Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  * * *

  Count Axel is among those arriving from the court of Fortinbras, along with Count Holberg and a goodly company of nobles, a few of their ladies, and their armed escorts. A fortunate shift has occurred in the weather, from snow-driven storms to steady rain; they have made very good time along the wood-shored roads and have arrived here in twelve days from their setting out. They have brought a dozen barrels of salt beef, ten barrels of chickens drowned and preserved in wine, fifty smoked hams, twice that number of slabs of bacon, and a hundred-weight of smoked salmon as the Norwegian contribution to the celebration of the war’s end. The court gathers to welcome the Norwegians; the stables are filled with horses and the whole castle is alive with guests, their servants and escorts. The stewards of Elsinor have their hands full finding accommodations for all of them.

  With Count Axel comes Raissa, heavy with child, and stiff with pride. She makes her curtsy to Gertrude as if they were strangers, following the most correct form, and answering the Queen’s questions as if she were a student in class. “It would be a welcome honor to pass an hour with you, good Queen Gertrude,” she says formally in answer to an invitation. “After so long a time, it is flattering to receive such an invitation. On behalf of my husband, I accept your kindness and will do myself the pleasure of waiting on you in your apartments tomorrow at mid-afternoon, if that is to your satisfaction.’”

  Puzzled and saddened, Gertrude nods and watches her old friend withdraw. Then she straightens herself on her throne and puts her thoughts to meeting the rest of the Norwegians.

  * * *

  Laertes has taken a marked dislike to young Horatio; the two little boys sit at opposite ends of the Queen’s apartments, leaving Hamlet in the middle with Hildegarde and the baby Ophelia; the two of them do not know how to play together, and just now, young Ophelia is sniffling back the end of tears from the pranks young Hamlet has played on her. I have pulled up my stool and now sit with my theorbo across my lap, strumming a few idle chords while the women tend the children.

  Margitha has gone to get hot cider, so that only Gertrude remains with Hildegarde and me to watch the children.

  “It has been a long time,” says the Queen when Hildegarde is silent. “Yes,” she answers, and stares down at the fragile little girl who had cost Ricardis her life. “To me it seems as if years have gone by. Polonius is not often with us, and his mother does not know anything of the great world. I have heard so little about the court.”

  “It is the Danish court,” says Gertrude, trying to break through Hildegarde’s painful reserve. “You know what the Danish court is.”

  “I remember,” says Hildegarde. She looks at young Hamlet, and tries to find the right thing to say. “I don’t know if I would have recognized him. He is getting to be so big. So strong, and speaking so well. How proud you must be. He’s a very promising child now, isn’t he?”

  Now Gertrude smiles with satisfaction. “That he is. And he is a clever boy, as well; he may need that cleverness in time to come.” She reaches out and pulls her son into her arms so suddenly that he yells in protest. “You see, he is like all boys, wanting to be held only when it is his idea. Be still my little love, and let your mother hold you.” She keeps her grip on him until he stops squirming. “That’s better, more like a Prince,” she says to him, kissing his brow. “Mama,” he protests, trying again to break free.

  “All right, but you must conduct yourself properly,” says Gertrude, releasing him. She turns back to Hildegarde. “There are times I wish I did not have to let him go, ever. Though I will have to, and sooner than I would like. Now that the King is coming back, he will want to supervise his son’s time.”

  Hildegarde looks embarrassed to hear this confidence. “You will be consulted, surely.”

  “I hope I will,” says Gertrude wistfully.

  “What else would the King do, having been at war for so long? He will be as much a stranger to his son as he will be to most of the Norwegians,” says Hildegarde, with the same, curious distance in her manner. “You must speak to him, my Queen, if you fear you will not like what the King requires of his Prince.”

  “Yes,” says Gertrude, capitulating, “You are right.” An uncomfortable silence falls between the women, and then young Hamlet romps up to me and asks me to sing “The Magic Mill”, meaning the version of it I have done for him substituting his name for the hero’s.

