The Canterbury Tales

by Peter Ackroyd

  Here then we see a wise agreement, a pact of mutual respect. The lady has gained both a servant and a lord, a servant in love and a lord in marriage. He is both master and slave. Slave? No. He is pre-eminently a master, because he now has both his lady and his love. According to the law of love, his lady has become his wife. In this happy state he took her back to his own region of the country, where he had a house not far from the coast of Brittany. His name, by the way, was Arveragus. Her name was Dorigen.

  Who could possibly describe their happiness? Only a married man. They lived together in peace and prosperity for a year or more, until that time when Arveragus decided to sail to England. Britain, as our nation was then called, was the home of chivalry and adventure. That is why he wanted to move here. He wanted to engage in feats of arms. The old story informs us that he lived in Britain for two years.

  I will now turn from Arveragus to Dorigen. She loved her husband with her whole heart and, of course, she wept and sighed during his long absence. That is the way of noble ladies. She mourned; she stayed awake all night; she cried; she wailed out loud; she could not eat. She missed him so much that nothing else in the world mattered to her. Her friends tried to comfort her, knowing how greatly she suffered. They tried to reassure her and to reason with her. They told her, night and day, that she was tormenting herself unnecessarily. They tried every means of consoling her and of cheering her.

  You all know well enough that, in time, water will wear down the hardest stone. If you scrape into flint, you will eventually create an image. So by degrees Dorigen was comforted. Little by little, she was persuaded to calm down. She could not remain in despair for ever, after all. Arveragus himself was writing her letters all the time, telling her he was well and that he was eager to return. Without these messages of love she would never have regained her composure. She would have died of sorrow, I am sure of it. As soon as they saw that she was beginning to recover, her friends got on their knees and begged her to go out and enjoy herself. She should spend time in their company, and in that way try to forget her cares. Perpetual woe is a dark burden. Eventually she agreed with them that this was for the best.

  The castle of Dorigen was close to the sea, as I said, and there were many times when she would walk with her friends along the shore. From that vantage she could see all the ships and barges making their way over the waves, sailing to one port or another. But the sight of them of course renewed her suffering. Often she murmured to herself, ‘Alas! If only one of these ships were bringing home my husband! Then all this pain would go away. Then would my heart be light again.’ There were other times when she would stand by the side of the cliff, and look down upon the waves dashing against the black rocks. She would be filled with anxiety, so nervous and fearful that she could hardly stay upon her feet. She would sit down upon the short grass, and gaze out at the ocean. Then she would pray to God, her words mingled with sorrowful sighs.

  ‘Almighty God, through whose will and foresight the whole world is governed, You create nothing without a purpose. Yet why, then, did You create these fearful rocks below me? They are so dark and so destructive. They seem more like a foul fault in creation than the work of a wise and benevolent deity. Why did You let them issue from Your hand? There is no living thing that cannot be harmed by them. Any man or bird or beast - from any point of the compass - can be broken against them. These sinister rocks do nothing but harm. Do You know, Lord, how many men and women have been shipwrecked? Of course You do. The rocks of the ocean have killed many hundreds of thousands of people, all of them lost and forgotten. It is said that You loved humankind so much that You fashioned it in Your own image. It seemed then that You were bestowing a great boon. How then is it possible that You should create these evil rocks that do nothing but provoke death and disaster? No possible good can come from them.

  ‘I believe theologians argue that Your providence is such that all things turn out for the best. I myself cannot follow their arguments about destiny and free will. I say only this. May the God who made the winds blow, preserve my husband! That is all. The scholars can dispute as much as they like. I pray only that all the rocks in the world are consigned to hell for my husband’s sake.’ So Dorigen, in tears, would express her grief.

  Her friends began to realize that these walks by the sea were not doing her any good. Quite the opposite. So they set about finding some other place to entertain her. They took her to cool rivers and to holy wells; they took her to dances and other celebrations; they taught her to play chess and backgammon. Then one morning, at the rising of the sun, they came into a garden where they had laid out food and drink to accompany their revels all that day. This was on 6 May, a fair morning when the sweet showers had brought forth the leaves and flowers of early spring; they had been arrayed so carefully throughout the garden that there was no other display like it in the world. It was like a garden in paradise. The scent and brightness of the flowers would have lightened any heart, except for one bowed down with sorrow or distress. It was a place of beauty and delight.

  After they had eaten, the lords and ladies set out to sing and dance - all of them, that is, except for Dorigen, who still made her moan. There was no dancing for her if her husband was not part of the happy company. Still she sat on one side, not in solitary retreat, and hoped that her sorrow might lessen a little.

  There was among the dancers a jolly young squire, handsome and fleet of foot; he was fresher than the spring day and, according to all reports, he could sing and dance better than any other man in the world. He was also one of the most good-looking. He was young and strong, virtuous and rich, wise and well respected. What else can I say? Oh, one more thing. Unknown to Dorigen and the others, this young squire, Aurelius by name, was in thrall to Venus; for the last two years he had secretly been enamoured of Dorigen. He loved her more than anyone else in the world, but of course he had not been able to disclose his love. He had drunk the bitter cup of misery down to the lees. He was in despair; but he was silent, save for the songs of woe that he sometimes sang. He did not sing of his own case but, rather, made general complaint about the pains of love in various chants and lyrics, roundels and virelays. He sang of a lover who was not beloved. He sang of a true heart beating in vain. He sang of a lover suffering all the pains of hell. Echo pined away for love of Narcissus. That will always be the fate of the star-struck lover.

