Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Well done, well done,” Hamlet says amiably as he holds his hand out to raise up his wife “She is lovely, isn’t she? And as sweet-tempered and thoughtful as any man could wish. You are right, Claudius, Heaven was good to me when it sent me Gertrude.”

  He beams at his wife and then at his brother. “It does my heart good to see so excellent a beginning made.” He turns to Claudius, adding, “I know myself to be the most fortunate of men.”

  I scramble down from the dais and hurry to Hamlet’s side, pretending to be eager to amuse, but in truth to find what it is that has suddenly made the air feel as if there were lightning in it. I bow to Hamlet and Gertrude, then give a lesser bow to Claudius, doffing my hat with a flourish.

  The look in Claudius’ eyes has changed to one a hawk might have when it finds its prey. His pale blue eyes are brilliant as ice as he again stares at Gertrude. “Well met, Queen and sister,” he says, so smoothly and deeply that I think the player Hieronymous would envy him. “Well met, my husband’s brother,” she answers, and there is a tremor in her voice that I have never heard before.

  “Fortune has given you a treasure, indeed,” Claudius goes on to his brother although he does not look away from Gertrude.

  “So I think, and thank God for it every day,” Hamlet declares. He looks from his wife to his brother and grins. “How good it is to have my family united once more.” “Yes,” says Claudius, his voice an echo.

  Gertrude says nothing. When she looks at Claudius again her lips are moist.

  * * *

  It is Oduvit, of course, who cannot contain himself. “Did you see the way that popinjay devours the Queen with his eyes? Strips her bare and plunders her like a woman taken in war?” His laughter is more malicious than ever, and he rocks back on his bench. “There should be scorch marks on her clothing, for the way he looks at her.”

  Hedrann is staring at the far wall of the Refectory, his wide, loose mouth turned down at the corners. “It’s a bad business.” “And Hamlet!” crows Oduvit. “He’s done everything but turn back the sheets for his brother. Mark my words, he will have horns before May Day.” His baleful merriment fills the rest of us with gloom, just as he intended. “How splendid an opportunity this is. What is wrong with you? Don’t the rest of you know how fortunate we are?” “The King deserves loyalty from us,” says Mect quietly. “And never more than now.” He pours more wine for himself but does not drink it. “I doubt he understands what has happened.” “Who?” demands Oduvit. “Not the King, no, he’s ignorant and happy. Like so many cuckolds. He thinks that he has made his wife and brother friends. Friends!” He hoots with derision. “And when he finds out—”

  “You would be worse than a fool to appoint yourself the bearer of those tidings,” warns Mect.

  “There may be nothing to find out, and no message to bear,” I remind him. “Claudius may look, and he may dream, but he is not so lost to honor that he would betray his brother’s wife.”

  “Wouldn’t he?” Oduvit asks, his smile becoming sweet. “I think he would like nothing better than to claim something that was Hamlet’s as his own. The more Hamlet treasures it, the more Claudius lusts to have it. And what does Hamlet value more than his French wife?”

  “You are treading on dangerous ground,” says Mect, his tone sharper and his face no longer composed. “For God’s sake, let be.”

  This serves only to make Oduvit more determined to press on. “It is going to be very amusing. For once the jesters will have the better entertainment, and something the court will laugh about with us. Imagine how they will sneak and steal and lie. Ah, yes, especially lie.” He is giggling now, and he draws his knees up toward his chest, his face suffused with color. “Oduvit!” I speak his name like a curse, and have the pleasure of seeing him wince as if he had been slapped. “Listen to me, to all of us. We will not let you bring shame to Hamlet, not by jest and not by snare. You are not to meddle in this.”

  “Of course not,” says Oduvit, though none of us believe him. “For once be guided by us,” Mect implores him. “There is too much at stake here for you to make light of it.”

  “Certainly,” says Oduvit, less convincing than ever. He drinks his wine quickly and stares around the table at the four of us. “You don’t see the opportunity, do you? You’re as bad as the Counsellors, trying to put a good face on it when anyone can see that there is going to be nothing but problems here.”

