“Are we bickering?” marvels Raissa, “I thought we were having a needed discussion. Surely that is what Ricardis intends, being a matron of experience and the wife of a great man.” She looks down at Margitha, who is tending to Prince Hamlet, trying to keep him wrapped in her shawl, though the babe is making determined attempts to free himself. “He’ll defeat your best efforts. He is that kind of child.”
“Perhaps,” says Margitha, who refuses to be drawn into Raissa’s skirmish yet allowing no aspersions to be cast on the Prince. Hildegarde looks worried, her pretty eyes moist. “This is hardly suitable conduct in the Queen’s presence.”
“Or anywhere else,” Ricardis adds with a mordant smile.
Raissa laughs in brittle amusement. “Suitable conduct for the Queen’s presence means many things, it would seem, if half of what one hears whispered is right,” she says pointedly. “We, being her waiting women, do not believe the calumnies hinted at. But if we were courtiers instead of ladies, who knows what we might do.” “Raissa, that’s enough,” Gertrude insists, moving forward where she is sitting, her features set with contained vexation. “Fine welcome you give Ricardis. If you will not mind your tongue, you may leave this chamber.”
“Like a wilful child, expected to have no supper when he has offended his family. It is fitting.” She laughs in merry wrath. “Very well, I surrender the field, since I must. If you ask it, my Queen, it is my pleasure to obey,” she says, with a curtsy as if at a court ceremonial, her skirts around her like an unfurling flower bud, then rises and sweeps out of the room, leaving Ricardis the victor.
“I regret my return has occasioned such…ingratitude,” says Ricardis, setting the seal on her triumph.
“Hardly ingratitude,” says Gertrude, then goes on briskly, “But you have reminded me that I have been lax. I have kept Raissa by me longer than I ought. She is in need of a husband, and I am duty-bound to find one for her, and see her happily established. Her father allowed her to accompany me to Denmark because he had been assured his daughter would find a noble husband at this court. I have not done all that I ought to bring it about.” She sighs once. “I will have to speak to the King, and ask if he has any man he would deem suitable.”
“Do you suppose Raissa would deem him suitable,” says Hildegarde, an unspoken question in her statement.
“Why would she not?” asks Gertrude. “She knew the reason she was sent with me when we left Lorraine. It is fitting that she wed a man of good reputation and position at court.” She stares down at her son, who is busy trying to unknot the shawl around him. His little hands are not skilled enough or strong enough to free him. “He is too proud to weep.”
“That he is,” approves Margitha, trying to comfort the little boy; he wants no part of her sympathy and thrusts her away with his dimpled fists.
“That is badly done, Young Hamlet,” says Ricardis, “You must not lash out at those who help you.”
Hamlet gives a single, indignant cry and his face turns very red as he continues his struggle with the wool. “What a determined boy, and determined so young. See how he works at the problem he has set himself,” Margitha approves, and unties the shawl. “You will want it again, soon enough, when you realize how cold it is.”
But the Prince is happier for his freedom than his warmth, it would seem. He crawls off rapidly, bound for the large embroidery frame where his mother is working. He nearly reaches her when Hildegarde bends down and scoops him up in her arms.
Perplexed, Hamlet looks around, then gives Hildegarde a long, angry stare, and his body grows stiff in his silence.
Laertes has found a cushion and he is pummeling it for all he is worth, whether to draw attention to himself or to release his high spirits is anyone’s guess; Ricardis hurries to her son, clucking approval and warning at once. “Not so fierce, my fine, strong boy. You will have to curb your temper here with this gentle company.”
“Yorick,” says Gertrude firmly, signing to me with her hand. “Take the Prince. He always calms when you tend him.” I put my shawm aside and hurry to Hildegarde, reaching out for young Hamlet as I get nearer to him. “Hey, my Prince, what’s this?” I say to him as I take him out of Hildegarde’s grasp. “Why so pokered up? What petulance. Show me how you can laugh. One would think you were the Emperor—they say he laughs only at the misfortune of his enemies—and not the Heir of Denmark.” I sling him over my shoulder, where he likes to ride, and I give him a quick kiss, making it smack; he usually laughs at the sound and the face I make when I kiss him. This time he does it reluctantly.
