The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling

The Summoner’s Tale

Heere bigynneth the Somonour his Tale

There is in Yorkshire, I believe, a marshy area known as Holderness. Or is it a town? I can’t remember. Anyway, there was a friar who frequented the area, preaching and begging in the usual fashion of his breed. His name was Friar John. It so happened that one day he had given a sermon in one of the local churches. It was the same old story. Donate alms for the sake of masses for the dead. Donate alms so that we can build more friaries and honour God Almighty. Don’t give money where it will only be wasted and misspent. Don’t support those who are already living in luxury, thanks be to God, like the monks and the priests. ‘Your alms,’ he said, ‘can release the souls of all folk, young and old, from the pains of purgatory. It does not matter if the prayers at the mass are sung hastily. I will not accuse any priest of being frivolous or wanton for saying only one mass a day. Far from it. These poor souls must be delivered from their torments as quickly as possible. It is hard for them to endure the flesh-hooks and the spikes. It is agony for them to be torn to pieces or burned or boiled. Can you imagine it? So give me your money quickly, for all their sakes.’

When the friar had finished his little sermon, he blessed the congregation and went on his way. But not before the folk in the church had given him their coins. As soon as that was settled, he was off. He was not going to stay around. With his satchel and his staff, tucked up in his belt, he went from house to house begging for bread or cheese or corn. He was always peering through the windows and putting his head around open doors. He had a companion with him, too, who carried with him a set of writing tablets and a long pointed pen. He told the people that this allowed him to note down the names of all those who gave him alms, so that he could pray for them later. ‘Give us a little portion of wheat, malt or rye,’ he would whine. ‘Give us a piece of cake, or a morsel of cheese. Whatever you have, we will take. We are not fussy. A penny or a halfpenny will do. We would love some meat, of course, if you have any to spare. No? Well then give me the cloth blanket I see over there. Look, dear sister, we are ready to write down your name. How do you spell it? Are you sure that you don’t have a morsel of bacon or of beef?’ They were followed by a servant, who worked for the landlord of the inn where they were staying; he was carrying a sack. Whatever the people gave them, he added to the load on his back.

As soon as the friar had left the neighbourhood, however, he would take out the writing tablet and erase the names he had just put down. It was all a trick, an act, on his part.

‘This is all lies!’ The Friar was very indignant.

‘Peace!’ Harry Bailey called out. ‘For the love of God go on with your story, sir Summoner. Go on till the end. Leave out nothing.’

‘That’s what I intend,’ the Summoner replied. ‘You can be sure of it.’

So Friar John went from house to house, until he came to one where he was accustomed to hospitality. He was sure of getting something here. But the good man who lived here was sick; he was lying upon a low couch, and could scarcely rise. ‘God be with you,’ the friar said. ‘Good day to you, Thomas. And may God reward you, my friend. I have been very well fed at this table. I have enjoyed many meals, haven’t I?’ He shoved the cat from its favourite chair – put down his stick, his satchel and his hat – and then sat down at the table with a smile on his face. He was alone. His friend had already gone into town, with the servant, in order to book rooms in the inn for that night.

‘Oh my dear master,’ the sick man said, ‘how have you been this last week or two? I haven’t seen you for a while.’

‘God knows, Thomas, I have been hard at work. I have been working for your salvation. You would never believe the number of prayers I have offered up for you and for my other friends in Jesus. I have just come from your parish church, as a matter of fact, where I delivered a sermon during mass. It was a poor thing, but it was my own. It was not entirely based on scriptures, of course, because I prefer to paraphrase and interpret in my own way. Holy writ is too hard for some to understand. So paraphrase is a good alternative. Do you know that phrase we friars use? The letter killeth. I simply told the congregation to be charitable, and give their money for a good cause. I saw your wife there, by the way. Where is she now?’

‘She’s in the backyard, I think. She’ll be here in a minute.’

And then stepped in the good wife. ‘Welcome, holy friar,’ she said, ‘in the name of Saint John. Are you keeping well?’

