Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  I feel my indignation return, but I keep it to myself, for well I know that it would be a mistake to voice disapproval of any sort at Claudius; the only answer he gives to such protests is jeering. I regard the King’s brother with patience, and then I say, “How do you intend to compensate these players for the time Guilaume will not be able to perform? Surely there should be some payment for this.”

  Claudius looks displeased but he nods. “A purse will be provided, and the injuries will be tended,” he says with a guarded look, “Not a large sum, for much money is needed for the war, but enough to make it worth your while, good player, and to reward your courage and your suffering.” He gestures to Hieronymous, his features set in disapproval, “Be certain that your place here is safe. The Queen promises it in her husband’s name.”

  “You are most generous, lord,” says Hieronymous with a covert wink in my direction. With a deferential bow to Claudius, he goes on, ‘”I fear that we cannot perform tonight the farce we had planned, for Guilaume is needed in one of the most important roles and none of the troupe can learn the part in three hours. But we can do an evening of comic sketches that might please the court.”

  “The jesters will perform tonight,” says Claudius abruptly, ignoring my oath of dismay. “You will do your sketches tomorrow night, when we are all convinced that the young player is improved.”

  As he walks away I call after him, “Is Oduvit in any condition to entertain tonight? Mect and I are tired.” “He will be,” says Claudius and continues on his way back to the Queen. “Be certain of it.”

  Gertrude welcomes him with a warmth that I am troubled yet resigned to see. There is little discretion in the pleasure she reveals. I watch Claudius approach her, and see Gertrude wave to him, her eyes dancing with a gratification I have rarely found in them at any time. She motions to Hildegarde, and her lady obediently raises Prince Hamlet high in her arms again; as the boy squalls, his mother laughs and I hear her say, “See? He is sorry he did not get to see a proper fight, aren’t you, my little treasure? You would have delighted in a true contest of great warriors, wouldn’t you? No wonder you yell so. What a royal temper you have.”

  Hamlet continues to make a high, distressing bleat as Gertrude beams at him while Claudius comes to her side, apparently unnoticed.

  “What does she want of the child?” Hieronymous asks me quietly as the Guards prepare a bearing-cloth for Guilaume. “Doesn’t she realize he’s frightened?”

  I watch the Queen a short while longer before I answer. “I don’t know.”

  DISTRACTIONS

  “They cannot keep on this way,” Hieronymous complains more than a week later, his big hands waving as if to an unseen audience instead of the players and jesters sitting at the long plank table over our evening meal, “We are all ready to drop, and still the Queen wants entertainment every night.”

  I yawn as I dawdle over my supper, not relishing the hours I will have to caper and cavort for Gertrude when I am finished eating. Voss will summon me shortly, and I want to delay that moment as long as possible. “She does not want the court thinking of war, as they must if they are left to their own devices every evening.”

  “She also wants to keep her eye on all the courtiers,” adds Mect knowingly. “She is eager to prevent those left behind from dealing together in private, where they might plot against the King.” He rests his elbows on the table planks and grins at the rest of us. “She is a very clever woman, no doubt of it.”

  “Is this the King’s command, do you think?” asks one of the players, a rotund fellow with a massive nose and features as malleable as soft clay.

  “I doubt it,” I answer, and realize that it is only my supposition, for as well as I believe I know Hamlet, I cannot say beyond doubt what his intentions would be now. “He likes amusements of an evening, but not on the scale the Queen has done them.” I want to claim that my knowledge of him is great enough that I could be certain that he would undertake no such ploy, but I realize as I speak it is not as true as I wished it to be. Hamlet surely gave orders to Gertrude that I know nothing of. “What about that posing dandy?” asks Guilaume, who still has bruises from our engagement on the field of honor; they have now reached the purple-and-yellow stage.

  “You mean Polonius?” Mect asks, and goes on with authority, “He has some influence, but—”

  “Not Polonius,” says Guilaume impatiently. “The regent. The brother.”

