Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

“But in your position, you must be aware of… something,” says Oduvit, enjoying himself hugely. “Surely you know the ways of the Emperor’s court better than any of us.” He opens his eyes very wide, to make himself appear innocent, or at least naive. He prongs another onion and holds his fork toward the fire, waiting while the pale yellow skin cracks and blackens.

  “Why do you persist in attributing such knowledge to me?” Mect demands of Oduvit. “I admit that I occasionally inform the Emperor of what I have observed here at Elsinor, and for this the Emperor has shown me some favor. But I am not one of his court, and I do not know what he likes from those who serve him, other than clear language.”

  “You are the Emperor’s spy,” says Oduvit with satisfaction, as if this were new to us and reason to excoriate Mect. “You are here to serve his ends. Who else is there?” “If there is such a person at this court, I know nothing of it,” says Mect, tiring of the game, and with an expression of doubt that is gone from his face as quickly as it comes; it strikes me that Mect worries about who may be watching him. “I would like it if you were less willing to challenge everything I say in regard to the court.” “You might like it, but I would not,” says Oduvit firmly as he draws his fork back and gingerly fingers the onion he has toasted. Satisfied, he blows on it several times before popping it into his mouth and chewing heartily and noisily.

  Mect shrugs his shoulders as if to show his helplessness. “You must please yourself, then.”

  “Always,” says Oduvit around a mouthful of onion.

  * * *

  Far into the next night the kitchen cat brings me a half-dead rat, dropping it ceremoniously on the end of the bed as she mews to wake me. At first I do not realize what she has done, but as I feel the stricken rodent scramble, chittering in dread and rage, to escape and watch as the cat strikes at him with her claws, tossing the rat into the air and slapping it as it falls, I come fully awake, sitting up and pulling my legs up to get away from the chase. “What a thing to do, little cat,” I say to her, trying not to sound alarmed, and hoping that the Male Goddess will not be distressed at this slaughter so near He-in-She; I can sense the little statue where it is hidden beneath the mattress as if it had suddenly become hot.

  The kitchen cat stops in her game to look at me, her eyes shining in the thread of light that comes from the torches in the hall. Then she is after the rat once more, leaping on it with care so as not to end her amusement too quickly. She appears satisfied with herself as she swats the rat halfway across the room. “What a good cat you are, killing rats,” I tell her as soothingly as I can, since this is her task and it is wise to praise a task done well.

  For an answer, she bounces onto the bed again, the rat dangling from both sides of her mouth; surely the creature is close enough to dead as can make no difference to it. I watch as she puts it down and paws delicately at it, hardly touching it at first, then buffeting it, as if to encourage it to flee once more. When the rat remains limp, she picks it up at the neck, gives it a hard shake, and then sets about the business of eating it.

  “Not on the bed,” I say with conviction, and move her and her prize to the dish where I usually put her food.

  The cat growls as I move her, and her ears angle back, but she accepts this change without too much protest once she realizes I am not going to take the rat from her. She eats steadily, diligently. When she is through, only the tail and the feet remain. Then she climbs onto the bed and settles herself against my side, purring contentedly and kneading my hip when she is not washing herself with her tongue. Sometime while she is at this, I fall asleep, her purring making my dreams sweet.

  MID-WINTER

  Gertrude is on the mend at last, and all over Elsinor the preparations for the Mid-winter celebrations become more eager. There is a lightening of spirit in everyone that reveals how great the apprehension had been while the Queen was ill. Now her returning health is seen as a good omen for the Prince and for the new year.

  Claudius is the most vocal of those who are planning the festivities, which are ten days away. “Last year it was enough to have the customary ceremony. But this year there are more reasons to celebrate, and we would be remiss in having nothing more than the usual festivities. We must show the world that we are thankful for all the good things that have occurred since the dark of last year.” He looks at the rest of the Counsellors with a kind of good nature that he has not displayed before. “Don’t you agree? Would you not like to share in my brother’s joy?” Old Horatio is the first to take up the question, his grave features turned to unfamiliar smiles. “It would suit the purposes of the King very well if we were to make the Mid-winter celebration a grand occasion. He has been given many favors by Heaven and it is well that he show his thanks. The court would also be able to reaffirm loyalty to Hamlet and his heir.” He says this with an underlying grimness that is more like him than this unwonted geniality.

