The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (25 page)

She came back to her husband, who was already in bed. He clasped her in his arms and kissed her. Then he laid himself down to sleep. May excused herself, saying that she had to visit the you-know-what – where everyone has to go. She took out Damian’s verses and read them in the toilet; then she tore the paper into pieces and flushed them down the loo. May now had a lot to think about. She lay down beside January, who was fast asleep until he woke himself up with a coughing fit. As soon as he opened his eyes, he asked her to strip naked. He told her that her clothes got in his way. Whether she liked it or not, she was forced to obey her husband. I will not go into any more details, for fear of offending the more fastidious among you. Let me just add that he took his pleasure of her. Whether this was heaven, or hell, for her I cannot say. They were at their business until the time of evensong, when they rose from their bed.

I do not know whether it was chance or destiny. I am not sure if it was the work of grace or the work of nature. But it happened that, at this time, the pattern of the constellations worked in favour of lovers. This was the moment to submit a petition, a
billet-doux
, to Venus. The scholars tell us that all things have their season. This was the season for young women to find – who knows what? God alone knows all the causes within human affairs. I can tell you nothing about them. I do know this, however. May had taken such a liking to Damian that she could not stop thinking about him. His image was lodged in her heart. ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about me,’ she said. ‘I love him. I love him more than anyone else in the world. If he had only his shirt to his name, I would still love him.’ Do you see how pity soon suffuses a gentle heart?

You may perhaps now understand how generosity of spirit comes naturally to women. Consideration makes them bountiful. Of course certain women are as hard as adamant. They would rather starve a man to death than show him favour. They would not consider themselves murderers, oh no, they would congratulate themselves on their cruel virtue. Not so for May. She was full of pity for Damian. She wrote him a letter, in which she pledged to him her heart. All they needed to find was the time and place. Then she would be happy to satisfy all of his desires. Could he come up with a plan? This was the gist of her message.

When she found the opportunity she went to Damian’s chamber, and surreptitiously slipped her note beneath his pillow. Would he find it? She squeezed his hand, without anyone else seeing, and begged him to get well soon. Then she returned to her husband, who was calling out for her.

Up rises Damian on the following morning. He had forgotten all about his sickness and his sorrow. There was a spring in his step. He combed his hair, cleaned himself and brushed down his clothes. He did everything to please a certain lady. Then he presented himself to January as humbly as a dog trained to hunt. He was so pleasant to everyone, in fact, that the household was full of praise for him. Craft is easy, for those who are crafty. Above all else he stood high in the favour of May. So I will leave Damian going about his business, and carry on with my story.

Some wise men suggest that human happiness is to be found in the pursuit of pleasure. Certainly the noble January was of this opinion; he looked for pleasure all the time, in the most virtuous possible way of course. He was an honest knight, after all. So his house, and all his other fine goods, were as fitting for his rank as are a king’s. Among his treasured belongings was a delicious garden, walled all around with stone. I cannot begin to describe the beauty of it. There was nothing like it. The author of
The Romance of the Rose
could not do justice to it. The god of gardens, Priapus himself, would not be equal to the task of depicting the fairness of this place. There was a refreshing well, for example, under a laurel tree that was always green. It was said that Pluto and Proserpina, with their fairy band, sang and danced about that well; it was filled with music, not with water.

The noble knight took such pleasure in walking through these green arbours that he never allowed anyone else to enter the garden; he was the only one who held the key. It was a small silver latchkey that unlocked a wicket-gate. So he came and went as he pleased. In the summer he took his young wife with him, and there he had his way with her. He frisked and frolicked. Whatever he had not done in bed, he did on the grass. He did it, whatever it was, as often as he could. What fun. Can you imagine the happiness of January – and of May?

But wait. Worldly joy may not always endure for January, or for any other human being. Oh sudden chance! Oh unstable Fortune! You are as treacherous as the scorpion, who creeps towards his unsuspecting victim with a hidden sting. Its tail means death by sudden poisoning. Oh brittle happiness! Oh sweet and cunning poison! Oh Fortune! Let me cry out against you one more time! You are a monster who can paint your blessings with all the bright colours under the sun, as if they were to last for ever. But you are false to young and old, rich and poor! How could you deceive that honest and noble man, January, who placed such trust in you? Fie on you! What did you mean by taking away his sight?

