The Canon's Yeoman's Tale: Two quick things about the Canon's Yeoman before we start. First, he is unfashionably late to the party, only managing to join them all just outside Canterbury. Second, and this is more relevant, he really, really, really, really, really doesn't like alchemists very much. In fact he spends most of his alloted tale-telling time prattling on about what a waste of time alchemy is, and how all alchemists smell like goats, and so on. If he was around now I would imagine him to be exactly the kind of person who would rant quite a lot about the stupidity of homeopathy and Gillian McKeith.
His story, when he finally gets to it, is very short and is about a nasty cannon who tricks a priest into paying top dollar (£40, which got you a lot more in those days) for a secret formula to turn other metals into silver. The secret formula doesn't work. The priest is stupid, the cannon is evil, alchemy is RUBBISH. Don't feel too sorry for the priest though; he was shagging his landlady.
The Manciple's Tale: It's supposed to be the Cook's turn next but he is so drunk he falls off his horse and the Manciple steps in. There's probably a stepping up to the mantle-slash-manciple joke in there somewhere, but I don't have time to construct it. (If you want to, feel free. Think of this as the IKEA flat-pack version of humour.)
I think it's quite fitting that this, the final story, is about a gallant knight, because there have been a few of those along the way. Remember January? And Walter? This one is called Phoebus. (Bonus quiz question: do you know who used to ride a bicycle called Mr Phoebus? Answers on a postcard please, or in the comments if you prefer. The prize, if I ever get around to making one, will be a knitted squid.)
Phoebus ( knight, not bicycle) was your basic Mr Dreamy: handsome and acomplished and musical and noble and all the rest. Apparently he was so good at archery he once killed a giant serpent with the brilliantly imaginative name of Python; although Python was asleep at the time which makes story less impressive if you ask me. No one ever asks me though, so well done Phoebus.
Phoebus had a pet crow, but here's the interesting bit: the crow was snow white. ("WHAT??? Crows aren't WHITE! Does this Chaucer chap know NOTHING?!" I hear the more bird-savvy among you cry. Patience, grasshoppers. All will be explained.)
Phoebus also has a beautiful wife. Like just about every other beautiful wife in these stories, this one does the dirty with someone else. It happens every time Phoebus goes away, which is quite regularly by the sounds of things. The guy is a bit of a dud by all accounts, and the beautiful wife is silly enough to conduct her affair in their own home, right under the beak of the snow white crow.
Eventually the crow, who like many people can't stand the sight of preening, soppy couples, tells Phoebus what has been going on. (I forgot to mention, the crow can talk. Sing, also. You may have spotted this is not normal behaviour for a crow, but this too will be dealt with later.)
Phoebus is outraged. And as it turns out, he has a fatal flaw. (Come on, we all have one. Mine is a tendency to procrastinate, although it hasn't proved fatal, yet. Must get around to sorting out some life insurance in case it does, though. Maybe I'll do it tomorrow.) The fatal flaw Phoebus carries around with him is a jealous streak a mile-wide. When he hears his wife has been cheating, he kills her, then smashes up some musical instruments in a fit of what would have been rock-star-inspired anger if rock stars had been invented yet.
So now he's angry about being cuckolded AND about having a dead wife and no musical instruments, and blames the bird (rather unfairly, if you think about it) for all of this. The RSPB may have had something to say about this, but they were invented even later than rock-stars so weren't around to help.
Free from fear of prosecution or judgement by a national charity, Phoebus pulls out all of the crow's white feathers (which is why crows are black now, DUH!) and then, using some magical powers we haven't even been told about yet, takes away the crow's powers of speech and music. Which left the crow, of course, with no noise left to make but the dull, crow-like sound we all know and love today.
And that's the last tale. The Cook doesn't sober up enough to tell his, and the Parson, who is the only one left, refuses to play the game. He does preach at them for a while, but then Chaucer realises they've arrived in Canterbury and slips off to pray. So we never do get to find out who told the best tale, or whether the Summoner and the Pardoner ever resolved their differences, or which of the party, if any, the Wife of Bath managed to get off with. (I say "if any", but, well.... the odds are pretty good, don't you think?)
There will be one final Canterbury post, and then we're done with Mr Chaucer. It has been fun. But not as fun as this picture of a crow:
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