Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  * * *

  This year the spring is boisterous and eager, with plants all but erupting from the ground, ready to bloom. With Lent over, the court once again demands entertainment; for a week these duties fall to Oduvit and me, for Mect has not yet returned from his visit. When he comes back to Elsinor a few weeks later, he is met with such a welcome as might flatter him unduly, so glad are we all to have another jester to fill the evening hours and find new sources of amusement, though that jester is the Emperor’s spy.

  “What word from the war?” Mect asks as we sit in tubs in the bathhouse, a sheet hanging between us.

  I can hear the note of apprehension in his question, and I know that he is asking for his master as well as for himself. “The regular courier was here on Maundy Thursday,” I tell him, letting the water splash to give me a moment to think. “He brought word that the army is on the march again, having wintered near Lubeck. The Poles have not engaged them in combat yet this spring, but they were keeping Lent, too.”

  “Yes,” says Mect unhelpfully.

  “Hamlet has informed the Council that it is his intention to advance as far as he can before he meets the Poles in battle, to take as much ground as he can without having to fight for it. He would not want to have to fall back over ground already captured.” Everyone in court is talking about this plan, and doubtless Mect has heard it before now. “The Council has approved the plan.” “They are more fools than we,” scoffs Mect. “They do not suppose that their endorsement is needed by the King, do they?”

  I hear this with some trepidation; it sounds to me as if Mect is unaware of the dangers the King faces from enemies at home, and since this cannot be the case, I fear he has allied himself with those enemies against Hamlet. I sink deep into the water to let the heat soak the hurt out of my shoulder, and then, I let him have my response. “Any King who believes all the foes are in the field is not clever enough to keep his crown. And Hamlet is not one such; his dispatches are as much to warn his enemies at home as to report his progress against them in the war.” Whatever Mect answers, I cannot hear it, for Oduvit has arrived and is bellowing the most licentious verses imaginable. I let myself rest in the water, and prepare to face the court come evening.

  MARGITHA

  The Queen is in a petulant mood, and this is reflected in the way she trowels the earth in her garden. She is discontented with the finery of spring. As she readies new beds for her seedlings, she glares at the ground.

  I am following the Prince, who has not yet started to walk, but who is pulling himself along with great speed, sometimes crawling, sometimes supporting himself on the stones that outline the flower-beds. He goes with determination once he is moving, but he often ponders where to move next. It is difficult to keep up with him. “Your instruction is lacking, Sir Yorick,” the Queen tells me suddenly. “Your pupil has not spoken more than a few sounds.” She pushes back to her knees on her mat. “Do you take him inside and try if you can at least get him to prattle.”

  It is still within me to be disappointed by her disloyalty to the King, but I know there is nothing to be gained by entering into a dispute with Gertrude. I bow to her, “As you wish, my Queen,” I say, and go to scoop up the Prince, who has dragged himself upright by the slender trunk of a half-grown cherry tree. “Come, young Hamlet. Time for lessons.”

  “See that he rests when you are done with your teaching,” says Gertrude, with a quick, uneasy glance toward the gate at the end of the garden. “I will be in later.”

  “I will tell Margitha,” I say as I trudge for the inner door, the Prince slung over my shoulder; the boy is uncomfortably heavy now, and I long for the day he walks and I will be permitted to set him down when he is too much a weight for me.

  Gertrude makes a distracted gesture with her hands, and then looks toward the gate again.

  By the time I reach the Queen’s apartments, Hamlet has begun to doze. I decide it is not the best time to instruct him with ballads and lays and little rhymes, and instead carry him to Margitha, saying, “The Prince is tired.”

  “Of course,” says Margitha knowingly. “The Queen is gardening, isn’t she? What could be more natural than that the Prince should be tired?”

  “Margitha,” I warn her as I put Hamlet down into his cradle. “It may be true, what you suspect, but it will not do to have you speak of it.”

