The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling

The Miller’s Tale

Heere bigynneth the Millere his tale

Once upon a time there was living in Oxford an old codger, a rich old carpenter; he followed his trade faithfully enough, but he also took paying guests into his house. One of these lodgers was a poor student who had finished the university course but was more interested in learning all the arts of astrology. He knew a number of ‘operations’ and ‘conclusions’ and ‘calculations’ – I don’t know the precise terms for every one of them, but he knew enough to work out the days of rain and the days of drought. He also had a ready answer when anyone asked him to prophesy the future. He was polite. He was courteous. His name was Nicholas.

He also had an eye for the ladies, and he knew how to get them into bed without any fuss. He was as mild-mannered as a maiden, and very discreet. But inwardly he burned. He had his own chamber at the top of the carpenter’s house. There he would rub the juice of sweet herbs all over his body, so that he was as fragrant as odorous liquorice or balmy ginger. Of course this aroused the women. On the shelves above his bed were the instruments of his art, the globes and the treatises, the astrolabe and the abacus with its glass counters. Here is another detail which the girls noticed: his wardrobe was draped with an old scarlet curtain. And there was a harp beside his bed on which he played at night; the chamber rang to the sound of his sweet voice, with his rendition of ‘What the Angel Said to the Virgin’ and ‘The King’s Own Tune’. You would think that he was an angel himself. But no girl near him would have been a virgin very long. So passed the happy life of young Nicholas, depending blithely on the money he earned or was given by his friends. It made no difference to him.

Now his landlord had recently taken a new wife. Alison was a sparkler, eighteen years old, and of course the carpenter loved her madly. Yet he was so jealous that he took great care to keep her to himself. She was young and lusty; he was old and crusty. What if someone should beguile her? He was too stupid to have read the works of Cato. Otherwise he would have learned that it is better for a man to marry a woman who is his equal. People should marry according to their age and rank. Winter and spring do not mix, especially in bed. Well he had made his bed, according to his wish, and now he must lie in it.

This young wife was a beauty, as small and delicate as a little squirrel; she used to wear a girdle of striped silk. She had an apron, as white as morning milk, with as many folds and flounces as a wedding dress. Above it she wore a white shift, with its collar embroidered back and front; the collar itself was of black silk, very alluring. The ribbons of her white cap were also black. Her head-band was set back, so that you could see her forehead. The forehead is the plain of Venus. And then there were her eyes. Such lecherous eyes. She had plucked her eyebrows so that they made a slender arch, a delicate black matching the ribbons of her cap. She was more delicious and refreshing than the sight of a tree filled with early fruit. She was softer than the wool of a lamb. From her girdle there hung a purse of leather, swinging on tassels of silk and adorned with glowing brass. No man in the world could have imagined such a frisker. Alison was a giglet. A fisgig. No wench ever had a merrier complexion, either, with cheeks as shiny as a new gold coin. And when she sang her voice was as light and lively as that of any swallow perched upon a barn. She could skip and play delightfully, just like a kid or calf following its mother. Her mouth was as sweet as honey mixed with mead, her breath like the perfume of apples laid in stores of heather. She was as skittish as a winsome colt, as slender as a mast and as straight as the bolt of a crossbow. She had a brooch pinned to her collar, which for size matched the boss of a warrior’s shield. She wore high boots, and laced them right to the top. She was a little rose, a marigold to heal the eye. She was fit to be fucked by a prince and, after that, married to a yeoman.

Now so it happened that one fine day, while the old carpenter was working at Osney Abbey, sweet Nicholas began to flirt and play with her. He was, like many students, a crafty and resourceful young man. What does he do? He begins to caress her cunt, saying to her, ‘You know if I don’t have you, then I will die for love of you.’ Then his hand wandered further down, and he began to stroke her thighs. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says, ‘make love to me now or, God help me, I will lie down and die. Fuck me or I am finished.’ But she leaped up as fast as a colt about to have its hooves shod, and instantly turned her head away. ‘Sod you, Nicholas!’ she screamed at him. ‘Do you really think I’m going to kiss you? Sod off. Take your hands off me, too. Or else I’ll cry “rape!”’

So Nicholas began to apologize, and then from apology he went to excuse, and from excuse to offer. He got his way in the end, of course. By the time he had finished coaxing and charming her, she was practically begging for it. ‘We have a problem,’ she told him. ‘My husband is so full of jealousy that we have to be careful. We have to wait. Otherwise he will kill me. I am not joking. We have to keep this a secret.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘A scholar can outwit a carpenter any time. What else is the use of education?’