  “Claudius,” says Oduvit with ill-omened relish. “Yes, this could be his style, I think. He is one who uses display to cover his schemes, and this might well be such a case. He could finagle the Queen into these endless distractions so that he would be free to pursue his own ends. He always seeks to find a way to achieve all to his advantage. And he is a covetous devil, isn’t he?” He gestures obscenely. “With the Queen as much as with the court.”

  “Do not let them hear you say it,” Mect warns him, and adds to the players, “Keep away from whatever is between Claudius and the Queen. It is more dangerous than praising the Poles.”

  Hieronymous leans forward. “Then there is something.”

  Mect shakes his head. “Not that I know for a truth. There are endless rumors and many of the courtiers claim knowledge they do not possess. But there is the look of a fascination between them; that is no secret. And Hamlet made sure to turn it to a jest before he went away to war. Think whatever you wish to think—you are players and that is your right—but do not speak your thoughts, should they hit too close to Claudius’ plans, if you want to remain at Elsinor through the summer.”

  As I listen to Mect, a greater foreboding comes over me than I have known before. I drink the last of the ale in my tankard and wish it would make me truly drunk, so that I would not have to remember what I am hearing; it seems to me that this is a kind of treason, to allow them to speak so without challenge.

  Hieronymous clears his throat and looks about with the air of one scenting baking bread on the wind. “Is it generally known that Claudius is ambitious?”

  “How could it not be?” asks Mect. “He stalks the halls of Elsinor with the look of a hungry wolf after lambs.” “Or after a she-wolf,” adds Oduvit slyly.

  “Then we could perform a play about ambitious men,” says Hieronymous, his eyes lighting at the prospect. “Men whose ambitions bring them to a bad end?”

  “Yes, it is possible,” Mect allows. “If it is not a story of a younger brother seducing a Queen,” he adds in caution as I wish I could vanish from the place and have no one aware I had gone.

  “No; I was thinking of the story of The Bishop of Liege,” he says. “He aspires to become a Cardinal, and does it by finding the means to make it appear his superior was mad, and he the savior of the Bishopric, as a way to bring attention to himself. At first he is successful; that could be a problem.”

  “And what becomes of him?” Mect inquires.

  “His superior truly goes mad and accuses his young Bishop of being the tool of the Devil. There is an inquiry and in the end the man is sent to the stake for permitting his superior to fall into evil hands. He fails in his ambitions completely, and through his own machinations.” Hieronymous grins in anticipation of doing the work. “We have not acted the play in more than a year; it was well-received then, but the Bishop disliked it, and so we have not played it since. We would have to work on it, but we could have it ready within the week.” “An excellent notion,” says Mect, and nudges my arm. “What say you, Yorick?” I do what I can to conceal the dismay I sense rising in my soul. “It could be taken as a warning against the men of the Emperor, which might not be wise,” I say, hoping to dissuade them from their scheme. “For the time being, it would be best to select your plays as prudently as you can.”

  “What is imprudent in this?” asks Mect, “It presents corruption in the Church, which the Emperor is always determined to bring to an end wherever he discovers it.” He makes a gesture of support to Hieronymous. “I think such a story would be welcome now. But
Yorick may have a point.” “Yorick is always careful in what he does,” Hieronymous remarks, and it is not intended as praise. “A rare thing in a jester.”

  “It is why he is the King’s jester and has been knighted,” says Oduvit bitterly. “Hamlet has made him his eyes and ears in the court; bear that in mind when you consult him on your plans. You might as well say it to the King as to Yorick.” He spits and reaches to refill his tankard.

