“So might we all,” says Raissa in a light, rallying tone. “Become bitter. Why, if we were to brood on our lot, what would any of us do but despair?”
Hildegarde shakes her head. “Do not say such things, Raissa. God will not be pleased with you if you mock His gifts.”
“And what gifts are those, pray?” Raissa counters with false good-will. “Life? It is nothing more than air in the lungs and blood in the veins. We are no more favored than a rat or a fish. Thought? Surely that is the greatest trap of all, for it leads us to error and sin more often than to virtue. Courage? Is any man, or woman, for that matter, truly brave? Are we not, rather, given to stubbornness and pride which we call courage to make them seem noble? Love? An itch in the flesh which has been clothed in pretty colors to render it attractive. What have we to thank God for?”
“There is no dealing with you in such a humor,” says Hildegarde, and picks up her sewing.
“Perhaps not,” says Raissa, pleased at having won the skirmish. She look at Gertrude again. “Have I overstepped the bound, my Queen?”
“No more than usual,” says Gertrude distantly.
I continue to play soft airs on my shawm while the women work silently through the afternoon; I think as I play that vanity wears many faces.
* * *
“Never let anyone tell you that the high-born are one whit better than the rest of us,” Oduvit announces to the players as we gather for our supper in their quarters; he is in a brash frame of mind and has already drunk two tankards of new ale to fuel his wit. “They are high-born by the accident of birth, not by favor or the will of Heaven. The priests teach us our low station to serve their own purposes, and to make themselves the companions of the powerful.”
I have taken a place near the warmth of the fire, where I have set myself the task of writing down the rumors I have heard in regard to the Polish envoy. As Oduvit holds forth, I fold my vellum and put it in my wallet, along with the charcoal stick. With luck the words will not be too smudged to read when I take it out again. “These are things you should not say aloud,” warns one of the players, his mobile face apprehensive.
“’I am a jester. I am expected to think and say the outrageous. Unthinkable things are my stock in trade. If I do not use it, then I will no longer be worthy of my hire, and I will have to become a beggar,” says Oduvit. “Or join a troupe like yours, and seek to gain acceptance by currying favor with those who like to be entertained.”
I lean back, bracing my shoulder against the wall, and hope that I am not dragged into this dispute.
Hieronymous regards Oduvit with an expression of fatigue. “Since you are determined to tell us your thoughts, go ahead. There is nothing to be gained from questioning your motives, or in offering any prudent cautions.”
The other players nod with their leader, and one of them—the handsome young man who causes such a flutter in women’s breasts—puts his hands to his head and declares, “We await the benefit of your wisdom, Oduvit.”
Oduvit pays no attention to the sarcasm in the player’s words, but lurches erect and addresses the gathering. “The high-born are not the deserving pillars of might and excellence they claim; they are more fragile than the rest of us because they are told that they will be given attention. It makes them vain and weak. Especially the women, who are cosetted and pampered until they are sapped of all power, and think that the flattery they receive is adequate compensation for what they have lost. The flattery is the most debilitating of all. It makes them believe in their own importance, which undermines their character; the priest is right about that. You look askance, Hieronymous. But it is true. Let me offer an example, to make my point. Just this morning I found that new page, Osrick, puking his breakfast because he is homesick!” He whoops with laughter, and I recall the complaints Raissa made a week ago. “Nine years old, and he cannot bear to be away from his mother, or so he says. Who among us is so timorous that we would shame ourselves with such display?”
“The boy is just a boy,” says one of the players. “If this is his first time away from home, it is not surprising he would miss it.”
“But he lords it over those like us, because his birth gives him the right to do it,” says Oduvit, his resentment making his jest sour. “We are to bow to him, a half-grown child who loses his breakfast for want of his mother. We are expected to defer to him because his father lives in a castle which his father, or his father’s father left to him. Where is the justice in that? The son and the son’s son had no part of earning the castle, yet we are told we must regard them all with the respect their fathers’ fathers earned. There is no reason to admire the descendants of the brave leaders of the past, yet we are all required to do it. They are born to it, or so they claim, and their birth entitles them to our deference.” He thumps his tankard on the table. “Surely you know a comedy or two that makes such a point. Why not perform it?”
