Alas, Poor Yorick

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

His anger is making some of the servants uneasy, especially those who have good reason to suspect that Oduvit really is speaking the truth, as he vowed he would.

  “You are willing to serve a Queen who betrays the trust of the King and Denmark nightly in the arms of his brother!” The speaker is an under-steward, a man who has worked within the walls of Elsinor for twenty years.

  “At least she keeps to the blood,” says one of the clerks, who fancies himself a bit of a wag. “Who can fault her for preferring the more gallant of the brothers? Half the women of the court sigh for the Regent.”

  “They say the Prince is Claudius’ child,” declares one of the others, emboldened by the reckless statements Oduvit is making. “And well he might be,” says the clerk who spoke before. “Not that the King would be willing to say so. Nor the Queen, come to that.” “And with the King gone, and the Queen so young, is it any wonder she seeks comfort in her loneliness?” asks a young footman who has a growing reputation among the women of the castle as an engaging cad, greedy for favors but chary of affection.

  Oduvit is laughing at this steady recitation of malice. “It would astonish the Queen to know that her servants see so much, for she believes that she is circumspect and discreet.” “If this is discretion, what is folly?” asks the clerk.

  “Having that child she was bearing live to be delivered,” says Oduvit, and relishes the shock he has created all around. “They say she was taken ill from bad food, but it wasn’t that. She had no rotting of the guts and no bloody flux, but there was blood enough when it was over. And we all know what makes women bleed.” He snickers and shoves his elbow into the side of the scribe sitting at the end of the bench.

  “All women have monthly courses,” says the scribe primly.

  “So they do, but when they are with child,” agrees Oduvit. “And afterward they bleed for all the months they retained the blood to nurture their babe.” He chuckles and looks in my direction. “Ask Yorick. He is often in the presence of the Queen and has reason to know her secrets.”

  I bow to the other servants, and then, very pointedly, to Oduvit. “You will have to forgive me, but I cannot speak of what I learn in the Queen’s confidence,” I remind them all. “It would be worth more than my life, or yours, to repeat anything, whether it is so little a thing as what the Queen prefers to eat in the morning.” “We know that already,” declares the senior serving-maid, a woman of middle years with a shapeless body under her more-shapeless clothing, “And we do not expect anything else. Yorick is right. He is not permitted to repeat what he hears in the presence of the Queen, or the King.”

  The servants acknowledge this with varying degrees of satisfaction, a few of them going so far as to reveal their dissatisfaction with this arrangement by blowing out their cheeks and whistling around their tongues. “Yes, it is true enough,” says Oduvit. “And those who break the rule may shortly find themselves broken as well. I do not think that any of us would live long if we had any actual knowledge of the doings between our Queen and the Regent. But we can give testimony of what we see. And the sight of the King’s brother panting over his wife, and her naked yearning for him, should be enough to make all of you aware that Hamlet is being betrayed in his own bed.”

  “Have you seen it?” asks one of the understewards.

  “Of course not. If I had, I would not be breathing still. Gertrude may be lax but she is not a stupid woman. I know that she is determined to keep her position, for the sake of the Prince if not for herself.” His laughter indicates that he does not put much faith in her determination to protect her child.

  “You should not speak so,” warns Voss, who has been growing irate as he listens to the claims Oduvit is making. “Whether what you say is true or not, you could bring ruin on yourself for speaking it, and on all of us, for listening to you.” “What better way to confirm the rightness of my claims than to do away with me?” asks Oduvit with malefic innocence. “If they are guilty, they dare not harm me, for that unmasks them as what they are. It is fitting that they should answer for their treason. If they are only caught in the toils of unfulfilled lust, then they have no reason to silence me, or punish you for listening to me; those without sin have nothing to fear from wickedness, or so we are taught.” He rocks back on his heels and nearly oversets himself. “I say that the whole of Denmark is disgraced, and that the curse of this wantonness will follow the Throne until the last of Hamlet’s line is dead of it.”

