Again Hamlet laughs, and this time the Counsellors join in more readily; even a few of the ladies giggle. Claudius has done nothing.
“Does it seem to you, my King, that the world is full of cuckolds, or it is only the whispers of the envious who make it seem that way?” I reach for a tankard of beer and lift it to Hamlet. “And if the world is full of cuckolds, then it would seem to be a noble company, if half the whispers are true.”
At last Claudius speaks. “You are impertinent, jester!” he thunders.
I bow to him. “Naturally. That is my job.” Then I bow again to Hamlet. “If I offend, my King, you may claim my head for it.”
Hamlet makes a sign that he wishes me to go on, “You are most amusing, Sir Yorick. I am not offended. Do not let my brother’s too-sensitive dignity hamper you. Say on.” He glances quickly at Claudius. “If you dislike what Yorick says, Claudius, you may leave.”
That is the one thing Claudius does not dare to do. He sits in stony silence as I continue.
I begin a tale of the Ottomite ruler who was so in fear of being cuckolded that he locked all ninety of his wives in a castle and set an army of eunuchs to guard it; the clever wives gave the guards sweet wine to drink that had been drugged with a potion that would make the guards remember only that they had remained at their posts, and while the guards slept, they had the luxury of their lovers.
All through the story, with its complications and ruses, Hamlet laughs as if the shadow of betrayal could never touch him, and when I am through he presents me with a ring set with fine blue stones. “Have you more such lessons to teach?” he asks, and makes a little nod to tell me what my answer must be. “I have dozens of them,” I answer truthfully, hoping he will not ask to hear them all. “Tell me the best of them,” says Hamlet, and nudges Claudius with his elbow. “These stories. They are instructive, aren’t they?”
Claudius makes his mouth stretch wide, but it is no smile he gives his brother. “Vastly amusing.”
There are tittles from the Counsellors, and a few of the ladies turn their faces flirtatiously aside.
“With all this talk of cuckolds, I suppose it is not strange that a jester would know so many tales.” Hamlet looks encouragingly at Claudius. “Have you heard any story you can add to those Yorick has told? In your travels, weren’t there tales of the fate of cuckolds? Tell us one, Claudius.”
I could almost find it in my heart to be sorry for Claudius at this moment. He is furious and he is chagrined, and he blames all of it on Hamlet. I decide to intervene before things are said that the Counsellors should not hear. “I know a tale that is said to be from the Great Khan’s court, about one of the Princes there.”
Hamlet relents. “Tell the story, Yorick. And mind, Claudius, if you think of one we do not know, be prepared to tell all.”
TOLLO
I am wakened by a pressure on my arm, but it is not the paws of the kitchen cat but Mect’s hands that shake me. “Hurry. Get up.” He holds a candle and I see his face is very somber.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, rubbing my face and shaking my head to chase the sleep from them. “What hour is it?”
“Very late; after three.” He thrusts my clothes at me. “Hurry.”
I struggle to pull on my clothes and only then hear the faint, mewed protest of the cat from where she has curled beside my pillows. I reach out and stroke her to reassure her, but my attention is on Mect. “Why do you want me at this hour? Has something happened?”
“Tollo has taken a fit,” says Mect. “Worse than the other times.”
It is a shocking thing to hear, and I stare at him in the candle’s unsteady light. “How, worse?”
“He lies on the floor twitching. There is foam around his mouth and he has started to vomit twice, but so far nothing has come of it.” He shoves my boots at me. “He is the color of old cheese.”
I mutter a few words, making them indistinct; the Male Goddess understands, and Mect will not. “Has the physician been summoned?” “Oduvit is looking for him now,” says Mect.
“Oduvit?” I exclaim as I jam my feet into my boots.
“He dare not fail,” Mect assures me as I get to my feet. “Are you awake now?”
“Awake enough,” I say, and glance back at the kitchen cat, who has turned her back on me and has made herself into a circle on my pillow. “Where is Tollo?”
“In the alcove off the Audience Chamber,” says Mect, his candle held in the protection of his hand.