So they agreed with one another to bide their time, and wait for the right moment. Nicholas gave her a kiss, and ran his hands up and down the inside of her thighs. Then he went back to his chamber, took up his harp and began to play a lively melody.

Now it so happened that, on the next holy day, Alison went to the parish church in order to worship the Saviour. She had finished her work, and had made sure to wash her face so that it shone, as any good wife would. In this church there was a clerk in holy orders, with the name of Absolon. He had the most lovely blond curls, which were stretched out like a halo all over his head. But he was no saint. His hair was carefully parted, with more art than nature. His complexion was ruddy, and his eyes as grey as a dove’s wing. He had tracery on his shoes, as if they were stained-glass windows. And he wore red hose, tight and shapely. His clothes were tight, too, the better to show off his figure; he wore a tunic of light blue, its laces knotted at the waist. Above that he donned a fine surplice, as white as the blossom on the bough. God knows he was a sprightly young man. He cheerfully performed all the duties pertaining to a clerk. He could let blood with the best of them; he knew how to cut hair and how to shave the chin; he could draw up deeds and contracts without any fuss. He knew twenty different dance steps, too, and in the Oxford style he would kick up his legs in every direction. He could play the fiddle, and sing along in a light falsetto, and he knew how to strum a guitar. He knew all the inns and taverns of the city; he knew every pretty barmaid, of course, and he could be very intimate and entertaining. He had one or two little foibles. He did not like to fart in public and, secondly, he was very prim in conversation.

So on this particular holy day Absolon came out swinging his censer, and made sure to point it in the direction of the females of the parish. He could have pointed something else at them, too. He looked them up and down as they were wreathed in sweet smoke, and then presently he noticed the carpenter’s young wife. Wow. He could look at her all day. She was so pretty, so sweet, so, so, inviting. I dare say that if she had been a mouse, and he a cat, he would have pounced straight away. He would have been the cat who got the cream. He was so lost in love and longing that, when he went around with the collection bowl, he would not take a penny from any of the young women. Out of courtesy, he said. I think he was in a daze. Excuse me -

At this point the Miller stopped, and refreshed himself with some ale; he put the flagon to his lips, and almost choked on it. The sound of his coughing and retching was horrible. But then he resumed his tale.

That night, under the light of the full moon, Absolon took up his guitar; he fully expected to stay awake all night for the sake of love. So he wandered abroad, amorous and willing, and made his way to the house of the carpenter. Just before dawn, at the crowing of the cock, he stood beneath one of the casement windows. There he began softly to play the guitar and to sing this accompaniment: ‘Now, dear lady, if it pleases you, have pity on me.’ But his voice woke up the carpenter, who turned to his wife lying beside him.

‘Alison,’ he said. ‘Wake up. Can you hear the voice of Absolon? He is singing right beneath the window.’ All she said was, ‘Yes, John, I hear him. I hear him very clearly.’

So, as you would expect, matters took their course. Absolon, the unsuccessful wooer, becomes deeply unhappy. He fritters away the day and stays awake all night. He never stops combing his hair and looking at himself in the mirror. He sends notes to her by go-betweens and messengers. He swears to serve her faithfully. He sings to her, trilling like some nightingale. He sends her spiced wine, mead and ale; he even offers her money, to spend in town. Some women can be won by cash, you see, just as some can be lured by kindness or taken by force. It depends on the circumstances.

There was even a time when, to show his prowess as a performer, he agreed to take the part of Herod in the pageant plays. But what was the good of all this posturing? The point is that Alison loved another. No. Not the carpenter. Of course she could not love her husband. She loved the clerk and lodger, Nicholas. Absolon might as well go whistle in the wind. She treated him as a joke. She turned him into her pet monkey, and laughed at his screechings. The proverb is quite right. The one who is closest comes first. Out of sight is out of mind. Lively Nicholas was there in the house with her, while poor distraught Absolon was on the other side of town. You might say that Nicholas stood in his light. So good luck to you, young scholar, even though Absolon will wail ‘Alas!’

It happened that one Saturday the carpenter had gone back to Osney Abbey. Alison and Nicholas took advantage of his absence and conferred together. This was their plan. Nicholas would come up with a ruse to beguile the jealous old sod; if everything went well, then she would nestle in his arms all night. That was what both of them wanted. So without more ado Nicholas left her, and took up on a platter enough meat and drink to sustain him in his chamber for a day or two. If the carpenter asked after him, she was to say that she did not know where he was. That she had not seen him. That she had not heard from him. That she even wondered if he was ill – the maid had called for him, but there had been no answer from him.

