Shanto-Mariam University of Creative Technology

Term Paper
On
“Chaucer and Thomas Malory as Poets”

Submitted by-
SANANTA YESMIN
Program- MA (Masters) in English
Language & Literature
ID- 201534006
Batch-38th
Semester-4th
Course Title- Old and MiddleEnglish
Course Code – ENG 6113
Department- English

Submission Date: - 22-08-2020

 ​CHAUCER AND THOMAS MALORY AS POETS

Medieval literature is defined broadly as any work written in Latin or the vernacular between
476-1500 CE, including philosophy, religious treatises, legal texts, as well as works of the
imagination. More narrowly, however, the term applies to literary works of poetry, drama,
romance, epic prose, and histories written in the vernacular (though some histories were in
Latin). While it may seem odd to find histories included with forms of fiction, it should be
remembered that many 'histories' of the Middle Ages contain elements of myth, fable, and legend
and, in some cases, were largely the product of imaginative writers. Poems during the medieval
era were religious in nature and written by clerics. They were used mostly in church and other
religious events. Medieval poems were mainly read by troubadours and minstrels. According to
scholars, literature in the Middle Ages was international rather than local. Medieval poetry was
divided by lines of class and audience rather than language although, Latin was the language of
the church and education. Medieval poetry in itself was very diverse.
The fourteenth century was, in many ways, the century in which English poetry truly arrived,
with the work of Geoffrey Chaucer and the development of Middle English as a supple, vibrant
language for vernacular poetry. In Italy, too, the language of the local, common people was used
in verse by the pioneering poet Dante, who chose to write in Italian rather than the high Latin of
many religious works. Below, we’ve selected some of the very best fourteenth-century poems,
both big and small, epic and lyric.

The term ‘​Dark Age​’ was used by the Italian scholar and poet Petrarch in the 1330s to describe
the decline in later Latin literature following the collapse of the Western Roman empire. In the
20th century, scholars used the term more specifically in relation to the 5th-10th centuries, but
now it is largely seen as a derogatory term, concerned with contrasting periods of perceived
enlightenment with cultural ignorance. A very quick glance at the remarkable manuscripts,
metalwork, texts,buildings and individuals that saturate the early medieval period reveals that
‘Dark Age’ is now very much an out-of-date term. It’s best used as a point of reference against
which to show how the time in fact was."Dark Age & quot; was religiously diverse. The
early medieval period was characterized by widespread adherence to Christianity. However,
there was a great deal of religious variety, and even the Christian church itself was a diverse and
complicated entity. In the north, Scandinavia and parts of Germany adhered to Germanic
paganism, with Iceland converting to Christianity in 1000 AD. Folk
religious practices continued.
Late in the 8th century, an Anglo-Saxon monk called Alcuin questioned why heroic legend still
fascinated Christians, asking: “What has Ingeld to do with Christ?” Within the church there were
many lines of divisions. For example, Monophysitism divided society and the church, arguing
that Jesus had just one nature, rather than two: human and divine, which caused division to the
level of emperors, states and nations;Dark Age & quot; was not a time of illiteracy and
ignorance. The connection between illiteracy and ignorance is a relatively modern phenomenon.
For most of the medieval period and beyond, the majority of information was transmitted orally
and retained through memory. Societies such as that of the early Anglo-Saxons could recall
everything from land deeds, marital associations and epic poetry. The ‘scop’ or minstrel could
recite a single epic over many days, indicating highly sophisticated mental retention. With the
establishment of monasteries, literacy was largely
confined within their walls. Yet in places like the holy community at Lindisfarne, the monks
were able to create sophisticated theological texts, and extraordinary manuscripts. "Dark
Age" was a high point for British art. Far from a ‘dark’ time when all the lights went out,
the early medieval period saw the creation of some of the nation’s finest artworks. The discovery
of the Sutton Hoo ship burial on the eve of the Second World War redefined how the Anglo-
Saxons were perceived. The incredible beauty of the jewelry, together with the sophisticated
trade links indicated by the array of finds, revealed a court that was well connected and
influential. After the arrival of Christian missionaries in 597 AD, Anglo-Saxons had to get to
grips with completely
new technologies. Although having never made books before, within a generation or two they
were creating remarkable manuscripts such as the Lindisfarne Gospels and the earliest surviving
single copy of the Vulgate Bible, the Codex Amiatinus. They also invented a new form of art:
the standing stone high cross. Arguably the most expressive is the Ruthwell Cross, where the
cross itself speaks of Christ’s passion, through the runic poetry carved on its sides. With many
periods in history, it can be difficult to find something new to explore or write about. Not so with
the early medieval period. There are relatively few early medievalists, and a wealth of research
still to be done. What’s more, advances in archaeology are only recently bringing information to
light about how people in this period lived. When societies build more in timber than in stone, it
can be hard to find evidence in the archaeological record, but more is coming to light now than
ever before. There are the surprise discoveries: manuscripts long hidden in archives, hoards
concealed in fields, references only recently translated. There is still so much to be done, and this
is a rich and rewarding period to immerse yourself.

The momentous victory of ​William, the Duke of Normandy​, in the Battle of Hasting in 1066
proved to be ultimately a significant stimulus for the cultural and literary development of the
English people. After the settlement of the Normans in England, Latin and French were the only
recognized and honored language in the Norman court, ignoring the development of English
literature for nearly a hundred and fifty years. When English reappeared, after a lapse of such a
long period, it was found different, significantly influenced by the classical flavor of the French
language, giving a legitimate birth of Anglo-Norman Literature. In the next two centuries, the
cultivation of French romances immensely enriched and expanded English literature in a direct
or indirect way.

Norman brought with them a ready platform for English literature to be acquitted with the
rich literary tradition of Roman classics ensuring scholastic learning with the polymathic
scholars of Europe. The literary themes and expressions were also greatly influenced by the
inclusion of French themes and modes of expressions based on the ideals of strong nationalism
without which national literature could hardly flourish.

Along with William Shakespeare and John Milton, Geoffrey Chaucer (1343-1400) is the third
name in the pantheon of most-influential English writers. Best known for the Canterbury Tales,
Chaucer was considered by admirers as the founding figure of English poetry as early as the 15th
century. Shakespeare and Spenser, among others, were influenced by him. Chaucer has been
praised for his irony, learning, understanding of human nature, geniality, humor, mastery of the
classical and continental literary traditions, and particularly for his ability to create rounded,
living, believable characters, who seemingly have lives and thoughts of their own.