  The servants stare at him, astonished and bemused at the fury of his outburst, and one of them turns his head toward the door, as if to see if any of this is observed. Finally Voss reaches over and fills Oduvit’s tankard, sighing profoundly. “It is folly to listen to a sot when he is half-sprung.”

  The others nod and mutter agreement amongst themselves, grateful for some good reason to pay no heed to what Oduvit has been saying.

  “Have your jest, Oduvit,” says Voss with all the authority of his size and his position “but be careful to say these things only to those of us who know that you are drunk and will take no offense at your tirades.”

  “Yes,” says an elderly footman, “and keep your assertions about the crimes you suspect of the Queen to yourself. You have bandied such rumors about for more than a year and nothing has come of it, but that you have caused a good woman distress.” He nods once and this gesture is echoed by several of the gathered servants.

  Oduvit has taken a long draught of his mead and now he glares at those gathered around him with contemptuous wrath. “So. None of you has the courage to speak the truth. Not one of you has enough honor to point out treason, though it is at the very heart and root of Denmark.” He throws back his head and brays. “They deserve you.”

  I feel my face redden under the lash of this accusation, and I leave quickly, knowing that most will think that my shame is for being a jester like Oduvit, rather than my sharp knowledge that I am the worst of them all, and most deserving of the excoriation Oduvit has delivered. But I am the King’s jester and his knight, though no one puts much stock in my title but I, myself. I know what is required of me and I commit myself anew to the mission Hamlet has given me. Let Oduvit, or anyone, say what he might, I will be loyal, no matter what the cost.

  COUNCIL

  At the end of September, a courier brings word that the army will be in the field through the winter once again, and this time the requests for supplies and more men is not met with favor in the Council, for the sacrifice required has less promise of later bounty than when the campaign first began. Polonius himself admits to doubting the outcome of the war, and recommends that Fortinbras be asked to send men to the battle. “For although we have pledged to use only Danish soldiers, I believe it is fitting that we broach the matter with him now, and ask that he honor his promise of support with greater zeal than he has before.”

  A number of the Counsellors nod gravely and make signs of agreement. A few of them have an attitude of disapproval which they did not reveal when the army was preparing to march.

  “We must not undertake to compromise our standing with Norway,” says Claudius, in unexpected endorsement of his brother’s appeal to the Council for more supplies. “If we show ourselves craven now, they may repudiate their alliances with us, and then instead of a foe to the east and a friend to the west, we may well find ourselves isolated, with only the Emperor to the south to endorse us. And he has reasons not to engage in our disputes with Fortinbras, because of his treaties there.” This warning is received unhappily, the more so because it is well-founded. I listen in surprise, and cannot keep from wondering as the debate goes on, whether Claudius is more determined to protect Denmark or to keep his brother on campaign, far from Elsinor and his Queen.

  The Counsellors are prepared to debate the issue, several of them puffing up to bluster; I watch them from my place by the King’s chair, and I long for a needle, to poke them with.

  Claudius stops the dispute before it can begin. He rises from his place. “Until we know more sp
ecifically what is required, we will not be able to act on the King’s request. I recommend that we do nothing now. When the specific orders of requisition arrive, we will be better able to assess the amount of assistance we may need from our allies. In the meantime, I suggest that each of you send word back to his estates to determine what you have that you can send to the campaign when it is asked for.” Polonius looks shocked, then collects himself, “These points are well-taken,” he says in a pompous voice that bids ill for his conduct in old age. “I, too, think it is wisest if we all prepare to deliver to Hamlet those things he requires, and to that end, I advise all of you to determine what you can most readily spare for the King. Do not be laggardly in your valuations,” he admonishes them further. “It is no time to be niggardly in our support of the King’s efforts in the field.” Trimalchius, an aged Counsellor from the west, totters to his feet and regards Claudius with ire. “You do not deceive me with these prudent words you spout. You are trying to make the people resent your brother, but it will not succeed, to blame him for their hardships and their losses. They know that Hamlet goes to war for their protection, and that if they want their men-folk to come home, they must see his army is not left without supplies. You cannot use this ploy to bring about dissention anywhere in Denmark but in this chamber.”

