Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “But, my King—” I begin, and he interrupts me. “You are my jester, and that distinguishes you from the others. I am depending on you to supervise the enjoyments for the court for me while I tend to the pressing business of readying for war. You decide what is to be the fare we have. I will not question your decisions, and I will approve whatever you wish me to approve. Only use your good sense, which I know you possess in abundance, to be certain that all the festivities are marked and all the ceremonies are correctly presented.” He lays his big hand on my good shoulder, “I depend upon you, Sir Yorick.”

  For such assurances as that, I would have trod on hot coals. In my heart I ask the Male Goddess to enable me to carry out this task to my credit, and Hamlet’s. “I obey to the best of my poor abilities, my King,” I tell him as I bow.

  * * *

  I have put raisins with the statue of the Male Goddess as an offering, so that I may choose the plays that will please Hamlet and suit the occasion most appropriately. Between caring for the Prince and this assignment, the King has distinguished me so that I am at a loss to know how to proceed. Yet he relies upon me to do the work he has set for me, and I cannot permit myself to disappoint him. So I make my offerings and trust that He-in-She will inspire me.

  The kitchen cat nudges my hand as I put the statue and the raisins back under my mattress. She is purring steadily, and her eyes are half-closed. I lift her into my arms, and for once she is content to remain here, her head shoved against my hand to enable me to scratch her more easily. “Good girl, good cat,” I whisper to her, taking solace from her presence. “What play do you think Claudius and Polonius would regard as being proper recognition of their accomplishments in the Low Countries? Um?” I realize it would be more sensible to discuss the matter with Hieronymous, but at present I prefer the counsel of my cat, who has so little interest in this that she yawns as I speak.

  I leave a portion of my dinner meat on the wooden plate for her, and she departs my arms at once, to undertake the killing of the cooked pork. She does this with glee, tossing the collops into the air before snagging them with her claws; I could find it in me to pity any mouse who comes within range of her leaps. When she actually stops her sport long enough to gnaw on the hunks of meat, she purrs with the satisfaction and pleasure of one who is certain she has done her work well.

  Before I put on my night-rail, I visit the latrine, and find one of the players there before me, retching.

  “I won’t be much longer,” he says when he can draw his breath. “Take the time you need,” I tell him, debating with myself if I should leave him, call for help, or wait; it is easiest to wait.

  “It is the seasoning in the stew,” he explains a little later. “There are certain spices I cannot tolerate, and the cook used one of them in the pork tonight.” He wipes his mouth with a rough cloth. “I guess I should have mentioned it.” “Probably you should have. It would be sensible to do it now, so that he will not serve it to you again,” I suggest, thinking that Voss will not be glad to know of this, so much pride does he take in his cooking.

  “Yes. I will speak to him in the morning,” says the player, with a nod to me before he hurries off toward the quarters the players have been given.

  I have just finished my business when I hear someone else approaching. At this hour of the night, I suppose the fellow has had more than his share of drink, or is suffering as the player was. I am about to call out when I hear Mect whisper a name I do not recognize. On impulse I remain where I am, and silent.

  “Have you news, Leipzig?” asks the unknown.

  “Not much. There is little to tell our Sovereign that he will not know already,” Mect answers in a voice so quiet that I have to hold my breath to hear him clearly.

  “Because of the two envoys,” says the unfamiliar voice. “You think they will be carrying all the information Ludwig must have.”

  “In part yes, I think that, and in because there is little to tell. Not much has happened here that will have significance to Ludwig.” “What of the Poles?” asks the other, his voice a bit louder and harsher.

  “All that will be told in the Low Countries; Polonius and the King’s brother will present Hamlet’s case to the Emperor with more details than I can possibly supply. And if Ludwig does not have men in the Polish court, he is not the ruler I give him credit for being. He will need to learn little from me; he will have more information than he wants.”

  “Does Hamlet want this war?” the other persists. “I doubt it. But he is getting ready for it, as you have doubtless already seen. He has men going about the countryside buying up horses and livestock for the army.” Again his tone lowers. “He will be prepared to march by the end of spring, I am sure.”

  “Then you do have news for Ludwig” counters the stranger. “I have observations that you or countless others might make, that is all. And as I have said already, the information Claudius and Polonius carry is apt to be more to the point than what I have to report,” Mect is not as careful to keep his words low, and I hear him readily now. “If there is any doubt that the army is preparing to march, or is not provisioned, tell Ludwig that I think he is almost prepared to march, and that his confidence is not misplaced.” “Well enough,” the other whispers, more cautious now than Mect, “Do you need anything more from me, before I leave?”

  “You know well what I require. I will have to have more by the end of summer.” More what? I wonder.

  His tone is curt now. “And money, of course.” “Of course,” says the other man with astonishing cynicism.

  Mect is offended by this, and he protests. “If you think what I do is not demanding, then you take over my work. I will relinquish my post to you, and gladly.”

  The unknown man laughs once, a low, wheezing sound that makes the hair rise on my neck. “How could I? I am no jester.” His amusement fades at once. “You will have what you want at the beginning of June, if that is soon enough?” “Perforce,” Mect accepts. “We will meet here, in the same way, at the same time.” The man is growing eager to be off. “Until that time, be aware that Ludwig must be informed of everything you note. You are the one who must show where the truth lies, for the reports may be deceptive. That’s why you’re here, Leipzig.”

