The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling

The Merchant’s Tale

Heere bigynneth the Marchantes Tale

Once upon a time there dwelled in Lombardy a worthy knight. He lived in Pavia, where he was prosperous and well respected. He had in fact been a bachelor for sixty years, but he enjoyed himself with any number of women. He was highly sexed, I believe, as are many unmarried men. His name was January. When he had just passed his sixtieth year he either went mad or he repented of his sinfulness. He decided to get married, in other words. He went around looking for a likely wife, beseeching the Lord God all the time that he might for once experience the bliss that lies in married life. I am not making this up. He was determined to live under that holy bond, that gracious union, that blessed state in which God determined that the first man and woman should dwell. ‘No other life,’ he announced, ‘is worth anything. Wedlock is so pure. Wedlock is so easy. Wedlock is paradise on earth.’ So said this wise and worthy knight.

He may have had a point, especially when the husband is old and infirm. Then a young wife is a regular treasure. She is a fruit to be plucked. He can enjoy her youth, and at the same time engender an heir. He can have a good time, while an old bachelor can only moan and groan. Confirmed bachelors always suffer for their calling. They are building on shifting ground. They think they have found stability, but it falls apart in their hands. They live like animals, without care or restraint. Married men, on the other hand, are happy and secure in the blissful state of matrimony. They have everything they could possibly need. Who could be so obedient as a wife? Who could be more true? Who could be more attentive, in sickness or in health? A wife will never leave her husband. She will never tire of caring for him, even if he became bedridden and close to death. Especially not then, of course.

Yet there are some wise men who beg to disagree with this. Take Theophrastus, for example, who wrote The Golden Book on Marriage. Marriage was not golden for him. But I suspect him of lying. ‘Do not take a wife,’ he said, ‘for the sake of household economy. It is a false saving. A good servant will spare you expense, and will also look after you better than any wife. A wife will always demand her half share in everything. If you are sick you will be happier in the hands of your friends, or even of a serving-boy. Your wife, as always, will be thinking of your goods and chattels. I will tell you something else. If you marry, you are sure to be cuckolded. A woman is unfaithful by nature.’

No, no, Theophrastus! May God curse you for these words! You are telling nothing but lies and more lies! Pay no attention to him. Listen to me instead.

A wife is a gift from God. All other gifts are as nothing. Think of them. Lands. Rents. Pastures. Household goods. They are the gifts of Fortune, mutable and transitory. They are shadows on the wall. But be sure of this. A wife is for life. A wife can last a long time – longer, perhaps, than you might like.

That is why I hold marriage to be a great sacrament. He who is wifeless is cursed. He is helpless. He is desolate. I am not talking about monks or friars, of course. Let me tell you this, too. Women are born to be the servants of men. They are born to help us out. When God had made Adam, and saw him lying in the grass alone and naked, He took pity on him. In His goodness He thought to Himself, ‘Let us now make a companion for this poor man who resembles him. That is the thing to do.’ And He wrought Eve. So, you see, I have proved my point. A wife is a husband’s comfort. She is his earthly paradise; she is his honey. She is so virtuous and obedient that the two of them are bound to live in harmony. They are one flesh. So of course they have one heart between them, both in sickness and in health.

A wife! Good God! How can a man suffer when he has a wife beside him? I cannot say. There is no way of describing or picturing the bliss between them. If he is poor, she will help him in his labours; she keeps house for him, and wastes nothing. She approves of everything her husband does. She will never say ‘no’ when he says ‘yes’. ‘Do this,’ he says. ‘Of course, sir,’ she replies. That is the way it is. Oh happy sacrament of matrimony! You are so cordial, so delightful, so well loved and so well respected! Any man worth his salt will go down on his bended knees and thank God for the day he was married. Or else he will pray to God to send him a wife as quickly as possible. ‘Oh God,’ he says. ‘Send me a woman to last me all my life. Then I will be content.’ He will not be wrong in that, I can tell you, especially if he heeds his wife’s advice. Then he will be able to hold up his head. Women are so truthful and so wise, as I am sure you all know, that men are duty bound to follow their commandments.

