Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Oduvit leans forward, and rubs his stubby fingers over the front of my new chaperon. “You are so easily bought, Yorick. A few baubles, a new suit of clothes and you are biddable as water.” “I give loyalty where I find it,” I reply, “This King has always shown me respect and affection. If this is not loyalty—”

  “Loyalty? From Hamlet? What lunacy is this?” His laughter is like a wolf baying at the moon. “How can you think that you have enough value to Hamlet that he would be loyal to you?” He calms himself enough to go on, “Oh, no doubt he wants your loyalty, and claims to honor you with his, but he is King, and you are a jester.” “Nevertheless,” I protest, wanting to say that Hamlet holds me in high enough regard to trust his son and the chastity of his Queen to me, but I fear that would place me at a disadvantage where Oduvit is concerned; so I tell him, “I do not believe Hamlet could be so base.” “You are deluded,” says Oduvit flatly, and walks away from me toward the antechamber where the servants wait to serve the feast that will follow the play.

  I watch him go with foreboding; when I look around the Great Hall, I find it empty: even Mect is gone.

  * * *

  When the kitchen cat comes to settle next to me that night, I find myself talking to her, treating her as if she were the messenger of the Male Goddess and willing to relay my reflections to Him-in-Her. As she curls in the crook of my arm, I rub her neck and ears, musing to her as I stare into the darkness, “It is not an easy thing to trust, is it? There is always doubt, and it eats away at the trust, wearing it away as the ocean wears away rocky cliffs.”

  The cat reaches her paw out and delicately catches my fingers with it, as a way to warn me that she does not want such ministrations. I let her carry my fingers to where she would like them to be, and scratch her there on her chest once she releases my fingers and gives them an approving lick.

  “It was a very good play,” I tell her. “There were terrible secrets hidden until near the end, when it was learned that the Churchman’s nephew was not only his son, but had been got of his sister. You could feel the shock of it when the tale was told. Then the young hero killed his father, who revealed with his dying breath that he had poisoned his son, who then followed his father into death. They acted it well, too. They had great satisfaction in their work, that was plain,” I think of how much relish Hieronymous had giving his condemnation of virtue as the greatest pride and vanity of all, of how he had roared like a storm wind, his arms held wide as if to include the audience in the numbers he condemned.

  With a finicky shake of her head, the kitchen cat pushes at my arm with her feet in an attempt to shape it to her will. I watch this with a fascination that surprises me, for I had not realized how determined she could be. She cannot curl up very well, and her belly rises, making her look like an over-stuffed pillow. As she drifts into sleep, she tucks her paws under her chin, for all the world like a precocious child.

  I lie awake, my thoughts in disorder, as I try to recall what I heard Mect say to Polonius while the players were taking their bows at the end of the performance. Was it, “I have never been asked such a thing”? or was it “I have never been tasked with such a thing”? The difference is minor, but enough to keep me awake long into the night, my ears sharp to sounds of danger, and wishing that I had been able to hear whatever it was Polonius answered.

  YORICK

  Hamlet is frowning as he prepares to meet with his Counsellors. He signals me to come to his side, and I obey with alacrity. “Have you seen my brother this morning?” he asks me without any greeting. “No, not this morning. I saw him yesterday evening, after he had been to the bath house.” I report this without any feeling of worry; Claudius sometimes bathes as often as once a week, “I do not know that he has left his apartments yet today.”

  “What of his servants?” Hamlet asks impatiently. “Have you spoken to any of them? Have you seen them?” “I saw his man when I finished breakfast,” I say. “He was coming from the laundry with a filled basket.” As I say it, I recall seeing Tobias, and I am no longer as sanguine about his mission as I was an hour ago. “I supposed the basket was for his master, but what specific items were in the basket I cannot tell you.” It is strange how such an ordinary thing as a basket of laundry can suddenly seem to be so dangerous. I realize that many things could be concealed among the sheets and clothing, and this goads me into saying, “I never thought I should question the man. It was an oversight. I could have stopped him and found an excuse to see what he carried, but it did not occur to me until now that I ought to do it.”