“Doesn’t it worry you to have the Prince tended by.…” Ricardis gestures in my direction.
Gertrude shrugs. “Why should it? Yorick is devoted to the child and the King trusts no one more.” She guesses some of the meaning and has the kindness to flush. “The Prince will take no injury from him.”
“But to let him ride on so crooked a back …” Ricardis says in dismay. “What if the Prince does not grow straight?”
“His father will see that he does,” says Gertrude with unexpected rancor. “He is determined to make young Hamlet in his image, a soldier with unblemished honor.”
I know it is not wise to listen, but I am unable to stop. My attention is wholly given to what the women are saying, which irks the Prince, who begins to pull at my hair. I reach up and swing him down where I can look into his face. “No, little monarch. You are not to do this. It hurts your servant,” I tell him as I free my hair from his fists.
“You are very patient with him,” remarks Gertrude in that off-handed way she has of speaking when her thoughts are elsewhere. “He’s too young not to be,” I say to her, and wish I could learn what it is that holds her attention so constantly.
Young Hamlet yawns with the huge suddenness of the very young; it is all I can do not to yawn with him.
“The Prince is getting tired,” says Hildegarde, once again coming to hover near him, ready to take him from me and put him in bed.
“He’s been busy for so young a boy,” I remark, bouncing him a little; he rewards this entertainment with another yawn. “Yes,” Gertrude agrees. “He should be put to rest in his cradle,” she adds, motioning to Margitha to take the babe from me.
“My son will have to play alone then,” says Ricardis, proud that her boy should have more endurance than young Hamlet. Gertrude turns and regards Ricardis with sharp eyes. “You would do well to let him sleep now, as well. He will fuss later if you do not.”
Ricardis smiles, having made her point, and goes to pick up Laertes, taking him into her arms with a sudden, protective gesture made awkward by her pregnancy. “Come, my little love. It is time to rest, since the Queen will have it so.” Laertes’ sudden squalls of fury mark his departure in his mother’s arms; Margitha sighs as she bears the Prince off for his nap.
* * *
All of Elsinor is in a bustle; the news is that Claudius and Polonius are returning in three days. Everyone is striving to celebrate the event with proper satisfaction and approval, for according to what has been learned from the messengers, Claudius and Polonius have achieved wonders on Hamlet’s behalf with the Emperor, and it would be unwise to be thought lax in observing their success—at least, that is what the courtiers have convinced themselves, and Hamlet permits them to think it true.
“It will be good to have them here once more, and better to have their good advice in regard to Ludwig,” says Hamlet as his Counsellors leave the Council Chamber at the end of a long morning.
“True enough,” says Horatio, his face dour as ever.
Mect is waiting in the doorway, and I cannot help but wonder what he has overheard, and how he will use what he has learned, if he has learned anything; in the last few weeks he has demonstrated a resentment toward me I have never encountered before, and I am still at a loss to know how best to respond. How dangerous is he? I wish I knew how to determine that. He bows to Hamlet as the King leaves the Council Chamber, Horatio a little behind him. “God keep yo
u, my King.” He refuses to look at me, though I stand at Hamlet’s side.
“And you, Mect,” says Hamlet, signaling me to come with him. “I will be pleased to see what entertainments you have to honor my brother and Polonius when they arrive here.” The day before he put Mect in charge of arranging for the welcoming festivities, and it is apparent to me that he is apprehensive of what may happen because of his trust. “May what I do please you, my King,” Mect says with a bow and a quick, sullen glance in my direction.
Hamlet sees this and says, “I have been keeping Yorick with me more than is my wont; I depend on his recommendations to prepare a proper reception. Be sure that your part will be acceptable to Yorick and it will be acceptable to me.” He is walking faster and I have to almost run in order to keep up with him. As soon as we have rounded the corner in the hall, Hamlet lowers his voice. “When Claudius and Polonius return, he will have something from the Emperor, no doubt,” he mutters, as much to himself as to me.