  “I realize what my duty demands of me, and I will do it, however distasteful. I will honor my oath, do not fear it,” says Mect stiffly, and then I hear him move away.

  After a moment, the unknown man goes off.

  I am shaking now, with a fear I did not know I could feel. It penetrates my vitals and makes my eyes feel over-large in my head. What would have happened to me, I do not like to wonder, but am unable to stop, if I had been discovered here? The two men were bent on treasonous acts; they would not balk at being rid of an interloper. It might be awkward to explain another dead jester, but— This wakens notions in me regarding the deaths of Tollo and Hedrann, and I despise myself for the suspicions I feel; but now that they are stirring, I cannot quiet them again. I ease the latrine curtain open, expecting at every instant to feel a knife in my guts. Could Mect do that? Could he kill me?

  But the little courtyard is empty; I make my way back to my quarters with unseemly haste, and when I get there, I bother the kitchen cat by insisting on holding her as a child holds a favorite toy, taking comfort in her life and her annoyance.

  It is very late when I finally fall asleep, and my dreams are filled with visions of betrayal and the dead crying silently in their tombs for revenge; the kitchen cat abandons my pillow and curls at the end of the bed where my tossing cannot disturb her rest.

  RICARDIS

  There are three wagons in the main courtyard, each with postillions and out-riders for escort, and at the rear, surrounded by mounted men-at-arms, a carriage. A crowd gathers and surrounds the new arrivals. As the door opens and the steps are let down, a waiting-woman is the first to emerge, and then Ricardis descends; a nurse brings up the rear, Laertes howling his indignation to the sky.

  Hamlet himsel
f greets these new arrivals, and he favors Ricardis with many kind words about her husband, and adds a jocular comment about her pregnancy. “You will set a fashion among the court ladies, Madame, I would wager, for you are in great beauty just now.” “They say women often bloom brightest when they nurture new life,” Ricardis remarks, with as much of a curtsy as she can easily manage. “I am grateful to God that my babe grows and strengthens.”

  I have been standing slightly behind the King, and now I bow to Ricardis. “Welcome back to Elsinor, my Lady.”

  “It is good to see you, Yorick,” she answers with a smile that is as sweet as it is forced. She holds out her hand to me, reluctantly allowing me to kiss it. Hamlet gives a signal and four pages hurry forward. The nearest two bow to her on behalf of the rest; Ricardis glances at the King.

  “What is the purpose of this honor?” she asks, her eyes perplexed although she still shows a joyous expression.

  “They will lead you to the Queen,” says Hamlet, and indicates one of the boys. “If you will permit Osrick, he will present you to Gertrude.”

  “Very well,” says Ricardis, still puzzled by what she has been told. “Do I have my old quarters back?” “No,” Hamlet says. “You are the wife of my trusted Counsellor now, and you will have a suite of your own, not far from my Queen’s. Three servants have been assigned to you. Two are from your husband’s staff.” His face registers regard for Polonius, which Hamlet enforces by saying, “All Denmark owes Polonius a debt of gratitude, my Lady; I am sensible of it every day.”

  “The King is most gracious,” says Ricardis after an instant of silence. “It is the privilege of the true subject to serve the Crown.”

  Hamlet nods, and at last moves aside. “My Queen will be at her sewing just now. She has not been told you are coming, only that she will have another waiting lady.” He winks once, sharing his minor deception with Ricardis.

  “You mean that I will be a surprise to her?” asks Ricardis, her smile tinged with an emotion that could be apprehension. “You will be, I hope,” says Hamlet, and nods to the pages. “Give Polonius’ wife her deserved escort.”

  Ricardis looks troubled as the pages set off, two ahead of her, the rest flanking her and her sons’s nurse, who carries the hot-tempered child. “Do you go after them,” says Hamlet to me when the little party is around the bend in the corridor. “Tell me how my Queen receives her friend.”

  I bow deeply, and look aside, for it occurs to me that the King is not as confident of the success of this gesture as he claimed to be at the first.

  “You will find me in my quarters after supper,” he says as I move away from him down the corridor. As I walk, I notice that there are a number of Counsellors standing in clusters, deep in conversation. This catches my attention because they lower their voices or stop their discussions completely while I pass near to them, which rarely happens. I ponder the importance of it as I climb the stairs to the next level. Why should men like Horatio fear me? for surely they must be apprehensive or they would pay me no mind. Is their worry of what I might hear, or is it something having to do with the King? And if it is the King, what do these whispers portend? I have to pause outside the Queen’s quarters to restore my mind to better humor than I have had, for on this occasion, I must not be seen to frown, or Gertrude would take it amiss. I ask the Male Goddess to assist me in my duty, and then I knock on the door.

  Raissa answers my summons, with frown enough for both of us. “It is only Yorick,” she announces with no greeting to me. “Have him come in,” calls the Queen, in such good humor that I very nearly do not recognize her voice.

