Geoffrey Chaucer: Canterbury Bound

By John Passfield

While riding with a group of pilgrims on the road to Canterbury, Geoffrey Chaucer makes plans for the writing of his next poem, the Canterbury Tales.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481743990

John Passfield

John Passfield was born in St. Thomas, Ontario, Canada, and continues to reside in Southern Ontario, near Cayuga, with his family. He has taught and studied literature, creative writing and drama, and is interested in the development of the novel as an art-form.

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© 2013 John Passfield. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 5/6/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4400-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4398-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4817-4399-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013907223

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Summary: While riding with a group of pilgrims on the road to Canterbury, Geoffrey Chaucer makes plans for the writing of his next poem, the Canterbury Tales.

Cover Illustration: A portrait of Geoffrey Chaucer.

Cover Design: Craig Passfield

Author’s Website: www.johnpassfield.ca

Contents

Author’s Preface

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Author’s Preface

Geoffrey Chaucer: Canterbury Bound – a novel

In April 1386, Geoffrey Chaucer sets out from the Maison Dieu, in Ospringe, Kent, on the final day of a London to Canterbury pilgrimage. While riding along, he listens to the chatter and the stories of the other pilgrims while silently reviewing sections of a developing poem. As the day progresses, his mind is flooded with images of the ride, the pilgrimage, his earlier poems and past experiences as he seeks to come to an understanding of the premises by which he has lived his entire life.

The Making of Canterbury Bound – a reflective journal

This journal records my reflections on the process of the crafting of the novel as it evolved through the stages of planning, writing, editing and polishing. It constitutes an effort to be as conscious as possible of the process whereby the single idea that suggested the topic of the novel was expanded into a complex work of art. Topics range from the nuts and bolts of novel-building to the nature of the novel as an art-form.

Planning Canterbury Bound – a planning notebook

During the writing of the novel, I kept a hand-written notebook which records the day-by-day development of the novel as it found its shape and style. The notebook – now in print form – reveals how a vast cluster of thoughts was sifted, selected, structured and polished into novel-form.

The Project

Together, this novel, journal and notebook comprise the thirteenth installment in an on-going novel-writing project in which I am exploring the concept of form and meaning in the novel, and of the novel as a form of expression in the 21st Century. All of the published journals and notebooks are available for free download at www.johnpassfield.ca.

John Passfield

Cayuga, Ontario, Canada

March, 2013

Chapter 1

Ospringe at sunrise on an April morning. Cool, but warming gradually. The sunlight peeking through the trees. Indications, perhaps, of a beautiful day.

The watercress beds at the end of Water Lane.

Morning prayers and stable chores and the gathering of the pilgrims. Setting off for Canterbury on the fourth and final day of our pilgrimage.

Looking forward to the arrival at the Cathedral. Looking forward to a visit to the Martyr’s shrine.

A group of pilgrims riding along a pathway.

The telling of stories as a means to pass the time.

A man lying naked in the dawn.

Starting out at Water Lane. The horses taking a morning drink. Waving farewell to the monks and putting the Maison Dieu behind us. As hospitable, in its way, as the Tabard Inn.

The peaceful whispering at the hospice. The slow tolling of the bells. Evening prayers in the chapel. A restful night and a pleasant send-off on a chilly morning.

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote.

How will you bring all of these disparate elements together?

What is the tether that will hold them all in a brace?

What is the focus that will make the new poem a single entity?

Whan that Aprill with his shoures soote

The droughte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licour,

Of which vertu engendred is the flour;

When Zephyrus eek with his sweete breeth

Inspired hath in every holt and heeth

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halve cours yronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye

That slepen al the nyght with open ye

So priketh hem nature in hir corages;

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgimages,

And palmeres for to seeken straunge strondes

To ferne halwaes. Kowth in sondry londes;

And specially from every shires ende

Of Engelond to Caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seeke

That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Riding along and telling a number of stories.

A feast of food and fellowship at an inn.

A pilgrim who is stuck in a puddle of mud.

Bifel that in that seson on a day,

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,

Redy to wenden on my pilgrymage

To Caunterbury with ful devout corage,

At nyght was come into that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye

Of sondry folk, by aventure yfalle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrimes were they alle

That toward Caunterbury wolden ride.

A thoughtful journey - a golden angel - a helpless pilgrim - piercing eyes - storytelling - a man and woman - a lone knight - ladies dancing - a winding path - a freshwater well.

The chambres and the stables weren wide,

And wel we weren esed atte beste.

And shortly, whan the sonne was to rest,

So hadde I spoken with hem everichon

That I was of hir felaweshipe anon,

And made forward erly for to rise,

To take our way ther as I you devise.

Will the stories end when the pilgrims come to Canterbury?

Will the stories continue until they return to the Tabard Inn?

What is the shape that will allow you to say what you want to say?

Of all the poems that I have written, perhaps the one that haunts me the most is one of the earliest. The Book of the Duchess seems to be always on my mind.

The horses plod slowly along the trail. Some pilgrims yawn and rub their weary eyes. The Host looks me over very carefully as I ride along by his side. His smile is hard to read.

"This were a popet in an arm t’embrace

For any womman, smal and fair of face."

He looks around at the others and shakes his head as if they should be able to see what he has seen, whether he explains what is amusing him or no.

"He seemeth elvyssh by his countenaunce,

For unto no wight dooth he dalliaunce."

His eyes search my face – perhaps to detect my mood. He looks around at the others – to the right and then to the left – as if he would have them take note of his disapproval.

The tomb of the blessed Martyr at the Cathedral.

A relationship which falls on troubling times.

A person who is reluctant to tell a tale.