The Frame Narrative

"This is the poynt, to speken short and pleyn,
That ech of yow, to shorte with oure weye,
In this viage shal telle tales tweye
To Caunterbury-ward, I mene it so,
And homward he shal tellen othere two,
Of aventures that whilom han bifalle.
And which of yow that bereth hym best of alle --
That is to seyn, that telleth in this caas
Tales of best sentence and moost solaas --
Shal have a soper at oure aller cost
Heere in this place, sittynge by this post,

The narrative frame of the Canterbury Tales -- the account of the pilgrims and their squabbles as
they move along the Road to Canterbury toward the end of their journey -- was once the most
admired part of Chaucer's work. G.C. Coulton (writing in 1908) nicely expresses the admiration
his generation of critics felt for the framing narrative:

"Even more delightful than any of the tales told by Chaucer's pilgrims is the tale which he tells
us about them all: the story of their journey to Canterbury. Nowhere within so brief a compass
can we realize either the life of the fourteenth century on one hand, or on the other the dramatic
power in which Chaucer stands second only to Shakespeare among English poets. Forget for a
while the separate tales of the pilgrims - - many of which were patched up by fits and starts
during such broken leisure as this man of the world could afford for indulging his poetical
fancies; while many others (like the Monk's and the Parson's) are tedious to modern readers in
strict proportion to their dramatic propriety at the moment -- forget for once all but the Prologue
and the end-links, and read these through at one sitting, from the first stirrup-cup at Southwark
Tabard to that final crest of Harbledown where the weary look down at last upon the sacred city
of their pilgrimage. There is no such story as this in all medieval literature; no such gallery of
finished portraits, nor any drama so true both to life and to perfect art. The dramatis personae of
the Decameron are mere puppets in comparison; their occasional talk seems to us insipid to the
last degree of old-world fashion.

"Boccaccio wrote for a society that was in many ways over-refined already; it is fortunate for us
that Chaucer's public was not yet at that point of literary development at which art is too often
tempted into artifice. He took the living men day by day, each in his simplest and most striking
characteristics; and from these motley figures, under the artist's hand, grew a mosaic in which
each stands out with all the glow of his own native colour, and all the added glory of the jewelled
hues around him." (G.G. Coulton, Chaucer and his England, 1908, p. 126.)

