The Canterbury Tales
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THE CANTERBURY TALES
senger was summoned and put to the torture. He revealed every detail of his journey – where he had ridden, where he had supped, where he had spent the night. It all became plain. It did not take much enquiry or investigation to discover the guilty party in this wicked affair.
I do not know how they discovered that the queen mother had herself written those poisonous letters, but her fate was sealed soon after. All the chroniclers agree that Aella killed his own mother, blaming her for bringing dishonour and shame to his family. So ended the career of Donegild, a woman steeped in evil.
No one can adequately impart the grief that Aella suffered over the fate of his young wife and newborn son. I will leave it to one side, and return instead to the plight of Constance floating on the sea. By the will of Christ she spent five long years upon the waves, in pain and in woe, before finally she caught sight of land.
She came close to on a beach beneath a pagan castle – I do not have the name of it by me – where the sea delivered Constance and Maurice on to dry ground. Almighty God, I beseech you, preserve the fair maid and her child. Once more she has fallen into the hands of heathens, who might wish to kill her. Who can tell?
There came down from the castle a procession of people, eager to take a look at Constance and the foreign ship. But then, at nightfall, a steward of the castle came down secretly to the ship and told her that he would lie with her whether she liked it or not. God damn him for a rapist and a rogue.
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Constance of course set up a great lamentation, in which her child joined. But then the Holy Virgin placed her mantle around her. In the course of his struggles with Constance the steward fell overboard and was instantly drowned. He had merited his punishment. So Christ kept Constance undefiled.
See the result of foul sensuality! It does not only darken the mind and mar the judgement. It can kill. The end of blind lust, the end of the dread deed itself, is misery. How many men have found that even the intention of committing that sin is enough to destroy them, whether they accomplish it or not?
How did this weak woman have the strength to defend herself against the wretch? How was it that the giant Goliath was slain by the young and untested David? How dared he even look upon that monster's dreadful face? His strength was derived from the grace of Christ. Who gave Judith the courage and endurance to murder Holofernes in his tent and to lift the chosen people out of their misery? I say that it was all God's work. And that same God instilled might and vigour within Constance herself.
So the ship sailed on through the narrow strait that separates Gibraltar from the tip of Africa. The wind came from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south, driving the vessel in all directions and in none. Constance was weary unto death when one day the Virgin Mary, blessed among women, brought an end to all her woe with an act of goodness.
Let us leave her for a moment, however, and turn to her father. The emperor of Rome had learned, from diplomatic correspondence out of Syria, that all of the Christians had
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been slain at the banquet in Damascus. Of course he had also discovered that the wicked mother of the sultan had dishonoured his daughter and cast her adrift.
So he decided to take revenge. He sent his principal senator, with royal authority, to Syria. He sent all of his lords and knights, too, with express orders to deliver condign vengeance. For a long time the Roman forces burned and pillaged and killed whatever and whomever they found in the capital. When they had meted out the punishment, they set sail again for Rome.
It so happened that the Roman senator, while making his progress across the sea, came upon the little ship in which Constance was marooned. He did not know who she was, or how she came to be there. And for her part Constance would not speak. She would rather die than reveal her condition.
He brought her back with him to Rome, and gave her into the keeping of his wife and young son. Constance spent the next part of her life in the senator's family. So did the Blessed Virgin rescue her from all her woe, as she has saved many others. Constance conducted herself in a devout and gentle way, doing good works wherever she could.
The wife of the senator was in fact her aunt, but neither one recognized the other. I can say no more about it. That was what happened. I will leave Constance with the family, and now I will return to the king of Northumberland, Aella, who still bitterly mourned and lamented his wife's absence.
The fact that he had killed his own mother now began to weigh on his conscience. He fell into such a mood of repentance, in fact, that he decided to travel to Rome in order to
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do penance. He would put himself under the authority of the pope, in all matters, and beseech Christ to forgive him his sins.
His ambassadors travelled ahead of him, announcing his arrival. It soon became known throughout the holy city that this high king was coming on a pilgrimage. So the senators of Rome rode out to greet him, according to custom, and to do reverence to his majesty. They also wanted to put on a good show.
One of these senators was of course the protector of Constance. He welcomed Aella, and paid him homage, and the king duly returned his courtesies. A day or two later the king invited him and his retinue to a banquet. Who do you think was among the guests? None other than Maurice, the son of Constance.
Some people would say, of course, that Constance herself persuaded the senator to take her son. I do not know the circumstances. All I know is that Maurice attended the feast. And I know this, too. Constance had told her son to stand before the king, during the meal, and look him steadfastly in the face.
Aella was struck with wonder on seeing the boy. He turned to the senator and asked him the identity of the handsome child standing before the table. 'I have no idea,' the senator replied. 'God be my witness. He has a mother but, as far as I know, he has no father.' And then he told the king the story of how mother and child were found.
'God knows,' he said, 'I have never seen a more virtuous woman in all my life. I have never heard of a woman – maid or married – who is her equal. She would rather be stabbed in
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the heart than perform a wicked deed. No man on earth could persuade her otherwise.'
This young boy was the image of his mother. There could not be a closer resemblance. So Aella was reminded of Constance herself, and wondered if it could possibly be that she – his dear wife – was indeed the mother of the child. He was troubled by this, naturally, and left the banquet as quickly as he could.
'What phantom or vision is in my head,' he asked himself, 'when I know well enough that my wife lies at the bottom of the sea?' But then he put to himself another question. 'But is it not possible that Christ the Saviour has brought Constance to this place, just as He once sent her to the coast of my own kingdom?'
