There are slices of cold meat set out for us, to accompany the wine, and I break off a little pork to give her; she takes it daintily then eats with dispatch, growling to herself.
“A pretty little thing, that cat,” says Hieronymous, watching the cat with some anxiety. “But don’t you find her unlucky?”
“Not I,” is my answer, “She is my good companion.” “Companion?” echoes Hieronymous, so shocked that he makes the sign to keep the Evil Eye away. “I wouldn’t take such a chance as that, having a cat so close to hand.” He shakes his head and reaches for the wine to refill his cup. “But a place like this has rats, I suppose. You’d want a cat for that.” “That’s true enough,” I agree, “There are no mice in my chamber.” I continue to rub her ears, listening to her gratified purr. I hope that the Male Goddess hears.
“But cats are dangerous. They stop the breath in the throat,” Hieronymous says, his apprehension undiminished.
“This one has never done such a thing to me, or to any of her kittens,” I tell him. “She is a good mother; better than many I have seen who walk on two legs.” I gesture around the Refectory, to change our subject. “Not too bad providing, is it?”
“Many jesters have to do with worse,” Hieronymous concedes, willing to talk of something other than the cat. “In Spain the King keeps only the mad to amuse him, and they are chained when they are not in his presence. The jesters in Burgundy might as well live in the stable for all the comforts they are given.” “They’d probably prefer to,” I say. “Live in the stable. Most horses are well-cared-for.”
Hieronymous pulls at his lower lip, making the movement an indication of his inward perplexity. “Don’t you find the life a little stifling?”
“Nothing like being a monk,” I point out to him. “And with such a back as mine, what else could I do if Hamlet did not employ me?” “It would be a quieter life,” he remarks.
“For those who seek quiet, I suppose it would be welcome, but I cannot be still, and kneeling hurts me. I can read and write, but to spend hours on a stool would be worse than the rack.” I give him more mead and have half that amount for myself. “If I were stronger, and my back straighter, I might have been a scholar like my father, but under the circumstances, that wasn’t possible.” The kitchen cat departs, paying no attention to either of us.
“A scholar, was he?” Hieronymous asks with interest. “With the King as his patron?”
“Occasionally. Most of the time he traveled, and was paid to teach what he knew. It was not a wealthy life, but we didn’t starve.” I pick up a morsel of pork and dip it in the mustard powder that has been set out. “The worst of it was that he was gone for long periods of time, and that made some hardships for the family.”
“It sounds as if his life was not unlike a player’s life, except his audiences were fewer and farther between. Still, he spoke to audiences, I would guess; we have that in common.” He grins, hefting his tankard again. “The new-wed pair, they are favored by the King, aren’t they? I have heard that the bridegroom has rendered great service to the Crown.” “That he has, and no one thinks so more than he,” I respond, wondering why this player should be interested.
“The pains of young success,” he says. “What man is noble enough to avoid them, or know them for what they are?” The question is surely rhetorical, and he gives me no opportunity to answer it. “I have seen it happen to actors. They learn a popular part and are well-received for performing a role that is designed to be well-received, and that in turn leads them to believe that they have accomplished more than they have; they do not realize that the role is what has succeeded, not their abilities. For some it is a crushing disappointment when such adulation does not continue.” He chuckles. “Is that Counsellor wise enough to avoid that later disappointment?”
“I don’t know,” I say, honestly enough, but with more reserve than I felt at the first, “Why do you speak of it?”
Hieronymous looks flamboyantly startled. “Oh, no reason in particular. Idle curiosity. Actors are forever watching the people around them, looking for things that will contribute to performances. I thought I recognized a characteristic pattern in that young Counsellor.” His smile is wide and candid, and for that reason alone I cannot trust it. “You know him better than I. It struck me that you could tell me if I had perceived this man correctly.” “I don’t know Polonius much better than you do,” I tell him as if it is a confession. “And I haven’t had much opportunity to study him. He came to court only two years ago and he has been gone on missions most of the time since, in other courts. He has been here for grand occasions, not for the daily routine. But I suspect you may be right in what you say.”
