Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “You saw him,” I remind him. “You know where he went. He went to the grave.”

  “I saw him lying on the floor. You did not permit me to get near him, so I must take your word that he was dead. It was not the first time I came upon him thus collapsed, nor was it yours.” He pares his fingernails thoughtfully. “You were the one who said he was dead, not I.”

  “You agreed with me,” I remind him, trying to recall more clearly what we said to each other that night.

  “Of course. You were too determined to be persuaded to listen to reason, weren’t you?” He nods toward me. “He has always picked at you, for being advanced to Hamlet as his own. He seeks to deceive you. He may be deceiving you now, and will discredit you when he returns. And you have said before, many times, that Oduvit was taking foolish risks, speaking against courtiers and the Queen. You thought the time would come when he would have to answer for what he said. So you expected to find him dead, as Hedrann and Tollo were found dead.” He gives me a short time to think about it.

  “And Hieronymous was murdered, too,” I remind him, and think that I sound more petulant than certain. I do not want to argue with him, not now while I feel so many doubts.

  “That he was. And no one was more pleased to have the players gone than Oduvit was. He is missing, that is all I know; anything more is only supposition.” Mect steps into the room and looks critically at my face before deliberately changing the subject. “How are you healing? It is nearing the Mid-winter festival, as you no doubt remember. If you cannot perform, I will have to make arrangements for some other… entertainment. Claudius is worried that we will have poor fare to offer, which is not to his liking. The court must show itself in good heart or the Poles will know that we are worried about the outcome of the war. It would be prudent to let him know what you will be able to do.” His smile is quick and insincere.

  “How should the Poles know the temper of this court, pray?” I ask, more to annoy Mect than because I do not know the answer. “There are spies everywhere,” says Mect with the confidence of one who takes pride in his work. “What shall I tell Claudius?”

  “I could perform now if I did not have to caper too much. But I think I will compose some ballads to sing for the New Year, and that ought to satisfy the Regent. He will have my wits, which is what is wanted.” I had no such intentions until the words were out of my mouth, but now that I have announced my intentions, I am well-pleased with them.

  “You will be able to do that in so little time?” asks Mect, making no effort to conceal his disbelief.

  “I will,” I tell him, my confidence growing as I speak. “I will make three ballads.” “And you will perform at supper, as well?” Mect asks with the same doubts as before.

  “Of course.” Of this I am less certain, but I dare not abandon my enterprise now. “I will excuse myself from tumbling, but I will sing instead.”

  Mect bows to me, his false smile returning, and leaves me to myself.

  GERTRUDE

  Young Hamlet claps his hands with pleasure when I present myself to him and the Queen. The Prince is dressed in a fur houpelande, as fine as any that might be worn by grown men. There is even a small dagger through his belt where a sword would be for men, though it has been dulled and blunted, and it is lashed to his clothing so that he cannot draw it. Now that he has passed the age of two, he is regarded as a more promising child; and the court is taking a greater interest in him, for his chances of survival look better than they did when he was born. The Queen has not been unaware of the advantage her son provides her, especially with her husband still away at war, and so she has been devoting herself more openly to young Hamlet’s welfare, taking time to show him affection and distinction usually bestowed on older children. “We were sorry to hear of your misfortune, Sir Yorick; my son has missed your company,” says Gertrude as she rises from where she has been playing with her son. “I have asked that the Guard look for any roughian who may have had cause to injure you, and have ordered they be called to account for their actions.” She manages a look of sympathy, which I suspect is not wholly false. “If it was not Oduvit himself who did the deed.” “It was not. Oduvit…was incapable of moving when I discovered him,” I reply, aware that it is not welcome news that another jester had been murdered. “Then the culprit must be found and made to answer for his crime,” says Gertrude with a gracious nod. “Young Hamlet has been asking for you these last four days. I have told him you would return.” Hamlet has reached my side and is pulling at the tippets on my chaperon. “I want to ride,” he tells me.