  “That is why we must put a good face on it,” Mect says. “We, more than any other, for in a court, the gossip will follow the jesters’ gibes more often than not. And we would do the King and ourselves no service to arouse him to wrath, or to mock him for his brother’s desires.”

  “It is our work to jeer at what the mighty do, to show their folly and their frailties. It is our skills that make such things comedy instead of tragedy. And this has all the makings of a tragedy if it is not mocked.” He sets down his flagon and folds his arms, glaring at each of us in turn; only Tollo, whose wits are more disordered than usual, pays no attention to him. “If you speak of this, if you mock it, it will be a tragedy in the making, thanks to you,” I tell him flatly, no longer willing to dispute the matter with him. “If you make yourself a traitor to the King, you will also become my enemy.”

  “What does that matter to me?” Oduvit asks with all the insolence he can display. “An enemy of a jester. How frightful.” “I have the right to challenge you; and jeer if you wish, I will do it,” I say with more heat than I had intended.

  “Challenge me? What? To fight?” Oduvit drains his wine again and flings his metal cup aside.

  “Yes,” I tell him, taking no heed of Mect’s hand on my arm.

  Oduvit is laughing so furiously that there are tears on his cheeks. “You and your knighthood!” he howls. “You think it means something! Sir Yorick!” And with that he has to reach out to steady himself so that he does not fall off his bench.

  “It’s bad to laugh like that,” says Tollo suddenly. “My mother said so.” He crosses his arms over his chest, his hands turned inward on his shoulders. His knees draw upward and he whines a little.

  “Yes,” says Mect, “it is bad to laugh like that.” His face is hard as he regards Oduvit. “Listen to me, Oduvit,” he says quietly. “If you put us in danger, Yorick is not the only one who will turn against you.”

  Tollo begins to weep in earnest. He looks from Oduvit to Mect and pales with fear. As he ducks his head, he sobs.

  Oduvit’s laughter ceases, and he snorts to show his contempt. “Two jesters, and one of them more spy than jester. What have I to fear from the likes of you?”

  * * *

  Shortly before she departs for her husband’s estate, Ricardis spends one more afternoon with Gertrude, this time in the Ladies Hall, where Gertrude has taken to reading during the pallid hours as the distant sun fades. Most of the time she has Margitha for company, but today, as Ricardis is leaving at first light tomorrow, she sits with the Queen alone; I am there only to provide music for Gertrude, for which I am grateful.

  I have my shawm and I sit on the far side of the Hall, as I often do, for the King wishes to make the days less burdensome to his Queen. Today I have been playing simple country tunes, the lively and the plaintive ones by turn.

  “My husband tells me I will not be able to come again until May Day, for the festival then.” Ricardis holds an open book in her hands but has not looked at the words on the page. “I wish it could be sooner.”

  “So do I,” says Gertrude, sounding almost half-asleep. Languidly she leans back in her chair, her attention fixed on the large tapestry hanging over the window to keep out the cold, and the light as well. She indicates the stitched scene of courtiers parading in a garden, blooming trees around them. “These eternal dark days. Don’t you wish it were spring?” “Yes,” Ricardis answers with feeling. “It is so…. She puts her hands to her face to conceal her tears.

  “You mustn’t do that,” says Gertrude calmly. “It does no good and it weake
ns us. You must learn not to weep.” “How can I not?” Ricardis asks as her tears come faster, “They say that when women are bearing, they weep at nothing. And this is more than nothing.”

  “Tears are never for nothing; that is why you must never let anyone know you have shed them,” says Gertrude with an intensity that she rarely shows, and adds, “Are you certain that you are bearing?” “Fairly certain, I cannot eat of mornings, everything oversets me, and”—she puts one hand to her breasts—“they’re so sore all the time.”

  “Does your husband know yet?” Gertrude asks, once again in her remote way. “I haven’t said anything to him,” Ricardis admits tearfully, “I don’t want to tell him and then have him be disappointed.” “Disappointed?” Gertrude repeats. “He should think himself honored above his merits if you give him an heir.”

