“We must be ready to perform,” whispers Mect just before the court takes up the cheering in the courtyard, making the stones of Elsinor ring like enormous bells.
He is riding a big, raw-boned blood-bay, one of those English horses famous for its strength, and I can see that the horse is tired as Hamlet comes through the enormous gate at the head of his men. Officers flock around the King as he pulls in to a stop and prepares to dismount, his long cloak clinging to him like a sail to a mast. I cannot see him come out of the saddle, but I can see he does it slowly, which is unlike him. Behind him, his Captains are dismounting, too, and their exhausted horses are being led away by Guards. The King pauses to embrace two of the officers before entering the castle.
Claudius rushes forward and goes down on his knee to his brother, embracing him as he is motioned to rise. For once Claudius is dressed with restraint, but whether that is out of respect or because of the rain, I cannot guess.
As he approaches the entrance to the castle, I can see that Hamlet is still moving slowly, although this may be only because of the press of people around him. Claudius is falling in at his side, walking on Hamlet’s left. As I watch them approach, I cannot rid myself of the fear that the King has been badly injured. I hear the musicians behind me move into place and brace myself for the noise of the fanfare that is coming to mix with the cacophony of paeans.
Both Mect and I drop to our knees as the main door is flung wholly open and the buisines, horns, cornettas blare out a great shout of victory. The cheering increases to the level of a riot.
Hamlet pauses in the door and the court falls silent. He looks around the chamber, which is the first time I see there is a patch over his right eye and the red weal of a scar above it, marking his brow with a stretch of red. He is thinner than when he left, his hair is all white, and his mouth is a single firm line above his beard; he stands straight, but I can see that he is worn to the bone. If he is aware of Mect and me, he gives no sign of it; he fixes his attention on the court and the Queen.
Polonius steps forward, bowing as deeply and as gravely as he would to the Emperor. His huque, lined in marten-fur, is splendid to see. His leggings, of the finest wool, mold to his well-turned calf. Next to Hamlet, he is like a dancing master in a play. “Thrice welcome to your own castle, my King.”
There are the ritual cheers again, and the musicians sound another peal of joy. “How gracious you are, and how royally you welcome me home,” Hamlet answers, his voice rough and low. “What an occasion you have made of this,” he goes on, his single eye sweeping the room, its gaze piercing in its intensity. “My men and I are very fortunate to have such a welcome on so wet a day.” He makes his way toward the thrones, where Gertrude has risen. “’I thank God for your victory and safe return, my King,” she says, her voice unsteady. Sitting in his cradle, young Hamlet pushes his little fists into his mouth and tries not to whimper. “How kind of you, my Queen,” he says, his voice heavy with irony. He mounts the stairs to the throne, shedding his water-logged cloak as he goes; young Osrick hurries to gather it up and earns a sharp look from Claudius for his efforts. “How good it is to be received so gallantly, and after so long a separation. I am…grateful to you for this, you must know I am.”
Gertrude is taken aback by this cynical greeting, and she blanches as she looks at her husband. “I pray you will take your place by my side.”
“Is it warm still?” asks the King, glancing once at his brother and then back at his Queen. “Very well, let us get this done and over with.” He glances over at the cradle where Prince Hamlet is standing, his little face working in concern at the emotion surging around him that he does not understand. As the King bends over him, his son draws back. “So. Prince Hamlet.” The King turns to his Queen. “How is my heir?” “He thrives, my King,” says Gertrude, glad to be on safe ground.
“And he has the look of our line, wouldn’t you say?” Hamlet asks her, his single eye jeering as he strokes the boy’s hair. “He is a fine child,” says Gertrude, her voice rising.
“He may be quite handsome when he is grown,” says Hamlet with a significant look at Claudius.
“May God make him worthy of his crown, not his face,” says Claudius at once, his manner still subdued.