Yes. That is what happened. Amidst all his joy and prosperity, January was suddenly struck blind. He wept and wailed. He wanted to die. And then another thing crossed his mind. He became inflamed with jealousy. He could no longer keep an eye, now gone, on young May. What if she were able to fool him? He was so heartbroken, so dejected, that he would willingly have paid someone to murder him and his wife. He hated the thought of her being the mistress of another man, or even the wife of someone else. He wanted her, after his death, to be clothed in perpetual black. He wanted her to be as solitary and sorrowful as the turtle-dove that has lost its mate.

After a month or two, however, he began to settle down. He became less miserable. He learned to adjust to his misfortune. What cannot be cured must be endured. But his jealousy had not abated. It burned as fiercely as ever. He had become so suspicious of his wife that he would not allow her to go anywhere without him. She could not go out for a ride. She could not visit friends. He even insisted that she stayed with him in the house. So May often wept. She loved Damian so truly that she believed she would die if she could not hold him in her arms. She believed that her heart would break.

Damian himself became the most sorrowful man that ever lived. He could not utter a word to May, night or day. If he had said anything to the purpose, January was bound to hear him. He never left her alone. His old hand was always upon her. Nevertheless they passed messages, and made certain private and silent signs so that one knew the mind and intentions of the other. Oh January, what good would it do you if you could see as far as the bounds of the ocean? What difference does it make to be blind and tricked, or to have sight and be tricked? Argus had a hundred eyes, looking into every corner; yet he was deceived. God knows how many other husbands have been fooled into thinking their wives are chaste. My position is simple. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

Let us return to fresh and lovely May. She had taken some warm wax and made an impression of the little silver key to the garden that January always held. She gave it quietly to Damian, who then made a copy of it. I will not anticipate events. But listen to my story, and you will hear a wonder concerning this garden and its wicket-gate.

Ovid, my master, you know the truth of human life. You have said that there is no subtlety, no deception, that lovers will not pursue for the sake of their passion. Nothing is too arduous. Nothing is too complicated for them. There was the case of Pyramus and Thisbe who, strictly watched and supervised, managed to hold converse through a wall. No man could have discovered their method.

Back to the story. On the morning of 7 June (I am not sure of the year), January, urged by his wife, conceived a great desire for some sportive tricks in the garden. He wanted to play with her. So on that morning he cooed to May, ‘Rise up, my dearest, my lovely baby. The voice of the turtle-dove can be heard in the land, my dove, and the winter storms have gone. Rise up now. Open your dove-like eyes. Come forth with me. Oh, your breasts are sweeter than wine. The garden is walled. No one can see us. Walk out with me, white and fair as you are. You have captured my heart with your spotless beauty and virtue. Come. Let us go to play. I have chosen you for my pleasure.’ These were the lecherous words of the old man.

May, meanwhile, had made a sign to Damian that he should go before them through the wicket-gate. So Damian took the counterfeit key, opened the gate, and silently made his way into the garden. No one saw or heard him. Once inside, he sat quietly beneath a bush. January, as blind as a stone, now entered the garden; he was holding May’s hand. As soon as he had closed the gate behind him, with a great clatter, he turned to her.

‘Now, wife,’ he said, ‘only the two of us are here. You are the creature I love best in all the world. As God is my witness I would rather cut my own throat than offend you. Do you remember how I chose you? Not out of greed, dear heart, but out of love for you. I may be old and blind, but I will explain to you the blessings of fidelity. It is a debt you owe to Jesus Christ, and to your own honour. And of course you will inherit everything – palace, money, everything. I will sign a contract to that effect before tomorrow evening. Now in return I will ask you for a little kiss. Your lips will seal the bargain. Don’t blame me for being jealous, by the way. You are so deeply imprinted on my heart that, when I consider your beauty in contrast to my old age, I cannot bear to be out of your company. I must always have you beside me, precious one, for the love I feel for you. Now kiss me, dearest. Let’s go for a stroll.’

