The Canterbury Tales: A Retelling by Peter Ackroyd by Peter Ackroyd, Geoffrey Chaucer Page B

rays the land receives, and all the dewdrops perish on the leaves. This is the poetry of the morning that greeted Arcite, the squire of the royal chamber, as he rose up from his bed. He decided to pay homage to May, inspired by his desire for Emily; so forth he went upon his fiery steed, and rode some two or three miles beyond the city. Here were the open fields where he could find exercise and recreation. Quite by chance he had ridden towards the wood where Palamon lay concealed. Here he wove for himself a garland of branches, made from the leaves of the woodbine and the hawthorn, and thus crowned he sang out in the sunlight this happy greeting. ‘May, with all your flowers and your green livery, welcome to you! Welcome to the fairest and freshest month! May I deserve this green garland!’ He dismounted from his horse and in lively mood explored a path that led into the wood itself. Where did the path take him? It led him directly to the thicket of trees where Palamon, in fear of his life, had taken refuge. He had no idea that Arcite was close to him. God knows it would have seemed an unlikely coincidence. But there is an old saying, proven many times, that ‘Fields have eyes and woods have ears.’ It behoves all of you to behave wisely, because you never know whom you are going to meet. The course of life is unexpected. So Palamon little knew that the voice he heard was that of Arcite. He just lay very still in the obscure grove.
    Meanwhile Arcite was singing his heart out, wandering among the trees and bushes of the wood. Then he stopped suddenly and fell to musing, as lovers will often do. One minute the lover dallies among flowers and the next he is thrust upon thorns. He goes up and down, just like a bucket in a well. Venus, like her day, can change her countenance – Friday can be sunny and then filled with clouds. Friday is unlike any other day of the week. In the same way Venus is quixotic and unpredictable with her votaries.
    So after Arcite had sung, he sighed. He sat down upon the trunk of an upturned tree, and began to mourn. ‘Alas,’ he cried, ‘I wish that I had never been born! How long, cruel and pitiless Juno, will you continue to wage war upon Thebes? The royal blood of Cadmus and Amphion, the founders of Thebes, has been sprinkled and spilled. Cadmus was the first king of Thebes. I am of his direct lineage. Yet what has become of me? I am now no better than a slave, or a captive, serving as a squire in the court of the most bitter enemy of our city. Yet Juno heaps ever more shame upon me. I dare not acknowledge my own name. I cannot proclaim myself as noble Arcite. I must hide under the name of the insignificant Philostratus. Oh Juno, and your ruthless son, Mars, you two have destroyed my kith and kin. The only survivors are myself and Palamon, who is now consigned by Theseus to the martyrdom of endless prison. And then, above all else, I am also a martyr. I am a martyr to love. Love has fired its arrow into my heart. My heart is gone before my life is done. I believe that I was destined to this fate before I was born. The eyes of Emily have slain me utterly. They are the warrant of my death. Nothing else in the world is of any consequence to me. Nothing else has meaning for me. Oh Emily, if only I could serve you!’ And, with this, he fell down in a trance. He lay face down for a long time before getting to his feet again.
    Palamon, concealed close by, had heard every word of Arcite’s love lament. He felt that a sword, as cold as ice, had been plunged into his heart. He shook with anger. He could no longer stay in hiding. So, like a madman, pale as death, he jumped out of the thicket shouting, ‘Arcite! Arcite! Wicked Arcite! False traitor, Arcite! I have caught you! You proclaim yourself the lover of my lady, Emily, for whom I have suffered so much pain and woe. You are of my blood and allegiance, as I have told you many times, and yet what have you done? You have deceived Theseus. You have