help me God, I will cure your woe before night comes. Here. Look. I will find herbs for you now, to cure the wounds you bear.’

On hearing the words of the princess, the falcon gave out a shriek more piteous than before. She toppled from the branches and fell down upon the ground, where she lay as still as any stone. Canacee took the bird into her lap, and caressed her gently until she had awoken from her faint. As the falcon recovered from her swoon, she began to speak to the princess in the language of the birds. ‘It is true that pity runs freely in a gentle heart. It is only natural to feel another’s woe as if it were your own. We have all experienced it. We have all read about it. A gentle heart manifests gentleness. I can see well enough, Canacee, that you have pity for my distress. Nature has given you compassion, fair princess, as one of the principles of your being. You are the paradigm of female kindness. I have no hope of getting better but, in honour of your kind heart, I will tell you everything. I will, perhaps, be able to set an example and act as a warning to others. You may beat the dog to warn off the lion. For that reason, while I still have breath in my little body, I will confess the whole truth.’

As the bird spoke the princess was bathed in tears; she was weeping so piteously that the falcon bid her to be still and stop her sobbing. Then with a sigh she began her tale. ‘I was born – God curse the day – and brought up on a rock of grey marble. I was raised so tenderly that nothing in the world ailed me. I knew nothing of adversity until the time when I first sailed high into the air. Close to me dwelled a tercelet, the male of my species. He seemed noble and honourable, but in fact he was filled with treachery and falseness. He seemed so cheerful and so humble that he fooled everyone; he was always so eager to please. Who could have known that it was all an act? As we birds say, he had dyed his feathers. He was like the snake who conceals himself beneath sweet-smelling flowers, the easier to bite and wound. He was the hypocrite of love, all smiles and bows, obeying all the rules and customs of courtly romance. A tomb is raised out of shining white marble, nicely carved, but there is a rotting corpse within; so did this hypocrite display himself on every occasion. He was all front. Only the devil knew his true purpose. He was always crying on my feathers. He was always bewailing the miserable life of a lover. He courted me year after year until, finally, I relented. My heart was too soft. I was too gullible. I knew nothing of his malice, of course, and in fact I was afraid that he might die of love. So I made him utter a solemn oath. I would grant him my love on condition that my honour and good name were not tarnished; I wished to be blameless, both in private and in public. So I gave him all my heart, and all my hopes. I thought that he deserved them. When he agreed on oath to respect me, then I took him as my own true love.

‘But there is a saying, as old as it is true, that “An honest man and a thief do not think alike.” When this tercelet, this false bird, realized that he had snared me and had captured my loving heart, he fell down on his knees in gratitude. He was as faithless as a tiger. He vowed that he had never been so happy. He said that he was more joyful than Jason or Paris of Troy. Jason? Why do I mention him? This bird was more like Lamech, who, according to the old books, was the first bigamist. No man since the beginning of the world – no human being living or dead – could match the tricks of this tercelet. He was the supreme counterfeiter. No other fraudster was fit to unbuckle his sandals! He was the prince of perjury. You should have seen the way he offered his thanks to me a thousand times. He was perfect in the part. The wisest woman would have fallen for it. The mask fitted his face. The paint was laid on thick. In looks and in words he was all charm. I loved him for the love he bore me, and for his true and honest heart. If anything troubled or upset him, I felt it so strongly that I might have died. So in time I became the supple instrument of his will; his will was the stronger, and I obeyed him in everything – within the bounds of reason and of modesty, of course. I never loved a bird more, or half as much, as I loved him. I never will again.

‘So for a year or two I was convinced of his goodness. But nothing lasts for ever. Fortune turns the wheel. Eventually the time came when he was obliged to leave the land in which I lived. Of course I was distraught. I cannot describe my feelings. I can tell you one thing, though. I knew the pains of death. I was acquainted with grief, now that my love could no longer stay by my side.

