​​I looked for a text from around the 10th century, which was at its peak, to match the Carolingian script, but I decided on Geoffrey Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales as a compromise with availability. The intro is a beautiful prologue of the beginning of the story. This is a work that imagines a page from a manuscript that doesn't exist, so that's why I deliberately cut the text in the middle instead of using a period. The title is based on a fictional manuscript; Custance is the name of the main character in the story of the lawyer in The Canterbury Tales, which is the setting for the manuscript's nickname. Fol refers to the number of pages, and recto refers to the right side, or the front side. The decorative letters from this period are gorgeous, but unfortunately, the gold parts of this work are just watercolours. However, I secretly think it would be interesting to create a cover for a gorgeous story with decorative text all over it, and it may become a series in the distant future...

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Here bygynneth the Book of the Tales of Caunterbury

 

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote,

The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,

And bathed every veyne in swich licóur

Of which vertú engendred is the flour;

Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth

Inspired by every holt and heath

The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne

Hath in the Ram his halfe courses y-ronne,

And smale foweles maken melodye,

That slepen al the nyght with open ye,

(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);

Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,

And palmeres for to seken straunge strongons,

To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;

And specially, from every shires ende

Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,

The hooly blisful martir for to seke,

That he hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

 

Bifil that in that seson on a day,

In Southwerk at the Tabard as I lay,

Redy to wenden on my pilgrimage

To Caunterbury with full devout corage,

At nyght were come into that hostelrye

Wel nyne and twenty in a compaignye

Of sondry folk, by áventure y-falle

In felaweshipe, and pilgrims were they alle,

That toward Caunterbury wolden ryde.

The chambres and the stables were wyde,

And wel we were esed atte beste.

And shortly, when the sonne was to reste,

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Translation

When April with its sweet-smelling showers

Has pierced the drought of March to the root,

And bathed every vein (of the plants) in such liquid

By which power the flower is created;  

When the West Wind also with its sweet breath,

In every wood and field has breathed life into

The tender new leaves, and the young sun

Has run half its course in Aries,

And small fowls make melody,

Those that sleep all the night with open eyes

 (So Nature incites them in their hearts),

Then folk long to go on pilgrimages,

And professional pilgrims to seek foreign shores,

To distant shrines, known in various lands;

And specially from every shire's end

Of England to Canterbury they travel,

To seek the holy blessed martyr,

Who helped them when they were sick.

 

It happened that in that season on one day,

In Southwark at the Tabard Inn as I lay

Ready to go on my pilgrimage

To Canterbury with a very devout spirit,

At night had come into that hostelry

Well nine and twenty in a company

Of various sorts of people, by chance fallen

In fellowship, and they were all pilgrims,

Who intended to ride toward Canterbury.

The bedrooms and the stables were spacious,

And we were well accommodated in the best way.

And in brief, when the sun was (gone) to rest,​​