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

back. Upon his head he wore a coronet of gold, its threads as thick as a man’s arm; it was studded with precious stones, with rubies and with diamonds, and was of tremendous weight. Beside his chariot ran a score or more of white wolfhounds, as large as any steer, used to hunting the lion and the stag. They followed him with their muzzles tightly bound, their leashes fastened to collars of gold. He had a hundred knights in his train, armed well, with hearts stout and defiant. So rode out Lycurgus.
    According to the old stories, which I must use, the procession of Arcite was accompanied by the great Emetreus, king of India. He rode upon a bay horse; the noble beast had trappings of steel, and was covered in cloth of gold embroidered with curious devices. Truly Emetreus resembled Mars himself. His coat of arms was woven of rare silk and embroidered with large white pearls; his saddle was of newly beaten gold, and the mantle around his shoulders was studded with glowing rubies. His hair hung down in curls, carefully fashioned; it was as yellow, and as radiant, as the sun. He had an aquiline nose, and eyes that gave out a golden light; his lips were firm and well rounded, his face fresh and fair except for some freckles scattered here and there. He was a lion in appearance and in purpose. I guess his age to be twenty-five. He had the makings of a beard, and his voice was as stirring as the note of a trumpet. He had a wreath of laurel on his head, all garlanded with green. For his sport he carried on his hand a tame eagle, as purely white as a lily. He had brought with him, like Lycurgus, a hundred knights armed and equipped in every point. Only their heads were bare, in honour of the fact that they fought for love. You should know that in their company were dukes and earls and even other kings, assembled together for their delight in chivalry. Around them on all sides gambolled tame lions and leopards. So in this manner the noble group rode to Athens. They arrived in the city at nine o’clock in the morning, on a Sunday, and in the streets they dismounted.
    The duke of Athens, renowned Theseus, greeted them and then led them through his city to their lodgings; each of them was given hospitality according to his rank. He ordered a great feast for them, too, and arranged everything so well that no one else could have equalled his munificence. You may expect me to comment on the music, and the service, at the feast – on the gifts that were given to high and low – on the rich furnishings of Theseus’ palace – or on the order of guests on the dais – or on the ladies who were fairest or most expert at dancing – or who sang best – or who sang most passionately of love – but I am afraid you will be disappointed. You will not hear from me about the tame hawks that strutted on their perches, or about the mastiffs lying upon the floor of the hall. You may see these things in tapestries. I deem it more important to carry on with the story.
    That Sunday night, before the dawn of day, just as the lark was beginning to sing – it was an hour or two before the end of darkness, and yet the lark still sang – Palamon rose from his bed and blessed himself. He was in high spirits, and was prepared to make a pilgrimage to Venus. He intended, in other words, to visit the shrine of the goddess erected in the amphitheatre. In her holy hour, the fifth hour of the day, he entered the temple and kneeled upon the marble floor where in all humility he prayed to her image.
    ‘Fairest of fair, oh my lady Venus. Daughter of great Jove and spouse of mighty Vulcanus; joyful comfort of mount Cytharea by virtue of the love you had for Adonis, have pity on my bitter tears. Receive my humble prayer into your heart. Alas I do not have the words to tell the sorrows and the torments of my private hell. My heart cannot convey the grief I feel. I am so distracted and confused that I can only invoke your blessed name. Have mercy on me, fair lady. You