Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  “Yes,” I admit unhappily. In my last dispatch, carried to the front just a fortnight ago, I warned Hamlet that all the jests I could make would not stop tongues wagging, more for the preening way Claudius behaves than from any special attention shown by Gertrude. It was not quite an accurate representation, but I could not in good conscience describe my suspicions as certainties, nor tell him the court tales as gospel.

  “Well, then, you know why I am bound to report to the Emperor what I know.” He glares at the paving stones as if they were enemies.

  “It will trouble Hamlet a great deal,” I say, giving voice to my thoughts. “Better he should know it now than return from the war to a sudden discovery.” Mect studies me briefly. “You have put the King’s interests ahead of your own. I hope you will not come to regret it.” “Not the King’s,” I correct him, “Denmark’s.”

  “That is more difficult still,” says Mect, “In this world it is hard enough to be loyal to one person over all others. To try to serve a country above its ruler is a task for Hercules and Mercury together.”

  “A telling observation,” I say. “How often have you used it?”

  “Not often,” says Mect without taking offense. “It is too good to waste on half-drunk courtiers.”

  “So you save it for a fellow jester,” I marvel. “You honor me.” Mect gives me a single bow and starts to turn away. “I thank you for your concern,” I tell him as he begins walking.

  For once, Mect has no answer to give me.

  BETRAYAL

  Margitha tells me that the Prince is with his mother in the garden; on this sultry day in early September, I am not surprised that Gertrude has taken the child outside, for with the air so dense and warm, the walls of the castle seem too close when you are within them. I take my shawm and make my way to the garden, hoping as I go that the brassy heavens will cloud over so that rain will end the stifling, dank pall that has fallen over Elsinor.

  The door to the garden is closed, and I ease it open without announcing myself; I have taken such liberties from time to time, and I do so now without thinking. As I step into the full glare of the swollen sun I am dazzled. Then I see the Prince in his basket lying in the shade of a tree playing with a harvest poppet, and beyond him, Gertrude and Claudius, all but naked and tangled in an ardent, carnal embrace. I blink, thinking I have not seen clearly.

  The Queen’s thighs and haunches flash as she wraps her legs around her husband’s brother’s waist; her head is thrown back, her eyes closed, her face like a saint in rapture as Claudius buries his head in her bosom as passionately as he has buried his cock in her nether parts. Her hands are locked in his hair, his arms surround her. Both of them are so lost to their growing ecstasy that they do not know I am here; they are oblivious to all but their fleshly link. Gertrude is breathing in high, little gasps, saying, “Yes; yes; yes; yes,” with every long, deliberate stroke he makes into her, and he growls with the pleasure of it.

  I stand aghast and stupefied for a moment, and then I retreat through the door, closing it with care, as I try to understand the magnitude of what I have seen. My heart batters my chest, all but stopping the breath in my lungs. I cannot speak; I can hardly see, so great is my distress. All the world knows that the Queen and Claudius are drawn to one another, that has never been in question, but to act flagrantly, to flout their duty so completely is beyond anything. They have transgressed in the one way that could jeopardize the entire line. What they do is the vilest treason against Hamlet, father and son.

  Yet I call no one. I do nothing but wait for a time, unable to denounce their adultery for fear of compromising the Prince, who has been entrusted to me by his father. With the King gone to war, his son is precariously enough situated without any outcry against his mother. I have given my oath to protect the Prince, and if I bring down his mother, I must damage him beyond repair.

  Finally, when I am certain Gertrude and Claudius must be finished with their coupling, I begin to whistle with a buoyancy I do not feel, and I take my time opening the door once again.