Do you remember how Jacob took the advice of Rebecca? His mother told him to wear the skin of a goat around his shoulders to trick his father and win his blessing. And do you remember the story of Judith, who slew Holofernes and thus saved the people of God? And then there was Abigail, who by her good counsel saved her husband, Nabal, when he was about to be slain by King David. What about Esther? She saved the people of God from a life of lamentation. She persuaded her husband, Ahasuerus, to advance the cause of Mordechai. You can look up the stories in the Bible, if you don’t believe me.

Seneca, that wise man, tells us there is nothing more pleasing than a humble wife. Suffer your wife to speak, as Cato tells us, and fulfil her commands. Of course, if you are lucky, she may even obey you on occasions. That’s only being polite. A wife must be the keeper of your worldly goods. Who is going to look after you when you are sick? Take my advice. Love your wife in the manner that Jesus Christ loves the Holy Church. If you love yourself, you must also love your wife. No man is an enemy of his own flesh, I am sure. He protects it. You must cherish your wife in the same way. Or you will never thrive. Whatever people say and joke – that was no lady, that was my wife – husband and wife are on the highway to happiness. They are bound so closely together that no harm can come to them. The wife, in particular, gets off lightly.

I will now return to my worthy knight named January. He had been considering all the matters I have put before you – the encroaching years, the physical bliss of marriage, the quiet and order of a settled home, the honey pot of a fair wife. Revolving these matters in his mind, he called together a group of his good friends in order to announce his decision. And with grave face he addressed them thus: ‘I am growing old, dear comrades. I am getting closer and closer to the brink of the grave. I must think about the life to come. I have stupidly wasted my strength in pursuit of all sorts of folly. As God is my judge, I am going to change. I have decided to marry as quickly as possible. I need your help in finding a pretty young girl. I need a bride now. I don’t think I can wait much longer. For my part I will look up and down the town. But you all must keep your eyes open, too. You must help me find a suitable wife.

‘There is one thing I must tell you, though. I will not stomach an old bride. She must be below the age of twenty. I enjoy my fish, but not my flesh, mature. I like fresh meat. A pike is better than a pickerel, but a frisky calf is better than an old cow. I don’t want or need a woman of thirty. Women of that age are nothing but bales of straw. They are beanbags. As for those old widows, God forbid I should come near any of them. They are nothing but trouble and strife. They are more wily than any scholar. They have been to the school of life, where they learned all the lessons. No. Give me a young thing. I will be able to mould her in my hands like a piece of warm wax. So there we are, friends. Throw out the old, and bring in the new. If I should by any chance be unlucky in love, and suffer an unhappy marriage, why, I would take up adultery for a living and go to the devil after my death. I would certainly never father any children on an old misery. I would rather be eaten by dogs than allow my inheritance to pass into strange hands. I am not kidding. I know all the reasons for marriage, although I suspect that there are many people who talk about it who haven’t the faintest idea. So I will tell you this. If a man cannot live chastely, then he must marry. If a man wants to have children by lawful procreation, then he should take a wife. A mistress or a lover is not the same thing. That is mere lechery, in the eyes of God, and has nothing to do with the obligations of the marital bed.

‘Husband and wife can also live together in perfect innocence, of course, just like brother and sister. I don’t think that is the way for me. I can say, thank God, that all my limbs are in good working order. I can do the job of a man. I know where my strength lies. I may seem aged but I am like an old tree that still brings forth its leaves. I can feel my buds begin to swell. My blossoms will soon be poking out. I am not dried up or dead as yet. The only hoar frost is sprinkled on my head. In every other place I am as green and fresh as a laurel, year in and year out. Well, enough. Now that you have heard my proposal, let me know what you think.’

The company all had different opinions and different questions. Some of them praised marriage. Others criticized it. They all had stories and examples to confirm their points of view. They argued all of that day, in a good-humoured fashion, but in the end the main argument was between two of his closest friends. One of them was named Placebo, a pleasing sort of fellow, and the other was known as Justinus, or ‘the just one’.

