The hall is silent as Horatio bows his way out of it. And when the conversation resumes, it is too sudden and too loud. Hamlet motions me to be still.
Mect is the one who restores the humor; he stumbles toward the men below the salt, his gait that of a man far gone in drink. He blesses them all, and starts to roll out a ponderous and scrambled blessing in Latin so bad that even the lowest man at the table is able to laugh at it.
Oduvit, in spite of all his boasting, is too drunk to do more than bad tumbling this night.
POLONIUS
There is to be a wedding at Elsinor. In recognition of his service to the King, Polonius is going to marry Ricardis; the contracts have been signed by both families, and the affianced pair are given every courtesy. Everyone except the Queen is delighted, and she does her best not to appear downcast by her lady’s good fortune.
Hamlet has declared that there will be three days of celebration, with musicians and players to mark the event. Mid-summer Eve has been chosen for the hour, although the Bishop has protested; Hamlet does not much concern himself with the Church. He knows that the people still welcome an excuse to revel at the brightest night, and nothing the Bishop can say will change that.
It is customary to give jesters gifts at mid-summer, a remembrance of the time when the Male Goddess was worshipped openly and mid-summer was a holy day and not simply a festival. Hamlet has promised me a harness of armor since he has made me a knight. Occasionally he addresses me as Sir, which gives him much amusement and satisfaction but does not please the Queen at all, and earns me sniggers from some of the King’s officers. He has confided that my armor will be of leather so that my back will not suffer. The saddler who has been given the task has said he will strive to paint it the color of steel, though he warns that it may well rub off with wear. I have tried the breastplate twice and I must own myself more pleased than I like to admit. Until now, it had not occurred to me how much I think myself apart from the rest of men. My leather armor has brought it all home.
To cheer the Queen the King has ordered all his jesters to visit her and make her smile. Tollo has been excused from the task, for his wits are not strong enough to be reliable in her presence; Tollo has an enthrallment for high-born women and his conduct is not always desirable, even for a jester. Thus it falls to Oduvit, Hedrann, and me to provide the service; Mect is never given private audience with Gertrude for fear she will provide information to the Emperor through him.
With the wedding less than seven days away, the women are sewing frantically, not only their own finery, but to decorate Ricardis’ bridal clothes with every design of fortune and fecundity that they can create on the magnificent samite Hamlet has provided for the purpose. They give themselves to the task with determination, their dedication as much for Gertrude as for the bride.
Ricardis herself moves from joy to dread to hope to dread again as the day wears on. While the other women remind her of Polonius’ many good qualities, she sighs as if she were under sentence of death. She weeps at least once between noon and sunset, which the Queen and her ladies take as a good sign.
“Brides weep,” Gertrude says, so remotely that I must not be the only one who is perplexed by her seeming indifference to Ricardis’ sensibilities.
“It is fitting that a bride should feel so,” Raissa tells them all as they work a pattern of scarlet birds on the long train; her expansiveness seems to make up for the Queen’s reserve. “If she does not weep, she will be a frivolous wife.”
“Is that the wisdom in Lorraine?” asks Margitha, her smile brittle as new ice; she is not able to conceal her envy of Ricardis’ advancement in the world.
“That is the wisdom of all women,” Raissa says calmly. “It is for the wife to answer for the way of the marraige, and to do all she might to please her husband. Frivolous wives come to bad ends.”
“I am not going to be a frivolous wife,” protests Ricardis as she tries to stem her sudden tears. “I know what my duty is. Polonius is a fine man, and I realize my fortune in becoming his wife.”
Raissa offers her one of those wide, meaningless smiles she saves for those she dislikes. “You will have to listen to him speak, but that is a small price to pay for such advancement in the world.”
“He has done good service for the King,” says Gertrude distantly. “Raissa is right. He is going to advance in the court.”
Knowing what is expected of her, Margitha says as if the words have barbs on them, “He is the center of the Council now, with his negotiations with Fortinbras carried out so well. There is no question but that he will be Hamlet’s chief advisor for many years to come.”
