The Classic Crusade of Corbin Cobbs

by Michael Ciardi

The land before my eyes was bathed in newness, replenished by early spring’s clement showers. A verdant backdrop presented itself to all those who ventured forth into the sun-soaked heath I now traversed upon. On each side of a loamy road, bending like a wiry arm between the landscape’s natural serrations, I noticed bluebells rooted in the groves like flickering sapphires. I flitted along this pathway like a feather entangled in a sweet zephyr, while being lured by the merry harmonies of birdsong. Farther along, this rustic trail unfurled into the midst of a quaint village that looked as though it was clipped from a brochure of medieval life.

  A mishmash of weatherworn shops and misshapen domiciles had been erected in this yard. One common hostelry with a thatch roof immediately attracted my attention. I had arrived in the middle of a rather sundry gathering of travelers. Based on their varied attire alone, I determined that they had assembled from every corner and crevice of this society’s infrastructure. In fact, after inspecting this throng more vigilantly, I estimated that never before or since had such an assortment of unlikely characters aligned themselves for a singular purpose.

  The inn had a shingle of dried timber fastened to its main threshold. From the moment I deciphered this establishment’s name, my destination was confirmed. In all of England’s southern countryside, there was but one dwelling boasting the title as The Tabard for weary palmers and the like. Apparently, my arrival coincided with a pivotal moment in this tavern’s checkered history. The bucolic town of Southwark bustled with the excitement of a forthcoming journey. From all the towns and villages propped up along the River Thames, this one—if for reason by accessibility alone—now had bragging rights to a pilgrimage of almost thirty strong.

  The travelers’ motley garments spoke of class without explanation. Churchmen and commoners mingled among sovereign-minded people. But their mission, differing profoundly from my own, wasn’t just an unorganized jaunt into the unknown. If successful, this outing would’ve delivered them to a shrine at Canterbury Cathedral. Once there, they’d pay homage to the archbishop, Saint Thomas Becket, who had since gravitated into martyrdom.

  When I first surveyed the hamlet’s yard, it was a serviceman from the Church who noticed my presence. The bulgy-eyed Pardoner welcomed me with a saccharine grin. His dreadlocks reminded me of greasy strands of hay. Not far beyond his offensive approach, I observed the portly Monk and an equally overfed Friar. The Parson stood nearby as well. He talked piously to a prioress named Madame Eglantyne. She clutched her coral trinket as if the Pardoner had already tried to coax it from her arm in exchange for immunity from her sins.

  Other questionable types sauntered within range of my inspection. The Summoner, whose face was only marginally more pox-ridden than his soul, strode alongside me. Besides these tainted pilgrims, tradesmen and merchants made their faces visible in turn. A fiery-bearded miller, wobbling with each footstep, laughed raucously at a humor privileged for his eyes alone. Perhaps the single detail more distracting than the Miller’s voice was a hairy wart the size and color of a raspberry on the tip of his nose.

  While meandering farther into the crowd, which left a sour scent lingering in both of my nostrils, I discerned the Merchant and A Man of Law conversing about writs, while the Haberdasher and Cook passed blancmange recipes to and fro. Even the scarlet-hosed Wife of Bath managed to circulate the grounds. She blatantly flirted with every male within her hemisphere, and flashed a gap-toothed grin that had the lascivious wanderers nearly swooning in their crooked steps. I also noticed the rather austere Knight atop his steed, and the flamboyantly dressed Squire twirling his curly locks around the fingers during a lyrical recitation.

  Although I only watched the antics of these people for a few seconds, it was no exaggeration to proclaim that I had studied their habits for years. It seemed logical that I’d be able to mix cohesively among them. My place in their society had no consequence at the moment. Before I managed to blend myself within their varied ranks, a townsman sporting a brown tunic separated himself from the bulk of pilgrims. I noticed nothing distinct about his conduct, other than the fact that he was the most gregarious person in company. I assumed he was the Innkeeper of the pub, known to the local patrons as Harry Bailey.

  The Innkeeper held a scroll in his hands and busied himself by recording the attendance of each guest. Upon noticing me, Harry forwarded an affable salutation, but I also detected a trace of confusion in his expression. He then scanned the parchment in his hands, dutifully trying to indicate my identity by appearance alone. Obviously, my unusual clothing revealed nothing about my character from his point of view.

