The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (3 page)

He had brought with him on pilgrimage his brother, a PLOUGHMAN, who had carted many wagons of dung in his time. He was a good and faithful workman who lived in peace and charity with his neighbours. He loved God before all things, even though his own life was sometimes rough and painful, and he loved his neighbour as himself. For the love of Christ he would thresh the hay, or dig the ditches, for a poor man who could not even afford to pay him. He paid his tithes in full and on time, in regard both to his labour and to his possessions. He wore a coarse workman’s tunic, and rode on a mare.

The other pilgrims were a REEVE and a MILLER, a SUMMONER and a PARDONER, a MANCIPLE and then MYSELF. You will be glad to hear that there were no others. Otherwise this story would become too long.

The MILLER was a burly man. He had strong muscles and strong bones. I would have said that he was bigger of brawn than of brain. He was a bruiser, too, who always won the prize of the ram at wrestling competitions. He was broad and squat, with a thick neck; he could knock any door off its hinges, and would no doubt have excelled at that game the London apprentices play, known as ‘breaking doors with our heads’. His beard was as red as a sow’s tit or a fox’s tail; it was broad enough, too, to pass as a shovel. There was a great wart on the top right of his nose, with a tuft of hairs growing from it as thick as from a pig’s ear; his nostrils were wide, like two great pits, and his mouth was as big as a cauldron. He carried a sword and a small shield by his side. He seemed to distrust or dislike me, and narrowed his eyes when he looked at me. This was a trifle disconcerting. In any case I considered him to be a buffoon. He was always telling dirty stories about whores and other sinners. I trust that I will never be accused of that. He knew how to steal grain from the sacks, and charge three times the amount he should. In truth I do not think I have ever met an honest miller. He wore a white coat and a blue hood. He got out his bagpipes, as we passed the boundary of the city, and played a tune.

There was on our pilgrimage a MANCIPLE, a business agent who worked for the Inner Temple. I had studied there, for a short time, and we exchanged anecdotes about the wild apprentices of law. I soon discovered his acumen, however, in the buying of stores and provisions. He told me that cash or credit was good enough, as long as the purchaser looked ahead and waited for the right moment. ‘The blacksmith always strikes,’ he said to me, ‘when the iron is hot.’ I thought this was an excellent saying. I must remember it. Is it not an example of God’s grace that such an unlearned man should outpace the wisdom of all the learned pates in the Inner Temple? He had thirty masters above him, all of them skilled in matters of law. More than a dozen of them had the expertise to run the lands and rents of any lord in England so that, unless they were out of their wits, they could live honourably and without debt. They had the knowledge to administer a whole shire, through any crisis or danger that might arise. But this was the funny thing. The unlearned manciple had always got the better of them. I will not say that he swindled them but many things, as they say, went under the thumb.

The REEVE was a slender and choleric man. His beard was closely shaved, and his hair was shorn around his ears like that of a priest. His legs were so long and so lean that he resembled a staff; you could not see his calves. But he was an excellent estate manager; he kept the granaries full, and the storage bins overflowing. No auditor could ever catch him out. He knew, from the intervals of rain and drought, how to calculate the harvests of seed and grain. This Reeve had complete control of the cattle and the sheep on his lord’s estate, as well as the pigs, the horses, the livestock and the poultry. I dare say that he even managed the worms. He had kept the accounts, under the terms of his employment, since the time his lord turned twenty. He paid out promptly, too. He knew every trick used by the farm-managers, and every excuse offered by the herdsmen and the servants. They all feared him as they feared the plague. He had a pretty little house upon a heath, overshadowed by green trees. In fact he could probably have afforded to buy more property than his lord and master, for he had secretly amassed a lot of money. He had learned how to take his lord’s possessions and then sell them back to him, so that he obtained both compliments and rewards equally. He could blear eyes better than any man in England. In his youth he had the sense to learn a good trade, and had become apprentice to a carpenter. Now he sat upon a sturdy horse. It was a dapple grey, and its name was Scot. He wore a long coat of dark blue cloth, which was hitched up around a girdle. By his side he carried a rusty sword. But he had no need to fight anyone. He was at peace with the world. He came from Norfolk, he told me, near a town called Baldeswell. I had never heard of it. He said that it was close to Norwich. But this did not enlighten me much. There is one other thing I forgot to mention. He was always the last rider in our little group.

