Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Now that I am close to the door, I yearn to be away from the dead man, but I nod my agreement, and place myself across the doorway so that no one can enter the Refectory. As soon as Mect is gone, I glance over my shoulder, hoping to find that Hedrann is alive, that the death was only a performance, such as the players give. But he remains still and his body smells of death now.

  By the time Mect returns with Voss, I have lost the veneer of distance that had served to protect me from the knowledge of Hedrann’s murder; I cannot deceive myself that this was another case of eating something that caused an antipathy. The image of Tollo has returned to haunt me, joining Hedrann in my mind. When only Tollo was dead, I could account for it as mischance, the ill-fortune of a foolish man who overheard something or witnessed what he should not; Tollo had been the victim of his own witlessness, or so I had convinced myself before Hedrann’s death. With two of our number dead, and dead in the same way, I cannot reconcile either man’s fate with single mischance; for reasons I do not comprehend, jesters have become the targets of deliberate malice. But who is killing jesters, and for what reason?

  Voss stops on the threshold and stares, his big face going the color of the dough he turns to griddle cakes. “Devils and Angels!” he swears.

  “As you see, the body must be watched, to be certain it is not disturbed until the monks can have a look at it,” says Mect as calmly as he can. “Put one of your most reliable and closed-mouthed scullions to guard the door.”

  “That I will,” says Voss, clearly eager to be away from this site of death. “I will do it at once.” Big man though he is, he scuttles off in unseemly haste.

  “Do we continue to wait?” I ask, although I try not to. “Until the scullion arrives, yes,” says Mect, going back to Hedrann’s body, his nose wrinkling in repugnance. “The monks will have to tend him, The Guards will not touch him, and the physician would have to be ordered by the King.”

  “Perhaps the King should be told,” I suggest, wanting to do the task myself, as much to take some action as to get away from this place. “It would be wise,” says Mect reflectively, “In private. At the moment he is closeted with Polonius and Count Holberg; it would not do to interrupt him with this news.” He regards me silently for a short while. “Yes. It would be best if you inform him, I think. He trusts what you say to him.”

  “And what will it be?” I wonder aloud.

  Mect answers as if the question were directed to him. “It would be wisest if you tell him what you saw and heard, from the time you found Hedrann until I came. Leave nothing out, or assume it is not important. He will want to know everything you can remember, for something that is trivial to you may have meaning for him.” He comes back to the door, his irregular features drooping with sadness and something more I cannot fathom. Who would have thought Mect would grieve for Hedrann? There is a sound in the corridor and around the corner comes the biggest of the scullions, a lad of about thirteen whose beard has just started to grow. He is pale but resolute as he approaches the Refectory, giving himself courage by behaving as if he already possesses it. “Voss sent me. To stand watch.” He swallows hard as he reaches the door, and he cannot stop himself from looking in at Hedrann. “Good fellow,” says Mect, the words coming more readily to him than to me. “We will be back soon, with the Guard.”

  “The Saints be thanked,” says the scullion; he steps into my place as I move aside to permit the lad to take up his post. There is a look of gratitude on the youngster’s face.

  * * *

  “Another jester killed!” Hamlet marvels in distaste when I finally manage to get a few minutes of his time as he hurries between the Council and his Reception Chamber. “Hedrann is dead, you say?”

  “Yes. He is lying in the Refectory now. The Guard has put a watch over him.” I did not see this for myself, but Mect swore to arrange it, and enough time has gone by that I was sure it was so. “The monks have been sent for,” I add, having done it myself.

  “You are certain his death was no accident,” says Hamlet, lowering his voice as we hasten through the gallery toward his Reception Chamber, the press of his schedule showing on his face.

  “Unless Tollo’s was an accident as well, no, it was not,” I say, surprised at my strong feelings on the matter. “They died the same way, from all I can tell, and that makes me doubt that either death was accidental.”

  Hamlet nods. “Since none others at Elsinor have had such sickness, I am forced to concur; both men were killed, probably by the same hand.”

