by James Comins
I expect the Jew to order us out of his shop, to speak harshly, as a Frenchman would. But he doesn't. He prefers to bandy slimy words with us, arguing and arguing, I see he will argue with us all night if we let him, so I decide to end it.
"Finish the job we paid you for, or give us our pence back," I say. Sweat from the ale has nearly frozen on my skin from the draft from the door, the Jew cannot even manage to keep a warm shop. He's like a reptile, a snake.
The Jew shrugs, selects a pile of choice quartered-farthings of ours and selects another shilling.
But as he has left the pound chest open, I reach in and take a pound. The woman with the swords stirs and holds them out in my path and swings, but I flatten myself, I duck beneath the tent wall and pull up the canvas and run. In my hands are two pounds and two shillings. Malcolm is close to my heels, and I'm terrified of the swordwoman, who emerges through the tentflaps and sees that we are gone.
After a few minutes of running, we spot the flagpole on its triangular tower and make for it.
Everyone but Nuncle is asleep beneath it. He's quite a pack of smiles despite the late hour, and when I produce two pounds--I've sequestered the two shillings in my shoe, this is a considerable amount of money--Nuncle positively glows.
"Oh, yes," he says, leaning over my ear, "I've heard quite the myths and legends of you two. 'Fools of the Common,' they're calling you. 'The Peoples' Fools.' 'The Ones Who Brought a Blackfriar to Mary's Tears.' "
I receive a big wink.
"You did good," he says, taking the pounds and giving me a knowing look and a second wink. "Sleep now, Fools of the Common. Tomorrow do more."
Nuncle kisses the top of my head, through the hood, which feels unaccustomed, somehow. Then he adds: "Where's your recorder?"
A deja vu rises up in my throat. I see the wharfmaster behind me, the Church of St. Martin's ahead, frustration in my breast, and I spin, my trunks left behind on the dock. And all the catastrophe afterward, my suit losing its royal purple and embroidery, and getting nothing back in return.
My recorder is in the House of the Jew.
It is.
I will claim that he stole it. Nobody will doubt me. And in this way, I'll get my recorder back without having to look him in his beady eye and apologize for the pound coin. A Jew is too slimy to apologize to.
I skin out of my devil's motley, being careful not to reveal the sequestered shillings--I feel Nuncle would permit me to keep them, but you never know--and I realize that without my recorder I'll be unable to do much fooling tomorrow. It'll either be all insults (which will be intensely stressful, it makes me crazy to insult great men), or I'll need to buy a tuppence recorder, which will be humiliating, I can't have that. Or I'll need to accuse the Jew first thing in the morning.
The turf is dusty, it feels nearly slippery below me, and I still have the wool bag, and Wolfweir is awake, looking at us, and I whisper to her that it worked, the rings, and she gives us a devious grin and returns to sleep, curling up strangely, like an otter.
Malcolm is shaking, and I take him in my arms and he tells me he fears the Jew and his swordwoman-slave. I tell him my plan to recover my recorder, and he tells me it'll help to calm his nerves if we do it first thing tomorrow.
Sleep, a hard ground sort of sleep, and no dreams.
In the foggy ugly morning we two trot away from Nuncle's campsite and begin looking for a bailiff or magistrate. We find ourselves recognized, attracting attention from the occasional fairgoer expecting insults, but we're both preoccupied, we leave lots of people disappointed.
There's an actual courthouse in the dense center of the fair--a little wood-frame village is built here, it stands empty for three hundred sixty-two days a year. Up a wooden step smelling strongly of timber and pitch, the wood quite unfinished, actually very pleasant in its way, we find several lawmen speaking to a small assortment of bewronged. We wait in line.
After a time, the woman ahead of us has described some thief, and they write it up dutifully and give her a date to present her case at the Brystow Fair Court, and we step forward and a clerk and bailiff give us their complete attention.
"The Jew in the, um, one of the tents, he stole my good recorder," I mumble. I have trouble with eye contact, but then I am merely a cherubic boy--I'm dressed in my tunic and hose now, my horned devil costume is in the wool bag. I figured dressing as a devil would be contraindicated in court.
"Which tent?" asks the clerk, scribbling.
