The mother of the Sultan, well of vices,
Espied has her son’s plain intent,
How he would abandon his old sacrifices;
And right anon she for her private counsel sent,
And they came to know what she meant.
And when assembled were this folk together,
She set herself down, and said as you shall hear.
“Lords,” said she, “you know every one,
How my son is about to forsake
The holy laws of the Koran,
Given by God’s messenger Mahomet.
But one vow to great God I promise,
The life shall rather out of my body depart
Before Mahomet’s law departs my heart!
“What should happen to us with this new law
But thralldom for our bodies and remorse,
And afterward in hell to be drawn,
If we renounce our belief in Mahomet?
But lords, will you make assurance,
To follow what I shall say, assenting to my advice,
And I shall thereby make us safe for evermore?”
They swore and assented, every man,
To live with her and die, and by her stand,
And every one, in the best way he could,
To strengthen her would persuade all his friends;
And she has this enterprise taken in hand,
Which you shall hear that I shall describe,
And to them all she spoke right in this way:
“We shul first feyne us cristendom to take,
Cold water shal not greve us but a lyte;
And I shal swich a feste and revel make,
That, as I trowe, I shal the sowdan quyte.
For though his wyf be cristned never so whyte
She shal have nede to wasshe awey the rede,
Thogh she a font-ful water with hir lede.”
O sowdanesse, rote of iniquitee,
Virago, thou Semyram the secounde,
O serpent under femininitee,
Lyk to the serpent depe in helle y-bounde,
O feyned womman, al that may confounde
Vertu and innocence, thurgh thy malyce,
Is bred in thee, as nest of every vyce!
O Satan, envious sin thilke day
That thou were chased from our heritage,
Wel knowestow to wommen the olde way!
Thou madest Eva bringe us in servage.
Thou wolt fordoon this cristen mariage.
Thyn instrument so, weylawey the whyle!
Makestow of wommen, whan thou wolt begyle.
This sowdanesse, whom I thus blame and warie,
Leet prively hir conseil goon hir way.
What sholde I in this tale lenger tarie?
She rydeth to the sowdan on a day,
And seyde him, that she wolde reneye hir lay,
And cristendom of preestes handes fonge,
Repenting hir she hethen was so longe,
Biseching him to doon hir that honour,
That she moste han the cristen men to feste;
“To plesen hem I wol do my labour.”
The sowdan seith, “I wol don at your heste,”
And kneling thanketh hir of that requeste.
So glad he was, he niste what to seye;
She kiste hir sone, and hoom she gooth hir weye.
“We shall first feign us Christianity to take
Cold water shall not grieve us but a little—
And I shall such a feast and revel make
That, as I believe, shall the Sultan revenge.
For though his wife be christened ever so white,
She shall have need to wash away the red,
Though she bring a baptismal font.”
Oh Sultaness, root of iniquity!
Virago, you Semiramis the second!
Oh serpent disguised as femininity,
Like to Satan deep in hell bound!
O feigned woman, all that may destroy
Virtue and innocence, through your malice,
Is bred in you, a nest of every vice!
Oh Satan, envious since that day
That you were chased from our Garden,
Well know you women in the old way!
You made Eve bring us into servitude;
You would destroy this Christian marriage.
Your instrument—alas!—
Make you of women, when you would beguile.
This Sultaness, whom I thus blame and curse,
Secretly dismissed her counsel to go their ways.
Why should I in this tale longer tarry?
She rode to the Sultan on a day,
And said that she would renounce her faith,
And Christianity at the priest’s hands accept,
Repenting that she had Mahomet so long worshiped,
And beseeching him that he would do her the honor,
That she might have the Christian folk to feast—
“To please them will I make an effort.”
The sultan said, “I will comply with your behest.”
And kneeling thanked her for that request.
So glad he was, he knew not what to say.
She kissed her son, and home she went her way.
PART TWO
Arryved ben this Cristen folk to londe,
In Surrie, with a greet solempne route,
And hastily this sowdan sente his sonde,
First to his moder, and al the regne aboute,
And seyde, his wyf was comen, out of doute,
And preyde hir for to ryde agayn the quene,
The honour of his regne to sustene.
Gret was the prees, and riche was th‘array
Of Surriens and Romayns met y-fere;
The moder of the sowdan, riche and gay,
Receyveth hir with al-so glad a chere
As any moder mighte hir doghter dere,
And to the nexte citee ther bisyde
A softe pas solempnely they ryde.
