Fool School by James Comins Read Free Book Online

always
understand. There's a river, I am told, a little one that travels
up Sarsbury Plain toward Bath. Barges travel up the way, drawn by
horses, and Malcolm and I can travel in relative comfort, riding
the river. I don't mention to Edward that there is a woman in a
pit, here in Poole. He is too numinous a man to be told these
things.
    Here is the ealdorman's house. He's the head of the
whole town, and I don't know why I've been invited here. His house
is two stories of good-quality wood beams, not great oak, but
expensive. Peaked roofs for snow. A courtyard in front, a tree
grown from a dozen lesser trees twisted together. Not
Parisian-quality grafting, but very pretty nonetheless. Stone
benches. It's like the retirement home of an ancient philosopher,
maybe. I don't know why my head's so full of ancient Greece and
Rome these days. Maybe Neptune isn't gone from me. Maybe the priest
didn't really put my sins on the goat woman after all. Maybe my
soul is lost. Maybe I'm being haunted. I have so much to cower
from. Hardly the right frame of mind for a future kingsfool to be
in.
    Here is the ealdorman of Poole. Look at his red round
face. A face like a fat glass pitcher full of wine. He looks
jollier than my father, wiser than the Martinite friar, and I don't
find him to be a vile drunk at all, though he is drunk. His accent
is different, and I imagine him to be Welsh. Yes, he says, he's
from Swansea. A Brython. A Celt.
    Here's his wife. Her outfit is no different from her
husband's. Somehow, nobody finds this funny except me. Both their
sleeves are long, dangling off their wrists, their tunics are
nicely tailored, particolored red and yellow, with embroidered
collars, and somehow in these colors they seem Navarran somehow,
Spanish, Moorish even. Their Welsh hair is very dark, not black,
and their eyebrows are thick and solemn. But the ealdorman's manner
is boyish, and his wife is dramatic, and I find myself at home in
their hall, forgetting about the goat woman and the priest,
listening to Edward speak.
    This is what Edward says:
    "He's an exceptional lad." Malcolm he means, not me.
"France was good for him. It's well to broaden your tongue." He
gives the two of us a look. "We have high hopes for him now that he
has a direction. It wasn't the one I'd expected, but he seems keen
on it. He's so small a lad. Needs a burst of growth."
    Malcolm shifts uncomfortably, dips his fingers in the
water bowl, takes a pair of pork ribs.
    "Not a fighter," Edward continues, shaking his head,
and takes the water bowl in turn. "Not yet. I know his father
wanted a sloan for a son, but a poet he's got instead. Trust in the
Lord's judgment, I say, and he'll turn out all right in the
end."
    "And the other boy?" asks the ealdorman.
    My muddy thicket-swamp hands fill the water bowl with
disease-ridden brown. I feel sick all of a sudden, but I can mask
my discomfort in the presence of the good ealdorman. That's an
important thing for a fool to practice. If you can't hide your
pain, you'll upset your host, and you won't be able to fake pain
properly when the time is right.
    Edward's hand rests on my shoulder. "We don't know
much about him, really. Enigmatic, I'd say. I think he means well
enough."
    "Don't we all," says the ealdorman, and Edward
smiles.
    "An education will be good for the two of them," says
Edward. "Above and beyond books and tongues. Have you read, Tom?"
he asks me.
    "Not really, sir," I reply. "Not enough." Or at all.
I'm illiterate, except for music. I don't say that.
    "Not enough," Edward mutters. "Never enough."
    The ealdorman's wife begins to sup, so we all eat.
I've never thought of myself as enigmatic. I don't like the idea. A
fool should be simple, bold, plain. A fool is a man of the laity, a
bumpkin, a yeoman in the court of the king. A fool shouldn't be a
mystery.
    "Could we have a song?" the ealdorman asks me
tentatively. This shouldn't be a surprise, I decide, but at the
same time I'm unprepared. I've never been a natural