There is no doubt, my friends, that, when it was in its glory, the friendship of King Henry II and Thomas à Becket was one of the greatest friendships in recorded history. One was older than the other, as you might well know, but that was no impediment to their friendship whatsoever. When their accord was in full flower, as we say, many believed that it was a gift from the hand of God. Many causes have been given, you can be sure, for the enmity which came to be a barrier between these two fine people. Many have speculated, as you might well do yourself, as to what it was that made each man stand his ground so unrelentingly. However, each relationship has its secrets, and on such a bewildering topic, I am sure that you will agree that one is reduced to the level of speculation. All lives are filled with conflict. We travel through this life on an uneven path. Perhaps it would be best to simply recount the story as it has been told.

A story of a friendship gone wrong.

King Henry, as you might well know, was built like a standing bull, with short red hair and a stocky figure, and his clothes ignored the fashions of the time. He spoke such languages as needed for the business of the day, read his history in the Latin, and scribbled his daily orders with a stubby hand. He ate and drank as a means of fuel, rode horses through the nights and the rains, and played chess with a fierce aggression and dirty fingernails. King Henry, we are told, felt that the church in England had taken advantage of the weakness of the crown in King Stephen’s time, and had grown much stronger than he felt that it should be. He was determined, so they say, to restore the kingly powers to what they had been in his grandfather’s time. He negotiated power, we are told, as a hawk would negotiate with a hare. It was said that he was a wolf who turned his fellow wolves into sheep.

A story of a group of pilgrims who ride together to visit a martyr’s shrine.

Thomas à Becket was a man, they say, who was tall and handsomely built. He loved hunting, fine wines and soft silks, and great manor houses with intricate gardens and endless lawns. His arrogance was aristocratic, no doubt, but his dedication to duty was that of a monk. In the days before King Henry, as I say, the church had grown quite powerful in the land, and had gradually won its independence from the previous king. The church claimed, in all matters, to owe its proper allegiance to the King who lived in Rome. Now, it was about this time that things began to get very interesting. Thomas á Becket was made Archdeacon of Canterbury, and presided over the ecclesiastical court. He was the most important lawyer in the English church. It was said that he was loyal to a fault. It was thus that Thomas came to King Henry’s attention.

How many pilgrims should there be?

How many stories should each pilgrim tell?

Should there be a description of each pilgrim as they ride along?

Suddenly, the Host is in a rage. He is looking back over his shoulder and holding up his hand for all of us to stop our horses and pay attention to what he has to say.

"Sirs, what, Dun is in the mire!

Is ther no man for preyere ne for hire

That wol awake oure felawe al bihinde?"

The Host stops his horse and turns and trots back to where the cook is stuck in the mud. The pilgrims all halt as well, and some of them take the opportunity to reach for a bottle of water or of wine while some get down from their horses and stretch their legs.

A pilgrim riding in the midst of a group in silence.

Two friends riding together in the rain.

A man with bleeding lash marks on his back.

Greet cheere made oure Host us everichoon,

And to the soper sette he us anon.

He served us with vitaille at the beste;

Strong was the wyn, and wel to drynke us leste.

A semely man oure Hoste was withalle

For to han been a marchal in a halle;

A large man he was, with eyen stepe –

A fairer burgeys was ther noon in Chepe –

Bold of his speche, and wys, and wel ytaught,

And of manhood hym lakkede right naught.

Metre - pilgrimage - shrine - storytelling - controller of customs - phillipa chaucer - held for ransom - building a cathedral - rhythm - taken by ambush.

Eek therto he was right a merye man,

And after soper playen he bigan,

And spak of myrthe amonges othere thynges,

Whan that we hadde maad oure rekeninges,

And seyde thus, "Now, lordynges, trewely,

Ye been to me right welcome, hertely;

For by my trouthe, if that I shal nat lye,

I saugh nat this yeer so myrie a compaignye

Atones in this herberwe as is now.

Fayn wolde I doon yow myrthe, wiste I how.

And of a myrthe I am right now bythought,

To doon yow ese, and it shal coste noght."

Dried roots - squire - april - refusing to speak - the life so short - shipman - rhyme - sentence and solas - blissful martyr - pilgrimages - tender shoots.

"Ye goon to Caunterbury – God yow speede,

The blisful martir quite yow youre meede!

And wel I woot as ye goon by the weye,

Ye shapen yow to talen and to pleye;

For trewely, confort ne myrthe is noon

To ride by the weye doumb as a stoon;

And therfore wol I maken you disport

As I seyde erst, and doon yow som confort.

And if yow liketh alle, by oon assent,

For to stonden at my juggement,

And for to werken as I shal you seye,

Tomorwe whan y riden by the weye –

Now by my fader soule that is deed,

But ye be myrie I wol yeve you myn heed!

Hoold up youre hondes withouten moore speche."

By what method should the order of tellers be chosen?

Should the host comment on the stories as they are told?

How much by-play should there be between the tales?

The horses ease into the rhythm of the journey. The sun promises to shine, though reluctantly. A number of small groups form and reform as we ride along. Some clustering around the Host; some clinging to other groups. Some listening carefully to every tale and some choosing which tale to draw near to and from which to move away. Some pilgrims are thinking their own distracted thoughts.

A thoughtful journey for me, and perhaps for us all. London to Canterbury. Inns and hostels. Chatter and silence. Dartford, Rochester, Sittingbourne, Ospringe, Canterbury. Plenty of time to listen, talk and think.

Plenty of time to reconsider all of my thoughts.

A clasp of hands between two friends.

A man arrayed in the splendour of costly robes.

The stirring of dormant thoughts in the air of spring.

"Well, as the story fell out, it was not long after his coronation that King Henry called upon Thomas à Becket to become his Chancellor. This appointment of the King’s made Thomas