The friar rose to his feet very politely, put his arms around her very tightly, and kissed her on the lips. He was chirping like a sparrow. ‘Never felt better in my life, good woman. I am yours to command in all things. I saw you in church today, you know. I have never seen a prettier wife, as God is my witness.’

‘Alas I have my faults, good friar. I am a frail woman. But thank you. And welcome.’

‘You have always been kind to me,’ he replied. ‘But can I beg your pardon in advance? I would like to have a quiet word with your husband. Do you mind leaving us for a moment? These parish priests are slow and negligent in their duties, particularly those of confession and absolution. I am a preacher, as you know. Preaching is my profession. I am well versed in the words of Peter and of Paul. Like them, I fish for men’s souls. I render Christ Jesus His due. I spread abroad His message to the world.’

‘Scold Thomas well then, my good sir. He deserves it. He gets as angry as a red ant, even though he has everything he could possibly want. Although I cover him at night and make him warm – although I give him a good cuddle – he still moans like the old boar in our sty. I don’t get any enjoyment out of him at all. There’s no pleasure in it.’

‘Oh Thomas, Thomas,’ Friar John said. ‘Listen to me. This must be amended. This is the work of the devil himself. God forbad anger as a sin. I will have to have a word with you about this.’

‘Before I leave you two alone,’ his wife added, ‘let me ask you something. What would you like for your dinner, good friar? I can prepare it while you talk.’

‘Oh good woman, my wants are very simple. Just the merest taste of chicken’s liver, perhaps, and some soft white bread to go with it. And then perhaps a pig’s head? I don’t want you to kill a pig on my behalf, of course. That would be sinful. But a head would suit me. I am a man of small appetite, as you know. I am nourished by the Bible. I am so used to mortification and penance that my appetite is all but destroyed.’ He raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Do not be annoyed with me, good wife. I am taking you into my confidence. I am baring my soul to you. There are very few people I can trust these days.’

‘There is one last thing I must tell you,’ she replied. ‘My little child died two weeks ago, just after you had left the town.’

‘I knew it! I saw his death in a vision! I was lying in the dormitory, when I saw him before me. It was probably less than a hour after he expired. I saw him being transported to heaven, so help me God! Our sacristan and our infirmarian saw him, too, and they have been holy friars for fifty years or more. They have reached the age when they may walk about in the world alone, God bless them. As soon as I saw your child in bliss, I got up from my bed. The tears were running down my cheeks. Lord. My eyes were waterspouts. The whole of our convent came out with me, with no bells and no noise at all, and we went into the chapel where we sang the Te Deum. Then I prayed to Christ, thanking Him for His revelation to me. Trust me, good wife and husband, when I tell you that the prayers of friars really do work. We know more about the teachings of Christ than any layperson, kings included. We live in poverty and abstinence. You lay folk indulge in luxury and spendthrift ways. You love meat and drink and all the foul temptations of the flesh. We friars, on the other hand, hold the world in contempt.’ The wife now left the room, in order to prepare the pig’s head for her guest. ‘Do you know the difference, Thomas,’ he went on in the same even tone, ‘between the poor man Lazar and the rich man Dives? One of them came to a bad end. Which one do you think it was? Those who wish to pray must fast and remain pure; they must curb the body and attend to the soul. We follow the teaching of the apostles. We are content with scraps of food and the merest rags. So our penance and our abstinence give wings to our prayers. They fly straight up to Christ in heaven.

‘You recall, Thomas, that Moses fasted for forty days and forty nights before he was permitted to converse with Almighty God on the summit of Mount Sinai? Only after he had denied himself food for all that time was he permitted to receive the Ten Commandments, written with Jehovah’s own finger of fire. And do you remember Elijah on Mount Horeb? The prophet fasted, too, and spent his days in contemplation before God deemed it right to speak to him. Aaron and all the other priests of the temple would never dare to approach the incense altar without mortifying their flesh. They prayed only after they had abstained from drink. How could they be drunk in the holy place? It was unthinkable. God would have struck them dead. Take warning from what I say, Thomas. The priest who prays for your welfare and recovery must be sober – or else… well, I will say no more. You catch my drift.