  “Oh, only with you,” says Margitha, her manner suddenly circumspect. “But what can I think? I am her close companion, and she says things to me.…” Her courses have not come this month, nor last. Unless God has rendered her barren, I can think of no reason for it than that she is with child again. And since the King is at war.…” She shrugs. “If she sends me away from court, what will become of me? And how can she not, given what I know?”

  I go to Margitha’s side, and put my hand on her back to reassure her. “Do not think that. She will have to keep you here for that reason. If she does not, she cannot be certain you have not confided her secret.” I frown as I say this, for I cannot think what will become of Margitha if it is true that the Queen is pregnant. Just thinking the word shames me and I shudder to consider what could become of Gertrude if Hamlet ever learns of it. As if sensing my thoughts, Margitha says, “I do not know what will happen to her. It is not possible for the King to acknowledge a child of hers as being of his issue from the time he has been away. But if he banishes her, it could go badly for him in Lorraine, and all of France, if her father defended her.” She folds her arms as if trying to protect herself.

  “I do not know how to deal with her. I don’t know what to say to her. If I mention my fears, she rails at me.”

  This is so like Gertrude that I am moved to smile, albeit sadly. “Do not think too badly of her,” I say to Margitha, “She has been seduced by a man determined to embarrass the King.” Margitha flushes. “She says he loves her.” This with the same stubbornness the Queen would show if she were defending herself. “She says that he wants to be her lover honestly and openly, but that it is impossible.”

  “No doubt it is what he tells her. And no doubt he means it, at least when he says it, for he would not be convincing otherwise. How else would he contrive to make her forget her duty?” I notice the bitterness in my own voice and it shocks me. I think of all the things I have heard Gertrude and her ladies say while I played for them before the Prince was born, and now I feel that I am the greatest traitor of all, for I said nothing to Hamlet so that he could fix the Queen’s affections as well as her responsibilities before he left for battle. If I had spoken, the King might have shown her the attention and tenderness she seeks, and she would not have listened to Claudius’ wooing. “It is fortunate for him that he will not have to put his vows to the test.” “Last night she was distraught,” says Margitha.

  “Small wonder, if she has reason to think she is pregnant,” I say, hoping the Male Goddess will forgive me for what I am considering now: if Gertrude has miscarried before, might she not miscarry again? Or might something worse happen to her?

  “I am afraid for her. In this state she could work herself an injury.” She says it in a sideways manner, as if she were squeezing through a half-open door.

  I guess what she wishes me to say. “Women who are overwrought often do not carry their babes to delivery. It is remarked upon by all midwives.”

  “So it is,” says Margitha. “And who is more distressed at fruitfulness than the Queen?”

  At this I can only nod, and turn my attention to the Prince. “No one will question your Right, young Hamlet. You are your father’s son, and so it shall be always.”

  “Every son is his father’s child,” says Margitha absently as she busies herself in the chamber. “It is seen everywhere.”

  “Yes, everywhere,” I agree as I stand watch over the Prince.

  * * *

  Oduvit, of course, suspects the worst. He throws his head back and crows. “Do you see how she walks? Her back is starting to bow with the weight of her sin. By autumn she
will waddle, and no lie she tells will convince anyone that this is the result of rotten meat—unless Claudius has a pox, and then the corruption will run through her like a spring tide.” He nods toward the banquet hall where the court is gathered for the usual evening meal and entertainment. “See how he leans over her. He has done that before, you may be sure of it. And look how he dangles his fingers on her hand. He might as well crawl inside her clothes and nuzzle her dugs. He is as much as tupping her with his eyes right now.”

  “If he hankers for the Queen, more fool he,” says Mect as if the subject bores him. “And if she succumbs to his blandishments, more fool she.”

  “Oh, she has succumbed, no doubt of that.” Oduvit drinks more mead, and I decide to serve him often tonight, so that anything he says while he entertains will be thought of as drunken maundering. His spite is well-known, and he is never more vicious than when he is drunk; the courtiers make jokes about it among themselves, for which I thank the Male Goddess for the sake of the Prince I serve.