“Ah,” says Hieronymous, downing the rest of the mead, “Well, in time you will discover if he is up to the tasks the King will set for him.”
“In time,” I repeat.
“And in the meantime, he has a beautiful new wife to delight him, which has probably added to his sense of his own importance.” He leans back on his stool. “The King may have great plans for his young Counsellor.”
“Quite possibly,” I say, as much to give him no purchase on my opinions as to make myself appear attentive to his words.
Hieronymous shows me a satisfied mien, and I do what I can to mirror it.
ELSINOR
After the wedding and the departure of the players, Elsinor seems oddly empty and dull. The routine of the day, usually dependable and gratifying, after the excitement of the last few weeks now seems uninteresting and stultifying. Everyone goes about his work as if burdened. Everyone is restless. Hamlet is as much affected by this as anyone, and he confides in me one evening that he misses the days when he would gather his soldiers and take to the field. “There is no zest, no rigor any more. Oh, hunting may be fine sport and it gives some excitement for a day,” he admits, “but it is not the same as campaigning.”
“It is less hazardous,” I remind him.
This does not impress him. “Where’s the glory in safety? Or in killing stags?” His eyes are glum as he strokes his short beard. “It is well that we are at peace, I am well-aware of it, but it is infernally boring, too.” Before I can make any remark, he goes on. “Yes, I know that there are dangers aplenty around us. You don’t need to say anything, your silence is eloquent enough, Sir Yorick. But these dangers are not the dangers of cannon and lance and sword. Those are worthy opponents a man can face with a clean conscience. In peace, however, it is the subtle weapons one must fear—betrayal, poison, and scandal.”
There is nothing I can say that can deny this, or make it into a jest, so I reach for my jester’s sceptre and give it a good shake, as if to banish the doubts that have gathered around him. “There are more ways to rule at home than one.”
Hamlet turns to look down at me, and there is wrath in his gaze. “What did you say to me?”
I cannot help but retreat before those condemning eyes. “I…I said that…there are more ways to…to rule at home.” I swallow against the hard knot in my throat, but it will not budge. “I only meant that…that you could do more things, build new roads and bridges and ships. You can expand Elsinor or build a new castle. That’s all I intended. Nothing else.” What was it he thought I meant? I have guesses, but that is all they are, and I cannot bring myself to ask how I have given offense.
It takes several heartbeats for Hamlet to consider my hesitant explanation. “Apparently I’ve misunderstood,” he says, but there is still a condemning note at the heart of his implied apology.
“I spoke badly,” I tell him. “I never thought it would….” It is better not to go on, I realize. A moment later, I think of something else to say, oblique to what I suspect may be the reason for his condemnation. “Are you going to find another lady to replace Ricardis with your Queen?” The question might be ill-timed, but it serves its purpose.
“It’s expected of me,” says Hamlet, his eyes fixed on a point in the air halfway across the hall.
“She h
as not said so, has she?” I ask, knowing the answer; I have heard her speak to her remaining women and I know she does not want to be brought into the problem. “She says very little to me,” Hamlet sighs. “She is so quiet that sometimes I wonder if she is truly here, or if her heart is returned to Lorraine.” He continues that same, blank stare. Hamlet shakes himself as if to rid himself of clinging doubts. “Gertrude cannot be permitted to be without waiting-women; it isn’t fitting.” “Have you decided yet what family to honor?” It is an uncomplicated question, and I ask it as guilelessly as I am able.
“It isn’t as simple as that,” he tells me, frowning. “If I accept one woman, then another family is slighted. If I refuse a particular woman, all her cousins are affronted and—” He makes a motion as if ridding himself of something sticky on his hands.
“Has the Queen told you of any preference?” I ask. “She hasn’t said so. I think she is unwilling to decide. There are many who seek to provide Gertrude with companions. Everyone at court has a daughter or sister they would like to have here.” He purses his lips. “I haven’t yet decided what to do.” Relenting, he motions me back to the side of his throne. “My outburst was…I’m worse than a churl today.”
