Then Theseus turned to Palamon. ‘I believe that you will need very little persuasion to accept my proposal. Come to your lady, and take her by the hand.’
So thereupon, to general rejoicing, a marriage bond was made between Palamon and Emily. BLISS. MELODY. UNION. And so may God, who created this wide world, grant them His love. Now Palamon has obtained happiness at last. He lives in health and comfort. Emily loves him so tenderly, and in turn is served by him so graciously, that there is not one unhappy or jealous word between them. So ends the story of Palamon and Arcite. God save all this fair and attentive company!
Heere is ended the Knyghtes Tale
The Miller’s Prologue
Heere folwen the wordes bitwene the Hoost and the Millere
When the Knight had finished his story everyone in our company, young and old, rich and poor, agreed that it was a noble story to be kept ever green in the memory. Our Host, Harry Bailey, laughed and joked with us. ‘By my faith,’ he said, ‘the gate has been opened. We can see the path ahead of us. Now who is going to tell the next story? The game has been well begun. Who will continue it? How about you, sir Monk? Do you have anything to compare with the Knight’s tale?’
The Miller was coming up behind, half on and half off his horse. He was so drunk that he could scarcely keep his saddle. They say of a drunken man that he has seen the devil. The Miller was pale enough. He did not have the courtesy to doff his hood or his hat, or wait for anyone else to speak. In a voice as loud as that of Pilate on the pageant stage, he cried out to our Host. ‘By the blood and bones of Christ, Harry,’ he shouted, ‘I have a noble story to tell. It will beat the Knight by a mile.’ Then he burped.
Harry could see that he was drunk, and tried to calm him down. ‘Wait a little, Robin,’ he said. ‘Let someone else tell the next story, dear friend, and you can tell yours later. We have to arrange these things properly.’
‘By God’s soul I will not. I will speak now. Or I will go my own way without you all.’
‘In the devil’s name speak then,’ Harry replied. ‘You are a fool. You left your wits in a dish of ale.’
‘Listen to me, all of you,’ the Miller said. ‘I admit that I am drunk. There is no point in denying it. So if I swear, or get my words mixed up, blame it on good Southwark beer. But this is it. This is the point. I want to tell you the story of a carpenter and his wife, and how a young scholar got the better of the carpenter. If you know what I mean.’
The Reeve then angrily interrupted him. ‘That’s enough. Stop spouting all this lewd nonsense. Slurring your words. It is sinful and foolish to injure the reputation of any man, and to bring wives into disrepute. Why damage the good folk? There are plenty of other things to talk about.’
The drunken Miller answered him at once. ‘Oswald, dear brother,’ he said. ‘You know the old saying. He who has no wife cannot be a cuckold. I am not saying you are one of them. I don’t know. In any case there are plenty of good wives. I would say, if you were asking, that there were a thousand good to one bad. You should know as much yourself. Unless you’re completely mad. So why are you so angry with my story? I have a wife, just the same as you. I swear on all I hold sacred that she has been faithful to me. I swear - let me think, I swear on my oxen - that I am not a cuckold. At least I hope I am not. No husband should want to know the secrets of God or the secrets of his wife. As long as he can graze on God’s plenty, in the shape of a female body, he should not bother about anything else.’
It was clear that the Miller was not about to restrain himself, but was going to tell his vulgar story in his own very vulgar way. I am only sorry that I have to repeat it here. And therefore, dear readers, forgive anything you find in the next few pages. My intentions are not bad. I am obliged to repeat everything I have heard, for good or ill. Otherwise I will have failed. I will have been unfaithful to my material. If you do not want to read the Miller’s tale, then pass on to one of the others. I am not forcing you. There are plenty of other stories here. There are history tales, and tales of piety, and moral tales galore. Don’t blame me if you choose the wrong one. The Miller is a vulgarian. You know that. The Reeve is a bit of a lout, too, along with others I could mention. They both told dirty stories. So reflect. Do not lay the blame on me. In any case, why take this game too seriously?