  A few of the Counsellors applaud his statement, but many of them eye him askance.

  “Trimalchius is old,” says Claudius, making it an apology. “You will all have to understand he is inclined to see spectres.” His understanding chuckle grates on all of the Counsellors. “Trimalchius,” says one of the younger Counsellors, “is a loyal subject of King Hamlet, and we would all do well to emulate him.”

  This time there is more enthusiasm in the remarks of the Counsellors; Claudius and Polonius exchange uneasy glances. “It is fitting that we serve the cause of the King, as all Denmark must,” Trimalchius declares, riding on the sudden swell of support.

  “Yes, of course it is,” Polonius interjects before Trimalchius can work himself up into a proper harangue. “And we will discuss it as soon as you Counsellors have got your inventories from your estates.” With that, he signals for a dismissal of the Council.

  “A near thing,” observes Trimalchius sarcastically as he leaves the Council Chamber. “Who knows what would have happened if you had allowed us to continue?”

  I consider the question as I make my way toward the Queen’s garden, hoping that I will arrive there before Claudius does.

  HAMLET

  Hamlet has learned a number of words, and he practices them with steady determination. He often sits alone and recites all of them, repeating them in his soft, childish voice. The Queen has renewed her interest in the child and she speaks of him in a loving way that is much like her devotion to him when he was born.

  But I perceive another purpose in her care; she wishes to bind him to her, and to know everything she can about him, so that she will not be given away by some chance remark made by the Prince when the King returns. If her son is determined to protect her, she will have nothing to fear from his father. When I am summoned to play and sing for him, Gertrude joins us, and adds her sweet voice to our song. Young Hamlet basks in this new-found affection, and quickly learns which of his antics most delight his mother. It is important to him to please her, and he is at pains to make her glad of his company. He is occasionally joined by young Horatio, who is fascinated by the Queen; the Prince resents the attention given to the older boy, and becomes truculent when Horatio is praised.

  So it is that in late October we have gathered in the Queen’s apartments, smelling the deep, earthen smell of the first rains. I have brought my theorbo to accompany the songs I know will be demanded of me, and I take up my post on the low stool by the fire, where I busy myself tuning my lute while Gertrude sits on the floor, encouraging her son to run as best as his squat little legs will let him. Margitha watches all this with a simpering smile, as if this display of motherly concerns banishes the Queen’s sins. “What song will you have today?” Gertrude asks young Hamlet as she catches him in mid-hurtle; the boy is laughing wildly and squirming merrily in his mother’s grasp.

  “Let go! Let go!” the child shrieks, trying to wriggle out of her hands.

  “What song will you have today?” she repeats with so fond a smile that the boy cuddles next to her and lets her touch his soft hair. “If you do not tell Yorick what will please you, he will think you do not like his songs, and will be troubled.”

  Young Hamlet looks up at me, his eyes huge. “Yorick.”

  He spoke my name shortly after he said “Mama,” and it still gives me great pride to hear him struggle to mouth my name. He does it very well, though I would be gratified even if he made a complete hash of it. “Tell me what you want to hear, my Prince,” I say to him, plucking the strings of my theorbo, listening to the drones hum in sympathy with the chords I have touched.

  Hamlet watches me, considering his choices, then cries out “Sentry.” He makes a single, determined twist and manages to break free of Gertrude’s hold on him. With a crow of accomplishment, he scampers away from her, and a moment later falls down, a victim of his own exuberance. As he starts to whine Gertrude reaches for him again and gathers him in, comforting him. “Sentry. What does that mean?” she asks me as she pats his hair and cradles him against her bosom. “I think he means the ‘Legend of the Black Sentry.’” I make the answer a careful one, for the ballad is not one the Queen approves of. “With the headless monk and the ghost on the ramparts?” Gertrude asks, looking faintly scandalized. “What … why should this child like so … bloodthirsty a tale as that one?”