This was Placebo’s point. ‘Oh January, dear friend, you really have no need to ask any of us for our opinions. You are wise enough to know that it is best to follow the judgement of Solomon in this matter. Do you remember what he said? “Work out what is the best advice. Then follow it. You will not regret it.” That was the sum of his wisdom, I believe, and I agree with every word of it. Except on this occasion, dear brother, weighing one thing with another, I am inclined to believe that you should follow your instinct. Consult your heart, my friend. Let me tell you something. I have been a courtier all my life. God knows I am unworthy of the honour, but I have been privileged to serve some of the greatest lords of our land. Never once have I argued with them. I have never contradicted them. I knew well enough that they had more judgement than I could possibly claim. I agree with every word they say. I say the same, in fact, or something very similar. A courtier would be a great fool if he dared to presume that he had more wit than his lordship. He must not even think it! No. Our lords are not idiots. I will say that for them.

‘This is my point, dear January. You have shown such eloquence and wisdom here today that I fully agree with everything you say. I would not change one word. There is not a man in all of Italy who could have spoken more nobly. Christ himself would concur. It is truly a courageous act for a man of your years to take on a young wife. It is bold. It is magnanimous. You are a good creature! So this is my opinion. Do whatever you think is best. I am sure that will be the right course.’

Justinus had been sitting quietly listening to Placebo. ‘Dear friend,’ he said to January. ‘Be patient with me. I have heard everything that has been said. I will add a few words of my own. Seneca has told us that a man must be careful, and think twice, before giving away his lands or his cattle. Since it is important to be sure about the recipient of your worldly goods, surely there is even more reason to scrutinize the person to whom you are giving away your body? You will never get it back. Marriage is not child’s play. You should never take a wife without very careful thought. You have to ask questions. You have to find out whether she is prudent or wasteful. You must know whether she is sober or a drunk. You do not want to marry a scold, do you, or a man-chaser? Or a bitch? It is important to discover, too, whether she is rich or poor. Don’t tie yourself down with a shrew, in other words.

‘Now I know that it will be impossible, in this fallen world, to find a woman who is perfect in every way. I give you that. Still you really ought to find out whether your wife-to-be has more good qualities than bad qualities. This will take time. But it is important. I should know. I have wept plentifully, and often, since I took a wife. Praise the married life all you like. But I personally have found it to be full of cost and care, of duties rather than pleasures. God knows that all my neighbours, especially the females, congratulate me on my choice of wife. They say that she is considerate and steady in the extreme. Yet I know where the shoe pinches. I know where it hurts. Of course, January, you must do as you please. But take my advice. You are a man of a certain age. Think very carefully before you take on a young and pretty wife. By Him who made heaven and earth, the youngest man among us would have trouble keeping on top of such a woman. Restraining her, I mean. Trust me. Within three years, she will be sick of you. You know what a wife needs, don’t you? Do you think you have the strength to fulfil all her desires? A wife asks for a lot, you know. I just hope that you are not riding for a fall.’

‘Well,’ January replied. ‘Is that all you have to say? I don’t give a fuck for Seneca or for your own grave words. And as for your warnings, well, I dismiss them. They are a crock of shit. Wiser men than you, as you have heard, take quite a different view of my proposal. What do you say, Placebo?’

‘I say, dear sir, that it is a serious matter – it is almost profane – to raise any impediment to holy matrimony.’

With that the whole company rose to their feet. They agreed, one and all, that January should be married when and where he wished. As for the bride, well, that was up to him.

And the bride was on his mind. He thought about her all the time. He had fantasies about her. Many beautiful bodies, and many pretty faces, went through his mind as he lay in bed at night. If you took a brightly polished mirror and placed it in the middle of a fair or a market, you would be bound to see the images of many people passing to and fro. January’s imagination was the same. It was a mirror in which were reflected the shapes of all the prettiest young girls in his district. He was not sure which one to choose as yet. One had a beautiful face, while another had a good reputation for modesty and obedience. One came from a rich family, but had a bad character. Nevertheless, after much thought, he fixed on one above all others. Half in earnest and half in game, he dismissed thoughts of all the rest. Without consulting anyone else, he made his decision. Love is blind, after all.

