In the hen-run itself there was such a wail of sorrow, louder than the plaint the ladies of Troy made when their city was taken. The poor birds made more noise than Hecuba, on seeing the death of her husband at the hands of Pyrrhus. When Chanticleer was taken off, they screamed. And what of Pertelote? She was beside herself. She was frantic with grief, in more agony than the wife of Hasdrubal, who was killed as Carthage was destroyed in flame. She was so full of torment and of rage that she hopped on to a bonfire and burned herself to death. Unhappy birds! You cried as much as the wives of Rome when Nero burned down the city. They watched their husbands perish in the flames. They were guiltless of any crime, but they were condemned to death.
Let me return to the story. When the poor widow and her two daughters heard the crying and confusion of the hens, they rushed into the yard. They were just in time to see the fox racing back to the wood with Chanticleer in his grip. So they called out: ‘ Harrow! Harrow! The fox! The fox! Havoc! Havoc!’ They ran after him, and they were joined in the pursuit by the whole village. There was Talbot and Garland and Malkyn, still with her distaff in her hand. The dog, Colin, sprinted beside them with his tail up. The cows and the calves, even the pigs, were roused by all the shouting and all the barking. They were all running as if their hearts would break. They were yelling as loudly as the fiends in hell. The ducks were quacking up a storm. The geese flew backwards and forwards. The bees came out of the hive in a wild swarm. The noise was so great that no London mob or riot over the price of wheat could equal it. They screamed after the fox. They blew their trumpets and beat their drums. They sounded their horns. They shrieked and whooped. They made so much din that it seemed that the heavens might fall.
Now, good pilgrims, I ask you to pay attention. See how Dame Fortune can ruin the hopes and expectations of her enemies. Chanticleer, caught in the jaws of the fox, trembling with fear, spoke out. ‘If I were you, sir,’ he said to his captor, ‘I would turn upon my pursuers now and taunt them. I would tell them to go back from where they had come. For good measure, I would damn them to hell. I would tell them that you are safely on the margins of the wood, and that I will never escape from your jaws. I would tell them that I am dead meat.’
‘That’s a very good idea,’ the fox replied. And at that moment, as soon as he had opened his mouth, Chanticleer leaped out and flew up into a tree.
‘Alas,’ the fox cried, looking up at him. ‘Alas, dear Chanticleer. I am embarrassed. I am afraid that I have given you the wrong impression. I must have frightened you when I grabbed you and ran out of the yard. But I had the best intentions. I meant you no harm. Come down from that tree, and we can talk about it. I will tell you the truth and nothing but the truth.’
‘You must be joking,’ the cock replied. ‘I’ll be damned if I am fooled again. Your flattery won’t work any more. I am not going to close my eyes and sing for you. He who keeps his eyes shut deserves his misfortunes. That is the lesson I have learned.’
‘There is another lesson,’ the fox said. ‘Bad luck will come to one who opens his big mouth at the wrong moment.’
So this is the moral. Do not be careless, or impetuous. Do not trust flatterers.
Some of you may think this is a cock-and-hen story, a piece of foolishness. But learn the moral, at least. As Saint Paul says, you ought to be able to sift the wheat from the chaff. That is good advice. I will leave it there, lords and ladies. May we all lead good lives and go to heaven!
Heere is ended the Nonnes Preestes Tale
The Epilogue to the Nun’s Priest’s Tale
‘Well, sir,’ our Host said to the Nun’s Priest. ‘Blessed be your bum and balls! That story about Chanticleer was one of the funniest I have heard. If you were a secular, I bet you would be a bit of a cock yourself. You would be thrusting with the best of them. Seven would not be enough for you, would it? What about seven times seven? Or seven times seventeen? You could keep going. Look at him, fellow pilgrims. Look at his muscles. Observe that brawny neck, and noble chest. With his bright eyes, he reminds me of a sparrowhawk. There is no need for him to dye his hair with red powders. He has that brilliant colour naturally. Thank you, sir, for an outstanding story. And God be with you!’
Then our Host turned to another pilgrim, the Second Nun, and in gentle voice invited her to tell her tale.
The Second Nun’s Prologue
The prologe of the Seconde Nonnes Tale
I speak of that nurse and mistress of all the vices, known in English as idleness, that gate to sin and hell – we must avoid it at all costs and instead cultivate a busy and useful life. We ought to concentrate on work, rather than on pleasure, or else the devil may take us unawares.
Satan has a thousand snares and traps ready to entice us; if he sees an idle man, he creeps up with his net. In an instant the man, not realizing the danger, is caught and damned. So I beg all of you to work hard and to avoid the sin of sloth.
And even if we have no fear of death, and the world to come, reason itself teaches us that idleness is the rotten soil from which no harvest can be gathered. Laziness is a laggard, prepared only for sleeping and eating and drinking. It consumes the goods of the world, the fruit of others’ labour.
I am about to tell you a story that illustrates the foulness and folly of idleness, the source of so much harm to all of us. I am about to relate to you the glorious life and death of the holy blissful virgin whose wreath is crowned with rose and lily flower – the maid and martyr, Saint Cecilia.
Oh blessed Mary, the flower of all virgins, I call upon you first to guide my pen. You are the comfort of all sinners on the earth. Help me to tell the story of the maiden’s death, and how through her martyrdom she won eternal life in the mansions of heaven.
Hail holy Mother of God, well of mercy, balm of sinful souls, in whom our Saviour chose to dwell for the sake of all mankind. Your humility has exalted you. You have so sanctified our nature that God Himself chose to take on flesh and blood.
Within the blessed temple of your body the threefold God, the centre of eternal love and peace, took human form. All creation sends up unceasing prayer and praise to Father, Son and Holy Ghost. You are the spotless Virgin who carried in your womb the creator of the world.
You are the spring of mercy, pity, peace and love. You are the source of virtue and of bliss. You come to the aid of those who pray to you, but out of your benignity you help others before they beseech you for comfort in distress. You go before, and heal their sorrow.
So help me now, blessed maid, in the valley of the shadow of death. Think of the woman from Canaan, who told your blessed Son that even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the tables of their masters. I know that I am a sinful and unworthy daughter of Eve, but please accept my faithful prayer.
Faith is dead without good deeds. Allow me the time and place to perform works in your honour, and thus avoid the darkness of hell. Hail Mary, full of grace. I beg you to speak a word for me in the abode of bliss where there is eternal song. Daughter of Anna, blessed one, Mother of Christ, hosanna!
Send your light to me in the darkness of the prison of this world; lift from me the burden and contagion of the flesh; save me from lust and all false affections. You are the haven of refuge, the solace and the comfort of all those in distress. Assist me now in my appointed task.
I ask that all those who hear, and read, this story will forgive my lack of grace. I have no skill or subtlety in narration. I am relying upon the words of one who so revered the saint that he wrote down her story. It is to be found in the book known as The Golden Legend. Please pardon any of my faults for the sake of the holy martyr herself.