The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (38 page)

There was a fox, tipped with black from head to toe, who was a very model of slyness and iniquity. He had dwelled in a forest, near the old woman’s cottage, for three years. The previous night, as high fortune had dictated, the fox burst through the hedge that protected the yard where Chanticleer and his wives were accustomed to take the air. He lay concealed in a bed of cabbages until the following morning, ready to seize the proud cock at the first opportunity. That is what assassins do, when they are waiting for their prey. They hide, and they plot. Oh false murderer, lying among the cabbages! You are no better than Judas Iscariot. You are worse than Genylon, who betrayed brave Roland. You false traitor. You are another Synon, who caused the wooden horse to be brought into Troy. Oh Chanticleer you will curse the morning when you flew down from your perch. You were forewarned in your dreams that this day would be hurtful to you, but you spread your wings none the less. Well, as some wise clerks say, what will be will be. God has made it so. There is much debate and argument on the point, among the schoolmen. Thousands of them have disputed on the claims of free will and necessity. I really don’t have the wit to solve the conundrum. Augustine has tried. Boethius has tried. Thomas Bradwardyn has tried. Remember him? There are those who believe that all is predestined and prejudged in the fathomless mind of God. But there are others who distinguish between providence and destiny. It is not necessary that things happen because they have been ordained but, rather, things that do happen have indeed been ordained. It is too much for me. I am telling a tale of a cock and a fox. That is all. I am relating the sad story of a bird that was persuaded by his wife to ignore his dream and to strut around the farmyard.

The advice of women is often fatal. It was a woman’s advice that led to all our woe. I am talking about Eve, who advised Adam out of Paradise. He had been happy there. If I have offended anyone among you, dear pilgrims, take it in good spirit. I am only joking. Consult the authors who know about such things. Read what they have written about women. In any case these are the words of the cock. They are not mine. I mean no harm to any female.

Dame Pertelote and her sister birds were all merrily scratching in the sand, and taking a dust-bath in the sunshine, and joyous Chanticleer was singing more sweetly than the mermaids of the sea (Theobaldus in his
Bestiary
reveals the sweetness and the purity of the mermaids’ song). He was watching a butterfly fluttering idly among the cabbages, when suddenly he became aware of the fox lying among the stalks. He was not inclined to crow any more. Instead he cried out ‘Cok! Cok!’ and started up in abject terror. An animal desires to flee from its natural enemy, even if he has not seen one of them before. It is instinctive.

So Chanticleer was about to run away, in fear of his life, but the fox began to talk to him in a mild and well-mannered way. ‘Gentle sir,’ he said, ‘dear oh dear, where are you going? Are you afraid of your friend? May I be damned to hell if I harm a feather on your back! I have not come here to spy on you. I have been lying here so that I could hear you sing. Truly you have a marvellous voice, more melodious than that of any angel in heaven. You have more grasp of song than Boethius, who wrote a book on the subject. I remember well when your father, an excellent fellow, and your dear mother honoured my poor house with their presence. I would be pleased to invite you there also. As for singing, my ears do not deceive me. Apart from your good self, your father had the best crow I have ever heard. His morning call was delicious. He sang from the heart. He used to strengthen his voice by standing on tiptoe and stretching out his neck as far as it would go. He tried so hard that he became cross-eyed with the effort. He was so expert in the art that there was no other bird in the region who could match him. He was the greatest songster. I have read that book about the ass, Burnellus, in which a cock gets his revenge upon a young man. As a boy he had broken the leg of the bird; on the day of the man’s ordination the cock refuses to crow, and the man sleeps through the ceremony. Yet there can be no comparison with the wisdom and subtlety of your father. As I said, he had no rival. Will you sing for me now, good sir? Will you prove to me that you are your father’s son?’

So Chanticleer rose up and beat his wings. He allowed flattery to overturn his judgement. He did not see an enemy, but an audience. Oh lords and ladies, there will be many flatterers and time-servers in your retinues; they will please you more than those who tell the truth, but take care. Read Ecclesiastes. There may be treachery at court.

So Chanticleer stood up on tiptoe, stretched his neck, and closed his eyes before beginning his song. That was the moment that the fox jumped from the cabbage patch and seized the cock by the throat; then he ran off into the wood, with no one in pursuit. Destiny cannot be averted. Fate will have its way – if only Chanticleer had not flown down from his perch, if only Pertelote had taken her husband’s dream more seriously. All this happened on a Friday, by the way. It is well known to be an unlucky day. Oh Venus, goddess of love, this cock was your most fervent devotee. He did everything in his power to serve you. He did it all for pleasure, not to fill the world with more birds. How can you allow him to die?