  “For good reason,” says Hamlet, looking directly at me. “You are not to challenge anyone. Let them do their mischief, if it is mischief they do. It is more useful to me to have you watch and report than to have you make it known that you are doing this for me; I want those who oppose me to suppose that they are unobserved, for they will become careless if they are unaware of what you are up to. Once they are alerted to your task, they will make it more difficult for you to do it, and that would not suit me, or you.” He smiles at me, the lines around his eyes deepening; I stare at him, unable to convince myself that his good-will is false, no matter how persuasive the claims of others may be. “Be prudent for my sake, Yorick, if not for your own. Take a page from my book. Do not draw attention to what you do, so that you will not be stopped from doing it. A wise fighter battles only when he must, not when it pleases him. There are campaigns enough in life that we cannot avoid; why seek out those we can?” “Truly,” I tell him as I bow. “Remember the Emperor has his own reasons for wanting to keep his sentinels in place at this court. His border is as much in danger as ours. He has more at stake here than many realize, and could lose much more than the north end of the Empire. If he comes to think that he is compromised, his support for this Polish incursion may well vanish, and then I would invite disaster if I took my army over his border to repel the Poles.” Hamlet folds his hands and stares into the middle distance as if he reads the future there. “That would be a very poor legacy for my son.”

  “But this is impossible, and…. Surely the Emperor would not suppose you would rise against him?” I exclaim, now more apprehensive than ever; in spite of my best intentions Oduvit’s warnings ring in my mind. “Many another has,” says Hamlet wearily. “Why would my protestations be more credible than any others’?” He nods in the direction of the Council Chamber, his face suddenly weary. “Some of them worry that the Emperor has permitted us to cross his lands against the Poles in order to have an excuse to come into Denmark as a conqueror. They would rather have the Poles tax and sink all our ships than offer the Emperor the least excuse to arm against us.” He fixes his gaze on the tapestry at the end of the corridor, one that shows a violent storm at sea, even mighty whales tossed about as carelessly as empty barrels. “Do you fear it?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

  “Occasionally; late at night. But I am more afraid of the smiling face that conceals a treacherous heart.” He says it lightly enough but I can see the anguish in his eyes. “You are my bastion against deceit. You are the one who can discern those who are as trustworthy as they protest they are, and those whose oaths are made on water.”

  “I?’” My vitals are wrung by what Hamlet has said. “How can I do this? I am a jester.”

  “Because you are a jester,” says Hamlet, with great conviction. “You have already heard things I could not hope to discover on my own, and could not trust a courtier to tell me.” He puts his hand on my good shoulder. “You have burdens enough, I know, but I can rely on no other but you.”

  I am certain he has other watchers to guard him, but I say nothing of it as I go on my knee to him, thinking as I do that Oduvit would jeer if he could see this. “I am your man for life, my King.”

  “Then, when I go to war, be the guard of my son. Do not leave him alone, and do not entrust him to anyone but yourself. His nurse will care for him in the night, but at all other times do you put yourself at his side. No matter what the Queen may order yo
u to do.” His voice is low with great feeling, and I can see a pain in his face that he is striving to conceal.

  “But, my King, do you expect some mischief?” I think back with distress to all the warnings I have received in this regard, and I wonder if it is fitting to tell Hamlet of them.

  “Not mischief, but the Prince is an easy target, one who is helpless and often….” He wipes his hand over his eyes as if to banish something from his sight. “While Gertrude is in her garden, if she wishes the babe with her, go there, too. If she orders him brought into the Great Hall, be at his side. I want no one to approach my heir if his devotion is in the least doubt.” He makes a sudden, sharp gesture. “I will have no harm come to the Prince. You will not permit it, Sir Yorick. I charge you with his safety.”

  It is more of a burden than any I have sought or wanted, but I bow my head, hoping that the Male Goddess will lend me the insight I will need to perform the duty given to me. “I will do all that is in my power to ensure the safety of the Prince,” I say to Hamlet, going down again upon my knee; the joint is stiff today and it pops, rendering my act comical, The King chuckles as I lower my head to him.

  “Sir Yorick, you remind me of my own mortality,” he remarks as he motions me to rise.

