F. J. Harvey Darton

The First Day

At the Tabard:
The Beginning of the Pilgrimage

ONG ago, when Richard II. was King, the highways of England must have been a far gayer and stranger sight than they are nowadays. The roads themselves were bad ones, little better than rough, muddy lanes, and often very dangerous by reason of the robbers who lurked in the woods which were so widely spread over the land. But on these roads, bad as they were, travelled wayfarers who appear to us now no more than the people of legends, who seem never really to have lived except in songs and stories. Day after day men would pass up and down in strange garments and on errands so strange that, if we could look back and see them close at hand, we might fancy ourselves, so far as outside appearances went, well on the way to fairyland. Yet these were after all the ordinary Englishmen of those days, living and thinking really not very differently from ourselves, though we only know of them now through books.

Imagine a highway of those times, and fancy the travellers going to and fro upon it. Here you might see a knight riding with his squire to some tournament, or maybe merely roving in search of adventures with other knight-errants like himself, Or round a bend in the road would appear some great lord, with a long train of armed men and servants on horseback; even the ladies would be riding, for carriages were rare and uncomfortable. Here, again, was a wandering minstrel, or a troop of jugglers, going to some castle near at hand, where they would be sure of a welcome, rich and poor alike showing hospitality according to their means.

A Wandering Minstrel

Perhaps a monk or a friar would pass on his way to beg offerings from anyone he could find, meeting with a response from most men, but a welcome from few, for many of the officers of the Church bore a bad name, abusing their great power, and winning the hatred of the poorer classes.

People were much more friendly, much gayer, and much more outspoken and unrestrained. Travellers would gladly join together for a journey, partly for safety, but quite as much for the pleasure of one another's company on the road. They willingly helped each other, and few would pass on the road without exchanging greetings. But in spite of this friendliness among strangers, there were very clear divisions between the rich and the poor. The court and the great nobles thought themselves far above the rich middle class, who imitated them in many ways, and who in turn looked down on the lowest classes of all. The nobles spent their time in fighting and learning to fight, in entertaining and feasting, in carrying on affairs of State; the middle class in trade or agriculture; while the lower classes were in many cases little more than slaves, even when their condition was not hopelessly bad. And apart from these social distinctions there was, of course, much more discomfort, more violence, more oppression then than now.

But in spite of all hardships, men really loved gaiety—gay clothes of every kind of bright colour, gay trappings to their horses, gay songs and dances (for everyone then was musical). They loved also the open air and spring and the sun and flowers, so that often young knights and ladies would spend their afternoons in the pleasant walled gardens of the great castles, weaving garlands of blossoms and singing and dancing merely for joy in the fine day. Fighting, too, was an amusement; a man went lightheartedly to his death in a tourney, as if to a joyful feast, and ladies looked on gladly at a fight, and encouraged their faithful knights to acts of prowess. As for the games and sports that were played by all classes, they were without number.

People were more unrestrained, again, both in deed and in word. If a man's wife disobeyed him, he beat her till she knew better. Knights might be courteous and debonair in their manners, but they could be brutal and harsh as well. Men talked more freely, too, about all manner of things, and their ideas of the mirth of which they were so fond were not always the same as ours nowadays. But above all they were outspoken in regard to sacred things. They were continually meeting, for good or ill, one or other of the officers of the Church, and the Church had a wide power over their daily life; and so they spoke very familiarly both of the clergy and of religion. But though they talked lightly and freely of these matters, as it seems to us now, they did not think at all lightly of them, but deeply and seriously. These thoughts they often carried out very openly in acts and words, and thus, as the outcome of their readiness to do religious deeds frankly and without constraint, almost the commonest sight to be seen on an English roadside was the wayfaring pilgrim.

A pilgrimage was one of the most popular of institutions. It was the custom for men to go long journeys at certain seasons to the shrines of famous saints, or to cathedrals and abbeys where relics of good and holy men were to be found, for it was believed that by travelling so far they showed their sorrow and penitence for any evil they had done; and they sometimes endeavoured to display still deeper repentance by going barefoot or lightly-clad, or in some other painful way. They made special vows at these shrines, for prayers at such places, by virtue of the saints and martyrs who had lived or died there, were thought to be of more power than those offered elsewhere.

The chief season for pilgrimages was spring, when the sweet showers of April had put to flight the dryness and cold weather of March. At that time of the year the west wind with his sweet breath is giving new life to all the plants and flowers. The young sun has just left the sign of the Ram in the heavenly Zodiac, and the little birds are beginning to sing again, and to sleep all night with one eye open. Men, too, like the flowers and birds, feel new strength in their veins, and early spring in those far-off days, five centuries and more ago, seemed to bid them leave their homes and use their fresh vigour in a journey to some distant place, to renew their vows and repent of their sins.