The connecting links that compose the framing narrative of the Canterbury Tales are open to the
same sort of objections that Coulton raises against the tales -- patched up by bits and starts -- and
they show more clearly than the individual tales the unrevised state in which Chaucer left his
great work. Nevertheless Coulton's advice is worth taking, especially today when -- perhaps
because courses in Chaucer so often concentrate on a selection of Tales, or perhaps because so
many critics today have completely rejected the old critical approaches to the "roadside drama"
-- the framing narrative that delighted Coulton and his contemporaries is often left unread.
For critical and scholarly works on the "frame narrative" click here (LINK) for the "General"
category of Derek Pearsall's bibliography.
On April 17th toward the end of the fourteenth century nine and twenty pilgrims gather in the
Tabard Inn in Southwark, just across the river from London, at the beginning of the road to
Canterbury. Geoffrey Chaucer talks to each one and joins their company for a pilgrimage to
Canterbury to seek "the blissful martyr," Thomas à Becket. Harry Bailey, the host of the Tabard,
decides to join them and act as their leader; each pilgrim will tell four stories -- two each on the
way there, two each on the way back (one hundred and twenty -- a "great hundred" -- stories).
The pilgrim who tells the best tale -- with the "best sentence and most solaas" will have a dinner
at the others' cost when the company returns to the Tabard. The pilgrims agree and the next
morning they set out, stopping at the Watering of St. Thomas, just out of town, where they
reconfirm their decision and, at Harry's direction, draw straws to see who will tell the first tale.
Strangely, the lot fell to the knight and he tells the first story.
Everyone, but especially the gentils, praised the Knight's Tale, and Harry turns to the next
highest ranking pilgrim, the Monk, and asks him for something to repay (quit) the noble knight
for his tale. However, Miller is drunk, he breaks in -- he cares nothing for courtesy -- and insists
he tell a tale to "quit" the Knight, a tale about a carpenter and his wife. Oswald the Reeve breaks
in to protest this drunken harlotry, but Miller has threatened to leave if he cannot tell the next tale
and Harry Bailey gives up. Chaucer the narrator apologizes for what he must now report -- be he
has no choice, one must not falsify anything. He advises the reader who may object to such
matters to turn over the leaf and choose another tale.
The whole company laughs at the Miller's Tale -- except for the Reeve - - because he has worked
as a carpenter, like the cuckolded old John in The Miller's Tale. Old age, he says, has taken away
his zest for amusement, and he describes at length the miseries of old age until Harry Bailey
must break in and object to the pious subject -- "The devil made a preacher of a reeve" -- and
Oswald announces he will tell a tale in the Miller's own churlish terms. He does so, and
announcers at the end of his tale, " So have I quit the Miller in my tale."
The Cook -- Roger (Hogge) of Ware -- is delighted by Reeve's Tale. He volunteers to tell the
next tale, and Harry Bailey agrees -- though he attacks Roger for the filth of his fly-infested
shop. The Cook says he will get even by telling a tale of a hosteller that will "quit" the host, but
now he tells the tale of a dishonest London apprent.
The Host sees that the sun has run a quarter of its course and by a complicated calculation
demonstrates that it is ten o'clock in the morning on April 18, and he warns the company that lost
time can never be recovered. He asks the Man of Law to tell the next Tale. The Man of Law says
that Chaucer has told all the best tales -- tales of noble women, whom he lists (almost all are in
Chaucer's Legend of Good Women). But Chaucer, the Man of Law says, will not tell stories of
incest, the tale of Canacee and Apollonius of Tyre (both of which appear in John Gower's
Confessio amantis). And he tells the Tale of Custance (which is also in Gower's Confession).
The Prologe of the Mannes Tale of Law is a literary prologue having little to do with narrative
frame-work (its relevance to the tale itself is not very clear).
The Host is delighted by the Man of Law's Tale and turns next to the Parson, cursing ("for
goddes bones") as he does so. The Parson objects to such sinful cursing, and the Host replies, "I
smell a Lollard (an heretic) in the wind." This Lollard here, he says, will tell us a tale. No, shouts
the Shipman, we will have no preaching here. I'll tell the next tale, The Shipman says, and it will
not be learned in any way; "There is but little Latin in my maw." [There is reason to believe that
this Epilogue was cancelled; on this and problems about the "Shipman" as speaker, see the notes
in The Riverside Chaucer, pp. 862-63.]
For a full summary see The Wife of Bath's Page. Note the exchange between the Wife of Bath
and the Pardoner (III.163-87), who claims he is thinking of getting married; she warns him to
wait until he has heard more. Note also The Words between the Summoner and the Friar
(III.829-56): the Friar laughs at the Wife's Prologue, which he says was a "long preamble of a
tale," whereupon the Summoner attacks him and friars in general, saying that he will tell two or
three tales about friars ``er I come to Sidyngborne." The Host restores order and the Wife -- "If I
have license of this worthy Frere '' -- begins her tale.
The Friar has been glowering at the Summoner all through the Wife of Bath's Tale, but he
praises her, condescendingly, and announces he will tell a tale about a summoner. The Host
settles the resulting squabble, and the Friar begins his tale.
The Summoner is so angry at the Friar that he shakes like a leaf, and he tells an indecent
anecdote about the dwelling place of the friars in Hell. God save all, the Summoner says, except
this accursed Friar, and he begins his tale.
The Host turns to the sober Clerk and tells him to cheer up and tell us a merry tale. No preaching,
the Host specifies, and no elaborate, learned high style; speak plainly, he says, so that we can
understand what you are saying. The Clerk politely agrees and announces he will tell a tale
written by Francis Petrarch (whose elaborate prologue, written in the high style, the Clerk
announces he will omit.)
At the end of his tale the Clerk announces that Griseldas are rare nowadays and that he will, "for
the Wyves love of Bathe," sing a song, The Lenvoy de Chaucer, which urges women to emulate
the Wife of Bath and make their husbands weep and wail.The Merry Words of the Host: Harry
deeply admires the Clerk's Tale, a "gentil tale," which he wishes his wife could have heard. (This
passage was possibly meant to be cancelled; see the note in The Riverside Chaucer,
Weeping and wailing, the merchant says, are well known to him. He has a wife who is the worst
that could be, and this after only two months of marriage. Harry says that since he knows so
much about marriage he should tell her about it. The Merchant agrees but stipulates that he will
tell nothing more of his own troubles. God save me from such a wife, Harry Bailey exclaims;
this Merchant's Tale shows the deceitfulness of women. I have a wife, a blabbing shrew with a
heap of other vices. But I can't tell everything about her, lest one of you tell her -- I need not say
who, since women know so much about this business.
Come near, Squire, Harry Bailey says, and say something about love. The squire agrees and
begins his tale.The words of the Franklin to the Squire, and the Host to the Franklin: The
Franklin praises the Squire for his eloquence (though he seems to be interrupting, since the
Squire's Tale threatens to go on for several thousand lines more). He wishes his own son were
like the Squire, but he cares nothing about learning gentillesse. "Straw for your gentillesse," the
Host exclaims. Each of you has agreed to tell a tale or two; "Tell on thy tale withouten wordes
mo.'' Franklin humbly agrees.
The Franklin announces he will tell a Breton Lay, and he warns his listeners that he is an
unlearned man who knows nothing of rhetoric and will tell his tale in a style "bare and
plain."There is no prologue to the Physician's Tale.The Introduction to the Pardoner's Tale: The
Host was deeply moved by the preceding Physician's Tale, and he praises the Physician. He is so
moved, he says, he must have a drink of ale or hear a merry tale, and he calls on the Pardoner.
The gentils immediately object that he will tell some ribald story, tell us something moral, they
say. The Pardoner agrees, but first he will have a drink while he thinks of some "honest thing" to
tell.The Pardoner's Prologue: For a summary see The Pardoner's Prologue and Tale.The Words
of the Host to the Shipman and the Lady Prioress: The Host praises the Shipman (and seems to
think the Monk is the hero of Shipman's Tale) and he then turns and with elaborate courtesy asks
"My Lady Prioress" to tell her tale. "Gladly," she says.The Prologue of the Prioress's Tale: For a
summary see The Prioress's Page. (This is a literary prologue and not part of the framing
narrative.)Prologue to Sir Thopas: The entire company is sobered by the Prioress's Tale and
Harry began to joke, turning to Chaucer and peremptorily ordering him to "tell us a tale of mirth,
and that anon." Chaucer agrees but warns he knows only one tale he learned long ago. Harry says
that now we shall hear "some dainty thing." Instead, Chaucer tells the crude minstrel romance of
Sir Thopas.
The Host stinteth Chaucer of his Tale of Thopas: Harry breaks into Chaucer's narration and tells
him he must stop; his awful rime makes Harry's ears ache. Chaucer must tell something else, "in
which there be some mirth or doctrine." Chaucer replies that he knows a virtuous tale; some may
have heard it before and Chaucer's version may be slightly different in wording but the sentence,
the meaning, will be the same, and he begins the Tale of Melibee.
The Prologue to the Monk's Tale: Harry Bailey is delighted by the Tale of Melibee; he wishes his
wife could have heard it, because she is always inciting him to violence, and he dares not stand
up to her, for she is strong. Then he turns to the Monk and asks him for a tale -- Lo Rochester is
nearby. The Host praises the Monk for his well-fed good looks. Curses on him who made you a
monk! The monasteries have talken up all the best breeding stock, and we laymen are
consequently weak and feeble. The monk patiently puts up with Harry's crude jesting, and he
says he will tell something decent -- a life of Saint Edward, or first some tragedies; I have a
hundred of them in my cell. He defines medieval tragedy and asks his audience to excuse him if
he tells the tragedies out of their historical order, since he will narrate them as they come to
mind.
The Knight interrupts the Monk, who he thinks has gone on too long in this sad vein; the Knight
prefers comedy to tragedy. Harry Bailey agrees -- this Monk, he says, has been so dull that if it
weren't for the ringing of the bells on his harness I would have fallen asleep. Tell us something
about hunting, he says. The Monk refuses and Harry turns to the Nun's Priest for the next
tale.The Epilogue to the Nun's Priest's Tale: The Host is delighted with the Nun's Priest's Tale,
and he praises muscular physique. [This repeats matter used in the Monk's Prologue; see The
Riverside Chaucer, p. 941.]The Prologue to the Second Nun's Tale is a literary prologue with no
relation to the framing narrative.The Canon's Yeoman's Prologue: For a summary see The
Canon's Yeoman's Prologue and TaThe Manciple's Prologue: At Bobbe-up-and-doun on
Canterbury Way the Cook, who is monumentally hung over, confesses he can barely keep
awake. The Manciple tells him that his breath is stinking ("Hold your mouth closed, man," the
Manciple cries), and he is hopelessly drunk. The Cook grows angry at this but he can't even
speak and he falls off his horse. The Host excuses the Cook from telling a tale, on the grounds of
intoxication. He warns the Manciple against reproving the Cook; he might some other day reveal
that the Manciple's reckonings "were nat honest, if it cam to preef." The Manciple agrees that he
should placate the Cook, and he does so by giving him more wine to drink. "O Bacus," says
Harry, "blessed be thy name!" And the Manciple begins his tale.
When the Manciple finished his tale it was four o'clock and Libra (the Scales) was rising. The
Host says that but one tale is needed to fulfill his "sentence and decree." He turns to the Parson
and asks for a merry tale to "knit up this great matter," and he brusquely commands the Parson to
"Tell us a fable anon, for cokkes bones!" The Parson says that he will tell no fable (work of
fiction) but rather "moralitee and vertuous mateere." He will not use alliterative verse nor rime;
he will speak in prose and show his hearers the way to that perfect glorious object of pilgrimage
that is called "Jerusalem celestial"). All assent to this, for it seemed best to end in "som vertuous
sentence." The Host was spokesman for all; tell us your meditation, he said, but hurry; the sun
will soon set. Say what you will, and we will glady hear. The Parson begins his meditation.

