They were on a pilgrimage, all of them–the Knight, the Miller, the Wife of Bath, the beggar . . . well, not the beggar.  He was not part of the group, or at least, not officially.  He had unofficially attached himself to the party when they entered the inn and now they were having a tough time shaking the little nuisance.

“Be gone,” the Miller had told him quite rudely, as had the Parson.  The Wife of Bath was repulsed by the smelly, dirty wretch and pretended not to see him.  The Knight, who was tall and near-sighted, really didn’t see him.  But it just so happened that the rather elaborate hem of his sleeve caught the edge of a bun and toppled it just at the exact moment the beggar had stopped to beg at his feet.  The beggar held out his hands and the bun fell neatly into them.

“I think we have one last tale, do we not,” the Host announced obliviously into the hall of weary travelers, “before I declare the winner of our contest and present him or her with a grand dinner of the finest fare my inn can provide?  Whose turn is it?”  The Host cast an inquisitorial gaze around the inn, but the excitement of the previous night of story telling seemed to have faded now.  In truth the Host was dreading this moment for although the pilgrims had paid for plenty of meals during their pilgrimage, he never liked to give away a free meal.  

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