The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (22 page)

Then it happened. It has happened many times before. Soon after the birth of his daughter, Walter decided to test his wife. He wanted to see how constant, and how steadfast, she really was. He could not resist the thought of tempting Griselda. He wanted to frighten her even though, God knows, there was no need.

He had put her to the test before, and she had never disappointed him. She was always loyal, and always patient. What was the point of tempting her again and again? Some men might say that the marquis was a subtle fellow, but I say that it is evil to submit a wife to scrutiny without reason. It simply causes needless grief and anxiety.

This is what the marquis did. He came one night to her bedside with a serious face and a disturbed manner. They were alone. ‘Griselda, do you remember that day when I lifted you out of poverty and placed you in an exalted rank? You haven’t forgotten that, I hope?

‘I hope you still recall the days when you lived with your father in that little cottage. I hope your present glory has not made you forgetful. You were in so wretched a position that you could scarcely have dreamed of your good fortune. So listen to every word that I am about to tell you. There is no one here but you and me.

‘You know well enough the circumstances that led you here less than a year ago. Although I am of course mild and loving towards you, my noble courtiers are not so respectful. They tell me that it is shameful and humiliating for them to serve one of such humble estate as yourself. They do not wish to stoop so low.

‘Ever since the birth of your daughter they have been complaining more and more. She shares your blood, after all. My fervent will and wish is to live at peace with them. I must listen to what they say, and dispose of your daughter as I think best. It is not what I would, but what I must, do.

‘God knows all this is distasteful to me. But believe me. I will do nothing without your knowledge. You must assent to all of my decisions. Show me your patience and your constancy. Be faithful to your promise to me on our wedding day.’

When she heard her husband she seemed to remain unmoved. She showed no fear, or alarm, or anger. She was calm and composed. ‘Lord,’ she said, ‘you must do as you please. My daughter and I are your faithful servants. We will obey your commands, for better or for worse. We are wholly yours. Do as you wish.

‘There is nothing in the world that will please me if it displeases you. I desire nothing. I dread nothing. I fear only to lose you, my husband. This is the truth rooted in my heart. It will remain there for ever, and will never fade. I will always be faithful to you.’

The marquis was happy with her answer. Yet he pretended otherwise. He looked at her gravely, almost angrily, and left the bedchamber. A short while later he confided in one of his servants, secretly told him what he intended, and dispatched him as a messenger to his wife.

This servant was a secret agent, or enforcer, very useful in matters of state. If there was any low or dishonest work to be done, he was the man. The marquis knew well enough that he loved and respected his master, and would ask no questions. He would obey orders. So without delay he went quietly into Griselda’s chamber.

‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘you must forgive me for coming here. But I must do what my lord has demanded. You know well enough that his commands cannot be averted or evaded. They may cause grief and suffering, I know, but they cannot be challenged. He is our master. That is all there is to it.’

He took a step towards her. ‘And he has ordered me to take this child.’ He said no more. He seized the infant girl and was about to carry her out of the room, with such an expression on his face – well, it seemed that he would murder her on the spot. Griselda was forced to endure all and to be patient. She was as meek, and as quiet, as a lamb. She witnessed the actions of the servant without remonstrance or complaint.

The bad reputation of this man preceded him everywhere. His appearance was threatening, his words ominous. Even the hour of his arrival was suspicious. Griselda truly believed that her little daughter was about to be killed before her eyes. But she did not cry out. She did not weep. She was obliged to fulfil the demands of her husband.

Yet in the end she was moved to speak. She pleaded with the servant, as if he were a good and noble man, to let her kiss her little girl before she died. She cradled the child on her lap and caressed her. She made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and then kissed her again.

She began to murmur to her in a soft voice, as if she were singing a lullaby. ‘Farewell, my little child. I will never see you again. But since I have made the sign of the blessed Lord Jesus, who died for us on a wooden cross, I trust that He will take your soul to paradise. For my sake you will die tonight.’

I do not think that any nurse could have endured so much pain and sorrow, let alone a mother. What woman would not have broken down in tears? Yet Griselda stayed as firm and resolute as ever. Very quietly she said to the official, ‘Here. Take back the child. The little girl is yours.’

