Now there is concerted cheering, and the Counsellors all begin to talk at once, to make it plain that they never faltered in their resolve, but they were not as convinced that their fellows were equally disposed to fight, and so held their tongues to avoid any rancor in the chamber. Some of them actually believe this, but most realize it is nothing more than a convenient fiction to excuse their hesitation in the face of war; now each affirms that Hamlet may rely on him utterly, no matter how the fortunes of war may run.
I keep to my place, listening and watching, and wishing that I, too, was leaving with the army; I see less danger on the battlefield than I do here, within the walls of Elsinor.
* * *
Hamlet is up late tonight, his maps spread over his writing table; his face is wan and his eyes appear sunken and dark as he continues to study the valuable charts. “It is crossing rivers that troubles me most,” he tells me as I come into his apartments, bowing as I close the door behind him. “There are not many good fords, and they are all vulnerable. If I have half my mounted men in the river, how could we hold off an attack on the foot soldiers?” “You would need to break up your troops, I would guess,” I answer, knowing it is the very notion he has had. “Send mounted men and foot soldiers together, in small units, so that no single body of the army would be exposed at one time.”
Hamlet grins at me and for an instant the fatigue is banished from his hewn features. “Yorick, you listen closely. It has been well over a week since I talked this over with my Captains. I wasn’t aware you heard it.”
“Of course I did,” I respond. “You told me to pay attention, and so I have.”
“Closer than I expected,” Hamlet concedes.
“And I have learned much,” I tell him.
“More than others reckon, I warrant,” says Hamlet, rolling two of his maps closed. “Gods help us if any of these fall into Polish hands.”
I can think of nothing to say to endorse this fervent wish, and so I remark, “The Poles must have maps of their own.”
“That they do, and I would give half a dozen pikemen to know what those maps contain,” Hamlet says, and the exhaustion is back in his face. “I leave you to a more subtle campaign here, with no maps to guide you.”
I shrug. “What matter? I will do all that I can to guard the Queen and the Prince, and I will listen to the whispers in the court.” I recite my instructions to reassure the King that I am steadfast in my task. “I will send you word through your courier with the regular dispatches, so that you will have my report once a month. I will follow any instructions you send to me.”
“I don’t doubt that, Yorick,” Hamlet says slowly, and paces along the room. “In particular, attend to what my wife does, and with whom. In my absence I fear my brother will seek to fix his interests with her. He is a taking fellow with a smoother tongue than ever I have had, and she longs for the ways of Lorraine.” He sighs suddenly. “I knew when we married I was too old for her. She has done all that she may to convince me this is not so, but I can see the look in her eyes when handsome young men give her attention. She has never looked so at me.” His voice is very quiet. “She is loyal to you, my King,” I tell him, hoping it is so.
“For the sake of our son, I know she must be,” says Hamlet, his words sharp as fish spines.
“She knows her duty. No matter what flattery she is offered, she knows where her devotion must lie.” Of that, at least, I am confident. I make myself comfortable on a low stool and watch the King continue to pace.
“I suppose she does,” says Hamlet, his face set, his eyes more like coals than ever. “If she brings disgrace on me while I am gone, I will have to send her back to Lorraine. Remind her of that if you discover any behavior on her part that might force me to do that action. No temptation is great enough for her to risk being separated from our boy.”
I listen with new-wakened despair in my heart, a despair for Prince Hamlet, who, all unaware, is being given the monstrous burden of his mother’s fidelity. For so little a child to have to carry such a weight! What peasant’s son, working in the fields, bears so tremendous a load? It is all I can do not to beg Hamlet to desist from this course. But I know the King of old, and when this state of mind overtakes him, he cannot be dissuaded. I rise and bow. “I wish I were going with you,” I blurt out, hating myself for such blatant cowardice.