May, hearing his words, began to weep very gently. Then she recovered herself, and replied to him. ‘I have a soul to keep spotless, just like you, and of course I must guard my honour. The tender flower of my womanhood is in your hands. I gave it to you when the priest bound us together in holy matrimony. And I tell you this, my dear lord. I pray to God that the day never comes when I bring shame to my family or bring dishonour to my own name. I will never be unfaithful. I would rather die the most painful death in the world. If I prove false to you, then sew me in a sack and drop me in the nearest river. I am a gentlewoman, not a whore. Why do you talk to me this way? Well, men are ever untrue. They never stop reproaching their wives. They never stop being suspicious and distrustful.’

She caught sight of Damian sitting beneath the bush. She coughed lightly and then, using sign language, told him to climb a nearby pear tree full of fruit. He was on his feet and up the tree in a flash. He knew exactly what she intended, and could read her mind better than January ever could. She had written him a letter, in any case, where she had explained her plan. So for the time being I will leave him in the pear tree, with May and January strolling happily between the beds of flowers.

Bright was the day and through the trembling air the golden rays of Phoebus descended to the earth, warming all the flowers with their caress. He was at that time in Gemini, I suspect, close to the summer solstice. The bright sun would soon begin its decline. It so happened on this day that Pluto, king of the fairies, entered the garden on the farther side. He was accompanied by his wife, Proserpina, and all the ladies of her entourage. He had taken her from Etna, if you remember, when she was gathering wild flowers on the mountainside. You can read the story in Claudian’s
The Rape of Proserpina
, where he describes the dark chariot in which she was driven away.

Pluto sat down upon a green sward of turf, in the middle of the walled garden, and addressed his queen. ‘My wife, no one will disagree with me. Experience teaches us every day that women are treacherous towards men. I could tell you a million stories about their frailty and fickleness. Oh Solomon, wisest and wealthiest of all, winner of human glory, what reasonable person could fail to note and remember your words? He was praising the goodness of humankind, observing that “I have found one man among a thousand. But, among women, I have found none.” So said King Solomon, knowing full well the wickedness of the female sex. Jesus of Syrak, author of Ecclesiasticus, rarely speaks of you with reverence. May wild fire cover you! May pestilence fall upon your bones! Do you see what is happening now? This honourable knight, old and blind as he is, is about to be cuckolded by his own servant. Look where the lecherous bastard is hiding in the pear tree. I now decree, of my majesty, that sight will be restored to this worthy old man. His eyes will open at the moment his wife betrays him. Then he will know her wickedness, to the great shame of her and of other harlots.’

‘Oh will you?’ Proserpina was very sharp. ‘Is that what you intend to do? By the soul of my grandfather, great Saturn, I swear that I will give the woman a sufficient answer to him. I will help all other women, too, who are accused. If they are found in any sin, I will ensure that they put on a bold face and give a good excuse. They will bear down their accusers. None of them will die for lack of a retort. Even if the man sees the offence with his own eyes, yet the woman will face it out boldly. She will weep and swear and bully until she wins the argument. You men are as gullible as geese. What do your so-called authorities matter to me? I know well enough that this Jew, this Solomon, discovered plenty of fools among women. He may not have come across a good woman, but other men have found women to be true and faithful and virtuous. What about all those good Christian women who proved their constancy with martyrdom? The Roman annals are filled with stories of faithful wives. Keep your temper, dear husband. I will explain to you what Solomon meant when he said that he could find no good woman. I will interpret. He meant that supreme goodness lies only in God and that all flesh, male or female, is frail.

‘Anyway, Solomon is only one man. Why do you make such a fuss of him? Who cares if he built a great temple to God? Who cares about his wealth and wisdom? He also built a temple to the pagan gods. There is no blasphemy worse than that. You may try and excuse his faults, but he was a lecher and an idolater. He abandoned God in his old age. The Bible tells us that God spared him only for the sake of his father, King David. If it had not been for David, Solomon would have lost his kingdom sooner than he would have expected. I don’t give a damn for any of the slanders he and others have written against women. I am a woman, I must speak out, or else my heart will break. How dare he call us chatterers and worse? As long as I live I will attack him for his vicious opinions. I will never spare him.’