‘Our own Saviour, as the New Testament tells us, gave us many examples of fasting and of prayer. That is why simple friars like myself are wedded to poverty and to celibacy. We lead lives of charity, of pity and of purity. I myself am always weeping. Yes I am. Of course sometimes we are persecuted for our holiness. That is the world for you. Nevertheless I tell you this. Our prayers are more acceptable to God. They rise higher than those of you and your kind, who can think only of your sensual appetites. Adam and Eve were expelled from the Garden of Eden for the sin of gluttony. Is that not so? It was not for lechery. I know that much.

‘Thomas, listen to me, I beseech you. I don’t have the exact text about me at the moment, but I can remember the gist of it. These are the words of sweet Lord Jesus, when He was talking about us friars. “Blessed,” He said, “are the poor in spirit.” That’s me! All the gospels sing our praises. Cleanliness is next to godliness. The eye of the needle. That kind of thing. Do you think they are referring to us or to those of you who wallow in your possessions? I pity those who are in thrall to gluttony. I spit on those who are addicted to lechery. I abjure them, Thomas. I renounce them. They are no better than that heretic Jovinian. He was as fat as a whale, and he waddled like a swan. He was as full of booze as a bottle in an alehouse. How can people like that pray? When they pray, they burp instead. Do you know that psalm of David when he says that his heart is issuing a great matter? All they issue is gas.

‘No. We are the ones that humbly follow the path and example of Jesus. We are meek. We are poor. We are chaste. We are lowly, Thomas, ever so lowly. We do not just listen to God’s word. We practise it. Just as the hawk in upward flight mounts to the firmament, so do our prayers and solicitations reach the gates of heaven. We aspire, Thomas. As I live and breathe, Thomas, you will not flourish unless you are part of our brotherhood. I swear that on all the saints. We friars are praying for you night and day, beseeching Christ to take pity on your sick flesh and restore your poor body to health.’

‘God help me,’ the invalid replied. ‘I haven’t felt the benefit. Over the last few years I have spent pounds and pounds on the various orders of friars. What good has it done me? None at all. I have got through most of my money, and now I might as well say goodbye to the rest.’

‘Oh Thomas, Thomas, wash out your mouth. How can you talk like that? What is all this nonsense about “various orders” of friars? What is the point of seeking out “various orders” of specialists when you see before you the perfect doctor? Your fickleness will be the ruin of you. Mark my words. Do you really believe that my prayers, and those of my holy brothers, are not enough for you? That is ludicrous. If anything, you have given us too little. Give one convent a half-load of oats. Give another convent twenty-four pence. Give this friar a penny and let him go. Give that friar – well, you get the idea. No, no, Thomas, that is not right. That is not proper. What is a farthing worth if it is divided into twelve? A thing whole and complete is stronger than anything that is divided and scattered. That is common sense. I am not going to flatter you, Thomas. That is not my style. You want to get our prayers for nothing. Is that not so? But God Himself, great ruler of the universe -’ and here the friar raised his eyes up to the ceiling ‘- He has declared that the labourer is worthy of his hire. I’m not interested in your money. For my part, I wouldn’t touch any of it. But the fact is that the whole convent is praying for you. And we also need funds for the new church. I am reminded of the life of Saint Thomas of India. That blessed man built many churches that were very pleasing in the eyes of God. Oh Thomas, Thomas. You are lying here all eaten up by anger and impatience. The devil has inflamed you. That’s what it is. That’s why you are so foul to that lovely little woman, your wife. What an innocent she is! So meek. So patient. Listen to me, Thomas. Trust me. Leave your wife alone. Think about what I’m saying. It’s not just me. It is the word of the wise: “Never have a lion in the house. Do not terrorize those who are subject to you. Don’t make your friends afraid of you.”

