Fool School (34 page)

I feel like it's finished, but Malcolm has more. It's
getting late.

"By candlelight Duncan rode through the streets of
Atholl, coming at last to where his girl's father's house was.
Bearing the Key, he knocked upon the door, once, twice. Her father
answered and came out and swore ruth to see the boy, returned in no
more than a year and a day, wearing iron armor and mantled as befit
a knight's squire. Duncan asked was his girl Sybil at home," I
realize we never named her, "and Sybil's father looked down and
swore again, and said that Sybil hadna waited, but had married the
blacksmith of Atholl. And Duncan knelt and said that it was in his
heart to cry wroth, but that as a squire sworn to King Arthur, he
could not curse a woman for her betrayal, for it's in a knight's
vows to respect the will of a woman. By and by Duncan rode with the
canons--"

Malcolm hands it over to me, and I am near yawning, I
feel erased, and I want to finish the story quickly and in grand
fashion, but I'm too tired to do true justice or think up anything
brilliant. I say: "And the canons discoursed together and asked
would Duncan lay aside his love for women altogether and join with
them and swear an oath to God to remain chaste and take Cadoc's
place as a virgin knight. But Mal--I mean Duncan--was in his belly
a romantic and believed that his love, being pure and unselfish,
would be met with like, and found Sybil in the blacksmith's house,
and declared his love." I feel like I'm evaporating, like strong
ale left out. I have next to nothing inside of me. "And he knelt
where he stood, and prayed to God for his love for Sybil not to be
betrayed so." I look to Malcolm, who thinks, but isn't sure how to
end it. The audience is restless; we haven't provided closure.

Nuncle speaks: "And an angel spoke Duncan's name, and
pointed to the Key to Heaven, and said it was a key that could
unlock any door. The angel provided a door to Duncan that would
grant him a world where Sybil would be his wife, be it that he
swore himself to the defense of Britannia. And Duncan swore suchly,
raised the key, and turned the lock, and he and Sybil stood in the
hall of Camelodenum amid much celebration. Cadoc stood bravely
beside them in attendance of their wedding and of the union of
Scotland and England by way of marriage, and Duncan was crowned
king of Scotland, and swore fealty to Britannia and to its
protection. And on this Christmas day, King Duncan Donalvane and
Queen Sybil were welcome in King Arthur's court, and returned home
to Scotland, and ruled well and happily for many years."

I say a big prayer very quietly, thanking God that
Nuncle was there to save our butts.

Gladly the crowd gives us money, not merely
quartered-farthings and pence but thruppence and even sixpence, we
have chosen a fair crowd. The crowd is not faceless: I see unique
people, singular shapes of faces, in the way that those with good
lives gain more character in the face. A lord in blue wears a long
hat that might have looked fairer on a woman; a lady's tight
striped wimple gives her neck the look of a foreign bird's.

A feminine whisper in my ear: "The Goodbarry
alehouse." I don't know what that means, but I remember I need to
pay the kind woman at the aletent thruppence when I can.

A man with a full belly, not as developed as
Hamlin's, but girthy, approaches us in a red suit like King
Wenceslaus might have worn. "Have you many such stories?" he asks
us.

My eyes flicker to Malcolm, then to Nuncle, who is
near. Nuncle emphasizes a yes with a subtle nod. I say yes, and
Malcolm says yes, too.

"I was quite enchanted," he says. "How long does it
take to memorize something like that?"

"Just days," I say, and Malcolm shakes furiously and
I add: "Weeks. Many, many weeks. Aren't we very impressive?"

The man is pleased by my foolishness and says: "I'd
like you to entertain me. What's your, ah, rate, then?"

I expect Nuncle to swoop forward, but he does not.
Instead, Professor Ab'ly steps forward, seemingly from nowhere, and
proposes a rate of three shillings per week, which the man
obsequiously agrees to.

"Are you their master?" the red lord asks
earnestly.

Ab'ly bows. "You're out of town?" he says
diplomatically in his Mediterranean accent.

"Robert of Jork," he says, introducing himself. Coins
and lords continue to fly around us. "I think I would like these
two to entertain me for a few weeks. Would this be acceptable?"

"We have hardly any training, nor knowledge of--" I
say, but Ably's skinny, nearly-bare feet stretch out and kick me,
tap, and I shut up.