  “And for the same reason,” I add, wishing I knew what the reason might be, for I am beginning to think that I am not as safe as I had hoped.

  Hamlet asks, “What were they doing, that they should be killed?”

  “I don’t know,” I admit, trusting that it was not true. We have almost reached the door to the Reception Chamber; Hamlet turns back to me.

  Hamlet pauses and says rapidly, “I must tend to court matters now, but when I am done, I want to know everything you can tell me about how Hedrann died. Come to me before we eat.”

  I bow to him, wanting to find comfort in his concern, and yet not succeeding. My shoulder aches, and I tell myself that it is the bitter weather that weighs on me, and not my grief, or my fears. As I leave the King to his audiences, I find my spirits lowering into gloom. Try as I will, I have no way to jest or mock the darkness away, and that causes me grave concern as I make my way back toward the Refectory where Mect and the Guard must be waiting.

  But as I let my thoughts wander, I discover that they continue to return to the problem of the reason for the murders. No matter how I try, I am not able to put the questions behind me for long. Who would want two jesters dead? And are the rest of us going to have to suffer the same fate as Tollo and Hedrann? I shiver in spite of my own stern inner warning not to. There is danger in showing fear, I remind myself as I walk, and do what I can to amble as if I had little to occupy my thoughts—certainly not death by poison, or the unhappy speculations of a man who feels himself a target. I implore the Male Goddess to give me warning of enemies; for once I think of the kitchen cat as more than a pleasant and friendly companion. She will lend me her protection, I am certain of it; not because of devotion to me, but because she will keep her den safe at all costs.

  Mect greets me as I near the corridor leading to the Refectory. “The monks have come,” he tells me in a calm way, but with a cautioning gesture to indicate we might be overheard. “They will tend to the body and will learn the poison used before they put him in the blessed earth.”

  “Well enough,” I say, and having nothing else to add, I start back toward the kitchen.

  “Oduvit has come, as well,” says Mect, his words stopping me. “He has talked Voss into giving him a tankard of mead, to assuage his sorrows, or so he claims.”

  I cannot keep myself from saying, “He must grieve constantly, for all the mead he drinks.”

  Mect smiles sourly. “True enough. He is one who must have his mead every day.” He cocks his head. “The monks are coming. We had better move aside for them.” I hear them as well, and I move quickly, for it is true that to impede the monks at their serving the dead can bring misfortune. “When will they bury him? Did they say?”

  “No; nothing of that,” whispers Mect as the first of the Capuchins come into view. There are eight of them, one marching at the head, his hood drawn down to conceal his face, then six of them bearing a covered pallet where Hedrann must surely lie. The last of their number brings up the rear. All of them chant as they walk, the steady rhythm of the Latin verses making a marching pace for them. As they pass, Mect crosses himself, and I do the same, knowing that the Male Goddess will understand that I intend Him-in-Her no disrespect.

  “I would like to know where he is buried,” I tell Mect when the monks are gone. “I would like to leave a token for him.”

  “Jester to jester?” Mect ventures. “I will ask the Abbot if it is possible to do this when he sends word of what poison was use
d.” He frowns, showing concern at last. “We must all be on our guard now, I fear.”

  “And I,” I say, as the stone corridor carries back echoes of the monks’ prayers for the dead.

  * * *

  “So I rely on you to protect me,” I tell the kitchen cat, only half in jest, that evening as I lie back in my bed and she kneads my side in contented determination; her eyes are half-closed and she purrs steadily. “Wake me if anything untoward happens, or there are suspicious fellows lurking about.”

  The cat continues to knead without any sign of having heard me, let alone comprehended what I said to her.

  “I know your language is not mine, but I hope the Male Goddess lends you understanding, for both our sakes,” I tell her as I attempt to pull my blankets higher, for the night is cold and sere, and at this bitterest part of the year this small room gets little warmth from the fires in the kitchen. The glowing banked coals of the big hearths lend a ruddy splash of light near the door, but the warmth does not carry so far.

