Paul Freeman is an English instructor working in Abu Dhabi, where he lives with his wife and three young children. In addition to being a novelist, he has published numerous short stories and is currently working on a series of thirty-three ‘Lost’ Canterbury Tales. His contribution to this book is his shortest Canterbury Tale to date and offers a foretaste.
Prologue to The Franklin’s Second Tale
The hoary-bearded Franklin in our band
Of pilgrims quod: “’Tis time I set my hand
To spinning out a cautionary tale.”
He put away his flask of Kentish ale
And added: “Though I generously host
My household guests, not every man can boast
A temp’rament as open-palmed as mine.
In fact I’ve found that villanelles who dine
On meagre means are likely more to share
What little they possess (with scarce a care)
Than those born high with spoons of solid gold
Betwixt their lips. Ennobled fellows hold
Their riches tight, and always crave more wealth.
So hear you, how a sovereign risked ill-health
To measure those around him. Listen well!
A regicidal yarn I have to tell.
The Franklin’s Second Tale
King Egbert, past his prime, felt wont to test
The folk he trusted most ere he divest
His kingship, so he rustled up a plan.
He feigned to be a foolish, deaf old man,
So fragile he was promptly put to bed
To languish in his dotage until dead.
One morning he awoke to find a band
Conspiring to purloin by force his land.
“Usurping father’s realm is nothing wrong,”
Prince Fredrick quod. “He’s lingering too long.
Perhaps some actions radical and bold
Are needed lest I’m regent when I’m old.”
“’Twas mooted that by April he would die,”
Quod Martha, Fredrick’s wife. “Yet months go by.
King Egbert’s time as potentate has passed,
But still the stubborn ass is holding fast.”
The last collaborator of the group
(The King’s physician) quod: “Upon thin soup
I’ve starved him, but his servant girl takes pains
To feed him well, ensuring that he reigns.
Her ministrations need to be curtailed
Lest Egbert’s abdication be derailed.
So, if we’re in agreement let’s dispatch
This millstone through a scheme we’ll newly hatch.”
The traitors laid their plans and all agreed
On how to carry out the fatal deed.
Prince Fredrick strode towards the bed to place
A pillow over Egbert’s pallid face.
The sov’reign thrashed about, then acted dead
Till Fredrick took the pillow from his head.
“Inform the guards of Egbert’s sad demise,”
Quod Martha to the doctor. “And advise
The royal court, dear husband, that the crown
Your father donned is due for handing down.”
Then once the co-conspirators had left
The chamber, Egbert’s servant girl, bereft
And tearful hurried to the regent’s side.
She caterwauled, she beat her breast and cried
Until the ‘dead man’ opened up his eyes
And winked – at which she fainted in surprise.
The moment Fredrick sat upon the throne
To take the right of kingship as his own,
His father yelled across the hall: “This claim
I’m dead is false. My doctor’s much to blame.
So sharpen up the executioner’s blade,
That with a single swing the bungler’s slayed.”
The treacherous physician made a plea
For clemency and wept on bended knee;
But nought in mitigation could he say,
So Egbert’s guardsmen dragged the man away.
Quod Egbert: “Since the royal court’s convened,
I now decree Prince Fredrick must be weaned
Off luxuries, so hereby I promote
My son to head our harshest, most remote
Of garrisons – accomp’nied by his spouse.”
Thus Egbert slyly cleansed the royal house
And quietly arranged to see his lands
Would not fall into undeserving hands.
Some twelve months on, a courier arrived
At Fredrick’s fort with news he’d be deprived
Of any royal legacy, for writ
Upon a scroll, King Egbert saw it fit
To make, at last, his joyful tidings known –
My servant girl sits by me on the throne,
The message read: And now a better heir
Than you my queen’s been good enough to bear.
Epilogue to the Franklin’s Second Tale
The Franklin, with his yarning done, once more
Uncorked his flask, and passed around its store
Of ale amongst us pilgrims whilst we mulled
The import of his message ere we dulled
Our minds with beer. It seemed his story told
How tenderness affected by the cold
Of calculating greed turns good men bad
And made a son a patricidal lad.
So mark my words, if avarice you choose
To rule your days, the game of Life you’ll lose.