We make our way through the kitchen; the embers of the banked fires give an eerie, red light, as if the stones themselves were about to burst into flames. “What was he doing there?”
“No one knows. And Tollo cannot tell us,” says Mect, his concern revealed in the brusqueness of his answer. “A scullion found him, not quite two hours ago.” We hurry up the short flight of stairs, then hasten down the hall toward the first of two galleries that will lead to the Audience Chamber.
“He was fine when we ate,” I remark when we have gone half the distance; I have been thinking about how Tollo has been behaved for the last few days. “He made no complaint beyond the lack of salt in the soup.”
“And he was in good humor in the afternoon,” Mect agrees. “But now he is suffering the pains of the damned.” His candle nearly flickers out and he stops to let it flare once more. “When did it begin?” I ask, thinking of the other fits I have seen Tollo endure.
“We don’t know. After we ate and before he was expected to sleep,” says Mect in deepening concern as he begins walking again, at a bit slower pace for the sake of the candle.
“And it is still upon him?” It would mean that the fit has lasted more than three hours, and I have never known one of his fits to last so long. “It was when I came to fetch you.” We are through the first gallery and have just entered the second. It is a larger, handsomer room, with paintings on the ceiling and tapestries over the walls; because it is summer the room is stuffy but in winter it is cozy and warm. Just beyond the double doors is the alcove where Tollo waits.
“Who is watching him, if Oduvit has gone for the physician?” I ask. “Not Hedrann?”
“He is the only one we can trust.” He looks over at me. “You know we’ve been keeping Tollo’s fits a secret. And that if they were known, he would be given to the monks and locked in a cell.”
“I will be silent,” I promise.
A moment later we reach the alcove, and there on the floor is Tollo lying in a pool of vomit and blood. Hedrann is kneeling beside him, one hand on his hair, as if Tollo were sleeping.
“It is all over,” says Hedrann quietly.
Mect blesses himself, and I whisper a few words to the Male Goddess. “When?” asks Mect.
“Just now. One moment he was jerking like a gaffed fish and the next the blood came with the vomit, and he was gone.” Hedrann sits back on his heels, “I didn’t know what to do.”
Mect puts his hand on Hedrann’s shoulder. “You could do nothing. No one could.”
It is strange, seeing Tollo dead. Already he stinks, but his blood is so fresh that it has just started to congeal. What did he think of dying, I ask myself and the Male Goddess, poor Tollo and his disordered wits?
There is a noise from the other end of the alcove, and the door swings open. Oduvit hurries in, leading the physician who usually treats the servants. “There.” He points to Tollo, and then realizes that he is dead.
The physician wears the resigned look common to his calling. His approach to the body is grave and deliberate, and as he reaches it, he put three fingers in the spread of blood and sniffs them. “You say he had a fit?”
“He has had them before,” I answer when no one else is willing to.
The physician snorts and wipes his fingers on his old-fashioned bag-sleeved huque. “This was no fit,” he announces ponderously.
“No fit?” Mect asks sharply.
Before he speaks I know what he will say, and I steel myself to hear it.
The p
hysician satisfies himself that he has all our attention. “This man died of poison.”
* * *
Tollo is buried at the end of the chapel, under the floor. There are few mourners, and the priest makes his service short. We jesters attend, and a few of the servants; none of the court or the Council are with us.
Afterward we go to the smaller gallery where a meal has been set for us, and we toast Tollo’s memory until the pain of his death is dulled.
At the end of the evening, when our speech is slurred and our eyes wander, Mect says to me, “Be on guard, Yorick.”
I stare at him, my eyes not quite focused. “On guard?” I repeat. “Why?”
“Tollo died of poison.” He waits until I nod. “Men do not die of poison by accident. Someone killed him.”
I consider this as best I can. “He had no enemies.”
“He had one,” Mect corrects me.
