“Gertrude knows her duty,” I say quietly.
“Knowing it and doing it are not the same thing, as we have seen,” says Oduvit. “And if Yorick had to swear to it, I doubt he could answer to Heaven for Gertrude’s purity.” He leans back in his chair, peering up at the ceiling, his little pointed beard quivering with his quiet laughter. “I would truly love seeing that,” he says. “l would love to see you, Yorick, having to defend the Queen’s honor, with what you must have seen, and everything you know.”
“I have seen nothing,” I say, knowing I have been maneuvered into it.
“But you have suspected,” Oduvit says, turning his head to the side to watch me and wagging his finger in my direction. “Oh, yes, you have suspected. Deny it if you like, it is in your eyes. It is in everything you say, that question that rankles. What do you say to Hamlet, I wonder, when he speaks to you of the coming child.”
“I have thanked God that Hamlet will have an heir,” I tell him. “Well, Denmark will have an heir, in any case, in the royal line,” says Oduvit with a smirk. “It comes to the same thing in the end, and it is the same bloodline.”
Hedrann has been eating with his head down and his old face scarlet. At last he looks directly at Oduvit. “If there are those who doubt the Queen, it is because you have spoken against her. If there are those who suspect that Claudius has lain with her, it is your suspicions they have. If you said nothing, there would be no whispers. You are the start of the doubting.”
“And wouldn’t court be dull without a little doubt, a few questions,” says Oduvit, reaching for his beer. “As it is, things are lively.” He chuckles. “Is it true that Polonius is bringing his son and wife to court before the end of the year?” The question is directed at me, and he sets the barb more deeply. “Surely Hamlet has said something to you, Sir Yorick.”
“Why should he?” I ask with all the pleasantness I can bring. “Oh, because you are his jester, and the situation is so amusing, it would be sensible to speak to you about it. You are the soul of discretion, and in these times, that must be of special value.” He tosses off the beer and has some more. “Besides, you play for the Queen and you know what she says to her women. You are with them when they sew. You play for them, so you can hear everything they say. What passes between them? What secrets do they reveal? You hear them all, don’t you? You would open eyes, wouldn’t you? if you shared the Queen’s gossip.” “I have vowed to Hamlet to repeat nothing of what I hear,” I remind Oduvit for all the good it does.
“Trusted knight that you are,” says Oduvit, and drinks, the spite in his eyes so intense it is almost palpable.
* * *
The kitchen cat has returned to her place in my bed, and her kitten, who has grown quickly to a good size, occasionally occupies the place at the foot. She no longer watches after him with anxious concern; now she permits him to come with her when she hunts and leaves him alone but for licking him before they sleep; occasionally she puts her ears back to him and hisses, and he is still young enough not to respond in kind. But more often now he absents himself from this chamber and his mother’s company, going off in search of his own game; he has made himself useful to Voss, killing off a nest of rats two weeks since, and for that he is given the pick of the scraps.
I lie awake and talk to the cat and the night and the Male Goddess. Since there is no man or woman in whom I can confide, I must take what aid I can from these. “I have never seen anything questionable, except that bit of brocade, and now I begin to wonder if I was right about it. He was wearing that brass-colored houpelande when he first returned to court, and I was certain that I had never seen that color cloth before, and in a brocade. That was what the bit of cloth was, a brocade, of a deep yellow with great shine, as that garment is. It was the same fabric, or so I thought. It could have been there by accident or perhaps Oduvit put it there to compromise— At the time I was certain, but now—” I feel the kitchen cat make herself comfortable in the curve of my arm, her head at my shoulder. “But Claudius has not worn that houpelande again, not since that day, not that I can recall. It may be that he has donated it for the poor, or it could be that he has some reason to conceal it. If he tore it while he was in the garden it may need mending, and if he has no spare sections of that cloth, he would put the houpelande aside. At least, I think he might.”
The kitchen cat sighs in her sleep and twitches as she dreams.
“What am I to say? What should I do?” I ask the night and the Male Goddess, but neither provides me an answer.
* * *
Ricardis’ son is a chubby, hot-tempered baby, given to sudden imperious screams and fits of angry weeping when he is denied what he wants. He sits in the middle of the carpet in the Queen’s apartments, Gertrude and her women gathered around him as he makes a determined attempt to crawl away from their attentions.
“He is a good boy,” says Ricardis, “but he has no patience. He hates being swaddled, and he wants no opposition from anyone. He will be a hellion when he is older, but for now he is my fine, stalwart baby, and that is all that matters to me.”
“What man does like opposition?” asks Raissa, and laughs.
“He is very fair,” says Hildegarde, who is more hushed than usual.
At the Queen’s request I have brought my yawp instead of my shawm, and I am playing simple country tunes, cheerful melodies intended to brighten the day for an inquisitive little child.
“Yes; his hair is almost white,” says Gertrude, pleased that there is something she can say about the boy. “And his skin is so fine and rosy.”
“And soft,” agrees Ricardis. “I am always amazed at how perfect he is.” “You are a fortunate mother.” She gets to her feet, more awkwardly than she would have a month ago, and finds a chair. “I remember how you told me how easily you were overset,” she says to Ricardis. “It seems to me that I was another person,” Ricardis admits.
