“Most adept,” says Polonius quietly.
“Return when you can, Jester,” says Claudius, as if I have already bored him.
“That I will,” I tell him, and bear the Prince out of the banquet hall, though the Great Hall to the corridor. On my shoulder, Hamlet is grunting, and I can smell his linens now. Sigtha will have to tend to him when I hand him over to her. “Mark those two,” I say to the babe as I hurry along toward his quarters. “They are vipers, the both of them. All ambitious men have that in them, but those two possess it in abundance.”
The Prince begins to whine. By the time I reach Sigtha, he is squalling, and I hand him over gratefully, watching as she shakes her head and clucks at him, bearing him away to his own room like a treasure ship billowing into safe harbor.
“Will you need me?” I call after her.
“No,” she answers from the next room. “Get you back to the celebration. The King will have more need of you than this boy.”
Wishing for a reprieve, I whisper a few words to the Male Goddess as I make my way back toward the Great Hall as if I were bound for the battlefield.
* * *
The players arrive in the wake of a fierce blizzard that has left Elsinor and the surrounding country mantled in white; the Guards spend the better part of a day clearing the road through the village so that the few travelers abroad at this time will be able to reach shelter. It lacks two days to Epiphany, which suits Claudius very well, for it means the players will have an opportunity to rehearse before they perform for us.
Hieronymous’ beard is greyer than it was when he was here the last time, and there are four new troupers I have not seen before; three of those I met previously are no longer with the company, and I remark on that to Hieronymous as we take mead together in the quarters the players have been provided for their stay; I do not like sitting in the Refectory with Hedrann’s death still lingering there.
“Yes. It is always the way with players. Some come and some go, and in the end the troupe is what matters. One of the players—Sorrell, you remember him, don’t you?—he ate tainted meat and died of it. Young Ferdinand caught the eye of a lecherous old nobleman in Bavaria and has been set up there in good style. And Magnus has a place with the Players to the King, in France. He is the one I hated to lose more than the other two. He’s the best actor I’ve had in years.”
“No doubt that is the reason he was given his new position,” I guess.
“No doubt,” says Hieronymous, and goes on more heartily, “So, Sir Yorick, how has it been with you while we were on the road?” He has taken a long draught of mead and is smiling at its potency. “Well enough for me,” I tell him. “And excellent well for the King and Queen, or so I hear,” says the leader of the players. “That is why we have been summoned at this impossible season, to assist the court in rejoicing, or so I have been told.” “They have a healthy son,” I agree. “Everyone in Denmark must be happy for this child. The King has given the babe his name. He is a promising boy, with quick eyes and an air about him. Surely you will see him before your stay is over.” I have been drinking hot, spiced apple juice with whipped egg-whites on the top, but I decide it is better to drink mead and when I drain the tankard, I refill it with the dark-golden mead.
“A blessing for them, and the Kingdom,” says Hieronymous. “Yes,” I say, lifting my tankard in salute to them all. The mead tastes oddly bitter after the apple juice with its spices. “How was the journey here?” “Cold,” says Hieronymous with feeling. “Damned cold, and heavy going. One of my hands has a broken ankle from levering us out of a frozen rut. Had we not been promised a place for the rest of the winter and five gold Angels apiece, I doubt we would have come.” “Well, it is a pleasant thing to have you here,” I tell him, and for some reason I cannot understand, I add, “You may have heard that two of the jesters have died since you were last here.” “Actually,” says Hieronymous drily, “I heard that two of them were killed, one not much more than a week ago.”
“It’s longer than that,” I say, recalling his newly dug grave too clearly, under bare birch trees at the back of the monks’ graveyard. “Though not so long as a month. He had a hard death.”
“May he rest with God. But the rumors are…confusing,” says Hieronymous, filling his tankard a second time. “If I were to believe all of them, I would have to think that all the jesters here had been done for twice over, at least.” When he realizes I do not share his mirth, he makes a gesture of apology. “I didn’t mean to imply anything to your discredit.”
