Geoffrey Chaucer: Canterbury Bound

Ospringe at sunrise on an April morning. Cool, but warming gradually. The sunlight peeking through the trees. Indications, perhaps, of a beautiful day. The watercress beds at the end of Water Lane. Morning prayers and stable chores and the gathering of the pilgrims. Setting off for Canterbury on the fourth and final day of our pilgrimage. Looking forward to the arrival at the Cathedral. Looking forward to a visit to the Martyr’s shrine. A group of pilgrims riding along a pathway. The telling of stories as a means to pass the time. A man lying naked in the dawn. Starting out at Water Lane. The horses taking a morning drink. Waving farewell to the monks and putting the Maison Dieu behind us. As hospitable, in its way, as the Tabard Inn. The peaceful whispering at the hospice. The slow tolling of the bells. Evening prayers in the chapel. A restful night and a pleasant send-off on a chilly morning. Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote. How will you bring all of these disparate elements together? What is the tether that will hold them all in a brace? What is the focus that will make the new poem a single entity? Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote The droughte of March hath perced to the roote, And bathed every veyne in swich licour, Of which vertu engendred is the flour; When Zephyrus eek with his sweete breeth Inspired hath in every holt and heeth The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne, And smale foweles maken melodye That slepen al the nyght with open ye So priketh hem nature in hir corages; Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgimages, And palmeres for to seeken straunge strondes To ferne halwaes. Kowth in sondry londes; And specially from every shires ende Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende, The hooly blisful martir for to seeke That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke. Riding along and telling a number of stories. A feast of food and fellowship at an inn. A pilgrim who is stuck in a puddle of mud. Bifel that in that seson on a day, In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay, Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage To Caunterbury with ful devout corage, At nyght was come into that hostelrye Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle That toward Caunterbury wolden ride. A thoughtful journey - a golden angel - a helpless pilgrim - piercing eyes - storytelling - a man and woman - a lone knight - ladies dancing - a winding path - a freshwater well. The chambres and the stables weren wide, And wel we weren esed atte beste. And shortly, whan the sonne was to rest, So hadde I spoken with hem everichon That I was of hir felaweshipe anon, And made forward erly for to rise, To take our way ther as I you devise. Will the stories end when the pilgrims come to Canterbury? Will the stories continue until they return to the Tabard Inn? What is the shape that will allow you to say what you want to say? Of all the poems that I have written, perhaps the one that haunts me the most is one of the earliest. The Book of the Duchess seems to be always on my mind. The horses plod slowly along the trail. Some pilgrims yawn and rub their weary eyes. The Host looks me over very carefully as I ride along by his side. His smile is hard to read. “This were a popet in an arm t’embrace For any womman, smal and fair of face.” He looks around at the others and shakes his head as if they should be able to see what he has seen, whether he explains what is amusing him or no. “He seemeth elvyssh by his countenaunce, For unto no wight dooth he dalliaunce.” His eyes search my face – perhaps to detect my mood. He looks around at the others – to the right and then to the left – as if he would have them take note of his disapproval. The tomb of the blessed Martyr at the Cathedral. A relationship which falls on troubling times. A person who is reluctant to tell a tale. “There is no doubt, my friends, that, when it was in its glory, the friendship of King Henry II and Thomas à Becket was one of the greatest friendships in recorded history. One was older than the other, as you might well know, but that was no impediment to their friendship whatsoever. When their accord was in full flower, as we say, many believed that it was a gift from the hand of God. Many causes have been given, you can be sure, for the enmity which came to be a barrier between these two fine people. Many have speculated, as you might well do yourself, as to what it was that made each man stand his ground so unrelentingly. However, each relationship has its secrets, and on such a bewildering topic, I am sure that you will agree that one is reduced to the level of speculation. All lives are filled with conflict. We travel through this life on an uneven path. Perhaps it would be best to simply recount the story as it has been told.” A story of a friendship gone wrong.