  “I say there, sir, in rather queer wearing, is it not the footsteps of a fool I’m now hearing?” Harry inquired. Obviously, my attire was strange enough to conjure comedy in his mind. He most likely viewed me as a jester. Since my true identity mattered very little here, I shrugged my shoulders and let him brand me as he saw fit. Perhaps he knew something about me that I neglected to distinguish.

  “Are you setting out for Canterbury now?” I asked. I really wanted to know if Harry had proposed his contest for the journey; perhaps they had space within their groupings for one more storyteller.

  “My lodgings are quite full, and the evidence is clear. I have twenty and nine pilgrims standing over there.”

  “But I don’t spot a fool among them,” I indicated. “Surely, you and the others might enjoy a bit of amusement for the long walk ahead.”

  The Host rechecked his records to verify my observation. Then, while leaning closer to my ear, he whispered, “Your eye is keen, although not so very wise. Sometimes a fool can don a clever disguise.”

  “Well, in this case,” I declared, “The fool before you reveals all that he is.”

  “A genuine clown you may in fact be, but I’ll wager a bet there’s a bit more to see.”

  Since Harry relished the thrill of competition, I was hoping that I’d coax my way into this hodgepodge of medieval meanderers by debuting a story of my own. I then presented an offer that I suspected the Innkeeper couldn’t resist. “I’ve already tracked an untold number miles, sir, but I’m eager to visit the shrine at Canterbury and participate in the friendly contest you have in mind. If you’d be gracious enough to listen, I’d like to tell my own tale. All I ask in return is an invitation to join you and share in the other yarns that these pilgrims will speak in turn.”

  The Host furrowed his brow, nearly knotting his thick eyebrows as he pondered my suggestion. He required only a few additional seconds to formulate his next question. “I don’t wish to sound in the least bit cruel, but what lesson can we hope to learn from the likes of a fool?”

  “You’ll have to hear my story first, sir, and decide for yourself if there’s any value in it.”

  “If it’s a good story you’ll share, I’ll lend you my time, but I must remind you, dear fool, it should be recited in rhyme.”

  “I understand the rules, sir. When shall I begin?”

  Before the Innkeeper confirmed anything with me, he turned toward a pair of pilgrims standing closest to us. With a hasty gesture he summoned them to join our conversation. I recognized the approaching Plowman by his dung-stained britches, and the Skipper by his woolen gown and a lanyard holding a dagger.

  “Although I’m fully capable of assessing this try,” Harry stated to me with a glint in his eye. “Because it’s improper for me to solely judge on who’ll win or fail, I’d prefer some others beside me to evaluate your tale.”

  With my captive audience now totaling three, I presumed I had at least a sporting chance to impress one of them. Harry then forwarded his directive. “Whenever you’re ready, gentle fool, lend us your voice. And then after you’re finished I’ll deliver ye my choice.”

  “Good enough, sir, and gentlemen. The story I’m about to share is aptly named. I call it ‘The Fool’s Tale,’ and I hope you all find the meaning useful.” With their attention now secured, I settled into the delivery of my own narrative poem.

 

/>   Long and far ago, in a land not so unlike your own

  A King of regal status perched upon a gilded throne.

  He wore a crown of copper over corded locks of gray,

  And held a speckled scepter to direct his every way.

  His eyes were sunken deep in the sockets of his face.

  His mouth was slightly crooked with all his teeth in place.

  The wisdom of his years showed with each and every wrinkle.

  Some have said his age far surpassed the stars that twinkle.

  But there he sat in power with his headstrong disposition,

  Warring with any knights who declared their opposition.

  Vainglorious to a fault, this sovereign man was often labeled,

  But he had a bevy of disciples who dined devoutly at his table.

  Yet besides his art for devising plans of imminent plunder,

  He’d sometimes made a choice that caused his men to wonder.

  An example of flawed judgment angled directly at his side

  In the form of Queen-ship, who by extension was his bride.

  Here this fine lady perched in exotic silks and satin lace,

  Owning a visage as fair and smooth as a marble mare’s pace.

  She was accustomed to the leers of numerous lewd pursuers,

  Who would’ve given both their arms if only allowed to woo her.