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.

She came back to her husband, who was already in bed. He clasped her in his arms and kissed her. Then he laid himself down to sleep. May excused herself, saying that she had to visit the you-know-what – where everyone has to go. She took out Damian’s verses and read them in the toilet; then she tore the paper into pieces and flushed them down the loo. May now had a lot to think about. She lay down beside January, who was fast asleep until he woke himself up with a coughing fit. As soon as he opened his eyes, he asked her to strip naked. He told her that her clothes got in his way. Whether she liked it or not, she was forced to obey her husband. I will not go into any more details, for fear of offending the more fastidious among you. Let me just add that he took his pleasure of her. Whether this was heaven, or hell, for her I cannot say. They were at their business until the time of evensong, when they rose from their bed.

I do not know whether it was chance or destiny. I am not sure if it was the work of grace or the work of nature. But it happened that, at this time, the pattern of the constellations worked in favour of lovers. This was the moment to submit a petition, a billet-doux, to Venus. The scholars tell us that all things have their season. This was the season for young women to find – who knows what? God alone knows all the causes within human affairs. I can tell you nothing about them. I do know this, however. May had taken such a liking to Damian that she could not stop thinking about him. His image was lodged in her heart. ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about me,’ she said. ‘I love him. I love him more than anyone else in the world. If he had only his shirt to his name, I would still love him.’ Do you see how pity soon suffuses a gentle heart?

You may perhaps now understand how generosity of spirit comes naturally to women. Consideration makes them bountiful. Of course certain women are as hard as adamant. They would rather starve a man to death than show him favour. They would not consider themselves murderers, oh no, they would congratulate themselves on their cruel virtue. Not so for May. She was full of pity for Damian. She wrote him a letter, in which she pledged to him her heart. All they needed to find was the time and place. Then she would be happy to satisfy all of his desires. Could he come up with a plan? This was the gist of her message.

When she found the opportunity she went to Damian’s chamber, and surreptitiously slipped her note beneath his pillow. Would he find it? She squeezed his hand, without anyone else seeing, and begged him to get well soon. Then she returned to her husband, who was calling out for her.

Up rises Damian on the following morning. He had forgotten all about his sickness and his sorrow. There was a spring in his step. He combed his hair, cleaned himself and brushed down his clothes. He did everything to please a certain lady. Then he presented himself to January as humbly as a dog trained to hunt. He was so pleasant to everyone, in fact, that the household was full of praise for him. Craft is easy, for those who are crafty. Above all else he stood high in the favour of May. So I will leave Damian going about his business, and carry on with my story.

Some wise men suggest that human happiness is to be found in the pursuit of pleasure. Certainly the noble January was of this opinion; he looked for pleasure all the time, in the most virtuous possible way of course. He was an honest knight, after all. So his house, and all his other fine goods, were as fitting for his rank as are a king’s. Among his treasured belongings was a delicious garden, walled all around with stone. I cannot begin to describe the beauty of it. There was nothing like it. The author of The Romance of the Rose could not do justice to it. The god of gardens, Priapus himself, would not be equal to the task of depicting the fairness of this place. There was a refreshing well, for example, under a laurel tree that was always green. It was said that Pluto and Proserpina, with their fairy band, sang and danced about that well; it was filled with music, not with water.

The noble knight took such pleasure in walking through these green arbours that he never allowed anyone else to enter the garden; he was the only one who held the key. It was a small silver latchkey that unlocked a wicket-gate. So he came and went as he pleased. In the summer he took his young wife with him, and there he had his way with her. He frisked and frolicked. Whatever he had not done in bed, he did on the grass. He did it, whatever it was, as often as he could. What fun. Can you imagine the happiness of January – and of May?

But wait. Worldly joy may not always endure for January, or for any other human being. Oh sudden chance! Oh unstable Fortune! You are as treacherous as the scorpion, who creeps towards his unsuspecting victim with a hidden sting. Its tail means death by sudden poisoning. Oh brittle happiness! Oh sweet and cunning poison! Oh Fortune! Let me cry out against you one more time! You are a monster who can paint your blessings with all the bright colours under the sun, as if they were to last for ever. But you are false to young and old, rich and poor! How could you deceive that honest and noble man, January, who placed such trust in you? Fie on you! What did you mean by taking away his sight?