  Though my back still aches and the Prince has become heavier than I would like, I set my theorbo aside, reach down and hoist him up, my body protesting as I move. “There,” I say when he has perched on my hump, where he so likes to be. “I am your charger, my Prince.”

  Hamlet laughs merrily, and I feel that all my aches are banished; he is so rarely a happy child that to share his joy brings me a pleasure that ends all suffering. I let myself laugh with him, and I start to make my way around the room, lingering for a time by the fire, for it is cold throughout Elsinor.

  “I am told you are going to offer new songs at Mid-winter,” Gertrude says in her studied way. “Isn’t that quite unusual for you?”

  “I have done it before,” I tell her; it is true enough, for when I first came to the King’s service, I often sang while I learned the other skills I would need as a jester. “Long ago. You would not remember.”

  Hamlet pulls at the horns of my chaperon and urges me to move again. “What will you sing of?” Gertrude persists. I see now where this is leading; she does not want to be embarrassed by anything I might say.

  “The King, most surely, and the Prince, and then of the old Kings of Denmark. It would be fitting for the new Year to recall those who have come before.” I give the answer easily enough, and know that to an extent it is true, for when Hamlet’s first wife was alive, these songs were a favorite with her. I begin to circle the room in a slow skip, to give young Hamlet the sense that he is galloping over the world. “That seems appropriate,” says Gertrude, and looks away toward the bright window where the pale sunlight gleams with the deceptive promise of warmth. “How long will the song be?” “Long enough,” I answer, starting to be winded by my efforts.

  The Prince hoots in pleasure, and drums with his heels. “Yorick is my horse. Good horse, Yorick.”

  “Thank you, my Prince,” I tell him.

  Gertrude must hear my fatigue, for she gestures to me to stop. “Get down, my son,” she says, coming to lift him from me. “It is not wise to tire a willing mount, lest he become less willing.”

  Hamlet sulks as he is put on the floor; his eyes smolder with outrage but he says nothing. His mother brushes his hair back from his forehead. “Laertes is coming for Mid-winter. And his little sister Ophelia. Do you remember her?” There is a slight catch in her voice as she speaks. “Her mother and I agreed that you and Ophelia would marry, if your father made no other arrangements for you.”

  “What about Horatio?” asks Hamlet in that oddly grown-up manner he has been taught to have. “Will he be here?”

  “Of course he will. He is your play-mate.” Gertrude looks over her shoulder at me and gives a slight shrug.

  “You will have friends around you, my Prince,” I say, suspecting that it is Gertrude’s wish to have this done. “You do not often see children of your own age. This way you will have welcome companions.”

  “Yes,” the Queen says at once. “You will have the start of your own court, my child, and you will have to learn how to conduct yourself at court, readying yourself for the time when you are King.” She lowers her eyes and shakes her head, “You will be King one day, my son. Never forget that.” “I will not,” says Hamlet in that grave way children have. “And when I am King, Yorick will…” He has not learned the words to say what I will do. Then his somberness vanishes and he points to my theorbo. “Play me.”

  I bow promptly. “What wou
ld you like me to play?” I ask, dropping onto the floor and reaching for my instrument at the same time. “Tell me the song you want me to sing for you, my Prince.”

  “About me,” says Hamlet, glancing once at his mother to see if this is permissible, “A good song about me.” Gertrude nods her permission and says to me, “If you have some song that will serve his purpose?” So I begin to pluck out the chords of “The Magic Mill”, substituting Hamlet’s name for Ahmlodi’s through the whole tale of intrigue and revenge; all the while the little boy watches, his eyes rapt.

  MID-WINTER

  A courier has come not an hour ago, bearing news that the Poles have agreed to a truce and that the war has ended. Never have I seen Elsinor thrown into such chaos as it is now, for suddenly the Mid-winter festivities are to be linked with a victory celebration, which will be on a far grander scale than anything the court has prepared for, though the day of the celebration is not yet upon us.