  “And if it is a girl, what then?” Ricardis asks. “I have prayed and prayed that it is a son, but I am filled with terror that it could be—”

  “A living child, sound in limb and wits—that is what matters,” says Gertrude. “All else is nothing but vanity.” Ricardis takes two long breaths but cannot stop her weeping, “It is so demeaning, giving in to this.”

  Gertrude sits up and reaches out to her companion. “You cannot, because you must not, or you will lose all,” she says with great conviction and none of the listlessness she possessed until this moment. “You must never let them know that you can be beaten. If you do that, they will be at you and at you and the time will come when you will capitulate.” She puts her hands on Ricardis’ shoulder, not in the easy, nonchalant manner she does with the others, but with vigor, as if she is urging a solider back into the fray. “Make them think that you are indifferent to what they do, and they will not hound you.”

  I set my instrument aside; I do not want either of them to notice me. They will remember I am here soon enough.

  Ricardis has not regained control of her feelings, and though she listens, she shakes with her effort not to cry out. Her eyes are like one blind, staring at a distant place. She seems wholly caught in her misery as surely as if she were in a prison cell.

  “Be resolute, Ricardis, and take care to guard yourself against all the assaults they make on you. Do not let yourself become their slave. It is what they want, but it is the way to defeat.” She takes Ricardis’ hand and holds it between her own. “Be like Elsinor, or Polonius’ castle, and close your gates to any who will to take you, either by stealth or by attack.”

  “My Queen?” says Ricardis, with a tone in her voice now that hints at new understanding. “What do you mean?” “We are the citadel, and they will hold us in high regard only so long as we remain unconquered. We challenge them with our unassailability, and they show us attention and respect for as long as they cannot prevail. It is their way to want us to fall to them, and to despise us if we do capitulate at last.” Gertrude hesitates, and goes on with less determination. “And like citadels, we must be most careful of treason within. Our trust may defeat us more readily than foes could. We will suffer more for our own weaknesses than for their weakness.” She lifts her chin, and I see something in her expression that is there only for an instant, a look of a lonely child.

  Ricardis is nodding, and she no longer weeps. She pulls her hand free from Gertrude’s and touches her guimp as if she could rearrange the hair beneath. She bends forward and whispers something to the Queen, and Gertrude shakes her head in sympathy.

  What would the Male Goddess make of this? Does He-in-She have such misunderstanding? Does that-which-is-female fear that-which-is-male? Or has He-in-She resolved these battles which consume the Queen and the women around her? Does the Male Goddess triumph by truce or by unity? I keep my thoughts on these matters so that I will not be tempted to eavesdrop. “But it is very hard,” Ricardis says a bit later, no longer whispering. “With the child coming, I want to surrender to him, but not on his terms.” “They are the only ones you will be offered, and your capitulation is the only goal,” says Gertrude with resignation. She is not able to smile, though her mouth curves up.

  “And if you try to tell him that is what he is demanding, he will laugh at you, or think you are a fool.”

  “Like one of the jesters,” says Ricardis sadly. “Yes, Polonius often tells me that he wishes he had my simplicity of thought. He tells me that his life is made difficult because of the complexity of his mind.”

  “Jester,” murmurs Gertrude, and looks around.

  Ricardis puts her hand to her lips. “Do you suppose he is capable of changing his—”

  “Yorick,” says Gertrude sharply. “Leave us.”

  I rise and bow to her, then pick up my shawm and hasten to the door. As I step into the long corridor that leads to the gallery over the inner court, I notice that Claudius is walking there, a book in his hands, his noble brow slightly furrowed. He is in another one of his splendid houpelandes, this one of velvet the color of pine needles, I bow to him, expecting him to pay no notice to me.

  “Wait a moment,” he tells me, holding up his hand.

  I stop, offering him a bow; since he has arrived he has been a stickler for courtesy, and most of us have not wanted to dispute the question. It is easier to bow than to debate about it. “What may I do for you, my Lord?”

  Claudius smiles at the sound of his title. “Give me your company for a short while. I must confess that Roman de la Rose is beginning to pall.”