Yes. That is what happened. Amidst all his joy and prosperity, January was suddenly struck blind. He wept and wailed. He wanted to die. And then another thing crossed his mind. He became inflamed with jealousy. He could no longer keep an eye, now gone, on young May. What if she were able to fool him? He was so heartbroken, so dejected, that he would willingly have paid someone to murder him and his wife. He hated the thought of her being the mistress of another man, or even the wife of someone else. He wanted her, after his death, to be clothed in perpetual black. He wanted her to be as solitary and sorrowful as the turtle-dove that has lost its mate.

After a month or two, however, he began to settle down. He became less miserable. He learned to adjust to his misfortune. What cannot be cured must be endured. But his jealousy had not abated. It burned as fiercely as ever. He had become so suspicious of his wife that he would not allow her to go anywhere without him. She could not go out for a ride. She could not visit friends. He even insisted that she stayed with him in the house. So May often wept. She loved Damian so truly that she believed she would die if she could not hold him in her arms. She believed that her heart would break.

Damian himself became the most sorrowful man that ever lived. He could not utter a word to May, night or day. If he had said anything to the purpose, January was bound to hear him. He never left her alone. His old hand was always upon her. Nevertheless they passed messages, and made certain private and silent signs so that one knew the mind and intentions of the other. Oh January, what good would it do you if you could see as far as the bounds of the ocean? What difference does it make to be blind and tricked, or to have sight and be tricked? Argus had a hundred eyes, looking into every corner; yet he was deceived. God knows how many other husbands have been fooled into thinking their wives are chaste. My position is simple. What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

Let us return to fresh and lovely May. She had taken some warm wax and made an impression of the little silver key to the garden that January always held. She gave it quietly to Damian, who then made a copy of it. I will not anticipate events. But listen to my story, and you will hear a wonder concerning this garden and its wicket-gate.

Ovid, my master, you know the truth of human life. You have said that there is no subtlety, no deception, that lovers will not pursue for the sake of their passion. Nothing is too arduous. Nothing is too complicated for them. There was the case of Pyramus and Thisbe who, strictly watched and supervised, managed to hold converse through a wall. No man could have discovered their method.

Back to the story. On the morning of 7 June (I am not sure of the year), January, urged by his wife, conceived a great desire for some sportive tricks in the garden. He wanted to play with her. So on that morning he cooed to May, ‘Rise up, my dearest, my lovely baby. The voice of the turtle-dove can be heard in the land, my dove, and the winter storms have gone. Rise up now. Open your dove-like eyes. Come forth with me. Oh, your breasts are sweeter than wine. The garden is walled. No one can see us. Walk out with me, white and fair as you are. You have captured my heart with your spotless beauty and virtue. Come. Let us go to play. I have chosen you for my pleasure.’ These were the lecherous words of the old man.

May, meanwhile, had made a sign to Damian that he should go before them through the wicket-gate. So Damian took the counterfeit key, opened the gate, and silently made his way into the garden. No one saw or heard him. Once inside, he sat quietly beneath a bush. January, as blind as a stone, now entered the garden; he was holding May’s hand. As soon as he had closed the gate behind him, with a great clatter, he turned to her.

‘Now, wife,’ he said, ‘only the two of us are here. You are the creature I love best in all the world. As God is my witness I would rather cut my own throat than offend you. Do you remember how I chose you? Not out of greed, dear heart, but out of love for you. I may be old and blind, but I will explain to you the blessings of fidelity. It is a debt you owe to Jesus Christ, and to your own honour. And of course you will inherit everything – palace, money, everything. I will sign a contract to that effect before tomorrow evening. Now in return I will ask you for a little kiss. Your lips will seal the bargain. Don’t blame me for being jealous, by the way. You are so deeply imprinted on my heart that, when I consider your beauty in contrast to my old age, I cannot bear to be out of your company. I must always have you beside me, precious one, for the love I feel for you. Now kiss me, dearest. Let’s go for a stroll.’