So all that Saturday there was silence. Nicholas lay very quietly in his chamber, eating and drinking and doing anything else he fancied. I could not say what. This lasted until Sunday evening. The old carpenter was by now in a state of some alarm, and wondered if his lodger had taken ill. Could it be the white death? ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘by the bones of all the saints. Something is wrong with Nicholas. God forbid that he should have died suddenly! This wicked world is uncertain enough. I saw today a corpse borne to church, who last Monday I saw at work.’ Then he turned to his servant-boy, Robin. ‘Go upstairs,’ he said, ‘and shout for him at his door. Knock on it with a stone, if you wish. Find out what’s going on. Then come and tell me.’

So the boy eagerly ran up the stairs, and came to a halt outside Nicholas’s chamber. Then he knocked on the door like a madman and shouted out, very loudly, ‘Hey! Where are you, master Nicholas? How can you sleep all day? It isn’t right!’ He might as well have saved his breath. There was no response. But he knew there was a hole in the skirting board, which the cat used as a passage. So he got down on his knees and peered through this hole. What do you think he saw? There was Nicholas sitting upright in his bed, with his mouth open, motionless, gaping at the ceiling. He might have been struck by the new moon.

So Robin rushed downstairs, in a state of great excitement, and relayed the strange news to the carpenter. The old man blessed himself and said, ‘By the patron saint of Oxford, Frydeswyde, no man knows what will happen next! Our young friend has been affected by all this astronomy business. He has fallen into a fit. Or he may have gone mad. I knew this would happen all along. No man should try to seek out God’s secrets! Blessed are the ignorant who know only how to say their prayers! It happened to another scholar, you know. Did you hear about him? He was walking in the fields one night, gazing up at the stars to find the future, when he fell into a clay pit. He didn’t see that, did he? And yet I do feel sorry for young Nicholas. If I get the chance, and pray God I do, I will scold him for all his studying. Get me a long staff, Robin, and I will lever it under his door while you tear it off its hinges. That will get his attention.’

So they climbed upstairs, and stood outside Nicholas’s room. Robin was a strong boy, and managed to get the door off without much difficulty. It fell down on the floor with a clatter. Yet Nicholas did not move a muscle. He was completely motionless, his mouth open, staring into space. The carpenter thought that he might be paralysed by despair, and shook him violently by the shoulders. Then he shouted at him, ‘Nicholas! Look at me! Wake up! Think of the passion of Christ!’ He made the sign of the cross over him. ‘Look!’ he said. ‘I am expelling the elves and wicked fairies that torment you.’ He went to the four corners of the chamber and muttered the night spell. Then he crossed the threshold and recited the same charm:

‘Jesus Christ and Benedict,

Keep us from heaven’s interdict,

Against the spirits of the night

Protect us from the evil blight.’

Now at this moment Nicholas began to stir. He sighed very deeply. He groaned. He began to talk to himself. ‘Alas,’ he said. ‘Is it true? Is the world about to end?’

‘What are you saying?’ The carpenter was alarmed. ‘Put your trust in God. We, who work in the world, have faith.’

‘Get me a drink,’ Nicholas replied. ‘And then I will tell you something in confidence. It is an affair that concerns both of us. And I will tell nobody else about it.’

So the carpenter went downstairs and came back with a flagon of strong ale. They both drank deeply and then, with a finger to his lips, Nicholas shut the door and sat down with the carpenter on the bed. ‘John,’ he said, ‘my dear friend and landlord, you must promise me that you will never reveal what I am about to tell you. What I have to say has been sent to me from above…’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘If you disclose it you will be damned for ever. If you betray my confidence, you will be lost. You will be condemned to madness.’

‘Christ and His holy blood forbid it should come to that,’ the poor fool replied. ‘Although I say it myself, I don’t have a big mouth. I am not about to gab to man or wife. Or child. You have my word on that.’

‘Very good, John.’ Nicholas sat closer to him, and put his mouth to the carpenter’s ear. ‘This is it. I am not going to lie to you. I have been studying my books very carefully. You might say that I have drunk deep of their wisdom. And I have been observing the moon. This is what I have discovered. Next Monday, about nine o’clock at night, there is going to be torrential rain. It will be wild, incessant and prolonged. It will be more powerful than the Flood. In less than an hour the whole world will be drowned. All human life will be destroyed.’