  No word has come from the front for more than two weeks and everyone is growing restive, though no one wishes to speak about it. I can read the anxiousness in the eyes of the Counsellors, and I hear them whisper their doubts, one to another, as speculation as to the meaning of the silence reaches absurd heights. I glance in Oduvit’s direction and see that his cheeks are growing ruddy, which pleases me and serves my purpose well. “The Queen,” I say to catch his attention, “is loyal to the King.”

  “That again,” scoffs Oduvit, and refills his tankard. “It is unwise to drink too much,” I warn him, knowing that nothing is more likely to goad him to inebriation than being cautioned against it.

  “Tell me that you do not think she is pregnant,” Oduvit charges me. “You do not lie well, Yorick. So face me and tell me she is chaste.”

  “Whatever she is,” I answer in deliberate evasion, “she is the Queen and it is our task to honor her for the sake of Hamlet.”

  “Father or son?” asks Mect with a lift to his shaggy brows. “Both of them,” I answer. “For both of them are Denmark, and never more so than now, when the King is at war and all the hope must rest with his son.” I help myself to a little of the mead so that it will not appear I am avoiding drink entirely, though tonight I do not want to hamper my wits any more than I must.

  Mect laughs more readily than Oduvit. “A shame you cannot serve on the Council, Yorick. Hamlet would be better off with you there than half of the men who are. You, at least, are loyal and would serve Denmark before you sought to advance your own interests, and that would be an astonishing event for the Council. It would also be a welcome change for Hamlet to have one true ally, other than Horatio; you are not cantankerous.” He tugs on his chaperon. “It is time I went and made a few jibes about spring plowing and planting. They expect it of us.”

  “Be careful of Polonius,” I remind him, taking his words to heart. “Now that he is back at court, he is determined to advance himself through his diligence. In the Council he has made himself the model of rectitude. He has the excuse of his wife’s death to be demanding of us. He may decide that such matters as we talk of are too frippery for his ears.”

  “Ah, Polonius,” says Oduvit with a show of teeth. “Yes, so very pompous and grave now that he is a widower. As if no man has ever lost a wife before. He has made himself unwelcome almost everywhere. Poor fellow.”

  “Nevertheless, do not cross him, or it will go badly for all of us,” says Mect. “And you will not have anything important to tell your master, Ludwig,” laments Oduvit sarcastically. “How unfortunate, to leave you in such a coil. You will have to make things up to compensate for your fall. Or tell him of the Queen’s pregnancy, no matter how vehemently she denies it.”

  I refill his tankard, and say to him, “Oduvit, your spite is worse than poison. It will not save you in your hour of need; remember that.” “So full of good advice you are,” says Oduvit, and makes a hoist of his tankard in Mect’s direction as he trudges out to caper for the high table.

  GERTRUDE

  Three weeks later Gertrude grows ill, listless and peevish; the malady comes on suddenly, with the first real heat of spring, and she takes to her bed, allowing only her women to approach her. Nothing Margitha can supply her eases her suffering, and she languishes, ordering me to remove the Prince along with myself, so that he will not have to watch his mother in pain. Then she lies back in a half-swoon born of low fever, sore limbs and profound cramps in the guts.

  I comply with her orders, spending my time in her sewing room, watching after young Hamlet, doing my poor best to keep the child from fretting, though he is keenly aware of the emotions around him. In the evening, two Guards are summoned to stand at the door to protect the Prince and the Queen, and a nurse is set to care for each of them, worthy women who have the endorsement of the Bishop as well as the Chamberlain of the castle. The boy is guarded, which I trust gives Gertrude some comfort in her travail.

  On the second day, the Queen grows worse, and Margitha begins to worry for her. She hurries out of Elsinor on an errand only she knows, and I am left with a young chambermaid to press cool cloths to Gertrude’s brow, trying to offer her the solace of tales and occasional cups of herb-water.

  In the next room, the young page Osrick is given the task of caring for the Prince, amusing him while his mother battles the illness that has seized her.

