The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd (24 page)

When he got into bed every night, he imagined her in every state and every position. He gloated on her perfect body and on her youthfulness; he pictured her narrow waist, her long legs and her slender arms. Oh, of course he also reflected on her wifely virtues – on her modesty and her tenderness, her womanly bearing and her seriousness. When he had decided, then, he believed that he could not have made a better choice. Nothing and no one could have changed his mind. If anyone had been so brave as to try to do so, he would have dismissed him as a fool. He was living in a fantasy world. Once more he sent a message to all of his friends, asking them to assemble in his house as soon as possible. He would not detain them long, he said, and in any case he would spare them the labour of looking out for a young girl to be his mate. He had made his choice. He would not change his mind.

Placebo arrived first, of course, but he was soon followed by the others. January greeted them all, and then asked a favour of them. They would please not argue with him. He had made his decision. It would simply be foolish to oppose it. All his happiness depended on the choice he had made. He told them that there was a young girl in the town who was renowned for her good looks. She was of relatively humble stock, but her youth and beauty compensated for that. He said that he had determined to marry her, and to lead the rest of his life in perfect bliss and holiness. He would own all of her, and no one else would ever get a part of her.

So he asked his friends to assist him in this enterprise, and help him to succeed in securing his prize. His soul would then be at ease. ‘There will,’ he said, ‘be nothing to mar my happiness. But I do have one thing on my conscience. Let me explain. Many years ago I heard that no man can enjoy the two kinds of bliss – the bliss of earth and the bliss of heaven. He can have one or the other. He cannot have both. I may not commit any of the seven deadly sins. I may not commit any of the little ones. But this is the trouble: I am about to get married to the perfect wife, with whom I will live in the utmost felicity. All will be calm. All will be sweet. So I will have heaven on earth. Do you see the problem? We are always taught that heaven itself is the reward of pain and purgation, of penance and tribulation. How can I, living in comfort and joy, attain my eternal reward? I am not alone, of course. All husbands live in comfort with their wives. Or so I believe. But give me your honest opinion on my problem.’

Justinus, despising January’s total stupidity, responded straight away with a joke. He did not bother to quote authorities. He would give him a short answer. ‘There is no obstacle on your path to heaven. God by some miracle will come to your aid. He will ensure that, before you are carried to the grave, you will have cause to repent your marriage. You say there is no woe or strife in marriage. By divine intervention He will prove you wrong. Did you not know that husbands always have more cause for repentance than single men? This is the best advice I can give you. Wait and see. Do not despair of heaven. It may turn out that your wife will be your purgatory. She may be God’s instrument. His whip to scourge you. Then your soul will skip up to heaven faster than an arrow leaves a bow. I hope to God for your own sake, then, that you discover there is no great happiness to be found in marriage. There is nothing so pleasurable about it that will keep you from salvation. You still have to be moderate in all things, of course. You must never fulfil all of your wife’s desires, if you know what I mean. Do not be too amorous with her, and keep yourself free from other sins. Then you will reach heaven’s gate. That is the only advice I can give to you. My cupboard is bare, as they say. Don’t look so surprised, dear brother. Shall we forget we ever mentioned the subject? You have already heard the Wife of Bath discourse on the perils of marriage.’

‘The Wife of Bath?’

‘She made a lot of sense, didn’t she? Well, enough. God keep you.’