  Polonius adds his opinions to the discussion, “It would be most fitting for the celebration to be a fine one, in order to provide the King the opportunity to show the world his hope for his son. And to present the Queen to the people again now that she has recovered.” He smiles, basking in what he supposes is Hamlet’s approval. “It would be a splendid gesture for you and your Queen, to show your son to all the world, my King”

  “Yes, it would,” says Hamlet. “And it will quell the rumors that continue to circulate in regard to the parentage of the boy,” he adds with asperity.

  “No one gives any credence to those rumors,” says Polonius quickly. “It is merely the working of idleness and vice.”

  “Then this court has been permitted to be most lax,” says Hamlet to the Counsellors. “I want no more of it. And I want these festivities to put an end to the guesses and speculations that have been rife for months.” He looks around at the confusion of the Council. “You think that I have been unaware of it? After all the pains I have been at to ridicule the rumors? Yet they have not ceased, and so it is my duty to my Queen and my heir to end them at last.”

  Horatio speaks for the other Counsellors. “No one here has any doubts about the Prince, my King. We have no reason to question the fidelity of your wife, and therefore no grounds to question who might be the father of your son.” His solemn eyes dwell on the other Counsellors in turn, measuring each man carefully, and none more than Claudius. “All of us stand as witness that your wife is faithful to you and to her sworn duty to Denmark.” Several of the others endorse this with murmurs and nods.

  “The Queen is above reproach and suspicion,” says one of the oldest of the Counsellors, “No man here can doubt that.” Hamlet listens to this with a sour satisfaction; his response is given drily, “I am grateful to have such support from my Council.”

  Claudius must feel the sting in these words, for the flushes, and rises to say, “The Prince has been recognized by the Council and you and the Emperor. Any man who questions his Right commits treason.” He crosses his arms on his chest with the look of one who expects further challenges.

  “So he does,” says Hamlet, his gaze on his brother. One of the Counsellors, a nobleman from the western coast with brindled beard and a shining pate, leans back in his chair and says, “Why not have more than one celebration? Can you not authorize many of us to have feasts and ceremonies on your behalf, so that the whole of Denmark can share your rejoicing? There is time for us to arrive at our lands, still, and arrange the celebrations.”

  “An excellent notion, Fabricus; let it be at Twelfth Night, though, so that you and the others from distant holdings need not rush away,” Hamlet declares, and is seconded by the nods of several of the Council. “And in these peaceful times, it will not put too great a demand on the treasury, which I fear could be the case were we at war.”

  “Our alliance with Fortinbras protects us,” says Claudius. “That, at least, is our hope,” says Hamlet, his manner prudent and careful. “Not that I fear any treachery or dishonor, but the Poles are restive and it may be that we will h
ave to meet them in battle before too much time passes.”

  “The Emperor holds them in check,” says another of the Counsellors, whose land is near the southern border, and who has maintained an uneasy peace with the Poles for many years. “As long as Kiel stands, and Schleswig, we are beyond their powers to hurt.”

  “They say that the Poles are raiding villages, as our ancestors used to do,” Horatio remarks. “That would be unfortunate, if it is true.” “They are only rumors,” says Fabricus, “And what fool raids in winter, in any case? There is too great a risk for too little return.”

  “But the spring will come, and if we must repel them, how are we to prepare if we have squandered our wealth.…” Horatio warns, his bushy eyebrows lowering so that it appears he is trying to hide behind them.