I wish that I had the eloquence of Geoffrey of Vinsauf, who wrote a famous elegy when his sovereign, Richard of the Lion Heart, was killed by an arrow. Why do I not have the words, and the learning, to lament this woeful Friday? Why cannot I express my grief for the demise of the cock?

In the hen-run itself there was such a wail of sorrow, louder than the plaint the ladies of Troy made when their city was taken. The poor birds made more noise than Hecuba, on seeing the death of her husband at the hands of Pyrrhus. When Chanticleer was taken off, they screamed. And what of Pertelote? She was beside herself. She was frantic with grief, in more agony than the wife of Hasdrubal, who was killed as Carthage was destroyed in flame. She was so full of torment and of rage that she hopped on to a bonfire and burned herself to death. Unhappy birds! You cried as much as the wives of Rome when Nero burned down the city. They watched their husbands perish in the flames. They were guiltless of any crime, but they were condemned to death.

Let me return to the story. When the poor widow and her two daughters heard the crying and confusion of the hens, they rushed into the yard. They were just in time to see the fox racing back to the wood with Chanticleer in his grip. So they called out: ‘ Harrow! Harrow! The fox! The fox! Havoc! Havoc!’ They ran after him, and they were joined in the pursuit by the whole village. There was Talbot and Garland and Malkyn, still with her distaff in her hand. The dog, Colin, sprinted beside them with his tail up. The cows and the calves, even the pigs, were roused by all the shouting and all the barking. They were all running as if their hearts would break. They were yelling as loudly as the fiends in hell. The ducks were quacking up a storm. The geese flew backwards and forwards. The bees came out of the hive in a wild swarm. The noise was so great that no London mob or riot over the price of wheat could equal it. They screamed after the fox. They blew their trumpets and beat their drums. They sounded their horns. They shrieked and whooped. They made so much din that it seemed that the heavens might fall.

Now, good pilgrims, I ask you to pay attention. See how Dame Fortune can ruin the hopes and expectations of her enemies. Chanticleer, caught in the jaws of the fox, trembling with fear, spoke out. ‘If I were you, sir,’ he said to his captor, ‘I would turn upon my pursuers now and taunt them. I would tell them to go back from where they had come. For good measure, I would damn them to hell. I would tell them that you are safely on the margins of the wood, and that I will never escape from your jaws. I would tell them that I am dead meat.’

‘That’s a very good idea,’ the fox replied. And at that moment, as soon as he had opened his mouth, Chanticleer leaped out and flew up into a tree.

‘Alas,’ the fox cried, looking up at him. ‘Alas, dear Chanticleer. I am embarrassed. I am afraid that I have given you the wrong impression. I must have frightened you when I grabbed you and ran out of the yard. But I had the best intentions. I meant you no harm. Come down from that tree, and we can talk about it. I will tell you the truth and nothing but the truth.’

‘You must be joking,’ the cock replied. ‘I’ll be damned if I am fooled again. Your flattery won’t work any more. I am not going to close my eyes and sing for you. He who keeps his eyes shut deserves his misfortunes. That is the lesson I have learned.’

‘There is another lesson,’ the fox said. ‘Bad luck will come to one who opens his big mouth at the wrong moment.’

So this is the moral. Do not be careless, or impetuous. Do not trust flatterers.

Some of you may think this is a cock-and-hen story, a piece of foolishness. But learn the moral, at least. As Saint Paul says, you ought to be able to sift the wheat from the chaff. That is good advice. I will leave it there, lords and ladies. May we all lead good lives and go to heaven!

Heere is ended the Nonnes Preestes Tale

‘Well, sir,’ our Host said to the Nun’s Priest. ‘Blessed be your bum and balls! That story about Chanticleer was one of the funniest I have heard. If you were a secular, I bet you would be a bit of a cock yourself. You would be thrusting with the best of them. Seven would not be enough for you, would it? What about seven times seven? Or seven times seventeen? You could keep going. Look at him, fellow pilgrims. Look at his muscles. Observe that brawny neck, and noble chest. With his bright eyes, he reminds me of a sparrowhawk. There is no need for him to dye his hair with red powders. He has that brilliant colour naturally. Thank you, sir, for an outstanding story. And God be with you!’