Some pilgrims would go abroad, to sacred spots far distant in foreign lands—to the Holy Land, for instance, or to the shrine of St. James of Compostella in Spain—and they would come back wearing a token of palm from Jerusalem, or a St. James's scollop-shell, as a sign of their devotion. But there were also in England itself many places which they visited, and the most famous of all was the shrine of the martyr Thomas Becket in the cathedral at Canterbury, to which men came from every part of the country, and even from Europe itself.

Thus it was a frequent sight in the England of those days to see a band of pilgrims slowly going on their way through Kent, the country-folk staring at the noise and dust of the gaily-clad little company, and all the dogs barking at their heels. Sometimes, indeed, a pilgrimage seemed nothing but an excuse for a lively and pleasant holiday, and the travellers often made themselves very merry on the road, with their loud jests and songs, and their flutes and fiddles and bagpipes. But there were very many who went with high thoughts in their hearts, garbed outwardly in accordance with the reverent purpose of their journey, wearing the sober robe and hat, and carrying the staff and scrip which were known as the proper "weeds" for a serious pilgrim. And even those who turned the journey into a pleasant outing never forgot their real purpose in going, and were moved by a real religious feeling, in spite of all their light behaviour.

It chanced one year that Geoffrey Chaucer, the poet who wrote most of these "Canterbury Tales," made up his mind to go on a pilgrimage to Canterbury; and accordingly he set out early in April. On his way, he stopped one Tuesday evening at the Tabard Inn, in Southwark, kept by a certain Harry Bailly, close to the Bell. The Tabard (a tabard was a kind of sleeveless coat), or a rebuilt inn on the same site, was still standing nearly five hundred years later; but in Chaucer's time it was much more important than in after days, because Southwark was a common resting-place for Canterbury pilgrims, and here they usually got fresh horses to take them on the road. A journey as far as Canterbury was no light matter in those days, if it seems no great distance from London now; the bad roads made travelling slow, and though a man in a hurry might accomplish as much as forty miles in one day, most people would be content with twenty or so at the most. Sometimes great personages would get to Canterbury and back in as little as four days. But a large body of pilgrims, some of them unable to travel fast because of their poor mounts, would have to go at the pace of the slowest member of the company, and so would be very leisurely over the journey.

There were many people already gathered at the Tabard when Chaucer arrived—a good-wife from Bath, for example, who had just ridden up on an ambling nag; a clerk or student from Oxford, riding a horse as lean as a rake, even thinner than he was himself; a miller in a white coat and blue hood, with his bagpipes lying idle by his side, as he sat drinking great draughts of the Tabard's ale; and many another one. More continually came up from every quarter, knowing that the inn was a good place at which to put up for the night and get food and rest.

A Good-wife from Bath on an ambling nag.

The travellers belonged to all kinds of different ranks and professions, and had come from many parts of England. Most of them were of the middle class, and it was clear enough that they were all bent on the same errand. The pilgrimage was a bond of friendliness and good fellowship between them, and before long Chaucer himself had spoken to every one. They soon agreed that it would be safer and easier for them if they continued their journey all together in one band, and they resolved to get up betimes the next morning, in order to set out in good time. Men rose and went to bed early in those days; if they were up at six in the morning, they were usually asleep again by nine or ten o'clock at night at the latest.

The Tabard was an inn of a very good repute, and both man and beast were well cared for there. Harry Bailly, the host, was a stout, bright-eyed man, of a fine imposing presence, a merry, outspoken fellow, though quite wise and prudent with all his jollity. He gave the pilgrims good cheer, with food and wine of the best, and sat talking and joking with them as they were eating their supper.

When they had paid their reckoning (which they did overnight in order to save time in the morning), they fell to asking him about the coming journey, and the pleasures and amusements they would have on the way. They could not travel much more than fifteen miles a day, they thought, as they were such a mixed company, so that they would have to make the time pass in some fashion or other.

Harry Bailly listened to their words, and talked and laughed freely with them. At length he told them of a plan which their questions had suggested to him.

"You are right welcome here, good sirs," he said. "I have not seen such a merry company together in my house this year and I would gladly do something which I have just thought of to serve you. Listen to me. You are about to go on your way to Canterbury—well, God speed you, say I, and may the saint help you when you reach his shrine! On the journey you will have many a cheerful tale and jest, I warrant; there is no mirth in riding together all the way as dumb as stones. Now, I have a plan for making you merry, if you will hear it. Hold up your hands, if you wish me to explain it to you."

