‘So he took his leave, and went his way. Then it happened. I do not know how or why. Midway across the ocean the ship’s hull was breached, the crew and passengers drowned. There were other ships sailing with them, having left on the same tide, but they were undamaged. Therefore Pertelote, dear chick, from such examples you may learn that there is truth in dreams. I advise you not to ignore them. You do so at your peril.

‘I was reading the life of Saint Kenelm the other day. He was the son of Kenelphus, the king of Mercia in times gone by. Shortly before he was murdered Kenelm dreamed that he was about to be killed. He told his nurse about the dream, and she advised him to be careful and to watch out for traitors. But he was only seven years old; he was too young and too innocent to pay much regard to his dreams. But all came to pass. He was murdered by his own sister. It is a most terrible story, which I advise you to read.

‘Dame Pertelote my love, listen to what I have to say. The honourable Macrobius wrote a commentary on Cicero ’s Dream of Scipio, in which he declared that dreams can foretell the future. Not all of them – I grant you that – but some of them. Then, if you wish, dip into the Old Testament and see what is written in the Book of Daniel about the subject. You can read about Joseph, and about his dreams of the sheaves and of the sun. What about the pharaoh of Egypt? Ask his butler and his cook whether dreams mean anything. They were rightly interpreted by Joseph, for good or ill. Wherever there are true histories of mankind, there are reports of dreams and omens. Remember the king of Lydia, Croesus, who dreamed that he was sitting in a tree. Of course he was soon hanging on a gallows. And there was Andromache, the wife of Hector, who dreamed that on the following day her husband would be slain in battle. She tried to persuade him to avoid the field, but of course the dream came true. Hector was slain by Achilles outside the walls of Troy. It is a long story. It is almost dawn. I will say only this. I know from my dream that I will suffer some kind of misfortune. In any case, I do not need laxatives. I hate them. I distrust them. They are poison.

‘So, my dear, let us speak of merry things. God has given me one great blessing. It is you, my chick. Whenever I see your lovely face, with your beautiful red eyes and your gorgeous beak, I am happy. My fears dissolve. I know it has been written that woman is man’s ruin, but I prefer the other saying. “Woman is man’s delight and bliss.” When I feel your soft feathers at night – I can’t fuck you, of course, because our perch is too narrow – I feel safe and relaxed. I am so full of joy that I defy all the dreams in the world.’

And, with that, he flew down from his perch into the yard. It was dawn. With a crow and a cluck he woke up all of his wives, to feast on the corn scattered on the ground. He was manly. He was king of the yard. He put his wings around Pertelote, and fucked her, at least twenty times before the sun had risen much higher. He looked as strong as a lion. He did not strut in the yard like a common bird. He walked on tiptoe, as if he were about to rise in the air. Whenever he spied some more corn he clucked some more, and all his wives came running over. I will leave you with this picture of Chanticleer, monarch of all he surveys, and carry on with the story.

It was the beginning of May – 3 May, to be exact. Chanticleer was strutting up and down the yard, with his seven wives by his side. He glanced up at the sky, and saw that the sun had entered the sign of the bull; by instinct, and nothing else, he realized that it was coming up to nine o’clock. So he crowed his heart out. ‘The sun,’ he said to Pertelote, ‘has climbed forty degrees by my reckoning. No. I tell a lie. Forty-one degrees. My dear chick, listen to the singing of your sister birds. Just look at the bright flowers bursting into bloom. My heart is full!’ Yet in a moment ill fortune would befall him. The end of joy is always woe. God knows that happiness in this world is fleeting. If there was a proper poet to hand, he could write all this down in a book as a sovereign truth. But you must listen to me and learn. I swear to you that this story is as true as the adventures of Sir Lancelot, fervently believed by all good women. I will continue.

There was a fox, tipped with black from head to toe, who was a very model of slyness and iniquity. He had dwelled in a forest, near the old woman’s cottage, for three years. The previous night, as high fortune had dictated, the fox burst through the hedge that protected the yard where Chanticleer and his wives were accustomed to take the air. He lay concealed in a bed of cabbages until the following morning, ready to seize the proud cock at the first opportunity. That is what assassins do, when they are waiting for their prey. They hide, and they plot. Oh false murderer, lying among the cabbages! You are no better than Judas Iscariot. You are worse than Genylon, who betrayed brave Roland. You false traitor. You are another Synon, who caused the wooden horse to be brought into Troy. Oh Chanticleer you will curse the morning when you flew down from your perch. You were forewarned in your dreams that this day would be hurtful to you, but you spread your wings none the less. Well, as some wise clerks say, what will be will be. God has made it so. There is much debate and argument on the point, among the schoolmen. Thousands of them have disputed on the claims of free will and necessity. I really don’t have the wit to solve the conundrum. Augustine has tried. Boethius has tried. Thomas Bradwardyn has tried. Remember him? There are those who believe that all is predestined and prejudged in the fathomless mind of God. But there are others who distinguish between providence and destiny. It is not necessary that things happen because they have been ordained but, rather, things that do happen have indeed been ordained. It is too much for me. I am telling a tale of a cock and a fox. That is all. I am relating the sad story of a bird that was persuaded by his wife to ignore his dream and to strut around the farmyard.

The advice of women is often fatal. It was a woman’s advice that led to all our woe. I am talking about Eve, who advised Adam out of Paradise. He had been happy there. If I have offended anyone among you, dear pilgrims, take it in good spirit. I am only joking. Consult the authors who know about such things. Read what they have written about women. In any case these are the words of the cock. They are not mine. I mean no harm to any female.

Dame Pertelote and her sister birds were all merrily scratching in the sand, and taking a dust-bath in the sunshine, and joyous Chanticleer was singing more sweetly than the mermaids of the sea (Theobaldus in his Bestiary reveals the sweetness and the purity of the mermaids’ song). He was watching a butterfly fluttering idly among the cabbages, when suddenly he became aware of the fox lying among the stalks. He was not inclined to crow any more. Instead he cried out ‘Cok! Cok!’ and started up in abject terror. An animal desires to flee from its natural enemy, even if he has not seen one of them before. It is instinctive.

So Chanticleer was about to run away, in fear of his life, but the fox began to talk to him in a mild and well-mannered way. ‘Gentle sir,’ he said, ‘dear oh dear, where are you going? Are you afraid of your friend? May I be damned to hell if I harm a feather on your back! I have not come here to spy on you. I have been lying here so that I could hear you sing. Truly you have a marvellous voice, more melodious than that of any angel in heaven. You have more grasp of song than Boethius, who wrote a book on the subject. I remember well when your father, an excellent fellow, and your dear mother honoured my poor house with their presence. I would be pleased to invite you there also. As for singing, my ears do not deceive me. Apart from your good self, your father had the best crow I have ever heard. His morning call was delicious. He sang from the heart. He used to strengthen his voice by standing on tiptoe and stretching out his neck as far as it would go. He tried so hard that he became cross-eyed with the effort. He was so expert in the art that there was no other bird in the region who could match him. He was the greatest songster. I have read that book about the ass, Burnellus, in which a cock gets his revenge upon a young man. As a boy he had broken the leg of the bird; on the day of the man’s ordination the cock refuses to crow, and the man sleeps through the ceremony. Yet there can be no comparison with the wisdom and subtlety of your father. As I said, he had no rival. Will you sing for me now, good sir? Will you prove to me that you are your father’s son?’