“No offense is taken,” I tell him, knowing that this man is not aware of what has happened here at court. “I have heard some of the rumors as well.”
“Doubtless you have.” Hieronymous winks. “I realize that no one knows the court as well as the jesters do. It’s true everywhere. The Emperor has his jesters guarded day and night, because of all they know.” Then he chuckles. “But the Emperor’s jesters have their ways to slip away from their guards.”
“Do they?” I ask, intrigued in spite of myself.
“You may be certain of it,” says Hieronymous.
“Be certain of what?” Mect inquires from the door, and then ambles into the room. He is wrapped in a sodden cloak and the lines of his face seem deeper than they were. “Is Yorick making you welcome, good Player? May I come in?” “Certainly. All jesters are welcome here, for we players are very like you, which is why, I suspect, that Yorick is showing me such hospitality,” says Hieronymous, without showing any sign of being interrupted. “But I was saddened to learn that some of your number have died.”
“Were murdered most horribly, by an unknown. Who knows if he will strike again,” mutters Mect, coming near the fire and shrugging off his cloak. “The wind has moved around to the east.” “A cold night, then,” says Hieronymous. “Have some mead to warm your sinews. Any man who likes the cold so much that he will not drink mead is worse than a fool.” This time his wink indicates that he speaks in jest.
“Yes, a cold night,” I second, for my bones ache with the coming of the obdurate winter and continue through to the spring. I have thought many times that the grip of winter was from a great jaw of ice that fixed its freezing teeth in the flesh and sapped away all the warmth and strength of life. The mead is as warming in its way as the hot apple juice was, and I am glad of both of them. “Tell me,” says Mect with greater geniality than I have seen from him in many days, “how is life at the court of the Emperor?”
“We were there in the autumn,” says Hieronymous. “And we performed for him twice, the second time at his express command.” His smile of justifiable pride fades. “There is talk of war, of course. There are discontented nobles who want more for themselves and less for their neighbors, and they petition the Emperor to assist them in gaining their spoils even as they seek to bring about the ruin of their fellows. The Emperor listens to all of them, and weighs their holdings and wealth against the force he will have to put into the field if the French advance again, or the Duchy of Milan tries to secede from the Empire again.” “I have heard that the Swiss are willing to provide the Emperor mercenary troops but will make no alliance with him,” says Mect.
“The Swiss are a very careful lot,” says Hieronymous. “They have been under the thumb of Emperors before and do not wish to be so again. And they have excellent mercenaries; I’ve seen them. Pikemen and halberders, for the most part, and some who can manage cannon and catapults—not that the Emperor would entrust those he has to the Swiss, but still.” “Do you think the Emperor will go to war this year? What do you think? You have seen the Emperor’s court; what do you expect will happen?” I do not want to know this as much as I want to discover just how much Hieronymous has actual knowlege of, instead of guesses and rumors.
“It may come to that,” says Hieronymous. “And war is always bad for players.” He sighs. “Troops never pay when you entertain them; they save their coins for drink and whores. And once a war comes, no city wants players.” “Yo
u might do worse than remain here,” I suggest, not quite on impulse, but with the hope that Hieronymous might think it worth his while to stay in Denmark for a while.
“So I might. If the King will have me and my troupe, it would be a relief to us all.” He says this without his usual flourish and for that reason I am convinced of his sincerity.
“Let me broach the matter with him,” I offer, before Mect can speak. “He might well be pleased to have you, with his jesters in such short supply. I know that it would be most helpful to us to have another amusement here at court.” Hieronymous nods. “If the King is of a mind to house us and feed us through the year, it would be a boon for us, no doubt of it. We could prepare new material here, and put our wagons back into proper form for our work.” He glances at Mect. “This last year we have not had the chance to repair our scenery and costumes, and they are looking a bit shabby.”