May, hearing his words, began to weep very gently. Then she recovered herself, and replied to him. ‘I have a soul to keep spotless, just like you, and of course I must guard my honour. The tender flower of my womanhood is in your hands. I gave it to you when the priest bound us together in holy matrimony. And I tell you this, my dear lord. I pray to God that the day never comes when I bring shame to my family or bring dishonour to my own name. I will never be unfaithful. I would rather die the most painful death in the world. If I prove false to you, then sew me in a sack and drop me in the nearest river. I am a gentlewoman, not a whore. Why do you talk to me this way? Well, men are ever untrue. They never stop reproaching their wives. They never stop being suspicious and distrustful.’

She caught sight of Damian sitting beneath the bush. She coughed lightly and then, using sign language, told him to climb a nearby pear tree full of fruit. He was on his feet and up the tree in a flash. He knew exactly what she intended, and could read her mind better than January ever could. She had written him a letter, in any case, where she had explained her plan. So for the time being I will leave him in the pear tree, with May and January strolling happily between the beds of flowers.

Bright was the day and through the trembling air the golden rays of Phoebus descended to the earth, warming all the flowers with their caress. He was at that time in Gemini, I suspect, close to the summer solstice. The bright sun would soon begin its decline. It so happened on this day that Pluto, king of the fairies, entered the garden on the farther side. He was accompanied by his wife, Proserpina, and all the ladies of her entourage. He had taken her from Etna, if you remember, when she was gathering wild flowers on the mountainside. You can read the story in Claudian’s The Rape of Proserpina, where he describes the dark chariot in which she was driven away.

Pluto sat down upon a green sward of turf, in the middle of the walled garden, and addressed his queen. ‘My wife, no one will disagree with me. Experience teaches us every day that women are treacherous towards men. I could tell you a million stories about their frailty and fickleness. Oh Solomon, wisest and wealthiest of all, winner of human glory, what reasonable person could fail to note and remember your words? He was praising the goodness of humankind, observing that “I have found one man among a thousand. But, among women, I have found none.” So said King Solomon, knowing full well the wickedness of the female sex. Jesus of Syrak, author of Ecclesiasticus, rarely speaks of you with reverence. May wild fire cover you! May pestilence fall upon your bones! Do you see what is happening now? This honourable knight, old and blind as he is, is about to be cuckolded by his own servant. Look where the lecherous bastard is hiding in the pear tree. I now decree, of my majesty, that sight will be restored to this worthy old man. His eyes will open at the moment his wife betrays him. Then he will know her wickedness, to the great shame of her and of other harlots.’

‘Oh will you?’ Proserpina was very sharp. ‘Is that what you intend to do? By the soul of my grandfather, great Saturn, I swear that I will give the woman a sufficient answer to him. I will help all other women, too, who are accused. If they are found in any sin, I will ensure that they put on a bold face and give a good excuse. They will bear down their accusers. None of them will die for lack of a retort. Even if the man sees the offence with his own eyes, yet the woman will face it out boldly. She will weep and swear and bully until she wins the argument. You men are as gullible as geese. What do your so-called authorities matter to me? I know well enough that this Jew, this Solomon, discovered plenty of fools among women. He may not have come across a good woman, but other men have found women to be true and faithful and virtuous. What about all those good Christian women who proved their constancy with martyrdom? The Roman annals are filled with stories of faithful wives. Keep your temper, dear husband. I will explain to you what Solomon meant when he said that he could find no good woman. I will interpret. He meant that supreme goodness lies only in God and that all flesh, male or female, is frail.

‘Anyway, Solomon is only one man. Why do you make such a fuss of him? Who cares if he built a great temple to God? Who cares about his wealth and wisdom? He also built a temple to the pagan gods. There is no blasphemy worse than that. You may try and excuse his faults, but he was a lecher and an idolater. He abandoned God in his old age. The Bible tells us that God spared him only for the sake of his father, King David. If it had not been for David, Solomon would have lost his kingdom sooner than he would have expected. I don’t give a damn for any of the slanders he and others have written against women. I am a woman, I must speak out, or else my heart will break. How dare he call us chatterers and worse? As long as I live I will attack him for his vicious opinions. I will never spare him.’