“Oh, yes,” Raissa agrees, making her agreement a denial. “So ambitious, but with such style. A man of character, without doubt. Certainly he will go far if no one challenges him to defend himself with steel.”
Ricardis glares, and speaks as if she were reciting an oft-repeated lesson. “Polonius is an accomplished man; one who is destined to serve the King long and with honor. He will require his wife to comfort him, to give him heirs and see that they are raised with an understanding of their heritage. I am able to do those things. It is my honor to do them.” She plies her needle so well that she pricks her finger, crying out as a single drop of blood stains the pale cloth.
“It is fitting that there be a little blood, as we all know,” says Raissa significantly. “Polonius will look for it.”
“It will be there,” Ricardis says with a heated glance directed at Raissa. “I have no reason to fear that, at least.”
I have been sitting in the corner, my shawm in my hands, waiting for one of the women to command me to play something for them, though they have paid me scant notice all the morning long. They have refused other entertainments I have offered, claiming they interfere with their sewing. Not even the temptation of a story has been enough to lure them away from their craft. At last I place the reeds in my mouth and begin “Clotilda’s Lament,” which speaks of the sadness of lost love.
Raissa chuckles as Ricardis weeps more openly; Gertrude never looks up from her needlework.
PLAYERS
At last the players are come, a troupe of fifteen, with their two wagons and all their noise. They are given space in the main courtyard to set up their stage, and they set about it with dispatch, stretching painted landscapes at the back of the stage and setting out their finery for the evening performance. The leader of the troop is a strapping fellow about Hamlet’s age, lean and arresting in appearance, with a voice that rolls like thunder and a stance any Captain would envy. “A charlatan,” Oduvit dismisses him when I remark to my fellow jesters that I would sacrifice an eye to have such a voice as that. “The voice is just part of the trick. It is all show, with nothing behind it but words memorized and gestures. A magpie could do as well. Or an ape.” “You envy him,” says Mect, who has little patience with Oduvit’s spite.
“How can I envy him? He is nothing but a puppet, an engine for mimicry, while I rely on my wits to entertain the King. See there”—he flips his hand in the direction of the window that overlooks the courtyard where the players are rehearsing—“he cannot bring one new word to his scenario.”
“The other players would be hampered if he did,” says Hedrann, who is paring his nails. Like me, he admires the players and watches them with an expression in his eyes that is less than lust but more than fancy. He is already wearing his new garments—a short houpelande with huge dagged sleeves the color of mulberries, and leggings of yellow-and-black—and cuts the best figure of all of us.
“Then it’s to their discredit,” says Oduvit, “They are nothing but parrots, or as bad as prelates, reciting prayers. Where is the skill is that? Any fool can repeat the same thing over and over.”
“Perhaps the skill is in making it appear that it is new to them,” ventures Mect, who has been watching almost as closely as Hedrann, but without the yearning in his eyes. “It is no easy thing to hide boredom. Or familiarity.”
The
leader of the players is reciting a speech now, one describing how a great hero battled a monster to save his lady and how she expressed her gratitude for her rescue; it is not a passage I know, though I have read many of the books my father brought from foreign lands with ancient texts in them. “I don’t recognize the piece. What role does he enact? What is the play? It isn’t familiar to me.”
“It is supposed to be Greek, but I’d wager they’ve never heard of it in Byzantium,” says Mect knowingly. “It may be a play that actors have taught one another from generation to generation. One of the old, bloody ones, like the one about the son taking his mother to bed. Or the brothers who kill each other in battle by accident. Or one of the Roman tragedies, with families dying for the honor of the House. This is stirring enough, but perhaps more Italian than—” “It is nonsense,” says Oduvit, spitting to show his opinion of it. “It has nothing to do with Elsinor, or how our King amuses himself.” He turns on his heel and strides away, cursing steadily.