As she gave the infant to him, she told him to go and obey his master’s orders. ‘There is just one thing I ask of you,’ she said. ‘Out of consideration to me and my child. Unless our lord absolutely forbids it, I would ask you to bury her little body in a place where the carrion birds and wild beasts will not get at it.’ He made no answer to her, but left the chamber with the child in his arms.

He went back to the marquis, and presented him with his daughter. Then he told him everything that Griselda had done and said. He went through every detail. The marquis, on hearing this, was inclined to pity his wife. Nevertheless he decided to hold to his original purpose. That is the way with lords. They are always masterful.

He told his agent to convey the child to a secret place and to clothe her in the softest silks and linens; then he was to find a little box, or a shawl of linen, in which to hide her. Then on pain of his life he ordered him to remain silent about all these things, and to tell no one where he came from or where he was going.

He was in fact going to Bologna, where the marquis’s sister was countess of the region; having explained the whole reason for the journey he was to leave the little girl with the countess, on the understanding that she would be properly brought up as a royal child. The countess was under no circumstances to tell anyone the identity of the infant. The servant obeyed his master’s orders to the letter.

Let us return now to the marquis himself. Walter was eager to discover if his wife had changed in any way. He was alert to any alteration in her manner or her conversation. But there was none. She was as kind and as patient as ever.

She was as industrious and meek as she had always been, ever ready to smile and obey. She never said a word about her daughter. There was no sign of sorrow or blame. She would not so much as murmur her name in her dreams.

Four years passed. Then, thanks be to God, Griselda bore a male child, a strong and handsome baby. As soon as Walter heard the news he was overjoyed. The whole country celebrated the birth with bells and church services.

When the child was two years old, and had finished with his wet nurse, the marquis was tempted to test his wife once more. There was no need for any of this, but men can become ruthless when they are married to patient and pliable wives. Griselda was at Walter’s mercy.

‘Wife,’ he said, ‘you have heard before that our marriage is unpopular with the people. Now that my son is born, the complaints and recriminations have grown ever louder. I am half dead with anxiety. The protests are making me ill. I can bear it no longer.

‘Do you know what they are saying? When I am gone, I will be succeeded by an offspring of the peasant Janiculus. This low-born wretch will be our lord. That is what they whisper to one another. I have to listen to their grievances, Griselda. I cannot ignore them, even if they never mention them in my presence. What if they were to rebel against me?

‘I want to live at peace with my subjects, as far as I am able. So this is what I propose. I propose to treat my son in the same way that I treated my daughter, under the cover of night and secrecy. I am telling you now so that you will not break out in passionate grief, or anything of that kind. I want you to be patient once again.’

‘I have told you this before, sir,’ she said. ‘I will tell you again. I will do whatever you wish or request. If my son and daughter are killed – well, I will never grieve and never complain. I accept your commandments as my lord and master. I have had no part in my two children – except sickness and pain and sorrow.

‘You are our lord. You must do with us as you please. There is no need to consult me. When I left my home I did not just leave my old clothing behind me. I left my will and my liberty, too. On that occasion I put on the clothes you chose for me. In everything else, your choice is my command. Do as you wish, sir. I will obey you.

‘If I knew in advance what you wanted, I would hasten to perform it without even being told. Now I do know what you require of me. And I will not hesitate. If you ordered me to die in front of you, I would do so gladly. It would give me pleasure. Death is less powerful than my love for you.’

The marquis listened to his wife with averted eyes. He marvelled at her constancy, and wondered how it was possible for her to bear all the suffering he inflicted. He exulted inwardly, but he remained dour and grave in countenance.

So the secret agent was dispatched once more to Griselda’s bedchamber where with even more brutality than before – if such a thing is possible – he snatched the pretty son as he had once snatched the daughter. Griselda was the model of forbearance. She did not lament or cry out. She kissed her little son, and made the sign of the cross upon his forehead.

She made the same request, too. She begged the agent to lay her son in a deep grave of earth, where the birds and beasts could not reach him. He made no reply to her. He did not care. Then, with the child, he rode on to Bologna.