"Of course," says Ab'ly. "Would they travel with you
right-right from the fair, or better to have them visit?"

"Ah, it will be a bitch of a winter," says Lord
Robert. "Better they come and go before we're all frozen in,
think-you-not?"

"Of course," Ab'ly says, bowing from the waist.

"Then they may accompany me?" Lord Robert asks.

"Of course, of course," Ab'ly insists.

"Then have them meet me at Pucklechurch this Sunday,
and I shall be pleased to have jests as I travel."

"Just so, just so," says Ab'ly, and Lord Robert
smiles and gives each of us a polite bob and departs.

As I leave the area with fistfuls of coins, I hear
lordly voices discussing the story I have originated. They discuss
the idea of King Duncan, knight of the Round Table; the death and
rebirth of Cadoc; the love and betrayal of Sybil; the union of
Scotland and England. It's got a great many people talking. I feel
rather proud. No, I feel immensely proud, although I feel unsettled
by Nuncle's mention of the voice of angels. I preferred having
angels as my own secret knowledge. Now I have to share the idea.
Perhaps Nuncle also speaks to them. I will have to think on
this.

At the campsite, I realize I'll have to think up
reasons to be permitted to keep all these coins, so Nuncle doesn't
find out I'm a thief. Also I need to buy leather, and maybe find a
pound for the silver flute. Nuncle has us pile the coins together
immediately.

"Tom," he says. "You owe two shillings more for next
year's tuition." He selects two sixpence coins and four thruppence.
"And Malcolm, after sixty-one shillings less forty-two, you owe
nineteen shillings."

"I have et," says Malcolm, giving me a significant
look. We need thirteen shillings to pay back Rabin.

"Nevertheless." Nuncle begins shuffling coins
together, not unlike the Jew, and he quickly counts sixteen
shillings nine. I feel suddenly peeved that he should have been in
the crowd during our recitation; if he had not been, we'd have
taken care of our affairs much more easily, without this
interception.

"Nuncle," I say, kneeling on the hard crushed-dirt
ground, looking down at these dusty coins I need so badly. "I have
a few--I mean, we didn't save anything, even though Perille
suggested we do--it seemed dishonest--only a few pennies for ale
and pottage--"

The headmaster, lounging in the dirt across the coins
from us, gives me a look, shrugs and separates a shilling's worth
of pennies, which is no small price, but I'll need thirteen such
piles, and they're right here, and I'm despairing . . .

Malcolm has the courage to say it isn't enough for
what we have in mind.

"I understand you've both come to the town of Bath
from places of luxury," hisses Nuncle in some displeasure and, I
think, scorn. I want to protest, but he goes on: "I'm sure that
where you two come from, sixteen shillings is a tip for an
alehouse-man. But out here, in the real world?"

I start to say that I don't think this, and I'm about
to reveal my humiliating crime, but he cuts me off with a sweep of
his hand.

"In the real world that is a
hell of a lot of
money some lords don't have that much don't you dare interrupt me
Tom
. What you see here in front of you? What you have, through
your admitted brilliance of performance, is a
fortune
to
normal people. Most people here
I said don't interrupt me
have never paid for anything with coins, they trade Godforsaken
eggs and bacon rashers for the few meager things they need. It's
not that we don't earn the money, Tom, it's that we need to
appreciate how rare a thing we do this is, and to apply our wealth
not
for personal trifles g
oddamn it I don't care what you
needed the money for
and for you to spend more than a shilling
at the fair is absolutely out of the question. Take this and speak
no more."

In the darkness of the fires and lamps and
candlelight, Malcolm and I take our pennies, give three to the
aletent woman, she gives us an enormous encompassing hug each, and
then, egged on by Malcolm, I find a leather dealer and buy a good
roll of leather, I'll ask Perille to carry it home for me, since
we'll be travelling directly to Jork from the fair. That was a
penny and ha', and now I have seven pence ha', which, after some
discussion, we decide to take to Rabin. I desire avoidance. I want
to stay safe and far away, but instead I drag myself step by step
to the tent with the yellow star. I halfway hope it's been taken
down, rolled up and that the Jew and his Danish swordwoman have
departed for parts unknown, but it's still there, a beige circle on
a frame of poles.