Hetta Howes tracks the many appearances of King Arthur, from a 9th-century history to a
Hollywood blockbuster, via the works of Chrétien de Troyes, Thomas Malory and the author of
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
Damsels in distress. Doomed and forbidden love. Epic battles and quests in pursuit of strange
creatures. This is the world of Arthurian legend and, at the centre of it all, there is the ‘once and
future king’ – Arthur himself, who, according to the stories, pulled a sword from a stone to
become the greatest king that Britain has ever known. This is a world which has inspired an
overwhelming amount of literature, film, music, dance and other works of art. Wagner’s opera
Tristan und Isolde follows the romance of two of Arthuriana’s star-crossed lovers; Tennyson
immortalises Elaine of Astolat, a young maiden who fell in unrequited love with one of Arthur’s
knights, in his poem ‘The Lady of Shalott’; and, more recently, Disney and Hollywood have
turned their hand to Camelot. Many came to know King Arthur through Disney’s The Sword in
the Stone, and in 2017 Guy Ritchie released a blockbuster which has Arthur growing up in a
brothel before getting swept up in political intrigue. But who was King Arthur? Where did these
legends come from? And what makes Arthurian literature so appealing to a modern audience?
One question which has preoccupied historians for centuries is whether or not King Arthur was a
real man or entirely a work of fiction. Evidence for a historical King Arthur is very scant. All
that is known with certainty is that a man named Arthur, or Arturus, led a band of warriors in
bloody resistance against a number of invading forces, including the Saxons and Jutes, around
the 5th and 6th centuries CE – which is significantly earlier than most medieval legends place
King Arthur. In a 9th-century Latin history of Britain (the Historia Britonum), a Welsh monk
called Nennius mentions a war-lord named Arthur who fought 12 battles against invaders and
who managed to fell 960 men in one go – an exaggeration typical of the historical, chronicle
genre. Some other 10th-century Welsh chronicles also make reference to a leader called Arthur,
similarly fierce and successful in battle.
However, the first reference to a man recognisable as the ‘King Arthur’ we know today comes in
another historical chronicle, written a few hundred years later. In Geoffrey of Monmouth’s
Historia Regum Britanniae (A History of the Kings of Britain, 1138) the basic framework of the
Arthurian legend is put into place, and then other, later authors build on this foundation.
Geoffrey is the first known writer to identify Arthur as a king of Britain, and he is also the first to
outline Arthur’s genealogy. According to Geoffrey, Arthur’s father Uther Pendragon is aided by
a sorcerer and prophet called Merlin to impersonate another man and sleep with his wife –
resulting in the conception of Arthur. Two other major chronicles use Geoffrey of Monmouth as
a source to embellish the story of King Arthur and further establish the legend we’re familiar
with today. In the 12th century, a Norman poet called Wace based his Roman de Brut (History of
Britain, 1155) on Geoffrey’s work, adding in new features – like the special Round Table created
for Arthur’s barons so that they would not argue over precedence and status at meetings. In the
13th century, an English poet called Layamon combined the Arthurian sections from Geoffrey
and Wace and further expanded on the legend. So, for example, he adds in a riot between barons
and noblemen, all vying for status, which leads to the creation of the Round Table.
But was any of this true? ‘History’, as a genre, was treated differently in the medieval period.
While many chronicles from the period do record provable events, others embellish, exaggerate
or twist the truth, and some even invent outright to suit their own agendas. Geoffrey of
Monmouth claims that he is copying an ancient manuscript, but there is no proof that Geoffrey
actually had such a source and he may well have invented it to give his own chronicle
authenticity. Just because he records a king called Arthur doesn’t mean that such a man really
existed. Moreover, ‘was King Arthur real or not’ is not necessarily the most interesting question.
From their origins, the use of Arthurian legends reveals as much about those adapting the
legends as it does about the ‘true’ Arthur. So, the political undercurrents of the recent adaptation
by Guy Ritchie – which explores poverty, the oppression and exploitation of the poor by those in
power, gender equality and revolt – reveals as much about the ideological concerns of the
contemporary world as it does about the medieval period. We don’t know whether or not Arthur
was real, but we do know that countless authors have used his legends to explore their own
anxieties, fears and hopes.
Stories about Arthur’s kingdom, with their shifting cast of characters, survive in over 500
manuscripts written in a number of different languages, 40 of which are housed in the British
Library. They were popular not only among richer men and women who could afford to acquire
manuscripts (and who knew how to read them), but also among poorer members of society, as
the legends travelled in popular song and oral storytelling. In historical chronicles, like those
authored by Geoffrey of Monmouth and Layamon, the world of Arthur is characterised by
violent battles and is concerned with the politics of kingship and the creation of nationhood.
King Arthur, the great military leader, is integral in making Britain a superpower, something
which later dynasties, such as the Tudors, recognised and used for their own ends, claiming
ancestry to the legendary king to legitimise their own claims to the throne. However, the world
of King Arthur which is best known today – with its supernatural beings, its beautiful women,
tournaments and knightly activities – comes instead from the French romance tradition.
Romance is a medieval genre, which includes narratives written in prose or poetry that record the
adventures and exploits of the aristocracy. Romance, in this instance, might well include
romantic love, but it is not defined by it. As a genre, it is much more concerned with the
individual knights and the often-fantastical things which happen to them, rather than with the
creation of an English nation or the politics of rule. Many of the most famous moments from the
legends of King Arthur were invented by the 12th-century French poet Chrétien de Troyes, who
wrote a number of Arthurian romances. For example, Chrétien is the first writer to introduce the
character of Lancelot, one of the most famous Knights of the Round Table, to the legends of
Arthur, and, more importantly, the first to introduce the famous love affair between Lancelot and
King Arthur’s wife, Queen Guinevere. Lancelot is, according to some versions of the story, born
to a fairy mother, or, according to others, born to the Lady of the Lake. He is one of Arthur’s best
knights, skilled with a sword and a lance, and in almost all versions in which he appears he is
absolutely dedicated in his love for and service to Queen Guinevere. He rescues her from death
countless times, and cuts open his hands prying open iron bars to rescue her. Their love is one of
the enduring features of Arthurian romance; however, it also contributes to the destruction of the
Round Table and the fall of Arthur’s utopian kingdom.
Another marked difference between the historical and romance traditions is that although Arthur
is usually at least mentioned in the romances, he is not always the most important character.
Historical narratives of Arthur are particularly interested in the founding of Camelot. But
Arthurian romances are often more preoccupied with the events that follow. Once Arthur’s
kingdom is up and running, Arthur’s role becomes slightly different: it is essentially to keep the
peace in his own kingdom and provide stable rule. It is therefore often the responsibility of other
knights to take up challenges and go on quests on his behalf. So, in Sir Gawain and the Green
Knight, a 13th-century English poem, Arthur and his knights are having a New Year’s feast
when, all of a sudden, in rides a giant green man on a giant green horse, carrying a holly branch
in one hand and an axe in the other. He challenges Arthur to a beheading game, and although at
first Arthur accepts, his nephew Gawain steps in and asks to take the challenge on Arthur’s
behalf. The kingdom of Camelot needs Arthur at its helm, and he’d find it hard to rule without
his head. Arthur is also absent from another famous episode which is recounted in a number of
different romances, the famous quest for the Holy Grail, a cup believed to have been used by
Christ at the Last Supper that can grant eternal life. Instead of Arthur, who remains at home to
look after his kingdom, a number of his knights take up the challenge. Only the virginal Galahad,
son of Lancelot, is successful in this quest, and the failure of all the others foreshadows the
inevitable end of Camelot and its Round Table.
This impending fall becomes increasingly important in Arthurian legends. The time of Arthur is
perceived as a kind of utopia, where knights live according to chivalric rules and high ideals. But
anyone reading these legends with one eye, the other trained in their own country and society,
must realise that it is a long-gone utopia. Camelot did not last forever, and this loss marks a
number of Arthurian stories.
In the later Middle Ages, a growing audience for courtly texts in English resulted in a number of
new works, particularly elegiac writings about the death of King Arthur, for example the
Alliterative Morte Arthure and the Stanzaic Morte Arthur. The 15th-century writer Thomas
Malory compiled these into the final section of his collected works of Arthurian legends. Titled
Le Morte Darthur, they were published in 1485 by William Caxton, the man who introduced the
printing press into England. These stories are less concerned with adventures and the
supernatural, and more with nostalgia. Their authors follow the events which led to the demise of
Arthur and his kingdom. The affair of Lancelot and Guinevere is discovered, and Mordred,
Arthur’s son, uses the unrest as an excuse to lay claim to the throne. The kingdom turns against
itself, and ultimately Arthur is mortally wounded on the battlefield. In a time of political
upheaval, civil war and virulent diseases like the plague, writers seemed to yearn for a golden
age when principles of chivalry were instilled by their great and powerful king, and the rule of
the land was stable – even as they acknowledged that such times, if they had ever even existed,
had passed.
But Arthur’s death is not necessarily the end of the legend. A number of writers record a coda.
Arthur is taken away to the mythical land of Avalon by three beautiful ladies and, these writers
either insist or simply hope, this once and future king will return one day to rule again. And
although King Arthur may not have returned from the dead, as the myths promise, he has
certainly enjoyed a number of afterlives in popular culture.

