Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “So I trust,” says Hieronymous, lowering his voice as he does for the role in the play, “They will want to hate me before we are through tonight, and then they will praise me for making them loathe me.” His smile, with the paint on his face, is obscene, which is what he intends it should be. “Who can blame them if they feel such?” I ask, bowing with a flourish. “What man would not earn the detestation of all for what your Churchman does? Murder is the least of it.”

  “A very juicy role, such a depraved man,” says Hieronymous as he reaches for the gaudy rings he will wear: I have the uneasy sensation that I have seen more than the player intended, and that this lapse into his character is a veiled threat; though I do not know why he should threaten me, or why he has tipped his hand, unless he means to alert me to danger. Yet what reason does he have to warn me, if he is answerable to the Emperor or another ruler? And what does the warning—if it is a warning—portend?

  * * *

  The kitchen cat’s pregnancy is advanced, and she moves heavily, promising a greater number of kittens this time than the last. It is no longer easy for her to bend to wash her nether-parts, which causes her some distress. She has taken to burrowing into my cast-off clothes, which I keep to make patches for the new, where she purrs contentedly in her sleep as I return to change into the new garments Hamlet has provided me for this evening’s festivities. “Sleep, little mother,” I tell her as I put my chaperon aside and take up the new garments, with a particolored pourpoint of red and green with bag-sleeves and inner sleeves of bright yellow. There are leggings as well, one leg a solid yellow, one checky in green and red. This is by far the most splendid attire Hamlet has ever provided me, and I swear to myself that I will be at pains to keep it unsmirtched. As I discard my old leggings, the kitchen cat wakens and looks at me inquisitively. She reaches out one paw and snags my chaperon, dragging it near her, her eyes large in concentration.

  “Improving the fortifications, are you?” I ask her, and reach down to rub her ears. “Well, as long as you are careful how you manage, it will satisfy me. Do not tear the cloth too much, will you?” I do not begrudge her the garments she claims when they are past use, but I do want to have enough of the fabric unmarred so that I can use it to cover the holes in the new clothes when they come.

  She leans into my hand with that craning of her neck that makes me certain she is smiling. Her paws work steadily on the chaperon, as if to shape it to her satisfaction. The inner lids of her eyes are almost wholly closed, but her outer lids are open, making her look like those ancient crones whose sight is blighted as with frost, or one of the ancient seers, whose greater vision strengthened as their eyes faded. This realization distresses me, and I scratch her more vigorously so that she will look directly at me. At last she finally deigns to fix me with her stare and makes a single yowl of protest at the force of my hand.

  “Good girl, good, good girl,” I approve as her pupils narrow to slits. “If you will wait until later, I will bring you supper from the feast,” I tell her as she butts her head into my palm, rubbing hard, “They are serving venison and boar tonight, and geese stuffed with oysters. You wouldn’t mind a taste of any of that, would you? Better than kitchen mice, I’ll say that.”

  Her purring is louder as if to approve my offer. She gives my fingers a desultory lick, then rises, turns around, and settles with her back to me.

  I continue to dress in silence, unwilling to disturb her slumber.

  ENVOYS

  Claudius is very grand tonight; his clothes are the most lavish of anyone at Elsinor; a straw-colored damask houpelande in the bench style, with tremendous triangular sleeves with deeply dagged edges piped in very deep brown, inner sleeves of pale samite, the sleeve lining in heavy Italian satin in a shade between russet and rust. He wears a link-collar of gold with the Emperor’s Order of the Gauntlet depending from it, his brow is circled in a wreath of ivy, and he has cropped his beard very short, in imitation of the Emperor’s mode, and has perfumed it with oil of sandalwood and saffron. Beside him, Polonius has managed to be more ostentatious without equaling Claudius’ magnificence. He wears a many-pleated huque of blood-red velvet over a long, fitted Venetian giaquetta of deep shadow-purple shade. The edge of his collar is lavishly embroidered and a small ruff of Lowlands lace rises from it. He also has a link-collar, this of silver, with the Badge of Denmark.