Mect watches him go, his eyes allowing no revelation of his feelings. “He is going to choke on his own bile one day.”
* * *
It is a splendid play, full of confrontations and revelations and all the large vast sensibilities that tug at the hearts of the audience. The court watches, with faces of those caught in a dream. Often I have wished for such an opportunity to engage my listeners so whole-heartedly. But that is not a jester’s lot, and where it is praiseworthy in players, it is lamentable in us. I have to regard this performance for what it is, and not what I would want it to be for myself.
The leader of the troupe, rigged out in breastplate and helmet and brandishing a wooden sword, has fascinated everyone with his declamations of love and grief, and his battle with the monsters has the whole of Hamlet’s court holding their breaths.
“Tell me,” whispers Mect to me as the actors hurry to change the scene, “why did they choose this play, do you think?” “It is popular,” I answer without thinking. “They like it.”
“But a play about a tragic love for the celebration of a wedding—doesn’t that strike you as strange? I would have thought they would find a tale more appropriate to the occasion. I wonder who asked for it?” He scratches his stubbled cheeks. “You may be right, but I feel it is more than you suppose. I watch them and all I can imagine is that they are warning Polonius, or perhaps the King.”
“Why would these players seek to warn the King? And of what?” I turn to him and hope for an answer. “Have you heard something, Mect?”
But before Mect can speak, the play is resumed, this time with the leader of the troupe lamenting over the fallen body of his beloved. By the time the scene is over, I have no sense of the need to ask Mect anything more, so engrossed am I in the phantoms of the play.
Only at the conclusion of the drama, some time later, does Mect speak to me once again. “You’re not like the others. You’re not ambitious or addled or a clown. You see what is going on around you. Keep careful watch, Yorick. There are stakes here you have not realized.”
“What do you mean?” I ask him, although I have some notions of my own I would rather not mention to him.
“Just that you should keep watch, for your own sake and the sake of your King. There are games here that very few know of, let alone comprehend.” He smiles once, and the smile is so world-weary that I can think of nothing more to ask him that would not increase his soul-deep fatigue.
“I am grateful, Mect, but I’m not as apprehensive as you are,” I tell him, in part to relieve him of some of the burden that weighs him down. “I’ve been at Hamlet’s court longer than you have, and I have weathered worse gales than a wedding and a play.” “That is not the source of the danger,” says Mect, “And well you know it. One must look to the King himself to know where the hazard lies.” I regard him steadily. “I am not so sanguine that I think myself invulnerable because I am a jester. Many would not bother with the likes of you and me, for fear of making themselves obvious. And I do not think that most of those who are here for spite or treachery will be much troubled by me. Because I am a jester.”
“Then it might be best if you were more wary,” he says, unwilling to set aside his foreboding. “Hamlet uses you to sound out the court, and for that you are exposed to more than laughter or Oduvit’s jealousy. You are likely to be one of the first to feel the lightning strike.” “Mect,” I say, shaking my head but trying hard not to make a jest of his warning, “you have been too long among the mighty and think that Denmark is the same as Germany. They are quite different.”
Mect bows to me. “Nevertheless, there is danger, my friend.”
“I will be mindful of it,” I say, and watch him walk toward the stage where the players are waiting in all their trumpery grandeur to receive the adulation of those who watched them perform.
* * *
What a magnificent wedding it is! The gaudiness of the players is nothing to it. All the court is decked in full splendor, and Polonius has been permitted to wear a golden laurel wreath instead of the garland of flowers usually given to a bridegroom. His wedding clothes are an Italian houpelande of Damascus silk that is the color of poppies and a camise edged in lace from the Lowlands, delicate as the ocean spume. Beside him, Ricardis in pale, embroidered samite is glorious as a wax taper studded with gems. Hamlet has also given her a chaplet of gold to serve as his wedding present as well as a portion of her dowry.
It is a long service, lasting from dawn to just before noon, and afterward there is a feast for nobility and gentry alike, with bread and alms given to the poor.