‘Oh God!’ exclaimed the carpenter. ‘What about Alison? What about my wife? Will she be drowned, too?’ He was prostrate with sorrow. He looked as if he were about to faint. ‘Is there no solution? No escape?’

‘Why, yes there is. God is above us. You must follow my instructions to the letter. Don’t start planning and scheming on your own. That won’t work. The saying of Solomon is still true – follow good advice, and you will not be sorry. And I promise you this. Without having to build an ark, I will save the three of us. Do you remember what happened to Noah, when God warned him that the earth was about to be drowned?’

‘Yes. Many years ago.’

‘When you heard it or when it happened?’

‘When I heard it.’

‘So you must also have heard of the trouble of Noah and his family, trying to get his wife to go on board the ark. He would have given up all the animals, from aardvark to zebra, to dispatch her on a ship of her own. So now what are we going to do? Speed is necessary. This is no time for making speeches. We cannot wait. What you have to do is this. You have to find us three tubs or troughs – you know, the kind in which you knead dough or brew beer – but they have to be large enough to accommodate each one of us. And obviously they have to be able to float. Once you have them, put enough food in each of them for a day. There will be no need for any more. The waters will go down, as swiftly as they came up, at nine o’clock the next morning.’

‘What about young Robin? And Jill, our maid?’

‘I am afraid that they cannot be saved. Don’t ask me why. I cannot reveal the secrets of God. It must suffice that you and Alison and I will be rescued from the flood. You would be mad not to do this. So get on with it. Oh. One more thing. When you have found these three tubs, you must hang them high up from the rafters so that no one will know what we are doing. When you have done all this, and have stored all the food and drink, you must get hold of an axe. We will need it to break the ropes, and then cast off. We will also have to make a hole through the gable, over the stable, on the garden side, so that we can float free once the great rain has stopped. We will bob along as merrily as a white duck following her drake. Then I will shout to you, “Hi there, Alison! Hi there, John! Cheer up. The flood will soon be gone.” And you will shout back, “Good morning, Nicholas! I can see you again. There is daylight!” Then we will be masters of the world, just like Noah and his wife.

‘I must just warn you of one thing. On the night of the tempest, when we are safely ensconced in our tubs, we must not speak or say one word. We must stay in silent prayer. That is God’s will. You and your wife must hang some way apart, too, so that you won’t be tempted to sin with her in look, in speech or in deed. That is also God’s command. Do you understand? Tomorrow night, when the rest of the world is asleep, we will creep into our tubs. Our boats. We will sit there and wait for the grace of God. That’s it. You had better get moving. I don’t have time for any more words. There is an old saying: “Spare the words and fare the wiser.” You are wise enough already, I am sure, and don’t need to hear from me. Go and save us. That is my last request.’

So the innocent carpenter went on his way, sighing and lamenting. Of course he told Alison everything, in conditions of complete secrecy, but he might as well have saved his breath. She knew exactly what was going on, and had a pretty good idea of Nicholas’s stratagem. Nevertheless she threw herself into the part, and began to weep and wail at a great rate. ‘Alas!’ she cried out. ‘Go and do what Nicholas bids you! Help us to escape. Otherwise we are all doomed. Doomed! I am your true and faithful wedded wife. Go on, dear husband. For pity’s sake, save us!’

What a powerful agent is emotion! It is well said that men may die of imagination, if it forcibly impresses the mind. So the foolish old man begins to tremble; he begins to shake. He sees in front of him the waves and the turbulent sea; he sees Noah’s Flood come again; he sees the corpse of Alison tossed up and down. He weeps and wails, he sobs and sighs, he blubs and bawls. Then he calms down and goes out of doors to buy the three big tubs that Nicholas demanded; he has them secretly delivered, and suspended from the rafters of the ceiling. Then with his own hands he builds three ladders, by which they can climb up to safety. He is a carpenter, after all. Then he stores provisions in the tubs, namely bread and cheese and jugs of good ale just enough to last them for the one day. Before he made his preparations, however, he made sure that Jill and Robin were far away. He sent them off to London on some excuse or other. Then on the Monday evening, a few hours before the time Nicholas predicted the flood, he snuffed out the candlelight and shut the door. In perfect silence the three of them climbed the ladders and settled down in the tubs, each one apart from the other. They were silent for a few minutes, until Nicholas whispered, ‘We should say the Lord’s Prayer. And then keep quiet.’ ‘Mum,’ said John. ‘Mum,’ said Alison.