“Amen,” says Hamlet, staring at his brother. He rubs his beard and sighs. “All right. My thanks to you all for your service to Denmark while I was gone to war,” he says loudly, so his words carry throughout the room; his voice is harsher than I remember it being. “Your many good deeds will be fittingly rewarded in time. For now, I ask that you allow me and my Captains an hour to bathe and dress as befits this occasion. We are wet and mired, not suited at all for this place, or the grand company gathered. We do not want to offend any with our unkempt appearance.” He claps his hands twice, and a few of the musicians are alert enough to sound a ragged fanfare. Hamlet bows to Gertrude. “Be of good cheer and wait a little longer. I will join you within the hour, my Queen.” He starts down the steps, without having actually occupied his throne. A buzz of speculation follows him as he makes his way toward the corridor leading toward the baths; Hamlet continues on his way as if he hears nothing. Then, as he reaches the arched doorway, he signals to me, “Yorick. Come with me,” he orders.
My anguish turns to relief as I hear this. I bow quickly and rush after him, leaving Mect to stand alone in the drafty, half-open doorway.
* * *
“We lost too many good men, and that is the great crime of war, that the finest men must fall in its path, like lambs to the sacrifice,” Hamlet tells me a short while later as he sits in the largest of the tubs, the hot water rising around him, enveloping his face in wreaths of steam. “It is very hard to see good men die. I did not think we would have such losses, but the Poles.…”
“It is hard to see anyone die,” I remark, handing him the soap. “The Poles are hard fighters, let no one tell you otherwise. They hold their lines to the very limit.” He rubs at the back of his neck. “I will have to let the barber at me before we carry on with these festivities. I feel shaggy as a goat.” He motions to me to go. “The barber, Yorick.”
I hurry off on this errand, and shortly come upon the handsome new bath attendant, a fair youth with shining dark hair, like a raven’s wing, and large, melting eyes any girl would kill to possess. His name is Esmond and he is putting brushes out at the tubs the King’s Captains will soon occupy. He smiles at me in his most winning way, and says, “Was that the King who came in with you just now?” “Yes,” I answer.
“He will need his hair and beard tended to, no doubt,” says the bath attendant, his eyes greedy at the thought of doing service for his King.
“No doubt. He has sent me for his barber.” I say this to some purpose, and wave a dismissal toward him. “There are others who will be pleased of your help.”
“Officers,” says the young bath attendant. “Captains,” I correct him as I hasten on my way.
But by the time I find the barber and lead him back to where the King is bathing, the young attendant has already set about the task himself, lathering Hamlet’s hair with soap mixed with woolfat and oil of pine. The barber turns to me in disgust.
“He has more help than I will give him,” he tells me before turning on his heel and venturing toward one of the Captains.
I stand where the barber has left me and watch in terrible fascination as the new bath attendant ministers to the King, his lithe young flesh growing ruddy; I stare in spite of my certainty that I should not, until I can no longer bear to see what I am seeing, and hasten away.
TRIUMPHS
For the next week the court rejoices in the King’s triumphant return; Mect and I are kept busy entertaining them all at suppers and promenades and such displays as the wretched weather will permit. The Norwegians present the various honors and gifts Fortinbras sends to Hamlet, along with letters on the progress of young Fortinbras, who, it would seem, is growing up admirably.
After a short Council meeting
, Hamlet pulls me aside, and indicates one of the old galleries in a neglected part of the castle. “How has it been while I was gone?” he asks me when he is certain that.we are not being followed or overheard. “What has been the character of the court? I was warned some time ago that Polonius has thrown in his lot with my damned brother.”
“They have acted together many times, certainly,” I say in answer, speaking softly in spite of the privacy the King has assured us.
Hamlet stops pacing and looks down at me. “Not you as well, Yorick. No courtesy, if you wish to serve me honorably. Give me plain answers, I beg you.”
I duck my head. “Yes, it has seemed to me from time to time that Polonius and Claudius were acting in concert. But I have never seen them together in such as way as would make me suppose there was any plot laid between them.” This last I add hastily, so that Hamlet will not conclude that those men are his enemies, though I dislike everything about their association.