“A familiar complaint for those who must make a good appearance,” says Mect, a bit distractedly, then glances around the room. “Where are the others?”
“Bathing. I have been there already.” He indicates his damp hair and newly trimmed beard. “After our days on the road in this weather, we were all in need of thawing out.” Mect appears to lose interest in the other players and directs his questions to Hieronymous himself. “What do you plan to present at Epiphany?” Hieronymous lifts his shoulders and shows the palms of his hands. “No one has discussed the matter with me. I have been told that the King’s brother will make the arrangements with us. All I can say is that he had best speak to me by tomorrow or we will not be ready.” “He will visit you shortly, I am certain,” says Mect, rubbing his hands together. “How is it that cold can burn so fiercely?” He is not anticipating an answer and so looks startled when I speak.
“I don’t know,” I say to him. “But my father used to claim that it was the excitement of the humors of the body that caused the heat; the choleric humor always responds too quickly.”
“That’s right; your father was a scholar,” says Mect, his eyes narrowing for an instant, and then the grins. “No wonder you can make such easy work of Polonius and the likes of him.” I have the oddest notion that Mect has some other reason for taking note of my father, but I cannot think of what it would be; I warn myself against being too suspicious. I have no reason to think ill of Mect. “My father did teach me when I was young, and I have taken those lessons to heart.” “Very wise,” says Mect, and once again speaks to Hieronymous. “They say that Poland is moving its men toward the Emperor’s border. Is there any truth in the rumor?”
“Not that I could see,” says Hieronymous. “Not that we were looking, mind you, but it is said that now that Hamlet and Fortinbras are allied against the Pole, there is little threat to the Emperor’s lands from that direction. At least, that is what we were told on our way north. Who knows what will change come spring?” He puts his tankard down with finality. “That will do me until after the evening meal. I don’t want to be fuddled when the King’s brother speaks with me.”
“Of course not,” says Mect.
I watch the two of them, listening with more attention than I usually give such talk. Why I am so curious I cannot decide, but some tugging in the guts keeps me here longer than I intended to stay, saying little, hearing much.
THREE
CLAUDIUS
Claudius is with the Queen when I answer her summons to come to the Prince. It is near the time for the players to begin and I had hoped I would be able to watch them, but apparently that is not to be. Claudius is decked out for the Twelfth Night play in a Florentine lucco of mulberry-red velvet lined with chestnut-colored satin; his beard is newly trimmed and curled and he smells of sandalwood. Beside him, Gertrude’s damask silk of blue-and-silver looks plain; even her ermine tippets are not enough to outshine her husband’s brother.
Gertrude has banished Sigtha to the servants’ room in the Prince’s apartments, and she has just finished suckling her son when I make my bow to her. She laces her bodice closed and indicates young Hamlet in his cradle. “He will want company while the court is at the play,” she tells me. “See that he is not unhappy.”
I bow to her again. “I ask you to tell the King that you have set me this task. He will otherwise expect me to attend him during the play,” I say as I come and look down at the boy. He has changed a great deal in the six weeks of his life, and as many times as I have seen this in infants, it always astonishes me, for who would think that any human could alter so in such a short time? “Winter children are always hardy; it is their nature,” says Claudius to Gertrude. “Ask anyone you like, they will tell you the same. Be at ease, my Queen. You have no reason to fear for your son.”
“I have heard that about winter children,” she responds, doubt in her voice and her eyes. “But I cannot help but worry, though he is flourishing. He does not grow fat as most other babies do. I have ordered Sigtha to feed him more, as I am doing. Laugh if you wish; you don’t know how a mother treasures a child when she has lost one, as I did.” She stares down into the cradle where the Prince is already half-asleep. “There are more dangers at court than the cold,” she adds. “I think of Hedrann and Tollo, and it fills me with apprehension.” “What do two dead jesters have to do with a living Prince?” Claudius inquires, gently wheedling. “I would not encourage you to be lax if I felt this boy of yours was at risk in any way. He is as dear to me as he is to you. If you worry for anyone, Madame”—he uses her French title so gracefully that I long for the courage to tread on his foot—“worry for those who are standing watch in this miserable weather.”