The Miller’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Millere his tale
Once upon a time there was living in Oxford an old codger, a rich old carpenter; he followed his trade faithfully enough, but he also took paying guests into his house. One of these lodgers was a poor student who had finished the university course but was more interested in learning all the arts of astrology. He knew a number of ‘operations’ and ‘conclusions’ and ‘calculations’ - I don’t know the precise terms for every one of them, but he knew enough to work out the days of rain and the days of drought. He also had a ready answer when anyone asked him to prophesy the future. He was polite. He was courteous. His name was Nicholas.
He also had an eye for the ladies, and he knew how to get them into bed without any fuss. He was as mild-mannered as a maiden, and very discreet. But inwardly he burned. He had his own chamber at the top of the carpenter’s house. There he would rub the juice of sweet herbs all over his body, so that he was as fragrant as odorous liquorice or balmy ginger. Of course this aroused the women. On the shelves above his bed were the instruments of his art, the globes and the treatises, the astrolabe and the abacus with its glass counters. Here is another detail which the girls noticed: his wardrobe was draped with an old scarlet curtain. And there was a harp beside his bed on which he played at night; the chamber rang to the sound of his sweet voice, with his rendition of ‘What the Angel Said to the Virgin’ and ‘The King’s Own Tune’. You would think that he was an angel himself. But no girl near him would have been a virgin very long. So passed the happy life of young Nicholas, depending blithely on the money he earned or was given by his friends. It made no difference to him.
Now his landlord had recently taken a new wife. Alison was a sparkler, eighteen years old, and of course the carpenter loved her madly. Yet he was so jealous that he took great care to keep her to himself. She was young and lusty; he was old and crusty. What if someone should beguile her? He was too stupid to have read the works of Cato. Otherwise he would have learned that it is better for a man to marry a woman who is his equal. People should marry according to their age and rank. Winter and spring do not mix, especially in bed. Well he had made his bed, according to his wish, and now he must lie in it.
This young wife was a beauty, as small and delicate as a little squirrel; she used to wear a girdle of striped silk. She had an apron, as white as morning milk, with as many folds and flounces as a wedding dress. Above it she wore a white shift, with its collar embroidered back and front; the collar itself was of black silk, very alluring. The ribbons of her white cap were also black. Her head-band was set back, so that you could see her forehead. The forehead is the plain of Venus. And then there were her eyes. Such lecherous eyes. She had plucked her eyebrows so that they made a slender arch, a delicate black matching the ribbons of her cap. She was more delicious and refreshing than the sight of a tree filled with early fruit. She was softer than the wool of a lamb. From her girdle there hung a purse of leather, swinging on tassels of silk and adorned with glowing brass. No man in the world could have imagined such a frisker. Alison was a giglet. A fisgig. No wench ever had a merrier complexion, either, with cheeks as shiny as a new gold coin. And when she sang her voice was as light and lively as that of any swallow perched upon a barn. She could skip and play delightfully, just like a kid or calf following its mother. Her mouth was as sweet as honey mixed with mead, her breath like the perfume of apples laid in stores of heather. She was as skittish as a winsome colt, as slender as a mast and as straight as the bolt of a crossbow. She had a brooch pinned to her collar, which for size matched the boss of a warrior’s shield. She wore high boots, and laced them right to the top. She was a li
ttle rose, a marigold to heal the eye. She was fit to be fucked by a prince and, after that, married to a yeoman.
Now so it happened that one fine day, while the old carpenter was working at Osney Abbey, sweet Nicholas began to flirt and play with her. He was, like many students, a crafty and resourceful young man. What does he do? He begins to caress her cunt, saying to her, ‘You know if I don’t have you, then I will die for love of you.’ Then his hand wandered further down, and he began to stroke her thighs. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, ‘make love to me now or, God help me, I will lie down and die. Fuck me or I am finished.’ But she leaped up as fast as a colt about to have its hooves shod, and instantly turned her head away. ‘Sod you, Nicholas!’ she screamed at him. ‘Do you really think I’m going to kiss you? Sod off. Take your hands off me, too. Or else I’ll cry “rape!”’