“Not that they could not make such time,” says the King in a measuring way, rubbing his chin slowly and meditatively. This time when he glances in my direction, there is a sterner light in his eyes. “How is it, Yorick, that you are not willing to speak against them?”
“Because I know of no reason, beyond my own suspicions, that would warrant I do so,” I say to him, feeling again that I am speaking to a stranger, someone who has lost all common ground with me.
“Then tell me your suspicions, Sir Yorick,” Hamlet orders me.
Never have I thought that I would want to escape Hamlet’s company now that he is returned to Denmark, but now, in this place, I do, which troubles me deeply. “It is based on little more than my own poor opinion of each man,” I say, trying to deflect the blow I fear will come, and afraid it will harm the Prince far more than Claudius or Polonius. “If I had higher regard for either of them, I might well suppose that they were less questionable in what they do.” “I understand that,” says Hamlet impatiently. “And I will keep it in mind when I hear you out.”
There is nothing for it but to reply. “I think that your brother is as jealous of you now as he was when you were younger. I think that he yearns to show you up. And I think that Polonius seeks high position however he can obtain it, and with little regard to what the consequences may be to others, or to Denmark, for that matter.” Hamlet smiles wolfishly. “How keen your sight is, Yorick. But it is the thing a jester needs most, I would suppose.”
I do not know how Hamlet would like me to answer him, so I content myself with a shrug. “And these men of Norway—and I thank God that they will leave for home in another six days—what of them? Are they here for more than the festivities of what we are all pleased to call my victory?” He leans toward the gallery window as if he expects to surprise a Norwegian hanging beneath, listening. “They are courtiers, doing whatever service Fortinbras has required of them. He has sent good men here, men of high repute. But why would they not celebrate your victory? And why do you not think it one?” I regard Hamlet in concern, for his words have distressed me. “We stopped fighting because we were running out of men and supplies, the Poles as well as my army. We made a truce because there was nothing else we could do without wasting lives to no purpose.” Hamlet puts his hand on the hilt of his sword; I see that this rankles with him. “It was a victory only because there were men alive enough to go home. We regained a few fields and secured a port. That was the extent of it. And I hope the Emperor is pleased with our accomplishment.” Now he sounds bitter, and I have the oddest sense that I am talking to a stranger.
‘You will know of it soon enough,” I tell him, repeating the current rumor at court. “Word will come soon.” “No doubt,” Hamlet answers, folding his arms and deliberately changes the subject. “How fares my son?”
How much more easily I answer this question. “He thrives, my King, as the Queen has told you. He is growing quickly. He is alert and observant, more than many other little boys his age.”
“And his temperament?” asks Hamlet sharply, and I realize that this is not a simple inquiry.
“He is…thoughtful, and more inward than children usually are. That is not to say that he is unsteady in his mind, like some of those children who can only stare into space and rock themselves.” I try to explain my perception of the Prince more concisely. “I think he is perceptive beyond his days, and he lacks the experience to know what he perceives.”
“Would that we all might be so innocent,” murmurs Hamlet.
“I do not…worry for him, not as I would for a child like Laertes, who is forever at the mercy of his impulses. Young Hamlet will not err for passion, but he might err for thought.” I cough, and see that Hamlet’s single eye is fixed at a place beyond me.
“How long have you been there?” he demands.
“I have only just arrived, my King, and did not know you wished to be private,” says Polonius, bowing deeply. “The Counsellors wish to have the benefit of your instruction this afternoon, in regard to fixing new tariffs now that our ships are free from the scourge of Polish raiders.” Hamlet’s manner is not as accommodating as it would have been two years ago. He rounds on Polonius and says, “Having disposed of one robber, they propose to take the Poles’ place?”
There is shock in Polonius’ face, but he contrives to chuckle, “A very clever conceit, my King.” He starts to withdraw, then adds, “What shall I tell them?” “Tell them it must wait until tomorrow; there will be time enough then to set our tariffs.” He holds up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. “I know. We must somehow recoup the costs of the war. And who better to pay for it than those we have saved.”