Then our Host turned to another pilgrim, the Second Nun, and in gentle voice invited her to tell her tale.

The prologe of the Seconde Nonnes Tale

I speak of that nurse and mistress of all the vices, known in English as idleness, that gate to sin and hell – we must avoid it at all costs and instead cultivate a busy and useful life. We ought to concentrate on work, rather than on pleasure, or else the devil may take us unawares.

Satan has a thousand snares and traps ready to entice us; if he sees an idle man, he creeps up with his net. In an instant the man, not realizing the danger, is caught and damned. So I beg all of you to work hard and to avoid the sin of sloth.

And even if we have no fear of death, and the world to come, reason itself teaches us that idleness is the rotten soil from which no harvest can be gathered. Laziness is a laggard, prepared only for sleeping and eating and drinking. It consumes the goods of the world, the fruit of others’ labour.

I am about to tell you a story that illustrates the foulness and folly of idleness, the source of so much harm to all of us. I am about to relate to you the glorious life and death of the holy blissful virgin whose wreath is crowned with rose and lily flower – the maid and martyr, Saint Cecilia.

Oh blessed Mary, the flower of all virgins, I call upon you first to guide my pen. You are the comfort of all sinners on the earth. Help me to tell the story of the maiden’s death, and how through her martyrdom she won eternal life in the mansions of heaven.

Hail holy Mother of God, well of mercy, balm of sinful souls, in whom our Saviour chose to dwell for the sake of all mankind. Your humility has exalted you. You have so sanctified our nature that God Himself chose to take on flesh and blood.

Within the blessed temple of your body the threefold God, the centre of eternal love and peace, took human form. All creation sends up unceasing prayer and praise to Father, Son and Holy Ghost. You are the spotless Virgin who carried in your womb the creator of the world.

You are the spring of mercy, pity, peace and love. You are the source of virtue and of bliss. You come to the aid of those who pray to you, but out of your benignity you help others before they beseech you for comfort in distress. You go before, and heal their sorrow.

So help me now, blessed maid, in the valley of the shadow of death. Think of the woman from Canaan, who told your blessed Son that even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the tables of their masters. I know that I am a sinful and unworthy daughter of Eve, but please accept my faithful prayer.

Faith is dead without good deeds. Allow me the time and place to perform works in your honour, and thus avoid the darkness of hell. Hail Mary, full of grace. I beg you to speak a word for me in the abode of bliss where there is eternal song. Daughter of Anna, blessed one, Mother of Christ, hosanna!

Send your light to me in the darkness of the prison of this world; lift from me the burden and contagion of the flesh; save me from lust and all false affections. You are the haven of refuge, the solace and the comfort of all those in distress. Assist me now in my appointed task.

I ask that all those who hear, and read, this story will forgive my lack of grace. I have no skill or subtlety in narration. I am relying upon the words of one who so revered the saint that he wrote down her story. It is to be found in the book known as
The Golden Legend
. Please pardon any of my faults for the sake of the holy martyr herself.

I will first interpret the name of Cecilia, and expound its meanings in terms of her life. It means, in English, ‘the lily of heaven’, alluding to her virginal chastity. It also refers to the whiteness of her honesty, the evergreen stalk of her conscience, and the sweet savour of her reputation. Thus she is called ‘lily’.

Cecilia may also mean in Latin
caecis via
, or ‘the path for the blind’. This refers to her teaching and her example. We also arrive at her name by conjoining ‘heaven’ and ‘Lia’,
caelo et lya
; heaven here means holiness and Lia is the name of the active life in the world.

Cecilia may also be construed as ‘lack of blindness’, or
caecitate carens
. The meaning is easy to understand. The holy saint is filled with the great light of wisdom and of virtue. Then again her name may be the conjunction of ‘heaven’ and ‘leos’ or people –
coelo et leos
– and she is indeed the heaven of the people.

Just as we may look up at the night sky and see the moon and the planets and the wandering stars, so when we observe the heavenly maid we see the shining paths of faith and of wisdom as well as the bright constellations of virtue and of good works.

The philosophers tell us the seven spheres of heaven revolve quickly through the firmament, sending out great heat, so Cecilia was always swift and busy in her good works; she was as perfect in form as the celestial spheres, and she burned continually with the fire of grace. So I expound her name.