‘Calm down, dear,’ Pluto replied. ‘Curb your anger. I give in! But since I swore an oath to restore his sight, I must keep it. My word must stand. I am a king. I cannot break oaths.’

‘And I am a queen! This young woman will have her answer. I guarantee it. So. Let us not argue any more. I will not be at cross purposes with you.’

Let us leave the rulers of fairyland, and return to January. He was enjoying his stroll through the garden with May, and was chirping like a budgerigar. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I love you best. I always will.’ They went up and down the walks, until eventually they returned to the pear tree in which Damian was concealed. He was sitting high among the green leaves. So May, glowing with health and energy, now piped up. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I’ve got a terrible pain in my side. I must have one of those little green pears that I can see. I don’t care about anything else. I must eat one. I must handle one of them. For the love of heaven, my husband, help me to the fruit. I might die otherwise. The fruit! The green fruit!’

‘Oh God,’ he replied, ‘if only I had a servant here who could climb the tree. I am blind. I cannot help.’

‘Yes you can. If you put both your arms around the tree – like so – then I could place my feet upon your back and climb up to the branches. Trust me. I can do it.’

‘Of course I trust you. I would do anything for you, darling. Is this the right position?’ So he stooped down on the ground beside her. She clambered on to his back and, grabbing a branch, hauled herself up into the tree.

Ladies, forgive the next bit. I am a rude man. I cannot gloss over the facts. As soon as she had mounted the tree, Damian pulled up her smock and fucked her.

When Pluto saw that this great wrong was being wreaked upon January, he gave back the old knight his sight. It was better than it had been before and, of course, the first thing he wanted to look upon was his lovely wife. So he glanced lovingly up at the tree. Whereupon he saw Damian thrusting away. I will say no more about it. It is not polite. I have already said enough. So January sets up a roaring and a crying, just like a mother who has lost her only child. ‘Help!’ he shouted. ‘ Harrow! Havoc! Alarm! What are you doing, you little whore?’

‘What is the matter with you, sir?’ May replied demurely. ‘Have patience. Be reasonable. I have just cured your blindness. As God is my witness, I am not lying. I was told that there was one way to bring back your sight – if I were to struggle with a man up a tree, you would be healed. That’s the truth. God knows my intentions were honest.’

‘Struggle?’ January replied. ‘I saw his cock inside you! I hope to God that you both die of shame! He fucked you. I saw it with my own eyes. May I be hanged otherwise!’

‘It seems that my medicine did not work,’ May said. ‘If you really could see, you would not be using these words to me. You have a glimpse, or squint, and not perfect sight.’

‘I can see as well as I ever could, thank God. Both of my eyes were open. I am sure – I thought – that he was fucking you.’

‘You are still dazed, good husband. You are imagining things. And that is all the thanks I get for curing your blindness. I try to be kind, and then -’ She burst into tears.

‘Now, wife,’ January said, ‘let us forget all about it. Come down from the pear tree. If I have slandered you, then I am well punished for it by your tears. I really did believe that I saw Damian having sex with you. On my father’s soul I believe that I saw your smock against his chest.’

‘You may believe what you like,’ May replied. ‘But a man that is suddenly woken from sleep may not grasp a situation straight away. He has to be perfectly awake before he sees things clearly. You were asleep, in one sense. You were blind. Do you expect to see perfectly the very moment your eyes are opened? You have to wait a day or two. Until your eyesight has settled down, I am sure you will be deceived by other illusions. Be careful, dear husband. Men are fooled by their visions, or their fantasies, every day. He who misunderstands, misjudges.’ And with these words she leaped down from the tree into his arms.

Who could be happier than January? He clasped her tight and kissed her all over. He ran his hand against her belly. Then, rejoicing, he walked with her back to the palace.

Now, good pilgrims, I hope that you are also content. So ends my story of May and January. God bless you all.

Heere is ended the Marchantes Tale of Januarie.