  “You are most heartily welcome back to your home,” says Hamlet, his long Burgundian houpelande of deep chestnut nowhere near as eye-catching as the garments worn by his brother and Polonius. He stands as the two come to the foot of his throne and go on their knees to him. “Up, up,” he continues, motioning them to rise, a generosity that holds the attention of the gathered court. “Come and give me what news you bring from the Emperor.”

  This is nothing more than a formality, and everyone knows it. The real report has been delivered the night before, in private meeting, not half an hour after the two arrived at Elsinor.

  “We bring greetings from the Emperor and trusts of his many loves of Denmark,” says Claudius, his fine voice carrying through the hall. “He commands us to give you this token of his esteem.” He holds out a polished brass case and opens it, revealing a very massive link-collar in gold with the Order of the Teutonic Crusaders of the Holy Roman Empire. “You are invested in the roles of the Teutonic Crusaders, at the pleasure of Emperor Ludwig, which he most graciously bids us present to you before all your court as his deputies.” Watching this, I cannot stop myself from wondering just how far Claudius sees his duties as deputy extending. I move in closer to the throne, and notice Oduvit near the door to the banquet hall, his face pale and intent, no trace of humor about him, not even his usual contemptuous smirk. This holds my attention amid the jostling and whispers of the court, and for a short while I heed little else.

  A consort of crumhorns announce the arrival of the Queen, who appears behind the musicians in the main entrance, her ladies following her. She has donned a dress I have not seen, a beautiful garment in sculptured velvet the color of new cream, the sleeves tight to the elbow and then with long, narrow outer sleeves and close-fitted inner sleeves of tawny damask. The bodice is also molded to her form, then blossoms into long, deep-petaled skirts. She is like a beeswax candle, light and slender, her face the living flame, alight with pleasure and something more.

  “My Queen,” says Polonius before Claudius can speak. She comes forward, seeming to glide over the floor, so smoothly does she move; her ladies accompany her as a wake trails a boat; Raissa alone dressed in a dark mulberry color, which distinguishes her from the rest, who are wearing pale shades to compliment Gertrude’s attire. “I must thank you, Polonius, Claudius, for bringing me this present from my father,” she says, indicating her clothing. “It is a generous gift. You have been kindness itself; I am grateful.”

  Claudius takes her hand and bows over it. “For my brother’s wife, there is no task I would refuse.”

  Gertrude flushes, and I see careful, calculating nods among the courtiers watching; Oduvit makes a quick, obscene gesture and is rewarded by the chuckles of those near him. If Hamlet notices, there is no indication on his face.

  The Queen’s ladies take up places on the dais behind Gertrude’s throne; Ricardis stands as near to her husband as she may properly do. “We have much to impart,” says Polonius, hoping to cover the awkward moment, and not quite succeeding; his wife encourages him with a quick, hidden smile, and Polonius prepares to resume his presentation. This is the recitation of things that Hamlet has decided are safe to be heard in public. “The Emperor speaks of you often, my King, and most affectionately. He has considered your position here, and the actions of the Poles. He has sent word to King Ladislaw of Poland, to say that he would have to mount opposition to any thrust across his borders. He calls you and the noble Fortinbras his Guardians of the north, and everyone is aware that this good opinion is well-merited. He commends your wise governance and prudent alliance, the which he has used as example to m
any others in like circumstances, to guide their treaties.” Any Bishop would be proud to give a sermon half so well. “And Poland? What of Poland? What has been the response to the Emperor’s message?” asks Hamlet, unwilling to spend long minutes in the fripperies of statecraft for no reason other than to hear himself praised, “Has Ludwig had an answer from Ladislaw? Has the Emperor informed you of it?”

  I look about for Mect, and to my apprehension, cannot locate him. This is what I thought he would be most determined to hear, yet I do not see him. Where is he? I ask myself, troubled by his absence. “Not that we have learned,” says Claudius with a dissatisfied expression. “We were told that no answer had come when we left. And no word has come after us, therefore I assume that King Ladislaw has told the Emperor nothing.”