  This time my knee is silent, and I try to restore my dignity with a curt nod. “Guard my son,” Hamlet says to me. “When I am gone.”

  GERTRUDE

  Gertrude is delighted at the new plants in her garden. Only a few have buds, but they are enough to make her feel such pleasure that she announces she will spend the afternoon there, among the shoots and the new frill of leaves on the young trees. “Yorick, Margitha, take my son inside. It is too chilly for him to remain here. I will join you in a while, when my garden is in order,” she says, indicating the half-open door. “But my Queen,” says Margitha, as if her protest were not remarkable. “Ricardis is with her husband. She has taken Raissa with her, and Hildegarde. What will we do with the Prince while you are here, without escort, and the castle so full of officers and soldiers? It isn’t suitable for you to remain alone. You wish your babe to be indoors, and I cannot leave you by yourself, my Queen.”

  “Let Yorick attend to him,” she says with a fond look for her babe. “Hamlet always likes Yorick. You have said yourself that he is constantly amused when Yorick cares for him. Well, since the King is good enough to let Yorick care for his son, make the most of his help.” She tosses her head.

  “You mean that Yorick should take the babe and I remain with you?” Margitha asks, and I think she sounds more deliberate than before. “This is my garden, Margitha. What can befall me here, with the walls on three sides and the castle on the fourth?” Gertrude shrugs to show how ridiculous Margitha’s fears are. She has reached for the small hand-rake and starts to work the earth around a bed of new plants, taking care not to disturb the fragile roots.

  “I would be pleased to spend the afternoon with the Prince,” I tell Gertrude, and I smile at her to show I am sincere, for I am, no matter what misgivings may possess me.

  Gertrude sounds almost bored. “The Prince should not stay outside too long. It’s too cold for him and he will suffer for it.” She indicates the door. “Margitha, give the Prince to Yorick. Carry him to my apartments, good Yorick. His toys are there, and he will enjoy himself and you more than he would here.” “If that is what you wish, my Queen, it is my honor to do it,” I say, bowing to her. She laughs at once, lightly, like a girl. “Oh, Yorick, you are so…so noble.”

  Again I bow, knowing she intends no insult, but is truly astonished that one such as I would aspire to honor. “I will see that the Prince stays warm,” I assure her as I take the babe from Margitha and sling him over my shoulder.

  Young Hamlet starts to wail, then realizes where he is, and smacks with satisfaction instead.

  “There, you see?” Gertrude exclaims, pointing the Prince’s antics out to Margitha. “It is more necessary that you attend him than that you watch me garden.” She resumes her task with vigor. “I will tend these plants for an hour or so, then I will go to the bath house and wash off the dirt. You may ask one of the footmen to watch the courtyard door, if you fear for me.”

  I glance once at the gate in the wall at the end of the garden and wonder if there is any guard posted there even as I chastise myself for such thoughts. If this garden is unsafe, what place is secure?

  Margitha flushes deeply, curtsies, and turns on her heel, saying nothing to Gertrude as she leaves.

  “Now I have offended her, as if she had given me no offense,” Gertrude whispers as much to herself and her plants as to me. “She is determined to guard me, whether or not I require it. I am suspected by my own women.” Her glance in my direction is emphatic. “I will take the Prince out of the wind, my Queen,” I say, knowing it is what she demands of me, and disliking the sense of dismay that runs through me. I make my way back through the garden to the door. As I reach it, I hear someone beyond the wall whistling, and I stand for a moment to listen, wishing that whistles were as readily distinguished as voices. The tune is a French one, and its words tell of a happy encounter between lovers. I am tempted to find a place to watch from, but I dare not keep the Prince outside any longer; since Gertrude wishes me to take young Hamlet inside, I obey her, though the echo of the whistle lingers in my mind and finds its way to my shawm as I play for the Prince while his mother remains at her chosen vocation in the garden.

  MECT

  Hieronymous and Mect are sitting at table, the last of their dinners spread out on platters before them; I have taken a low stool near the hearth. Most of the players have gone off to ready themselves for another performance, this time of The Children of Granada, a tale of twins separated at birth, one raised by Islamites, the other by Christians, who finally are reunited in deadly combat, only to discover their kinship as their life’s-blood mingles on the field of honor.

