Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Oaths now,” mocks Oduvit. “You may come to regret such hasty words. That would be such a tragic thing, to cause you regret. The rumors one hears, if they are correct, would make your oath as false as the fealty of allies.” He folds his arms as portentously as he is able, “They say that Claudius is paying you to give him information about Gertrude; he is paying you very well.”

  The remark is calculated to enrage me further, and for that reason alone I am able to contain my temper. “And who, besides you, says such a thing?” I inquire as politely as if Oduvit had spoken about the Bishop. I am rewarded by the sudden rush of color into Oduvit’s cheeks.

  “It is known,” he says with bravado.

  I will not allow him such an answer. “We have all warned you, Oduvit. And we are all watching you. If you try to work mischief against Hamlet or his wife, we will know of it and we will stop it before damage can be done.”

  Oduvit is able to salvage himself enough countenance for one last expression of venom. “And what if I am telling the truth? What if Claudius is doing more than trying to keep himself in favor with Hamlet? What if his intentions are for his own victory? What if Claudius truly is pursuing Gertrude, not merely seeking to tweak the King’s jealousy? What if he succeeds in seducing her? Won’t you be worse than a fool then?” Those very questions have been haunting me for several days, and I have no answer to give him.

  * * *

  Long before dawn I hear the sound of wagons in the outer court; I half-rise only to be admonished by a small claw sunk into my upper arm to remain where I am. As I lie back I listen. The cooks begin to gather in the kitchen, many of them grumbling at their early awakening. The first scent of burning wood and the banging of the big cauldrons, like ill-tuned bells, well up.

  The cat turns and regards me with her now-yellow-now-green eyes, and she begins to purr, anticipating the moment when she will have scraps and a dish of milk. There is a determination in her display that was lacking two weeks earlier. She relies on this more than usual, for her time is very near; she waddles from the burden of her kittens and she has become more fussy.

  “There are new arrivals,” I tell her, speaking just above a whisper for no reason other than my room is still dark.

  She blinks slowly and stares at me again, as if expecting me to do something for her.

  “I’ll get your food shortly,” I promise her, only to be blinked at again. Is this acceptance of my offer or an indication that she wishes something else, something more? I reach out and scratch her neck and ears, enjoying her industrious purring. I hate the idea of moving away from her, but with such noise as there is coming from the kitchen now, I realize it is useless to try to sleep longer. I roll away from her and get to my feet.

  “I will find out who has come,” I tell her as I get into my most comfortable clothes. The cat ignores me, beginning to set her fur in order with her tongue. “It is my bath day, as well. They will have the big tubs heated for the jesters.” The cat ignores me, going about her washing with awkward concentration as she struggles to reach around the expanse of her unborn kittens.

  The head cook is a rotund fellow called Voss, and unlike most well-padded fellows, this one does not radiate good cheer. He is a demanding task-master and as volatile as any Frenchman. He rules the kitchen with iron determination, and it is said that none of the women who work there are safe from him. “Yorick!” he bellows as I step out of the short corridor which connects my room to the kitchens.

  “Good morning, Master Voss,” I tell him, realizing that his pride does not let him hear the sarcasm in my greeting.

  “They will need you in the courtyard gallery directly.” He scowls at one of the scullions, and the little lad cowers as if he has been whipped.

  “Who is here?” I ask. “The servants of Fortinbras,” says Voss importantly, preening in anticipation of what is ahead. “To prepare for the wedding.” “Ah, yes, with Egidia,” I say, thinking that Polonius arranged it all very neatly. “Norway will be here before sunset, then, if his retainers have come,” I continue, adding that the Male Goddess will have to protect Fortinbras and his son.

  “Two babes, neither old enough to know what they are vowing,” scoffs Voss. “Hardly a marriage, not the way I reckon it.”