‘Thomas, let me say one thing more for your benefit. Be careful of the anger that lies in your heart. It is like the serpent that glides through the grass with its poison hidden in its fangs. Listen to me. Don’t be so restless. Twenty thousand men, to put it no higher, have lost their lives because they have become angry with their wives or their mistresses. What is the point of quarrelling with your sweet wife? You know that if you tread on the tail of a snake it strikes back in anger? That snake is not half so cruel as a wife who believes herself to be wronged. All she wants then is vengeance. “Vengeance is mine,” said the Lord. But she is too fired up to listen. Revenge is one of the seven deadly sins. Revenge turns on the sinner, leading to destruction. Every common cleric – every parish priest – will tell you that anger leads to murder. Anger is at the mercy of pride. I could tell you so many stories of deadly anger that I would still be here tomorrow. No. All right. I won’t. But I will pray for you. I will pray, day and night, that God curbs the might of all angry men. It does great harm to set up a man of ire and vengeance as a ruler.

‘That noble gentleman Seneca has told the story of a magistrate of terrible temper. One day, during the course of his reign, two knights went out riding. It so befell that one of them came back. The other did not. The knight, returned home, was brought before the court where the judge pronounced sentence upon him. “You have murdered your comrade,” he said. “So I sentence you to death.” Then he turned to another knight in the court. “Take this man to the scaffold,” he said. “At once.” Now it so happened that, on their way to the executioner’s block, the other knight suddenly appeared. He was meant to be dead, but he was very much alive. So everyone thought that the best thing was to return, with both knights, to the court. “Sir,” said the knight who had accompanied the condemned man. “This knight has not killed his comrade. The dead man stands before you.”

‘“By God,” the judge replied. “I will have the heads of all three of you.” He addressed the first knight. “I have already condemned you to death. My word still stands. You will die.” Then he addressed the second knight. “Since you are the cause of this man’s death you, too, must be executed.” Then he turned to the third knight. “Since you disobeyed my order, I sentence you to beheading.” And that is what happened. All three men were executed.

‘Do you know the case of Cambises, king of Persia? He was a drunk, and a quarrelsome drunk at that. He was a bully. There was a lord in his household who was a proper and virtuous man. Now it happened one day that this good lord said to the king, “If a lord is vicious, then he is lost. Drunkenness is itself a blot on the name of any man, but especially on that of a ruler. A lot of people are watching him. He does not know all the eyes and ears that surround him. So, for God’s love, sire, drink more temperately. Wine can affect the brain. It can affect the body, too.”

‘“Is that what you think?” Cambises replied. “I will prove to you how wrong you can be. The exact opposite is the case, as you will soon find out for yourself. No wine on earth is going to affect my eyesight, or my limbs, or my strength. Watch.” So then he began to drink much more than he had ever done before – a hundred times more, I should say. When he was thoroughly pissed, he ordered the son of this courtier to be brought before him. He told the boy to stand upright in front of him. Then he took out his bow and arrow, and stretched the bow-string right back to his ear. Then he let go. The arrow killed the child, of course. “Don’t you think,” he asked the grieving father, “that I have a steady hand? Has my strength gone? Has my eyesight suffered? Has my judgement? I don’t think so.”

‘What use was the answer of the courtier? His son was dead. There was nothing more to say. So beware, my friend, how you deal with kings and lords. Just say, “If it please you, sir” or “I will do whatever I can for you, sir.” You can tell a poor man what you think of him, vices and all, but you cannot berate your master. Even if he seems to be going straight to hell, say nothing.

‘Think of that other Persian king, Cyrus, who in his anger destroyed the river Gyndes because one of his sacred white horses had drowned in it on the way to Babylon. He drained the river by diverting it into various channels, so that in the end women could cross it without getting their skirts wet. What did wise Solomon tell us? “Never make friends with an angry man. Never walk in company with a madman. You will be sorry.” I will say no more on that matter, Thomas.

‘So swallow your anger. You will find me as straight and firm as a carpenter’s square. Don’t thrust the knife of the devil into your heart. Your anger will do you infinite harm. Come now, Thomas. Give me your full confession.’