They were not long in deciding; they did not think they need hesitate about the matter, and without more ado held up their hands to show that they were ready to hear the Host's advice.

"Listen, then," he went on, "and do not look down on what I shall say; I will speak plainly. Each of you shall tell a tale to pass the time and make the journey seem short—one or more on the road to Canterbury, and the same on the way back. When you have all done this, the tales shall be judged. Whoever is thought to have told the best shall have a supper given him here at the Tabard by all of you when you come back on your way home again. And to make you still merrier, I myself will gladly ride with you, at my own cost, and be your guide and captain; you shall promise to do what I tell you, and if anyone disobeys me, he shall pay whatever is spent that day. That is my plan, and if you agree to it, say so without any more words, and I will get ready to go with you."

The guests were very glad to hear a device which would save them so much trouble and make the journey more cheerful. They soon agreed to do as the Host said—to let him be ruler of the whole company in all things, and judge of the stories. Then they all went to bed for the night.

Thus a company was formed for the pilgrimage, and thus they undertook to tell so many tales on the way to Canterbury.

Apart from Chaucer and the Host, there were some thirty others, all of them men such as could be seen anywhere in England at that day. They represented many different professions, from chivalry to the humblest rank of freemen, and from the most honourable orders of the Church to those who were bringing it into disrepute and dislike. About some of them (if you do not know what sort of men they were) you will learn more as the journey goes on, because of the stories they told and their behaviour on the road. Their number was made up thus:

A Knight, who had just come back from the wars, and was going to give thanks for his safety. His fustian doublet was still travel-stained, and his horses were not gaily harnessed, but good, steady, useful beasts.

The Knight's son, who acted as his Squire.

A Yeoman, a crop-headed, brown-faced fellow, who came in attendance upon the Knight and the Squire, and was their only servant. He was a forester, and knew his craft well. He wore a bright-green jacket and hood, and carried a sword, buckler, and horn, and a bright, sharp-pointed dagger. He bore in his hand a mighty bow, and always kept the peacock-feathered arrows at his belt in good condition and ready for use. On his breast was fastened a silver brooch, showing the figure of St. Christopher, to save him from sudden death or harm.

A Prioress, attended by a Nun and three Priests.

A Monk and a Friar.

A Merchant, wearing a Flemish beaver hat and clad in motley.

The Clerk of Oxford, a Man of Law, and a Franklyn.

A Haberdasher, a Carpenter, a Weaver, a Dyer, and a Carpet-maker, all wearing the livery of a great Gild or company. They seemed prosperous and well-kept citizens, every one of them, the sheaths of their knives being newly tipped with polished silver, and their girdles and pouches spick and span. They were five good, honest men, likely and well fitted to become aldermen; and if that happened, their wives would be mightily proud of them, for then the good ladies would be called "madam," and walk in front of their neighbours at church and in public places.

A Cook and a Shipman.

A Doctor of Medicine, who knew the causes of all kinds of diseases, and could cure every illness. He had some knowledge also of astronomy, and was an able and prosperous physician; yet he was very simple in his habits, and never took to spending rashly the wealth he won in the plague years. His clothes were of cloth of two colours—bright red and blue-gray, lined with taffety and sendal, two kinds of fine silk.

The Good-wife from Bath, named Dame Alison.

A Parson, a poor man as far as money goes, but rich in holy thoughts and deeds. A better shepherd of his flock you would never find. He did not forget to visit and teach the poor of his village, or to give alms, and he would never press hard upon those who could not pay their tithes to him. He set an example by doing good deeds first and teaching them afterwards, without any pride or outward show, and he was not one of those who used to leave their parish to others to look after, but himself lived and worked among his own people, teaching and following the word of Christ.

The Parson's brother, a poor farmer and ploughman, a true, good worker, who threshed and dug and ditched for himself, earning his living by his own toil, and willingly giving his help to his poorer friends whenever he could. He lived in peace and perfect charity with all men, and loved God above all things, and his neighbour as himself.

A Miller, a Manciple, a Reeve, a Summoner, and a Pardoner, whose doings and professions will be seen later.

These, then, were the pilgrims who set out for Canterbury together from the Tabard Inn in Southwark, where they had met (so we are told) on Tuesday, the sixteenth of April, in the year thirteen hundred and eighty-seven.