“Tomorrow then,” says Polonius, and leaves us alone. “I don’t like it that he found us so easily,” the King mutters when we are once again alone. “It isn’t fitting that I be so closely watched.”
“No, my King,” I agree with apprehension.
Hamlet watches me closely, then says, “I want no one to know where I go now. Guard my back. If anyone, save Horatio, asks for me, say nothing.”
I nod to him, not wanting to know where he is bound. “I will not tell anyone but Horatio.”
He then tells me what I wish least to hear, “I will be with Esmond.”
What am I to say to this? If he desires that young man, what place is it of mine to say anything against it, knowing what I do of the Queen and Hamlet’s brother? I can offer no reason to him why he should seek his pleasure with Gertrude. Surely nothing good can come of this. I bow my compliance, saying nothing; my apprehension grows as I watch him stride away, starting to whistle.
* * *
“The King has long been happier in the company of men than women,” I tell the kitchen cat that night as I attempt to sleep. “All the court knows it, and has known it of old. It was better understood by his first Queen than by this one, though I suppose Hamlet is more taken with Gertrude than he was with his first wife. When he married the second time, it was known he wanted an heir; in fact, he had to have one, with two of his three brothers dead. The crown was in danger of passing away from his House. So he chose a woman he liked, thinking that this would remedy the error of nature. He likes her still, though he does not burn for her. That has made for…” I cannot put a name to it.
I have been fretting all evening, thinking back to the few words I had exchanged with Horatio, who approached me at sunset to inquire where the King had gone. I told him then that I supposed he was bathing. Horatio looked at me for a short while in silence, then made a motion to dismiss me. I could not object to this, for I reckoned he was as troubled by this intelligence as I was. “Now that the King has an heir, it is not as crucial that he take all his enjoyment with his wife, but…this, and so soon after his return, it does not bode well. There are those who would like the succession more secure than one boy can make it.”
“Is this a return to his old ways, then?”
“I fear it may be.” He had not wanted to say so much.
“But he is so fond of his
Queen,” I told him. “Gertrude pleases him greatly.”
“And he is jealous of her, as well,” Horatio said with a sigh. “Because he is fond of her. Who knows where it may lead?” These words chase in my thoughts, and I can find no phrase or prayer to still them, and no ease for the night. The kitchen cat settles against my side, her claws pricking the skin of my belly as she kneads. Her attitude is one of great satisfaction, for the matters causing such distress to me are wholly unimportant to her. Her long, soft fur is pleasant under my hand and I scratch her head and neck absently as I think again of all I have seen in these days since the army and the King returned.
Perhaps the Male Goddess will send me peace and understanding; I hope that He-in-She may, for try as I may, I can conceive of no other way I will attain either. With a soft mew the kitchen cat reminds me not to move, for I am now in the posture that suits her.
“Of course,” I tell her softly, and wish that it could be so easy a thing to serve the King, the Queen, and the Prince. Much later that night the kitchen cat departs to hunt; I am still half-awake when she goes, my mind no more at rest than it was when I first settled down to sleep. “May your mice be less elusive than my dreams,” I whisper after the kitchen cat.
PLAYERS
One last fete will see the Norwegians away from Elsinor, and this one has been ordered to be the height of courtesy, to show honor to Fortinbras. Luckily the weather has turned mild, spring making a soft beginning, and so it is possible to have some of the entertainments outside in the afternoon. Thus the inside of the castle is left to Voss and his staff, the court taking less formal pleasures before the grandeur of the evening to come. Once again there are performers brought to Elsinor for the occasion, in this case Swiss puppeteers, with clever figures they control with rods and strings. With only two jesters left at court, the Queen has insisted that other forms of entertainment must be offered, or the guests will be offended; hence the Swiss Puppeteers. They set up their stages in the interior court, and rebuff all overtures of friendship Mect and I profess. “You are jesters,” says their leader, as if that were reason enough for them to pay no attention to our presence. “Go away.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 38