And so we all chose our stick. Whether it was by destiny, or providence, or just chance, it turned out that the Knight had chosen the shortest stick. We were all pleased with this piece of luck. It gave us more time to compose our own stories. The first must be the boldest. The Knight would have to tell his tale. That was the agreement. In any case he was not the kind of man to break a promise. ‘So,’ he said, ‘I have been chosen to begin the game. I welcome the challenge, in God’s name, as I welcome all noble challenges. Will it please you to ride forth, and listen to my story?’
So we mounted our horses and crossed the stream. It was called, in those parts, ‘going over the water’. Then the Knight, with a steady and cheerful countenance, began to tell his tale. This is what he said.
The Knight’s Tale
Heere bigynneth the Knyghtes Tale
PART ONE
Once upon a time, as the old stories tell us, there was a duke named Theseus. He was the lord and governor of fabled Athens, and in his day he had won an unrivalled reputation as a conqueror. No one was more splendid under the sun. He had taken many rich kingdoms. By wise generalship and force of arms he had conquered the land of the Amazons, formerly known as Scythia, and wedded there its queen, Hippolita. He brought home his prize, his bride, with great celebrations and rejoicings. He also brought back with him her younger sister, Emily, who will be the heroine of this story. So for the time being I will leave Theseus at his victory parade. You can imagine the scene. The armies march in rank. POMP. MUSIC. HURRAHS. The wagons bring up the rear, stuffed with booty. It was glorious stuff.
Of course, if I had more time, I would like to tell you all about the victory of Theseus over the Amazons. Knights like to speak of war. And what a fight that was! I wish I could tell you about the pitched battle between the Athenians and the Amazon women. I wish I could tell you how Theseus laid siege, in more than one sense, to the beautiful and fiery Hippolita. I would like to have described the glorious wedding feast, and then I might have added the detail of the tempest that threatened to overwhelm their ships on their return to Athens. But there we are. It cannot be done in the time allotted to me. God knows I have ahead of me a large field to furrow, and the oxen at my plough are not the strongest beasts I have known. The remains of my story are long enough. I will not hinder any of this fair company. Let every man and woman here tell their tale in turn. Then we shall know who has won the supper. Where was I?
Oh yes. Duke Theseus. Well. When he had come close to Athens with his new bride, in all his glory, he noticed that there were some women kneeling in the highway; they kneeled in rows beside each other, two by two, and they were all clothed in black. They were screeching and crying and beating their breasts. I doubt that anyone has heard such bitter lamentation. They did not cease their cries until they had managed to get hold of the reins of the duke’s horse. Of course he was very angry. ‘What kind of women are you,’ he asked, ‘that ruin my triumphant homecoming with your tears and wails? Are you so envious of my honour that you cry out like scalded cats? Who has offended you? Who has done you hurt? I will do my best to help you, if I can. And then why on earth are you all wearing black? Answer me.’
The eldest of all the ladies then fainted; she looked so pale that even Theseus took pity on her. But she recovered from her swoon gracefully, stood upright, and answered him. ‘My good lord,’ she said, ‘upon whom Dame Fortune has smiled, we do not grieve at your victories or lament your success. Far from it. But we do beseech your mercy and your aid. Have shame on our woe and our distress. Shed some tears of compassion upon us, poor women that we are. Show us your kindness. We do perhaps deserve your consideration. There is not one of us that was not previously a duchess or a queen. Now we are miserable, worn down by grief. Dame Fortune has thrown us aside. Well, it is the wheel. There is no joy that may not turn to sorrow. That is why we have been waiting for you here, in the temple of the goddess of pity, for the last two weeks. Please help us, noble duke. Give us your strength.’
‘Who are you, ma dame?’
‘Wretched woman that I now am, I was once the wife of the king known as Capaneus. He was one of the seven who stormed the city of Thebes. But there at the gate of the city he died, struck down by the thunderbolt of Zeus. It was the most cursed day of my life. You may know my name. Evadne. All of these women with me, flowing in tears, also lost husbands at the siege of Thebes. Yet the old man Creon, now alas king of Thebes, is filled with anger and evil. No, he is not king. He is tyrant of Thebes. With malice in his heart, this tyrant has defiled the bodies of our dead husbands. He has stripped them and piled them in a heap. He will not allow the corpses to be burned or buried. Instead they have become the prey of dogs and other scavengers.’ At that the women set up another wail and beat their breasts. ‘Have mercy on us,’ one of them cried out. ‘We wretched women beg for succour. Let our sorrow enter your heart.’
The noble lord Theseus dismounted. His heart was indeed filled with grief at the bitterness of their woes. To see women of such high rank reduced to this level of suffering and indignity – well, he feared that his heart might break. To leave the dead unburied was pure blasphemy. So great then was the respect given to the conventions of war. He embraced them all, one by one, and did his best to comfort them. Then he swore an oath, as a knight good and true -
‘Just as you,’ our Host interjected.
The Knight pretended not to hear the remark.
Theseus swore an oath that he would wreak such fatal vengeance on Creon that all the people of Greece would concur that the tyrant had met a prompt and welcome death at the hands of the ruler of Athens. This was his pledge. All at once, without any delay, he mounted his steed; then he unfurled his banner and led his army towards the city of Thebes. He vowed that he would not return to Athens, or linger for even half a day, until he had defeated Creon. He took the precaution of sending Hippolita, his new bride, and her beautiful younger sister, Emily, to take up residence in Athens. Meanwhile he spent his first night on the road rather than in his marital bed. There is no more to say.
The weapons of his army glittered in the fields about Thebes. On the great white banner of Theseus was embroidered the red image of Mars, god of war and king of combat, with his spear and shield held aloft. Beside the banner was the pennant of Theseus, curiously wrought of gold; it depicted the head of the Minotaur, whom he had killed in the labyrinth of Crete. Death to all monsters! So rode the duke, so travelled the conqueror, with the flower of chivalry all around him. In majesty he came up to the gates of Thebes and alighted there; then he arrayed his troops in the field where he expected to do battle.
I do not want to embarrass the ladies with accounts of the fighting. I will be brief. In combat Theseus killed Creon, according to the knightly book of arms, and put his army to flight. Then he stormed the town, and tore down its walls; not a beam or rafter was left in place. It was a just punishment. He restored to the ladies the corpses of their husbands, although little was left of them except the bones. Still they could now be dispatched with due form and order. It would be too harrowing to report all the tears and cries and laments of the ladies when they saw the remains of their husbands burning on the funeral pyres. It is enough to say that Theseus, the illustrious conqueror, paid great honour and courtesy to them before they left for their respective cities.