I have no idea where it is or even if I could find it again. I was very drunk.
"He had a lady with him, bearing crossed clays for protection," says Malcolm.
"Crossed--? Oh, Rabin," says the bailiff. "Really? He took your recorder?"
The bailiff is very mild, a big man wearing a studded hauberk crossed with a sash with the shield of Brystow sewn on it. He reminds me of Stan. Perhaps all lawmen are alike. Perhaps there is only one lawman, the Universal Bailiff, and all others are merely reflections.
I look at my shoes and nod. I am a coward, but the Brystow bailiff will believe me eventually, because this Rabin is a Jew, and everybody hates those.
The bailiff makes a face and shrugs. "All right, let's go talk to him."
Mortification. I will need to look the Jew in the eye and accuse him wrongly. A gold pound-libra coin sits in Nuncle's pouch. Can I do this?
I couldn't do it to a Christian, I feel certain of that. I'm not a monster, I don't lie without reason. Not where Godfearers are concerned.
The bailiff comes around the side of the desk and Malcolm and I follow him out of the courthouse, saying nothing and making no eye contact.
The sun is blinding, it makes sweat stand out from my flanks. I'm glad I'm not fooling right now. The way is long, and we have to follow many ditchways and traverse around many corners. The Brystow bailiff likes to cut through people's workplaces; I step over so many piles of work stuff, through so many backsides of booths, past men counting coins, women sewing. I realize I've set something awful in motion now, I want to tell this stupid bailiff that I'm lying, but I think maybe the Jew will just hand over my recorder and say nothing of the pound coin in Nuncle's pocket and that'll be the end of it. So many tentpoles to trip over.
There is the object of my abhorrence, the Jew's tent. Shivers touch me involuntarily, and I see Malcolm's loathing too. I know all his moods and he's bathing in fear right now. I wince as the bailiff throws back the tentflap and shouts, "Ho there, Rabin!"
"Ho, Barns!" That reedy, distasteful voice. They know each other. "What's the--oh, those two." He's spotted us. I want to curl up and die like a maggot on a dry riverbank.
"Is there a recorder in here?" the Brystow bailiff Barns asks.
"Recorder?" says the Jew. "No, I haven't seen one. But here's the pennies they left behind from last night. I'll trade them for the pound coin they took. I've never approved of children drinking to drunkenness, it's bad parenting."
"Oh, were they drunk?" says Barns. "Pound coin?"
"He stole my recorder and he's already sold it!" I say.
"You didn't bring an instrument case in with you," this Rabin says, "except for that little bag you've got."
"He's committing acts of usury!" Malcolm exclaims.
Barns rolls his eyes. "That's his job," he says. Then: "Listen, you two, if Rabin says you didn't bring your toys in with you, I believe him, okay? And now what's this about a pound coin?"
"But he's a Jew," I moan.
Why isn't this convincing anybody?
"I know well that en your England under your Hardknot, usury's a crime, et es," says Malcolm.
Barns goes very cold. "Rabin's a trustworthy member of our town," he says. "You're not. Apparently, since you say nothing to the contrary, I believe you two to be drunken thieves. But you could bring a great deal of harm to him with talk like that. Brystow needs men like him. So don't you two start any trouble in here."
"He stole my recorder and a whole bunch of pennies and I need my recorder ba
ck and he's a usurer!" I shout as loud as I can.
The swordwoman--who's standing in the exact same position as she was last night, I wonder if she sleeps there, standing up--gives the Jew a look. He shakes his head.
I imagine the appearance of a passing nobleman, he is this tall, a good chin, wearing not purple but fine blue cloth, he pushes the tentflap open and comes in, introduces himself, he hates Jews too, he declares that he heard my declaration and he hates usury and he demands the bailiff hang the Jew for his crime, and the bailiff resists, but the nobleman threatens to bring the whole courthouse to London and attest to the king, and so Barns complies and takes the Jew to the gallows, I see the Jew hanging by a noose, and this frustratingly stubborn Brystow bailiff sits crying beneath the dead body, he cries and cries for his friend, and I heave a deep breath and I'm crying too, I realize with a pimple-burst of disgust that I want to kill the Jew even though I'm the one who stole from him, I'm un-Christian, I must find a priest and confess, I hate my cowardice, and once again my imagination bursts and I run out of the tent into the sunlight and my breath is hardly filling my lungs, I want to crush my head beneath a blacksmith's hammer, and I run and trip and fall and find myself flying headlong into a mudpit where a potter has been kilning, but the potter is elsewhere, I'm covered with mud and the nearest men call out: "John! John Shaftes! It's your butt-slapper, covered with mud!"
