Soldier and Minstrel’s Tale

A Lost Canterbury Tale in Middle English

The Prologue

Whan that the Bakere ended hadde his tale,
A Soudiour rood forth, his face al hale
With scarres of werre, and by his syde ther rood
A Mynstral with a lute of fremde wood.
“Now, by Seint George!” oure Hoste gan to crye,
“A soudiour and his syngere! Tel us whye
Ye ryde togidre thus in compaignye—
And telle a tale of your chevalrye!”

The Soudiour lough, “I have a tale, pardee,
Of how I wan greet worshipe over the see,
And how—”
“Abyde,” the Mynstral seyde, “good brother,
Lat us telle trewe, oon with the other.
I was ther with thee, as thou wel woost—”

“Ye, tel it with me then!” quod oure Hoost.

The Tale

SOUDIOUR:
In Normandye, wher I was stationed longe,
Ther cam upon us sixty thousand stronge
Of Frensshmen armed—

MYNSTRAL:
Sixty? Nay, good frend,
‘Twas sixty men, and half weren fat and blend
With wyn—

SOUDIOUR:
Be stille! They cam with siege engynes,
Grete towres on wheles, with fyr and mynes!

MYNSTRAL:
‘Twas oon farm-cart with hey for hors, in trouthe.

SOUDIOUR:
Wilt thou be stille and lat me telle, by routhe?
I stood alone upon the castel walle—

MYNSTRAL:
We hid behind the myllers pigges stalle.

SOUDIOUR:
With swerd in hand, I leepe into the fray!
Ten men I slewe—

MYNSTRAL:
Thou tripped upon the hey
And fel into the trough wher pigges ete.
The Frensshmen laughed to see thee in such sete!

SOUDIOUR:
I roos agayn lik Mars, the god of werre!

MYNSTRAL:
Thou roos lik bacon from a muddy ferre.

The pilgrims gan to laughe at this debaat.
“Telle on, telle on!” quod Harry Bailly streit.

SOUDIOUR:
Ther was a lady, fairest in that londe,
The Duchesse—

MYNSTRAL:
‘Twas Jehanne the barmaide, honde
On herte, she was, and thou were dronke that nyght—

SOUDIOUR:
She was a duchesse in the candel-lyght!
She loved me for my prowesse and my name—

MYNSTRAL:
She loved thy silver, til she found thy shame—
That thou hadst lost it al at dees that eve.

SOUDIOUR:
I saved hir from a dragon, I beleve!

MYNSTRAL:
‘Twas but the taverne-kepers mastyf hounde.
Thou ranne so faste, thy feet scarce touched the grounde!

SOUDIOUR:
Now herkneth how I wan greet tresour bryght!
I foughte a geaunt in the dede of nyght—
Seven feet or more he stood—

MYNSTRAL:
‘Twas five feet foure,
A litel man who kept a litel stoore.
Thou tried to robbe him of his breed and ale—

SOUDIOUR:
‘Twas combat! And I wan!

MYNSTRAL:
To telle the tale
Aryght—his wyf cam out with besom stikke
And chased us bothe awey ful wonder quikke!
We ranne lik hares—

SOUDIOUR:
Strategic retreet!
To fight a womman armed is not mete!
But telle hem of the tyme I saved thy lyf—

MYNSTRAL:
O, that? Whan thou were arguing with the wyf
Of that greet lord who caught thee with his wyne?
I songe a song to make his anger dwyne—
And tolde him thou were but a fool, in trouthe,
And touched of wit, deserving of his routhe.

SOUDIOUR:
Touched of wit? I am a man of armes!
I’ve conquered castels, wommen with my charmes—

MYNSTRAL:
The only castel thou hast ever wonne
Was made of cardes, and fel ere thou were donne.
The only womman charmed by thy prowesse
Was Olde Mab who mendes thy ripped hamesse—
And she be seventy yeer and half-blynde!

SOUDIOUR:
Thou art the worste mynstral of thy kynde!
Why do I kepe thee in my compaignye?

MYNSTRAL:
For thou canst neither rede nor write, pardee,
And nedes me to counte thy wages smale,
And kepe thee from the worste parts of the jale,
And synge thy praises whan thou art in love—
Though how I make a falcon of a dove
Is more than—

SOUDIOUR:
Pees! I have oon tale more!
The grettest feat of armes in all the wore!
At Agincourt—

MYNSTRAL:
Thou weren’t at that fighte.

SOUDIOUR:
I mighte have been!

MYNSTRAL:
We bothe know that’s not righte.
Whan Henry foughte, we were in Calais toun
With dyce and ale, til all oure coyne was doun.

The pilgrims roored with laughter at this tale.
The Wyf of Bathe cride out, “This can nat faille!
Here is the trouthe of every soudiour’s boste—
And every wyf who knoweth what men moste
Do clayme of conquest whan they come to bedde!”

SOUDIOUR:
But yet, good folk, though al be not as I sedde,
We foughte for Engelond, fer over the see—

MYNSTRAL:
And that be trewe—we served ful honestelye.
If nat with greet prowesse as thou hast tolde,
At leest we cam bak hoom, bothe yong and olde.
And many bettre men than us lay deed
In Fraunce’s erthe, who shal no more take breed.

SOUDIOUR:
Amen to that. And so oure tale is doon—
Part trewe, part jest, beneath this pilgrims’ moon.
For what is trouthe? Is it not what we make
In telling tales for good felaweshipes sake?