‘No way,’ Thomas replied. ‘I have already confessed to the curate this morning. I have told him everything. There is no need to repeat it all.’

‘In any case, give me some of your money. Give us gold to build a cloister for the Lord. We friars have been forced to live off oysters and mussels while people like you have drunk and eaten well. Think of what we have suffered to raise that cloister. Yet God knows that we still have not completed the foundations. The pavement is not laid. Not a tile has been put in place. We owe forty pounds alone for building materials. Can you believe it? So help us, Thomas, in the name of He who harrowed hell! Otherwise we will have to sell our books. If we cannot preach, then the whole world will suffer. To take us from our pulpits and our preaching crosses will be to take the sun out of the sky. I am being serious. Who can preach and do good works as we can? We are not some novelty. There have been friars around since the time of Elijah. And that was a very long time ago. There are records mentioning us. I need your charity, Thomas! For God’s sake, charity!’ And at that the friar fell down upon his knees, and crossed himself.

Thomas himself was already in a very bad temper. He realized well enough that the friar was full of shit. He was a liar and a hypocrite. If he had had the strength, he would have tossed him into the fire. ‘I can only give you,’ he said, ‘what I possess on my person now. Did you say that I had become a lay brother?’

‘Yes. Of course. I have brought the letter of fraternity with me. I was going to give it to your wife for safe-keeping.’

‘That is good. Thank you. I will make a donation to your convent, while I still live. You will hold it in your hand. I promise you. But there is one condition. You have to swear to me that every other friar in your convent has an equal share of what I am about to give you. Swear to that, on your holy brotherhood, without cavil or hesitation.’

‘I swear it,’ the friar replied, ‘on the blood and bones of Christ.’ He shook hands with Thomas. ‘You can have trust in me.’

‘All right then,’ Thomas said. ‘Just put your hand down my back. Down there. If you grope just behind my buttocks, you will find something that I have hidden away for your benefit.’

‘Aha,’ the friar thought. ‘This is going with me. This is my prize.’

So he plunged his hand under the sheets and started feeling the man’s arse to find some treasure. He put his fingers up his cleft in case there was a small package. When Thomas felt the fingers of the friar groping around his bum, he suddenly let out a great fart. A farmhorse, pulling a cart, could not have let out a greater fart. A ploughman’s ox could not have made a smellier one. The noise was terrific.

Friar John was so startled that he jumped up. ‘You bastard!’ he shouted. ‘You did that on purpose, didn’t you! God help you! You’ll pay for that fart, I promise you! Just you wait!’

The servants of the house, hearing the uproar, came scurrying into the room and chased out the friar. So he left with a scowl on his face, and went in search of the comrade who always followed him about. He looked like an old boar in pain; he was grinding his teeth or, rather, his tusks. Then he set out for the manor house of the village, where lived a gentleman of great distinction to whom he sometimes gave confession. This worthy man was, naturally, lord of the manor. He was sitting at dinner, in his hall, when Friar John approached him in a fearful rage. The friar was so angry that he could not get his words out. Then he finally managed, ‘God be with you!’

The lord looked up at him and greeted him. ‘Friar John,’ he said, ‘what on earth is the matter with you? I can see that something has happened. You look as if the wood were full of thieves. Sit down. Tell me all about it. If I can help you, I will.’

‘I have been insulted,’ the friar replied. ‘Humiliated. In your village. There is no one so poor, so lowly, so despised, who would not feel that he had been degraded by the treatment I have received. Here. Just now. Of course I do not complain on my own account. I am a mere friar. But I do mind that this – this fool – this knave – this white-haired old clown – should blaspheme against my convent.’

‘Now master friar -’

‘No, sir, not master. Never master. I am a mere servant. I know that I have been made a master of divinity, but I never use the title. It is not modest. It is not seemly, here or anywhere else.’

‘That’s up to you. But please tell me what has happened.’

‘Sir, today my order and myself have been dealt a shameful wrong. It is too dreadful to contemplate. The whole of the Holy Church – all its degrees from pope to priest – has been insulted. God help us all.’