I'm lucky the mud covers my face, I have no doubt that my face is bright red. I must perform for this wodewose man again in a moment, this fact penetrates my addled, hating, un-Christian mind, I'm going to have to pretend to be a happy fool--no, I can't, my self-loathing is too strong, I'll have to play off of my despair--
For a brief moment I imagine I could raise a mob, say things that would convince these people to kill the Jew for me. I almost--
My mind fixates on it. All I have to do is say the Jew stole the shilling John of Shaftesbury gave me, they'd believe me--
Aarrgh, I'm such a coward--
To keep away from this lush new sin, I fill my mind with the last time I struggled so. Liza. I remember my original sin of omission, when I didn't mention that the guilty priest was following us. I can repress my cowardice if I dwell on her moonfaced innocence, my guilt. I caused her to be put in the pit, where no woman or man belongs. I condemned her. I dwell on it, that girl, that girl, my sin, I will not cause the innocent Jew to lose his life as Liza did, I will overcome my sinful hatred. Love for every man, is what Malcolm said, I will dwell on this--
"Well, my young tormentor, seems times have changed," John of Shaftesbury says, pulling me to my feet. "Whither were you running, O muddy fool?"
"A girl!" I exclaim before I have constructed my thoughts or my story. I leap into the air, then put my fists on my hips. "I was rejected by the love of my life! I was so in love with her that I gave my recorder away to buy her a ring, but like a cruel trollop she has rejected me and in my anger I threw the ring away and now I have no recorder and no recorder and nothing in the world but love! Poor, forlorn and unreciprocated love! I am like Christ." I throw myself to my knees and pretend to rend my garments.
"Where is this girl?" John of Shaftesbury remarks. "Perhaps a word from Ole John will reverse your fortunes."
And now I know what I will do, it will indeed reverse my fortunes, I'm sure of it.
"Ah, thank you, friend John!" I exclaim. "Follow me!"
John seems to attract new friends wherever he goes, because a parade springs up behind him as he trots after me. The Jew's tent is not far, but we have at least twenty followers when we arrive, maybe more, all jogging in through the tent flap.
Malcolm and the bailiff are shoved aside as the parade crams in.
I shout, "Here!"
Before I have a chance to kneel before the eerie swordwoman, the Jew dives to the dirt, pulls up the back of the tent and flees.
If the bailiff were not here, if the swordwoman did not immediately move to prevent the mob from following the Jew, I believe there would be general looting of the Jew's latchboxes. Instead I plunge to my muddy knees (Malcolm holds the bag with our things) and plead for the swordwoman's hand in marriage.
John comes forward and, doubled over laughing, he says, "Oh, go on and marry him, I can vouch for his manhood!" and the crowd bubbles with merriment.
"Svedskjælð gutrsdottír jarlsfjord," she says, or something like it.
"Has she not the fairest voice you've ever heard?" I say. In a stage whisper I add: "I fancy foreign accents."
"Fnordsgardr," she says, and the crowd erupts.
I say: "I think she understands me not." Then I mouth some exemplary kissy-faces at her and John laughs, and the people laugh with him, he's that sort of man.
I look up at the woman. A leather jerkin covers a quality mail hauberk; beneath that a double layer of tunics. Her hair is brown, worn in a single long ponytail in the Danish style. Her face is broad, eyes set farther apart than Saxon eyes, nose blunt. In reality I find her too foreign, although I believe any Norseman would declare her beautiful. Everyone in England hates the Danes, so I must take care not to inflame the mob unless I want her dead, or possibly them. I find there to be much responsibility in having the power of a fool. I wonder idly how many people I could kill if I were murderous and calculating.
"She rejects me, see-you-not?" I say, turning from her in faux despair. "Say to her that I love her, would you, John?"
John looks behind him at the crowd, notices the bailiff, faces the woman.