  Gracefully the kitchen cat reaches out and puts one paw on my bare arm, extending her claws enough to inform me she will not tolerate being interrupted. Then she mews plaintively and looks at me with steady, somnolent eyes as she once again resumes her kneading; her purr is louder.

  Only when she is through and curled in the crook of my elbow do I dare to pull the blanket up over my shoulder.

  REVELS

  Claudius is grandly decked out in a new houpelande of Florentine velvet with a pattern of leaves worked in it; the color is a deep, rich brown. The lining of the dagged sleeves is a warm golden color, like summer peaches, in samite brought from Asia. His camisa is of silk tissue which he claims comes from Egypt, but whether this is true or not, who can say? As he has arranged the celebration, he stands at the main entrance to the Great Hall, flanked by Horatio, who is rigged out in a deep green huque in honor of the trees that do not die; Polonius is on his other side, very splendid in a long Burgundian pourpoint of dark red with vast bagged sleeves and a small lace ruff framing his face and close-trimmed beard in frothy white. At the far end of the Great Hall, Hamlet and Gertrude wait on the dais to receive the Mid-winter revelers. They are in full ceremonial dress, Gertrude with the Mid-winter crown on her head, the little candles glowing, making her face luminous.

  Beside them is the cradle where the Prince lies. He is fretful, and I have been given the task of tending him while all the guests arrive. Hamlet has told me he does not wish his son’s crying to mar the occasion, and I have given my word that I will try to prevent such a display, a pledge I trust the Male Goddess to help me keep. It is to be my entire obligation for the evening: to tend the Prince and keep him happy.

  The company tonight is very fine. All the nobles of Denmark, and several of Norway have come here for this occasion. There is even a small company of lesser nobles sent by the Emperor; they are shown every courtesy as they meander through the guests. Two consorts of musicians play at either end of the Great Hall, their melodies blending uncertainly toward the middle of the cavernous room where the confusion is the greatest.

  In the adjoining chamber, Voss has prepared a feast that surpasses anything I can remember seeing at Elsinor. Central on the table are a dozen roasted swans, their skins and feathers replaced so that it appears that they are still alive. They are set on a vast silver tray with crabs and oysters set out around them, as if for the swans to feed upon, instead of the guests. Two sides of beef hang on tremendous racks at either end of the table, Voss’ assistants standing beside them with great knives at the ready to slice away the meat requested. There are also four wild boars stuffed with apples, raisins, onions, and clams. More assistant cooks wait to carve these as well. Trays of braised venison with mushrooms and pepper flank the swans, the aroma almost a palpable presence in the chamber. Two huge wheels of cheese, all white and creamy, stand ensconced by piles of bread, with four tubs of fresh butter between them. Vats of beer and mead are watched by stewards who supervise the first pouring for the guests. Beyond this are trays laden with roasted pigeons, snipe, and cranes seasoned with pepper and dill and stuffed with sausage; collops of mutton in broth with sour cream steam in huge pots near the hearth. At the far end of the room is another table, this one decked with pies and spiced cakes and honied fruit and pots of custard, for the end of the feast. This is fare the Emperor himself would be proud to offer his guests, and Hamlet knows it, as does everyone in attendance.

  With only Mect and Oduvit to make merry for the celebration, Claudius has wisely chosen to have the music take up the greater part of the evening, so that the guests may dance, and thus entertain themselves and one another. He has made sure that these musicians are adept with all the popular dances, so that no one will be disappointed.

  An hour after the dancing has begun, when most of the guests have arrived, curtals, crumhorns and cornets hail the start of the meal, signaling the guests that they are at liberty to avail themselves of the delights of the table as well as the exercise of dancing. At a signal, Voss’ minions take their places to serve, and Claudius, as the evening’s host, announces that the feast is ready.

  “My Queen,” says Hamlet, holding out his arm to Gertrude so that she might join him in leading their guests to the banquet.

  “My King,” she says, putting her hand on his arm and coming down the few steps with great care, so as not to displace any of the candles in the Mid-winter crown. As she walks, her eyes stray toward the elegant figure of Claudius, who has come to the door leading to the banquet room.