And, with that, Justinus and Placebo took their leave of January. They knew that there was no alternative. So by secret negotiation and treaty they arranged that their friend should marry the young girl whom he admired as quickly as possible. Her name, by the way, was May. It would be too long a story to tell you of the marital arrangements – of the lands put in May’s name, of the costly garments promised to her. The day came. May and January proceeded to the church in great array, where they received the holy sacrament of marriage. The priest came out before the altar, with the stole around his neck, and enjoined May to follow the example of Sarah and Rebecca; they were wise and faithful wives. Then he said a few prayers, made the sign of the cross over the couple, asked God to bless them, and performed every other holy rite he could think of. So they were joined with great solemnity. The pair of them sat at the feast, on the top table, with all the other noble guests. The house was filled with festival and music, with feasting and drinking, the like of which had never before been seen in Italy. The instruments were of such fineness and delicacy that they rivalled the harp of Orpheus and the golden lyre of Amphion. As every course was brought out the minstrels sounded their trumpets, making more clangour than Joab ever heard at Mount Zion or Theodomas at the siege of Thebes. Bacchus himself might have been pouring out the wine. And was that Venus laughing and smiling upon all the company? Yes, it was. January had become her devoted servant, after all. He was about to be tested in marriage as once he had been in his bachelor state. So the goddess, with a firebrand in each hand, danced before the bride and groom. I can tell you this much. The god of marriage, Hymen, never saw a more cheerful bridegroom than January. Say no more, Martianus Capella. You have written of the splendid marriage between Philology and Mercury, and extolled the songs the Muses sung for them. But your pen is too short, your tongue too small, to begin the description of the wedding day of January and May. This was the day when tender youth married halting age. Do you have enough ink for your quill? This cannot be told. The fun of it would not be believed. Find out for yourself. Then tell me whether I am lying or not.

It was a delight to look at the young bride, May, dressed in all her finery. She looked like a fairy queen. Queen Esther, who caught the eye of that Persian king, never looked half so lovely. I cannot explain her beauty. Words fail me. Suffice it to say that she lived up to her name; she was as fresh and lovely as a spring morning. Old January was ravished by her. Every time he looked at her, he went into a trance. In his imagination, of course, he was contemplating their first night. He would hold her in his arms more tightly than Paris held Helen. Yet he also felt sorry for her. She was going to be his victim, that very night, and he might have to hurt her. ‘Alas,’ he said to himself, ‘you are such a tender creature. I hope God gives you the strength to bear up under me. I am on heat, to put it mildly. I am worried that I will be too much for you to handle. God forbid that I should injure you in any way. Do you know what I wish? I wish the night had come. I wish the night would last for ever. And, finally, I wish all these people would go away.’ He did everything he could, by subtle means, to persuade the guests to finish quickly. He was, after all, an honourable man.

Eventually the time came for them all to rise from the table. The men began to dance and to drink deeply, while the women scattered spices about the house. Everyone was happy – everyone, that is, except for a certain squire called Damian. He carved January’s meat for him every day, but now he had an eye on tastier fare. He was so ravished at the sight of May that he thought he would go out of his mind. Do you recall Venus dancing with a firebrand in each hand? She put one of those brands within Damian’s heart. He could hardly stand. He was about to faint. So he retired to his bed as quickly as he could. There we will leave him to his tears and laments, until such time as May will have pity on him.

Oh perilous fire that smoulders in the bedding! The enemy in the household is the most dangerous of all. The traitorous servant is like an adder clasped to the bosom; he is treacherous and sly. God keep him away from all good men. Oh January, be careful. You are lost in pleasure now, but keep an eye on Damian. Your own squire, your man, intends to do you harm. I hope to God that you catch him in time. There is no worse plague in the world than a dishonest and treacherous servant.

The sun had traced its arc of gold across the sky, and could not linger on the horizon of that day. The night had fallen, and darkness spread over the earth. The merry guests left the marriage feast, giving thanks to January, and rode homewards in cheerful mood. Were they going straight to bed? I don’t know. I do know, however, what January wanted to do. Bed was the only thing on his mind. He was not going to wait any longer. So he prepared himself a hot punch of spice and sweetened wine, as an aphrodisiac. He also took some herbs and simples recommended by the disgraceful monk, Constantinus Africanus, who wrote that book
On Fucking
. He tried every single ointment and concoction. Then he turned to the close friends who were still in the house, telling them to leave quickly and quietly ‘for the love of God’. They did as they were told. They drank up, and then they drew the curtains. The priest blessed the bed, and May was brought to it. She was as still and silent as any stone. Everyone filed out of the bedchamber, leaving bride and bridegroom there alone.