Gertrude sighs. “It is not weeping with me. I am cast into gloom and despair,” she says, embarrassed to say it. “There is always something,” says Ricardis. “At least neither of us have given way to rage as some women do.”
“May God be thanked,” Gertrude exclaims. “I would rather endure these morose reflections than do anything that could bring harm to me or the babe.” Ricardis’ smile is indulgent. “Yes. Always there is that concern. The child must be safe.” She looks abashed. “But you know that from the…the one….”
Gertrude does not leave her floundering. “The babe I miscarried,” she says directly. “Yes. But that one was lost earlier, and so, perhaps, it had no chance to become strong enough to stay in the womb. They tell me that the infants are weakest when they are first made, as all things are.”
Laertes now asserts his rights, sitting upright and uttering four piercing shrieks.
The women gather around him, fearing he has hurt himself, and although his mother is first to attend him, she alone smiles as she picks him up, soothing and stroking him, delighted that he is so imperious so young. “There, little one, little sweeting,” she croons. “Your mother will not leave you, not ever. You are safe now, and nothing can harm you.”
The little child pummels his mother’s cheek with his tiny fists, and screams twice more. There are no tears in his eyes.
“He’s a brave, brave boy,” Ricardis approves as she confines his hands in one of hers. “Such a brave boy.” They say that the Male Goddess loves all children and adores none of them. As I watch Ricardis with her son, I wonder what He-in-She would make of this, if He-in-She would find Ricardis a worthy mother or an unworthy one. “What does he want?” asks Hildegarde in her whispered voice.
“Food, probably, or cleaning,” says Ricardis. “Or both.” She holds Laertes up, shaking him gently. “Very well, you greedy little lout. But you cannot drain me no matter how you try.” She unlaces the front of her clothes and presents the baby her breast; he takes it eagerly, attempting to clasp it in his little hands.
“He is a determined boy
,” says Hildegarde.
“Oh, yes. When he is grown, I think he will be of a passionate nature. It troubles me, sometimes. But I would rather have a son of mettle than one who lacks courage.”
“He has a good appetite,” says Margitha.
“Yes, and I dread the day he grows teeth,” says Ricardis, and the women laugh.
I have kept my distance, playing the airs requested. I keep to my stool and watch the women gather around Ricardis, and the Queen sitting a little way apart from the rest. “You have no wetnurse for him?” asks Gertrude from her chair.
“No. Polonius’ mother does not think they give good milk, and when they do that they become too attached to the babe.” Ricardis tries to look put-upon but without success.
“Ah,” says Margitha, nodding. “My grandmother says the same thing.”
Ricardis laughs, the sound low and warm. “Besides, it is a great pleasure to hold your son and give him milk.” She turns toward the Queen. “You will know the delight of it soon enough.” “Yes,” says Gertrude abstractedly, her gaze fixed at some point far beyond the wall.
YORICK
Just before we enter the Council Chamber, Hamlet pulls me aside. “I need your help, Yorick,” he says softly. “You have only to name it, my King,” I answer at once, starting to bow.
Hamlet stops me. “Never mind that. I need you to make….” He has trouble going on. “You have heard the rumors.”
“Rumors, my King?” I ask, knowing beyond doubt which he means.
“The rumors,” he repeats impatiently. “You are a jester. You hear everything.” His expression is exasperated, but there is something more, a desperation that I have not seen in him, even after a costly battle. “You know what they are whispering. You always know. Don’t bother to deny it.” “But there are so many whispers,” I say to him, and it is true enough.
“The whispers about my Queen and my brother,” Hamlet says bluntly, staring into my eyes. “You have heard those rumors, haven’t you.”
At another time I might be tempted to disclaim, but not now. “Yes,” I tell him quietly, “I have heard the rumors. Some are more fantastic than others.”
“Um,” says Hamlet. “Fantastic or not, they are all lies.” His chin is set so that his clipped beard thrusts forward, and his brows are drawn down into a fearsome scowl. “Is that understood?”
“They are lies,” I agree.
“And I want them stopped,” he says grimly. Then he gives a hard sigh.
“You are King; you may order it stopped,” I remind him, although I know how little such an order accomplishes. “And fan the flames?” Hamlet asks. “No, I want no one saying that I have given such an order because I am afraid the rumors are true. I will not have my son’s legitimacy questioned by anyone.” He faces me, and the lines by his mouth seem deeper than ever, the fretwork around his eyes more strongly marked. “I want you to make the most of them. Tell every rumor and make them all laugh about it until they choke.”
His vehemence surprises me. “Are you certain?” “I promise you I will laugh the loudest and longest of any of them,” he says with steely determination.
I am more doubtful than before, but I am Hamlet’s jester and his to command. I bow and say, “If that is what you want, I will do it.” “Make them howl, Yorick. Stuff them full of every item of slander and innuendo you can, the more outrageous the better. Give them surfeit of it.” He straightens up and puts his hand on my shoulder. “I will be grateful to you for the rest of my days if you can put these rumors to rest.”