We jesters are permitted to watch from the choir, for otherwise we could not see the event. As it is, we spend most of the time trying to keep Oduvit from speaking his soft-voiced and lewd remarks loudly enough for anyone but ourselves to hear.
“Think of what Polonius will do tonight,” Oduvit says, running his tongue over his lips. “What treasures he will taste in that sweet spring bud he has picked. What it must be like, delving into such a woman. Have you seen the way she walks? There is rich treasure between her legs, and it is his for the plundering. What pleasure he will have with her. Do you think Polonius knows enough to realize how fortunate he is, and how poor the rest of us are by comparison?”
“It doesn’t matter,” says Mect in quelling whispers. “He is the King’s man and he marries as suits the purposes of the King.”
“Lucky for him that the King didn’t find a hag of thirty-five to lie down for him. There’s no pleasure to be had between sagging thighs and withered dugs.” He grinned angrily. “But he might not get children off such a harridan. The younger girl is better, and much more enjoyable.”
“Be quiet,” I warn him.
“Do you think she looks forward to the night, to his hands on her? Imagine his hands on her breasts. She looks to have large ones, with big nipples to feed big children. Do you think he will squeeze them and mouth them? Is he one who bites to show his passion? Do you think he will leave his mark on her? How long will it be before he has left his token in her? Is he one who leaps at the first sight, or will he linger over the event? Will she cry aloud when he is on her? Or will she only cry afterward?” He stifles his amusement as the priests bless Polonius and Ricardis. “Hush,” I say.
“She looks the sort who will have a taste for it. Once she has learned the way, she will be a mettlesome filly, full of tricks and needing a master in the saddle. Polonius will be run ragged, trying to keep her faithful,” Oduvit announces in an undertone, his eyes glittering with anticipation. “And when she gets bored with him, who knows where her fancy will take her?”
“No more,” I whisper, for I suspect Polonius heard the last, judging by the set of his jaw and the way he is standing.
Oduvit makes a great show of putting his hand to his mouth, nodding several times as he does. “Oh, yes, oh, yes. Very serious occasion. Decorum at all cost. Mustn’t be overheard,” he mumbles through his fingers.
“You will disgrace yourself wit
h Hamlet,” Hedrann cautions him, though his face is puzzled. “He wants this wedding; he said so.”
Oduvit is deaf to all of us. “I wager he’d rather have the girl for himself, instead of that sleep-walking Frenchwoman. Or a handsome boy. That might make a better prize for our King.” He smacks his lips. “Look at her—she moves as if she’s dreaming. No wonder she gives the King no children.”
“She is grieving for the child she lost. Women do that,” says Hedrann, whose three children all died of grey fever six years ago. His wife died the year before last, still filled with melancholy.
“Not she,” says Oduvit with a sharp look directed toward Gertrude. “She wants no children, not of Hamlet’s get.”
“Oduvit!” Mect admonishes him.
“Say what you want; I know I’m right. You have only to look at her to see it,” Oduvit insists, but falls silent as the wedding continues.
* * *
The leader of the players is called Hieronymous. He has accepted my invitation to take a cup of Rhine wine with me in what we call the Refectory, where the jesters dine. It is not far from the pantry and the succulent odors of the kitchen are always in the air.
“We play one more time this evening,” Hieronymous says as I fill his cup. “We are to do the Bride of Corinth, in four acts and nine scenes, one of them a battle. There are eighteen costumes in the play. Strange fare your King chooses for weddings.” He lifts his cup to me before he drinks.
“I have been told that play is the Queen’s choice,” I tell him, although I, too, think it is an odd selection.
“Well, we’ll do what they ask; that’s a player’s lot,” Hieronymous promises as he tosses off half the wine. “Not bad. Your King must have a good opinion of you to let you drink so well.”
The kitchen cat has ambled into the Refectory, tail aloft; she permits me to scratch her head and begs noisily for something to eat.
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 4
