Alas, Poor Yorick Read online

  “He would hardly come here for himself,” says Mect. “He would wait until the end of eternity rather than appeal to Hamlet to readmit him to his Council.”

  “True.” The elk has a good, strong taste but it is a test of teeth and jaws to eat it. “But he would not ask his son to carry that burden. He has come for the child, not for himself; depend on it.”

  “With the burden of his father’s name he has more than enough,” says Mect, “True enough,” I agree.

  Not far away a tabor-player starts pounding out rhythms, his two padded sticks blurred by speed. Mect shrugs as the noise gets so loud that he cannot be heard without shouting. He leans back against the wall.

  I continue to labor on the elk and watch the dancing and the great pride that Hamlet shows in his wife. Claudius has been dancing with Raissa, and they make an arresting couple as they turn and bow and sway through the figures of the dances. They speak in French and laugh often, both of them showing themselves to advantage. “Is that a match?” Mect demands loudly a little later on, noticing the two I have been watching. “It could become one, I suppose,” I answer. “Hamlet may have other plans for his brother. Raissa is not from a very important family.” “Who else would Hamlet want for Claudius? The fellow won’t be satisfied with one of the Emperor’s girls—they’re plain as peasants and over thirty.” He pauses. “Though one of them is very good-natured.” He rarely alludes so openly to his knowledge of the Emperor’s court, and for that reason alone I turn to stare at him.

  “You have heard something?” I ask.

  “There were rumors when Claudius first returned,” said Mect, speaking just loudly enough for me to hear him. “But nothing has come of them so far.” “What were the rumors?” I inquire, surprised that I am not aware of them already. “No one spoke directly to me.”

  “Nor to me,” says Mect. “But I was fortunate enough to be where I could overhear a few officers of high rank as they sat over their supper and their mead. It was worth the wait to hear what they spoke.” He reaches out and pats my shoulder. “They made bets as to how soon Claudius would marry.”

  “Did they mention any offers?” I should not be asking these things, and Mect should not answer them. Still, there are good reasons for me to know these things, or so I tell myself so that I will not have to stop our talk.

  “Nothing so open as offers,” says Mect, cutting another bit of tough elk. “A few random speculations, and then nothing. I guess that neither Claudius nor the Emperor’s daughter were interested.”

  “Claudius is the only surviving brother,” I say, voicing my thoughts. “He will have to marry, and marry well.” “There is a young window in Norway,” says Mect speculatively. “She has one child already, and she is said to be fair and accommodating in her nature.”

  “Hamlet has not mentioned her when I have been with him,” I tell Mect. “What has passed between the brothers in private I cannot guess.”

  “No more can I,” agrees Mect.

  * * *

  By the time I return to my quarters, the kitchen cat is already occupying most of the bed, curled in the center of it in such a way that it is impossible for me to occupy any part of it without disturbing her. I take off my chaperon and unfasten my belt so that I can take the morsels of venison and boar from my wallet; I can see her stir as the odor of the meat reaches her, “Come,” I prompt her, “For you and your growing kittens.”

  She raises her head and makes a soft cry as her nose probes the air.

  I sit on the side of the bed and hold out my hand, the bits of meat piled on my palm, “Here, little cat. Your share of the feast.”

  She has come to me, and now she sniffs delicately at the meat, giving it all her attention. She takes one of the bits in her teeth and bites on it, as if to determine if she can eat it at all. Then she eats eagerly, growling, catching the meat on her claws before she gobbles it down. Her concentration is so complete that she pays no notice to the gentle scratching I give her ears. For her there is only her food: nothing else matters.

  COUNCIL

  Hamlet faces Horatio across the Council table, the two men looking guarded and intractable, both in somber robes with golden collars, both showing their age. It is Hamlet who speaks first, but only because custom demands it of him. “It is good to have you at court once again, Horatio. Yes. We have missed your wisdom and good counsel in our deliberations.”