‘On the day of his departure he was so sorrowful that I believed he suffered as much as I did. When I heard him speak, and saw his pale countenance, I truly believed that he was also in despair. Nevertheless I was convinced that he would return to me as quickly as possible. I reassured myself that he would be back soon enough. He had to go away, for reasons of duty. So I made a virtue of necessity. I tried to stay cheerful. I concealed my pain, I took him by the hand and, calling on Saint John as a witness, told him that I would always be faithful to him. “I will be yours,” I said, “for now and ever more. Please be loyal to me, too.” There is no need to tell you his reply. Who could speak more nobly than him? Who could act more wickedly? “He who sups with the devil needs a long spoon.” Is that not the saying? So, having made his little speech, he left and flew to his destination. I do not know where. But when he finally came to rest, I am sure that he had the following text in mind. “All creatures of the earth,” wrote Boethius, “when they regain their proper nature, naturally rejoice.” I think it was Boethius. Men love novelty. I know that much. Have you ever seen those birds that live in cages? They are fed on milk and honey, bread and sugar. Their cages are lined with straw as soft and smooth as silk. Yet as soon as the door of the cage is opened, what do they do? They fly away, of course. They leave the little cup and bells. They take wing to the wood where they can feed on worms and dirt. They need new meat. They need change and a new diet. Good breeding does not come into it.

‘This is what happened to my tercelet. I could weep even now. Although he was of gentle birth, well mannered and well groomed, he happened to see a low-born kite sailing by. On that instant the sweet gentleman became infatuated with a scavenger bird. Can you believe it? Of course he forgot all about his love for me. He broke all his oaths and promises. So my so-called lover has fallen for a kite. And I am left behind without hope!’ At that the falcon let out a scream, and fainted dead away in the lap of Canacee.

The princess and her entourage were greatly moved by the falcon’s plight, but they did not know how to comfort her. Canacee decided to take the bird home, cradling her in her lap, and then she began to wrap up the self-inflicted wounds with bandages and plasters. The princess also took rare herbs from the garden of the palace, making ointments and other medicines from them; she tried everything in her power to heal the hawk. She even made a pen of wickerwork by the side of her bed, draped in blue velvet cloths, where the bird might rest. Blue, of course, is the colour of faithfulness. The outside of this cage was painted green, and on it were depicted the images of all the false birds of the world – the owls, the tercelets, the lecherous sparrows. There were also placed here, in derision, the portraits of those little chatterers known as magpies. How they scold and chide!

So I will leave Canacee in the company of her ailing hawk. I will say no more about her magic ring until a later occasion, when I will tell you how the poor bird regained her repentant lover. The old books relate how this reunion was accomplished by the son of Genghis Khan, Cambalus. I think I have mentioned him before. Anyway, he was the one who brought the birds together. Enough of that. I now want to proceed to tales of battle and adventure. I have many marvels to impart to you. I will tell you the history of Genghis Khan, the great conqueror. Then I will speak of Algarsif, the oldest son of the mighty warrior, who won his wife by magical means. He would have been in great danger, if he had not been saved by that wondrous horse of brass. Then I will narrate the adventures of another warrior who fought the two brothers for the hand of their sister, Canacee. There is so much to tell you! I will begin again where I left off.

Apollo was riding in his chariot so high that he entered the house of cunning Mercury – ‘What’s the matter? Why are you putting your finger to your lips?’

‘Great job. You have done very well, Squire,’ the Franklin said to him. ‘You have spoken nobly. I can only praise your wit and invention. Considering how young you are, you really got into the spirit of the story. I loved the falcon! In my judgement there is no one among us here who is your equal in eloquence. I hope you live a long life and continue to exercise your skill in words. What an orator you are. I have a son myself, about your age. I wish that he had half of your discretion. I would give twenty pounds of land to the person who could instil some common sense into him. What’s the point of property, or possessions, if you have no good qualities in yourself? I have remonstrated with him time and time again. I have rebuked him for following the easy path to vice. He wants to play at dice all day, losing his money in the process. He would sooner gossip with a common serving-boy than converse with a gentleman, from whom he might learn some manners.’

‘Enough of your manners,’ called out our Host. ‘You have a task to perform. You know well enough, sir Franklin, that each of the pilgrims must tell a tale or two on our journey. That was the solemn oath.’

‘I know that, sir,’ replied the Franklin. ‘But am I not allowed to address a word or two to this worthy young man?’

‘Just get on with your story.’

‘Gladly. I will obey you to the letter, dear Host. Listen and I will tell you all. I will not go against your wishes. I will speak as far as my poor wit allows me. I pray to God that you enjoy my tale. If it pleases you, I will be rewarded.’