Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “We can ridicule them,” Mect says, and gives another hard look to Oduvit. “Keep in mind that we are the servants of Hamlet, father and son.”

  Oduvit laughs. “You are the servant of the Emperor, and we all know it,” he says without apology.

  Mect glares at Oduvit, “This is enough from you.”

  “Oh? Do you say I lie? Will you answer for it?” Oduvit’s face grows a mulberry color from anger. “I will not challenge you,” says Mect, his features weary and hard. “But you are putting yourself in danger when you say such things, along with the rest of us.” He sets his tankard aside and folds his arms. “Because we are all jesters.” “How unfortunate,” murmurs Oduvit with a sly smile.

  “Yes, it is,” says Mect severely.

  Oduvit gives no answer to Mect.

  * * *

  The King is pacing his Audience Chamber alone when I answer his summons. His countenance is lined with worry and there is a light in his eyes that comes from unshed tears. “My Queen has taken a fever,” he tells me as I bow to him. “Because of the birth?” I ask, dreading the answer, for the fevers of childbearing claim many women every year.

  “So they tell me,” Hamlet says, putting his hands to his face. “I cannot lose her, Yorick. She is everything fine in my life. I cannot lose her.” “No,” I say, and add a prayer to the Male Goddess in my thoughts.

  “She isn’t strong, Gertrude isn’t,” he goes on, as if the words alone will ease his misery. “She is fragile. I am the most damned of all men if she dies.”

  “She will not die, my King,” I assure him, for no good reason.

  “She mustn’t,” he insists.

  “No, she must not,” I echo him. It is distressing to see Hamlet in such travail, and I try to find some comfort for him. “It is a bad thing that she has to suffer, my King, but it may be that the Queen is trying too hard to recover, and has worked herself into a fever through her efforts. My mother often said that women would do that, especially with a first child. She said that they want too much to tend their babes.”

  Little as that is, Hamlet seizes on it. “Yes,” he declares. “That must be what has happened. Gertrude is attempting to rise too quickly, to nurse our son, and she is fevered because of it.” He comes to my side and puts his hand on my good shoulder, “Thank you for your good sense, Yorick. I was half-mad with worry.”

  I would have put the madness as greater than that, but I say nothing of it. “She is young, and youth has its own strength,” I tell him, “That is what made her want to rise too soon to give suck to her boy.”

  “There is the wetnurse for that,” says Hamlet. “But Gertrude has said she wants to tend him herself. She thinks that her milk will be better for him, because he comes from her body.” He shrugged. “Women have the strangest notions about their children.”

  “What can it hurt, to have her nurse the babe?” I ask, wanting to give him less reason for distress.

  “Nothing, I suppose, though it is the task of humble women to care for children,” Hamlet answers, then gestures in the direction of the Queen’s chambers. “But they tell me that the boy is fussy, and so it may be that he will do better with his mother than a wetnurse.”

  “It is possible,” I venture. “And if it is what the Queen wants, it will give her reason to improve quickly from her fever.”

  Hamlet smiles as if this were a new thought to him. “Of course. I had not considered that. She will be pleased to know that it is decided. I will have her informed promptly that she will be allowed to take care of our son, at once, so that she will strive to get well.” He reaches for the bell to summon one of his servants, but I forestall him.

  “’I will carry the message for you, my King. I am here already, and it pleases me to do your bidding. Her women know me and they will not question what I tell them, as they might question another.” “You are the most sensible of men, Yorick,” says Hamlet. “And I thank my Guardians that you have been here to advise me. By all means, take the message to my Queen’s women.” He nods in the direction of the door leading to the corridor. “Be on your way, then, and return to me when you are done.” I bow and hasten to the task, going as quickly as I can without pain. There are several servants in attendance at the Queen’s chambers, and they regard me with narrowed eyes when I arrive, but none of them denies me the right to enter.