There was a SUMMONER with us, unfortunately. He had the face of a fiery cherub, covered with pimples. He had swollen eyelids, adding to the unfortunate impression. He was as hot and lecherous as the proverbial London sparrow. His eyebrows were scabby, and the hair was falling out of his beard. You could understand why children were afraid of him. There was no medicine or ointment, no quicksilver or brimstone, no sulphur or cream of tartar, no white lead or borax, that could remove those unsightly pustules. They were like oyster shells on his cheeks. His diet may have had something to do with it. He loved onions, garlic and leeks, which are well known to nourish bitter humours; he drank the strongest red wine he could find and, in his cups, he would talk and cry out as if he were mad. ‘You are all janglers and clatterers!’ he said. He was looking at me at the time. When he was completely drunk he would speak only in Latin, and one evening he sang out the old rhyme:

He knew two or three Latin terms that he had learned from some ecclesiastical law-book. ‘I will give you,’ he said, ‘
dispositio
,
expositio
and
conclusio
.’ This was the kind of language he used when he summoned the citizens to the Church courts and the local assize. He had learned it all by rote. But we all know that a parrot can say ‘good-day’ as well as any pope. If anyone ever tried to question him further, then his well of learning suddenly dried up. He would cry out, ‘
Questio quid juris?
’, which is to say, ‘What point of law are you trying to make?’ And that was that. He was a bit of a buffoon, in other words, but some swore that he was kind-hearted. For the payment of a quart of wine, for example, he would allow some rascal to keep his mistress for a year; then he would excuse him completely. In secret he could pull a few swindles – and pull other things, too, if you know what I mean. If he came across any other scoundrel
in flagrante
he would counsel him to ignore any archdeacon’s curse or threat of excommunication. If a man’s soul was in his purse, only then would it be painful; only the purse was really punished. ‘The purse,’ he used to say, ‘is the archdeacon’s hell.’ In that, of course, he was wholly wrong. Every guilty man should fear the consequences of excommunication, just as absolution is the only salvation for the human soul. The wicked man should beware, too, of the writ that consigns the excommunicated to the prison cell. This summoner had the young girls of his diocese under his control; he knew all their secrets, and he was their sole adviser. He had a green garland on his head, just like those you see outside taverns. And he had made himself a shield out of a loaf of bread. As I said, he was a buffoon.

Riding in company with him was a PARDONER, working for Saint Anthony’s Hospital at Charing Cross. He had come straight from the papal court at Rome, where he had been granted his licence for the sale of pardons and indulgences. Now he could carry his staff wound with red cloth and sing out:

The Summoner joined in, with a strong bass voice, and their combined noise was louder than that of any trumpet. This Pardoner had hair as yellow as old wax, hanging down his back as limply as a bundle of flax and draped across his shoulders; it was very thin, and was gathered in tufts and clumps. He could have had rats’ tails upon his head. They were all the more visible because he refused to wear any kind of hood. The hood was considered by him to be out of date, so he kept it in his knapsack. With head bare, except for a round felt hat, he considered himself to be in the height of fashion. He had the large and timid eyes of a hare. On his woollen robe he had sewn small wooden crosses as well as the image of the Saviour imprinted on the handkerchief of Saint Veronica. His knapsack, which he carried on his lap, was filled with papal pardons smoking hot from Rome. ‘If any man full penitent come to me and pay for his sin,’ he said to me, ‘I will absolve him. If anyone gives seven shillings to Saint Anthony’s, I will bestow on him an indulgence of seven hundred years.’ I told him that I had scarcely enough money to pay my way. He had a voice as high as that of a nanny goat. He had no beard at all, nor was likely to grow one. His chin was as smooth as a girl’s arse. He was either a eunuch or a homosexual, a nurrit or a will-jick, as the common people put it. I did not wish to investigate further. Yet, as pardoners go, he was effective enough. In his bag he had a pillowcase, which, he told us, was the veil of Our Lady. He had a piece of the sail from the boat of Saint Peter. He had a brass crucifix, set with pebbles, which he announced to be a precious ornament from Bruges. In a glass reliquary he carried pigs’ bones, which, he claimed, were relics of the holy saints. If they were dipped into any well, the water from that well would cure all diseases. So he said. They did work in another sense. Whenever he came upon a foolish parson in the countryside, he would wheedle more money out of him than the priest himself earned in two whole months. So, with feigning and flattery and trickery, he made fools of the priest and the people. He had one virtue. It would be true to say that, in church, he was a notable performer. He was the very model of a modern ecclesiastic. He read out the liturgical texts during the mass and, best of all, he sang the offertories with gusto. He knew that, when the song was sung, he would have to preach and so modulate his voice that he might win more silver from the congregation. Therefore he took care to sing merrily and loudly. He was called ‘the devil’s rattlebag’.