January grabbed May as soon as they were gone. She was his spring, his paradise, his wife. He petted her and clawed her, kissing her on the cheek and lips. His bristle was as tough as the skin of an old dogfish. His face was like a bed of briars, and he rubbed it all over her tender flesh. Then he started crooning to her. ‘Oh dear, oh dear, I must trespass upon you, my sweetheart, and perhaps offend you. I may hurt you before I have finished with you. But consider this, my duckling. No labourer worth his hire can work hastily. It has to be done slowly and surely. It doesn’t matter how long we play together. We are both coupled in holy matrimony, so we can take all the time we want. We have been blessed by the priest. Nothing we do will be considered sinful. A man cannot cut himself with his own knife. The law gives us permission to have some fun.’

So he fell upon her, thrusting and heaving all that night. He climbed off her, eventually, and refreshed himself with some bread soaked in fine red wine. Then he sat up in bed and began to sing loudly and clearly. He leered at her, and licked his lips. He was as frisky as a colt, as wanton as a monkey. When he started singing the slack skin about his neck began to shake. His voice gave out and he started croaking. God knows what May thought of all this. She stared at him as he sat there in his nightshirt and nightcap, with his scrawny neck and bony face. She did not praise his performance. That’s for sure.

‘I will take a rest now,’ he said to her. ‘It’s already daylight. I need to sleep.’ Then he laid his head upon the pillow, and fell into a sound slumber. When he woke up at nine o’clock, he sprang out of bed. May, however, stayed in the bedchamber for four days.

The labourer needs rest, you see. Otherwise he, or she, will not be able to survive. This is true of every creature under the sun, fish or bird, beast or man.

Now I will turn back to woeful Damian, who is languishing for love of May. This is what I should tell him. ‘Oh foolish boy. You silly thing, Damian. Answer me this one question. How are you going to explain your plight to May? She will just turn you away. If you tell her how much you love her, she will simply betray you to her husband. God help you. I can say no more.’

So Damian is bathed in the fire of Venus, lost and helpless with desire, ready even to put his life at risk. He could stand it no longer. He borrowed a pen, and then wrote a letter in which he revealed all his sorrow. He wrote it in verse, a poetical complaint addressed to his fresh and lovely May. A lay is a lay in any language. He placed the manuscript in a little silk purse that he hung around his neck, close to his heart.

From the time of the wedding day, the moon had glided from the sign of Taurus into Cancer. That is how long May resided in her bedchamber. It was the custom of new brides. They must not eat in hall until three or four days have passed; after that time, she can sit at the feast. On the fourth day, therefore, January and May attended high mass before proceeding to dinner in the hall. She was as bright and lovely as a summer’s day. Then the sight of the meat prompted her good husband to think of Damian. ‘Mother of God,’ he exclaimed, ‘why isn’t Damian here to wait on me? Is he sick or something? What has happened?’ The other squires explained to him that Damian had indeed been taken ill and could not perform his duties. Only sickness would keep him away from the table.

‘I am sorry for it,’ January replied. ‘Damian is a good and loyal servant. It would be a great pity if he were to die. He is as intelligent and as discreet as any young man of his rank; he has always been attentive and eager to please. After dinner my wife and I will visit him in his chamber, to see if we can offer him any comfort.’ All the company blessed him for that. Out of sheer kindness this good knight was willing to visit his sick squire. It was very gracious of him. ‘Dearest wife,’ January said, ‘listen to me. After we have finished the meal, I would like you and your women to attend to Damian. Try to cheer him up. He is a good boy. Tell him that I intend to visit him, too, after I have had a nap. Don’t be gone too long, dear. I will not be content until you are back with me and lying by my side.’ Then he called over one of the other squires, his master of ceremonies, and discussed some matters of business with him.

So May, accompanied by all her women, proceeded to the chamber of Damian. She sat down by the side of his bed, and comforted him as best she could. Then the young squire, as soon as he saw his opportunity, secretly put in her hand the little silk purse in which he had placed his lay of love. He sighed deeply as he did so, and then whispered to her, ‘Have mercy on me, lady. Tell no one about this. If I am discovered, I am as good as dead.’ So May hid the purse in her bosom, and went on her way. I shall say no more.