In the Middle Ages, the greatest knight was not simply the greatest warrior. He was also kind,
courteous, generous and devoted to his lady: qualities that combined to produce perfect chivalry.
Laura Ashe explores the ideal of chivalry through several works of the period.
At the end of Thomas Malory’s Morte Darthur (c. 1470), a vast work which chronicles the rise
and fall of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, we see the death of the greatest
knight of them all, Sir Lancelot. His companion Sir Hector mourns for him, giving us a portrait
of the perfect chivalric knight:
‘Ah, Lancelot!’ he said, ‘you were the head of all Christian knights! … you were never matched
by earthly knight’s hand. And you were the most courteous knight that ever bore a shield! And
you were the truest friend to your lover, that ever bestrode horse; you were the truest lover, of a
sinful man, that ever loved woman, and you were the kindest man that ever struck with sword.’
Lancelot was undefeated in battle – he had the greatest prowess of all. But that alone was not
what made him the best knight in the world. He is praised for his ‘courtesy’ – not just the modern
value of politeness, but a whole way of being, defined by his ease with others, his friendliness
and generosity, his moderation in all things. The perfect knight is never angry without good
cause, never irrational or out of control. Paradox is a part of this – Lancelot is the ‘kindest’ man
who uses a sword – for the chivalric ideal is one of controlled and appropriate violence,
necessary force in the defence of the realm and protection of the helpless. And finally, the
greatest ingredient of all in Lancelot’s chivalry: his true and steadfast love of his lady, Queen
Guinevere.
The chivalrous knight of the Middle Ages had begun as a simple warrior, an armed man who
rode a horse into battle, fighting with spear and sword. But as the literature of medieval romance
began to blossom in the 12th century, a sophisticated culture of courtly behaviour between men
and women began to change the idealised image of a knight. Wace’s long poem Brut (c. 1155)
introduced the French-speaking nobility to the legendary King Arthur, whose court was the
greatest of all. In the reigns of Kings Henry II (1154–89) and Richard the Lionheart (1189–99),
themselves celebrated warriors who kept lavish courts, Marie de France’s Lays (12 short rhymed
romances) offered their audience moving and magical stories of love won and lost by knights
and ladies. Meanwhile the courtier cleric Andreas Capellanus wrote his satirical guide The Art of
Honest Loving (c. 1185) for Marie de Champagne, daughter of Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine, in
which he insisted that love was an essential aspect of aristocratic life. To be a great knight no
longer meant only to be great in battle; it was necessary to be a perfect courtier too – a
sportsman, musician, poet – and to play the sophisticated games of courtly love.