“Because we wish to remain here through the summer, and we will not if we insult the King,” says the handsome player, whose name is Pars. “’I do not like to gain the enmity of those with power—whatever you may think of their claim to it—because I wish to continue to perform, and eat.”
“How courageous of you,” says Oduvit, spitting on the floor, “Worthy of the King in battle, certainly.”
I watch these two fence with words and I realize Oduvit would prefer to kill in truth, not merely wound with jibes. I never before knew he was so deadly.
“This has nothing to do with courage,” says Hieronymous. “It has to do with what we have been employed to do. We were not asked to teach moral lessons to the King and the court, we were engaged to entertain them. If we fail to do that, it matters little what else we may do.”
“If you are so contemptuous of the high-born, then why not leave your post here, and make your way in the world as a strolling clown?” Pars clearly does not expect his suggestion to be taken seriously.
“That would teach a lesson of its own. Besides,” Mect adds, “if you think such lessons are necessary, why not teach them yourself, Oduvit?”
Oduvit tosses his head back and laughs, but I do not think there is any mirth in this display. Instead, I hear an echo of the cry of rage that some animals make when they are hunted. Perhaps Oduvit has come to realize that his remarks are not always heard as jests; perhaps he fears he will be held accountable for them one day. I glance at Mect, hoping to catch his eye, but he has gone to the door and, as I watch, he slips out into the night.
“Why do you have such a poor opinion of the world?” asks one of the players, prompting Oduvit to continue his harangue. “Why do you castigate everyone so relentlessly?”
“Look at me,” Oduvit cries, and speaks with the passion of his soul; his voice is low but everyone hears each word. “Look at what nature made of me. Look! How can you wonder why I despise the world, when I live in this misshapen flesh? Can you guess what it is to have the people in the streets turn away from you rather than let the sight of you blight their day? Do you know what it is to be condemned as a monster, by those whose deeds are more monstrous than yours have ever been? Better to depise all of creation than to long for what I cannot have.” His humor changes at once, and he directs his remark to the comely Pars, intending every word to sting, “You are cast in the image of some kindly god who likes insouciance and courtesy. The god who made me is a rougher creature altogether; he does not approve of tribute and courtesy. There are no flowers on his altar, no sweet incense rises to him, and he has no place in his worshippers for those who seek the languour of happiness and voluptuous amusement. The god who made me knows that all of you are misshapen in your souls, as I am in my body, and has shared his knowledge with me. I have been given the vision of the god who made me, and I see the world as it is, without the gloss of vanity most require to bear their lives. I tell you what I see, nothing more or less.” He folds his short arms on his chest and glares, daring anyone to dispute with him. Hieronymous holds up his tankard and watches Oduvit
narrowly, “If that is truly how you know the world, then I can say nothing to you that you will want to hear.”
Beside him Pars shakes his head and drinks his ale.
“I see that pity,” says Oduvit scornfully to Pars. “You tell yourself that you would not be as I am if your body were like mine. Well, my handsome, young, foolish player, I say you would!”
Pars looks up and regards Oduvit coldly. “If that were so, then Yorick would be more caustic than you are, for he is more deformed in his body than you. But such is not his way.”
I wish I could vanish into the floor; all the players and the rest of the troupe turn to look at me, as if they expect me to take up the argument on Pars’ behalf. I do my best to shrug and I say, “Everyone does as well as he can in this world. Oduvit has chosen his way; I have chosen mine.”
“More of the same mewling,” jeers Oduvit. “Since they have given him the Prince to guard, his wits have lost their keeness.” He rocks back on his heels, his small, bright eyes as hard as poison as he looks across the room at me. “He is another plaything for the Heir.”
“He is the King’s jester,” says Hieronymous. “And you wish that you were, don’t you, Oduvit?”