"This young man." He points to me. "Has fallen--" he plunges to one knee--"in love--" he clutches his heart--"with you." He points to her.
It seems to reach her that neither I nor the crowd are here to kill her or the Jew or to steal his coins. I think she doesn't understand why I brought these people here, but that's understandable, since I have no idea why I did it either.
She points at me and shakes her head. I manage a pretty decent backward roll of despair, landing under the Jew's desk. But the swordwoman then points to John and does a big yes-mama nod. The crowd laughs and cheers. I leap to my feet--a flip Ab'ly demonstrated once but has not yet had us practice--and I, proud with my hands on my hips, demand "A kiss! A kiss from my scorned love!"
The swordwoman crosses her arms and turns away from me primly. She sweeps her hands down her jerkin, and she's right, I'm covered with mud, I've left a smooch on the ground. Then she faces the audience, points to John, and then to me, making a kissyface.
"Aye, she's right, you did scorn my love once!" John of Shaftesbury declares, and lifts me into the air with both hands and kisses me full on the lips with a full beard. He bobbles me like a child. "No reason for a shit-kicker like me not to get a little muddy, whey-hey!"
I'm set down, feeling queasy, and yet feeling like things may yet pan out in my direction, and John gives the swordwoman his arm. Smiling in a terrifying way, she takes it.
"What of your wife?" someone from the crowd roars.
"On your honor, nobody tell her!" John declares, and gives me a slap on the shoulder. "Couldn't grant you the love of your life, lad, but you've granted me another grand time, so here's eke a shilling for your role as matchmaker!"
A shilling leaps to me, followed by a hail of happy pence and quartered farthings, and the crowd departs, led by John and the swordwoman.
Now Barns, Malcolm and I are alone in the Jew's tent.
"What the bloody eyes of God was that about?" exclaims Barns. "Why--what--just . . . what?"
"I did really lose my recorder," I say. "I don't know where it is. I thought I had left it here, but he--Rabin--didn't seem to have it really. I'm sorry I believed him to be a thief, I imagine it was stolen elsewhere, maybe at the aletent, I don't know."
"And so you summoned up a mob from thin air--seriously, how--you were gone for naught but a minute, and you rush in with a thousand men and women, and, and children . . ." He scratches his head. "Where did they come from?"
"Ah, fools are given a magic whistle that summons
mistmen," I invent. "I only wish I'd gotten a kiss from her. Well, thank you for coming with us to see if the--if Rabin had my recorder. We'll look elsewhere. If someone brings in a fine acaciawood recorder in a brassclad box, will you have it sent to the Fool School?"
Barns is quite speechless, and sends us away after overseeing us gathering the hail of pence to pay back the Jew for the pound we stole. There are four shillings here, and he demands we give him the three we have ourselves, and he says he will send for the other thirteen at the Fool School if we don't raise it by the end of the fair. We're now penniless and in debt, although Nuncle is quite rich from my shiftlessness. This is the price of my hatred.
Malcolm and I are traveling back over our drunken footsteps. We discuss.
Malcolm: "Ded your opinion of the Jew change so fast, that you spoke highly of him by the end?"
Me: "Here's, um, my mind on the matter. So Barns is a normal dumb bailiff, and he says the Jew's a part of the community. Why would he speak so if the Jew were not an exemplary man? Why allow the Jew to live in England if he weren't more of a man than any Christian? Whereas I--"
Malcolm: "Perhaps Barns just likes . . . loans." Soppily dissatisfying to both of us.
Me: "You spoke of love for every man--"
Malcolm: "Every man accepting of Christ, that es. Not . . . not every--"
Me: "Why not every man? Why an exception? Would Christ have love for the Jew?"
Malcolm goes very still, stops walking. We've not yet found the aletent, we're merely walking.
Malcolm: "Know ye not?"
Me: "What?"
Malcolm: "Christ was a Jew himself. Aye he'd have love for the Jew, he was of kin with him."
And this gives us much to think about.
Me: "And you spoke well of King David of the Jews once. Why speak so him and feel so poorly about this Rabin?"
Malcolm: "Et's one matter to hear a story read, but another to confront its subject."
Me: "I don't believe you."