Sir Thomas Malory​ (c. 1415 – 14 March 1471) was an English writer, the author or compiler of
“Le Morte d'Arthur”,​ the classic English-language chronicle. Malory was born to Sir John
Malory of Winwick, Northamptonshire, who had served as a Justice of the Peace in
Warwickshire and as a Member of Parliament, and Lady Phillipa Malory, heiress of Newbold.
He was born after 1415 and before 1418, judging by the fact that he attained his majority (at the
age of 21) between 1434 and 1439.[6] He was knighted before 8 October 1441, became a
professional soldier, and served under Henry Beauchamp, 1st Duke of Warwick.Malory's status
changed abruptly in 1451 when he was accused of ambushing the Duke of Buckingham,
Humphrey Stafford, a prominent Lancastrian in the Wars of the Roses, along with 26 other men
sometime in 1450. The accusation was never proved. Later in 1451, he was accused of extorting
100 shillings from Margaret King and William Hales of Monks Kirby, and then of committing
the same crime against John Mylner for 20 shillings.[2] He was also accused of breaking into the
house of Hugh Smyth of Monks Kirby in 1450, stealing 40 pounds' worth of goods and raping
Smyth's wife, and with attacking her again in Coventry eight weeks later. At this period,
however, a charge of rape could also apply to consensual sex with a married woman whose
husband had not agreed to the liaison.[10] On 15 March 1451, Malory and 19 others were
ordered to be arrested. Nothing came of this and, in the following months, Malory and his
cohorts allegedly committed a series of crimes, especially violent robberies, rising past 100. At
one point, he was arrested and imprisoned in Maxstoke Castle, but he escaped, swam the moat,
and returned to Newbold Revel. Most of these crimes, if they occurred, seem to have been
targeted at the property and followers of the Duke of Buckingham. Malory was a supporter of the
family of Buckingham's former rival, the Duke of Warwick, so there may have been a political
motive behind either Malory's attacks (assuming that he committed them) or Buckingham and
others bringing charges against him. It is possible that Malory's enemies tried to slander him, and
there is evidence that the Duke of Buckingham was Malory's long-time enemy. Malory finally
came to trial on 23 August 1451, in Nuneaton, a town in the heartland of Buckingham's power
and a place where Malory found little support as a supporter of the Beauchamps.[8] Those
accused included Malory and several others; there were numerous charges. Malory was
convicted and sent to the Marshalsea Prison in London, where he remained for a year. He
demanded a retrial with a jury of men from his own county. Although this never took place, he
was released. By March 1452, he was back in the Marshalsea, from which he escaped two
months later, possibly by bribing the guards and gaolers. After a month, he was back in prison
yet again, and this time he was held until the following May, when he was released on bail of
200 pounds, paid by a number of his fellow magnates from Warwickshire.[2][8] Malory later
ended up in custody in Colchester, accused of still more crimes, involving robbery and the
stealing of horses. Once again, he escaped and once again was apprehended and returned to
Marshalsea Prison.[2] He was pardoned at the accession of King Edward IV in 1461. He was
never actually tried on any of the charges brought against him, except at Nuneaton in 1451.[8] In
1462, Malory settled his estate on his son Robert and, in 1466 or 1467, Robert fathered a son
named Nicholas, who was Malory's ultimate heir.Malory appears to have changed his allegiance
by 1468. He had previously been a Yorkist, but he now entered into a conspiracy with Richard
Neville, the new Earl of Warwick, to overthrow King Edward IV. The plot was discovered and
Malory was imprisoned in June 1468. Uniquely in English history, so far as is known, he was
excluded by name from two general pardons, in July 1468 and February 1470.[10] In October
1470, the collapse of the Yorkist regime and the temporary return to the throne of Henry VI was
followed by Malory's final release from prison. Malory died on 14 March 1471 and was buried in
Christ Church Greyfriars, near Newgate Prison. His interment there suggests that his misdeeds
(whatever they really amounted to) had been forgiven and that he possessed some wealth.

In that time there was a “​Courtly Tradition​” where a knight must be absolutely loyal to his
king, be honorable and courageous, willing to protect the weak and poor and must serve his lady.
Malory portraits such characteristics in “Launcelot” in his ​“​Le Morte d'Arthur”​ .