On that same afternoon he decided to visit the home of the senator, and see for himself. Had there been another miracle? The senator greeted the king with reverence, and then summoned Constance. When she was told that she was about to meet Aella, she almost fainted. She could hardly stand, let alone dance for joy.
As soon as Aella caught sight of his wife he greeted her and began to weep piteously. He knew it was her. His wife stood before him. Constance herself was dumb with amazement, and was as rooted to the ground as a tree. She remembered all his unkindness (or so she thought), and she suffered double distress at the sight of him.
She swooned, and then recovered herself; then she swooned again. The king himself wept, and did his best to excuse himself. 'I swear by God and all the saints in heaven,' he
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said, 'that I am as guiltless of any crimes against you as your own son. Our own son, who so much resembles you. Let the devil take me if I am lying.'
So they wept together. They lamented the past. They lamented the evil done to them. Those around them were filled with pity, as their woes seemed to increase with their tears. Will you excuse me from saying any more about their sorrow? It would take me until tomorrow to do full justice to it. And I am weary of describing nothing but pain.
Finally, when Constance understood that Aella had no part in her exile, the tears gave way to smiles. They must have kissed each other a hundred times. There was such bliss between them that no couple in the world have ever been, or could ever be, so happy. Only the joy of heaven is superior.
Then Constance begged of him one favour, to recompense for her life of woe. She asked him to send an invitation in the most gracious terms to her father, the emperor, and entreat him to attend a royal banquet. But she urged her husband not to say one word about her.
It has been said that Maurice was chosen to deliver the message to the emperor. I don't believe it. Aella would not have been so disrespectful as to send a mere child into the presence of the great ruler who has sovereign authority over all Christendom. It is better to suppose that the king himself visited the emperor's palace.
Nevertheless I have read that Maurice was indeed the ambassador. According to the story the emperor graciously accepted the invitation, while all the time studying Maurice intently. The child reminded him of his daughter. Aella, in the
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meantime, went back to his residence and prepared everything for the banquet in as magnificent a manner as he could. He spared no expense.
The day came for the feast. Aella and his dear wife prepared to meet their royal guest, and in joy and festivity rode out together. When Constance saw her father in the street she alighted from her horse and fell to her knees. 'Father,' she said, 'perhaps you have forgotten about your child, Constance. But I am here before you. I am the girl you sent to Syria. I am the one who was dispatched to die alone upon the wide ocean. Now, dear Father, have mercy upon me. Do not banish me to any more pagan lands. But thank my husband for his kindness to me.'
Who could portray the mingled joy and sorrow that now filled the hearts of Constance, Aella and the emperor? I cannot. In any case I must draw to a close. The day is fading fast. I won't delay. They sat down to dinner. That is all I will say. I won't begin to describe their happiness, which was hundreds and hundreds of times more joyous than I can possibly relate.
In later years the pope crowned Maurice as Holy Roman Emperor in succession to his grandfather. Maurice was a good and devout churchman, and ruled in Christian fashion. I will not tell you his story. I am more concerned with his mother. If you want to learn more about him, then consult the old Roman historians. They will enlighten you further. I am not so well informed.
When Aella realized that the time had come, he left Rome and with his beloved wife sailed back to England. In our nation they lived in bliss and comfort. But their happiness lasted
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for only a short time. The joys of this world do not endure. Life changes, like the tide. After the brightness of the day comes the darkness of the night.
Who can be happy even for one day without being moved by anger or by jealousy? Who has not been touched continually by guilt or ill will or resentment? Think about your own life. I tell you this only to reach my conclusion – that the happiness of Aella and Constance could not last for ever.
Death, who collects his tithes from high and low alike, could not be thwarted. Within a year of their return to England Aella was taken out of this world. Constance mourned him bitterly, of course. May God keep his soul safe! Then, after his burial she decided to go back to Rome.
On her return she found her friends and family safe and in good health. Now, at last, she felt that her adventures had come to an end. When she came into the presence of her father she kneeled before him and wept. Constance, of tender heart, sent up her orisons of praise to God a hundred thousand times.
And so they lived in virtue and in charity. They were never parted, except by death itself. And so farewell to you all. My story has come to an end. May Jesus Christ bring us joy after woe, and save us all on the last day. God preserve you, my fellow pilgrims.
Heere endeth the tale of the Man of Lawe
THE EPILOGUE
TO THE MAN OF LAW'S TALE
Harry Bailey, our Host, stood up on his stirrups, and congratulated the Man of Law. 'That was a fine story,' he said. 'Very worthwhile. Don't you all agree?' And then he turned to the parish priest. 'Father,' he said, 'for the love of God tell us a story. You promised. I know well enough that learned men can be good storytellers. You know enough, for God's sake.'
The Parson reproved him. 'Bless us all. Why is this man blaspheming in front of us? Never take the name of God in vain.'
'Oh John Wyclif, have you come among us?' our Host replied. 'I smell a Lollard in the wind. I predict, fellow pilgrims, that before too long the priest will deliver a long sermon. That is what Lollards love to do.'
'On my father's soul, he will not.' The Shipman rode up to our Host. 'He is not going to preach. We won't allow it. This is not the place to teach the gospel. We all believe in God. We don't need the doctrines of Holy Mother Church interpreted or evaluated or revised. He will be sowing weeds in healthy ground. I'll tell you what, Harry. I will give you
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a good story. It will ring out loud and clear. It won't be full of philosophical terms, or learned quibbles. I don't have enough Latin for that -'
'Excuse me.' It was the good Wife of Bath, looking very majestic on her palfrey. 'Surely I take precedence over this seaman? It is a sad day when a good woman is refused her due. Come now, Mr Bailey. Do let me speak. I have a lot to say.' Then, without waiting for his assent, she began her story.