 |  |
|
|
|
 |
|
 |
|
Parodies |
 |
|
|
|
 |
|
The Shrivener's Tale
by Piers Plowman
 Unlike the pilgrims, this Chaucerian tale - from the Fantasy Archers topic of doesn't really go anywhere, but it does so very entertainingly.
... Next turn'ed all the company to a sultry Shrivener and desired her
to beguile the weary hours of their journey with some merry tale or
other. She pondered a goodly while then spake:
"Very well, though it be but not to cause offence by my refusal, for I
must crave your indulgence and beg you to judge my wit by the measure
of my good intentions, else I fear that you shall find no pleasure in
the telling."
The company then redoubled their entreaties and assurances that no
more wise nor eloquent damsel had ever been known and did not cease
until she finally bowed to their urgings and began:
The Shrivener's Tale
I shall tell a tale of virtue rewarded and base treachery deceived.
It once did chance that to a small and unremarkable village a man of property did come to dwell. He was small of stature with beady, porcine eyes and a great growth of rough, black hair upon the backs of his coarse and spade-like hands. Though low of birth, he was of a sly and grasping nature and had through dishonourable dealings amassed a fortune beyond both his merits and his station.
In his overweening pride he had sought and acquired a bed-mate and companion among the gentle-folk of the village, a widow past her first youth known to all as the Lady Lilian. Though born of the best stock, endowed with wealth and of a kind disposition, she was cursed with a vulgar nature and a lewd desire for forbidden pleasures not in keeping with her birth and position.
This ill-matched pair did yet live happily enough for a time until the business of a lady of beauty and refinement, a Shrivener by occupation, did take her to this village and the man of property, whose name was Matt, did cast his eye upon her.
"What village is this you tell of?" These words in the rough accents of Devon cut through the Shrivener's tale. It was a surly cowman who had joined the pilgrimage to seek absolution for sins of slurping.
The Shrivener turned her lovely eyes upon him in surprise and said in mild tones, "Friend, the name of the small and unremarkable village was Ambridge."
"I thought as much" spat the cowman. "I shall hear no more of this stuff, but shall keep to the wisdom of our fathers who ever taught that Tales of Ambridge are Good for Fools!"
And he turned away from the merry company taking no leave and strode ahead, regarding not the black looks and muttering directed at his back.
The company travelled on at an easy pace, stopping often for refreshment by the road or to count the clover in the fields. The sun was shining, the air was fresh, and there was none who felt oppressed by an urgent desire to reach the goal of their pilgrimage: the Cathedral of St Shula the Sanctimonious, martyr to her husband, in the town of Borchesterbury, where her right index finger, raised in reproach, was preserved in a precious shrine worked of beaten gold inlaid with sparkling jewels.
After a time, one of the boldest of the company spoke up: "Gentle lady, be not unjust and if it please thee, punish not with thy silence the innocent for the offence of yon churlish cowman, but have mercy and set thy story forth!"
Matt of Crawford was now forever making excuses to visit the Shrivener in her chambers. When the Lady Lilian would tax him, he did reply that he was a man of business, whose occupation undeniably could not be exercised without shriving, as even the smallest and most ignorant child would confirm, and swore that his relations with the Shrivener had no aspect or taint of familiarity. Indeed, in his base duplicity he would sigh and feign weariness of the necessity: "Oh, could I but be free of this continual shriving!"
Alone with the Shrivener, however, he dropped all pretence, and dropping to his knees, he would implore her to hear his declarations of love and heaped such importunities upon her, that she did blush and cast down her eyes, being of a modest upbringing and unused to the deceitful tricks of base and shameless seducers of women.
Nonetheless, she remained steadfast until the vile fiend and enemy of mankind put it into the mind of Matt to invite the Shrivener to break bread at a certain inn and pot-house, that had newly been erected upon the road that skirted the village.
The keeper of the inn was a man of Norman descent, but wayward and profligate, so that having wasted and gambled away his patrimony, he was at last reduced to serving meat and drink to travellers upon the road, the last vestige of his former station left to him being his name, which was Henri.
When Matt of Crawford arrived with the Shrivener, Henri rushed out of the inn to greet him, bowing and scraping and wiping his greasy fingers upon his tunic. "Monsieur Matt! You do too much honour to me and my humble tavern! Come in and be welcome - and your charming companion." He gave the Shrivener a leering sidewise look, the while winking lewdly at Matt.
"A discrete table, Henri, if you please. I shall have none of your loquacious tables, your tables that gossip and bear tales but I require a table that will keep its counsel and maintain a sullen silence, even if the Inquisition, nay, the Devil himself, should persuade it with all the instruments borne of man's ingenuity for loosening tongues and revealing the secrets of the heart. A table, I say, with clos'ed eyes and seal'ed mouth, speaking neither verse nor prose, in short a table that can be trusted to reveal nothing that pass in its presence, neither atop nor below, nor at any of its four sides. Friend Henri, will you show us to such a table?"
Henri bowed low and led them within.