So Nicholas began to apologize, and then from apology he went to excuse, and from excuse to offer. He got his way in the end, of course. By the time he had finished coaxing and charming her, she was practically begging for it. ‘We have a problem,’ she told him. ‘My husband is so full of jealousy that we have to be careful. We have to wait. Otherwise he will kill me. I am not joking. We have to keep this a secret.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A scholar can outwit a carpenter any time. What else is the use of education?’
So they agreed with one another to bide their time, and wait for the right moment. Nicholas gave her a kiss, and ran his hands up and down the inside of her thighs. Then he went back to his chamber, took up his harp and began to play a lively melody.
Now it so happened that, on the next holy day, Alison went to the parish church in order to worship the Saviour. She had finished her work, and had made sure to wash her face so that it shone, as any good wife would. In this church there was a clerk in holy orders, with the name of Absolon. He had the most lovely blond curls, which were stretched out like a halo all over his head. But he was no saint. His hair was carefully parted, with more art than nature. His complexion was ruddy, and his eyes as grey as a dove’s wing. He had tracery on his shoes, as if they were stained-glass windows. And he wore red hose, tight and shapely. His clothes were tight, too, the better to show off his figure; he wore a tunic of light blue, its laces knotted at the waist. Above that he donned a fine surplice, as white as the blossom on the bough. God knows he was a sprightly young man. He cheerfully performed all the duties pertaining to a clerk. He could let blood with the best of them; he knew how to cut hair and how to shave the chin; he could draw up deeds and contracts without any fuss. He knew twenty different dance steps, too, and in the Oxford style he would kick up his legs in every direction. He could play the fiddle, and sing along in a light falsetto, and he knew how to strum a guitar. He knew all the inns and taverns of the city; he knew every pretty barmaid, of course, and he could be very intimate and entertaining. He had one or two little foibles. He did not like to fart in public and, secondly, he was very prim in conversation.
So on this particular holy day Absolon came out swinging his censer, and made sure to point it in the direction of the females of the parish. He could have pointed something else at them, too. He looked them up and down as they were wreathed in sweet smoke, and then presently he noticed the carpenter’s young wife. Wow. He could look at her all day. She was so pretty, so sweet, so, so, inviting. I dare say that if she had been a mouse, and he a cat, he would have pounced straight away. He would have been the cat who got the cream. He was so lost in love and longing that, when he went around with the collection bowl, he would not take a penny from any of the young women. Out of courtesy, he said. I think he was in a daze. Excuse me -
At this point the Miller stopped, and refreshed himself with some ale; he put the flagon to his lips, and almost choked on it. The sound of his coughing and retching was horrible. But then he resumed his tale.
That night, under the light of the full moon, Absolon took up his guitar; he fully expected to stay awake all night for the sake of love. So he wandered abroad, amorous and willing, and made his way to the house of the carpenter. Just before dawn, at the crowing of the cock, he stood beneath one of the casement windows. There he began softly to play the guitar and to sing this accompaniment: ‘Now, dear lady, if it pleases you, have pity on me.’ But his voice woke up the carpenter, who turned to his wife lying beside him.
‘Alison,’ he said. ‘Wake up. Can you hear the voice of Absolon? He is singing right beneath the window.’ All she said was, ‘Yes, John, I hear him. I hear him very clearly.’
So, as you would expect, matters took their course. Absolon, the unsuccessful wooer, becomes deeply unhappy. He fritters away the day and stays awake all night. He never stops combing his hair and looking at himself in the mirror. He sends notes to her by go-betweens and messengers. He swears to serve her faithfully. He sings to her, trilling like some nightingale. He sends her spiced wine, mead and ale; he even offers her money, to spend in town. Some women can be won by cash, you see, just as some can be lured by kindness or taken by force. It depends on the circumstances.
There was even a time when, to show his prowess as a performer, he agreed to take the part of Herod in the pageant plays. But what was the good of all this posturing? The point is that Alison loved another. No. Not the carpenter. Of course she could not love her husband. She loved the clerk and lodger, Nicholas. Absolon might as well go whistle in the wind. She treated him as a joke. She turned him into her pet monkey, and laughed at his screechings. The proverb is quite right. The one who is closest comes first. Out of sight is out of mind. Lively Nicholas was there in the house with her, while poor distraught Absolon was on the other side of town. You might say that Nicholas stood in his light. So good luck to you, young scholar, even though Absolon will wail ‘Alas!’