  Hamlet holds up his hand. “It is a moot point, at best, old friend. The celebration would do much for the people, and would make the Prince twice welcome in their hearts.” He claps his hands twice. “Let it be arranged. There will be Mid-winter festivities at the Epiphany throughout Denmark, and they will be splendid. We will arrange for gold to be paid for the extra expense of the ceremonies and feasts.” He looks toward me. “And we will have the players back. They do not often travel in winter, but I think we can make it worth their while to perform for us at Twelfth Night.” He is grinning now at the thought of what is to come. “I will inform my Queen this evening, so that she may say what will please her the most.”

  “She will not change the old celebrations, will she?” asks Fabricus with apprehension. “Being foreign as she is, she may not want to continue as we have done for so long.” His worry is shared by some of the others; they express their concern in side-glances and covert nods.

  “The Queen is Queen in Denmark,” says Hamlet firmly. “She will not forget that when I speak with her,” and he adds pointedly, “Her son is Prince here, and she will not want to compromise him.”

  “Of course not,” says Claudius.

  I am glad that Oduvit can hear none of this, or he would turn it to the vilest innuendo, which would lead to just what Hamlet wishes to avoid. And in spite of my liking for him, I am relieved that Mect is absent, also, for I would not like reports of this to reach the Emperor; no matter what Mect claims, we know his duty is to the Emperor before it is to Hamlet.

  “The celebrations are to honor my son,” Hamlet continues, warming to the notion. “Each of you will be at pains to make it understood that the babe is the Prince, and to be regarded as my heir.”

  Fabricus looks at his fellow-Counsellors. “He is a welcome child, may the Saints witness I say it.” He fixes his eyes on Claudius, “If anyone doubts the babe, let him say it before us now, that we may end the matter at last.”

  Claudius’ color heightens, but none of the men at the table speaks. Gradually the tension that had been mounting in the room diminishes, like a long, silent sigh.

  “Very well,” says Hamlet. “Let us decide how best to present the Prince who will follow in my steps when I am gone.”

  HEDRANN

  Hedrann is sitting alone in the Refectory, his face ashen, when I come in answer to his summons, carried to me by one of the scullions. He looks up as I enter and attempts to show a look of reassurance.

  “What is the matter?” I ask as I rush to his side. I can smell his sweat, all salty and sharp before I touch him, and I can see the slick sheen on his lip and forehead.

  “I…don’t know. A pain,” he says, pressing just below his ribs. “It was sharp a while ago, but it is duller now.” “When did this happen?” I put my arm around him and feel for the pulse in his neck, which is rapid and thready.

  “A short while ago. I had finished my breakfast and was dawdling over my morning ale when the pain began.” He winces as I try to make him more comfortable. “It will pass, or so I thought.” “Then it has happened before,” I exclaim in spite of my determination to be calm.

  “Not as severely as now,” says Hedrann, panting a little as he speaks. “This is the worst. I feel hot and cold at once.”

  I know that Hedrann is a simple man, one who has never tried to draw attention to himself or dissemble in any way but jesting, so I am certain what he has said is accurate, and that troubles me. “When this happened before, how severe was your pain?”

  He makes an effort to recall, squinting as he answers. “After some meals, I have an ache just here,” he shifts his hand a little to show me. “It is dull and fades after a short while.” “This pain isn’t dull, is it?” I ask as gently as I can, anticipating his answer. “No,” he says emphatically.

  “Yet it began as the other did,” I persist.

  “I thought it was going to be the same again. I’m used to it.” He shivers suddenly, and his features contort. “My wife is a good woman. She has given me herbs to end the pain. Send for her. Tell her I need her.”

  “I will,” I say, fearing already that this time his wife will not be able to help him, “Let me call for assistance.” “Very well,” says Hedrann, trying to prop himself against the wall as I ease away from him.

  At the door of the Refectory I find Voss himself, not quite listening. He straightens up and says at once, “It was not the fault of the food. I ate the same thing myself and have suffered nothing.”

  I have no desire to quibble over the breakfast. “Hedrann wants his wife. Send one of your helpers for her. She is in the town; the Guard will know where to find her.”

  Voss nods, saying, “I will do it,” and hurries away, shouting for one of his minions and barking his instructions.