  So in all his pain Aurelius dared not reveal his feelings to Dorigen. Yet there were times, at dances where the young come together, when he looked upon her with such intentness that he seemed to be asking her for mercy. But she knew nothing about this. Nevertheless it happened on this day that, after the dance was over, they fell into conversation. There was nothing wrong with that. They were neighbours. They had known each for a long time. And he was an honourable man. Yet, as they talked, Aurelius came closer and closer towards the one theme that haunted him. When he saw the right time, he spoke out.

  ‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘I wish to God that I had gone over the seas like your husband. I wish I had set sail on the same day. If it would make you happy, I would gladly travel to a distant land from which I could never return. I know well enough that my service to you here is all in vain. My reward is a broken heart. Ma dame, have pity on my pain. You can cure me or kill me with one word. I wish that I lay buried here beneath your feet. I have no more to say. Have mercy on me, sweet Dorigen, or else I will die!’

  She turned and looked at Aurelius. ‘What are you saying to me? Can I believe what I am hearing? I never suspected this of you before. But now I know everything. By the God who gave me soul and life, I never shall be an unfaithful wife. In word and deed, to the utmost limit of my strength, I will be a true lady to my lord. Take that as my final answer.’ But then, as if playing a game with him, she seemed to relent a little. ‘Aurelius,’ she said, ‘I swear to the same god that I will bestow my love on you. I have taken pity on your tears. There is only one condition. On the day that you manage to clear all the rocks tha
t deface the coast of Brittany - on the day that you remove, stone by stone, these cruel impediments to our ships and boats - I will promise to love you as no other man has ever been loved. When the coasts are clear, I will be yours. I swear it.’

  ‘Is there no other way?’ he asked her.

  ‘None. I know that it is never going to happen. Don’t dwell upon the possibilities. It just can’t be done. In any case what kind of a person are you, to have designs upon another man’s wife? My body is not for auction.’

  Aurelius sighed very deeply. He was depressed by what he had heard, and with sorrowful countenance he replied to her. ‘Ma dame,’ he said, ‘you have set me an impossible task. There is no choice for me now. I must die a piteous death.’ And with these words he turned and walked away.

  Now the rest of the company came and joined them, not realizing the conversation that had passed between them. They paraded through the garden walks, and soon began singing and dancing again until the setting of the sun. The horizon dimmed its light. The night came upon them. So they went back to their homes in peace and happiness - all except Aurelius, of course, who returned to a house of woe. He saw no remedy but in death. He felt his breast, and it was as cold as ice. He fell down on his knees and raised his hands to heaven. He prayed - he knew not what. He was out of his mind with grief. He did not know what to say or what to do, so instead he set up a long low complaint to the gods in heaven. He addressed the sun first of all.

  ‘Fair Apollo,’ he prayed, ‘you are god and governor of every living thing on earth. You lend the time and give the season for every plant and flower and tree. Just as you take care of Nature, great god, will you take care of your poor servant Aurelius? Cast your eye upon the wretch who kneels before you. Oh god above! I am lost. My lady has condemned me to death, but I am innocent. Through your divine kindness have some pity on my plight. I know well enough, great Phoebus, that you could help me best - next to Dorigen, of course. I know that you can work all things to your will. Please tell me what I ought to do. Please give me hope.

  ‘I know that your sister, Lucina, full of grace, is the mistress of the moon. She is also the principal goddess of the sea and the tides; she has dominion even over Neptune in the affairs of the deep. You know better than I do, Lord Phoebus, that she likes nothing better than to be lit by your fire. So she follows you through the firmament, and in turn the mighty seas follow her as their lawful protector and deity; she holds sway over every stream and brook. So this is my request to you, great lord. Perform this miracle for me, or I will die. When you and your sister are in opposition within the sign of Leo, when the tides are high, will you beseech her to send so great a flood along the coast that the highest rocks in Brittany are overwhelmed by five fathoms of water? That is my plea. And will you ask your sister to maintain the seas at that pitch for at least two years? Then I will be able to tell Dorigen that I have performed my part of the bargain and that she must fulfil hers.

  ‘Perform this miracle for me, lord of the Sun. Ask your sister to travel in step with you, at your speed, for the next two years. Remain in opposition, one to another. Then there will be a full moon every night, and the spring tides will not abate one inch. But if glorious Lucina does not wish me to win my love in this way, then will you plead with her to take those dark rocks down with her to the realm of Pluto? Let them be buried leagues beneath the earth. Otherwise I will never gain my lady. I will journey in bare feet to your temple in Delphi, great lord. See the tears upon my cheeks. Take pity on my pain, sir.’ And, with those words, he fell into a swoon. He did not recover for a long time. It was his brother who looked after him. When he heard of his distress, he took him up and brought him to his bed. So there will I leave poor grieving Aurelius to his painful thoughts. I do not know whether he will live or die.