  By the time Margitha returns with an ancient crone from the woods near the town, the Queen’s mind is wandering and she is murmuring phrases in Lorraine-French that I hope only I can understand, for what she mutters could bring catastrophe upon her. I recognize adored and desire each associated with Claudius. It frightens me on her behalf that she shall be in more danger than her illness demands. The little chambermaid is terrified, and her eyes are huge as she watches Gertrude toss and pick at the covers.

  Margitha signals to the old woman to approach at once. “You can see, she is not improving.” “The evil is still in her,” says the old woman with certainty as she advances on the bed. “She will have to be purged. And quickly, or the trouble will cause her to sicken and die.” It is an abrupt decision, but given with the force of experience behind it. “I will need a basin. And you must bring me hot water and a large, clean cloth to make a poultice for her belly. I have the herbs ready. She will have to be rubbed until it is finished. I will tend to that, but you must do the rest.”

  The chambermaid scurries away, grateful for any reason to be gone from the room, and I long for such an excuse. “What do you wish me to do?” I ask, reluctant to remain. “You go and take care of the Prince,” says the old woman, dismissing me as unnecessary. “This is no place for a man, in any case. The Prince will have need of you; I do not.” It is all she is willing to say to me, and she shoos me out the door with the same motions of her apron as she might drive away the chickens in her yard.

  I bow to her, saying, “I will want to know how she fares.”

  “Certainly, certainly,” she promises impatiently, “Now get you gone.”

  With a mixture of relief and foreboding, I leave her to her work, trusting the Prince will not demand to see his mother, for now that he is speaking a few words, he has become quite autocratic, and as his servant, it falls to me to carry out many of his orders.

  Hamlet is fussy; his teeth are hurting him as they grow, and he senses the apprehension around him, which causes him to worry. I try to play the shawm for him, but he will have none of it, threatening at one moment to take the instrument from me and smash it against the floor, then screaming because I will not allow him to play with the fine needlework the Queen has been working on. At last I pick him up, throw him across my shoulder and lope around the room, singing a breathless little song about the boy who learned to cheat death; while in the other room, Hamlet’s mother cries out, making me tremble as I romp with the Prince.

  * * *

  “The Queen is recovering,” I report to the kitchen cat a few nights later. I am grateful to
the Male Goddess for having delivered Gertrude from her illness and her bastard at once; the fact that I suspect the events are related is something I dare not speak aloud even to the cat.

  The kitchen cat continues to gnaw at the meat left over from my supper; it is venison, and the sinews are very strong. Yet she is more than willing to do what is necessary to devour the food; indeed, she seems to find extra enjoyment in her eating because of the chore it is.

  I watch her eat as I undress and throw myself onto my bed, the two quilts now a bit too warm for the night. I close my eyes and tell myself I am ready to fall asleep, but of course, no sleep comes. For the next hour—revealed by the chiming of the clock in the Guards’ Tower—I do my resolute best to shut out the world and find sleep. But the more determinedly I pursue it, the more sleep eludes me. At last I sit up and strike spark to the rushlight.

  The kitchen cat has curled up at the foot of my bed, her head resting on my covered feet. She looks at me in disapproval as I move; anything that disturbs her earns her displeasure.

  “It’s nothing to warrant your ire, merely my own disquiet; pardon my inconveniencing you,” I tell her with all the courtesy I can summon, and as much to account for my sleeplessness to myself as for any real need, I pull on a chamber-robe and march out to the latrines. When I have finished my business there, I return to my room, passing by the Guard station at the back of the castle, where I hear a familiar voice. “…done well,” he is saying to what I must suppose is one of the officers.

  “It is an honor to serve you, Regent,” says the officer in just such an unctuous tone as Polonius might use.

  I pause where I am, leaning up against the wall to borrow shadows and safety from it; I try to breathe silently, the better to listen and the better to hide.

  “You dedication is deeply appreciated,” says Claudius. “The Queen will reward you, as soon as she is risen from her bed.”