  I have been told to bring the Prince and join the rest for the meal, but young Hamlet is starting to whine, and I decide to remain behind with him until he is in better humor. This permits me to observe the magnificent gathering more closely than I might have done.

  As Mect enters the banquet room, he pauses to speak with Claudius. They stand together at the edge of the doorway, heads bowed and slightly averted; I see each of them nod once, and it is possible that Claudius hands something to Mect, but I cannot be certain; then Count Holberg intervenes, claiming Claudius’ attention with a courtly bow and what would appear to be lavish praise for the evening.

  The Prince is waving his little fists in the air. He is nearly a month old now, and I have noticed what close attention he pays to his surroundings; I think he frets because he cannot discover everything at once. That would appear to be the case now, for he is coughing with the effort to rise in his cradle. Carefully I reach down and, speaking soft nonsense to him, lift him to my high shoulder, where he can ponder the world in peace.

  All but a few of the guests and the second consort of musicians are in the banqueting room by the time young Hamlet is composed enough to be carried there. I signal to one of the servants to bring the cradle, and I bear the Prince through the doors to the end of the High Table where Hamlet and Gertrude sit in state, engaged in conversation with those sitting beside them. Claudius is on Gertrude’s left, and he must be telling her something amusing, for she smiles at him and shakes her head, which almost oversets the Mid-winter crown. In haste she reaches to steady it, but Claudius is quicker than she, and he rights the crown for her. He touches the crown tenderly, and the back of his hand brushes her cheek.

  A few moments later, I bow to her, taking care to hold young Hamlet steady on my shoulder. “He is getting tired and hungry, my Queen,” I tell her. “Shall I send for Sigtha?”

  Gertrude sighs. “I suppose it would be better if she came than if I left,” she says after a thoughtful pause. “At least all the guests have seen him. They know he is in good health, and is alert, without blemish.” She puts her hand out and brushes the babe’s face very gently.

  The Prince takes hold of her fingers in his own, hanging on with persistence as I try to move away.

  I wait while Gertrude disengages herself, and then I put young Hamlet back on my shoulder again, and start off toward the corridor that will take me to the Prince’s apartments where his nurse is waiting for him.

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nbsp; “Ho, there! Yorick!” It is Claudius waving at me to come to him, Polonius sitting next to him. “You’re not leaving, are you?” “The Prince is tired, good Lords,” I tell them with a nod in place of a bow so that young Hamlet will not be disturbed. “I am bidden to take him to—”

  “Then you will come back here,” says Claudius with a sweep of his arm, “You must eat; then, many of us would welcome your amusements.”

  “Most of your amusements,” Polonius corrects, making it clear that he does not want to be the target of anything I might do or say.

  “I beg you will forgive me. I am supposed to stay with the Prince,” I tell them. “The King requests it.”

  Claudius is not to be denied. “When the child is asleep, you may come back. We will expect you within the hour. We will try to save some of this fine dinner for you.” He chuckles as if he has been very witty.

  “That is kind,” I say, and attempt to depart.

  But Polonius stops me with this observation; “The boy is not very like his father, is he? The hair is lighter than the King’s was in youth.”

  “The Queen has light-brown hair,” I stare at Polonius, and I can feel my heartbeat in my neck and chest, so great is the power of it. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, nothing of that sort,” says Polonius with a dismissing wave of his hand. “Never anything like that. It is only that Hamlet—that is, the King’s—temperament is forthcoming and valorous, while the son would seem to be—I would suppose I would call it inward. He is not a very active child, is he?”

  “It is winter and the babe is hardly a month old,” I say with asperity. “What would you expect of him? Do you think all children must be as imperious as your son to be regarded as forthcoming?” To my regret I notice that many near us are listening to my defense of the Prince. I realize I must soften my remarks at once or place the King in another awkward position. “Hamlet gave the Prince his own name, to show how alike they are. His father can see his own qualities in his son, and that is sufficient recommendation for the boy to me.”