  Raissa is sitting in the outer chamber, her sewing neglected on the frame in front of her. She stares at me as I come to her side, bowing to her as if I were going to play the shawm for her instead of deliver the Kings message. “Well, well, does the King want to amuse his wife out of her illness?” Raissa asks sharply. “No,” I answer her with deference. “No, I bring word from Hamlet to his Queen. He has agreed to permit her to nurse her son as soon as the fever has departed. It is not the usual thing, but if it will give the Queen reason to improve, the King endorses it for her sake and the sake of their son.”

  Raissa watches me and claps when I have done. “Vastly pretty, Sir Yorick. Worthy of a courtier.”

  There is no advantage in bandying words with her. “See that the Queen is told this at once,” I instruct her, not wanting to listen to her pointed observations. “I will want to tell the King that she knows of his decision.”

  “All right.” She rises, setting her work aside, and goes into the room where the Queen lies. She returns shortly, her face ruddy and stiff with embarrassment. “Tell the King that the Queen is most grateful for his concession, and thanks him for his consideration.” She recites this as if for a zealous priest.

  “I will,” I tell her with another bow. “And when the Queen desires entertainment, she has only to send for me.”

  Raissa laughs once. “It isn’t the Queen who needs entertainment, but her son. He is forever fussing.” She regards me with less ire than before. “Do you think you could do anything to distract him?”

  “I have brothers and sisters, and I have tended infants before,” I assure her. “If it is necessary to take care of the Prince to aid the Queen, it would be my privilege.”

  “Well, I will ask Gertrude if she would object to your presence. With your shoulder, she may not want the boy to see you.” Raissa once again goes into the Queen’s chamber, and when she emerges, she looks at me with curiosity. “The Queen bids me tell you that she would be most truly grateful if you would find some way to entertain her son.”

  “I will do what I can,” I promise. “I will carry her answer to the King, and then return to the Prince.” As I bow a third time, I find my head is swimming, and I have much to do not to stumble. “I will return shortly,” I say as I leave the chamber.

  By the time I reach Hamlet’s Audience Chamber, the faintness has passed, and I have decided it was due to the closeness and warmth of the Queen’s chambers. I present myself to Hamlet, my bow no longer making my head light. “The Queen wishes to thank you for permitting her to nurse your son. And she has asked that I return to her, to entertain the child.” “Entertain?” Hamlet repeats with incredulity. “What does a four-day-old boy want with entertainment?”

  “They tell me he is fussy and they hope that I can provide him some distraction, so that he and his mother can recover from his birth.” I hesitate before adding, “I have already said that I would, and if that displeases you, I will do what I can to explain to the Queen.”

  Hamlet waves this caution away. “If it is what Gertrude wants, she must have it,” he declares as if making a proclamation. “Do what you can for the boy, and with my thanks as well as the Queen’s.” He regards me with some concern. “You don’t suppose there is something wrong with the boy, do you?”

  “No, my King, I think he is like most babes: eager for food and rest and caring little for anything else except keeping safe.” I look toward the high windows of the Audience Chamber, where watery winter sunlight is lending the room its pale radiance. “The christening is two days hence, is that right?”

  “Yes. The Archbishop will come from the Emperor to perform the
Mass, and to christen my son.” Hamlet straightens up. “The priests have already blessed him, to protect him.”

  I recall the prayers I have addressed to the Male Goddess on the Prince’s behalf, and I say, “He is a most fortunate child, to be so wanted.”

  “He is the hope of Denmark,” says Hamlet simply.

  * * *

  There is a pale fuzz on the Prince’s head, and his eyes are a disturbing shade of blue-grey that is like storm clouds blowing over the sky. His expression is intent and puzzled, in the way of so many babes, and he locks his little fingers tightly around whatever they can grasp. He has strong lungs, for when he cries, and he cries often, he demands the same attention as a Sergeant of the Guard giving battle orders.