Noght trowe I the triumphe of Julius,
Of which that Lucan maketh swich a bost,
Was royaller, ne more curious
Than was th‘assemblee of this blisful host.
But this scorpioun, this wikked gost,
The sowdanesse, for al hir flateringe,
Caste under this ful mortally to stinge.
The sowdan comth him-self sone after this
So royally, that wonder is to telle,
And welcometh hir with alle joye and blis.
And thus in merthe and joye I lete hem dwelle.
The fruyt of this matere is that I telle.
Whan tyme cam, men thoughte it for the beste
That revel stinte, and men goon to hir reste.
The tyme cam, this olde sowdanesse
Ordeyned hath this feste of which I tolde,
And to the feste Cristen folk hem dresse
In general, ye! bothe yonge and olde
Here may men feste and royaltee biholde,
PART TWO
Arrived were this Christian folk to land
In Syria, with a great solemn company,
And hastily this Sultan sent his message
First to his mother, and all the reign about,
And said his wife was coming, with no doubt,
And prayed for her to ride toward the queen,
The honor of his reign to sustain.
Great was the crowd, and rich was the raiment
Of Syrians and Romans met together;
The mother of the Sultan, rich and gay,
Received her also with a glad face
As any mother might her daughter dear,
And to the next city there beside
Slowly and solemnly they rode.
I believe that Caesar’s triumphal march,
Of which Lucan makes such a boast,17
Was not more royal or elaborate
Than was the assembly of this blissful host.
; But this scorpion, this wicked spirit,
The Sultaness, for all her flattery,
Planned under this full mortally to sting.
The Sultan came himself soon after this
So royally that it wondrous is to tell,
And welcomed her with all joy and bliss.
And thus in mirth and joy I let him dwell;
The heart of this matter is what I tell.
When the time came, men thought it for the best
The revels to end, and men went to their rest.
The time came that this old Sultaness
Ordained this feast of which I told,
And to the feast Christian folk attended
In general, yea, both young and old.
Here may men feast and royalty behold,
And deyntees mo than I can yow devyse,
But al to dere they boughte it er they ryse.
O sodeyn wo! that ever art successour
To worldly blisse, spreynd with bitternesse;
Th‘ende of the joye of our worldly labour;
Wo occupieth the fyn of our gladnesse.
Herke this conseil for thy sikernesse,
Up-on thy glade day have in thy minde
The unwar wo or harm that comth bihinde.
For shortly for to tellen at o word,
The sowdan and the Cristen everichone
Ben al to-hewe and stiked at the bord,
But it were only dame Custance allone.
This olde sowdanesse, cursed crone,
Hath with hir frendes doon this cursed dede,
For she hir-self wolde al the contree lede.
Ne ther was Surrien noon that was converted
That of the conseil of the sowdan woot,
That he nas al to-hewe er he asterted.
And Custance han they take anon, foot-hoot,
And in a shippe al sterelees, god woot,
They han hir set, and bidde hir lerne sayle
Out of Surrye agaynward to Itayle.
A certein tresor that she thider ladde,
And, sooth to sayn, vitaille gret plentee
They han hir yeven, and clothes eek she hadde.
And forth she sayleth in the salte see.
O my Custance, ful of benignitee,
O emperoures yonge doghter dere,
He that is lord of fortune be thy stere!
She blesseth hir, and with ful pitous voys
Un-to the croys of Crist thus seyde she,
“O clere, o welful auter, holy croys,
Reed of the lambes blood full of pitee,
And dainties more than I can for you describe;
But all too dear they bought it before they rose.
Oh sudden woe, that ever is successor
To worldly bliss, sprinkled with bitterness,
The end of the joy of our worldly labor!
Woe occupies the end of our gladness.
Harken to this counsel for your safety:
Upon the glad day have in your mind
The unknown woe or harm that comes behind.
For shortly for to tell, in a word,
The Sultan and the Christians every one
Were hacked and stabbed at the table,
Except for dame Constance alone.
This old Sultaness, cursed crone,
Has with her friends done this cursed deed,
For she herself would all the country lead.
None of the Syrians who were converted,
Who of the counsel of the Sultan knew,
Were not stabbed or to pieces hewn.
And Constance they took anon with hot feet,
And in a rudderless old hulk, God knows,
They her set, and bid her learn to sail
From Syria back to Italy again.
A certain treasure she thither carried,
And, truth to tell, of food great plenty
They have her given, and clothes also she had,
And forth she sailed in the salt sea.
