“You’d think he’d fought a mother bear with a single knife,” scoffs Oduvit as he overhears Claudius describe how he and two others ran down a boar and speared it from horseback. “What chance did the boar have, I ask you? And what bravery is needed in such an unequal contest?” “Best not to mention it when you are performing,” warns Mect as we watch from our place in the gallery where the musicians will soon play. “There are too many at court who are now basking in Claudius’ favor to want to hear his reputation smirched.” “They are fools, then,” Oduvit says with scorn, “Thinking that Claudius will be able to reward them for their sycophancy.”
“Such a great word for a jester to toss about,” Mect remarks, arching his brow.
“It is one we all come to know well.” Oduvit gives Mect a hard stare, then looks back toward the men around Claudius. “What else would you call that? They are lickspittles, all of them.” “They are the lords of this court,” says Mect without showing any signs of deference because of it. “They are stronger than you or I. Hamlet is not here to save us. They could crush us with a word.” His voice is distant, as if he were talking about the flights of birds or the portents of weather.
“Not you; they wouldn’t dare. And not Yorick,” he adds, rounding on me. “You are the favorite of the Prince, and his mother shows you a regard that she exceeds only with Claudius. They could not harm you without offending the Queen and the Prince, which is dangerous.” “Perhaps it is,” I say, preparing to go down to the hall below to entertain. I tug my new chaperon more closely into place and think that the kitchen cat will be pleased to have the old one to use as a nest.
“But they could put paid to me, like that,” whines Oduvit. “They could make me vanish as quickly as a conjuror would, and no one would ask where I had gone, or care. You do not know what it is to live with such fear.”
I wish I could disagree with this statement, but the words will not come. I do not want to argue with him, not about this, in any case. I look over at Mect to see if he has anything to offer; when he remains silent, I clear my throat. “Only two large roasts, and half the usual number of cheeses. The feast is not as grand as it was last year, no matter what the courtiers claim.”
“They’re sending food to the army,” says Mect distantly. “There are less than two bullocks laid down in salt in the pantry. And half the cheeses are gone, as well; until the war is over, we must say farewell to lavish dining.”
“The King must feed his army,” agrees Oduvit. “And the court has no need of all the dainties they hanker for.” He laughs abruptly. “The courtiers can congratulate themselves on the sacrifices they make for the King.”
“It would not be wise to say so tonight,” I caution him, planning to select the most recalcitrant of the courtiers and aim my jibes at them, so that the court will be able to laugh with a clear conscience, and those who have spoken against Hamlet’s campaign will know that their conduct has been noticed. “I would be cautious if I were you; it would be an easy thing to make you the target of the court’s displeasure.”
“Make me the target? For speaking the truth? Why should that make me a target, Yorick, any more than any jester is? Because the Queen would not like it? Or that poppinjay Claudius?” He flings out his hand in the direction of the object of his contempt. “Look at him. No woman was ever more vain than he. All rigged out like an Italian dancing master, all velvet and lace and silk, his hair as bright as a candleflame. Most courtesans are not so handsomely adorned.” He gives Mect and me a scathing look as if we selected Claudius’ wardrobe. “In his way Polonius is worse,” says Mect, nodding in his direction. “You would think he had fifty years on him, the way he behaves.”
“He is become so since his wife died,” Oduvit declares, and cannot resist the urge to continue. “Mourning has given him the right to assume a gravity that is not fitting in a man his age. Mourning or gloating.”
I look at the two of them and bow slightly. “I am going down. The musicians are coming, and they will want the gallery to themselves.”
“Very well,” says Mect, glancing over his shoulder in time to see a tall young fellow with a curved crumhorn in his hands step through the curtain at the back of the gallery. “We’re just leaving.” Oduvit points to the musician. “See that your infernal pipe keeps its tune, will you? Why do crumhorns always stray from true?”