Walter, the marquis, was more and more astonished by her endless patience. If he had not seen for himself her great love for her children, he would have thought that there was something wrong with her. He would have accused her of malice, or of coldness, or of hypocrisy, for bearing all this woe with an untroubled face.

But he knew well enough that Griselda dearly loved her children – next to himself, of course – and had always been tender towards them. I would like to ask all women here, whether he had not gone far enough in testing her? What more could any husband devise to challenge her patience and her fortitude? How cruel could he be?

But there are some people who will not be moved. Once they have devised a plan, they must follow it to the end. He was fettered to the stake of his intentions. He was caught fast. He had to continue torturing his wife, to see if she would break.

So he watched and waited. He wanted to see if Griselda would change in any way. But he saw no difference in her mood or manner. She was as patient and as loving as before. As the years passed she was more devoted to him, if such a thing were possible, and more attentive.

It was as if they were one person with one will and understanding. They had their essence but in one. If Walter wished for anything, she wished for it, too. So, thanks be to God, all seemed to be for the best. She proved herself to be the model wife, happy to accept her husband’s authority.

Yet there were now slanders spread abroad about Walter. It was widely rumoured that he was a wicked man who had secretly killed his two children, for the crime of being born to a wife of lowly estate. This was the opinion of the people, who had no reason to think otherwise. Who had any other theory? Where were the children?

So the marquis was no longer the well-beloved leader. He was now hated by his people. Who does not detest and despise a murderer? Yet he did not relent. He carried on with the cruel trial of his wife. He had no other purpose in life.

When his daughter was twelve years old he sent a secret message to the papal court in Rome. He asked his representatives there to counterfeit a papal bull, in which the pope gave him permission to remarry if he should so wish. Can you imagine such cruelty?

In the same edict the pope was supposed to state that the marquis had permission to divorce his first wife. The pontiff had given him this dispensation in order to resolve any conflict or misunderstanding between the marquis and his subjects. So the fake bull was widely published throughout Saluzzo.

The ignorant people obviously believed the edict to be genuine. Who would not? But when the news was brought to Griselda, she was bowed down with woe. Yet she remained calm. This humble woman was determined to endure all the adversities of Fortune. She had resolved to follow her husband’s will and pleasure in everything. She had pledged her heart to him. He was the centre of her being. What more is there to say?

The marquis had meanwhile written a secret letter to Bologna, in which he explained his actions and his intentions. He addressed it to the husband of his sister, the earl of the region, and asked this nobleman to bring the two children back to Saluzzo in royal pomp and circumstance. But he begged him not to reveal their true identity to anyone in the world.

He was supposed to say only that the young girl was espoused to the marquis – that is, of course, Walter himself. So the earl performed the duty given to him by the marquis. On the following morning he set out in grand procession to Saluzzo, with the lords of his court surrounding him; the young girl rode out with him, in great state, and her younger brother rode beside her.

The girl herself was arrayed with pearls and other precious stones, in preparation for her bridal day, and the seven-year-old boy was dressed as finely as a prince. He was a prince, after all. So with grandeur and ceremony they made their way slowly towards Saluzzo.

The marquis there had abandoned none of his wicked ways. He set out to test Griselda yet again, to find out if she was really still as patient and as devoted to him as before. He wanted to push her to the limit of her endurance. So at a public audience he addressed her in a stern voice.

‘It is true, Griselda,’ he said, ‘that I married you for your virtue. I took you for my wife because of your piety and your loyalty. I certainly did not marry you for your lineage or your wealth. Far from it. But I have discovered from experience that power and lordship can be forms of servitude.

‘I may not do what every humble ploughman may do. I am not my own master. My subjects beg me to choose another wife. They will not be denied. The pope himself has decreed that I can divorce you, to restrain their anger, and marry again. There is not much more to say to you. My new bride is already on her way here.

‘Be strong. Let her usurp your place. Take back the dowry you brought with you. I give you my permission. What was it, in any case? Return to your father’s cottage. No man or woman can enjoy uninterrupted prosperity. With tranquil heart I urge you to endure the blows of chance and fickle Fortune.’