Malory​’s ideal of chivalry has love at its heart: ‘thy quarrel must come of thy lady’, he says,
‘and such love I call virtuous love’. Each knight is to fight for the sake of his lady; with his
victories he earns her love, and defends her honour. He is absolutely loyal to her and will follow
her every command, whatever happens – whether she sends him on an impossible quest,
banishes him from her company, or stands accused of some terrible crime, in desperate need of
his help. Here, tragedy enters the picture. Lancelot’s love of Guinevere can never have a happy
ending, for she is King Arthur’s queen. This is the epitome of ‘courtly love’ in literature: a
commitment which binds the lovers until their deaths, but is never fulfilled in happy union.
Lancelot’s helpless devotion to Guinevere is dangerous, and it ultimately destroys the court:
gossips and slanderers tell the king of their affair, and Arthur is forced to take up arms against
his greatest knight.
The tragic, idealised love of Lancelot and Guinevere cannot culminate in marriage: instead it
ends in death. The lovers’ tragedy is a pattern invented in the Middle Ages and repeated in
literature across time. Tristan and Isolde, Lancelot and Guinevere, Romeo and Juliet: each is
bound by impossible love, the lovers doomed by circumstance. In Chaucer’s masterpiece Troilus
& Criseyde (c. 1385), Prince Troilus writes a letter to his lost beloved Criseyde, who has
betrayed him, begging her to return. In his poetry he calls her ‘she who may command me to life
or death’. He swears he will die if he cannot look upon her beauty again, speaks of his weeping
and his pain, and asks that if she loves him no more she should release him to die. Before this
medieval ideal, classical heroes had fallen in love and had died. But never before had love been
celebrated, as the goal of life and a worthy cause for which to die.
Why is love so closely linked with death in literature? The answer is simple. All loves end –
either the lovers part or they die. So if love is to be perfect – if we are to know it was perfect and
did not peter out into coldness or end in betrayal – then it must end with death. In his courtly
dream-vision poem The Book of the Duchess (c. 1369), Chaucer makes the comparison with
brilliant subtlety. His Dreamer narrator tells us that he has suffered from insomnia for eight years
– there is ‘but one physician’ who could cure him, ‘but that is done’. He finally manages to fall
asleep, and has a dream in which he enters a forest and meets a Black Knight who is lamenting
the loss of his beautiful wife. The Dreamer persuades the Black Knight to recount the whole
story of their courtship and love, and to describe his beloved’s beauty and grace and their
happiness together. Only at the end of the dream does the Dreamer understand what the Black
Knight is trying to tell him – that his lady is dead.
The Black Knight symbolises the Duke of Lancaster, John of Gaunt, uncle of King Richard II
and one of the most powerful men in the land, whose first wife Blanche of Lancaster died in her
early twenties and was widely mourned. The Book of the Duchess must have pleased the Duke,
for Chaucer subsequently made a career in royal service. The poem ventriloquises a husband’s
eulogy to Blanche’s beauty and virtues, his sweet tale of a perfect marriage and his heartfelt
lament for a lost love. But Chaucer adds something more – a subtle comparison, for his courtly,
aristocratic audience to debate. At the end of the poem the Black Knight must leave his lament
and leave the forest to return to the court – just as the real John of Gaunt must marry again. His
loss is tragic, as his love was perfect, but he must recover. And in comparison we have the figure
of the Dreamer, whose suffering has lasted years: what is wrong with him? The answer comes in
his confused questioning of the Black Knight, not understanding that Blanche is dead: ‘Will she
not love you?’ he asks: ‘Or have you done something wrong, that she has left you?’ Grief distorts
our perception of the world; we see our own pain everywhere, in others’ sorrow, and this is what
has happened to the Dreamer. His beloved will not love him, or she has left him. For that loss,
unlike the pure and idealised grief of the Black Knight, there is no remedy and there can be no
recovery.
In all periods, readers have taken pleasure in reading about sorrow. Writing which celebrates
grief assures us that we are not alone, and that our grief too may be remembered. In Marie de
France’s lay Chevrefoil, the lover Tristan tells his beloved Isolde that ‘Neither I without you, nor
you without me may live’, and they die together, remembered forever.
But medieval literature did not only turn to love in its tragic form. The conventions of courtly
love were of course not truly intended to encourage lovers to embrace death: rather they
prescribed social conduct between aristocratic men and women, the ‘old dance’, as Chaucer calls
it, by which courtship could lead to marriage. For the nobility, almost all marriages were
arranged by the couple’s families, often when the bride and groom were no more than children.
But the Church insisted that the sacrament of marriage was only valid with the full, willing
consent of both husband and wife. So we can see another cultural purpose to this literature,
which is full of love at first sight, love as recognition of beauty and status which are always
combined with virtue and loyalty. This literature shows its audience an aestheticised version of
their economic reality, making beautiful the transactions of aristocratic marriage.
But there are only so many life lessons that can be drawn from this literature, which above all
else venerates love in its most perfect form while leaving space for lovers to imagine this
perfection in their own ways. In Marie de France’s lay Guigemar, a helpful lady-in-waiting
comforts the hero who has been struck with love:
He lay awake all night, suffering and sighing; constantly he recalled in his heart her words and
looks, her clear eyes and beautiful mouth, so that pain struck to his heart. … ‘My lord,’ she said,
‘you are in love: be careful you don’t hide it too much! You can love in such a way that your
love will be well-lodged. Whoever wishes to love my lady must think most highly of her. This
love will be admirable, if you are both loyal. You are handsome and she is beautiful.’
The two lovers are noble, beautiful, courtly and virtuous; he is a great knight, and she is a perfect
lady. This is the ideal of medieval love which culminates in marriage. But the interesting thing
about this romance with a happy ending is that it isn’t really about individual desire at all. The
ideal is made to be adaptable, malleable: it can fit whoever is appropriate. When the hero is
reunited with his lost lady he fails to recognise her, remarking ‘For women all look the same’.
Courtly love is an ideal of devotion to the most beautiful, courtly lady. In every romance there
will be a new knight who is the greatest of all, and he will love and be loved by a new lady who
is the most beautiful.