“They are curved,” the musician says by way of answer, which is no answer at all. By the time we descend the narrow stairs, the court is preparing to sit down to supper, those below the salt jostling for seats while those above go to their appointed places. There is a steady tide of conversation sweeping over us, and the first notes from the horns and pipes above us has begun.
The festivities have that forced sense of delight that too often comes when the kingdom is not thriving as one would like it to thrive. Polonius makes his way gravely through the room, speaking in measured tones and calculated aphorisms, determined to impress upon all the men in the room how sagacious he is. A few of the servants follow in his wake, distributing little buns stuffed with pepper sausages and pouring mead for those who wish to warm themselves.
On the dais, Margitha is trying to hold Prince Hamlet’s attention, wagging a toy in front of his nose and making cooing sounds, though he will have none of it. He stares about the room, occasionally pointing out something that interests him and crying aloud to identify it. He is alert, watching everything with an attentiveness that promises great things for his rule. Those around him pretend that he makes no such outbursts, for they are not appropriate to this splendid gathering.
By the time Gertrude takes her seat beside Claudius, the musicians have made headway and are able to announce the beginning of the feast with a splendid fanfare that is marred only slightly when the crumhorn, predictably, loses pitch.
The Queen raises her tankard and calls for God to bless the King and the army with honor and victory, and waits while the assembled guests get to their feet to endorse her toast. The heartiest echo of them all comes from Claudius, who adds his own request that God return his brother and all his good men home without harm. “For now the whole of Denmark rests on the infant shoulders of young Hamlet.” “Return the King unharmed. And say you all, amen,” intones Polonius, nodding at the flurry of “Amen’s” that follow.
This is my signal, and I bound out to make my bow to the Queen and the Regent, which I do as courtesy demands. But when I bow to young Hamlet, I bow as if he were his father; I show the depth of my respect and devotion in the style of my bow, and only the most brazenly drunk miss the significance of what I do; young Hamlet points to me and shouts my name, and for once the court laughs at this antic.
In the course of the next two hours, the banquet becomes more unruly as the mead flows and the conviviality increases. The servants begin to stagger under the weight of all the viands they bring to the guests, and Claudius castigates them for their laxness. I perform again, more outrageously than before, since the court now longs for broader humor. When I am finished—and my garments are spattered with food and mead—the call for Oduvit goes up.
“He’s had so much to drink, I doubt we can get him on his feet, and if we can, he’ll be in no condition to speak,” whispers Mect to me as I move into the area under the gallery where we are assigned to wait.
“Where is he?” I ask, looking around as I swab my face with a rough towel. “Where has he gone?”
“Out the corridor,” says Mect, shoving his elbow toward the corridor leading toward the rear of the castle, and the latrines. “How long ago?” I cannot shake off the sense of trouble that grips me then.
Mect shrugs. “A little time since. ‘You know how he is when he is bibulous. He complained of being bored. He said he did not want to be forced to listen to your prating. He condemned the whole evening as a waste of time and said he had better be sick now or risk throwing up on one of the Counsellors.” He has the grace to look embarrassed.
Beyond us, the diners are calling for O
duvit in a ragged, insistent chorus, stamping their feet and thudding their tankards on the table, rowdy as soldiers on leave now that the eating is nearly done and the carousing is about to begin. Through it all, I can hear the single, high cry of Prince Hamlet, upset by the noise. “We”d better find him,” I say to Mect, “They want him out there.” “They certainly do,” says Mect in agreement, “I‘ll go. You finish tidying up.” He pats my arm and is about to go when I decide to go with him.
“It may take both of us to bring him back, if he is very drunk,” I remark, wishing I could make a joke of it; I toss the towel over my shoulder in order to neaten myself when Oduvit is found.
“So it might,” Mect concurs, and stands aside so that I can venture down the hall ahead of him.
The torches make long, irregular shadows of our passage, and the cries of the guests quickly become a steady baying that follows us out toward the rear part of the castle.