“Mect?” I ask, knowing that Hamlet is referring to Mect. “How will he get word?”
“Someone will bring it, of course,” says Hamlet with asperity. “Someone with Polonius and my brother.”
“Do you know who that will be? What could the Emperor require of Mect that we do not already know?” I do not want to consider the notions I have had, because such thoughts seem disloyal to Hamlet, but I cannot stop the suppositions that turn in my mind; that it would be like Claudius to curry favor with the Emperor while he undermines Hamlet.
“I cannot think what it would be; and I may never discover,” he admits; I suspect that he is afraid of what such a discovery would mean to him and to his House, yet I do not speak of this. “But if you can learn, tell me what you know. I depend on you for this, Sir Yorick.” He speaks softly but with great feeling and my heart goes out to him. “No matter what you learn.”
I pause long enough to bow. “I will,” I promise him, keeping my reservations to myself, in the hope that they are in vain.
PLAYERS
Hieronymous is getting rigged out in elaborate vestments like those of the highranking Churchmen of Rome: his clothes are of a purple that puts old wine to shame, and he has a head-dress sitting out on the table with his face-paints and mirror that is a tall, diamond-shaped structure edged in small, glittery metal buttons meant to shine like gems. He has lit the candles on either side of his mirror and is now applying lines of dissipation to his own features, sinking his right eye in shadows and the appearance of puffiness, then emphasizing the arch of his nostril. His pleasant, rather bland face is becoming one I do not recognize. “The play will intrigue the King and those near him; at least Mect thinks it will, and he is the one who has chosen it.”
I no longer put as much faith in Mect’s judgment as I once did. “Let us hope that Mect is right,” I say.
“Oh-ho,” Hieronymous exclaims, though the brush in his hand remains steady and his eyes never leave the mirror; he is shaping the right side of his mouth, making the lower lip appear to droop, giving an impression of depravity. “Rivalry amongst the jesters.”
“Not as you mean it, no,” I tell him.
“You have no idea how I mean it,” says Hieronymous. He nods at the curtain which separates his area from that of other players, as if reminding me that everything we say is overheard. “It is the way of the high-born, to be certain that those serving them remain at odds.”
“Remain at odds,” I repeat, mulling this over, and thinking of Claudius, who was born at odds with his oldest brother. “Yes, I suppose there are rulers who would do that,” I say. “But Hamlet is not one such.”
“They all are one such,” says Hieronymous, in cynical, philosophical resignation. “Some are more skilled in how they do it, and others are clumsy, but all of them do it.”
“You are certain of that,” I say, although it is a question. Hieronymous sets his brush aside and looks at me. “I have seen noble courts from here to Italy, and never have I seen one where the ruler did not encourage his underlings to vie with one another for attention and favor. Except where the ruler is abusive and capricious, the manipulation is successful; it keeps the court loyal by making sure they never trust one another, only the ruler. Your King is masterful in his use of it. He does not appear to encourage rivalries for no reason, and he is at pains to keep the rivalries from escalating into angry court factions.”
“Court life lends itself to factions,” I remind the player. “All the nobles make it a contest to see who can become nearest the Crown for favor.”
“So they do,” says Hieronymous. “Especially where there are ambitious younger sons and eager courtiers. And every court has eager courtiers; the rulers attract them as a corpse attracts maggots. And many rulers have younger brothers.” His chuckle is light and malicious. When he calms himself, he adds, “Half the plays in the repertoire are based on such rivalries.”
“Including the one you perform tonight?” I ask, making it more of a challenge than an inquiry.
“No,” he says, and laughs; his face is half a mask of debauchery and half a flour-whitened expanse unmarked as new snow, and it is strange to watch him. “In this one the rivalry is within in the Church, not among sons, and the stakes are not the power and title of King, but the right to order the worship of God, and judge the world in His name. Different goals altogether.” He touches the mitre, his fingers caressing the false jewels, “But I suppose the principle is the same.” “You suppose,” I echo, and glance toward the cloth partition. “Mect chose the play, is that right?”