“But if there is treachery—” she begins.
“The boy will be safe. Think of who he is, and you will know that nothing ill can befall him.” Claudius has an expression in his eyes that for once is unguarded; how he yearns for her! “That babe is our hope for the future, Gertrude.”
“All the more reason to be wary,” she insists; her eyes seem huge in her pretty face. She reaches out to Claudius, then draws her hand back. “What would become of us all if anything should happen to young Hamlet?”
“Post a Guard at the door, if you are troubled,” Claudius recommends. “The Guard will keep him from harm.” He achieves a belated smile for me. “And Yorick will protect your son: won’t you?”
“Certainly,” I say. “He is the heir to the throne, and I am the sworn servant of the throne.”
“You mean of the King,” says Gertrude with a hint of a slighting smile.
“He is the throne. And one day the Prince will be. So I will serve them both to the limit of my strength,” I say with all the power of my feelings in the words. “My loyalty is to Denmark. The King is Denmark.”
“Dear me,” says Claudius, amused at my emotion. “Does that mean that you would bend the knee to the conqueror, as well? Or the usurper?”
“Not so long as there was a true claimant to the throne, no, I would not,” I answer, more hotly than I had intended.
“How very noble, and for a jester, at that,” says Claudius, looking at Gertrude after a single glance at me.
“I wonder if Hamlet knows?” Gertrude muses.
At this Claudius gives a bark of laughter. “Not he. Never he. He does not look beyond his nose, except to examine his borders. Anything between is beneath his attention.” He is pleased that Gertrude is amused, and takes it as a sign to go on. “My brother is a very worthy man, in the field, and he has good men to represent him in negotiations; which is just as well, for he has not the patience for it. No, he is at his best in war. How unfortunate for him that we have at last arrived at a peace.” He gives an indulgent chuckle. “He may have outlived his usefulness.” He reaches out and touches one fair tendril that has escaped from the jeweled net of her chaplet.
But this is more audacity than Gertrude will permit. She puts her hands to her face and turns away. “You must not say such things to me.” Claudius holds out his arm to her, as if attempting to apologize. “It was only an idle observat
ion, such as the soldiers make when they are kept too long at rest. I spoke no ill, I promise you, dear Gertrude.”
“But you are not a soldier,” says Gertrude.
Both of them have forgot I am here; I do not want them to remember, and so I remain still, watching the Prince as they talk. “No; I leave that to my brother, who has a talent for it.” The words are light and easy but there is something in his eyes that cuts like honed steel. “I have been told he is matchless in battle,” says Gertrude, a bit wistfully. “Even the Counsellors do not fault him in that.” “They would not,” says Claudius, scoffing at the notion they would. “They are like young children, ready to cling to anyone who protects them.” “And Hamlet does that,” says Gertrude. She looks down at her son again, and sees me. For a moment she is silent, and then she manages a giggle. “How this must sound to you, Sir Yorick. And the things we have said, in our game of wits; how you could misconstrue them. Anyone might be excused for thinking the worst. Yet I suppose we must expect to hear it all again, during dinner?”
“Not if it would give you displeasure,” I tell her with a bow.
“You would remain silent?” asks Claudius in disbelief. “When our bantering has been filled with jibes you must wish you had thought of yourself.” His grin is a threat, a face such as wolves make.
“It does not profit me to speak against those who provide my supper,” I say with all the humility I can muster.
Gertrude looks shocked. “But all the dreadful things you have said about the Prince’s lineage. You have told stories of cuckolds when….” Her cheeks turn rosy and she lowers her eyes. “I have done as my King has asked me,” I say, and look down at the Prince. “Not to harm this boy, but to silence the whispers by making them absurd.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 17