  With hair like honey wheat and two eyes to match the sea,

  This queen possessed an elegance that filled all parts with glee.

  But her youth was plainly apparent in all who viewed her beauty.

  Some wondered how she managed to fulfill her wifely duties

  With a king so frail and brittle, who could hardly stand erect;

  Courtly rumors persisted of exactly when she would defect.

  Eventually, the King himself espied her coquettish style,

  And soon cast a watchful eye upon his Queen’s habits for a while.

  But without the proper evidence to declare a sordid affair,

  The King could not accuse her, no matter what appeared,

  For despite the flirty banter that occupied the lady’s time,

  The King had not another option to secure a woman so divine.

  When he proposed the quandary, she simply giggled and declared,

  “Thy thoughts are truly tainted by what ye say I bare.”

  And so the King still brooded sun to moon each day,

  While knowing that his honor balanced in the sway.

  Without another notion to bring clarity to this course,

  The King ultimately determined to consult an unlikely source.

  It happened that a Fool had been appointed by the King,

  (He often preferred laughter instead of bards who sing).

  The King had grown quite fond of this jester’s timely wit,

  So he brought him to closed quarters to see what would fit.

  The Fool wore motley clothing that glittered when he walked,

  And his cap had silver balls that jangled while he talked.

  In his slender hands he brandished a stick with a kidney top,

  Which he slapped upon backsides to ensure the laughter didn’t stop.

  His nose was rather narrow, like a branch jutting from a tree.

  He’d recite a thousand jokes, but never charged a fee.

  This Fool was truly jovial and replete with quirky talents,

  But nothing what the King would’ve described as being gallant.

  So in a private chamber with not another soul around,

  The King implored the Fool to reveal a plan profound.

  “My Queen is supposedly crawling between sheets of sultry beds.

  If only I knew the culprits, I’d seize their every head.”

  The Fool scratched his temple, as if engaged in higher thinking,

  Hoping to persuade the King without any obvious winking.

  “My liege,” said the Fool without a trace of comedy.

  “I may have a solution to end all thy disharmony.”

  “Oh, I beg thou, Fool, please don’t steer me wrong,

  For I can’t bear the decibels of my lady’s evening songs.”

  “Thou mentioned of a campaign that will take ye farther west,

  This shall provide the timing to give my plan a test.

  I’ve heard of green-eyed kings, though thou may not be one,

  Who don’t offer their queens an option until the war is done.

  So find the brawny blacksmith and insist he cast and melt

  The tempered iron of tall sabers to shape a sturdy belt.

  When you depart the province, simply lock it to her hips,

  For this shall repel all arrows, especially those with rounded tips.”

  The King smiled wickedly at such a cruel and crafty proposition,

  Which he certainly considered fair, due to all his sordid suspicions.

  “I like this trick thou mention when I’m gone far away.

  It would surely make my Queen mindful where she seeks to lay.

  But when I come back home again and she strikes a tender pose,

  How should I proceed to make the fresh Lady ever curl her toes?”

  “Ah, here’s the simple solution delivered only from me to thee,

  You’ll have the aim to unlock it with a turn of a silver key.”

  The King clasped his hands in a state of lordly laughter,

  And suddenly he didn’t dread all the days to come hereafter.

  “Oh, Fool,” he declared with a generosity seldom seen,

  “I believe ye have the antidote to thwart my promiscuous Queen.

  But in the sting of battle, while I traverse the rugged moors,

  I may misplace the key while completing all my riled chores.”

  The Fool already surmised the king’s absentminded notions,

  And with the chiming of a bell he set his scheme in motion.

  “My Lord, I see thy point, and I’ve devised a foolproof plan

  To ensure the key’s not lost when ye are at most a man.”

  The King pondered this thought with a very skeptical sigh,

  Because the current crisis promptly excluded every guy.

  But then the Fool sharply rattled his bells to fetch a nod,

  Which caused the King to gaze upon this clown so very odd.

  “Fool,” exclaimed the King, “with respect for such a duty,

  “Thou may be the final soul who I entrust with my fair beauty.

  So once the key is forged in its single silver casting,

  I shall present it for thy concealment, presumably everlasting.

  Others in my kingdom will soon know the key is yours,

  But thou shall not produce it no matter how they may implore

  Or try to coax thee in to partaking in carnality and deceit,

  So to violate my Swan, who I imagine chaste and sweet.”

