How Does The Pardoner Manipulate People In Stories?

The Pardoner’s manipulation is a twisted art form. He exploits religious devotion, using the Church’s authority as a shield while peddling lies. His stories, like the one about the three rioters who kill each other over gold, are designed to trigger visceral reactions—fear of damnation, greed’s consequences—and then he swoops in with his 'solution.' He’s a performative genius, too: crying on cue, waving around his 'holy' relics (which are probably goat bones), and tailoring his pitch to his audience’s vulnerabilities. Poor farmers? He’ll emphasize poverty as a virtue. Rich merchants? He’ll warn about wealth corrupting the soul.

What’s chilling is his self-awareness. He openly admits his relics are fake and that he doesn’t care about saving souls—only money. Yet his charisma and the weight of his moral tales make people ignore the red flags. It’s a commentary on how easily fear and blind faith can override logic. Even today, you see echoes of his tactics in televangelists or influencers selling 'miracle' cures. The Pardoner’s legacy is a timeless lesson in psychological manipulation.

I've always been fascinated by how the Pardoner in 'The Canterbury Tales' plays people like a fiddle. He’s a master of emotional manipulation, preying on guilt and fear to sell fake relics and indulgences. His whole act revolves around making people believe they’re sinners who need redemption—and conveniently, he’s the one who can provide it... for a price. He spins dramatic tales about greed and death to scare his audience into opening their purses. What’s wild is how he admits his own hypocrisy mid-sermon, almost bragging about it, yet people still fall for it. It’s like watching a con artist who’s so good, he doesn’t even hide the con. The way he mixes truth (like the moral about greed) with his scams makes him terrifyingly effective.

Let’s break down the Pardoner’s toolkit: guilt-tripping, fear-mongering, and theatrical flair. He’s like a medieval infomercial host, selling salvation with the urgency of a limited-time offer. His go-to move is the 'double bind'—damned if you’re greedy, damned if you don’t pay him to absolve you. He’ll describe rotting corpses and divine wrath in graphic detail, then casually offer a 'discount' on pardons. The genius is in his pacing: he lets the horror of his stories sink in before revealing his scam, so people pay to ease their discomfort.

And let’s not forget his props. That bag of fake relics? Pure theater. He’ll clutch a 'holy veil' and swear it cured lepers, knowing no one will fact-check him. His whole persona—the raspy voice, the ragged clothes—is crafted to look like a humble servant of God. It’s insidious because he weaponizes faith itself. Even when he jokes about his own corruption, his victims are too desperate for grace to walk away. Modern scammers could take notes.