  “The King gave his approval,” says Hieronymous, a little the worse for the mead he has drunk. “We are to play it in two days.”

  The King has battle on his mind,” says Mect. He provides another tot of mead to the player, and goes on, “Your play will be a welcome diversion and it will serve to remind the Council that war is a hard business.”

  “Good drama, though,” says Hieronymous, his words a little too crisp in his effort to keep them from slurring. “War and murder and all the rest of it make for good plays. Everyone knows that.”

  “So they do,” Mect agrees with relish, and it seems to me that he is more cynical than Oduvit at his worst.

  “How do you think the court will like it?” asks Hieronymous, “Some of them will have to fight, as will their sons and brothers.”

  “They will love it,” Mect predicts confidently, “Because of the valor of the brothers. Men always think that war will bring them glory before they fight.” He nods in my, direction. “Ask Yorick, if you doubt me. I have never gone on campaign, but Yorick here has. He has seen the King at war before.” I am alarmed at Mect talking of war.

  “That was years ago,” I say, wishing their attention otherwhere. “But you know what a fervor there is for battle,” Mect insists, his voice persuasive, and his expression so assiduous that it seems to me his scrutiny is for other reasons than the one he claims. “You see the men drilling on the field, and you hear them talking when we caper for them at supper. They boast of the feats they will accomplish and the honors they will receive. Each of them sees himself crowned with laurel and lavished by royal favor and the attention of beautiful women.” He throws back his head and laughs. “Isn’t that what they think, Yorick?”

  “Some of them, certainly,” I answer, and, knowing that I must enlarge on that or risk more needling from Mect, I add, “Not all of them are so deluded. The men who have fought with Hamlet before are not so ambitious for glory. They have reputations to maintain, and that draws them on. And some seek to defend their homes.”

  Mect nods. “It is thus everywhere.” He nudges Hieronymous wit
h his elbow, “Your players are on their mettle, aren’t they? when they begin in a new place, or start a new play? Isn’t that much the same thing?”

  Hieronymous considers his answer carefully. “The worst we have thrown at us is rotten eggs. Soldiers face greater harm than that.” He drinks more of the mead. “Not many players die because they displease an audience.” “True enough,” says Mect, pretending to drink from his tankard. “But you rarely find a place to stay long. Like an army, you are always on the march.”

  “The King has been good to the troupe,” Hieronymous responds, sounding a little smug as well as drunk. “He has already said we are to remain here while he is away with the army, so that the court does not become too apprehensive. We are tasked with ridiculing rumors of defeat, and performing plays which show courage and valor.” The last word gives him some trouble and he repeats it four times in an effort to say it correctly. “Like us, you are to help them forget the danger to the King,” says Mect, nodding to show how great his understanding is. “The King has told Oduvit and Yorick and me that we are to hold ourselves ready every evening that he is gone. He wishes to banish worry from the court. We are to take our orders from the Queen, and we are to see that everyone is amused. Most especially the Queen herself, so that she will not miss her husband overmuch.”

  “Yes, yes,” says Hieronymous, nodding. “It is fitting. The Queen will know best of any of them. With her husband at the wars, she will want cheering most of all. She will need diversions of all sorts, won’t she? She could keep half a dozen troupes occupied.” His crack of laughter is loud. “Do you want to cheer her?” asks Mect, this innocent question made salacious by the avidity in his eyes.

  “Yes, yes, yes,” says Hieronymous, unaware of Mect’s intent. “Cheerful Queens are grateful as well.”

  “As Claudius cheers her?” asks Mect slyly.

  I get to my feet, facing the two of them with a purpose that puzzles me, for I have long since decided I must not be goaded into another unguarded challenge. “Do not say so, either of you.” “Well,” Mect gloats. “At last I have your attention, Yorick.” He seems so much like Oduvit just now; I don’t want to think why this should be. “You will not speak against the Queen, or Hamlet’s brother, not while I can hear you,” I tell them. “For your own safety if not for the honor of the King.”