  The Fool then struck his slapstick on the floor one and three,

  Which caused the hardened kidney to split a tiny degree.

  Then he showed this crevice where no other man than he

  Should ever discover the spot to conceal the dividing key.

  “In my stick I wave and whack is where the silver goes;

  Thy Queen shall soon be straighter than an archer’s bow.”

  And so the secret charge was set to craft a key and belt

  So the gear may be locked over a quean’s waist so svelte.

  After the armor plates were heated and hammered into form,

  The King brought it to his Queen, much to her disgust and scorn.

  Of course the Lady Swan was left quite aghast by its design,

  For it completely sealed her front parts as well as her behind.

  But the King’s mind was set to restrict her inborn cravings;

  He even had the blacksmith supply a personal engraving.

  So read the brief inscription on the device’s tempered lock:

  “Tis the fair
est of the maidens who keeps her treasure boxed.”

  Although the Queen resisted, for she was a feisty soul,

  Nothing within her power prevented her husband’s stifling goal.

  When clad in her iron panties, the Queen appeared duly miffed,

  But her never-ending hollers did not dissolve her binding gift.

  “Now I know it may be hard for ye to sense all my heartfelt sorrow,”

  The King declared as he prepared to leave on the next morrow.

  “But upon my return, by highest oath you’ll now hear me say,

  I’ll unlock the latch so that we shall have ample time to play.”

  The Queen was wholly livid, as would anyone in this plight,

  For this type of confining iron had surely spoiled her free nights.

  “This kind of jealous treatment won’t work for ye one bit!”

  She sneered at the King in the midst of her hysterical fit.

  “Whether thou belt is on my hips or upon the highest shelf,

  Thou shalt never again delve in my trove of womanly wealth!”

  Despite an artful pledge, the King departed his Lady’s side.

  He then went to the Fool with the silver key he planned to hide.

  And just as they devised, the King and Fool made good

  By securing the silver key in the kidney bauble and wood.

  “Now listen,” warned the King in a voice teeming with strife,

  “I know there’s a man at court who’ll try to tempt my wife.

  But it’s only thee who clasps the key to shed a metal wall,

  Yet they’ll no doubt entice thee with favors big and small.

  Don’t bend to their prattle, but dost record it for my ears.

  When I return home again, I’ll reduce them all to tears.

  Oh, Fool, I trust ye like a good brother, if I ever had me one,

  And thou shalt reap a bounty when this is all said and done.”

  “Fret not with ye journey,” said the Fool with a grin,

  “For I shall guard the key and lock so thy Lady doesn’t sin.

  Go and fetch thy spoils, and hoist a staff and flag so high,

  While I station by the chamber to thwart the tricks she’ll try.”

  Once the King was satisfied with his stubborn stand,

  He assembled forty knights and divvied out his battle commands.

  The horns and oboes sounded as they marched off in two lines,

  And the knights all bowed in prayer in hopes they were divine.

  But the crowd on hand today revealed a few faces very glum.

  Perhaps they might’ve realized that their king was not so dumb.

  The first to wage his luck at obtaining the priceless piece

  Was a wily old tradesman who sold dead sheep for fleece.

  Although his gait was hampered by feet both backwards bent,

  He smiled and cajoled as if from the high heavens he was sent.

  “Listen to me, Fool,” said the Trader with far too much flair,

  “I know there’s a key to help me get the King’s lady bare.”

  The Fool smirked and shook his head from shoulder to shoulder.

  “Even if you were God himself, I wouldn’t let ye hold her.”

  Upon hearing this denial the Trader became wholly offended,

  Before reminding the Fool that it was more than wool he mended.

  But no matter how he bragged or ranted, the Fool did not relent.

  He sent the Trader packing with all his pride ineffectually spent.

  Next came a Viscount, donning garments of red and gold.

  Judging by the elder’s stride, the Fool perceived him as quite bold.

  “Fool thou art,” declared the Viscount with a guttural groan,

  “Dost thou expect to gain favors from the flaccid king on throne?

  Now cast thy glance aside and let me pass the chamber’s door.

  Let’s not pretend that our cache is so verily true and pure.”