Hamlet achieves a weary smile. “Bold Yorick, ready to face the Poles.” The Poles in battle seem less daunting than the Danish court. “I would rather be at your side, my King.” It is true, and I speak with great feeling. “And I would want you there, but I cannot spare you. Someone who is completely trustworthy must remain to protect my son. Young Hamlet is the hope of Denmark. He will reign after me, and for that reason, you must keep him from all harm, Yorick,” He is not able to smile now, but he softens about the eyes. “And you must see that my dear Queen is not disgraced.” “I will obey, my King.” My courage is no greater than it was, but my love of Hamlet is enough to overcome the fear that clutches at my vitals with cold, skeletal fingers. “Good. Good.” Hamlet comes back to his maps. “Keep an eye on Mect for me, as well, if you will. Tell me when he sends dispatches south to Ludwig. Learn to like him again, if you can. And ferret out the names of those who help him at Elsinor, for he must have allies among the servants and the guards. Keep me informed of the progress you make.”
“I will, my King,” I say, wondering how I am to convince Mect that I seek his friendship after all that has passed between us, or how I am to conceal from his scrutiny the doubts I have regarding him.
Hamlet draws up his chair and drops into it, slouching against the high, carved back. “I want this over. I want my kingdom at peace. I want to see us thrive and grow prosperous without the envy of our neighbors.” He rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “I feel age in my bones, Yorick.” “You are not so old, my King,” I tell him heartily, although many men younger than he have gone their way to the grave content in the fullness of their years. “Your father’s father lived nearly to sixty.”
“True enough,” says Hamlet quietly; he goes on dreamily as his memories tweak at his thoughts. “He ruled long and well, and died full of honor. And his reign all but ruined my father.” He sighs at the memory of his predecessor, who more resembled Claudius in temperament than himself. “I suppose I cannot blame my brother for hankering after the throne. Our father had to wait most of his life to rule, and he did it badly when he at last gained the crown.” He shakes his head. “My grandfather had the training of me, when he could not reach my father. I think of myself as cast in the old man’s mold. Claudius may hold that against me as well. But my quarrel with our father began before Claudius was born.” Suddenly he slaps his hands on the table. “Enough maundering.” He makes himself sit upright. “’I have requisition lists to review before I can retire. Were it not my last night at Elsinor, I would leave Gertrude to sleep, but I will have my pleasure of her sweet body before I rest.”
I recall the Queen’s lament that the King did not love her as she wished to be loved. At another time, if the King were not so pressed and the times not so filled with peril, I might find the courage to tell him of her disappointment, and urge him to look to her enjoyment as well as his own. But tonight he does not seek such lessons from me, and would not heed them in any case; what man wishes to be told that the delight he finds in coupling is not shared by the woman he lies with? I ask the Male Goddess to inspire him tonight, to leave Gertrude with a memory she treasures as a means to seal her faithfulness.
“You look tired, Yorick,” says Hamlet abruptly as he looks up from reviewing his lists. “Get you to bed. I will see you in the morning before I leave. Wait upon me after Mass.” He waves me away.
I bow deeply and withdraw, trying not to yawn.
Before I reach my quarters I find Oduvit sitting with his back against the kitchen corridor wall. He is snoring with the sound of marshalling drums; a spilled flagon of mead dangles from his hand. I stop beside him
, considering whether it is wiser to leave him here, and risk his scathing remarks in the morning, or to wake him and help him to his quarters and receive his condemnation now, I am no weakling, but I cannot lift and carry him, which is what I would prefer to do.
He settles the matter for me, stretching suddenly and belching prodigiously. He opens one bleary eye and mumbles, “So it’s you.” He turns aside. “I am going to vomit.” In the next instant he casts up a mess of ill-smelling swill which steams on the flagging. He stares at it for a short while; I hope for an excuse to escape. Then Voss appears in the archway, his big features thunderous. “What is the matter with you two?” he demands loudly enough to send echoes up two levels. “Drinking with the soldiers, no doubt, or the players.” He strides past me, shoving me out of the way to seize Oduvit by the collar in order to haul him to his feet. “Get you out to the latrines before you disgrace yourself more foully.”