I bow again, and follow him into the Council Chamber where the Counsellors and their ladies are gathered with the Norwegian ambassadors for our festivities honoring Fortinbras on this feastday of Saint Olaf of Norway; Polonius has already been sent to Fortinbras’ court to represent Hamlet for this occasion.
The King takes his place on the three-staired dais, and motions to Claudius to join him where Gertrude would usually sit. “I fear that this babe my Queen carries saps her strength. She is resting and asks that you excuse her,” he announces off-handedly as Claudius approaches him.
I find my place at the bottom stair and sit down, willing to be unnoticed until Hamlet calls me; I try to bend my thoughts to how I can do as he commands me. The activities of the court disrupt my cogitation.
“Is she ill?” asks Claudius as he takes his place next to his brother. He is wearing his brass-colored houpelande; he has had a new, claret-colored lining put in the enormous sleeves. Is it for fashion, I wonder, or was there a tear in the damask?
“No more than any other woman in her condition,” says Hamlet. “But since she has lost one child already, she is taking more care of herself than another woman might do. She says she would prefer to disappoint me by missing a celebration than by losing a second babe.”
“Yes,” agrees Claudius emphatically.
Hamlet gives his signal and the festival of Saint Olaf begins. The drummers and the musicians with courtauts, cornemuses, curtals, and rackets parade through the Council Chamber playing the “Prayer of Saint Olaf”. The Counsellors move aside to permit the musicians to pass, showing them a courtesy that they would not ordinarily give. When the anthem is finished the musicians withdraw to the end of the room and take up a position there, prepared to resume playing at Hamlet’s order. Hedrann is seated beside them, looking very tired.
The Norwegian Ambassador steps forward, and bows to Hamlet; he is a bluff fellow, bearded and portly, with hearty smile and wicked eyes, “My King has authorized me to say how much you honor him with this celebration of the Feast of Saint Olaf, who, like Fortinbras, was King of Norway. It is fitting that our two countries, united as we are by treaty and marriage, should share the festivals of our people. Rest assured that on the birth of your heir, great Hamlet, Norway will have feasts of thanksgiving and celebration to honor you and your House.”
From the looks that the guests exchange it is clear to me that all of them know what is being said about the Queen; so does the Ambassador, I think, for the bow he gives is low enough to be insolent.
“You are most gracious, good Count Holberg; your King gives us much reason to rejoice. You are worthy of the confidence Fortinbras reposes in you.” He motions to one of the servants, who has been waiting for this moment and now brings forth a small casket “Here we have a token of our love and esteem for Fortinbras and his House. It is a medal struck in gold, commemorating the marriage of his son and Egidia.” He holds up a massive chain of heavy links with the medal depending from it so that the Counsellors may serve as witness to the gift. “We instruct you as the deputy of Fortinbras, to carry this to him as swiftly as horse and ship will take you, and to this end we will provide you proper escort for the day after tomorrow.” Holberg takes the medal and bows again. “My King will be much pleased with this,” he says, his voice rich and unctuous, his eyes like vitriol. “In his name I express the gratitude of Norway.”
Claudius watches all this half in boredom, half in avidity. He leans toward his brother, and then away from him. His curly hair is cropped in the latest fashion, and his neat beard is trimmed and perfumed; in his brass-colored clothing next to his dark-robed brother he is very grand. “Hamlet,” he says, determined to be more than an observer, “is there nothing more you would want to send in token to Fortinbras?”
Hamlet glances at him, frowning. “Is there something you would advise?” he asks, doing what he can to have it appear that this is not a surprise.
“In the Queen’s garden,” says Claudius with a broad smile, “there are rare blooms and plants not often found in Denmark. Would not the gift of cuttings from these be a goodly symbol of the ambitions you and Fortinbras now share?”
To give Claudius what is due, the suggestion is a clever one, and both Claudius and Hamlet know it. The King inclines his head to his brother. “A most fitting tribute, yes,” says Hamlet with a hard smile. He turns to Count Holberg once more. “The Queen herself will prepare the donation for you to carry, and p
resent to the wife of Fortinbras, in the name of our growing trust and friendship.”
“Most truly kind,” murmurs Count Holberg, and steps back from the dais.
There is mead passed around, and new summer beer. The Counsellors and their ladies quaff their fill, and in a little time the gathering is merry; my heart is leaden in my chest as I see Hamlet motion me to rise.
I bow, first to him and then, with less respect, to Claudius. Behind me the babble of conversation has become a buzz as the Counsellors hush themselves to listen. Remembering what the King has told me to do, I ask him, “Is it true what they say, my King? That a crown eases the ache of wearing horns?”
The Council Chamber is utterly silent; Claudius is so still he might have been carved and painted oak. Count Holberg puts his large, soft hand to his mouth. Hedrann, who has been dozing, is suddenly awake.
And then Hamlet chuckles; it starts in his shoulders as a rhythmic shaking, then moves down into his chest where it becomes a low rumble like wagon wheels over stones. At last he laughs outright: the Counsellors do their tenuous best to join him.
“It is a good thing for a boy, to have a spare father,” I continue, less uncertainly. “It saves him trouble later in life. Or it causes it.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 12