“That’s the ‘Canterbury Tales,’ I know!”
Just at the moment, and before Godmother could answer, there was a stir and commotion in Thames Street. Children began to run, shouting to one another, “The Pilgrims!” “The Pilgrims come!” and there was a general rush in one direction.
Betty and her godmother followed the crowd. “Let us stand here in the middle of the bridge, outside the Chapel of St. Thomas,” suggested Godmother. “Then we shall see them come in at the north gate and go out at the one at the other end of the bridge, into Southwark.”
They had just taken their places, when an elderly quiet-looking man dressed in a long brown garment, with a hood whose long peak hung to his shoulder, came up, stepping softly, and stood beside them.
“Do you know who this is?” Godmother asked. “No other than Geoffrey Chaucer, the great poet!”
Betty was torn between her desire to look at him, and her excitement at the approach of a train of people on horseback, who now came clattering through the gateway on to the bridge.
“This is a company of pilgrims just setting out on their journey to Canterbury to visit the tomb of St. Thomas à Becket,” Godmother told her. “Do you notice how intently the poet is watching them?”
Betty glanced at him, and saw him smiling quietly as the procession passed by.
“He will go home presently and perhaps begin to write the ‘Canterbury Tales’ this very day, making an Introduction or Prologue to it which will describe all those people on horseback just as you see them.”