“What? Me?” He bows deeply. “And have to dance attendance on the King and the Queen at every hour of the day and night? To have to soothe them with melodies from a pipe when they are worn or out-of-sorts, to have to flatter them when they have been disappointed in their schemes, to have to lie for them to keep their lies regarded as truth?” His laughter grows shrill. “Why should I envy such a toad his task, when I have the chance to speak my mind? I am not one to coo over a brooding infant! Yorick may do as he likes, but I want no part of the nursery.”
“Precisely,” says Hieronymous bluntly, and reaches for a leather case where the texts of their plays are stored. As he opens it, he says to the players, “I want you to review your parts in Foolish Virgins and The Disolute Man’s Punishment. We will need new fare for the court in a little while and this will make it possible to give them some variety. Streiter,” he says to the most corpulent of his players. “I want you to learn the part of Rosemary in the Virgins. Simper all you can with the role.” He selects a few of the pages and shoves them toward Streiter, then swings around to Pars. “Do you still know the role of the lead in Punishment?”
Pars frowns, which does not alter his handsomeness. “I had better review it. It has been half a year since we performed it.”
One of the players, a man of middle years and worn features, grins impulsively, “Do you recall how the Emperor applauded? It was a great thing, having him reward us so well.”
Hieronymous gives the man a quick, forbidding look. “That was some time ago.”
“Six months,” says the player, which catches my attention, for I understood that these players had not been to the Emperor’s court in more than three years.
With a significant nod of his head, Hieronymous says, “Yes. We were fortunate to encounter him during his travels.”
Pars takes up the cue a bit too obviously, “We surely were. Who would have thought we would have such an august audience in so remote a castle?”
The other players chime in now, and I listen with consternation. Why have the players said they have not been to the Emperor’s court when it is plain as a rotten fish in the stew that they have? And if the Emperor liked their work, why have they not boasted of it, as any player would? I keep my questions to myself, and listen to the others more closely, hoping for some clue to this new puzzle.
GARDENS
In the fine spring rain Gertrude’s garden smells of fresh-turned earth. The Queen wears her hood up to keep from getting wet as she inspects what the gardeners have done to her neat beds. Her ladies follow after her, all of them displeased to be out on this soggy morning. I bring up the rear, carrying the Prince, who has been squirming since we stepped outside—if a walled garden inside a castle’s grounds can be thought of as outside. “The flowers will come again, and soon,” Gertrude is telling Raissa, who looks as if she has been given spoiled eggs to smell.
“This is the work of peasants and servants,” she says, unwilling to show much enthusiasm for the Queen’s plans.
“It is fitting that I turn my hand to humble work,” Gertrude says, and waits for Raissa to recant in some way. “Those of us who are given much privilege need to remind ourselves of how common people live, so that we will not be lured into contempt for them through our own blindness.”
“As you say, my Queen,” Raissa whispers, lowering her head and going on with soft defiance. “I will turn my hand to milking goats, if it is your wish I should do it. So that I, too, will know how a farmer’s wife starts her day.”
The women say nothing, none of them wishing to be given tasks so unsuited to their position in life.
“When do Claudius and Polonius leave on their mission?” asks Raissa a bit later.
“In a week,” says Gertrude, too quickly. “All the plans are made and their escort is arranged. If the weather holds, they will leave for the harbor in seven days.” She is unable to conceal a sigh. “The Low Countries are friendly enough to Denmark and Norway,” says Margitha, relieved to be speaking of something so safe as diplomatic missions. “And my father, in Lorraine, will receive the Emperor on his way back from Antwep.” Gertrude stops and bends to inspect the new stalks of a plant I do not recognize sprouting from the earth. “This bed will need tathing,” she says.
“Surely you do not expect to spread the dung yourself,” says Raissa. “It is one thing to want to grow flowers, but there is a place where you must give over the work,” “Raissa,” says Gertrude, “I will not permit you to cast aspersions on what I am doing here. You may wish to convince me that this garden is foolishness, but I will not believe you, not on this point.” She gestures toward the largest of the beds and goes on, “Here I will have sweet herbs; more than last year, so that we may have sachets for our wardrobes and pillows.”