“Ah.” I say as I catch sight of Oduvit sprawled against the wall, his chin on his chest. “The drink was too much for him.” I hurry toward him as quickly as I am able, and I reach down to shake Oduvit’s shoulder, my fingers knowing before the rest of me is aware that Oduvit is stiff. I stifle a sudden cry and draw back, bending down to get a better look at him. Oduvit’s eyes are open, staring blankly into the darkness where his soul has gone. I draw my hand back and ask the Male Goddess to protect him, and me. “What’s the matter?” asks Mect as he comes up to me. Then he pauses, and I realize that he knows Oduvit is dead. “It must be the drink,” he whispers after protecting himself with a Christian blessing. “It was certainly something,” I say, feeling that I am babbling. I pull the towel from my shoulder and put it over Oduvit’s face. “They will have to be told,” I add, not wanting to leave Oduvit alone; it is bad enough he is dead, but to be abandoned as well is unthinkable.
“I will go find someone,” offers Mect, glad for some reason to be away from here at this time. “A Captain of the Guard, do you think?” My first inclination is to say yes, but then I think of how the Guards gossip worse than women around a quilt. “Make it one of the senior stewards. And have the court physician sent for.”
Mect has already started away from me, but now he asks, “Why?” “Because Oduvit is dead.” I put my hand on his shoulder, as if to guard him in death as I never wished to do in life.
“And that is reason enough, do you think? to have the physician come? Oduvit was a sot.” He starts to laugh, but cannot do more than make a slight, strangling sound as he stares at the corpse.
“If he died for more than drink, it must be known,” I remind Mect, trying to keep my voice steady, though not quite succeeding. “It would mean that there is danger close to the Queen, and the Prince.”
“The Queen and the Prince, yes, it is possible.” Mect cocks his head. “You say nothing of the Regent.” “No, I do not,” I answer, and set my mind to the task of watching over the body. It is hard not to stare at Oduvit’s husk, but out of respect I turn my attention toward the courtyard beyond, with the baths on the far side, steam arising from the windows even now; the soldiers must be bathing, I think inconsequently. Or the women who are not of high enough rank to dine with the court. The image of the kitchen cat floats through my mind as I consider these women, and I know she is grander by far than any of them could aspire to be; I have to stifle a chuckle.
No more than a breath later I hear a footfall behind me; I start to turn. Something strikes my head and I fall across Oduvit’s outflung legs. When I awaken, dawn is near and my head is throbbing; it hurts to breathe too deeply but I cannot stop gasping for air, as if I had lain in the depth of the sea and not on the stone floor. Gingerly I assess the damage I can reach: there is a swath of scratches on my face caused by the rough stones where I fell. My hands are scraped on the knuckles; closing my fingers aches. I can feel a knot in my skull the size of a hen’s egg. My eyes are gritty and my mouth is like dirty flannel. When I try to stand up, I have to steady myself against the wall, my gorge rising with the effort. I squint my eyes closed and put one hand to my head. Finally when I am certain I will not vomit or fall, I slowly open my eyes once again, and peer through the grey morning gloom.
The courtyard is empty, the corridor deserted, and aside from a swath of cleared ground, Oduvit is gone. Mect is missing, and I feel terribly alone, as a deer facing a hidden archer must feel alone.
* * *
The kitchen cat seems troubled about me as I stumble into my chamber in the first cold light of morning, glad of the darkness I find there. She twines around my legs, tail up, making urgent cries up at me, occasionally half-rising on her hind legs to butt her head into my hand. It may be that she is only hungry, or anxious that I did not sleep in my bed as I usually do, but I flatter myself she is aware that all is not right with me and she is concerned because of it. As I sink onto my bed, she jumps into my lap—most unusual for her—and begins to knead at my thigh, purring. “Enough of claws, little mother,” I warn her quietly, petting her head slowly and telling myself that the touch of her long, soft fur makes my hand feel better, which it may do.
She pays no heed to me whatever and continues at her self-appointed task.
I lean back noticing now that my whole shoulder is deeply sore. The hump tingles as if it were frozen and only now coming back to life, filling me with twinges and stretches that promise a day of misery. Belatedly I search under the mattress for the image of the Male Goddess, and I hold it against my chest, asking Him-in-Her for solace, and relief.
