Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Is the King certain of you because he knows your heart is given elsewhere, O faithful hound? Does he send you to the Queen because he has already claimed you as his own? Have you pledged yourself to him in body as well as soul?” He jabs at my side with his elbow, as if he is playing.

  But I am not deceived. I turn on him, forcing him to retreat. Only when he has his back pressed to the stones do I speak. “If you say such a thing again to anyone for any reason, I will silence you forever.” There is something in his eyes like a sickness, made up of fear and burning hatred.

  “Leave me!” he growls, his voice soft. “Get away.”

  I do not move. “I mean what I say, Oduvit. Speak one word against Hamlet impugning him and you will not breathe safely again.” Only then do I relent and step back, allowing him just enough room to move by me.

  “You are despicable,” mutters Oduvit as he squeezes away from me, and turns down the first side corridor he reaches. I watch him go with trepidation, for I know that envious men gather injuries to themselves, to nurture their odium. Oduvit will believe before nightfall that I forced our meeting, and that I am responsible for any disadvantage that comes to him, for he will convince himself that I have asked the King to withdraw favor from him; he cannot believe that he brings most of his ill-fortune upon himself. These thoughts weigh heavily upon me as I hurry toward the main hall of Elsinor, where Hamlet has gathered his Council together to hear the words from Polonius, who has just returned from negotiations with Fortinbras.

  COUNCIL

  “There you are, Yorick,” declares Hamlet, who has taken his place on his throne. Though he wears the crown, he has more the look of a Captain of battle troops than a King. The King of Sweden is so high and grand that he could pass for Pope, but Hamlet has none of that hauteur in his bearing. He motions me to take my place at the foot of his throne and remain silent.

  Polonius is offended at this interruption and he glares at me before he goes on. He is a very handsome young man, favored and rich, dressing well and bathing oftener than the priests would like. Half the women of the court sigh for him, and he pretends not to know it. “Fortinbras is willing to sign the truce as we presented it to him, my King, and I have, in your stead, signed the copy he has retained. As you see, his seal is affixed here already, and once your signature is placed on the parchment and the copies exchanged, the work is done.” “Excellent,” Hamlet approves, and gives the rest of his Council a hard stare to remind them that they are expected to endorse the truce without argument. “You have done very well for a man on his first mission. All Denmark has reason to be in your debt. You may rest content: I will show my gratitude more fully when the exchange of seals is made.”

  One of the Counsellors glowers, but this is expected. He never looks upon any diplomatic arrangement with favor: He is of the old school and knows that only military victories have any lasting meaning for Kings. War is the stuff of life for Horatio. The rest of the Council regards him as woefully out of step with the world, but they indulge him because he was once the most formidable fighter in Denmark other than Hamlet himself.

  Hamlet accepts the endorsement of his Counsellors with aplomb: had it been withheld he would have been outraged; he has castigated them before, and is fully prepared to do it again, as all of them are aware. I listen to the murmurs and statements of the Counsellors more carefully than my King does, for I know, if he does not, that treachery is often found in those closest to power. Most of the Council are noble, of distinguished family and high rank. It is thought that this makes them more reliable, but I am not as certain of this as Hamlet is.

  “There will be honors given to those who have done me worthy service when Polonius returns,” Hamlet tells them all. “I want it known that service to the King is recognized in Denmark. Let all of you make note of what I say: those who serve me well will be worthy of my thanks.” He slaps his big, hard hands on the arms of his throne as if he is about to watch his troops muster. “Lack of advancement makes men sour,” he tells the Counsellors, who do not need to hear this. Polonius is trying not to look pleased; he knows that the rest of the Council is jealous and that to show his satisfaction too clearly would increase their envy. But he is not as old and skilled as many of the others are, and his face gives him away. He bows deeply to Hamlet, his heavy collar of office swinging with the motion. “You are most gracious, my King. I pray that I may serve you to your satisfaction and the benefit of the Kingdom.” He straightens up and goes on. “What one of us”—he offers the Council an inclusive gesture—“is not eager to do all that is in our power for the Throne and the Kingdom? No Dane may think himself truly pledged to you if he does not desire in his heart to show his dedication in service.”

  Hamlet smiles. “Most admirable, Polonius.”

  A wise man might have stopped here, but Polonius is so determined to be clever that he does something very foolish. “Let me vow here that I and all those of my household will forever be the protectors of the Crown of Denmark, and will at all times strive to put forward the cause of the Dane. It will be my constant purpose to defend the throne of Denmark. At no time will we count ourselves apart from the Crown, but will makes its purposes our own, embracing the King’s—”

  “No more,” Hamlet orders, his manner kindly, but with that look of determination that his soldiers know well. Few things vex Hamlet more than lightly given oaths. Polonius, so young and consumed with aspiration, does not understand this. “We have other matters to discuss than the peace with Fortinbras.”

  The Counsellors are delighted to see Polonius humbled in this way, and they show themselves very willing to take up other issues.