  Gertrude is flushed and her hair in disarray, but she is alone with her son as I come out into the glare of the sun. When she turns, she moves as gracefully as if she were dancing. She smiles at me, a smile of such glowing contentment that I feel a pang of sympathy for her before I turn my thoughts to young Hamlet, who has just begun to fuss. “Take him into my apartments, will you, Yorick?” says Gertrude as she busies herself with plucking spent blossoms from the trailing columbine. She tosses these aside onto that part of the grass where she has lately taken her pleasure with Claudius, as if making tribute to their lubricity. “I fear the heat is too much for him.” As if to confirm this, young Hamlet looks up at me and yawns, then starts to whine. I suspect he is hungry, but I cannot deny that I am worried for the welfare of the child; this day he has been exposed to more than the summer sun. “I hope the weather will break soon. The heat may be too much for many of us this day,” I say to her as I gather up the Prince’s basket. I am afraid to look at her, for fear I may betray my knowledge of her trespass, and yet I cannot look away.

  “I will stay here a while longer.” Again she offers me a luminous smile and tilts her head back toward the sky. “I think I love the heat. It warms my vitals. I hope winter never comes.”

  As I bear the Prince away into the castle, I feel a sensation at my back like a cold wind blowing and I am dismayed.

  DUTY

  The King’s messenger has come, a Captain in a dusty surcote over his armor, his horse lathered from the ride. He is fatigued and hungry, but he staggers up the stairs to the Council Chamber, his dispatch held out to Polonius as he enters the room. I watch and listen from the corridor where I have spent most of the morning in the hope of gleaning some information about the King’s enemies at court. So far I have learned precious little and I am starting to feel like a fool in truth. “How goes the war with the Poles, good Captain?” asks Polonius in form as he takes the dispatch and kisses Hamlet’s seal as a sign of his fealty. He is rigged out in deep blue velvet that must be uncomfortably hot on this warm afternoon. His greatest extravagance is the ruff that frames his face, making it appear that his head is being presented on a point-work pillow.

  “The Poles have many men in the field, and they are hard fighters, but Hamlet, thus far, has carried the day,” reports the Captain. “I myself have seen him put them to rout after a hard charge.”

  “Then the King is well?” asks one of the Counsellors. “When I left he had nothing more than a minor scratch to bother him. The greatest ills he has had to contend with are mosquitos and flies.” He puts his hand to his head, and holds out his other arm for balance. “Are you all right?” asks Polonius, drawing back from the Captain as if fearing his touch. “I am tired,” says the Captain. Polonius signals for a page to bring a stool, and then opens the dispatch from Hamlet. He regards the vellum narrowly, reading Hamlet’s angular scrawl with some difficulty. “It appears that Hamlet will have to winter in the field. The army has taken a few crucial fortifications and will need to hold them into the spring in order to hold the advantage they have secured.” He looks up at the rest of the Counsellors, and frowns. “He will need more money and men if he is to keep the pace of their advance before winter locks them inside.”

  At this unwelcome news the Counsellors look grave, and a few of them shake their heads. I hear a few low mutters from the older men, one of them claiming with some heat that in his youth war was not so expensive as it has become now.

  Polonius reaches for his staff and taps it once to gain the attention of the rest. “I will draft a letter to Fortinbras, to discover what support he may lend us at this time. It may be that we will not have to levy higher taxes if Norway will aid us.”

  This suggestion is endorsed with many profound expressions of regard and approval; monies gained by the demands of others are always more welcome to the Council than are those measures they must impose on the populace at large; higher-born men than they
have been brought low for demanding too much of their people.

  The Captain sinks onto the stool the page has brought him, and lowers his head. He reaches into his wallet for a second dispatch, which he holds out to Polonius. “This is private for you. And there is one for the Queen, and one for Yorick.”

  “One for Yorick?” demands Polonius as he reaches for his own.

  “The King desired me to present it to the jester himself, and to the Queen. I will fail my charge if I do not present them as he instructed me to do,” the Captain says with feeling. Though he has been quiet a while, he is still breathing deeply and having some difficulty in restoring himself.

  “That is most irregular,” says Polonius in strong disapproval. “The Queen is with her women; I will send a page to fetch them. I don’t know where Yorick is.” “I am here, worthy Counsellors,” I step through the door and approach the Captain, paying no notice to the stares of the gold-collared men. “What does the King send to me, good Captain?” Standing this close to him I can see that he is grey with fatigue and his face is pinched from hunger and thirst. No matter what he says to assuage the fears of the Council, it is apparent that the fighting has been horrendous.