Now I have completed – truly and, I hope, briefly – my description of the estate, rank and appearance of every pilgrim. You know how many there were. You know why they had come together in Southwark. You have been told that they all took lodgings for the night at that fine tavern known as the Tabard, which is close to the Bell. Every tavern in Southwark is close to another one. But now it is time for me to tell you how we all behaved that night, after we had arrived at the hostelry, and only after that will I describe to you the journey and the remainder of our pilgrimage. I will be your eyes and ears. I have no other purpose. But first I must ask you, out of consideration for my feelings, not to impute any malice or villainy to me if I describe plainly how they spoke and how they looked. Do not hold it against me if I report their words in full. For you know this as well as I do – if I intend to repeat the tale of another man, I must write it down precisely as I heard it word for word. I have a good example. Christ spoke out plainly in the gospels, and no one has ever accused him of rudeness. To the best of my ability I will record accurately all of the tales and conversations of the pilgrims, however obscene or absurd they may turn out to be. Otherwise my work will be inaccurate. It will be mere fiction. I will not spare my characters, even if one of them happens to be my brother. Characters? No. People. Living people. The words of living people will be preserved by me. I want you to hear their voices, just as if you were riding with us. Those who have read Plato will know well enough his apothegm, ‘The word must be cousin to the deed.’ I have another request to make. I hope you will forgive me if I do not introduce people precisely in their order of rank. Put it down to my general stupidity. Well. Enough of this rambling.

Our HOST gave us all good cheer, and set down a tasty supper for us on the table. In the tavern itself there were cries of ‘Tapster, fill the bowl!’ and ‘One pot more!’ He served us good fish and flesh; the wine was strong and potable. We all agreed, after our leather cups were filled, that the landlord was an attractive man. He could have acted as master of ceremonies at any public feast. He was a large fellow with bright eyes. You could not find a fairer citizen in the whole of Cheapside. He was forthright in speech, but he was also shrewd and apparently well educated. I did not find out what school he attended. Anyway, he possessed all the characteristics of a proper man. He was merry enough and, after supper, he began to amuse us with several stories. He trusted that we would enjoy ourselves on this journey and, after we had all paid our bills, he addressed us with these words. ‘Now, good ladies and gentlemen, I would like to bid you all welcome to my inn. I must say that I have not come across a more joyful group of people under my roof. If I could entertain you more, then I would. Gladly. In fact I have hit upon one scheme to make your journey easier and more agreeable. Hear me out. It will cost you nothing. We all know that you are on your way to Canterbury where Saint Thomas, God bless him, will no doubt reward you for your devotion. And I fully expect that you will pass the time in telling stories and other amusements. That is only natural. There is no comfort or entertainment to be had in riding silently together, as dumb as any stone. That is why I have this plan of my own to put to you. It will keep you merry. So if you all agree to abide by my judgement, and play the game I have invented, I promise on my father’s soul that you will be mightily entertained in the course of your journey tomorrow. Please, without more ado, hold up your hands in assent to my proposal!’