So the carpenter muttered his devotions and then stayed as still as any stone. He was listening for the onset of the rain. But he was so weary, with all the work and worry of the day, that at dusk he fell sound asleep. He was groaning and snoring. It was not a very comfortable berth. But the sound was delightful to Nicholas and Alison. Both of them softly crept down their ladders and, in silence and haste, they went off to bed. There were other noises now coming from the carpenter’s bedroom; there were squeals and sighs of pleasure. There were pantings and groanings. Nicholas and Alison kept at it all night. In fact they fucked until daylight, when the bells for lauds began to ring and the friars gathered in the choir. The pair could hear them singing.

Now. Do you remember Absolon, the love-struck parish clerk? On that Monday he was paying a visit to Osney Abbey, in the company of some other young clerics in festive mood. Quite by chance he came across the resident chorister there, and started to ask him about the old carpenter. He was always interested in that household. They were walking out of the church, when the chorister said to him, ‘I really don’t know what has happened to him. I haven’t seen him here since last Saturday. I imagine he has gone for timber somewhere. The abbot probably sent him. He often spends a day or two on one of the outlying farms, bargaining for the wood. Or else he is back at home. To tell you the truth, I don’t really know. Why do you ask?’

‘No reason. Just curious.’ Absolon was delighted. ‘Now is the time,’ he said to himself, ‘when I must stay awake all night. I don’t think he’s at home at all. I did not see him stirring this morning. And the door was closed. Just before dawn I will creep up to the house and knock softly upon the low window of his bedroom beside the orchard wall. Then I will whisper sweet love nothings to darling Alison; the least I will be offered is a kiss. My lips have been itching all day, which is a good sign. And last night I dreamed that I was at a feast. What can that mean but satisfaction? I will have a nap now, and then get myself ready for the game of the night.’

So when the first cock crowed, up sprung Absolon. He dressed himself in lover’s guise, all pert and polished, and he combed his hair. He sucked on some liquorice and cardamon seeds to sweeten his breath; cardamon is known as the grain of paradise. And paradise is what Absolon wanted. Then he popped under his tongue a four-leaved sprig of herb-paris, signifying the knot of true love, so that he might attract Alison by secret influence. Then he made his way to the house of the carpenter, and stood beneath the bedroom window. It was so low that it barely reached his chest. He leaned forward and gave a little cough. ‘Alison,’ he whispered, ‘my darling. My little honeycomb. My lovely bird. My sweet stick of cinnamon. Wake up, my sweetheart, and speak to me. You never think of my unhappiness, do you? I sweat for love of you. I really do. I faint. I repine. And, as I say, I sweat. Look at me. I am as famished as a lamb looking for its mother’s tits, if you’ll pardon the expression. I am lovelorn like the turtle. I eat less than a girl. Kiss me quick.’

‘Fuck off!’ That was Alison’s reply. ‘Go away, you fool! Kiss you quick? You must be joking. God help me, you won’t get anything from me. I love someone else, in any case, who is far more of a man than you are. Go away now or I will throw something at you. Let me get some sleep. I need it. So go to hell!’

Absolon was in a miserable state. ‘Was ever true love so thoroughly abused?’ he asked her. ‘Could I be more miserable? Have pity on me, Alison, in my distress. Give me a little kiss. That’s the least you can do. For the love of Jesus, the man of sorrows, if not for love of me.’

‘And, if I do,’ she said, ‘will you go away?’

‘Yes. I will.’

‘Then get ready. I must just do something first.’

She went over to the bed. ‘Keep quiet,’ she whispered to Nicholas. ‘And you will have a good laugh.’

Meanwhile Absolon had got down on his knees in front of the window. ‘I have scored,’ he said. ‘I don’t think she will stop at a kiss. Oh my sweetheart, be kind to me. Give me more.’

Then Alison opened the window in all haste. ‘Hurry up,’ she told him. ‘Come on. I don’t want the neighbours to see you.’

So Absolon wiped his mouth in preparation. It was very dark. It was still night, after all.