  How can I amuse such a little whelp as he? This is the second day I have made the attempt; the first time I did nothing more than chuck him under the chin. Today I have brought my jester’s staff, but the boy only screams at the sight of it. I try girning, making as many grimaces as I can, but the Prince does not seem to notice the changes in my features, and continues to mule and whine. He wags his little fists at me, and his face screws up with temper or pain, I cannot distinguish which. So I take him up and sling him across my high shoulder, and for once the babe quietens.

  Raissa appears at the door of the Queen’s bedchamber and is about to admonish me when she sees that the Prince has become tranquil. “Well, that is remarkable,” she says in a soft voice. “None of us have had any success with him.”

  “I did this as a last resort,” I admit to her, and begin a bouncing walk down the room, taking care to hold the babe so that he will not fall from his place. “Who would have thought that your deformity would have such a use?” Raissa says in her sweetest tone. She does not look for long.

  I will not rise to her bait. “Be glad it is here for the Prince,” I tell her, so that she will have nothing to answer me. “Amen to it, Sir Jester,” she says with the first genuine emotion I have seen in her for well over a year.

  As I turn to look at her, the Prince trembles and his little hands dig into the high collar of my chaperon. I reach up for him at once and hurry to Raissa, “Get his nurse. He will need a change.”

  Raissa giggles. “What a chance you take, carrying him that way.”

  “He is worth the hazard,” I say as the new nurse—a portly young matron called Sigtha—hurries out of the Queen’s bedchamber, reaching out for the Prince with all the authority of her position.

  “How does the Queen?” I ask Sigtha as I hand the babe to her.

  “She is improving,” says Sigtha in her abrupt way; then she clucks over young Hamlet as if she were a hen with one chick. Then she is gone, the Prince cradled against her large bosom.

  “Gertrude will not be strong enough to attend. Tell the King,” says Raissa as she indicates the outer door.

  “I will,” I tell her, bowing before I take my leave. “I will come tomorrow, in case the Prince needs calming. Or you can send for me at any hour.”

  Raissa is about to make a curt remark, but then she thinks better of it, offers me a little curtsy, and follows Sigtha into Gertrude’s private chamber.

  * * *

  Polonius and Ricardis are the Danish godparents of the Prince; with Count Holberg standing as Fortinbras’ witness to the christening. Claudius is there as the guardian of the Prince, dressed twice as grandly as his brother, and wearing an expression of ferocious good-will. The Archbishop, a doddering old pirate with a cast in one eye, recites the office in a sing-song voice that suggests he has long since forgotten what the words mean. Gertrude is not at the christening, her fever having increased during the night. She is in the care of her women and the physician who has been sent from the Cathedral to attend her; there are prayers said for her recovery during the Mass. So it is left to the King to present his son to God; Hamlet carries the babe as if he were made of glass, hardly daring to put his big soldier’s hands around the infant for fear of bringing some hurt to him. He is stiff with pride, his beard bristling with the force of his feelings as he holds the babe out to the high-ranking cleric for the oil and water that will enroll him in the company of those protected by the Church.

  The Prince squalls his way through the ceremony, his little face tense, his fists striking out at the Archbishop as the blessings are administered. He is not in swaddling bands, but in miniature court dress; he throws up on his lace christening gown before he nearly pulls the mitre from the Archbishop’s head as he is given back into the care of his father. Sigtha stands behind the King, ready to take the babe if he becomes too troublesome or distressed; she is ruddy with pride and embarrassment to be in so august a place.

  I am the King’s witness, and I stand at his side, because I was there when Hamlet gave his son his name, and I am filled with the honor of the favor I am being shown. I am also touched by the knowledge that it seems the Prince has taken a liking to me, and is willing to be calm when I handle him.

  When the ceremony is over, I follow the King out of the Cathedral into the thin rain, and to the waiting carriage that will take the King and the christening party back to Elsinor. As I clamber into the seat between the King and Polonius, the King gives his son to me. “Can you do anything with him?” he asks, for the babe is crying with a dogged persistence that has turned his skin quite ruddy, and Sigtha, in spite of her best efforts, has not been able to ease him at all.

