The anger disguises his fear enough to deceive most, but not me. I do my best to ignore his remarks and their implications.
“Ah, yes, you think you will not deign to respond to my observations, Yorick. But I can see you do not take my truths kindly. What a pity. Just at present I am in charity with you. I could help you keep out of harm’s way, if you would only listen to me now. Later I might not be so inclined to aid you.” He puts his hands together and looks at me over the steeple of his fingers, “Is it very difficult, keeping the confidence of the Queen? Or does she reward you for your fidelity?”
I do what I can to look unmoved, but I am not entirely successful.
“Do you run your hands up her soft thighs? You may be certain that Claudius does.” Oduvit rocks back on his heels. “If you think that her license goes unnoticed because of that travesty of a tourney, you are much mistaken.”
Against my own better judgment, I round on Oduvit. I have no wish to wrangle with him, but I cannot let his charge go unanswered. “You may think what you want of the Queen, but for now you will keep your thoughts to yourself. Unless you want to sow dissention at court so that scandal-mongers will do what the Poles are attempting; destroy Denmark.”
“Surely a Queen’s lapses are not so damning as all that,” says Oduvit, cocking his head to the side; I surprise myself as I realize I would rather he were drunk than so venomous in his wit. “By the way, where is Mect tonight? Dancing attendance on those who curry favor with the Emperor.”
“Mect is ill,” I tell him, although I am sure he is aware of this. “He has taken the flux.” It is an uncomfortable reminder of the deaths of Tollo and Hedrann, and I cannot entirely shut out their memories.
“How sad,” says Oduvit in a tone that implies the opposite. “Then we must compensate for his absence.”
Before I can challenge what he means by that, a page steps through the main door and bows to us. “You are expected,” he announces with all the youthful dignity he can muster. “I thank you, good page,” I tell him. “Give us a private moment and we are then at your disposal.”
The lad—it is Osrick—hesitates, not knowing what is expected of him. I nod toward the door and say, “It will take but an instant. There is something unsettled between us.” Oduvit laughs aloud. “And a moment will not change it.” He shoves his way past me and presents himself to the page with a ribald flourish. “I’ll wager they long for you in the bath house,” he says as he brushes against the youngster, sniggering as the boy flushes. “So young and all untried. The innocence leaves them so fast. Which of the men please you the most, stripling?”
“Don’t bother him,” I tell Oduvit as I resign myself to following him, our animosity nearly tangible.
The page walks quickly, leading us between the two lower tables to the foot of the high table, where Gertrude sits with Claudius on one side of her, Polonius on the other. All three of us bow, the page crimson with embarrassment as Oduvit runs his hand along the back of his leg, then turns to wink at me. I cannot entirely mask the disgust I feel at being made to seem part of his little conspiracy. There is a fanfare as the first dishes are brought, and that distracts the court from Oduvit and me. I am happy to discover that the page has made good his escape before Oduvit can dream up a greater humiliation to heap on the young man.
HIERONYMOUS
The Bishop of Liege is being played again tonight. This is the third time the Queen has ordered Hieronymous’ men to perform it for her, and they are settling into their roles with confidence born of approval. She has said that she likes the way in which the ambitious hero brings about his own downfall through his designs for his own advancement. She says it instructs in the error of pride, and how it can ruin even the best of men. Whether or not it is because of this excellent moral lesson, the rest of the court has taken the play to their bosoms and lavished praise upon it, the more to ensure the good opinion of the Queen than to approve the drama.
Hieronymous is looking worn out as he faces his mirror and applies his paints. His part in this work is not large, but it is crucial to the finale of the play. He is the Inquisitor who condemns the ambitious priest to the flames; he has two thundering speeches that make the hairs on your neck tingle. I have listened in awe to the denunciations, and been transfixed by the power of the man. At the moment there is little of the righteousness and umbrage that mark the role; instead he is slumped in his chair and his hand trembles as he holds his brush.
“How do your players like the success of this work?” I ask him as I draw up a stool.