  What would it be like, I ask myself, to be so young a child and married forever to another child? It is often the fate of those who rule us to be more constrained in their lives than those of less privilege. “The boy will be King of Norway when he is grown. He must marry for alliances, as all royal children must.” It is what I have been taught since I was a child myself, and heard my father speak of Hamlet’s first marriage: he was betrothed at age six and married at nine, and they were bedded when he was fifteen. It was said to be a good royal marriage, as such things go. Hamlet’s marriage to Gertrude was also arranged, but only after he had seen her portrait and heard her character praised.

  “Well, it is foolishness,” declared Voss with the full disapproval of a man who has risen too early, and he is testy at the best of times, “Who is to say either will live long enough to get between the sheets. Or that when they do they will like each other enough to provide heirs for the Kingdom?”

  “It is their duty,” I remind him.

  “It is foolishness,” Voss repeats, “and vanity,” and then swings around all his bulk to upbraid one of the women who make bread. “You are not throwing clay pots, you slattern. You are not pounding laundry in the river. You are making little breads for a royal feast, for the great to eat. See you remember that.” He reaches out and cuffs her shoulder. “If I have to correct you again I will do it with my ladle.”

  She shudders as she works, for every one of the lesser cooks has felt the blow from Voss’ large iron ladle; none of them wish to endure it again. “They are slovenly and stupid, all of them,” Voss declares loudly, so that all of them may hear his opinion of them. “The King should search for his jesters here, except that none of these have wit enough to tell an amusing tale, and none can tumble except when they trip over their own feet.”

  “They have hard work to do,” I say, feeling the terrible chagrin of the lesser cooks. “I do not think I could do such work.”

  “Not with your back, no,” says Voss, dismissing the matter. “We will have to feed those Norwegian servants after the rest of the castle has been fed, and by then they will be famished, because they traveled most of the night in this infernal damp.” He folds his big arms over his massive chest. “There will be no liberty hours today, my fine idiots. None of you will be able to leave this place until after the first banquet this evening. I will hear no complaints.”

  A young cook, a boy of no more than ten who is stirring the great pease-porridge in the largest cauldron, looks up wistfully. “My father is leaving today,” he says, his voice still treble and clear. “You told me I would be allowed to bid him farewell.”

  “Not with Fortinbras arriving,” Voss tells him. “If he lives to come home from Poland, you may welcome him then. He is a soldier. He knows that you must not desert your post, not when the need is great.”

  The boy is perilously near tears, but he will not permit them to fall, not where Voss could see them and jeer at him for being such a child. He continues to stir the pot with the long, jointed ladle, his eyes glazed and blank.

  “They would all have some excuse, if I permitted it,” says Voss, again speaking loudly enough to make it plain that he will brook no opposition. “This one has a father leaving, that one has a sister about to give birth, another has a child with a cough.” He throws his hands upward in exasperation.

  “If his father is leaving for the wars in Poland, it is well that his son wishes to bid him farewell,” I remark, and wait for Voss’ answer.

  “His father will understand,” says Voss, unwilling to consider my meaning.

  “But perhaps his son does not?” I suggest, remembering the times I had to wish my father a safe journey and the blessings of the Male Goddess. I hope that it gave my
father some solace that I did; I know it made me more resigned to his absence.

  “That boy is always sniveling over something. It is time he learned to conduct himself properly. We are not like the great ones, who can afford to give themselves over to weeping for love or pining at loss. Leave such excesses to them, and be glad we have been spared. We are the strength on which their might is built. If we indulge ourselves, we fail them, and we lose our worth to everyone.” He is roaring, using his words to batter at all the cooks in the kitchen.

  I have heard Voss rant before, but this time it seems to me that he is more extreme than usual. He holds his ladle as if it were a sword, and when he rounds on another hapless assistant, he appears more frightened than angry. I bow to the master of the kitchen, and I say, “I had best break my fast and present myself to the King; with all these men arriving doubtless he will have tasks for all the jesters.”

  “No doubt,” says Voss in a burst of temper.

  “I will take my bowl,” I continue, going to the shelf where it waits. “Cheese and a slab of bread, and a cold joint of fowl,” I recite, as I have many another morning. “And a cup of milk.”