  The Captain regards me, as if trying to recall if he knows me, “You are Yorick.” Then he reaches into his wallet and brings out a twice-folded sheet of vellum. I go on my knee to accept it, and kiss the seal before breaking it.

  “Tell me what the King sends to you,” says Polonius in an imperious manner. “Forgive me, Lord Polonius,” I say with a great show of respect as I read over the first few lines, “but I am not at liberty to do so. The King specifically enjoins me to silence concerning the subject of his letter. I regret I must refuse to obey your order in this regard.”

  Polonius stares at me, bristling with offense. “I cannot see that you may do so. I am responsible for—”

  “Your pardon,” I dare to interrupt him, “but I know no authority in Denmark greater than Hamlet’s.”

  For a long moment Polonius wears just such a look of mulish obstinacy as I have often seen in his little son’s countenance. Then he shrugs. “It may be that Claudius, as regent for the Prince, will demand to see the missive.” “I would still not be free to show it to him,” I say, and start toward the door. “I will require a short while to read this. When I have done, I will return and tell you all as much as I may about the contents.” With a bow, I hasten away from the Council Chamber, searching for a place where I may read the letter in peace, and where I will not likely be spied upon. I come at last to an old embrasure at a tall, narrow window, and there I sink down, the stones at my back, and in the slice of bright autumn light I read what the King wishes me to do.

  Sir Yorick,

  As I have trusted you before, so I trust you now, not as a King, but as a father and a husband, to tend to the safety of my family. I must depend on you to keep all this in utmost confidence, telling no one what I write here, but what little you must to guard against greater intrusions and deceptions. For you may be certain that there is deception all around you, and that many a man who wields a dagger smiles as he does it.

  You are to begin to teach my son the tales of the heroes of Denmark. Use songs and rymes and any other means you can to instill in him a sense of the grand history of our country, so that he will anticipate with joy his ascendancy to the throne upon my death. I have seen what neglect of this instruction can do to those of my House: my youngest brother is a lamentable example of one who has never achieved a sense of his place in the House. You may say that the Prince is not yet a year old, but for what he will have to do in his life, that his hardly too young to begin, for if this campaign drags on, he will be called to act while he is yet a stripling. Make him eager to be King, and to value his advancement for its obligations as much as its might.

  I also beseech you to continue to deflect all assaults on my wife’s fidelity with every nuance at your command, not only for her sake, but for the sake of young Hamlet, who might well be stigmatized as the fruit of her lusts if such calumnies are not made to appear ridiculous. It is probably too much to demand that she remain chaste while I am gone. I have not secured her heart so devotedly that I can hope for her devotion. She is young and her appetites confound me. If she embraces such folly, I implore you to mask all her doings with the armor of your wit. You may order the players to do the same, and to show cuckolds in their performances as well as all other manner of men. Tell them that nothing ends gossip so quickly as ridicule.

  The longer I am gone, the greater the chance that she will become flagrant, especially if my brother remains the object of her desires, and she of his. He wants to make his dealing with her a public conquest, to add to his consequence. If it becomes impossible to protect her, then I order you to protect the Prince, and uphold his right to rule. See that he is prepared to fight for his place in the world, and that his mother is not permitted to undermine his determination to follow me as King. The child has my name and he has my right. Tell him of what we do against the Pole now, and teach him to hold valor in highest regard, so that he will be resolute in ruling when I am gone.

  When I return you will have proof of my gratitude to you in measure with your success in these endeavors.

  Hamlet

  By Grace of God, King of Denmark

  When I return to the Council Chamber, I present myself to all the men with a deep bow. “The King has asked me to undertake the Prince’s early instruction. That much I may tell you.”

  Polonius again appears shocked. “I had thought the King would appoint that task to me.”

  Again I bow. “You forget, Lord Polonius, that my father was a scholar, who taught me much of what he learned, and surely the Prince does not need a master of Latin rhetoric quite yet.”