  Since the arrival of the courier, I have been on the battlements, wearing my warmest garments against the new snow that is coming down steadily from vast swaths of clouds, looking to the south as if I might be able to watch Hamlet’s army approach as I watched it depart so many months ago. I realize it is folly to do this, and eventually the cold drives me indoors.

  Voss is distraught, tearing about the kitchens, issuing orders for more food and better preparations from all of his staff; suddenly confronted with the demands of so fine an occasion, he has rallied himself by bullying his underlings, commanding them to work at many, often contradictory, things at once. His face is red with effort and determination, and his cooks jump at the sound of his voice as he continues to bellow instructions. The understewards have been drawn into the fray, and they receive his brusque orders with feigned hauteur.

  I pause to watch all this consternation as I make my way toward my chamber, thinking as I go that I will have to make another song for the occasion, and finding no words whatever coming to mind.

  The kitchen cat greets me from her place on my clothes. She yawns hugely, showing her teeth and her curling pink tongue, then settles down again.

  “Hamlet is coming back,” I tell her as I sit down.

  She drops the end of her plumey tail over her nose, showing how little the return of the King means to her; she pretends to fall asleep. “He and the army will be here within the month; that’s what the dispatch said.” I rub my face with my hands, wincing a little at the remaining twinges at my jaw. “They are going to make the Mid-winter festivities a victory celebration.” I repeat these things as if they are in a foreign language, one I barely comprehend. “Claudius sent a courier to Fortinbras to ask for envoys to attend the festival. There is not enough time for that, but they will be here soon enough, and then we will have banquets and hunts and there will be dancing and all the entertainments the Queen likes. Though she will have to give up her favorite entertainment when Hamlet returns.” Just speaking of it makes me fatigued; the events have not yet occurred and already I am weary of them; the thought of what I know of Gertrude and Claudius seems a massive burden. “And what will I tell the King?” This last question comes unbidden, and I hear it in dismay.

  The kitchen cat languidly rises from her resting place and comes across the end of the bed to me, making a soft mewing sound as she settles down again in the deep fold of my badger-lined surcote.

  “If I say anything, I compromise the Queen,” I continue on, unable to keep myself from weighing these matters. “If I do not speak, I betray the King. I know the King told me I was to tell him everything, but he also said that first and foremost I had to preserve the Prince. But any doubt of the Queen would compromise the Prince, and Hamlet would not want that to happen.” I hate the starkness of the problem. With a finicky shifting of paws, the kitchen cat shifts nearer to my side, a steady, contented purr coming from her in accompaniment to my complaint.

  “What am I to do?” I ask, as much of the darkness as of myself or the Male Goddess. “What am I to do?”

  For an answer, the cat continues to purr.

  * * *

  Gertrude wears the Mid-winter Crown and holds her son in her arms. Both of them are dressed in rare Venetian velvet the color of the summer sea—a deep, luminous blue with shadows of green and grey in the depths of it. Gertrude’s cotehardie is a dark, clear blue like a midnight sky, edged in silver, its narrow planchette fretted with beadwork, the enormous trumpet skirts spangled with small silver buttons; the Prince’s ruff is of silver lace. The light from the candles casts its glow on them so that they resemble the great statue in the Cathedral.

  The consort of instruments in the musicians’ gallery breaks into the familiar strains of “The Saga of the Grail Knights”, another ploy to underscore the presentation of the Queen as more than Gertrude of Lorraine.

  “No doubt Claudius decided on their clothes as well as the music,” whispers Mect to me as we watch the court rise to honor the Queen and the Prince. “It has his touch.”

  On his mother’s shoulder, Prince Hamlet yawns and peers up at the candles in her crown, his face uncertain. “Won’t some of them think it sacrilege?” I cannot help but worry the impression is as likely to offend as it is to enthrall. “The Bishop will certainly not like the impiety of this presentation.” “If anyone does, they will keep silent about it. You can see how the others are taken with the sight.” He smiles tightly.