  “Guillaume de Lorris is hardly Aristotle,” I say to him, letting him take it as complimentary or derogatory, whichever he prefers.

  After a pause no longer than the flick of an eyelid, Claudius says, “Ah, that’s right. Your father was a scholar, wasn’t he? My brother had him do tasks for him from time to time. He found books for him, didn’t he?”

  “Occasionally,” I say, disliking the air Claudius has taken on.

  “No wonder you know about Guillaume de Lorris,” says Claudius, satisfied that he has settled a question in his mind. “Yes, he is a light author. But pleasing in his way, and as sharp of eye as he is of wit,” says Claudius as he closes the book. “On such a day as this he brings greater enjoyment than weightier writers.”

  “I suppose he must,” I say, wishing I had reason to leave him, for there is something in his eyes that speaks of obsession and longing.

  Claudius cocks his head on the side. “You have been with the Queen?” “So the King commanded me,” I answer.

  He gives a decisive nod as if it were his orders I followed, not his brother’s. “Good. Very good. My brother is a very prudent fellow. On days like this one, while it is snowing, there is so little any of us can do to be amusing. All the Counsellors are in terrible humors; I left them to their acrimony more than an hour since. I suppose even you and your fellows are at a loss at times like this.” He purses his lips, then regards me quizzically, “And how is she?” “She appeared well,” I tell him, and so that he will not press me for more, I add, “I am there to play for her, and I have to keep my thoughts on my music, not the conversation of the Queen and her ladies. It would not be fitting to do otherwise.”

  “But do you—” Claudius begins.

  I shake my head and hold up my shawm as a signal to stop him. “I am the King’s Jester. I am sent to her to help speed the hours of the day and give her ease. She does not impart her thoughts or concerns to me.”

  “No, of course not,” says Claudius hastily, gesturing to show how important he thinks this is. “It would certainly be most improper if she did.” He smooths his free hand down the front of his velvet houpelande. “A great honor for you, though, to be sent to entertain her.” “Yes.” I bow once again—with Claudius such demonstrations are always welcome—and point down the corridor. “If you will excuse me, noble Claudius? The hour is growing late. It is dinner time for me; we jesters eat between your meals, so that we can entertain you while you dine.”

  “What a sensible arrangement,” Claudius approves, and indicates with a wave of his hand that I may take myself o
ff.

  MID-WINTER

  In spite of the snow we open the west doors to let the old year out to follow the setting sun, and the east doors to allow the new year to enter with the dawn. This honors the Male Goddess, but no one mentions it, not any more. Gertrude wears the Mid-winter Crown, with eight candles glowing brighter than a halo, a reminder of the sun’s return. Her cotehardie was made in Lorraine and was sent to her by her mother; it is a shade of blue the sky might yearn for, and she keeps her place with such serene elegance that not even Claudius can outshine her.

  For all the dark of the year, the King has been busy with the celebration; yesterday he led the hunt that brought back the meat for this feast. Already boar and deer and elk have been brought to the kitchens to supply the fare. Tonight Hamlet does the work of host with good-will and good-fellowship, filling the goblets himself and cutting the slices off the huge elk turning on the old spit in the Great Hall. Everyone laughs with him and wishes him joy of the new year, and he is as amiable as the landlord at a posting inn. He greets each person by name, and gives them the blessing for the twelve months to come, asking for health and wealth and happiness for every house in Denmark. As each of the guests go to kiss Gertrude’s hand, he promises them all that this year will be one of joy and prosperity. Tomorrow he will lead us all to Mass.

  On this night the musicians have more work than the jesters. We are expected to dance and to tumble when midnight comes, but generally we have little to do but watch the festivities, because the Bishop has ruled that there is to be nothing to honor the old gods, not worship nor masques.

  “I noticed that Horatio has come back at last,” Mect remarks to me as we sit in the corner chewing on our slices of elk.

  “Yes,” I say. “I spoke to him when he arrived. It must have cost him much pride to be here.” I have another swig of hot wine and continue to chew the tough meat. “His wife gave him a son a month ago. I am guessing that he wants to secure a place for him at court when he comes of age to be an esquire or a page.”