Peter Ackroyd - The Canterbury Tales – A Retelling

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.