I make the most of my opportunity, and hope that the Male Goddess has not forgotten me. “Not worse than a churl—your clothes are too fine for that.”
Reluctantly he laughs, “All right,” he says, and I can hardly conceal the relief that comes over me; I have escaped his displeasure.
* * *
Word has come from Hamlet’s youngest brother that he is once again returning to court after more than seven years of travel and study; he declares himself eager to stand on Danish earth once again, though when he left it was with such scorn for this place that Hamlet was ready to throttle him. I hear the news from Hamlet himself when he informs his Council; I wonder how much remains of that discontented youth who claimed to want no part of his own heritage because he was convinced he would never rise beyond his place of Hamlet’s youngest brother. I try to calculate his age now—twenty-five or -six must be about right.
“Claudius has been in Constantinople, and Venice, and Milan, and Avignon, and will leave from Burgos at the end of summer, coming by way of Cherbourg and Bruges,” he announces. “It will be our highest purpose to welcome him home. With Frederick and Wilhelminus dead, he is more dear to me than any brother can be, for until my Queen presents me with an heir, Claudius must be the hope of my House.”
The Counsellors nod in somber agreement, all of them wishing to place themselves on good terms with the King’s only surviving brother; there is no telling what may come in time, and these men are canny, thinking to make the best of every new development at court.
“He is to be met with a suitable escort of knights and nobles, and his progress to Elsinor is to be accomplished with fitting grace and displays of esteem.” There is no disputing that tone of voice, and all the Counsellors know it.
“What festivities are in order?” asks Polonius, taking full advantage of his favored position.
“There must be some, and at more places than this,” Hamlet declares. “But I haven’t decided what is best to do. I will welcome your good guidance.” He inclined his head toward the Counsellors. “Let me know what you think is most appropriate.”
It intrigues me to watch how the Counsellors respond to this, though each of them attempts to hide his reaction from the others, for no matter how skilled they are, they cannot conceal the leap of hunger in their eyes, nor the quick tightening of their hands. This once I miss the stern honor of Horatio.
The rest of the meeting is filled with stifled zeal, and whether the need for a new road is discussed, or the quality of the early harvest, the excitement remains fixed on ambitions and the opportunity to gain Hamlet’s approval and favor; nothing else can eclipse that most compelling occasion.
CLAUDIUS
“I remember Claudius,” Oduvit remarks to the rest of us as we linger over the evening meal. “A mean-faced puppy, for all he was nearly of age, and jealous to a fault. He detested everyone who he thought belittled him, and could not be amused by anything but his own wit. He treated everyone like peasants except the King, and him he regarded as a potent force in need of constant placation. He despised his other two brothers, and made no secret of it. I heard him call Wilhelminus coward and a lover of boys; he dared not speak so of Hamlet.” He laughs, his brows raising as if marking a special tidbit of malice. “Not that it wasn’t probably the truth, from what was rumored at the time, but Willhelminus did not like to hear it.” “Best keep that private,” says Mect. “Hamlet seems to be pleased at Claudius’ return, and anyone speaking to his discredit may find himself in trouble.”
Oduvit spits a wad of crust into the corner of the Refectory. “I am a jester. Who expects me to cater to what others think?” “Hamlet does,” I remind him. “Hamlet expects us to be audacious,” said Oduvit mulishly. “And that is what I will be, or I will count myself unworthy to my craft.” His small eyes are hard and sour and his curving lips pout.
Hedrann listens to this with an expression of disappointment on his face. “I knew Claudius when he was a boy. He followed after Hamlet as if his brother were one of the angels, and grew angry when Hamlet would not play with him, nor allow him to participate in his training for war. Sometimes he would shout and rage for being neglected by Hamlet, and other times he would brood. I found him once, sitting in the armory, his face hard as tempered metal.” He glowers with the effort of bringing these things to mind, “Not that Claudius wanted to be a soldier. He hated the sight of blood and he was too much cossetted by his mother, he being her youngest and all.”