  “Which you will give to that cat who sleeps in your chamber,” Voss accuses me, and makes a sweep with his ladle. “Go ahead. The Norwegians will want worse, you may be certain of it. They say Fortinbras is a fussy eater, not like our King.” “You will find out,” I tell him, and hasten to get my food so that I can leave the kitchen. As I start toward my quarters again, I bow once more to Voss, and call out my thanks before ducking back inside the chamber where I sleep.

  The cat is pleased with the milk, and laps it up quickly, mewing when she is finished. By that time I have a few slivers of skin and flesh from the goose leg I have taken, and I offer these to her as I continue to gnaw at the bone.

  By the time I finish with my clothes, the kitchen is roaring, with fires blazing and more than two dozen assistants scurrying to do Voss’ bidding. I keep to the narrow hall and get beyond their frenzy, grateful that the worst I will have to contend with now are soldiers and courtiers.

  Mect is already in the gallery when I arrive, his clothing so neat that I suspect he has been waiting for this arrival most of the night, and was prepared for it long before anyone else was. He favors me with a negligent nod and hops up onto one of the chairs near the window. “Not quite a dozen wagons.” “How many more are to come?” I ask, unwilling to pretend that he lacks the information, “How large a company will be here?” “Eight more wagons, I believe, but they are with the King. Fortinbras does not travel as swiftly as his soldiers do, not for occasions like this one. It is for his guard to clear his way and for him to show himself to Denmark, and demonstrate his satisfaction at this wedding of two ignorant children.” He points downward toward a group of men in dark armor on grey horses. “There. Those sixteen men are his guards. There are another sixteen with him.” “Does he fear for his safety?” I ask. “He comes here for a wedding, to show the promise of uniting Denmark and Norway. Why should he bring over thirty soldiers to guard him?”

  “Because they are born to it, of course, and it would be an insult to leave any of their number in Norway,” says Mect with an impatient click of his tongue. “The second son is offered for the King’s service, and of them only the most accomplished are chosen. It is a great honor reserved for those of ancient nobility.”

  “It also gives Fortinbras a hold on those ancient nobles,” I add for him. “It is an assurance that the King’s Right will not be questioned.”

  Mect grins. “What a cynic you can be, Yorick.”

  FORTINBRAS

  Young Fortinbras cries through the banquet and shrieks when I try to juggle for him, but his father is not dismayed, though he is a somber fellow who is not much inclined to laughter. The babe is given into the care of his nurse as soon as the feast is over, and she, with much scolding, carries young Fortinbras away, declaring that if he should be ill at the wedding it will not be her fault.

  Polonius, still worn from the rigors of travel, sits next to Norway, and regales him with stories of Egidia’s goodness and piety. He is dressed with great finery and is only out-shone by Claudius, who has put on a huque of velvet and fur, with a pourpoint beneath of glossy Italian samite the color of amber.

  Hamlet, with his grizzled beard and simple skirted pourpoint, might be mistaken for a guest instead of the royal host, were it not for the air of command that surrounds him, and the small golden coronet he wears; he watches the Norwegians gobble the collops of mutton in bread-shells Master Voss has prepared for them; tonight even those below the salt enjoy mutton, but theirs is in a stew with parsnips, turnips and onions, not the fine collops of lamb cooked with carrots, spices, and cream.

  Gertrude keeps to her place, her eyes lowered though her color heightens from time to time, when Claudius is near. She is splendidly attired, her cotehardie embroidered in ten colors, showing the arms of Denmark and Lorraine. She tries to have some conversation with Polonius, asking twice about Ricardis, but aside from being told that she is well and will deliver before summer, there is little Polonius can tell Gertrude about his wife.

  “You know how it is with women when they are nearing their time,” Polonius says with a wave of his hand to show how far beyond his comprehension his wife has become. “All her thoughts are fixed on the babe. Once the child is safely born, she will be herself once more.”

  “I miss her,” says Gertrude, and concentrates on eating another few bites of the minced pork with pepper and ginger which Master Voss has made himself especially for her. “She will be pleased to hear that,” says Polonius with his own style of gallantry. “When she is able to come to court again, if God is good, both of you should be happy mothers.”