Oduvit sputters with embarrassment and rage, lashing out with his arms in a futile attempt to break free of the massive cook. “I will make you regret this.”
“I regret it already,” says Voss, shoving Oduvit ahead of him toward the courtyard door. “It is time that you regret it as well.”
I stand aside and allow the two to tussle their unequal way out of the corridor toward the cooks’ courtyard beyond. I see Voss drag Oduvit in the direction of the slaughterhouse and for a brief moment I cannot keep from a burst of laughter which I smother at once with both hands. I hear Oduvit swear by all the filth he knows and I am shamed at my mirth. It is hardly fitting that I should be amused by anything Oduvit does; he will be outraged enough if he recalls that I saw Voss deal with him at all, come morning. In my chagrin, I look around the kitchen to see if any of the scullions are awake and have seen me laugh; I notice that there are half a dozen burnt chops of mutton sitting out on a sideboard, and on impulse, I take the smallest of them, asking the Male Goddess to protect my theft as an offering to Him-in-Her, Then I hurry on to my quarters where the kitchen cat is waiting to upbraid me. “Here.” I hold out the chop to her while she complains to me of my neglect.
She half-rises on her hind legs, stretching out one furry paw to the chop. The movement is delicate and deadly, as admirable for the way her claws snag the food as for the grace of her movement. Since she has had her kittens, she has been famished, and restless, going from my quarters to the place she has hidden her kittens where Voss cannot yet find them, to the kitchen, in a continuous round of activity. I miss having her sleep beside me.
I put the chop down on the battered old plate that is her dish, and watch as she moves nearer, ready to keep the meat from running away. “It is your supper, cat,” I tell her as I stand up and lick my fingers.
The kitchen cat launches herself at the meat, growling and purring at once. She works with determination to pull the charred flesh from the bone, her eyes brilliant with excitement.
“How do you like it?” I ask, although I have no need to.
The kitchen cat continues to worry her food, reveling in the pleasure of it, biting at the meat while she holds it down with her paws. There is grease on her whiskers but for the time she is eating it means nothing. Later she will lick it off, when she neatens herself and once again has the look of a child’s fluffy toy and not the Male Goddess’ creature she is, fierce and splendid at once.
HAMLET
Armies move slowly, and Hamlet’s is no exception. It takes the greater part of the morning for the troops and wagons to line up, and another hour before they are all underway, moving along to the steady beat of drums and the thunder of hooves and wheels. The air shakes with the rattle and rumble of it all. By now, a carriage would have reached the next town, but the army is more ponderous than a carriage. I stand on the battlements and watch the great force start the long march that will lead them to war with Poland. As at last they advance to the south, I can hear the sounds they make, a continuous thunder of feet, wheels and hooves, with a clanking of arms and equipment, the groaning of wagons under their loads, and the neighing of the horses. It reaches the battlements as a kind of pulsing murmur even when they have left the walls of Elsinor behind them.
By afternoon only the great cloud of dust shows the progress of Hamlet’s forces; they are at last too far from Elsinor to be heard. Everyone in the castle marks the course of the army, though all do it secretly, as if not wanting to admit their interest in the matter for fear it could bring bad luck to Denmark. No one wants to admit that some of those leaving will not return; everyone hopes that the losses will not be theirs.
The Prince is fussy, and while I play with him he has sudden bursts of temper and weeping. I mention this to Margitha, who has been tending to her needlework, taking advantage of my presence to do something other than play with the child; with Gertrude tending to her garden in the afternoon, the Prince is left to me and the Queen’s women, so moments of such satisfaction as Margitha has now are rare. “Laertes is worse,” she says with a little shrug and a piece of a sigh. “He will not do anything but by contraries. Yesterday he refused to eat only to displease me and cause worry. Thank goodness his mother has the care of him today. I could not cope with both of them alone.” “Hamlet is usually a more sweet-natured babe,” I remark; it is true, for today nothing I do seems to entertain him, or to hold his attention for more than a moment. He is not willing to be amused or distracted. “He is a more inward babe,” Margitha corrects me. “I do not know that he is all sweet-natured.”