The Epilogue

“Now by my trouthe,” oure Hoste seyde with glee,
“That was the strangest tale I yet did see!
Two tellers of oon tale, and neither oon
Agreeth with other! Yet the tale is doon,
And wel ytolde, for laughter is good chere
Upon this longe road to Caunterburye dere.
Thou art an honest mynstral, I dare seye,
To kepe thy maister humble in this weye!”

“And thou,” to the Soudiour, “art a man
Who knoweth how to telle tales with a plan—
If nat with trouthe, then with greet invencioun!
Now who shal telle next in oure convencioun?”

Modern English Translation

The Prologue

When the Baker had ended his tale at last,
A Soldier rode forth, his face held fast
With scars of war, and by his side there rode
A Minstrel with a lute of foreign wood.
“Now, by Saint George!” our Host began to cry,
“A soldier and his singer! Tell us why
You ride together thus in company—
And tell a tale of your great chivalry!”

The Soldier laughed, “I have a tale, indeed,
Of how I won great worship overseas,
And how—”
“Hold on,” the Minstrel said, “good brother,
Let us tell it true, one with the other.
I was there with you, as you well know—”

“Yes, tell it together then!” said our Host.

The Tale

SOLDIER:
In Normandy, where I was stationed long,
There came upon us sixty thousand strong
Of Frenchmen armed—

MINSTREL:
Sixty? No, good friend,
‘Twas sixty men, and half were fat and blind
With wine—

SOLDIER:
Be still! They came with siege engines,
Great towers on wheels, with fire and mines!

MINSTREL:
‘Twas one farm-cart with hay for horse, in truth.

SOLDIER:
Will you be still and let me tell, forsooth?
I stood alone upon the castle wall—

MINSTREL:
We hid behind the miller’s pigpen stall.

SOLDIER:
With sword in hand, I leaped into the fray!
Ten men I slew—

MINSTREL:
You tripped upon the hay
And fell into the trough where pigs do eat.
The Frenchmen laughed to see you in such seat!

SOLDIER:
I rose again like Mars, the god of war!

MINSTREL:
You rose like bacon from a muddy floor.

The pilgrims all began to laugh at this debate.
“Tell on, tell on!” said Harry Bailey straight.

SOLDIER:
There was a lady, fairest in that land,
The Duchess—

MINSTREL:
‘Twas Jehanne the barmaid, hand
On heart, she was, and you were drunk that night—

SOLDIER:
She was a duchess in the candle-light!
She loved me for my prowess and my name—

MINSTREL:
She loved your silver, till she found your shame—
That you had lost it all at dice that eve.

SOLDIER:
I saved her from a dragon, I believe!

MINSTREL:
‘Twas but the tavern-keeper’s mastiff hound.
You ran so fast, your feet scarce touched the ground!

SOLDIER:
Now listen how I won great treasure bright!
I fought a giant in the dead of night—
Seven feet or more he stood—

MINSTREL:
‘Twas five feet four,
A little man who kept a little store.
You tried to rob him of his bread and ale—

SOLDIER:
‘Twas combat! And I won!

MINSTREL:
To tell the tale
Aright—his wife came out with broomstick wood
And chased us both away as fast she could!
We ran like hares—

SOLDIER:
Strategic retreat!
To fight a woman armed is hardly meet!
But tell them of the time I saved your life—

MINSTREL:
Oh, that? When you were arguing with the wife
Of that great lord who caught you with his wine?
I sang a song to make his anger pine—
And told him you were but a fool, in truth,
And touched of wit, deserving of his ruth.

SOLDIER:
Touched of wit? I am a man of arms!
I’ve conquered castles, women with my charms—

MINSTREL:
The only castle you have ever won
Was made of cards, and fell ere you were done.
The only woman charmed by your prowess
Was Old Mab who mends your ripped harness—
And she be seventy years and half-blind!

SOLDIER:
You are the worst minstrel of your kind!
Why do I keep you in my company?

MINSTREL:
For you can neither read nor write, you see,
And need me to count your wages small,
And keep you from the worst parts of the jail,
And sing your praises when you are in love—
Though how I make a falcon of a dove
Is more than—

SOLDIER:
Peace! I have one tale more!
The greatest feat of arms in all the war!
At Agincourt—

MINSTREL:
You weren’t at that fight.

SOLDIER:
I might have been!

MINSTREL:
We both know that’s not right.
When Henry fought, we were in Calais town
With dice and ale, till all our coin was down.

The pilgrims roared with laughter at this tale.
The Wife of Bath cried out, “This cannot fail!
Here is the truth of every soldier’s boast—
And every wife who knows what men do most
Claim of conquest when they come to bed!”

SOLDIER:
But yet, good folk, though all be not as I said,
We fought for England, far over the sea—

MINSTREL:
And that be true—we served full honestly.
If not with great prowess as you have told,
At least we came back home, both young and old.
And many better men than us lay dead
In France’s earth, who shall no more take bread.

SOLDIER:
Amen to that. And so our tale is done—
Part true, part jest, beneath this pilgrims’ moon.
For what is truth? Is it not what we make
In telling tales for good fellowship’s sake?

The Epilogue

“Now by my truth,” our Host said with glee,
“That was the strangest tale I yet did see!
Two tellers of one tale, and neither one
Agrees with other! Yet the tale is done,
And well told too, for laughter is good cheer
Upon this long road to Canterbury dear.
You are an honest minstrel, I dare say,
To keep your master humble in this way!”

“And you,” to the Soldier, “are a man
Who knows how to tell tales with a plan—
If not with truth, then with great invention!
Now who shall tell next in our convention?”