  Hildegarde is sitting on the floor with the Prince in her arms; Ricardis reclines near her, on two large cushions thrown onto the floor for this purpose. She is attempting to restrain Laertes, who is determined to get to the other infant; he is starting to cry with vexation at being deprived of the treat of pummeling the Prince, which amuses the women. Gertrude has drawn up her lowest chair and is watching the two babes fondly, satisfied that her son is in no danger from the larger, older Laertes.

  “You have brought your shawm,” approves Hildegarde. “The Prince will be glad to hear it.”

  The women are all smiling, with greater cordiality than I would have thought possible just a few days ago. As I take my place on the stool near the window, I catch sight of Raissa, and see in her unguarded expression some of the anger that has consumed her for so long. But she notices my glance and in a flutter of her eyes, her face is smooth once more and her smile as amicable as that of a peasant given Mid-summer gold and the promise of a good harvest to come. “Laertes is a very strong babe,” says Hildegarde, with a timorous hint of a smile toward Ricardis.

  “Yes. He bodes well to be a rare knight,” his mother declares with a combination of fierce pride and complacency. “This new babe”—she puts her hand across her swelling belly—”will have much to do to keep up with him.”

  “If your child is a boy,” says Raissa slyly.

  Ricardis sits upright. “He will be another son. I can feel it in my blood. This will be a second heir for Polonius, to add to the glory of his House.” “And if it is a girl?” suggests Gertrude, a distant expression in her eyes.

  “Why, if it is a girl—although that isn’t possible—we will wed her to your son, of course,” Ricardis says humorously but with underlying intent that stifles the laughter in her throat. She goes on with the assumption of practicality, “He will need a good wife, and he will be pledged young, won’t he?”

  “That he will,” says Gertrude, sighing a little. “Hamlet will insist on it.” She does not add that the wife chosen for her child will probably be a foreign noblewoman, made young Hamlet’s bride for reasons of state, not the affection of parents.

  The women nod somberly.

  I have started to play “Lament of the Swan,” but it is too mournful, and Raissa glares at me.

  She speaks with precision. “If you must make that horrible noise, at least let it be with a merry tune, not that lugubrious—”

  “Raissa,” Gertrude admonishes her. “The tune is soothing and restful.”

  “It is melancholy,” declares Raissa, “and do not hold it against me if your son should become melancholy as well, from listening to it.”

  “If my son becomes melancholy, it will be because he knows his world is uncertain and the burdens of a kingdom are heavy to bear,” says Gertrude. “He will know his duty, that much is certain.” “Duty,” says Hildegarde, making it sound a word for play as she holds out a small wooden crown to the Prince, laughing as he clutches at it with all the determination of a seasoned commander, and not a babe of five months’ age.

  “These boys have much to do in the world,” remarks Margitha, with an angry look at Raissa. “It is hard to be young when so much is weighing on them.”

  “Yes,” says Gertrude with a quick, sad look. “Their days of play will be short; it is always thus with the sons of high-born fathers.” She gives a single, small shake to her head and makes a signal to Margitha. “Make sure he is warm enough. I do not want him to take a chill.”

  Margitha hastens to follow the Queen’s orders, taking a large embroidered shawl and trying to put it around the Prince’s shoulders. “He will take worse than chills before he is grown,” Ricardis predicts confidently. “I have already found Laertes in the kitchen, playing near the hearth, with water boiling on a hook not far from his head. And he was struggling to reach it. I nearly fainted at the sight.” She sounds more proud than apprehensive as she tells of her son’s narrow escape. “He is forever getting into mischief. He is demanding by nature and he seeks to have mastery of everything around him.”

  “And proves it with his mother’s doting,” Raissa appends, trying not to look too disgusted. “You are raising a monster, Ricardis. He will never learn to govern his impulses if you will not castigate him for indulging them.”

  Ricardis flushes deeply and moves as quickly as her pregnancy allows, reaching out to grab f
or Raissa’s clothes, “You cannot say that about my boy!” she yells.

  Raissa easily eludes her, “Look at him,” she recommends. “He is unruly already, and you reward him for it. You praise his demands. You positively crow with pride at his recklessness.”

  “I know that my boy must be able to fend for himself in the world, and that hesitation will not win the day,” says Ricardis, going stiff and formal, “You have no children of your own. You cannot understand what is awakened within a woman when she is a mother.” There is a subtle triumph in her face, and her rebuke is listened to with greater attention than Raissa likes.

  I watch so intently that I miss a few notes in the tune, but only I notice the lapse.

  “What sort of woman would I be if I had a child when I have no husband?” Raissa snaps back, her fine eyes flashing, and I remember how the Male Goddess fixes His-in-Herself in the heart of those who are drawn to Him-in-Her.

  “Yes, what sort of woman?” challenges Ricardis. Raissa tosses her head, though there is more bravado than bravery in this gesture. “Some of us do not need husbands to give us a place in the world.” “More’s the pity, then, that you have not found a suitor who appeals to you,” says Ricardis. “As you are certainly a prize beyond measure, not needing a husband. You may select which of your suitors you will have.”

  “Both of you, stop it,” says Gertrude, sounding worn out. “I do not want more of your bickering.”