  This evokes a chuckle from many of the Counsellors, and earns me a glare from Polonius. “It is hardly fitting that a jester teach a Prince,” he says, and once more I see his son in him.

  “Pray that by the time the Prince needs a grammarian, the war with Poland will be over and the King himself will have the choosing of his son’s masters.” I say it with a good blend of humility and staunchness, and the Council approves. “You have tasks here, Polonius,” adds one of the Counsellors, his voice weighty with implications. Polonius nods. “True,” he agrees with remarkable simplicity. “Well, Yorick,” he goes on with a smile that would not fool a babe of two, “until such time as Hamlet relieves you with more…accomplished scholars, I will accept your word that you are doing the King’s bidding. Should it turn out that you have exceeded the mandate given you, I do not doubt that you will be held accountable.”

  “I am well satisfied,” I tell him, pleased that he has spoken so in front of the rest of the Council. It may well be that I will want witnesses in future.

  TREASON

  Rain has driven the Queen in from her garden before her women expect her; she is flustered and snappish, and she sets about her needlework in discontent while I sit at the side of the Prince’s cradle and sing him the “Ballad of King Eric and King Ingo”, about the dealings of the King of Denmark and the King of Sweden before the time of the Crusades. I have sung it to him every day for a month, and I know he has come to recognize many of the phrases. He listens carefully, and there is a keenness in his eyes that give me to hope that he is taking some of the tales to heart.

  “For a wise and prudent King

  Will rejoice in everything;

  And any man possesses naught

  If he is bereft of thought.”

  The Prince waves his little hands in time to the meter of the song, and does what he can to match the sounds.

  The door opens and Claudius rushes into the chamber. His fine damask huque is spattered with water and his golden hair is darkened and wet. “I waited for you,” he says uncautiously.

  Gertrude lifts a warning hand, and nods slightly in my direction.

  This is enough for Claudius to recover himself. “I was afraid that you and your so
n would be caught in the storm,” he adds, with a smoothness that would do credit to a moneylender. “When I realized it was raining, I went to find you, to assure myself you were not harmed in any way. When I reached your garden and found it deserted, I feared that you were caught outside, seeking shelter.”

  “How very good of you, Claudius,” says Gertrude, her lips slightly parted and a naked longing in her face that makes me feel an interloper, “As you see, we are both safe and dry, young Hamlet and I.”

  “Thank God for that,” says Claudius, stepping closer to her.

  She makes herself look away from him. “You will want to put on dry clothes as well.” “Eventually,” he says, his desire for her unguarded. “I do not mind a little dampness if it brings sweet rewards.”

  Gertrude flushes and looks down at her embroidery as if she had never seen such things before. “If I give you such a reward, then I am…grateful.”

  “You give a greater reward than that,” Claudius tells her warmly, closing on her, and reaching out to touch her face with reverent, possessing hands.

  “Yorick,…” she whispers, to remind him I am there.

  “He will say nothing,” Claudius says, dismissing her fear. “It could be harmful to the Prince if he did.” He turns toward me. “Isn’t that so, Sir Yorick?”

  I recall all that was in the King’s letter, and I nod slowly. “I am sworn to protect Hamlet.” I can feel my knees shake with anger and fear, and it stuns me to realize how intensely I can despise the man.

  “Then you will have to keep our secret—”

  “Secret!” I spit, knowing as I do it that I have weakened myself. “Our secret,” Claudius says emphatically. “You are adept at making the rumors about us appear absurd. You will continue to do this, won’t you? So that no one will cast aspersions on that babe.”

  I cannot remember a time in my life when I wanted more to kill someone than I wish to kill Claudius now. I feel heat mount in my face, and I am about to say things that will endanger me when young Hamlet, sensing the anger in the room, squalls loudly in response. Immediately I give my attention to the Prince. I pick him up and sling him over my higher shoulder, where he always likes to ride, and I begin to say those nonsensical things that quieten children.