Oh my Constance, full of benignity,
Oh Emperor’s young daughter dear,
He who is lord of Fortune may your ship steer!
She blessed herself, and with full piteous voice
Unto the cross of Christ said she:
“Oh pure, oh blessed altar, holy cross,
Red with the Lamb’s blood full of pity,
That wesh the world fro the olde iniquitee,
Me fro the feend, and fro his clawes kepe,
That day that I shal drenchen in the depe.
Victorious tree, proteccioun of trewe,
That only worthy were for to bere
The king of heven with his woundes newe,
The whyte lamb, that hurt was with the spere,
Flemer of feendes out of him and here
On which thy limes feithfully extenden,
Me keep, and yif me might my lyf t‘amenden.”
Yeres and dayes fleet this creature
Thurghout the see of Grece un-to the strayte
Of Marrok, as it was hir aventure;
On many a sory meel now may she bayte;
After her deeth ful often may she wayte,
Er that the wilde wawes wol hir dryve
Un-to the place, ther she shal arryve.
Men mighten asken why she was not slayn?
Eek at the feste who mighte hir body save?
And I answere to that demaunde agayn,
Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave,
Ther every wight save he, maister and knave,
Was with the leoun frete er he asterte?
No wight but god, that he bar in his herte.
God liste to shewe his wonderful miracle
In hir, for we sholde seen his mighty werkes;
Crist, which that is to every harm triacle,
By certein menes ofte, as knowen clerkes,
Doth thing for certein ende that ful derk is
To mannes wit, that for our ignorance
Ne conne not knowe his prudent purveyance.
Now, sith she was not at the feste y-slawe,
Who kepte hir fro the drenching in the see?
Who kepte Jonas in the fisshes mawe
That washes the world of old iniquity,
Me from the fiend and from his claws keep,
That day that I shall drown in the deep.
“Victorious cross, protector of the faithful,
That alone was worthy for to bear
The King of Heaven with his wounds new,
The white lamb, that was wounded with a spear,
Banisher of fiends from him and her
Over which your limbs faithfully extend,
Me keep, and me give the power my life to amend.”
Years and days drifted this creature
Through the Sea of Greece unto the Straits
Of Gibraltar, as it was her luck.
On many a sorry meal now may she dine;
For her death full often may she wait,
Before that the wild waves will her drive
Unto the place where she shall arrive.
Men might ask why she was not slain
Also at the feast? Who might her body save?
And I answer to that demand again,
Who saved Daniel in the horrible cave18
Where every person save he, master and servant,
Was by the lion devoured before he escaped?
No person but God whom he bore in his heart.
God chose to show his wonderful miracle
In her, that we should see his mighty works;
Christ, who is to every harm the medicine,
By certain means often, as know scholars,
Does things for certain ends that full dark are
To men’s wit, that in our ignorance
We can not know his prudent providence.
Now since she was not at the feast slain,
Who kept her from drowning in the sea?
Who kept Jonas in the fis
h’s maw19
Til he was spouted up at Ninivee?
Wel may men knowe it was no wight but he
That kepte peple Ebraik fro hir drenchinge,
With drye feet thurgh-out the see passinge.
Who bad the foure spirits of tempest,
That power han t‘anoyen land and see,
“Bothe north and south, and also west and est,
Anoyeth neither see, ne land, ne tree?”
Sothly, the comaundour of that was he,
That fro the tempest ay this womman kepte
As wel whan [that] she wook as whan she slepte.
Wher mighte this womman mete and drinke-have?
Three yeer and more how lasteth hir vitaille?
Who fedde the Egipcien Marie in the cave,
Or in desert? no wight but Crist, sans faille.
Fyve thousand folk it was as gret mervaille
With loves fyve and fisshes two to fede.
God sente his foison at hir grete nede.
She dryveth forth in-to our occean
Thurgh-out our wilde see, til; atte laste,
Under an hold that nempnen I ne can,
Fer in Northumberlond the wawe hir caste,
And in the sond hir ship stiked so faste,
That thennes wolde it noght of al a tyde,
The wille of Crist was that she shulde abyde.
The constable of the castel doun is fare
To seen this wrak, and al the ship he soghte,
And fond this wery womman ful of care;
He fond also the tresor that she broghte.
In hir langage mercy she bisoghte
The lyf out of hir body for to twinne,
Hir to delivere of wo that she was inne.
Canterbury Tales (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 78