  Obediently I start to finger the tune on the frets, and start the tale of the young Danish Prince deprived of his kingdom and needing the magic mill to reclaim it. The mill has been stolen by an evil sorcerer who has carried it far away, and the Prince must go very far and brave many perils to recover the mill When that is done, he returns to Denmark nearly a stranger, where he faces and defeats an ambitious usurper in order to reign as the rightful King. Hamlet follows along, singing the parts he can remember with me, humming through the rest. “That’s all stuff,” says Laertes when I finish.

  “It is not,” Hamlet objects, rounding on the older boy, ready to defend his favorite tale.

  Hildegarde intervenes, carrying Laertes off to the next room; by the time she returns, Margitha is back with the hot cider, and everyone settles in for a pleasant afternoon. The day fades quickly into close evening; Raissa never comes.

  HAMLET

  Advance guards from the army have been arriving at Elsinor for the last two days, all of them complaining of rain and mud on the road which is slowing the King’s return. Spring is a long way off, though the winter has not been a severe one, and around Elsinor the farmers and peasants are starting to complain of the trouble they are having feeding the court as well as their families. Claudius orders the Guard to go farther afield to bring food, and the grumbling diminishes while the court contents itself with austere meals and simple fare, all in anticipation of the great celebration to come when the King returns. The preparations at the castle continue, but in bursts of activity rather than a steady stream of it, for such uncertainties make planning difficult for all of us. The men of Fortinbras join in the hunting, and strive to be pleased with the circumstances, but they cannot conceal how they chafe at the bit, waiting for Hamlet to come.

  I spend as much time as I am able with the Prince. It pleases the Queen to have me do this, and I persuade myself that I am more likely to protect young Hamlet near him than keeping my distance. The other children do not always join us when I visit the Prince, for the Queen has ordered that her son must have certain hours when he keeps to himself; when he is King, he will have to be able to do this, and he will not know how unless he has acquired the skill in youth. The Prince has now learned three songs, and often sings them himself all the way through, his lisping, baby’s voice making the heroic words sound odd. He is most fond of “The Magic Mill,” thinking it is about him when his imagination soars. The second one he likes, to my surprise, is “The Raven’s Song,” and he often repeats the refrain: “never will I forget you, though wolves should eat my bones”. The third is “The Faithless Knight,” about a hero who brings himself to grief by seducing and betraying a married lady. I have often noticed that children have the most blood-thirsty delights, relishing revolting tales of disaster and mayhem that dismay their elders. And the better-behaved the child, the more blood-curdling the tales they love. This, I suppose, must be one such, for the Prince is not a child who shows any other indication of ferocity; if anything, he is too circumspect for a youngster. Or so I tell myself as I do what I can to entertain the nursery party.

  It is a very blustery morning, with great, dark clouds massing overhead, and Hamlet has demanded “The Raven’s Song” four times in succession. I have done my best to comply, for it is that or give the Prince rides on my aching shoulder. Young Horatio has joined us, his somber eyes on the dancing fire as I sing the last of the tragic tale.

  “They say ravens are not of this world,” Horatio murmurs when I at last set my theorbo aside. “They say they are the souls of the dead who die unavenged.” He looks about i
n satisfaction, as if he anticipated some vindication of his pronouncement at once.

  “Yes, it says so. It’s in the song,” says Hamlet, and sings the refrain again, then looks directly at me and sings the refrain again; “Never will I forget you, though wolves should eat my bones”.

  I look directly at the Prince and say “Thank you,” for I sense he has made a pact with me, young as he is, and he will abide by it as long as he lives.

  Then the door bursts open and Osrick, the page, hurries into the room, announcing in a breathless voice that a messenger has arrived from the King. “Not more than a minute since,” he asserts, although this is obviously an exaggeration.

  “From my father? What does he say? When is he coming? When will he be here?” The questions tumble out of young Hamlet, who has been giddy with excitement at the thought of seeing the King at last.