“He and I together,” Hieronymous corrects me. “We both wished to find a tale that would honor the occasion without causing doubts in the King’s heart. Given the errand his men were sent upon, it would be astonishing if Hamlet did not have an occasional suspicion about the high degree of success they claim to have had.” He picks up his brush and resumes his painting, now working on the left side of his face.
“And would that be your reason for making the Church the villain now?” I do my best to ask lightly, as if I find the question amusing.
“Not the specific reason, but Churchmen are the safer target in this part of the world. This isn’t France, or worse, the Papal States, or Austria. Here they do not speak of torturing witches as they do in Spain, or imprisoning heretics, as they do in Venice, or exiling questioners, as they do in Dalmatia, or stoning doubters, as they do in Bohemia. In those places we do not take the Church to task, for fear of what the Church might demand in return. Here we have fewer constraints. So we may mock the Church without fear of recrimination.” He is adding red color to his paint-sunken cheeks, and stops talking to complete the process. “In those places where the Church is the greater authority, we make the Kings and courtiers villains.”
I watch him with interest, fascinated and repelled by turns at how a few shadows and lines can transform a pleasant visage into something quite hideous and wholly unfamiliar. To cover any offense my staring might give, I remark, “Jesters do not use paint to change their faces,” and add inwardly: they have already been made strange enough; the Male Goddess is not repelled by such things, as the Christian God is, for the Male Goddess is not interested in perfection, but in life. The Male Goddess does not regard the soul and the flesh being at odds, but two essential parts of the same fabric, necessary to one another and inseparable.
“You are a canny fellow, Yorick, no doubt about it,” says Hieronymous, continuing to distort his features. “Hamlet is lucky to have you.”
“You have said something of the sort before,” I remind him. “But I thank you for such praise.”
“Do you?” says Hieronymous. “Some would worry that I might be selling my understanding to those who do not wish Hamlet well.”
I nod in acceptance of this. “Yes, you could be doing such mischief, and so could those in your troop.” I remember what I overheard while I hid in the latrine, and think again that someone is certainly watching Hamlet’s court with more care than is outwardly app
arent. It is hardly worthwhile to continue this speculation, and I try to think of ways to shift the subject without being obvious when Hieronymous interrupts my ruminations.
“All courts swarm with spies. Knowledge and influence are the coinage of courts. They spy on one another and themselves, all to gain a grain more of power than others have.” He sighs and in his eyes is a look that borders on despair. “No wonder they demand entertainments and make us their companions, for we—and jesters and players are the same in this—have little to gain from spying, beyond favor, which makes us support the ruler over his court. Or so it is believed. That we see more than most is certain, for the great ones pay little heed to us, and think us only there for their amusement, like small dogs. Yet they come to need us, in their way. We can ease the burdens of statecraft and treachery with our antics. And clever rulers know this. They turn us to their purpose and find willing tools.”
“Then why would any player or jester be a spy?” I ask, thinking of his warning. “What would it profit him, given the risk he must take?”
“I can think of reasons a man might do it,” says Hieronymous, regarding his reflection with narrowed eyes, letting the wrinkles guide his brush. I sense his dislike of the question, and I cannot stop myself from pursuing it. “Tell me what they could be.”
“Advancement with a greater ruler, I suppose, or the satisfaction of harming someone more important than himself, like a fishing boat sinking a caravalle; it is a shame that the grander ship was lost, but how few fishing boats can boast of such a lost catch?” says Hieronymous, so languidly that I realize he will not venture anything more; tomorrow he might regret having said so much. He adds more lines at the corner of his eye, and regards his reflection critically. “What do you think? Is this blatant enough, or should I redden the inside ends of my eyes?”
“The very image of corruption,” I say to him, and see a hint of a smile on his now-sneering mouth, “You need do nothing more to convince anyone that the man is dissolute, carnal, debauched, and licentious.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 21