I knock on the canvas, which goes
paf paf
paf
.

"Yes, yes, come in," pipes Rabin.

Now is the time when I have to open the tentflap and
say I'm sorry.

I stare at the tent.

Malcolm is beside me. His fingertip pushes aside the
flap enough for me to glimpse the desk and beard inside.

I give Malcolm a little shove. He slips inside and
presses his back to the tent wall. I reluctantly slip in after
him.

The Jew sets down a quill and a cup of wine. The
swordwoman gives me a facial expression.

"Yes?" the Jew says.

I come forward to the desk and open my hand and let
eight coins fall onto the desk. One rolls off the edge, but the
Jew's hands are quick and he scoops it up.

"The headmaster has the pound coin," I whisper. "He
won't give us enough to pay you back the rest."

I can't meet his eyes.

"Have you explained to him that it doesn't belong to
you?" Rabin asks.

"Our headmaster's not a man you say such thengs to,"
mumbles Malcolm.

"Let's go meet him."

The Jew rises. The swordwoman stays behind.

We find Nuncle resting beneath a tree, a liripipe
draped over his eyes. I say, "Sir?" and he sleepily lifts the cloth
from one eye.

His eyes and Rabin's meet. They know each other.

"Haven't seen you in town before," says Rabin, and
his tone is full of undertones, grown-up stuff.

"Thought it had blown over," Nuncle says. He's
tensed, a bowstring.

"I don't think it's any of my business--" Rabin
begins, but Nuncle cuts him off:

"It isn't."

Rabin shrugs. I don't know what they're talking
about.

"Anyway, I sort of hate to do this, but the boys owe
me twelve shillings."

Nuncle's flat affect and blue eyes make him look like
a shark with mouthfuls of teeth about to cut us. I just know we're
in for it now.

"Do they," Nuncle says with distaste on his breath.
He pulls a coin purse from under his shirt and counts out large
coins. Then he changes his mind and locates the gold pound coin and
flicks it up into a spun rainbow. It lands smartly in Rabin's open
hand.

"You know I can't accept all of this," he tells
Nuncle.

"Call it a down payment," and Nuncle lets the
liripipe back down over his eyes.

The headmaster doesn't request that we two stay for a
whipping. He's sleeping. Rabin, however, tells us to come back with
him. My feet feel like ice, and I'm ready to get back to my pebble
bed, but that's not for me right now. Maybe Robert of Jork will
have a featherbed for us. I doubt it.

"Sit down."

There are three-legged stools stacked to one side of
his desk. The swordwoman watches us. We take down stools and sit
and Malcolm takes my hand. There is a woody scent, and the smell of
candlewicks. The light is low and irregular. The floor is still
grass in some places, packed by feet elsewhere.

"Well," says the Jew. "Richard of Brystow is your
headmaster. That's really something."

I'm silent. Malcolm is shaking.

"Since you're not going to receive any moral lessons
from him, let me ask you a few things.

Why take a pound coin?"

I look very carefully at the carven leg of the desk
in front of me.

"There's a flute I wanted to buy," I say very
quietly. "It cost a pound."

"You had a pound. I changed it for you." He's
snippier today, peevy, but this is understandable.

"Nuncle takes all our money," I say.

"What's it mean to be a Jew?" bursts unexpectedly
from Malcolm. This means he's been dwelling on the question and has
just worked up his courage to ask. He's a dweller.

"Ah," Rabin says. "That's a good question. What do
you think it means?"

"King David was a Jew," mumbles Malcolm. "Jesus
eke."

"And you?" Rabin asks me. "What is a Jew to you?"

"Slimy," I say, looking hard at the carven desk
leg.

Flakes of grass are squashed, and the dirt has
bubbled up into structures from the dew, or perchance from the
rain.

Rabin sniffs. "Did Jesus not say to love thy neighbor
as thyself?" he asks.

"Did he?" I ask. This seems an extraordinary thing
for anyone to say.

"You should ask Hamlin for the Gospels," Malcolm
tells me. I nod.

"What is the Trinity to you?" Rabin asks.

"The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit," I
say.

"And the
trois
are one," Malcolm adds.

"But when you say you worship God, whom do you pray
to?" Rabin asks.