  “What would the Emperor say about this display?” I inquire, my voice low. “The Emperor would not let anyone know his reaction, not at this event. It wouldn’t be fitting. Perhaps years later, Claudius would have a private audience with Ludwig and would learn what impact this bit of theatricality had upon him.” He raises his voice a little as the music crescendos. “Not that the Emperor would concern himself with the festivities of Denmark.” “Then why did he send you here?” I expect no answer, nor do I get one.

  Given the shortness of preparation time, Voss has outdone himself and made the name Elsinor odious to all the farmers and peasants who live within a day’s ride of the castle. There is a subtiltie of chopped meats—mostly pork and beef—mixed with saffron and cooked in the shape of a man on a throne, made golden by a coating of eggyolks. Around this central figure are five poached fish, each as long as a woman is tall, garnished with pickles, shredded cabbage, and hard-boiled eggs. There are heaps of new cheeses baked in crusts with minced onions and dill, and aged cheeses softened with beer. Five large goats stuffed with brine-olives and rosemary steam beside a dozen geese stuffed with oysters and shrimp, all covered in soured cream and powdered ginger. Roasted herons glazed with honey and filled with dried apples are stacked on a brass platter. Collops of lamb float in a gravy of wine and mushrooms with pepper. Venison ribs are served broiled with mead and bay leaves. Tubs of new butter wait surrounded by wheat-and-oat loaves still warm from the ovens. And there are small meringues topped with candied flowers, as well as a vast array of honied pastries filled with custard for the finish of the meal. The scents and odors rising from the feast are enough to make a man drunk.

  “What will be left for the King when he returns, if the court dines like this tonight?” asks Mect as he follows me to the table.

  “The farmers will be angry,” I agree, thinking of the relentless demand for provender that the return will occasion, not only for the celebration but for the men of the army, who will surely deserve a grand welcome. All of which the farmers and peasants and fishermen will be expected to supply.

  Most of the courtiers are warmly dressed, for the west and east doors are open, to let the Old Year out and the new Year in; most noticeable is Polonius, very grave and grand in a slate-colored huque lined in marten-fur, and accented with grey sleeves of fine Antioch silk, and a neat, standing ruff of impeccable white. And then Claudius arrives, glorious as a sunrise in rose-colored damask, square sleeves trailing on the floor and lined with burnished gold samite. His ruff is gold and frames his face like a halo which has slipped just far enough to be a noose. His sh
oes are long-toed and lavishly embroidered. He greets Gertrude with a bow, the sun paying homage to the moon. Young Hamlet begins to cry in a steady, determined way that reveals his exhaustion and surfeit of excitement. “What will the King think when he hears of this?” Mect says quietly, savoring the possible scandal. “Never has he shown so much deference to his Queen.”

  “It is not his way,” I answer, feeling distracted by the opulence around me. I see a number of Counsellors gather together near the end of the feast table, a few of them shaking their heads.

  “No. He would let those who dine below the salt be part of this celebration, but Claudius will not. He courts the court, not the people, which he may yet come to rue.” Mect puts his hands together as if in brief prayer. “And what do we say to them tonight?”

  “I will mock the misfortunes of the year that is leaving, as I always do,” I answer, as much to hear myself speak as to answer Mect. “Ah, yes. They expect that of you, don’t they?” He summons up his chuckle once again. “Too bad it is snowing so hard. We will have all the court here at the castle until the roads are passable.” “They would remain until Hamlet’s return, in any case,” I remind him.

  “But it will be harder to feed them with the castle cut off by drifts,” says Mect with a philosophical shrug. “I suppose it will be managed somehow.” “It had better be,” I say, thinking of Voss.

  Mect and I wait while the guests are seated, then we start to our places for entertaining. I am about to begin when Mect says, “You have not attended many meetings of the Council of late.”

  I am taken aback by this casual observation. It worries me that he is paying so much attention to my actions, for why should he concern himself with my doings? “No,” I say at last. “I have been occupied with entertaining the Prince.” “Ah,” says Mect, and winks. Then he turns and begins to make his way down the table, making sharp comments as he goes, leaving me standing in bewilderment and an increasing sense of menace.