  In the meantime Arveragus, full of honour, has returned home! He came back with all the other knights, but there was none more renowned for chivalry. You are happy again, Dorigen, to have your loving husband safely in your arms! This noble knight, this famous man of arms, still loves you above all else. He is not a suspicious husband, either. He would not even have considered the possibility of a rival. The thought never crossed his mind. He just wanted to dance and joust and make good cheer. So I will leave them together in married bliss. It is time to return to sick Aurelius.

  Oh dear. For two entire years he lay in woe and torment. He never left his bed. He could not have taken one step. He received comfort from no one except his brother, who was a scholar and very sympathetic to his plight. Of course Aurelius told no one else about it. He was silent and discreet. He kept the secret hidden deeply in his breast, just as Pamphilus once concealed his love for Galatea. His breast looked whole and healthy; but the arrow, unseen, had pierced his heart. Any surgeon will tell you that a wound healed only on the surface can be deadly. You must get at the arrow beneath. So his brother, the clerk, wept bitterly beside his bed.

  But then this brother, learned in many things, happened to remember his time at the University of Orleans. While he was living there he fell into the company of other young students, all of them eager for learning. Above all else they were fascinated by the arts of the occult. They searched in every corner for secret lore. He remembered that one day he had come across a book of natural magic. It had been left on a desk by one of his companions, a student of law who was interested in more than legal matters. This book described the operations of the twenty-eight mansions, or stations, of the moon. It is all foolishness to us nowadays, of course, worth less than nothing. The faith of the Holy Church is all we need. We no longer put any trust in magic or necromancy.

  But as soon as the clerk recalled the details of this book, his heart leaped. He said quietly to himself that his poor brother would soon be cured of his woe. ‘I am sure,’ he said, ‘that there are ways and means of creating magical illusions. Conjurors can do it, after all. I have often heard it said that, at royal feasts, the magicians have summoned up lakes and rowing boats within the great hall. They have sailed up and down between the tables! They have conjured up fierce lions, about to spring. They have turned a hall into a meadow of sweet flowers. They have created fruitful vineyards, and stone castles. And then, in a puff, they have made them all vanish. That is how it seemed at the time.

  ‘So this is my plan. I will return to Orleans and see if I can find some old scholar who is familiar with the mysteries of the moon and who knows how to practise natural magic. And, by these means, my brother will one day possess his wished-for love. I am sure that a good magician will be able to remove from human sight all of those dark rocks. Ships will be able to come and go along the coast of Brittany, at least for a week or so. Then my brother will be relieved of his suffering. Dorigen will have to keep her promise to him, or else be dishonoured for life.’

  There is no need to make a long story out of this. He went straight to his brother’s bedside, and acquainted him with the details of his plan. Aurelius was so heartened and excited by the scheme that he rose immediately and took horse to Orleans with his brother. All the way there he exulted at the thought of being permanently cured of his pain.

  They were two or three furlongs distant from the city when they came upon a young scholar riding alone. They greeted him in Latin, whereupon he astounded them with his first words. ‘I know why you have come here,’ he told them. And, without more ado, he informed them of their plans. The brother of Aurelius asked him for news of the other scholars at the university and, having learned that they had all died, he broke down in tears.

  Aurelius himself alighted from his horse and followed the young magician to his house in the city. Here he and his brother were nobly entertained, with all kinds of meat and drink. Aurelius had never seen so comfortable and well-stocked a house. Before they sat down to supper, their host conjured into their sight extensive forests and parks filled with wild deer. Aurelius saw, or thought he saw, stags with great horns. He had never seen beasts so great. He saw one hundred of them torn t
o pieces by mastiff dogs, and another hundred wounded to death with sharp arrows. When the wild deer had disappeared, he saw falconers standing by the bank of a great river; their birds had just killed a heron. And, look, there were some knights jousting on a plain. And what is this? There was Dorigen before him, dancing. Aurelius seemed to be dancing with her, too. He could hear the music.

  Yet at this point the young master clapped his hands, and all the illusions vanished into thin air. Farewell. The revels all were ended. They had seen such marvels as tongue could not express, but they had not moved from his house. They were still in his study, surrounded by his books. They sat there, the three of them, in silence.

  Then their host called out to his squire. ‘Is our supper ready yet? I asked you to prepare it more than an hour ago, when I brought these gentlemen into my study.’

  ‘Master,’ the servant replied, ‘it is ready whenever you want it. It is ready now.’

  ‘We will go and eat at once then. These lovers, like my friend here, need to rest between dances.’

  Then, after supper, they began to discuss the fee that the magician would require. He was supposed to remove all the rocks along the coast, from the mouth of the river Gironde to the mouth of the Seine. What would that cost? He said that it would be difficult, involving many problems. All things considered, he could not accept less than a thousand pounds. God knows, even at that price, he was working cheap.