  “Then what does the Emperor tell Denmark in regard to Poland now?” asks Hamlet, making his voice level with an effort, though this is not news to him; he is distressed to see his Counsellors glower and shake their heads.

  Polonius scowls, not liking to be deprived of his reflected eminence, but he knows better than to challenge the King in this instance. “Yes. It may be necessary for the incursions of the Poles to be contained, and for that reason, the Emperor asks that you ready yourself and your men to march on the day orders arrive by Imperial messenger; the Emperor agrees that there is danger to the Empire and to Denmark as well, from these rambunctious Poles. You will have to march over the Emperor’s lands to contain the Poles, but Ludwig would not consider such a march an act against him.”

  Hamlet does not speak at once; he allows the meaning of Polonius’ report to sink into the minds of the courtiers and Counsellors gathered for the occasion. When he is satisfied that they understand, he says, “Then it will be war.” He says this somberly, his eyes on the open door as if he expected the Emperor’s messenger to be standing there already. “Let every noble do his part toward our victory.” He looks toward Polonius. “And in three days’ time, do you, good Polonius, leave us to carry our message to Fortinbras in Norway.”

  Polonius bows, torn between satisfaction at the honor he has been shown and dismay at the need to travel again. He glances at Claudius, and I see a flicker in his eyes I cannot read.

  Gertrude prevents the moment from turning disagreeable by saying to Polonius, “I am pleased to have your lady-wife to be my companion for the summer, if it is acceptable to you.” She turns toward Ricardis and smiles at her, though she continues to address Polonius, “Doubtless you are apprehensive on your wife’s behalf. You need not fear. Her care and safety will be my watchword while you are gone. She will be guarded and cared for. My own midwife will see your new son into the world.”

  “How good you are, my Queen,” Ricardis enthuses, and looks at her husband. “Surely it would be unforgivable to refuse such an invitation. To have the Queen’s own midwife bring this child into the world is a high honor and the best possible start for him in life.”

  This is not what Polonius has had in mind, but he is a clever man and knows when to concede. “Yes, it would be.” He bows to Gertrude. “How gracious you are, my Queen, to permit my wife to remain at court with you.” Gertrude is no more deceived by Polonius’ soothing words than any of the others are, but she answers as if she were. “Then it is happily settled.” She has a bright smile for everyone.

  I see Oduvit whisper something to the young page standing near him; Osrick puts his hand to his mouth to conceal his giggles. For a child who was terrified of the court such a short time ago, he has accustomed himself to its ways with alacrity.

  Hamlet has grown impatient of these dealings, and now says, “I will need to meet with my Council to plan our requisitions. That will be first thing in the morning. I expect every one of you to attend promptly. I will have my Captains join us, to make our tasks easier.” He extends his arms. “Let us all attend the players, to see what has been readied for us.” The court is quick to obey, the nobles nearest the door moving first, making way for the King and his Queen to pass without relinquishing their advantageous place. There is a new excitement among the courtiers, and they speak in low, urgent voices as they make their way in the direction of the gallery where Hieronymous has had their stage built. For once I do not walk close to Hamlet, who has taken the lead with Gertrude, but linger in the Grand Hall, to see who might falter in obediance of Hamlet’s order, and to what purpose. It is then that I catch sight of Mect standing at the far end of the chamber, under the Musicians’ Gallery; his sharp face is alert and anxious as he watches the courtiers leave the Hall.

  Claudius and Polonius have little choice but to remain close to the King, and they are making an effort to show their devotion to him. But Horatio frowns at this, and shakes his head; he does not try to reach the King’s side, but finds himself a position at the rear of the court. He looks my way once, curious, but not alarmed, and then directs his attention to three of the Counsellors who have drawn to one side of the vast chamber.

  “What do you think?” Oduvit asks suddenly at my elbow.

  It is an effort not to jump at this question, and his abrupt appearance. “I think we will have war.”