“They like it well enough,” says Hieronymous. “Great futtering saints, I wish I felt stronger.”
“What is the matter?” I ask, sensing his worry in his words. “I don’t know. Something in my gut.” His smile is ghastly as a skull. “If it were bad meat, all the rest would have it, too.” He presses his hand to his stomach, going pale around the mouth as he does. “It came on suddenly, about an hour ago, not long after our meal.” He reaches for a rag to dab the sweat from his forehead. “Never mind. I’ve played with a fever and I’ve played when my throat felt like a furnace. And I’ve played when there were cannon at the gates. I will play now, as well, and none will know I am not quite myself.” He clears his throat experimentally. “It is easier with sore guts than with a cough. I can be glad of that.”
“Should I summon the physician?” I ask, not liking what I see. “After the play, if I have not improved,” he says with a dismissing wave of his unsteady hand. “As you wish,” I tell him. I sit and watch him apply his paints, and notice that the work is not as careful as usual, that his eye is not as sharp nor his hand as sure. As he turns away from his mirror, I make one last effort. “Let me find someone to help you, Hieronymous. You do not seem—”
“I will be fine,” he says defiantly, and lurches to his feet. “All players know how to put their ills aside for their roles.”
“But—” I protest, only to be silenced by a savage swipe of his hand. “I am all right,” he insists, then groans and doubles over, his arms crossed tightly over his belly.
At once I am at his side, trying to support him, and reeling with him as he staggers, spews vomit, then totters. I get away from his grip just as he falls, collapsing like a puppet with cut strings. He spasms as if taken with a fit, and then there is a sound in his throat that heralds the end. His eyes are fixed and his jaw is slack; it is over. “Guilaume!” I call out, then yell for Pars and Streiter as well. I bend over Hieronymous, though I know it is useless to search for life in him.
Pars stumbles through the curtain, his painted face unable to conceal the shock of finding Hieronymous’ corpse twitching on the floor. He cries out, and heedless of the ruin of his face, he presses his hands to his eyes as he starts to weep. Streiter is only a step behind him; he is very light on his feet for so large a man, and he is able to move aside not only from the body but from Pars as well, who has dropped to his knees beside Hieronymous.
At almost the same moment, Guilaume appears. He looks at the other two players in bewilderment, and then, reluctantly, he stares downward. Then he wails in despair. “How?”
“I don’t know,” I answer, trying to keep my voice level. “We were talking. I told him I thought he did not look well. He complained of a pain in his guts, and then…he was taken with a seizure and—”
“Send for a priest,” cries Pars, as he attempts to take the body in his arms. “I’ll go,” says Streiter, grateful for an excuse to leave this place of death.
Guilaume continues to gaze at Hieronymous, “He was well this afternoon,” he muses aloud.
“What happened?” Pars demands, already in tears. “He…died,” I say, and I recall how Tollo and Hedrann died.
“So suddenly,” says Guilaume, more to himself than to me. “It came on him very fast.” He glances down at me. “I will have to tell the others.” He has mastered his feelings, whatever they may be, “Will you tell the Queen that we cannot play tonight?” I nod twice. “If you wo
uld rather not do it,”
“I would rather not,” he confirms.
“Then I will speak to Gertrude for you,” I promise him. “And I will send someone to look after the body.”
“No,” says Guilaume quietly. “We will do it.”
I bow, and back away from them, knowing that no matter how my friendship with Hieronymous might be viewed, I am now an intruder; the troupe will close in on itself until the loss of Hieronymous is mourned. As I make my way toward the Queen’s quarters, I cannot banish the dread of poison that has come over me. But why should Hieronymous be poisoned? And by whom? These answerless questions pursue me relentlessly as I climb to the next floor, and follow me down the hall as ominously as a flock of ravens.