‘Here I am,’ said Alison. Then she put her naked arse out of the window. Absolon could see nothing at all, of course, and so he put out his tongue and gave her a French kiss. He was eagerly slurping her bum. But then he knew that something was wrong. He had never known a woman with a beard before. But he knew this much – he had licked on something rough and hairy. ‘Fuck me,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right.’ Alison laughed out loud, and shut the window. Absolon shook his head, and began to walk away. But then he heard Nicholas laughing, too. He scowled in anger, and muttered to himself, ‘I’ll get my own back. Wait and see.’ Then he began to rub his lips and mouth with dust and straw and cloth and chips of wood – anything to get rid of the taste. He kept on repeating to himself, ‘What a mess! I would give anything to be revenged on those two. I would give my soul to the devil, I really would. If only I had turned away. If only I had not kissed that – that thing.’ His lust of course was now completely quenched. From this time forward, from the time he kissed the arse of Alison, he never looked at another woman. He was cured of lovesickness. Women? What were they to him?

So, weeping like a child that has just been whipped, he crossed the street and made his way towards the shop of a blacksmith called Gervase. Gervase forged the equipment for ploughs – that sort of thing – and just at that moment was working on a ploughshare for one of the local farmers. So Absolon knocked on the door and called out, ‘Open the door, Gervase! Hurry up!’

‘What? Who’s there?’

‘It’s me. Absolon.’

‘What in God’s name are you doing here so early? What’s the matter? Oh. I know. Some young madame has got you all excited. You rise early. You know what I mean.’

Absolon was not bothered by these sly insinuations. He had no time for joking. He had other matters on his mind. ‘I can see that hot blade in the corner of the chimney,’ he said to Gervase. ‘It’s for a ploughshare, isn’t it? Can I borrow it from you for a few minutes? I won’t need it for long.’

‘Of course you can. I would do anything for an old friend like you. You could borrow it if it were made of gold or worth a sack of sovereigns. But what on earth do you need it for?’

‘That depends. I’ll tell you all about it later.’ Then he picked up the blade – its handle was cool by now – and left the smithy.

He made his way quickly to the carpenter’s house and stood outside the window once more. He coughed softly, just like before, and knocked. ‘Who’s there?’ Alison called out. ‘Are you a thief or what?’

‘No, dear Alison,’ he said. ‘It is me again. Your darling Absolon. I’ve brought with me a gold ring. My mother gave it to me many years ago. It is of the purest gold, and engraved with a true love knot. I would like to give it you. In exchange for another kiss.’

Nicholas was out of bed and just about to take a piss. He thought that he could make the joke even funnier if he changed places with Alison and stuck his own arse out of the window. So he quickly went over to the window and thrust out his buttocks as far as he could.

Absolon called out ‘Speak to me, my little bird. I can’t see you, sweetheart.’

And, at that, Nicholas let out a fart as loud as a peal of thunder. What a noise! What a smell! You can guess what Absolon did next. He steadied the hot blade, and thrust it right up Nicholas’s arse. Oh dear. He took the skin off that fundament, and all around the edges. Nicholas was in such pain that he thought he might die, and screamed out in agony like a madman, ‘Help! Water! For God’s sake! Water!’ Now his cries awoke the carpenter, and when he heard the exclamation ‘Water!’ he started up.

‘Oh Christ,’ he said. ‘Here comes the flood!’ So he took up the axe beside him, and cut the rope that held his tub to the beams of the ceiling. Then, as the children say, all fall down. In a moment the tub plummeted to the floor. I could put it another way. He had no time to sell the bread and ale on board. He was on the floorboards, passed out. He was dead to the world.

When they realized what had happened Alison and Nicholas went out into the street calling ‘Havoc!’ and ‘Harrow!’ to wake their neighbours. And then the good people ran out of their houses to take a look at the carpenter spread out on the floor. He had broken his arm in the fall, and was generally in a sad condition. Slowly he recovered from his faint. He tried to stand up, but it did him no good. Before he could say a word Nicholas and Alison assured the crowd that he had gone mad. They said that he had become so obsessed with Noah and the Flood that he had gone out especially to buy three tubs; when these vessels were hanging from the roof, he had urged them to join him up there for the sake of company.

Then all the neighbours began to laugh at him. He was not only mad. He was a fool. They looked up at the two tubs still dangling from the roof, and laughed even harder. It was a joke. The carpenter tried to explain what had happened, but no one was in the mood to listen to him. The testimony of Nicholas and Alison was so convincing that the whole town now treated him as little more than a lunatic. Everyone agreed about that. So there we are. That is how the young scholar got to fuck the young wife, despite all the carpenter’s precautions. How Absolon kissed her arse. How Nicholas had a sore bum. And that, pilgrims, is the end of my story. God save us all!

Then the Miller fell off his horse.

Heere endeth the Millere his tale