It happened that one Saturday the carpenter had gone back to Osney Abbey. Alison and Nicholas took advantage of his absence and conferred together. This was their plan. Nicholas would come up with a ruse to beguile the jealous old sod; if everything went well, then she would nestle in his arms all night. That was what both of them wanted. So without more ado Nicholas left her, and took up on a platter enough meat and drink to sustain him in his chamber for a day or two. If the carpenter asked after him, she was to say that she did not know where he was. That she had not seen him. That she had not heard from him. That she even wondered if he was ill - the maid had called for him, but there had been no answer from him.
So all that Saturday there was silence. Nicholas lay very quietly in his chamber, eating and drinking and doing anything else he fancied. I could not say what. This lasted until Sunday evening. The old carpenter was by now in a state of some alarm, and wondered if his lodger had taken ill. Could it be the white death? ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘by the bones of all the saints. Something is wrong with Nicholas. God forbid that he should have died suddenly! This wicked world is uncertain enough. I saw today a corpse borne to church, who last Monday I saw at work.’ Then he turned to his servant-boy, Robin. ‘Go upstairs,’ he said, ‘and shout for him at his door. Knock on it with a stone, if you wish. Find out what’s going on. Then come and tell me.’
So the boy eagerly ran up the stairs, and came to a halt outside Nicholas’s chamber. Then he knocked on the door like a madman and shouted out, very loudly, ‘Hey! Where are you, master Nicholas? How can you sleep all day? It isn’t right!’ He might as well have saved his breath. There was no response. But he knew there was a hole in the skirting board, which the cat used as a passage. So he got down on his knees and peered through this hole. What do you think he saw? There was Nicholas sitting upright in his bed, with his mouth open, motionless, gaping at the ceiling. He might have been struck by the new moon.
So Robin rushed downstairs, in a state of great excitement, and relayed the strange news to the carpenter. The old man blessed himself and said, ‘By the patron saint of Oxford, Frydeswyde, no man knows what will happen next! Our young friend has been affected by all this astronomy business. He ha
s fallen into a fit. Or he may have gone mad. I knew this would happen all along. No man should try to seek out God’s secrets! Blessed are the ignorant who know only how to say their prayers! It happened to another scholar, you know. Did you hear about him? He was walking in the fields one night, gazing up at the stars to find the future, when he fell into a clay pit. He didn’t see that, did he? And yet I do feel sorry for young Nicholas. If I get the chance, and pray God I do, I will scold him for all his studying. Get me a long staff, Robin, and I will lever it under his door while you tear it off its hinges. That will get his attention.’
So they climbed upstairs, and stood outside Nicholas’s room. Robin was a strong boy, and managed to get the door off without much difficulty. It fell down on the floor with a clatter. Yet Nicholas did not move a muscle. He was completely motionless, his mouth open, staring into space. The carpenter thought that he might be paralysed by despair, and shook him violently by the shoulders. Then he shouted at him, ‘Nicholas! Look at me! Wake up! Think of the passion of Christ!’ He made the sign of the cross over him. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘I am expelling the elves and wicked fairies that torment you.’ He went to the four corners of the chamber and muttered the night spell. Then he crossed the threshold and recited the same charm:
‘Jesus Christ and Benedict,
Keep us from heaven’s interdict,
Against the spirits of the night
Protect us from the evil blight.’
Now at this moment Nicholas began to stir. He sighed very deeply. He groaned. He began to talk to himself. ‘Alas,’ he said. ‘Is it true? Is the world about to end?’
‘What are you saying?’ The carpenter was alarmed. ‘Put your trust in God. We, who work in the world, have faith.’
‘Get me a drink,’ Nicholas replied. ‘And then I will tell you something in confidence. It is an affair that concerns both of us. And I will tell nobody else about it.’
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