AUTUMN
Summer passes into autumn early this year; the end of August sees the first leaves turn. The flowers in Gertrude’s garden fade and wither as she grows clumsy with her pregnancy; she is content now to sit with her women once more, doing needlework while I play my shawm for them. Peasants grumble at the first of the harvests, and complain that some of their later ones will be lost if the rains return too soon.
Polonius comes back from Norway filled with news and himself. He proclaims his successes to all who are willing to listen, and he basks in the flattery of the court and the respect of the Council. By the time he leaves Elsinor to visit his wife and son, he is sleek and burnished as a favored horse. Claudius is not so sanguine. He has busied himself with the affairs of the Council, but is beginning to chafe at his subordinate position. He takes to hunting stags and boars, and spends his evenings roistering and playing games of chance away from the confines of Elsinor; Hamlet makes no effort to stop him.
Oduvit is less boisterous than he was before Tollo’s murder. Mect continues to warn us of possible enemies, and for once Oduvit has taken someone’s advice to heart; his spite is no less than it ever was, but he is more skillful at concealing it. When we are alone, he is scathing as ever, but before the court and the Counsellors he depends more on his tumbling and wide range of impersonations instead of his sharp tongue.
And the kitchen cat sees her son depart, to be Voss’ favorite and lord of the pantry; when they meet now, it is he who lays ears back at her. If this causes her any anguish I cannot detect it; I continue to bring her food and she continues to sleep on my bed, and I thank the Male Goddess for the privilege of her company.
Through the autumn a routine sets in, one that verges on dullness but for the occasional whispers and the annoyance of boredom.
Then, on a squally night in the third week of November the Queen goes into labor, and all Elsinor is caught in the uproar. Raissa, Margitha, and Hildegarde all rush to attend her, and Mother Bertrade is summoned from her apartments by Hamlet himself. In the kitchen Voss prepares broths and hot wine, and orders his staff to remain at their posts until the heir is born. A Captain of the Guard is kept at the ready, his horse saddled, waiting to carry the news through the country.
About midnight Hamlet summons me to his side in the reception room just beyond the Queen’s apartments. There is a fire blazing on the hearth and occasionally the tapestries flap with gusts of wind. Hamlet leans on the mantlepiece, his head bare, his features deep with worry.
“My King,” I say to him, bowing. How am I to amuse him on such a night? I have brought my shawm in case he would rather have music than antics. “You can’t hear anything from this room,” he says after short silence. “I think I can hear her scream, but it is impossible.” He rubs his forehead. “They have nothing to tell me yet.”
“Some babes take a long time to be born.” My mother often told me that, and I repeat it now in the hope that Hamlet will take some consolation from it.
“They do, so I understand,” says Hamlet, and motions me to one of the stools in the room. “No need to stand. This may be a long time.”
“She will be safe, my King, and your heir.” I hope it is true.
Hamlet nods as if his head were stone. He gives me no further orders, and I wait to learn what he wants of me. Eventually he says,”I probably should not have married her, but Denmark needs an heir. And she is a pretty thing.”
“She is a worthy Queen,” I tell him, wondering if I this is what he wants to hear. “Yes; Yes.”
A servant arrives with a tankard of hot spiced wine for Hamlet, and he asks that a second be brought for me. When we are alone again, he says, “Claudius is away, at one of the hunting lodges.”
“Just as well.” There is no reason to give the court a chance to remember the rumors of last summer; I wish my own memories of that time were less disturbing. I take my shawm and begin to play “The Oath of Sir Edward”.
Some time passes and Hamlet has finished his wine and mine has grown cool. I have gone through another four songs and my mouth is feeling stiff.
Mother Bertrade enters the room, very dignified in her black and white garments and her voluminous guimp over her grey hair. “The Queen is doing well. You have no cause to worry for her safe delivery,” she says, looking directly at Hamlet. “If you are as most men are at this time, you will have imagined every horror.” “Is she—” Hamlet breaks off before he can form a question.