  Again Gertrude’s face grows rosy, but this time for more than the presence of Claudius. “I….” Words fail her, and she reaches for her cup of wine, drinking recklessly. When she has mastered herself, she says, “Let us all pray for that time.”

  Unaware that he has brought chagrin to Gertrude, Polonius continues in unctuous bonhomie, “It is that you and Hamlet are of such difference in age. Depend upon it, that is the source of the trouble. I have heard learned physicians discuss the trouble. Diverse ages in the parents make the creation of a child more difficult, because of the lack of continuity in the seed.” He looks as if he might pat her hand, so avuncular he has become.

  “For a man of affairs, he is a fool,” Mect whispers to me, and I nod. “He may yet come to grief because of it.” “Hamlet has Polonius. We, sadly, have Oduvit.” I cock my head, chuckling a little. “He’s had too much wine, again. He’s laid out under the Norwegians’ table, snoring, the last time I looked.”

  But Mect is not amused. “Be careful of him, Yorick. He is all spite, and most of it fixes on you.”

  Tonight such warnings have no importance to me, and I lean my head back further. “If he is awake and sober, it might be so, but not as he is now.”

  Once again Mect regards me with concern, and I am again perplexed by this attention he offers me, for I have done nothing to deserve it. “You don’t understand the depth of his hatred. He is more jealous of you than Claudius is of his brother.” He looks up sharply as a group of Counsellors gesture to him. “I must be about jesting.”

  “And so must I,” I say to him, preparing to go to the High Table where two Kings linger over their dinners.

  “Have a care, Yorick,” Mect says over his shoulder as he makes his way toward the Counsellors.

  “I will,” I assure him even as I forget about it while I give my thoughts over to jibes that will amused both Denmark and Norway without affronting either of them.

  * * *

  The wedding is a curious event. The bride and the benedict are presented at the altar by their elders, and the vows are echoed by the adults. Not long after the service begins, young Fortinbras screams and flails at Egidia with tiny fists, this tantrum requiring the ministrations of his nurse and father to quiet. O
nce order is restored, the Bishop continues to intone the Latin phrases.

  Polonius bends down and prompts Egidia when it is time for her to say “Volo,” and she asks again what it means. “I told you before; ‘I will,’ dear sister. It means ‘I will’.”

  “Then why can’t I say that?” she asks, her voice querulous from nervousness and fatigue. She looks forlorn in her pearl-strewn wedding gown.

  “Because we are in church,” says Polonius quietly, beginning to fuss with his velvet houpelande. “This is God’s house, and we are His guests. In church we talk in Latin, to please God.”

  Again the service is resumed, and it finishes quickly. The nurse again takes charge of young Fortinbras, whisking him away to change his napkins before he is presented to the people. ‘”I am surprised we didn’t have to go to Norway,” says one of the Counsellors as we all stumble out of the church into the dazzle of spring sunlight.

  “It was what Fortinbras would have preferred, but given the negotiations, it was more appropriate for him to come here, for he wants no Danish soldiers on his land,” says Horatio, who has resumed his place on the Council, “It is fitting that they sign their accords as soon as the marriage contracts are complete.”

  I am a few steps behind them, and I listen intently, trying not to hear all the other discussion around me. Hamlet will want to know what his courtiers are saying about this match, and the new agreements with Norway.

  “What if one of the children should die before their marriage is consummated?” asks the first, a man of excellent family who has always been thought to be lazy. He is named Lucius and he has recently become a crony of Claudius. “Was anything decided about that?” “Certainly. You ought to attend the Council more often,” says Horatio with a condemning air. “If the boy dies before they are fully wed, the marriage settlements stand as if through widowhood unless a second son is born to Fortinbras, in which case it will fall to him to honor his brother’s contract. If the girl dies, then an alternate match, acceptable both to Hamlet and Fortinbras, must be negotiated, or none of the wedding agreements will stand.” He squares his hat and moves away from Lucius.