I, too, have memories of the young Claudius, and I tend to agree with Hedrann. “He was a very pretty youngster. He liked music.” “Wilhelminus ought to have been jealous,” Oduvit snickers.
“Frederick disliked Claudius,” Tollo says, coming out of the reverie that often possesses him. “They fought often.” “That’s true enough,” says Hedrann. He leans back on his stool and winks. “Frederick disliked everyone,” Oduvit declares. “It doesn’t surprise me that he fell in battle. I am only puzzled that it took so long for someone to kill him. I would have thought he would have fallen to—”
“Best not to say that where Hamlet can hear you,” Mect warns. “He took the loss of Frederick very hard.”
“Yes, he did,” I second. “And do not suppose that he will be glad to be reminded of the way Frederick got on with Claudius. It would offend him. He dislikes hearing the dead spoken of without respect.” It may be useless to say this to Oduvit, but I believe that I must make some attempt to curb his impetuosity, for the sake of all of us jesters. “What difference does respect make to the dead?” Oduvit asks, and reached for the last of the roast pork that has been the center of our meal. As he gnaws on the slice he has pronged on his fork, he waves his other hand in the air in blithe dismissal of the dead. “They are not part of the earth except as clay.” “Don’t say that,” Hedrann protests, crossing himself and looking about as if he fears there may be ghosts listening to our conversation.
“The dead are dead,” Oduvit persists. “When they were alive, they could be offended. But once in the ground?”
“Leave it alone,” recommends Mect.
Oduvit shrugs. “If you are too frightened to listen, then I suppose it’s best.” He favors Mect with a short, sarcastic bow. “I do not flee shadows, but perhaps my mind is freer than yours.” “Don’t confuse your mind with your tongue, and learn to guard the latter,” says Mect, his patience exhausted. “The day will come when you will have reason to regret your slights, otherwise.” Oduvit has more to drink. “The trouble with you, Mect, is that you don’t know what it is to be a jester, only a spy.”
Mect rises from his place and leaves the Refectory without speaking another word, ignoring Oduvit’s triumphant cackles.
RICARDIS
Ricardis has come to visit the court and to spend sev
eral days with Gertrude and her women. She arrives with Polonius and is received with pomp in the main hall where Hamlet has assembled all the Counsellors to honor them. As soon as it is seemly, she hurries off with the Queen once the formalities are over.
At Hamlet’s suggestion, I follow after them, shawm in hand, prepared to give them a few tunes while they talk, or to offer them other entertainment should their discussions flag. As usual, I am admitted with resignation and given a place at the far side of the Queen’s sewing room where I can be left to play, and where I will not intrude on their conversation. I settle on the hassock and give myself a little time trying to select a tune they would want to hear. Margitha is no longer truly fond of Ricardis, but she shows her the proper degree of cordiality. “It has been very different here with you gone,” she says, not adding that she has enjoyed a higher position. “I’ve missed you all, so very, very much,” says Ricardis, her voice low and full of feeling.” I didn’t realize how far away my husband’s family holdings are. It is as if we have reached the end of the world.”
“They are in the north, aren’t they?” asks Margitha, though it is clear enough that she cares little about Polonius’ estates.
“Very far to the north. The sea is around us on two sides and we are on a rocky inlet. I thought at first it was beautiful,” Ricardis tells them, “But it is very isolated, and I am often lonely.”
“It is hard to go to a distant place,” murmurs Gertrude. I have started “The Song of the Grail”, letting the strong, simple melody play itself while I bend my attention to what the women are saying. Now I have to fight the urge to let the shawm go silent and give up my pretense of not listening.
“Yes,” says Ricardis with sudden passion. “That’s why I’ve pleaded with my husband to bring me here, if only for a short while, so that I will not long feel I have disappeared like those Russian swans in the tale.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 5