“Bringing a babe into the world is hard work; make no doubt of that, my King. But your Queen is a strong lady and she knows what reward awaits her when her efforts are over. Set your fears aside. She will be tired when she is done, but nothing more than that.” Mother Bertrade gives a twitch to her skirts and curtsies. “Your son will be here with the dawn. Until then, content yourself; you have done your part. Let your Queen do hers.” Without any more display of courtesy, she withdraws from the reception room.
When the door is closed Hamlet curses roundly, and adds to the air, “He had better be here by dawn, and he had better be he, old woman, or you will answer for it.”
HAMLET
During the night the squall becomes a proper storm, and so the first fading of night goes unnoticed. In the reception room next to the Queen’s apartments the fire has burned low, and for the last hour Hamlet has dozed in one of the chairs while I have done my best to stay awake in case there should be a summons.
But Mother Bertrade comes to Hamlet, Raissa and Hildegarde with her. There is blood on her apron now, and in her arms is a tiny, red, wet, howling infant, half-wrapped in swaddling linen.
Hamlet starts at the babe’s cries; he stands up slowly with awe on his face, nodding to Mother Bertrade.
She is in her glory now, and she says as if she were announcing the arrival of tire Emperor, “My King, I have the honor to present your heir.”
Hamlet’s eyes brighten as Mother Bertrade holds the precious bundle out to him. Custom requires that he take the infant, to show that he acknowledges it is his, and Hamlet does this with alacrity, holding the child awkwardly but with fierce protection.
“And the Queen?”
“She is well,” Mother Bertrade says. “Margitha is bathing her, and then she will be given broth and put to sleep.”
“The child?” Pride and anxiety war in him, but I can see that pride is steadily vanquishing all other responses. “He is flawless, my King,” Mother Bertrade assures him. “He has the right number of everything he should have.”
Again Hamlet nods, and calls over his shoulder, “Yorick, I want you to witness this.” I scramble to my feet and hasten to his side, bowing twice. This is an honor that I had supposed would be reserved for Claudius or Horatio or one of the elder Counsellors; for a jester to witness such a portentous moment is remarkable.
“Here is my son and heir,” says Hamlet in the ritual phrase, and watches as Raissa and Hildegarde curtsy and I bow again. “Hamlet,” he names the boy. “Prince of Denmark.”
* * *
Within ten minutes everyone in Elsinor knows about the Prince. Bells ring from
the chapel steeple and there is cheering in the soldiers’ barracks. The whole palace is a blaze of lights in the dark, blowing night. The messenger rides off to carry the joyous tidings through the countryside and to the cities. Hamlet orders that flagons be filled with beer and mead, the better to drink the health of his son.
“A fine day for Denmark,” says Mect as he lifts his tankard and drinks deeply.
I cannot help but wonder if the Emperor will agree when Mect sends his report, but I touch the rim of my flagon to Mect’s, saying, “True; the King is a happy man tonight.”
“More fool he,” mutters Oduvit as he takes a long draught of the mead.
“Enough of that,” I warn him. “It is sufficient to know that Hamlet recognizes the boy as his.”
“You were there to see it done, weren’t you?” Oduvit asks nastily. “Strange, to use a jester instead of one of the Council.”
“I was in attendance,” I remind Oduvit and the others. “I was the one he asked because I was there, and Hamlet did not have to delay establishing the legitimacy of the child, which he would have done waiting for a Counsellor.” “He gave the boy his name,” muses Hedrann. “He can have no doubt of his fatherhood to do that.”
“Or he wants to put such rumors to rest,” Oduvit says quietly, his nose in his tankard. “What better way than to make it appear he has no doubts about the boy?”
“You have a vile tongue, Oduvit,” says Hedrann.
“I am a jester,” Oduvit answers with an exaggerated bow. “And I have eyes in my head. I know what I see.”
“But you have no sense,” says Mect. “The King will not welcome the jibes he has endured these last seven months, not now that he has a son.” He regards the rest of us carefully. “It was one thing to make jest of the rumors before the child was born, but now Hamlet will not permit any of us to question his son’s Right.”
I agree with Mect, and nod as he speaks, adding, “How are we to deal with the rumors now? They will not stop because the King has a son.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 13