* * *
By midnight the kitchen cat has still not returned from her hunting, and I am worried for her. I have made a place for her next to my single pillow, and I try to doze, but any rest eludes me as I think again of Hieronymous’ death the night before. Why should anyone kill a player? For the same reason a man might kill a jester? These are questions that have plagued me, and I long to talk with the kitchen cat about it, for she alone is safe counsel for me now.
I feel under the mattress for the little statue of the Male Goddess, and I ask Him-in-Her to extend protection to the kitchen cat and to me. I feel exposed and vulnerable, and I cannot tell from which direction danger may come. So I fret and toss on my bed, telling myself I will sleep as soon as the cat arrives. It is not a time I want to be by myself, but I dare not bring anyone nearer to me for fear of placing them in danger. Perhaps the Male Goddess will be inclined to sharpen my eyes and my wits so that I will be able to protect myself. I know it is necessary for me to be on guard, as surely as the kitchen cat guards her kittens. Though that has not saved them from Voss; when he has found her kittens, he drowns them.
It is some hours later that she finally arrives, proudly bearing a rat in her jaws which she proceeds to eat at the end of the bed, leaving the tail and feet there when she is through. Later she vomits a wad of bones and hair, meticulously covering this with one of my leggings before settling herself on the pillow.
* * *
“I wish the players were still here,” Mect complains eight days after Hieronymous‘ death; they have departed under the dual leadership of Guilaume and Streiter some three days since, and the brunt of entertaining the court has fallen to Oduvit, Mect and me.
“I wish they were, as well,” I tell him. “I wish Hieronymous had not been killed.” Had the players asked for a physician, all our questions could be answered; but the players had refused.…
“You cannot be certain of that,” Mect warns me. We are sitting in the courtyard, in the last glow of the summer evening. The air is ripe with the first odors of harvest, and the sky is alive with a deep burnished glow.
“You were not there. He died as Hedrann did, of a pain in the guts. There was a look about him, and I can only think it was poison.” I do not like speaking the word aloud, especially to Mect, who might have reasons of his own to doubt me.
“It could also have been a mortification. The guts are prone to mortification, at least the court physician says so. You have seen men die of that, and swiftly. Players may be taken with mortification as well as any other.” Mect drains his tankard of beer and shakes his head sagaciously. “You recall Horatio’s nephew was taken by such a mortification, three years ago.”
“He did not die as Hieronymous did,” I remind him, “His pain came on gradually, and he suffered from a raging fever before he died.”
“So this came more suddenly,” Mect agrees. “Who is to say that Hieronymous, being older than Horatio’s nephew, did not succumb more quickly, since he did not have a young man’s strength.” He fills his tankard again from the pitcher of beer Voss has provided for us from the new barrel.
The beer tastes of grass and yeast together, and I let a little dribble onto the earth for the Male Goddess before I drink more of it. Truth to tell, I have slight interest in the beer; I am morose enough without it. “At least the Queen paid them generously,” I mutter.
“As the King would have done, had he been here,” says Mect. He glances around the courtyard. “Where is Oduvit?”
‘”I do not know,” I answer, wanting to add that neither do I care. I set my tankard aside and rub my face, the sprouting beard prickling under my fingers.
“How sullen you have been since Hieronymous died,” says Mect. “Best to sweat it out of you, before you corrupt your constitution with ill humors. You could develop a mortification of your own.” I am not pleased with this good advice, but I nod to show I have heard him. “We do not have to perform tonight,” I observe.
“No; the jugglers have been given the evening.” Mect shakes his head. “I have never seen such a band as theirs,” he goes on. “Where they learned their skills, I cannot fathom.”
“They are Italians,” I remind him. “Juggling is much-praised in Italy, and so are other such skills. They perform masques of great beauty.” I recall how my father spoke of the fanciful capers he saw performed in Italy during his travels. “They do great work with puppets, as well.”
“As fine as English mummers,” scoffs Mect.
“English mummers are well enough,” I say to him. “Some are skilled.”
Mect laughs once. “Then your brains are addled, Sir Yorick, if you think so.”