  Horatio reveals little emotion as he hears this, but when the King is silent, he rises in order to bow. “I have kept away too long.” “Well, at least you are returned; your absence was noted by all, and now all may rejoice in your presence,” says Hamlet, doing all that he can to keep their talk cordial, “And at a good time.”

  “As you say,” Horatio says, sitting down again. “And you are right welcome,” Hamlet persists. He indicates the jar of mead standing between them. “Let us drink to the restoration of our friendship.”

  “Gladly,” says Horatio in a voice that sounds as if he were resisting great pain. “And let us drink the health of my son.” “Ah, yes, your son,” says Hamlet, his manner faintly wistful. “Let us hope that soon my Queen will provide your son a companion for play.” He reaches for the jar and with his own hand fills their tankards. “I could wish nothing better for my son than that he befriend yours,” says Horatio, with such grim determination that I am convinced that it must have been his wife who demanded he return to court. “Amen to that,” says Hamlet warmly, motioning to the servant standing near the door. “Bring us good French wine, the best we have, and let us toast our friendship.”

  The servant hurries away while Horatio and Hamlet regard each other across the table and I wonder if I am to speak or attempt to vanish. Hamlet decides the question for me. “Yorick, do you come and play for us; not the plaintive songs my wife so loves, but the anthems of battle, music worthy of men, full of the pride of life.” He indicates Horatio. “My old friend has returned to me, and I am moved to recall our early days together, in the field against our enemies. Play us a piece about battle and determination and triumph. It is fitting that we remember how we gained the victory, all those years ago.”

  “They were valiant days,” says Horatio grudgingly.

  “So they were, and we were grand in what we did. The recollection of those heady times deserves the best of martial tunes,” says Hamlet. “Let us hear the song of ‘Joshua’s Triumph,’” he declares in answer to his own suggestion.

  I bow two times to Hamlet, and reach for my shawm, setting the double reeds to my lips. They are not as moist as they should be and I am afraid they will crack and make that sound like an angry duck. But although the first notes are tremulous they are true enough, and as I continue into the melody, I take some comfort in the steady quality of the music.

  “For a jester he is a most apt musician,” says Horatio, speaking awkwardly. “He has many skills, and his hearing is excellent; you may address him directly if you have praise for him,” says Hamlet, leaning forward on the table as he hums along with the song. “It is stirring, isn’t it? Yet the story of Joshua confounds me. What do you think, Horatio? Can the might of faith alone bring down stone walls?” “I have never seen it happen,” says Horatio, “but it is said that it can be done.” “Yes,” says Hamlet, and motions to his servant who has returned with a tray on which stands two silver goblets and a large bottle of good French wine. “The color is good—red and clear—and it has a fine savor.”

  “Truly,” says Horatio, watching the servant at his work. “Which river fed these grapes, do you know?”

  “The Rhone,” said Hamlet at once. “Far to the south in France, well below the lands of my wife’s family. My father-in-law, who is a few years younger than I, has a small estate in the south of France where the wines are made.” He sees that the servant has emptied the bottle and motions to the young man to leave. “The bottle is to be broken. See to it.” With those instructions he waves the boy away. “Between us we can easily put paid to this wine, and be fresh
in our wits.”

  “Yes,” says Horatio, but with less confidence in his boast than Hamlet reveals. “It would be sad to deal with the wine shabbily.”

  “Yes,” Hamlet agrees as the stirring notes of Joshua’s call to battle sound, “it would.”

  * * *

  Melting snow has turned the roads to wallows and we at Elsinor are as isolated as we would be on an island in the middle of the ocean. Those few determined travelers who do arrive are spattered and smirched, their horses caked with mud, their wagons so covered with it that they have only the color of earth. Soldiers arrive so laden with it that they appear to be made of earth and not flesh.

  “I forgot what it was like here in the early spring; I remembered the winters but not the infernal spring,” Claudius remarks as he stands in the gallery looking out toward the battlements and the spread of country beyond. “For another two months it will be like this.”