Geoffrey Chaucer​, (born c. 1342/43, London, England—died October 25, 1400, London), the
outstanding English poet before Shakespeare and “the first finder of our language.” His “The
Canterbury Tales” ranks as one of the greatest Poetic works in English. He also contributed
importantly in the second half of the 14th century to the management of public affairs as
courtier, diplomat, and civil servant. In that career he was trusted and aided by three successive
kings—Edward III, Richard II, and Henry IV. But it is his avocation—the writing of poetry—for
which he is remembered. Perhaps the chief characteristics of Chaucer’s works are their variety in
subject matter, genre, tone, and style and in the complexities presented concerning the human
pursuit of a sensible existence. Yet his writings also consistently reflect an all-pervasive humor
combined with serious and tolerant consideration of important philosophical questions. From his
writings Chaucer emerges as a poet of love, both earthly and divine, whose presentations range
from lustful cuckoldry to spiritual union with God. Thereby, they regularly lead the reader to
speculation about man’s relation both to his fellows and to his Maker, while simultaneously
providing delightfully entertaining views of the frailties and follies, as well as the nobility, of
mankind. Chaucer’s forebears for at least four generations were middle-class English people
whose connection with London and the court had steadily increased. John Chaucer, his father,
was an important London vintner and a deputy to the king’s butler; in 1338 he was a member of
Edward III’s expedition to Antwerp, in Flanders, now part of Belgium, and he owned property in
Ipswich, in the county of Suffolk, and in London. He died in 1366 or 1367 at age 53. The name
Chaucer is derived from the French word chaussier, meaning a maker of footwear. The family’s
financial success derived from wine and leather. Chaucer first appears in the records in 1357, as
a member of the household of Elizabeth, countess of Ulster, wife of Lionel, third son of Edward
III. Geoffrey’s father presumably had been able to place him among the group of young men and
women serving in that royal household, a customary arrangement whereby families who could
do so provided their children with opportunity for the necessary courtly education and
connections to advance their careers. By 1359 Chaucer was a member of Edward III’s army in
France and was captured during the unsuccessful siege of Reims. The king contributed to his
ransom, and Chaucer served as messenger from Calais to England during the peace negotiations
of 1360. Chaucer does not appear in any contemporary record during 1361–65. He was probably
in the king’s service, but he may have been studying law—not unusual preparation for public
service, then as now—since a 16th-century report implies that, while so engaged, he was fined
for beating a Franciscan friar in a London street. On February 22, 1366, the king of Navarre
issued a certificate of safe-conduct for Chaucer, three companions, and their servants to enter
Spain. This occasion is the first of a number of diplomatic missions to the continent of Europe
over the succeeding 10 years, and the wording of the document suggests that here Chaucer
served as “chief of mission.” During the decade of the 1370s, Chaucer was at various times on
diplomatic missions in Flanders, France, and Italy. Probably his first Italian journey (December
1372 to May 1373) was for negotiations with the Genoese concerning an English port for their
commerce, and with the Florentines concerning loans for Edward III. His next Italian journey
occupied May 28 to September 19, 1378, when he was a member of a mission to Milan
concerning military matters. Several times during the 1370s, Chaucer and his wife received
generous monetary grants from the king and from John of Gaunt. On May 10, 1374, he obtained
rent-free a dwelling above Aldgate, in London, and on June 8 of that year he was appointed
comptroller of the customs and subsidy of wools, skins, and tanned hides for the Port of London.
Now, for the first time, Chaucer had a position away from the court, and he and his wife had a
home of their own, about a 10-minute walk from his office. In 1375 he was granted two
wardships, which paid well, and in 1376 he received a sizable sum from a fine. When Richard II
became king in June 1377, he confirmed Chaucer’s comptrollership and, later, the annuities
granted by Edward III to both Geoffrey and Philippa. Certainly, during the 1370s fortune smiled
upon the Chaucer’s much responsibility and activity in public matters appears to have left
Chaucer little time for writing during this decade. The great literary event for him was that,
during his missions to Italy, he encountered the work of Dante, Petrarch, and Boccaccio, which
was later to have profound influence upon his own writing. In a deed of May 1, 1380, one Cecily
Chaumpaigne released Chaucer from legal action, “both of my rape and of any other matter or
cause.” Rape (raptus) could at the time mean either sexual assault or abduction; scholars have not
been able to establish which meaning applies here, but, in either case, the release suggests that
Chaucer was not guilty as charged. He continued to work at the Customs House and in 1382 was
additionally appointed comptroller of the petty customs for wine and other merchandise, but in
October 1386 his dwelling in London was leased to another man, and in December of that year
successors were named for both of his comptroller ships in the customs; whether he resigned or
was removed from office is not clear. Between 1382 and 1386 he had arranged for
deputies—permanent in two instances and temporary in others—in his work at the customs. In
October 1385 he was appointed a justice of the peace for Kent, and in August 1386 he became
knight of the shire for Kent, to attend Parliament in October. Further, in 1385 he probably moved
to Greenwich, then in Kent, to live. These circumstances suggest that, for some time before
1386, he was planning to move from London and to leave the Customs House. Philippa Chaucer
apparently died in 1387; if she had suffered poor health for some time previously, that situation
could have influenced a decision to move. On the other hand, political circumstances during this
period were not favorable for Chaucer and may have caused his removal. By 1386 a baronial
group led by Thomas of Woodstock, duke of Gloucester, had bested both Richard II and John of
Gaunt—with whose parties Chaucer had long been associated—and usurped the king’s authority
and administration. Numerous other officeholders—like Chaucer, appointed by the king—were
discharged, and Chaucer may have suffered similarly. Perhaps the best view of the matter is that
Chaucer saw which way the political wind was blowing and began early to prepare to move
when the necessity arrived.
Chaucer first used the rhyme royal stanza in his long poems Troilus and Criseyde and Parliament
of Fo ules. He also used it for four of the Canterbury Tales: The Man of Law's Tale, the Prioress'
Tale, the Clerk's Tale, and the Second Nun's Tale, and in a number of shorter lyrics. He may
have adapted the form from a French ballade stanza or from the Italian ottava rima, with the
omission of the fifth line. The rhyme royal stanza consists of seven lines, usually in iambic
pentameter. The rhyme scheme is ABABBCC. In practice, the stanza can be constructed either
as a tercet and two couplets (ABA BB CC) or a quatrain and a tercet (ABAB BCC). This allows
for variety, especially when the form is used for longer narrative poems. Along with the couplet,
it was the standard narrative form in English poetry of the late Middle Ages.
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1. https://libraryguides.mdc.edu/c.php?g=862745&p=6184862
2. https://www.bl.uk/medieval-literature/articles/the-legends-of-king-arthur
3. https://www.bl.uk/medieval-literature/articles/love-and-chivalry-in-the-middle-ages
4. https://libraryguides.mdc.edu/c.php?g=862745&p=6184831
5. https://www.slideshare.net/rrlane/the-middle-ages-chaucer-malory
6. https://www.jstor.org/stable/462277?seq=1
7. https://lib.dr.iastate.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=8025&context=etd
8. https://www.worldcat.org/title/chivalry-in-english-literature-chaucer-malory-spenser-and-
9. shakespeare/oclc/234181
10. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Geoffrey-Chaucer/Diplomat-and-civil-servant
11. https://www.britannica.com/biography/Geoffrey-Chaucer/Last-years-and-The-
12. Canterbury-Tales
13. https://www.bl.uk/people/geoffrey-chaucer