  “I am informed that the storms of last month have badly damaged the crops of rye, and many fear that we will lose most of the grain before it can be harvested. More hands are needed in the fields if the crops are to be saved, and they are needed quickly.” Hamlet waits while the Council thinks of what this might mean. “I will require a commission to inspect the fields, and if the crop cannot be salvaged, we must move quickly to provide grain from our stores to give the farmers bread through the winter and new seed to plant in the spring; otherwise we will face famine next year, when there are no crops to reap, nor farmers to reap them.”

  If Hamlet were speaking to his Sergeants, there would be instant understanding and agreement, for those men know that of all supplies needed by men, food is the most crucial. But these men are land-owners, of high rank and fixed purpose, and they do not readily part with their bounty. They bristle and look affronted as they search for reasons why they should be exempt.

  “We have our own to consider,” says one of them, speaking for the rest. “If we give our grain to others, we will have nothing for our fields.”

  There are nods and mutterings to second this.

  Hamlet is not pleased, but he is prudent enough to keep his annoyance to himself, “That is why we must first have a commission, to see if such measures are needed. And if they are, half the grain will come from the stores here, from my own, so that none of you will have to bear more than a fraction of the burden.”

  From where I sit I can see his hands, and I know he is dismayed, for the knuckles stand out like knots. He is not willing to accept these men and their greed.

  One of the richest of the Counsellors, who has vast holdings near the German border, dares to defy Hamlet. “I will not be able to give assistance for this venture. Much as it is my wish to do my part, and my duty, it is not possible. Too many of my own tenants report that their crops are in danger, and I must tend to them before I give my assistance elsewhere.”

  “If there is damage in your region, then the commission must visit there,” says Hamlet, his voice grown hard.

  My back aches, and I long to rise and stretch, but I dare not. Hamlet wants me here as a witness, and to observe what happens, so that I may tweak these men when Hamlet wishes it, reprimanding them with barbs when Hamlet cannot; if this makes me his dog as Oduvit claims, then I will b
ark when I castigate these powerful lords, and howl when they must laugh at my jibes. I must be content to remain where I am, keeping silent and doing little to bring attention to myself. I call on the Male Goddess to ease my hurt.

  The Counsellors are not pleased to hear this, and a few of them look angry.

  “Good Counsellors,” Hamlet says to them, “we must make this provision for ourselves or we must appeal to the Emperor for aid.”

  This ploy is successful, for the Counsellors are more distrusting of the Holy Roman Emperor than they are of Hamlet. With such a choice, it is certain that they will agree to lend their support to Hamlet rather than appeal to the dubious charity of Ludwig of Bavaria. “It might be just as well to appoint a commission,” says the old military lord, although it rankles, being outmaneuvered as he has been by Hamlet. “We may be in error about the extent of the damage.”

  “That is possible,” says Hamlet, recognizing this for the surrender it is. He watches the Council, permitting them to make the next move. Attempting to regain his earlier approval, Polonius says, “Perhaps each of us should select one of our own retainers to make up the commission, so that every one of us will be certain that our interests are being considered. No one will then question the extent of damage or the assistance required to save the crops this autumn and next.”

  The Counsellors are very pleased with this, but Hamlet is not. He says nothing for a short while, then nods once. “If this will assure you all that there has been no unfair impositions on any of you, then so be it.”

  There are other questions the Counsellors must consider: building a new bridge at Haderslevby; the taxation of merchants coming from England; the granting of land to the Church for creating more monasteries in the north; the matter of deciding the rightful heirs of a vacant estate; the petition of Fortinbras to arrange a betrothal of his two-year-old son to a Danish noblewoman of not more than ten years in age, to ensure the conditions of our truce be kept. Since Hamlet has no girls of his own, he must depend on these men to provide the bride.

  “You, Martinus, you have a girl of four,” Hamlet tells the tallest of his Counsellors. “She is noble and your family is ancient.” “My daughter has been taught duty,” Martinus says, to discover what Hamlet is prepared to offer to him for his daughter’s contract. If they can make an appropriate arrangement it will mean more power and position for Martinus, who has chafed at his station on the Council for years.

  Hamlet knows that any noble would expect some distinction for such an offer. “She will be given the rank of Royal Duchess, of course, and you would advance your family to the status of cousins. It would be official from the hour the contract is signed.” The offer is reasonable for the favor asked, and all the men know it.

  “My daughter is honored to serve the Crown,” says Martinus, by way of accepting the offer.

  “Tell me her name again?” Hamlet requests, so that all the Council will know it.

  “Thordis,” says Martinus, his head raised proudly; it is a name that the priests dislike, for it honors the old gods and not their Trinity, but they do not press a man of Martinus’ stature.

  “A good name, a very good name,” Hamlet tells all of them. “A name that Fortinbras will like, and we as well, being old and honored.” He watches the Counsellors, looking at their faces as he tries to read their inmost thoughts. Being a soldier he is unused to the subtlety of these men, their ability to ruin and betray and have no mark of it on their visages. Which of them will tell the priests of Hamlet’s remark on Thordis’ name, I wonder? One of them will, surely, and that one will require the Church show him some advantage for his revelation. It will not bring any dissent from the Church because the priests know their place, and are not yet ready to challenge the Throne here as they have in other countries. If the Emperor were stronger, it might be different.