Hildegarde approves of this; her smile is immediate and bright with sincerity. “My mother always made sachets of rosemary and lavender,” she says. “Her clothes always smelled as sweet as spring. If you will allow me, my Queen, I will make bags for the herbs, so that when they are ready, you will have a place to put them.”
“Excellent, Hildegarde,” Gertrude approves. “And together we will fill the bags when summer is high.” She looks around toward me, and sees that her son is trying to climb down from my arms to forage among the turned flower beds. “Hamlet! Whither away, my lordling?” As she reaches out for him, he strikes her hand with his tiny fist. She rubs the place and says with a look of fond satisfaction. “Quite a blow. How ferocious you are.” “He meant no harm,” I tell her as she lifts him to her breast, unfastening the lacings of her clothes with an ease that is so practiced now it is almost invisible, like a conjuring trick.
“He struck you, just the same,” Raissa remarks.
“And well I know it means nothing,” she says, and signals to Margitha. “I will go in shortly. Do you find the chief gardener for me and tell him to start the seedlings as I ordered. I will want to begin planting in another fortnight.” Margitha does not enjoy such errands, but she curtsies and says she will attend to it at once. As she starts away, the Queen gives one more instruction.
“Tell the chief gardener that the hinges on the gate at the back of the garden are still rusty. I want them oiled regularly. I expect it to be done tomorrow.” She smiles at Margitha and ignores the glances her women exchange as they follow her back into the castle.
I remain in the garden for a short time, letting the rain soak into my clothes, and hoping all the while that it would wash away the doubts that fill my thoughts.
* * *
Out on the field behind Elsinor the cavalry are drilling, their horses spattered with spring mud as they shed out their heavy coats, making them look riddled with mange. From the balcony where Hamlet watches we can see the Captains upbraiding their men to pay attenti
on and follow orders, faulting them for growing lax in the long, inactive months of winter.
“If the Poles grow more obstreperous, the cavalry may have to spend the next winter in tents,” says Hamlet softly.
“You expect war, then, my King?” I ask.
‘”I do not expect it, but I fear it is coming,” Hamlet replies. “All the signs are for it. If word comes from the Emperor, then we will be hard-put to get into the field to block the advance of Ladislaw’s men.” He shakes his head and rubs his close-trimmed beard. “I hope the men will be ready when the order comes.”
I note his choice of words. “And is that why Polonius is off with Claudius to the Emperor while he visits the Low Countries?”
“One of the reasons, yes,” says Hamlet. “The two of them can do much to discover what the Emperor expects of Denmark and Norway.”
“I suppose so,” I say, not wanting to think what other mischief they could be up to, so far away.
“Polonius’ wife and son will come to Elsinor shortly, to remain here while Polonius is away.” Hamlet glances down at me. “Do not tell the Queen; let her know nothing of these plans. I am aware she pines for her old friend, and I wish her to have a pleasant surprise when Ricardis arrives.”
“I will say nothing,” I assure him, and stand on tip-toe again, the better to see the ranks of mounted men practice wheeling their lines.
“Polonius tells me that his wife is increasing again,” Hamlet remarks, a bit wistfully. “She will deliver in the autumn, or so the woman says.”
“Polonius must be a happy man,” I say, not knowing what else to tell the King, who has been praying for another child. “Let us wish for a safe birth and a healthy child.” “Yes,” says Hamlet, leaning forward and concentrating on the movements of his troops. For a while he is fully occupied with observing the maneuvers of the cavalry, and I see in his face something of the same single-mindedness I have often noted in the Prince. At last he speaks again. “There will have to be a great celebration when Polonius and Claudius return, to mark their success. For it will have to be a success. I will ask you to arrange something with the players, to mark the festivities with an appropriate performance.” This startles me, and I draw several breaths before I say, “What do you mean, appropriate?” Hamlet shakes his head. “Use your best judgment. I will be busy with my army for the rest of the spring. We will have to drill in preparation for campaigning, in case it comes to that. I cannot be worried about such matters as what the players will do for this occasion, or that event.” He frowns suddenly as he sees two of his men unhorsed. “That will have to stop,” he mutters.
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 19