  Hedrann moans, and then buckles at the middle. His face is alarmingly pale now, but there are red spots in his cheeks and along his neck. He gasps for breath, his hands clutching at his throat as if to open it. I rush back to his side, trying to forget the way Tollo looked when we found him; I am afraid that the same thing may be happening to Hedrann. As I try to comfort him, Hedrann turns to look directly at me.

  “It is over for me,” he says breathlessly.

  “Over?” I repeat, and do my best to deny what I am convinced is true. “You are not so gravely ill as that. You will recover with physick.”

  “No,” says Hedrann quietly, and with such conviction that I know further cajoling is useless, “This puts paid to me.”

  I lay my hand on his shoulder, and let the tears come. “I am sorry,” I say, and feel that there should be something more I could tell him that would give him sympathy, but the words will not come, and I fall silent in the face of his nearing death.

  “Take care of the Prince,” says Hedrann in a strange, strangled voice. Then he spasms, and there is foam on his mouth; his eyes roll and then go blank, fixed at a place on the far wall where I can see nothing but stones. He twitches, and his hands shake, but I know this is nothing but the spirit breaking free of the useless flesh.

  I speak a few words to the Male Goddess, and move away from Hedrann’s body. I realize that I must tell someone what has happened, yet I find it difficult to move. As if my feet were rooted in the floor, I linger, unable to look away from Hedrann’s corpse, my thoughts full of miserable reflections and speculations about dead jesters and the workings of hidden enemies; the more I dwell on these things, the less the world seems real to me. It is as if I have moved several steps behind myself and can no longer control my limbs and thoughts as I have. And thus I remain until a short time later when Mect arrives and startles me out of my dismal reverie. “What happened to Hedrann?” he asks when he has determined that the other jester is no longer breathing.

  “He had a pain, high in his guts.” I find it hard to recall what Hedrann said to me before he died; it is as if the whole event had been shrouded in mist, or seen through a thick window. With an effort I put my mind to remembering. “It was not the first time but it was by far the worst.”

  “How do you mean?” Mect demands.

  I shrug, then say, “He told me he had had something like it before, but not as severe.”

  “When
did he die?” Mect’s questions are deliberately blunt, and I know he is doing this to break through my paralyzing cogitations. “A quarter of an hour since, perhaps slightly more.” I discover that I can move without mishap, and I venture closer to Hedrann.

  “What did he say to you? Before he died, that is. Anything of use?” Mect picks up the bowl that Hedrann had overturned; he sniffs at it and sets it aside with dissatisfaction.

  “Only that he was in pain; he could hardly breathe at all, and his face—” I answer, feeling more a part of the world again, and not liking the sensation, “He wanted me to look after the Prince.”

  Mect shakes his head. “Very strange, that he should say that at such a time. But perhaps he didn’t realize he was dying.” “Oh, he realized it,” I say with sudden vehemence that startles me as much as it does Mect. I look down at my feet, confused at my outburst which was nearly an accusation. Of what? I do not know, “I did not intend any offense.”

  “I know that.” He starts toward the door. “I will have Voss post a servant here while you and I go to inform the Captain of the Guard what has happened.”

  I feel my cheeks grow hot as I recollect that this is something I should have done as soon as Hedrann breathed his last. I look directly at Mect, “You are right. I am in error.” “Not in error, I think,” says Mect, becoming very pragmatic. “You could not leave the body unguarded and therefore had to remain here until someone came to assist you.” He sounds so sensible that I permit myself to be persuaded. “If anyone is at fault, it is Voss, for not sending one of his scullions to help Hedrann and you.”

  As I move toward the door my legs feel as if they are made of wood. “The fact of the matter is that I was so struck by Hedrann’s death that I could not do anything.”

  “If there had been someone with you, I doubt that would have been the case,” says Mect as he opens the door and steps into the corridor. “If we wait for Voss to come here, too much time will pass. Let me go find him. You remain here. He will have to post someone at the door until the Guards take over the task.”