  “Well enough,” says Hieronymous. “We do not want to give offense to the King, for all he is at war. It wouldn’t be wise, taking on a man fighting for his land.” He signals to his players. “Time to be at practice, comrades. Let each of you bring his part for The Worthy Burgher’s Wife. We will ready it for three nights from now. And think about The Bishop of Liege. I am inclined to want to perform it, if the rest of you want to. Theo, you will do the part of the seduced nun if we revive the work. Let’s have no objections, and make sure you shave as close as may be. See you learn the lines, too. I want no hitches in the play.” He stretches, lifting his long arms high above his head so that his knuckles all but scrape the ceiling. “Tonight we do The Fox and the Raven; that’s ready enough, but the Burgher needs our attention if we are to play it well, The Queen is not pleased with ill-prepared actors.”

  Even Guilaume rises, his movements stiff and awkward as an old man’s. He reaches for a wooden crutch to help him hobble after the others.

  “Poor fellow, to have been cut up so badly,” says Mect, looking after the departing players. “And all to amuse the Queen.” “It wasn’t planned,” I remind him, and wish my guts did not feel so cold. “He suffered a mishap, as have we all. You fell off the high table last year when the servants overset the platter of roasted cranes. That was an accident for all you lay abed of a week for it.” “True enough,” says Mect, sighing. “And each of us has had some such misadventure in the past. But the player’s accident comes at a bad time, when anyone might suppose there was more reason for it than chance.” He hitches his shoulder in Oduvit’s direction. “You would think that for all he drinks, he would suffer more…accidents than he does.” “He has the fortune of a sot—he is never injured when he tumbles,” I say, thinking of the way Oduvit has behaved the last two months, always sluggish with drink. “He fell down the gallery stairs night before last. You can still see the bruises on his arms and face if you look; he would have been killed had he been sober, I think.” “What does the King want with such a fellow?” asks Hieronymous, to make safe conversation. He looks after his players as they leave the room. “I don’t know that the King does want him, but being away at war, he has no reason to concern himself,” Mect answers, pulling on his lower lips with his blunt fingers. “I suppose he would rather have Oduvit’s poisonous tongue where it is recognized for what it is than turn him loose in the world to spread his malice among Denmark’s rivals.” Hieronymous nods. “It would be prudent at this time to be careful.”

  I get to my feet as I hear Voss approaching. “They are waiting,” I say to Mect.

  “Yes,” says the Emperor’s man. He swings round on Hieronymous, determined to make his point with the player. “Do The Bishop of Liege, by all means. The court will find it diverting. Tell the Queen it is what you would like to do, for her pleasure. Say that it is a piece you do not perform for the louts of the market-place, but save for a distinguished audience. How can she refuse?”

  Hieronymous regards Mect with interest. “An interesting ploy. We’ll try it; and I thank you for suggesting it.” With a flourish he bows and hurries out of the door after his troupe, for all the world as if he were leaving a stage.

  * * *

  Ricardis is looking weary this morning as she and Gertrude play with their children in the sewing room of the Queen’s apartments. An August thunderstorm is raging, making the sky rattle and the earth shake with its tantrum. With every crash of thunder, Laertes screams and drums his heels; young Hamlet sits silently and stares out the window, his shoulders hunched, his eyes enormous. When the lightening flashes, he winces but he does not look away. Against the sound of the tempest, my shawm is as nothing, though I continue to play, letting the notes weave their way around the ruction.

  “I don’t like this weather,” says Gertrude as the first drenching rain comes down, looking like fine skeins of grey silk. “Neither do I,” agrees Ricardis with an ill-concealed sigh. “This new child is proving to be less easily formed than Laertes.” She rubs at her belly as though to make her womb a more hospitable place for her babe. “You should lie down,” recommends Gertrude, echoing the advice given by the physician and the midwife. “You harm your babe if you become exhausted, and in this weather, a shock could injure you and be passed to the babe. Think of the child, if not of yourself.” “I don’t know. If I lie down I feel as if ants are crawling all over me and I am eager to be moving again.” Ricardis rises restlessly from her chair and goes to take Laertes in her arms; this is awkward for her because her belly is bigger now with the new child, and the double weight bends her back like a bow. “I think this boy is possessed by the Devil.”