  But once again the Fool resisted the Viscount’s direct demand.

  “I’m sorry for your troubles, but it is right here that I must stand.”

  The Viscount clutched his fists and stomped his booted feet,

  But nothing from these tantrums would beget a royal treat.

  At last there visited an Earl, who wore fabrics of forest green

  He brought a satchel full of coins of the likes that was seldom seen.

  “Thou see my riches that I display in this fine velvet bag of black.

  It can be thine to do as thou wish if ye take just two steps back.”

  “Indeed, I’ll take three if it causes thee to forward all thy money,

  But I’m afraid all the gold within Midas’s touch won’t grant ye any honey.”

  The Earl then grumbled, “Oh, I pray thee, Fool, it’s been far too long.

  Dost thou expect a man of my rank to ever see himself as wrong?

  All I ask is for seven tocks from the courtyard’s tower clock.

  My designs are quite plain, and in this you may put thy stock.

  Please don’t make me beg like a scabby peasant or serf.

  Accept my gold and thou shall have far more than ye are worth.”

  Although men of every station fell prey to such temptation,

  The Fool was wise enough to rely on his own contemplations.

  “Thy offer is certainly generous, but it doth not wholly persuade,

  For the King has adamantly stated all that he’s forbade.”

  And so with three now denied the finest flower in the court,

  The Fool remained resolute in all he sought to report.

  Once again victorious, the King returned to preside,

  But not for his monarchy as much as for his bride.

  He ventured upon the chamber, where his Queen did stay.

  She hadn’t picked the lock for over a month and a day.

  “Good Queen,” said he without the slightest bit of shame.

  “I’ve been gone longer than I hoped, but aren’t you glad I came?”

  The Queen had no answer as she hid her tormented eyes

  As the King observed the barrier still clamped between her thighs.

  In a moment he deemed kind, he displayed the silver key

  And held it in the air for his wanton Queen to see.

  The purpose of his plan was to make her need him more,

  But if he strayed within her range, he’d surely be lying on the floor.

  “Thou may think you’ve stopped my hips from quickly moving,”

  The Queen did say to make a point she believed worth proving.

  “But let me now declare that I was not denied any male seed.

  A Tradesman, Viscount, and Earl will all most likely concede.”

  At first the king refused to honor the Queen’s confession,

  Especially since the turnkey was now in his possession.

  “Lovely Swan, I must inform ye now about my special key,

  For while I was gone it rightly secured thy favors just for me.

  A Fool I know hid it so that no man could crack ye seal.

  I’ll call him now, if I must, to explain our confining deal.”

  The Queen then laughed impishly and rolled upon the bed,

  “Oh, King of mine, I find it funny that thou art so easily led.

  Don’t ye see that there is no key to deter my nightly dreams?

  I can make my heart race faster than thy childish schemes.

  In this way the Fool may turn away as many men he wishes,

  But that shall never serve to stop me from craving all the kisses.

  Not even the god Hephaestus could forge such a metal sleeve

  To shield my thoughts from wandering to the suitors who all cleave

  Upon my milky loins with famished looks that I shall rightly feed,

  For no lady who lives should unlock a belt simply just to breed.”

  The sound of the Queen’s boast caused the
King to then say,

  “Vile Lady, I shall behead everyone at court to keep those louts at bay!”

  Now furious with rage and despair, the King summoned for the Fool,

  Who then scrambled toward the chamber, while hoping not to duel.

  “My Lord,” replied the Fool, “Why send such frantic yells?

  I’ve upheld the pact we shared, so I assume all is still quite well.”

  “Tis the word from my Lady that has crudely set my mind aflame.

  She speaks of mirth from my people, and now it’s ye I blame.”

  “Fault not I, dearly King, for the single key is thy grand reward,

  And we know, as my bauble shows, there’s no other silver stored.”

  The King then dropped his hands with wild indecision,

  For he didn’t know the truth with any real precision.

  “Look at the King and Fool,” the Queen began to laugh,

  “Now you see there’s no hope to keep me away from staff.”

  The King then tossed the key to the floor at the Fool’s feet,

  “Obviously, this device has failed to dissuade an entire fleet

  Of men who’ve come to steal the nectar from my ivory bird.

  How may I peacefully rule if I must watch her every word?”

