‘That’s a lie! I swear to God that I have never once been summoned to your court, as a wife or as a widow-woman. I have always been honest.’ She fell down on her knees in an attitude of prayer. ‘May the black and smoking devil take you – and my frying pan, too, if he wants it!’
When the devil heard her curse, he said gently to her, ‘Mother Mabel, is this what you really want? Are you saying this in earnest or in game?’
‘In deadly earnest, sir. If this summoner does not repent his lies, may the devil carry him off. And he can take my frying pan with him.’
‘Well, you old bitch,’ the summoner replied. ‘I don’t repent anything I have ever had of you. I would take your smock, if I could. I would strip every stitch off your back.’
‘Don’t be angry, dear brother,’ the fiend said. ‘Your body and her frying pan are mine by right. You must descend to hell with me tonight, where I will teach you all of our secrets. You will become more learned than any theologian.’ And, with that, the devil caught him in his arms and carried him off. The soul and body of the summoner were taken to the place where all summoners eventually retire. May God, who made us in His own image, grant us all salvation. May He even teach summoners to become good men.
I could have told you, gentlemen and gentle ladies – and, if I had time, I could have told this Summoner here – what Christ and the apostles have said about the pains of hell. That cursed house is filled with pain and suffering which I could not describe in the space of a thousand winters. No mind can conceive of it. No tongue can tell it. May Jesus our Saviour keep us from that evil place, and may He protect us from the wiles of Satan. Beware. Stay alert. Remember the old proverb: ‘The lion is always poised to slay and eat the innocent, if ever he gets the chance. Dispose your hearts so fittingly that you will be able to withstand the snares of the devil.’ The fiend cannot tempt you beyond your strength. Remember that. Christ will be your champion and your knight. Let us pray that all the summoners of this nation repent their misdeeds before they are taken down to hell. Amen.
Heere endeth the Freres Tale
The Summoner’s Prologue
The Prologe of the Somonours Tale
The Summoner stood up in his stirrups and shook his fist at the Friar; he was so angry that he was shaking like an aspen leaf. He was as mad as hell. ‘I want only one thing, fellow pilgrims,’ he said. ‘I ask you, out of courtesy to me, now that you have heard this false Friar lying through his teeth, to listen to my tale. This Friar boasts that he knows all about hell. I am not surprised. Friars and fiends are very closely related. You must have heard the story about the friar who was taken to hell in a vision. When the angel guided him through all the circles and pains of that inferno, the friar could see none of his brethren. There were plenty of other people in torment, but there were no friars. So he spoke up and asked the angel, “Tell me, sir, are friars so virtuous that none are damned?”
‘“No indeed,” the angel replied. “There are millions of them here.” The spirit led him down to the body of Satan himself. “Do you see the demon’s tail?” he asked the friar. “It is as broad as a sail on a great ship, is it not? Just look what is beneath it. Hold up your tail, Satan! Let us see your arse. Let the friar see where all his brethren are hiding.”
‘Satan did as he was told. A couple of minutes later the friars came out like a swarm of bees. They were pushed and prodded by junior fiends; they ran in all directions, here and there through the precincts of hell, till on one accord they fled back up Satan’s fundament. Then the devil covered his arse with his tail, and settled down again.
‘When the friar had thoroughly acquainted himself with all the miseries and mysteries of hell, his spirit returned to his body. He awoke in his own bed, by God’s mercy, but he was so fearful that he sweated and shook. He could not get the arse of the devil out of his thoughts. That was the place he was heading for.
‘God save all of you gentlemen and ladies – all except the cursed Friar here. Now I will get on with my story.’
The Summoner’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Somonour his Tale
There is in Yorkshire, I believe, a marshy area known as Holderness. Or is it a town? I can’t remember. Anyway, there was a friar who frequented the area, preaching and begging in the usual fashion of his breed. His name was Friar John. It so happened that one day he had given a sermon in one of the local churches. It was the same old story. Donate alms for the sake of masses for the dead. Donate alms so that we can build more friaries and honour God Almighty. Don’t give money where it will only be wasted and misspent. Don’t support those who are already living in luxury, thanks be to God, like the monks and the priests. ‘Your alms,’ he said, ‘can release the souls of all folk, young and old, from the pains of purgatory. It does not matter if the prayers at the mass are sung hastily. I will not accuse any priest of being frivolous or wanton for saying only one mass a day. Far from it. These poor souls must be delivered from their torments as quickly as possible. It is hard for them to endure the flesh-hooks and the spikes. It is agony for them to be torn to pieces or burned or boiled. Can you imagine it? So give me your money quickly, for all their sakes.’
When the friar had finished his little sermon, he blessed the congregation and went on his way. But not before the folk in the church had given him their coins. As soon as that was settled, he was off. He was not going to stay around. With his satchel and his staff, tucked up in his belt, he went from house to house begging for bread or cheese or corn. He was always peering through the windows and putting his head around open doors. He had a companion with him, too, who carried with him a set of writing tablets and a long pointed pen. He told the people that this allowed him to note down the names of all those who gave him alms, so that he could pray for them later. ‘Give us a little portion of wheat, malt or rye,’ he would whine. ‘Give us a piece of cake, or a morsel of cheese. Whatever you have, we will take. We are not fussy. A penny or a halfpenny will do. We would love some meat, of course, if you have any to spare. No? Well then give me the cloth blanket I see over there. Look, dear sister, we are ready to write down your name. How do you spell it? Are you sure that you don’t have a morsel of bacon or of beef?’ They were followed by a servant, who worked for the landlord of the inn where they were staying; he was carrying a sack. Whatever the people gave them, he added to the load on his back.
As soon as the friar had left the neighbourhood, however, he would take out the writing tablet and erase the names he had just put down. It was all a trick, an act, on his part.
‘This is all lies!’ The Friar was very indignant.
‘Peace!’ Harry Bailey called out. ‘For the love of God go on with your story, sir Summoner. Go on till the end. Leave out nothing.’
‘That’s what I intend,’ the Summoner replied. ‘You can be sure of it.’
So Friar John went from house to house, until he came to one where he was accustomed to hospitality. He was sure of getting something here. But the good man who lived here was sick; he was lying upon a low couch, and could scarcely rise. ‘God be with you,’ the friar said. ‘Good day to you, Thomas. And may God reward you, my friend. I have been very well fed at this table. I have enjoyed many meals, haven’t I?’ He shoved the cat from its favourite chair – put down his stick, his satchel and his hat – and then sat down at the table with a smile on his face. He was alone. His friend had already gone into town, with the servant, in order to book rooms in the inn for that night.
‘Oh my dear master,’ the sick man said, ‘how have you been this last week or two? I haven’t seen you for a while.’