“Oduvit is dead,” I say aloud, equally to the kitchen cat and the Male Goddess, “Someone killed him. He was murdered. I saw his body. I fell across his legs. But this morning he was gone.” I do not like the implications of my words, and though I groan from the hurt in my shoulder and back, I know that some of the emotions fueling the sound come from dread. “Mect was supposed to bring him aid, but he never returned.” The kitchen cat shifts her position, seeking a more advantageous stretch of flesh to knead. Her purring is so steady and loud that she is like a millstone running in late spring and I wonder that all of Elsinor cannot hear her.
Finally I make a nest for myself, with my blankets drawn up around me, the kitchen cat for once content to be nestled against my chest with the Male Goddess.
A few hours later young Osrick awakens me, demanding that I attend the Prince. Then he sees my face, blanches, and hurries away. Shortly thereafter Voss surges into my chamber, a basin in one hand, a cloth in the other.
“What happened to you?” he demands as he holds up his rushlight to get a better look at my face.
“Someone attacked me. I think,” I answer carefully. “Last night, after the banquet. I came upon Oduvit—”
“When was that?” Voss interrupts without apology. “When did you see Oduvit? He is missing, and the Queen is furious. She says that he went too far in his jesting and she wishes to hold him to account for his jibes. He made such accusations of her that she will not turn away on the grounds that he was only mocking gossip.” He comes to my bed, and bends down, his girth more impressive from this angle than any other. “I suppose he came to his senses and has taken to the woods for a day or two, until the Queen is no longer angry.” “He was…lying in the corridor when I saw him,” I answer and wonder at my own reluctance to say that he was dead when I found him. Or to tell him that Mect saw the corpse, as well. If only I could speak with Mect, to find out what he has done.
“Drunk. Well, he could be anywhere, then. He sometimes goes into the stables to sleep in the hay with the rats. He’ll turn up when he’s sober enough to walk,” Voss chuckles as he reaches down for my jaw, turning my head so that he can better examine the damage done. “No loose teeth? Best watch for that.” He goes on as jovially as he can. “You’re going to look pretty fearsome for a couple of days; you’ll have to stay out of view, that would be best,” he says at last. “I will send word to the Queen that you need to remain abed for the time being until you are fit to be seen in general
company once more. Go out like you are and you’ll scare the horses. Let alone what the ladies might think.”
“That would be kind of you,” I mutter, and hope that none of my teeth have been loosened by the bruise.
“Let me clean you up a bit,” he goes on, wetting the cloth in the basin. “I will have one of the bath attendants prepare a tub for you with pansy and willow. That should help.” He is about to lower himself to one knee when the kitchen cat emerges from her place among the blankets and hisses at him. “So this is the one you have such a fondness for. She is a good ratter.”
“She is a cat,” I say, watching with sadness as she hastily leaves the room as if on important and just-remembered business.
Voss hangs his lamp on the hook over my bed and sets about cleaning me up, all the while speculating on where Oduvit might have taken himself. I am grateful that his ministrations make it awkward for me to speak, or I might say that they should speak to Mect, and then look deep in the midden, where offal and refuse are put to ferment together.
* * *
Three days later I am heartily sick of my own company, now that my body no longer hurts with every breath; now that I am improved, I am restless, and I am filled with foreboding. My chamber seems little more than a tomb, and even the kitchen cat does not linger with me long enough to alleviate the sense of ennui which has seized me when I am not overcome with an abiding fear of impending doom. Oduvit’s disappearance is still the talk of the court, or so I hear from Voss and Mect, who visit me often with news.
“He probably went too far this time, and has not been able to return because of the weather,” says Mect on the third afternoon when he makes an unexpected visit to my chamber. A storm is stalking about the castle with growl and threats but without the snow it promises yet. “When I finally came back—with two saddlers who laughed at me—no one was to be found.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 35