Matt gave a sign and Henri hastened to bring them a pitcher of the thin, sour and frothy ale drunk in the village and two chipped crockery mugs. The Shrivener looked about her curiously, as she in her innocence had never frequented such places and with such company. Matt pledged her with his cup and she raised hers to her lips in return.
It did chance that her eyes were passing over the crudely carved and painted coats of arms that hung on the walls of the smoky and dimly lit room in which they sat when they lit upon something that alarmed her and caused her to recoil, the warnings her beloved parents, good and pious folk, now sadly departed, had given her upon her way, of a sudden becoming present to her mind.
She dashed her mug of foul liquor to floor and with trembling finger pointed toward an object hanging on the wall.
"What is that?!" she cried, her voice shrill with rage.
"Why, a platemeter, dear Annabelle," he replied.
"The very badge and symbol of abasement and sinfulness! How could you, whom I trusted and held to be a gentleman, despite your unrefined and bearded hands, bring an innocent and honourable lady to a den of iniquity where such vile objects are not hidden, but brazenly brought forth in shameless display! Fie, I shall not remain here another moment, but shall fly and do penance in hopes that I may find forgiveness for the faults that have brought me to such a pass!"
And she fled the inn, waking its inhabitants momentarily from their slothful intemperance and gluttony, so that they stared open-mouthed and agog at her disappearing form.
"Curses, foiled again!" cried Matt after her, using many and various other blasphemous expressions of outrage and anger that his foul designs had been crossed, smashing crockery and overturning the rude furnishings of the inn in a frenzy of frustrated hopes and mortification.
"What a poor, paltry, bloodless thing this Shrivener is!" cried a loud voice. It belonged to a person of middle years, not attired as befits a solemn pilgrim, but like an unmarried virgin, as though an ewe of several winters would go clad in the fleece of a young lamb. It was the Wife of the Shower.
"Spurning good meat and drink, for shame!" continued this vulgar person. "Would she die a maid, with loins reeking of mankwold?"
At this a poor, sad Cheesemongeress, who made one of the pilgrims, raised a feeble protest that none marked, for all eyes were upon the Wife of the Shower and the Shrivener.
"And flying at the sight of a platemeter, forsooth! Matt of Crawford would have had better sport had I but been present, and me and all, platemeter or no!"
"Aye, and with many another before and since, I'll be bound!" replied the Shrivener angrily, and there had like to have been blows, had the company not kept them apart.
The while the Lady Lilian
Had risen early from her bed again
When at first light the cock did call
To visit a certain market-stall
Where very often she had been
That stood close by the village green.
The keeper of the stall, the Carter's wife,
Did once have grand ambitions for her life
But they were shattered one and all
And now she stood within the market stall
Counting out coppers and silver pence
And knew she'd nevermore come hence.
"Lady Lilian, what may be your desire?"
"Susan, I would have a tube of fire
Paper wrapped around an herb or weed;
How strange that I should feel this need!
I've never heard nor dreamt nor seen the same
And cannot think whate'er could be its name!"
"The thing you seek as 'fags' be known
Made of plants far distant grown.
Be assured that I have ordered some,
But fear 'twill yet be long before they come.
Know that Master Chaucer long had perished
Before the age Columbus flourished
Who travelled the Atlantic without fear
Bringing things beforetimes unknown here.
'Tis sure that we will long lie in our graves
Before Tobacco English folk enslaves!"
Cast down the Lady looked away
But chanced to see a fine display
Of pages written wondrous fine
And thought, this may suit her design.
"Susan, if I rightly understand,
Are these indulgences in the Shrivener's hand?"
"Indeed, my lady. Are they not nice?
Tuppence ha'penny, and cheap at half the price!"
Lady Lilian, her purchase made did quickly go;
And her intentions ye betimes shall know.
A woman of the company there was,
Who, as a punishment, and for just cause,
About her neck a cangue did wear,
For spiteful tales that she was wont to bear.
Sharp-nosed, haggardly and pale,
Now set she up a high complaining wail:
"You started off in prose, and now speak verse.
'Tis no better so - I find it worse!
Now I rhyme myself, against my will!
Let me speak in prose, or I'll be still!"
To be still, though, was never her intent,
She scolded forth, the Tongue Hell sent.
"And verily, 'tis rather strange
Remarking on the counting of the change.
These foolish jests methinks should stop.
D'ye know another way to run a shop?
Surely Master Chaucer must despise
These idle stories and impious lies.
Though ignorant Plowmen may flounce and rage,
Ne'er shall he place them on the Foremost Page!"
"And so predictable" a voice affirmed,
Of a silly fop who'd sat and squirmed,
The while the Shrivener her tale had told,
Now by the Carter's wife's harangue made bold.
Ever eager his own voice to hear
Though in an inn he but the bags did bear.
He pointed out the story's failings
And added his two pence to Susan's railings.
"The bed-trick it will be, I'd say.
I see it coming from a mile away!
Original and fresh, my favorite plot,
'Twill be a rare, delightful pleasure - Not."
More Chaucerian parody:
<<Back
|
|
 | |  |
|
|
|
 |
|