‘I am sure,’ the lord of the manor said, ‘that you know the best way to proceed. Don’t get into a state about it. You are my confessor, after all. You are the salt of the earth. Be calm, for God’s sake. And tell me what happened.’

So the friar sat down and told him the whole story. There is no need for me to repeat it to you. The lady of the house had come in, and heard what the friar had to say. ‘Mother of God,’ she said. ‘Holy Virgin! Is there anything else? Tell me.’

‘That’s it,’ Friar John replied. ‘What do you think?’

‘What do I think? God help me, I say that a common man has done a common deed. What else am I supposed to say? He will end up in trouble, I know that much. His sickness must be affecting him. He may be having some kind of seizure. He doesn’t know what he is doing.’

‘Ma dame,’ the friar said. ‘I will not lie to you. I will be revenged upon him one way or another. I will denounce him from the pulpit. I will defame him. I will shame him. How dare he tell me to divide a thing that cannot be divided? You know what I am talking about. How can I give a portion of you-know-what to all the friars? God damn him and his fart!’

The lord listened to all this in amazement, and asked himself how it was possible for this wretched man to have the wit to put such a problem to the friar? Who could solve such a conundrum? ‘I never heard anything like it,’ he said out loud to no one in particular. ‘The devil must have put it in his mind. I don’t think that any master of arithmetic has ever asked the question. Who could demonstrate the proper method by which every friar should have a part of the sound, and the smell, of a fart? Is this man, this invalid, fiendishly clever? Or what? He is too clever for his own good. That’s for sure. Who ever heard of such a thing? One divisible part to every man alike? Tell me how. It is impossible. It cannot be done. The rumbling of a fart, well, it is just reverberation of the air. It is a hollow sound, fading ever so slowly away. No man can judge if it has been divided properly. Who would have thought that one of my own villagers would come up with something so – so problematic. And he put it to my confessor, too! He must be a madman. Eat your supper, Friar John, and forget all about it. Let the churl go hang himself!’

Jack, the young squire of the lord, was standing by the table and carving the roast meat. Of course he had heard everything. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘please don’t be angry with me. If you gave me enough cloth to make a new gown – as a reward, if you like – I think I could tell the friar the solution to this riddle. I think I could explain to him how to divide this man’s fart among all the members of his convent.’

‘If you give us the answer,’ the lord of the manor replied, ‘you can have your cloth. God knows you will have earned it.’

‘My lord,’ the squire said, ‘pick a day when the weather is mild and favourable, when there is no wind or breeze to disturb the air. Then have a cartwheel with its usual twelve spokes brought into the hall here. It has to be a complete wheel.’

‘Yes. And then?’

‘Summon twelve friars into the hall. Thirteen make up a convent, do they not? Well, your confessor here can be the thirteenth. They all have to kneel down at the same time. Then every friar has to put his nose against one of the spokes. Our worthy friar here will place his nose against the hub in the middle of the wheel. May God be with him. We will then bring the churl among them. His belly will have to be as taut as a drum, and ready to blow. He will bend down, on the other side of the hub, and let loose a great fart. I swear to you, on my life, that you will see the proof of my theory. The sound of the fart will travel along all twelve of the spokes. So will the stink of it. Of course your worthy confessor here will have the first fruit, so to speak. He deserved the first offering. That is only fair. Has he not said in the past that the worthiest friar should be the first to receive alms? He deserves the best, does he not? Only this morning I heard him preaching from the pulpit. It did me good, it really did. I would let him savour three farts, if I could. I am sure his whole convent agrees with me about that. What a holy man he is.’

The lord and his lady were in full agreement with young Jack. Everyone there said that he had explained himself as subtly as Euclid or Ptolemy – everyone, that is, except the holy friar. As for the churl who had started the whole business, they all agreed that he was neither mad nor foolish; on the contrary, he had all his wits about him. So Jack won his new gown. That is the end of my story. And just in time. Look, we are coming into a new town.

Heere endeth the Somonours Tale