There is no point in this dispute. I get to my feet slowly, “I think you are right; I will go to the bath-house and sweat. And have the barber shave me, as well,” I add. It is the prudent thing to do, so that I will carry no contagion to the Prince. It would be unforgivable of me to harm young Hamlet in any way. “And rest, for tomorrow the Queen expects her jesters to keep the court laughing until the lamps gutter.” He intends to speak flippantly, but there is resigned distress behind his quip, and I find a surge of fellow-feeling warming my veins.
“I will be better then,” I assure him. “You will not have to rely on Oduvit alone,”
“Thank God fasting,” says Mect with something very like devout piety.
AUTUMN
Harvest is everywhere around us. In the fields beyond Elsinor, the peasants have begun haying, stacking up the bounty of the fields against the lean months of winter. The hay is sweet-smelling, and pervasive; it reaches even to the Queen’s apartments on this late afternoon in September where Gertrude has summoned her ladies. I have been playing with the Prince, and so am permitted to stay.
“It is very boring with the players gone,” Gertrude complains at once as Ricardis comes heavily through the door, carrying her squirming son in an uneven embrace.
“That is unfortunate,” says Ricardis, sounding more tired than anything else. Margitha and Hildegarde are already here and have taken up their needles.
“Something must be done. Mect and Oduvit and Yorick cannot keep on as they have. They are all running out of new amusements for us,” Gertrude makes an impatient gesture. “It is not their fault that they can do little, since court life is dull at present.”
“Except for gossip,” says Ricardis, her mouth becoming a hard line.
“Yes; gossip thrives when there is nothing else to occupy the senses. Therefore we must have something else. The courtiers do not like to dance for hours and hours. Most of those who like dancing are fit enough for battle and are away at war. We have no minstrels here, though I have hoped we might.” Gertrude is speaking quickly, with an urgency that seems greater than the circumstances demand. “What are we to do to fill the hours?”
“The Bishop would be pleased to sing Mass more often,” says Hildegarde softly.
“Ah!” Gertrude exclaims. “No doubt he would, to garner more influence with the court than he has now. But the King does not want to barter power with the Church, and so we will not do that.”
Margitha lifts one shoulder. “Are there not teachers who could instruct the court? Have we not some travelers to distant lands who could describe the adventures they have p
assed in foreign places?” She watches Gertrude as the Queen stares out the window. “You can send someone to the market to look for foreigners.” “If we were not at war, that would be a fine notion,” says Gertrude, less hastily than before. “But since we must guard against spies, it might be best if we do not bring in strangers.”
The three women nod.
Young Hamlet catches sight of Laertes and shrieks at him. The older child looks around, ready for the fray.
“Put that child into his bed,” Gertrude says sharply to me. “It is time he napped, in any case.”
I bow to her, and carry Hamlet into the next room where his cradle waits. Then I take up my place beside him, and wait in the gathering darkness, listening to the murmur of women’s voices, but can distinguish no words, from the chamber beyond.
* * *
“So there are some fellows with trained dogs coming,” says Mect as he and I leave the bath-house a few nights later. It is chilly at night now, and the first ghosts of breath hang in the air before our faces.
“The Queen will be pleased,” I say to him.
“The Queen is desperate,” says Mect bluntly, “She is hearing more talk about her and Claudius, which redounds to neither’s credit. She intends to distract the court with this display.” He stops on the path, his sharp features cut by the spill of light from the kitchen door. “It is a guilty woman’s precaution.” “Don’t say that,” I tell him. “It is unpardonable to question the Queen’s loyalty.”
Mect is sanguine. “Then all the court has turned traitor.”
“That may be,” I answer. “But we cannot take it as an excuse to forget our oaths to the King.”
“My oath is to another,” Mect reminds me gently, “And the Emperor will not like to learn that the Queen’s fealty is in question.” “Must you report it?” I feel the evening cold leach away the warmth of the bath. “Certainly I must,” he answers. “As you must warn Hamlet of what is being said.” He looks cynically amused. “You have told him the rumors, haven’t you?”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 28