  Polonius ventures to say something now, “I have a half-sister, great King. She is eight, in the care of nuns and said to be of good sense.” Martinus glares at him and many of the rest of the Counsellors stiffen with outrage that Polonius should attempt to gain so much for himself in so short a time.

  But Polonius is young and has not learned the ways of covert treachery that these older men know. He continues as if none are insulted by what he has said, and that the fury in Martinus’ eyes has nothing to do with him. “She is called Egidia.” He says this with pride, for such a name will find more approval from the priests than Thordis could.

  “She is eight, you say?” Hamlet asks, interested in spite of himself.

  “And a few months. She is said to be well-conducted and of good nature, according to the nuns who teach her.” He bows to Hamlet. “It was probably unwise of me, but I thought of her when Fortinbras told me of his desire to seal the pact in this way. I said as much to him.”

  “You did,” said Hamlet slowly, becoming very quiet and still. Those who have fought with him kmow he is never more dangerous than when he is thus, but Polonius is no soldier and goes on recklessly. “I said there were many who would want so high an honor, naturally, but I said that my half-sister was one of them, because any family would want such advantage for their daughters.” He looked at the rest of the Counsellors and favored them with a diplomatic smile. “By way of example.”

  “And what did Norway say to this example?” asks Hamlet, his hands hard on the arms of his throne.

  “He said nothing,” answers Polonius, catching something of Hamlet’s implacable mood in the tone of his voice. “He told me only that he was pleased there would be several to choose among.”

  “Ah,” Hamlet says, and his hands relax. “Then it might be best to ask all of you to look among your relatives for a girl that would be suitable to our purpose.” He narrows his eyes again as he looks at Polonius. “Be careful in your choices, for the girls offered must be the device of Denmark in Norway.” He does not laugh at his witticism, but two of the Counsellors make themselves chuckle, “Any child who is recommended must be presented here to me and my Queen. We will recommend no child we have not seen and questioned, for it is not my wish to offend Norway with an unfit selection. If the girl is rebellious or bad-tempered or peevish or impertinent, it will go badly for the family who owns her.” “Certainly,” says Polonius. “Every one of us must expect to seek the approval and endorsement of the Crown.” He bows again, and takes his seat before Hamlet gives him the sign to do this. He is pleased with the display he has made, and every movement of his body proclaims his satisfaction.

  “I want his pride diminished,” Hamlet tells me softly as the Counsellors depart. He is pointing to Polonius’ back. “At the banquet, make him the butt of your jokes, if you would.”

  I am on my feet now, and bowing is not difficult. “What would you like me to say? What do you want most to be mocked?”

  “His ambition, and his so-eager compliance in everything I have suggested. That man believes that I seek nothing but the nods of the Council, and he cannot understand that I want advice, not condescension.” He shoves himself onto his feet. “There are times I regret that we are at peace. In war, the questions are so simple, and the means are clear. In peace, everything is devious and indirect; I cannot tell if we are advancing or retreating.” He reaches over and lays his hand on my higher shoulder—gently.

  “You have Fortinbras for an ally now, surely that is advancement,” I tell him. “His interests march with yours.”

  Hamlet sighs. “I hope it may be, but I am not convinced. He may be playing a double game, holding Sweden at bay until his business with us is concluded, and then treating with them for favor as well.”

  “He is going to marry his son to a Danish noblewoman,” I remind him, trying to hit on something that will lift the dreariness from his soul. “So he claims,” Hamlet says wearily. “And it may be so. And it may be nothing but a diversion, a means to keep a gracious look to a long bargain.” He stares off toward the door where the Counsellors have gone, but his thoughts are leagues away. He sounds distant as he conte
mplates that patch of air. “Am I being sensible, playing his game, or am I putting my foot in his trap?” He recalls himself, pats my shoulder twice, and steps off his dais. “What would your father say, if he were still alive to instruct me? Can you guess, Yorick?” “My father taught me well,” I answer, “but not so well as that.” As always, when I speak of him I miss him fiercely. He was a true scholar, learned and possessing sound judgment. He never saw my deformity as others did, for he was more interested in knowledge than in appearance; unlike my mother who looked upon me as living evidence of her failure. He traveled far in his lifetime—to Italy and France and England, reading everywhere, instructing where he could. It was one such journey that took his life, when robbers set upon the band of merchants he had joined. My mother, when she heard of it, covered her face with a veil and wore it for the rest of her life.

  “I would give half my treasury to have him with me now,” Hamlet says. “He would see his way where I cannot.”

  “I regret that only I am left to serve you,” I say, and although I speak the words playfully enough, there is a deep and hurtful truth in them.

  Hamlet regards me for a short while. “Families suffer when plague comes,” he tells me. “And of your brothers, I am most grateful that you were spared, as you are the cleverest of all.” He is not offering me false coin, for there is a simplicity in his speech that does not seek to console or flatter.

  I bow and kiss his hand.

  * * *

  There is no applause so genuine as the purring of a cat. One of the mousers sleeps in my little chamber, and when it suits her purpose, she permits me to scratch her ears. No nobleman is more honest in satisfaction than this brindled cat. She is relentless in hunting and honest enough to purr when she kills.