  The fool then espied a quandary that the King had overlooked,

  And herein resided the reason why the Queen’s bed so often shook.

  “Sire, if you’ll please lend me a few seconds to rightly explain.

  I should have announced this sooner, but now I must proclaim

  The Queen has been quite honest, at least in physical action,

  But the lovers of whom she speaks may be an illusionary faction.

  Thou see, the Lady Swan’s treasure box is locked up very tight,

  And, as we know, without a key, the belt stays on all right.

  But when sleep doth advance her thoughts to another place,

  Nothing can prevent her kind from yearning for a younger face

  Of the strident virile wooers who brandish more spears than one,

  For fantasies such as these make a marriage much more fun.

  So I’m afraid the belt we cast has no magic power to contain

  The Queen’s carnal lust, which shall be quelled unfairly in vain.”

  The King sunk his chin because he understood this plight.

  After all, even he couldn’t make his Lady stay awake all night.

  And so with frank disgrace he shifted toward his venting Queen,

  Looked her in the eyes and said, “I’m sorry I was so mean.

  But a king as feeble and old as I may never have another try

  To show his Lady the love she’s worth until the day he dies.

  I can’t stand to watch thy heart flutter while in the filthy fingers

  Of the countless thirsty leeches, whose scent doth often linger

  In the fabric of thy frilly gowns that thee wear upon each eve;

  It causes me to wonder if ye have something up thy sleeve.

  But conceding that a dream doth not an infidel truly make,

  I shall grant ye a pardon because ‘tis a little more than fake

  To imagine the untamed affection of a younger set.

  In time I hope to heal from this, and soon eagerly forget,

  So that we may one day resume this fond and merry life,

  And to think I have a Fool to thank for preserving my fair wife.”

  The Fool, of course, appeared humbled by the King’s confession,

  And his ability to forgive the Queen for all her mental transgressions.

  In a moment of high charity, the King then bent onto the stony floor.

  “I’ve always been a cruel and nasty man right down to my very core.

  But I know that a key won’t keep my Lady’s thoughts forever chaste.

  For green-eyed jealously is wholly evil, and such a hopeless waste.”

  And without another word to comment on all the things yet to be,

  The King put his fingers on the floor to reclaim the coveted key.

  He then forwarded it to his Queen with a respectful sort of bow,

  “Remove the belt when thou dost wish, and then please allow

  Me to visit ye in our marriage bed with all the sheets so clean.

  I’ll even pet thee like a kitten—for I know how ye like to preen.”

  With words so generous as these, how could Swan resist

  To ever again envisioning the lure of a tawdry tryst?

  “Oh, thank thou, Lord, for finally permitting me a choice.

  When I at last unlock this belt, I will surely raise my voice

  To summon ye to my chamber once the gear is down,

  And if you’re really nice to me, I’ll even let ye wear thy crown

  Upon thou head in this bed, while taking what ye desire.

  Rest assured, never before, have thou felt such a fire.”

  And now the King was mirthful, for he never saw Swan smile.

  So satisfied by this he was that he left her in the room for a while.

  This permitted the Fool and Queen to be alone long at last.

  It only took a second for her to undo the belt’s rusty clasp.

  And once the lock had clicked, the Queen released a sigh,

  “Oh, Fool,” cried she, “take this key and never tell our lie.

  Ravage me as you always dost, and I’ll never cast a frown.

  Who would’ve thought I’d be taught to prey upon a crafty clown?”

  The Fool simply smirked and tucked the key in his stick,

  Being grateful that the King wasn’t too wise to solve his trick.

  And so the randy Queen and Fool frolicked without much worry.

  Now that the King had fled the room they certainly didn’t hurry.

  When their business ended, much like any such transaction,

  The Fool reclined in bed and sighed with complete satisfaction.

  “Oh, Fool,” gushed the Queen. “Doth the King yet know our game?

  “Fear not that,” the Fool replied. “In this way, the King is just too lame.

  For as long as he treats a Fool as an inferior figure in his life,

  He shall never possess the wit to catch an unfaithful wife.

  So don’t occupy thy thoughts with such stressful speculation,

  Because this Fool shall forever subdue all thy provocations.”

  Now this tale ended in the fabled castle by a glen

  If you had trouble understanding it, please listen to it again.