  “Probably,” I say to him as I ponder why he has sought me out. I am dressed in my chaperon and I have donned my new shoes—long-toed with bells on the tips that are held aloft by slender cords tied to my ankles.

  “You play for the Queen this afternoon, don’t you?”

  “As I do most afternoons,” I say, uncertain why he has asked.

  “She sits with her women and does needlework,” he continues, a fixed light in his eyes. “That is how they pass the time, isn’t it?”

  “Usually,” I answer, growing more apprehensive with each moment that passes. “Yes,” mutters Claudius. He is very fine today, his houpelande of velvet the color of fir trees, the little standing ruff of Belgian lace around his neck worth more than most soldiers earn in a lifetime of battles. His short beard is curled and perfumed and he carries a lace handkerchief tucked into the cuff of his camisa.

  When he says nothing for a short while, I speak up again. “’I ought not linger, good my Lord.”

  This is sufficient to spur Claudius to respond. “How is it, Sir Jester, that the King always sends you to the Queen?”

  “I suppose because I am his jester, the King’s jester,” I remind him, making no pretense at concealing my pride. “It is suitable that he choose me to attend his wife.” Then, for the sake of candor, I add, “And I am the only one of the jesters who can play the shawm and the yawp.”

  “And the Queen likes to hear music?” Claudius asks as if it is a new idea to him. “She comes from Lorraine: of course she likes music,” I answer, so that he will know he has not deceived me. “Why do you ask me these things?”

  Claudius makes a sound that is not quite a sigh, “’I would like to do something for the Queen, something she would enjoy. As her brother-in-law it is expected of me to show her courtesy. It is what I wish to do, in the name of family harmony. But I might as well be new to court because I have been gone so long, and I fear to make a misstep. I could easily offend her rather than show her the distinction I wish to, and that would be lamentable.” He is still looking out the window but now his eyes have that curious, distant glaze, as if he saw something many leagues away. “So I seek your assistance, Sir Jester, and your advice, in the hope that she will find my offering to her liking.” “Speak to your brother,” I advise him; I do not want to become entangled with Claudius and his schemes. “Gertrude is his wife. He will be the best guide on your quest.”

  “Somehow,” says Claudius, his light, remote voice taking on an edge, “I don’t think that would be wise.” He is silent for a brief moment, and then, with a slight shake of his head, he recalls himself. “Do not be afraid of me, good Yorick. I will not ask you to compromise yourself, or to act against the interests of my brother,” he tells me in a voice that is no longer strange; his smile is self-effacing. “But I had hoped to make the most of my opportunity.”

  “I am the King’s jester,” I remind him again. “Surely,” Claudius agrees. “But doubtless you will know the answers to a few questions I might have.” He turns and smiles at me: it is a practiced smile, brilliant and insincere. “That would suffice, just a word or two from you if the Queen would like my gift.” Against my better judgment I ask, “What had you in mind?”

  Claudius makes an elaborate gesture, suggesting with it that there are myriad choices and that he has no notion how to select the most apt. “I have been told she has a private garden, where she raises flowers and herbs when the weather is mild. I have no idea if this is true—”

  ‘”She has kept such a garden in the past; I don’t know if she will do it again this spring. Ask her, if your brother will permit it,” I answer with care and misgiving, for he could learn that from any number of courtiers. I cannot rid myself of the thought that Claudius wants to have someone to blame if his plans go awry.

  “But she must have said something while she sews. Think! Do you think she will do the same again this spring?” he prompts me, with that same politic smile he has shown before. He waves his hand toward the grey light beyond the gallery window, “Once spring has truly come, that is.”

  “It’s possible,” I answer, “It isn’t for me to read the Queen’s mind.”

  My remark is hardly funny, but Claudius makes a show of laughing anyway. “How precise you are, my friend. How very precise.” He preens a little, fingering the curls of his short beard. “I have been considering what she would like, and I have decided that there must be plants she would like to have in her garden. For this I seek your guidance. It would better come from you than one of her women, I think. There can be no harm in finding this out, can there? If I knew which ones she wanted that she has not yet acquired, I would be at pains to find them for her.”