  “I will do what I can, my King,” I say with what confidence I can muster. I bounce the child in my arms a short while, and then sling him up across my shoulder as I did a day ago, letting him rest between my higher shoulder and my neck, where he can tug at my hair as the carriage moves off toward the castle. The Male Goddess favors me and the Prince settles into place, for he stops complaining, and the others in the carriage—Claudius and Polonius—take relieved breaths.

  “A very remarkable gift you have there, Sir Yorick,” says Polonius a short while later. “I wish it is something my wife could learn from you.”

  “I have no notion what the gift is,” I say with all candor. “Your son might not be satisfied with what I do as the Prince is.” “True enough,” says Hamlet, with a quick wink at me. “Each babe has that which will please it most. This Prince is no different than any other. Yorick pleases my son; he also pleases me.”

  “You are expert in what pleases infants, are you, my brother?” Claudius inquires with so much respect that it is impertinent.

  “I am familiar enough with what I have been told over the years,” says Hamlet, and adds, with a degree of apprehension, “When my first Queen was alive, her babes were all of different temperaments, and although none of them lived long, it was apparent that what delighted one did not delight all of them.” He looks at his new son and gives a tentative smile. “This babe is well and lusty, I am told.”

  “He has a strong will,” says Polonius. He makes the words emphatic, recalling that his own son has a hasty temper and great determination. “He will need it in days to come,” says Hamlet, his expression remote as he stares at the boy. “A Prince must have strength and will if he is to lead the kingdom. He must learn patience, too, and reflection as well, or he will come to ruin.”

  “Do you think he will rule well?” asks Claudius, making the inquiry so politely that Hamlet turns and stares at him. “It will come to him, won’t it?” He asks the question with the appearance of candor. “In time he will be King here, and although none of us wish for that day, we must know it will come.”

  Hamlet accepts this without cavil, “I think it is possible he will be a great ruler, once the crown is his. There is great promise in him, or so the astrologers have determined from their calculations. They tell me he will carry his burdens with honor and will acquit himself valiantly against his enemies. It is what I hope for him, and pray he will achieve.” There is a warning in his words, and the two brothers watch one another warily. “He will have to strive for what is his, as must all Kings. But you will help him, will you not?”

>   “Certainly,” says Claudius, too quickly.

  “I am grateful to you for that,” says Hamlet, and watches while I hold the Prince.

  * * *

  We jesters are in the antechamber between the bath house and the kitchens, eating toasted onions and cheese in front of the great hearth where huge logs crackle and smolder. It is very late on a blustery winter night, and we have been permitted this indulgence because an envoy has arrived from the Emperor to deliver the recognition of Hamlet’s heir; we were asked to entertain the envoy and his company on very short notice, and we all missed our suppers.

  Shortly before, Voss has brought out a vat of pickles, which we are allowed to take without regard to quantity. He also presents us with another sack of little onions and a pail of warm beer. “It will keep the cold out,” he says, with an inclination of his head to all of us, his manner as grand as any Margrave or Hertzog. The kitchen cat’s son has taken a place by the fire, but ignores us all as being beneath his notice, for we are eating nothing he wants; earlier he sniffed the cheese and found it contemptible.

  Oduvit has another tankard of the beer, and he waves Voss toward the door with a mockery of the cook’s manner. “We will fend for ourselves, Master Cook. The fare is humble, to remind us of our place, but it satisfies us. Get you to bed, for the dawn comes early after such a night as this.”

  Voss is offended at this cavalier dismissal and he stiffens at the remark. “Take nothing more than what I have provided you,” he tells us all, but directing his admonition at Oduvit. “With such grand company at Elsinor, I will need everything I have in stock in order to show him sufficient honor.” “Stuffing him to the gunnels is surely an honor,” says Oduvit, who then rounds on Mect. “What do you say? Does the Emperor want his envoy fed to bursting as a sign of respect, while we go on cheese parings and monks’ stew?”

  “I do not know what the envoy expects, or the Emperor,” says Mect brusquely.