On that same afternoon he decided to visit the home of the senator, and see for himself. Had there been another miracle? The senator greeted the king with reverence, and then summoned Constance. When she was told that she was about to meet Aella, she almost fainted. She could hardly stand, let alone dance for joy.
As soon as Aella caught sight of his wife he greeted her and began to weep piteously. He knew it was her. His wife stood before him. Constance herself was dumb with amazement, and was as rooted to the ground as a tree. She remembered all his unkindness (or so she thought), and she suffered double distress at the sight of him.
She swooned, and then recovered herself; then she swooned again. The king himself wept, and did his best to excuse himself. ‘I swear by God and all the saints in heaven,’ he said, ‘that I am as guiltless of any crimes against you as your own son. Our own son, who so much resembles you. Let the devil take me if I am lying.’
So they wept together. They lamented the past. They lamented the evil done to them. Those around them were filled with pity, as their woes seemed to increase with their tears. Will you excuse me from saying any more about their sorrow? It would take me until tomorrow to do full justice to it. And I am weary of describing nothing but pain.
Finally, when Constance understood that Aella had no part in her exile, the tears gave way to smiles. They must have kissed each other a hundred times. There was such bliss between them that no couple in the world have ever been, or could ever be, so happy. Only the joy of heaven is superior.
Then Constance begged of him one favour, to recompense for her life of woe. She asked him to send an invitation in the most gracious terms to her father, the emperor, and entreat him to attend a royal banquet. But she urged her husband not to say one word about her.
It has been said that Maurice was chosen to deliver the message to the emperor. I don’t believe it. Aella would not have been so disrespectful as to send a mere child into the presence of the great ruler who has sovereign authority over all Christendom. It is better to suppose that the king himself visited the emperor’s palace.
Nevertheless I have read that Maurice was indeed the ambassador. According to the story the emperor graciously accepted the invitation, while all the time studying Maurice intently. The child reminded him of his daughter. Aella, in the meantime, went back to his residence and prepared everything for the banquet in as magnificent a manner as he could. He spared no expense.
The day came for the feast. Aella and his dear wife prepared to meet their royal guest, and in joy and festivity rode out together. When Constance saw her father in the street she alighted from her horse and fell to her knees. ‘Father,’ she said, ‘perhaps you have forgotten about your child, Constance. But I am here before you. I am the girl you sent to Syria. I am the one who was dispatched to die alone upon the wide ocean. Now, dear Father, have mercy upon me. Do not banish me to any more pagan lands. But thank my husband for his kindness to me.’
Who could portray the mingled joy and sorrow that now filled the hearts of Constance, Aella and the emperor? I cannot. In any case I must draw to a close. The day is fading fast. I won’t delay. They sat down to dinner. That is all I will say. I won’t begin to describe their happiness, which was hundreds and hundreds of times more joyous than I can possibly relate.
In later years the pope crowned Maurice as Holy Roman Emperor in succession to his grandfather. Maurice was a good and devout churchman, and ruled in Christian fashion. I will not tell you his story. I am more concerned with his mother. If you want to learn more about him, then consult the old Roman historians. They will enlighten you further. I am not so well informed.
When Aella realized that the time had come, he left Rome and with his beloved wife sailed back to England. In our nation they lived in bliss and comfort. But their happiness lasted for only a short time. The joys of this world do not endure. Life changes, like the tide. After the brightness of the day comes the darkness of the night.
Who can be happy even for one day without being moved by anger or by jealousy? Who has not been touched continually by guilt or ill will or resentment? Think about your own life. I tell you this only to reach my conclusion – that the happiness of Aella and Constance could not last for ever.
Death, who collects his tithes from high and low alike, could not be thwarted. Within a year of their return to England Aella was taken out of this world. Constance mourned him bitterly, of course. May God keep his soul safe! Then, after his burial she decided to go back to Rome.
On her return she found her friends and family safe and in good health. Now, at last, she felt that her adventures had come to an end. When she came into the presence of her father she kneeled before him and wept. Constance, of tender heart, sent up her orisons of praise to God a hundred thousand times.
And so they lived in virtue and in charity. They were never parted, except by death itself. And so farewell to you all. My story has come to an end. May Jesus Christ bring us joy after woe, and save us all on the last day. God preserve you, my fellow pilgrims.
Heere endeth the tale of the Man of Lawe
The Epilogue to the Man of Law’s Tale
Harry Bailey, our Host, stood up on his stirrups, and congratulated the Man of Law. ‘That was a fine story,’ he said. ‘Very worthwhile. Don’t you all agree?’ And then he turned to the parish priest. ‘Father,’ he said, ‘for the love of God tell us a story. You promised. I know well enough that learned men can be good storytellers. You know enough, for God’s sake.’
The Parson reproved him. ‘Bless us all. Why is this man blaspheming in front of us? Never take the name of God in vain.’
‘Oh John Wyclif, have you come among us?’ our Host replied. ‘I smell a Lollard in the wind. I predict, fellow pilgrims, that before too long the priest will deliver a long sermon. That is what Lollards love to do.’
‘On my father’s soul, he will not.’ The Shipman rode up to our Host. ‘He is not going to preach. We won’t allow it. This is not the place to teach the gospel. We all believe in God. We don’t need the doctrines of Holy Mother Church interpreted or evaluated or revised. He will be sowing weeds in healthy ground. I’ll tell you what, Harry. I will give you a good story. It will ring out loud and clear. It won’t be full of philosophical terms, or learned quibbles. I don’t have enough Latin for that -’
‘Excuse me.’ It was the good Wife of Bath, looking very majestic on her palfrey. ‘Surely I take precedence over this seaman? It is a sad day when a good woman is refused her due. Come now, Mr Bailey. Do let me speak. I have a lot to say.’ Then, without waiting for his assent, she began her story.
The Wife of Bath’s Prologue
The prologe of the Wives Tale of Bathe
‘I don’t care what anyone says. Experience of the world is the best thing. It may not be the main authority but, in relationships, it is a good teacher. I know all about unhappiness in marriage. Goodness me. Oh yes. I was twelve years old when I first got a husband. I’ve had five altogether, thanks be to God. Five of them trooping up to the church door. That is a lot of men. By and large they were gentlemen, or so I was led to believe. Yet I was told quite recently – I forget by whom – that our Saviour attended only one wedding. It was in the town of Cana. So, the argument goes, I should only ever have been married once. And then there was the time when Jesus rebuked the Samaritan woman. They were standing beside a well, weren’t they? “You have had five husbands,” He said. “And the man you are living with is not your husband.” He was God and man, so I suppose He knew what He was talking about. I don’t understand what His point was, but I am sure He had one. Why was the fifth man not her husband? It doesn’t make any sense. How many husbands had she actually had? How many husbands was she allowed? In all my life I never heard there was a limit. Have you?