“London! then haply thou hast a tale o' that poet, Dan Chaucer; he 's in favour with the great Duke.”
“Ay, mesdames; there 's one tale of his I know,” said Calote, and thereupon she told them of the Life of Saint Cecyle, and how she was wedded to a young man, and an angel came down from heaven to twine them with garlands of roses.
“Oh!” and “Ah!” said the damsels, smiling one on another; “a sweet tale!”
And how the governor of the city cut off Cecyle's head, for that she was a Christian. But she had a stubborn neck, would not break in three blows o' the sword.
And “Oh!” and “Ah!” shrieked the damsels, clasping their white throats with their soft fingers. “Tell on, tell on! A grisly tale!”
This was one of those jewels that Dan Chaucer after set in the chain that he called the Canterbury Tales; nevertheless, at that time 't was already cut in the rough, albeit not yet polished for the setting, and Calote had heard it.
“Anon, anon!” cried Custance, when the tale was ended; and her father being asleep, she slipped off his knee and sat down on the dais step by the side of Calote, her chin in her hand.
“Nay, let them clear the hall,” said Eleyne. “'T is late; I 've a gown to mend. What say ye, if we keep the maid and hearken to but one tale each day? So we 'll wile our tediousness.”
So Calote stayed in the manor-house and slept of nights on a sheepskin at the foot of Custance's bed.
The third day after her coming, Sir Austin held his court in the hall. The bailiff was there and the reeve, and certain villeins that would make complaint, or be complained against. And the peddler also was there, set twixt the reeve and the bailiff. Sir Austin sat in his great chair on the dais, and in the other end of the hall, against the lancet windows, Eleyne, and Godiyeva, and Custance sat, sewing a seam. Calote knelt at Custance's elbow, and they all four babbled soft of Sir Gawaine, and drew their needles in and out, and lifted an eye now and again to mark what was toward in the other end of the hall.