‘I will take a rest now,’ he said to her. ‘It’s already daylight. I need to sleep.’ Then he laid his head upon the pillow, and fell into a sound slumber. When he woke up at nine o’clock, he sprang out of bed. May, however, stayed in the bedchamber for four days.
The labourer needs rest, you see. Otherwise he, or she, will not be able to survive. This is true of every creature under the sun, fish or bird, beast or man.
Now I will turn back to woeful Damian, who is languishing for love of May. This is what I should tell him. ‘Oh foolish boy. You silly thing, Damian. Answer me this one question. How are you going to explain your plight to May? She will just turn you away. If you tell her how much you love her, she will simply betray you to her husband. God help you. I can say no more.’
So Damian is bathed in the fire of Venus, lost and helpless with desire, ready even to put his life at risk. He could stand it no longer. He borrowed a pen, and then wrote a letter in which he revealed all his sorrow. He wrote it in verse, a poetical complaint addressed to his fresh and lovely May. A lay is a lay in any language. He placed the manuscript in a little silk purse that he hung around his neck, close to his heart.
From the time of the wedding day, the moon had glided from the sign of Taurus into Cancer. That is how long May resided in her bedchamber. It was the custom of new brides. They must not eat in hall until three or four days have passed; after that time, she can sit at the feast. On the fourth day, therefore, January and May attended high mass before proceeding to dinner in the hall. She was as bright and lovely as a summer’s day. Then the sight of the meat prompted her good husband to think of Damian. ‘Mother of God,’ he exclaimed, ‘why isn’t Damian here to wait on me? Is he sick or something? What has happened?’ The other squires explained to him that Damian had indeed been taken ill and could not perform his duties. Only sickness would keep him away from the table.
‘I am sorry for it,’ January replied. ‘Damian is a good and loyal servant. It would be a great pity if he were to die. He is as intelligent and as discreet as any young man of his rank; he has always been attentive and eager to please. After dinner my wife and I will visit him in his chamber, to see if we can offer him any comfort.’ All the company blessed him for that. Out of sheer kindness this good knight was willing to visit his sick squire. It was very gracious of him. ‘Dearest wife,’ January said, ‘listen to me. After we have finished the meal, I would like you and your women to attend to Damian. Try to cheer him up. He is a good boy. Tell him that I intend to visit him, too, after I have had a nap. Don’t be gone too long, dear. I will not be content until you are back with me and lying by my side.’ Then he called over one of the other squires, his master of ceremonies, and discussed some matters of business with him.
So May, accompanied by all her women, proceeded to the chamber of Damian. She sat down by the side of his bed, and comforted him as best she could. Then the young squire, as soon as he saw his opportunity, secretly put in her hand the little silk purse in which he had placed his lay of love. He sighed deeply as he did so, and then whispered to her, ‘Have mercy on me, lady. Tell no one about this. If I am discovered, I am as good as dead.’ So May hid the purse in her bosom, and went on her way. I shall say no more.
She came back to her husband, who was already in bed. He clasped her in his arms and kissed her. Then he laid himself down to sleep. May excused herself, saying that she had to visit the you-know-what – where everyone has to go. She took out Damian’s verses and read them in the toilet; then she tore the paper into pieces and flushed them down the loo. May now had a lot to think about. She lay down beside January, who was fast asleep until he woke himself up with a coughing fit. As soon as he opened his eyes, he asked her to strip naked. He told her that her clothes got in his way. Whether she liked it or not, she was forced to obey her husband. I will not go into any more details, for fear of offending the more fastidious among you. Let me just add that he took his pleasure of her. Whether this was heaven, or hell, for her I cannot say. They were at their business until the time of evensong, when they rose from their bed.
I do not know whether it was chance or destiny. I am not sure if it was the work of grace or the work of nature. But it happened that, at this time, the pattern of the constellations worked in favour of lovers. This was the moment to submit a petition, a billet-doux, to Venus. The scholars tell us that all things have their season. This was the season for young women to find – who knows what? God alone knows all the causes within human affairs. I can tell you nothing about them. I do know this, however. May had taken such a liking to Damian that she could not stop thinking about him. His image was lodged in her heart. ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks about me,’ she said. ‘I love him. I love him more than anyone else in the world. If he had only his shirt to his name, I would still love him.’ Do you see how pity soon suffuses a gentle heart?
You may perhaps now understand how generosity of spirit comes naturally to women. Consideration makes them bountiful. Of course certain women are as hard as adamant. They would rather starve a man to death than show him favour. They would not consider themselves murderers, oh no, they would congratulate themselves on their cruel virtue. Not so for May. She was full of pity for Damian. She wrote him a letter, in which she pledged to him her heart. All they needed to find was the time and place. Then she would be happy to satisfy all of his desires. Could he come up with a plan? This was the gist of her message.
When she found the opportunity she went to Damian’s chamber, and surreptitiously slipped her note beneath his pillow. Would he find it? She squeezed his hand, without anyone else seeing, and begged him to get well soon. Then she returned to her husband, who was calling out for her.
Up rises Damian on the following morning. He had forgotten all about his sickness and his sorrow. There was a spring in his step. He combed his hair, cleaned himself and brushed down his clothes. He did everything to please a certain lady. Then he presented himself to January as humbly as a dog trained to hunt. He was so pleasant to everyone, in fact, that the household was full of praise for him. Craft is easy, for those who are crafty. Above all else he stood high in the favour of May. So I will leave Damian going about his business, and carry on with my story.
Some wise men suggest that human happiness is to be found in the pursuit of pleasure. Certainly the noble January was of this opinion; he looked for pleasure all the time, in the most virtuous possible way of course. He was an honest knight, after all. So his house, and all his other fine goods, were as fitting for his rank as are a king’s. Among his treasured belongings was a delicious garden, walled all around with stone. I cannot begin to describe the beauty of it. There was nothing like it. The author of The Romance of the Rose could not do justice to it. The god of gardens, Priapus himself, would not be equal to the task of depicting the fairness of this place. There was a refreshing well, for example, under a laurel tree that was always green. It was said that Pluto and Proserpina, with their fairy band, sang and danced about that well; it was filled with music, not with water.
The noble knight took such pleasure in walking through these green arbours that he never allowed anyone else to enter the garden; he was the only one who held the key. It was a small silver latchkey that unlocked a wicket-gate. So he came and went as he pleased. In the summer he took his young wife with him, and there he had his way with her. He frisked and frolicked. Whatever he had not done in bed, he did on the grass. He did it, whatever it was, as often as he could. What fun. Can you imagine the happiness of January – and of May?