  I shrug and answer as truthfully as I can. “I have observed over the years that children often revel in the most horrendous tales. They delight in the macabre, and take pleasure in that which offends older minds.” I begin the first chords of the song. “If it will make him happy, I will sing it.”

  For once Gertrude does not cavil; she makes a slight gesture giving me permission to sing.

  As I begin the tale of thwarted love, Hamlet falls silent, no whimpers or sobs mar his attention. By the time I begin the third verse, he is humming along with the melody as best he can, and when I near the end he is trying to keep up with the words as the ghostly sentry declares his vengeance is achieved. With the closing chords, Hamlet demands that I sing it again.

  “One time a day is enough,” says Gertrude, who has listened with her mouth in a straight line through the last of the song. “I am sure Yorick has other songs you like to hear. Well, then.…”

  “Well,” I say to Hamlet, starting up the jaunty strains of “The Cowherd and the Highwayman”, “I think you will like this adventure as well.”

  The Prince is not as satisfied with the clever ploys the cowherd uses to outsmart the rapacious highwayman, but toward the end of the song, he taps out the rollicking rhythms with his feet, and squeals when the song describes how the cowherd kills the highwayman by throwing him into the midden.

  “Why do children relish such things?” Gertrude wonders aloud, her expression fond. She releases the Prince, and he bounds away, crying out a jumbled version of the last stanzas of the song. “I am sure I never wanted such songs when I was young.”

  I regard her seriously. “You may not have, but if you did not, you were a very strange child, my Queen. I mean no offense in saying it.” This last is hastily added, and I cannot tell if she is willing to accept my apology or not.

  “He is a good boy, my son is,” she says to me rather suddenly. “He will be a good King when his time comes.”

  “If nothing prevents his reigning,” I add, and encounter a sharp look of disapproval from her. “He is still very young, and not all children live to grow up,” I remind her, and cough delicately. “Young Hamlet is a sturdy boy and he has great promise, but he will have to live long enough to see his father buried before he can wear the crown.”

  Gertrude’s face is sad now. “It is true enough. Three of
my brothers did not see age five, and two of my sisters were dead before ten. It would be folly to leave the Prince unguarded at any time, and from any harm.”

  “It would be better,” I say as circumspectly as I can, “to have more children, my Queen. That way the hope of Denmark would not rest on a single branch but on several.”

  Gertrude flushes. “With the King at war….” “Yes,” I agree when she fails to continue; then I decide that it is my one opportunity to remind her of her duty. “But he will return eventually, and then he will be eager to ensure the succession. It is not my task to tell you what you already know is your purpose. You are a noblewoman, raised to be a good wife to your husband, and free of the expectations you might have had as a burgher’s daughter. As Denmark’s wife, you have an obligation greater than that of most wives, to give her husband the heirs he requires, for those heirs are Denmark as well as your children.”

  She looks at me, a number of emotions playing across her face as she considers her answer. “No doubt you are right,” she tells me at last in a tone that is as flat as her features are animated. “When the King returns . . . “

  “When the King returns, you will do what you must,” I tell her, and see her sad smile as she nods.

  Then the Prince oversets her embroidery-frame and shouts in triumph and aggravation, demanding the attention of his mother and me. And when everything is set to rights again, Gertrude asks that I sing “The Tale of the Sea Raiders”, during which long recitation Hamlet falls asleep, and I am sent away, the song unfinished.

  ODUVIT

  For the Prince’s Natal Day celebration, Oduvit and I are given new chaperons, with bells on the points of the caps; Mect is provided a new suit of clothes in bright colors, with a new staff with painted bladders attached to it. The Queen has arranged for a number of jugglers to come to Elsinor, and her father has sent two French troubadours to entertain the court. Claudius has led the hardiest of the courtiers into the forest to bring back stags and boar for the feast, and as the evening festivities begin, he strides about, accepting the admiration of the courtiers for his daring in the hunt.