Griselda answered him in a clear, calm voice. ‘My lord, I know and I have always known that there is no comparison between your wealth and magnificence and my poverty. There is no denying my low degree. I never believed myself worthy of being your chambermaid, let alone your wife.

‘I swear, as God is my witness, that I never deemed myself to be the mistress of your household or to be a lady worthy of such a lord. I am your servant. I always have been, and I always will be. I have no other aim in life than to please you.

‘God knows that you have treated me generously and nobly, when I never deserved such consideration. I thank you for your kindness to me. Now take it back. Renounce it. I will return gladly to my father, and live with him until the end of my life.

‘I grew up in that little cottage, and am happy to remain there until my death. I will be a widow in mind and heart and deed. Ever since that time I yielded my virginity to you, I have been a true and faithful wife. That is how I will remain. I have been married to a prince among men. God forbid that I should ever take another man as a husband.

‘I pray to God that your new wife brings you happiness and prosperity. I willingly give up to her my place, even though it was a source of bliss to me. You were, and are, my lord. Since you desire me to leave, I will leave whenever you wish.

‘You asked me about the dowry I brought with me. I know well enough that all I possessed were rags and wretched scraps of clothes. I do not think that I will be able to find them again. Good God! When I think of your bounty to me on that day – how you looked at me, what you said to me – I still marvel.

‘There is a saying that, for me at least, has proved to be true: “Love grown old is not the same as new love.” But whatever happens to me, sir, even if it were death itself, I will never repent of my love for you. Never in this world.

‘You know well enough, lord, that you took the poor clothes off my back and decked me in finery. I brought nothing to you but faith and modesty and maidenhead. I will give you back all of the rich clothing you presented to me. I will return my wedding ring.

‘You will find the rest of the jewellery in my bedchamber, safely stored. I came naked out of my father’s house, and naked I will return. I will follow your orders in everything. But may I ask you this, sir? Is it your intention that I should actually leave your palace without clothes?

‘It would be a great dishonour to you, and to me, if the belly in which your children lay was paraded before the people. Let me not go as naked as a worm upon its way. Remember, sir, that, unworthy though I be, I was still once your wife.

‘So in requital for the virginity I gave you, and which can never be restored to me, I plead with you to let me have as my reward a simple smock. Just like the smock I used to wear before I met you. I would then be able to cover up the womb of the woman who was once your wife. Now I will bid farewell to you, sir, in case I have angered you.’

‘Keep the smock you are wearing now,’ he said to her. ‘Take it back with you.’ That was all he said. He could say no more. Overwhelmed by sorrow and by pity, he went on his way. So Griselda removed her other garments, in front of the whole court, and then returned to her father’s cottage in the simple smock.

She walked back with bare head and with bare feet, accompanied by many people bewailing her fate and cursing the misadventures of Fortune. But Griselda did not cry. She never shed a tear. And she never said a word. Her father, on the other hand, wept and cursed when he heard the news. He did not want to live a day longer.

In fact the poor old man had always harboured doubts about the marriage. He had always suspected that the marquis would get rid of his daughter as soon as he had had enough of her. He believed that the lord would regret having wed a poor woman, and would banish her from his court.

So he hastened out of doors to meet Griselda, alerted by the noise of the crowd, and covered her smock with an old coat that he had brought with him. He was weeping. Yet the coat did not fit her. It was old and coarse and out of date. She was not the same slim young girl she had been at the time of her marriage.

So for a while Griselda dwelled with her father. She was still a model of loyalty and patience, never complaining, never explaining, never lamenting. She did not show, to her father or to anyone else, any grief at her treatment. She did not mention her previous life as the wife of a great lord. She said nothing. She looked content.

What else would you expect? Even when she lived in great state she had always retained her deep humility. She had never been greedy or self-indulgent. She had never enjoyed pomp and circumstance. She had always been as modest and as kind as any young nun – except that she had a husband, whom she honoured above all others. Who could have been meeker or more obedient?

The patience and humility of Job are well known. Male clerks are all too ready to honour the achievements of other men. They rarely mention women but, in truth, women are far more faithful and patient than any man. Women are kinder. Women are more trustworthy, then and now. If someone has a different opinion, I will be astonished.