  Is Claudius always so persistent? “Do you think your brother would approve? Or that the Queen would want such a gift from you if her husband did not like it?” I know it is unwise to challenge Claudius, but I know if I do not question him now, I may have to answer for it later.

  He swings around to look at me. “You would probably know that better than I,” he counters, relishing the challenge implied.

  “Then it would be best if you speak to him before you search for the plants. It seems acceptable to me, but that means nothing; I am only a jester and I do not know what the King wishes his wife to have from other men—even from his brother.” I bow a little, taking care not to trip myself up on my elaborate shoes.

  Unexpectedly Claudius chuckles. “Oh, I hope Hamlet knows what a treasure he has in you, Yorick. You are as canny as an Italian related to the Pope. If my brother were as well-served by his courtiers as he is by you he could content himself. It is a pity that his council is not as circumspect as you are, and that’s the truth before God.” He reaches into his embroidered wallet for a coin before he bends down and pats my shoulder once. “Very well; I release you. No more questions about the Queen. For today, at least, I will not bedevil you any more.”

  “You are most gracious, good my Lord,” I say with a formal bow; his coin feels hot in my fingers. It is a French Angel, large and golden.

  Behind Claudius’ amusement there is a cynical keenness. “I am glad you think so. But will my brother?” he asks, and strolls away without answering his own question.

  ODUVIT

  Oduvit is waiting for me in the Great Hall; the other jesters have not yet arrived and will not be here for a short while. He is wearing all the new clothes Hamlet has given him, and the brilliant greens and oranges of his chaperon and houpelande are impressive to see. He bows in very good form, and speaks with his court manner. “I guess I should thank you for coming early,” he says in a tone that implies the opposite. “It is such an honor for me, to have the great Yorick come when I call.” He puts his hand to his mouth as if to cover a mistake. “Oh, that’s incorrect. Dogs come when you call, don’t they? Not men; dogs.” His courtesy makes me wary; Oduvit is pleasant only to serve his own purposes. “You said it was urgent and required immediate attention,” I remind him in a voice that I hope conceals my ire, although I believe his purpose no more than he does.

  He smiles, his
mirth as nasty as the scum that clings to drains. “And you thought that you must do it for the King, didn’t you?” He comes toward me, swaggering a little. “You are nothing more than a hound, Yorick.”

  “If I am, it is hardly urgent to tell me, for it will not change, nor would I want it to,” I say to him, wanting to put him to the test. “Was that the gist of your message?”

  He stops and stares, and then laughs again. “My message. Yes. Clever, very clever.” He wags his finger at me. “Don’t you recognize a ploy when you see one? Or do you think you need only obey those things the King requires of you?”

  “I think that when another jester asks me to attend him urgently that I am obliged to do it,” I say with great care. “I would do the same for Mect, or the others.” “Mect,” he repeats, musing, his mouth curved with contempt. “The Emperor’s eyes and ears at Elsinor. What claim does he have on you, that you would assist him? He is no more jester than he is a master of artillery.” He is ferociously amused at his own wit. “But perhaps you are like Mect in that way, as well. You could serve the Emperor and the King, couldn’t you? Come,” he prods. “They say you are as much as scholar as your father was. You may be as subtle, as well. Why not? It shouldn’t be beyond you to answer to Hamlet and the Emperor at the same time.”

  I can feel the heat mount in my face and the strength of my pulse in my neck where the collar of my chaperon presses. “If you were not a jester, Oduvit, I would not tolerate such an impugning of my character. I would consider all you say to be born of malice, and for that I would have to demand some satisfaction, either from the King or from steel.” I can see the furious amusement my indignation affords him, “But as you are a jester and considered to be addled in your wits, I will not upbraid you this time. However, if I should learn that any hint of compromise has been laid to my door, you will answer for it, I swear by—” I stop, biting off the name of the Male Goddess.