  “His messenger says that he is near, very near. He will arrive the day after tomorrow,” exclaims the young page, his eyes shining. “He will be here before sunset, with his officers to escort him.”

  Young Hamlet breaks into enthusiastic screams and races toward the hall, his little legs working as hard as they can to keep him moving and upright.

  I look across to Horatio, and wonder what he is thinking behind those smokey eyes.

  LOVERS

  Gertrude and Claudius stare at each other in dismay, their passion still upon them as they lie under the fur coverlets of the narrow servant’s bed. I watch them, trying not to notice how their hands shape one another’s flesh. “Day after tomorrow?” Claudius repeats. “You’re certain of that.” “The page departed not a quarter of an hour ago, and his word came directly from the courier; I heard them talking in the ante-room to the Council Chamber.” (Though it smacked of poor manners, I had to be the one to tell them; and I had to do it at once.) “They will shortly make it official, and inform you properly. Someone will be dispatched from the Council, my Queen, and you must be prepared to receive him. The courier is with the Council now, and he will not need much more time to complete his report.” I try not to address Claudius at all, but I cannot entirely avoid it, for well he knows his absence will be noticed.

  “Who would have thought he could come in February?” asks Claudius, his vexation showing briefly as his fine brow lowers, then clears. “Yes,” Gertrude says distantly, her mind now on other things. “Thank you for this…alert, Yorick.”

  “It is for the Prince, my Queen,” I remind her. “I have sworn to protect him, and that means guarding you as well, for what comes to you touches him,” I bow slightly to her, and back toward the door. “They will come to your apartments directly. It would be best if they find you there.” Gertrude tosses her head to show her lack of care, but she is already moving to rise, shrugging off Claudius’ hands and stepping into the chill of the little chamber near the entrance to her garden.

  “Not yet,” Claudius protests, and for the first time I think that there is some honest passion for Gertrude in him.

  She draws her cotehardie around her. “I must. You know that I must.”

  He meets her direct gaze and nods. “Yes. And I will have to give you up to Hamlet once he returns.” The familiar petulance is back in his voice. “Still, you are right, dear love. Go on. The Council must not be allowed to question your loyalty now, of all times.”

  Gertrude smiles at him, her face radiant in a way I have never before seen. Then she hurries to the door and rushes down the little corridor to the stairs leading up to her own apartments. I follow after her as quickly as I can, wanting to call no attention to myself, but having no desire to remain with Claudius, where I would no doubt have to listen to him justify what he has done with the Queen; it is nothing I want to hear, not now or ever. Finally Gertrude slows her rapid ascent to permit me to catch up with her, and says to me over her shoulder, “I must know. For the sake of my son, if for no other reason, what … After all that has happened here … What will you say to the King when he returns?”

  “Nothing that could harm the Prince, on my oath; I have sworn to protect young Hamlet, and I will do so, you may put your faith in my vow,” I answer at once, knowing what must be troubling her. “Then how will you face the King?” She asks the question that most vexes me.

  I give her the answer I have settled on for my own peace of mind. “My first duty is to the Prince, as the King himself requires. Therefore I must not do or say anything that would be to his discredit.”

  “And if there are rumors, what will you say?” she demands as she reaches the top of the stairs.

  ‘”I will say there are always rumors. Hamlet knows this. He heard the whispers about Claudius and you before he went to war. And with Claudius left as Regent, it would be surprising if there were no rumors, given what a place the court is.” I have already thought this out and can answer her with all the swiftness she desires. “So there are,” she responds, satisfied. “I will trust you, Sir Yorick.”

  “It is the Prince who may trust me,” I say, and wonder when the words are out, if it is wise to admit so much to these two.