  Oduvit cocks his head, his mouth set in a contemptuous grimace. “Don’t play the fool with me, Yorick. Of course it means war. Hamlet would never have permitted Claudius to go to the Emperor if he had doubted there would be war. But why is it coming?” His chuckle sounds like pebbles ground under wagon-wheels. “If you doubt it, look at what is laid for the feast. Hardly any beef, because it is all being laid down in salt for the troops. The same with hard cheeses. Oh, there is pork and lamb for the guests tonight, but only because the army will not need them.”

  “The Poles are restive,” I say, not wanting to voice the deeper concerns that trouble me.

  “And ambitious, and proud, and all the rest of it,” says Oduvit with a sneer. “But they have always been so. And they have made many forays against the Emperor’s territory in years past, just as the high customs taxes on Danish ships are nothing new. Why does the Emperor concern himself with it now?” “You have a notion, haven’t you?” I ask, doing my best to sound bored with his theories and opinions, but not quite succeeding, for I cannot shake the feeling that there is something important hidden in his innuendos beyond his unrelenting malice.

  “Certainly, and so do you, or you would not be watching the way you are. And you would not be misled by the King’s purpose, or believe his promises.” His look of triumph is nasty. “You might not think it possible, but I am not readily deceived by you, Sir Yorick.” From his tongue, my title is a slight. “You underestimate me. You always have. You think me spiteful and corrupt, but you are wrong. I am not like you, hankering after the high opinion of the King or any other who will look at me without cringing. I have pride, Yorick, and I know my worth. I am a man, not a slave, and because you have put yourself beneath Hamlet’s heel, you will not see it; you dismiss me because I am not willing to make myself a lapdog to the King, or anyone.”

  “It may be so,” I answer, noticing from the tail of my eye that the three Counsellors have concluded their talk and are now hurrying after the rest of the court; Mect remains in the shadow of the Musicians’ Gallery.

  “Then own yourself blind, Yorick,” Oduvit demands. “You are so in the thrall of Hamlet that you forget yourself on his behalf. No jester can do that with impunity.” At that I round on him. “Why not?” “Because they will sacrifice us, the great ones. They will give us to the wolves for their own preservation. It has ever been thus.” He is deeply angry as he speaks, as if recalling old, unhealed wounds. “We are nothing to them; a convenience they permit to keep warm at their fires so that there will be someone to die for them, as if a place on the hearth is worth a life.”

  Until this instant, I never realized how frightened, terrified, Oduvit is, and for the first time I am not offended by what he says. “Hamlet will not treat us so shabbily.” “Because he laughs at you?” Oduvit challenges, his voice rising. “Because he uses you to wa
tch his wife for him? Because you let his son ride on your hump?” His laughter is harsh, grating as a saw through green wood, “Why should any of that matter to Denmark?” He says the last as a curse. “Hamlet is a good man,” I tell Oduvit. “It may be that there are other Kings who are as you say, but he is not one of them. He has prided himself on his fair dealings with his subjects, and so we jesters are.” I want to fold my arms, but that would be too provoking to Oduvit, so I tighten my hands into fists to keep the urge from enveloping me. “You do not know him.” “There you are wrong. They are all that way, including this hale King,” says Oduvit, making his pronouncement throb like the knell of doom. “They may show good-fellowship, and in their way be sincere, but they will not endanger themselves if another can take the risk for them.” “You are wrong,” I insist. “Am I?” Oduvit mocks. “You are marked already; as all of us jesters are, and have been since Tollo died.”

  This jibe strikes home, but I do what I can to pretend it does not. “That would not be honorable, and the King is wholly aware of his honor. Hamlet is a great commander,” I remind Oduvit, puzzled at myself for my need to defend the King to this hate-filled man. “He has led his men in battle many times. They have never doubted his courage.”

  “That is a different matter altogether.” Oduvit dismisses my remarks with a wave of his hand. “It is necessary for a King to defend his land, for he is the land, in the eyes of other Kings. But treachery is not battle, and it is not run in the same way.” He leans back and stares up at the ceiling, “You will say this is nothing, but you are wrong, Yorick; Hamlet faces greater hazards here at Elsinor than he will in the field against the Poles.” “I will not dispute that,” I tell him. “But it does not mean that he would permit others to suffer for him.”