  “Never say that, even in jest,” Gertrude exclaims, crossing herself to guard against harm. “The Devil comes where he is welcome. If you speak so, you give him a path to your son’s soul.” She calms herself with an effort, and goes on more temperately, “Say, rather, that he is of impetuous mettle, and strong in his passions, so that he will not be in danger.”

  Ricardis is taken aback by this outburst and as she holds her struggling son, she says, “Very well, I will do as you suggest, my Queen.”

  Again Gertrude crosses herself. “Thank you, Ricardis. I do not want to appear filled with Roman misgivings, but the priests have always taught that to avoid the Devil’s work, we must not let our souls be left open to him.” She leans back in her chair and looks at the embroidery she has been stitching. “Your boy is a good child. You have every reason to take pride in him.”

  “Yes, I know,” says Ricardis with innocent satisfaction.

  “He will bring credit to you when he is older,” Gertrude murmurs while she looks covertly at her own, silent son. “My babe is more…thoughtful.” She rises suddenly and goes to where young Hamlet is sitting. She begins to stroke his hair as if she were showing favor to a treasured animal, much as I pet the kitchen cat. Leaning down, she whispers softly, “Such a good Prince. My handsome, clever son. Such a very good Prince.”

  “I wonder that you are so proud of him,” says Ricardis, and hastily adds, “I mean, he has been so quiet a babe. Does this never trouble you?”

  “A King should be reflective and wise,” says Gertrude in defense of young Hamlet, “He is not volatile, as Laertes is, which speaks well of his sagacity when he rules. He will know to keep his thoughts to himself and to listen to what is said around him.” A strike of lightning is so near that the thunder drubs Elsinor in almost the same instant, and the air is filled with the burnt smell of lightening. There are shouts and alarms below us. The two women look about in fright, blinking against the brilliance of the flash. Laertes begins to shriek in wrath. “What will become of us if the castle is….” Ricardis is not able to finish her question with words.

  I have put my shawm aside and now I approach the Queen. “If you wish, I will arrange for you to go to a more sheltered chamber.”

  “That is not necessary,” says Gertrude, her mouth turned down with distaste. “We will remain where we are. There is no reason to teach our sons to be craven.” “No one would think that,” I tell her at once. “They might say you are prudent to remove yourself from the reach of the storm.” I watch her consider what I have said.

  “It is not so near that we have reason to be afraid,” says Gertrude a heartbeat later, after a swift glance toward the windows. “And my son is fascinated with the storm. He will not relish being taken away from it.” “No,” Ricardis says with much less confidence than the Queen. “But if Laertes only would not scream.”

  “You are being too severe with him,”
Gertrude admonishes her. “You have said yourself that your child has great passions. Then it follows that mighty clashes such as thunder in the heavens will rouse him, or any great convulsion of nature.” She does her best to smile at the screeching boy. “It is essential to his character, this passion, or so you have said.” “Doubtless,” Ricardis says flatly, having had enough of her son’s passions.

  At this Gertrude laughs a little, the sound high and fragile. “If you would rather go to the women’s rooms—”

  “And sit with waiting maids?” interrupts Ricardis, “No, thank you, my Queen, but I would rather be singed by lightning than be seen among those creatures.” “Then resign yourself to the thunder,” advises Gertrude. She sighs once, the air going out of her lungs in a hard rush. “I hope my garden is undamaged.”

  The tone of her voice makes me uneasy, and so I do not address any comment to her. Instead I take my shawm and begin to play again. But try as I will, I cannot turn the tunes to merry; always the phrases fall at the end, in a perpetual lament.

  * * *

  Oduvit is relatively sober three nights later, when we gather at the side of the Great Hall. He has put on his best motley and is adjusting his chaperon as I come through the door, thinking to have a little time to myself. “Gracious,” he exclaims, “they have let you roam without a leash. How kind of the Queen to indulge you.”