The Prince has got hold of the end of my chaperon and is tugging on the cloth, his face growing red in his determination to have it off me; he has finally found something worthy of his concentration. His tiny fists are so tight his knuckles are white with his efforts. He strikes out at me, crying loudly in his frustration; I try to comfort him and have my hands battered back for my trouble.
“He is sleepy,” says Margitha. “He should be laid down for an hour.” She sets her needlework aside and rises from her chair. “I will take him, Yorick.”
“Be careful, he is in a fine state,” I tell her, avoiding the increasing rain of miniature blows the Prince is directing at me.
“Have no fear,” says Margitha, bending down and scooping the child up so quickly that he has no chance to gain purchase against her. “Come back when the Queen returns from gardening. He will be ready to be entertained then. With all the excitement, he has not had enough rest, and the strain is telling on him. He has become too excited and must sleep to restore himself.” Humming one of the songs young Hamlet usually likes, she carries him into his bed, leaving me alone for a time.
Having been so thoroughly dismissed, I have little to do but please myself for the warmest part of the afternoon. Oddly, being set at liberty does not give me any satisfaction; left to my own devices I wander disconsolately along the corridors and galleries of Elsinor, thinking of the army, and the long time the men will be away at the grim business of war. At last I climb the steep, narrow stairs to the battlements in order to see how far the dust cloud has gone. I can make out the movement on the flank of the hill to the south, and the dust curls around it like a plume on an officer’s hat. If only Hamlet had taken me with him.
I turn aside from the sight, and glance down into the courts and gardens of Elsinor, and a movement catches my eye. At the gate to Gertrude’s garden there is a flash of color, a swift flicker of brass-and-blue that vanishes before I can clearly make it out. I blink twice and stare at the garden, assuming the Queen is there, but I discover the place is empty. If only my eyes were sharper or my body quicker! As it is I can only guess at what I have seen, and that is worse than certainty. I clamber down from my place to the rear courtyard and give a quick inspection of the area behind the garden, but she is nowhere to be found. Perhaps, I tell myself, she is also watching the last of the army’s dust, waving farewell to Hamlet. One of the guard towers would give her the best view. I look up, but see only stones.
* * *
Oduvit is missing from dinner this e
vening, to no one’s astonishment. He has claimed illness as his excuse, and knowing how he fared the previous night, I suppose he has a malady of sorts; ordinarily I would not mind his absence, but on a night which promises to be demanding, his scathing sallies would be a welcome distraction. Mect and I are left with the task of cheering up the nobles who remain at court, of making light of their worries for their friends and brothers and fathers and sons who may not come back as they left. “Do we trumpet for glory?” Mect asks me with an odious grin. “Or do we quip about the fate of the wounded?”
“Who of them would want to hear either?” I ask him, taking my shawm and putting to my lips so that I will not have to speak with him further. “Hieronymous will have another farce ready for tomorrow night,” says Mect, “I am told he will want to perform it.”
I nod approval and continue to play, inventing a little jig that keeps turning sad for all that the notes leap.
Mect gives me a long, thoughtful look. “You have no reason to trust me, Yorick, I will allow that. And you have your oath to the King to bind you. But I hope you will listen when I tell you that you must be on guard, for yourself as well as for the Prince. Hamlet has enemies here as much as he has them on the battlefield.” He wags his head, “You will have to protect the King’s son and yourself diligently if you are to be here to welcome Hamlet back from Poland.”
Without ceasing to play, I bow to him, enough to show I have understood his warning. I hope that I have.
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 25