  RETURN

  Flags and pennons hang like neglected laundry in the steady rain. The musicians huddle in the shelter of a narrow awning, shivering as they prepare to welcome the King into Elsinor once again. Inside the main entrance to the castle, the court has been assembled for the last hour and more, all in their grandest ensembles, and are now trying not to be bored with waiting. The pages and understewards are massed at the rear of the Great Hall, their livery fresh and neat; they whisper among themselves, making a point of saying that they know the King will be here in the next hour.

  Gertrude is on her throne, her cotehardie emblazoned with the arms of Denmark; young Hamlet in his cradle beside her, Margitha tending to the child as he begins to fret, plucking at his fine clothing in steady determination to be rid of it.

  Mect and I stand on either side of the entrance to the castle, ready to fling the door wide as soon as Hamlet is once again in the courtyard. My shoulder is aching from the two long rides I gave young Hamlet this morning, and from the steady, penetrating damp. “Do you think he will arrive before noon?” asks Mect quietly after a long sigh.

  “He should,” I answer. “The courier said he would begin his march with only his Captains at dawn, and that would mean he would be here—”

  “An hour ago,” says Mect. “True enough. There could be trouble on the road.”

  “Or celebrations,” I remind him.

  “Naturally,” says Mect so drily that I would like to throttle him.

  A skirmish at the main gates attracts our attention: it turns out only to be two warders disagreeing over a wager they had made.

  “This is going to make the evening difficult,” says Mect a short while later. “After all this waiting, they will be testy, and the King will have to allow the feasting to run long into the night. It will be closer to dawn than sunset when we see our beds again.”

  “True enough,” I answer, having long since realized that this will be a grueling night for us jesters and the musicians as well.

  Mect fiddles with the knobs on his jester’s sceptre, his face set in disapproving lines, and for an instant I think I can see in him what it was the Emperor saw when he made Mect his man. Finally he sighs and stares at the gentle, relentless rain. “I would not like to have to travel in that.” “Nor would I,” I agree, knowing what a ferocious mess an army can make of a good road in the best of times. “If it were snow, at least the ground would be frozen.”

  “Harder on the horses, though,” says Mect.

  “Yes,” I say, and again we fall silent.

  Behind us, young Laertes has broken away from Hildegarde and is running around the Great Hall, screaming glad release of frustration, his arms windmilling to keep him upright and moving. He throws back his head and hoots his defiance at Hildegarde and Polonius, who are converging on him, with a few of the pages jockeying for guard positions to block any escape he may try to make. Young Hamlet
cries out, his little fists reaching for Margitha’s hair, the better to pull himself to his feet. He is no longer content to lie back patiently while the court around him grows steadily more restless. “I want up,” he says to Margitha.

  Gertrude leans down, smiling. “When your father gets here,” she promises. “Then you will stand up to do him honor.” “You said that before.” It is an accusation; there is no trace of concession in his manner. “He is coming. He will be here shortly,” says the Queen, some of her composure deserting her. “How soon?” asks young Hamlet. “Quite soon,” she answers evasively, and looks toward the door as if she expects the King to appear there by magic.

  The Prince sits up, his eyes bright. “I will watch, too.” “Fine,” says Gertrude, looking to Margitha for her support.

  There is another flurry of activity outside, this time on the battlements, and a shout goes up from the Guards posted to watch.

  Inside the Great Hall, the courtiers are on the alert, their faces bright with the assurance that the King is arriving. Their covert glances at their fellows do little to conceal the air of rivalry that marks this occasion. They smooth their clothes and rub their faces as if to fix them with their best expressions, preparing to make the best of the festivities.

  Even Mect adjusts his garments, remarking as he does that we stand a great chance of being overlooked in all this finery, so we had best make as good an appearance as possible. I take his warning to heart and go to work on my own clothes, making sure that my chaperon is hanging correctly over my leather armor.

  The men on the battlements are cheering now, and the main gate is being drawn open, the people gathered in the courtyard applauding as the trumpets sound their welcome in the rain. The celebration is less enthusiastic than many would expect, but that, I am convinced, is because of the rain.