“There is a room near the kitchen where you can eat in peace,” I say to him. “It’s called the Refectory. The cook will bring you a meal there, if you like.”
“Is that where you eat?” asks the leader of the puppeteers.
“Occasionally,” I answer, deliberately evading the thrust of his question. I have not been able to like the place since Hedrann died. “Perhaps we will go there,” the leader says begrudgingly. “If there is time for us to eat at all.” He nods towards the trunks which are not yet unpacked, and his troupe, most of whom are at work fixing the scenery for their little stages. “You must leave us to our tasks now.”
“If you want beer or mead, we will be pleased to arrange for some to be brought to you,” says Mect, doing all that he can to be pleasant.
The leader of the puppeteers shrugs and shoos us away, making no excuse for his brusque behavior.
“Well, we need not wait our meal for them,” Mect observes with disgust. “How is it that these…craftsmen, with their rods and strings, can hold themselves above those of us who must use our bodies and wits to entertain? They are little more than children playing with wonderful dolls, telling stories we all know.”
This outburst from Mect surprises me, for he has not often shown much pride in being a jester, and I am not prepared for so vehement a defense. “They might well think we need no skills to do our work, which is improvising, but they have to master a craft. It is their ignorance speaking.”
“Then they should take lessons in humility from the Bishop,” declares Mect, his face turning pale. “They give us insults.” “Complain to the King, then,” I suggest to him, not wanting to share in his indignation, but still feeling that I should speak up, for the honor of our jesting, “Or I will tell him.”
Mect shrugs, “Let us see what kind of work they do, and how they present it, before we ask him to condemn their work.”
His prudence does not astonish me; he is so political a creature that all I can do is pretend that he truly cares what the world thinks of jesters. “When their entertainment is over, then.”
“If it goes badly, so much the better,” Mect tells me as he makes his way in the direction of the castle.
* * *
The performance is a disaster. The puppeteers have selected a tale of an old King far gone in vice, whose lavish favors given to his stripling attendants finally so outrage his court that his virtuous sister marries an honorable noble and bears him a son in secret so that they may offer an acceptable candidate for the throne. Then they gather the last of the untainted courtiers for support and they murder the King and his coterie of Ganymedes. The only blessing—and it is a small one—is that Hamlet and Gertrude are not attending; they are with the leaders of the Norwegians, tending to the last ceremonial preparations of official letters for Fortinbras, and therefore are not subjected to this tactless display. Halfway through the tale, the audience is buzzing, most of those watching not knowing whether to continue or to cry out in disapproval at the play offered; in the end, most of them remain to see the puppet-play through, but interrupt the tale with jibes and hoots that lead to more outrageous behavior. There are times it is not possible to hear the puppeteers recite their lines for all the badgering the court summons up. After a while, the Norwegians join in, adding their own comments which do nothing to calm the occasion.
I have taken up a position at the edge of the audience, near the front where I can see the puppeteers at their work rather than only watch the action of the drama they present. It is a vantage-point for many things, I realize when I understand how badly the performance is going.
“Who is responsible for this?” I hear Polonius demand of one of the puppeteers as the action of the play takes them from one little stage to another. “A courtier,” says the puppeteer, looking much shaken by the reception the play has received. “Middle-aged, I think. He said it was his duty to arrange this.”
I listen closely, thinking it would be unlike Claudius to order such an obvious affront himself. And I am reasonably certain that he is the one who has brought this about, for who else would seek to cause Hamlet such embarrassment.
“Who was it?” Polonius insists. “Point him out to me.”
The puppeteer breaks away from Polonius, saying, “I must be ready for the next scene,” and scurries off before Polonius can detain him any longer.
Polonius turns away, a scowl marring his features. He hesitates, and then, as the action of the drama picks up once again, he goes back into the audience.
As the story winds to the triumphant end when the infant son of the dead King’s sister is proclaimed King, the court grows silent again, as if their invention in the face of such an insult has failed. When the play is over, it is met with more silence.
“What will become of the puppeteers?” one of the courtiers asks Horatio as they leave the courtyard.
“They will be sent away unpaid,” says Horatio bluntly. “To reward anything so disgraceful is to add to the disgrace.” “But surely they must be questioned first, and thoroughly,” the courtier—I recognize Trimalchius—protests. “The King will have to know how they came to perform that play.” “Of course,” says Horatio. “But they are Swiss and the Emperor will want them back in good order.” He has contempt for the problem and it shows in the tone of his voice and the way he holds his head. “And surely if we show too much regard for the play, the Emperor might suppose that there is more reason for concern than he has supposed until now. In the wake of the war, it would not do to lose the support of Ludwig and his lieutenants, especially over such a thing as a puppet-play.” Trimalchius lays his first two fingers against his lips, a sign of curtailing talk. “I will try to reason with some of my fellows, to ensure that this occasion is no more awkward than it must be.”
Horatio bows to him, and moves away into the quiet crowd, certainly seeking out other Counsellors for the same purpose he had when he approached Trimalchius.
BETRAYALS
Hamlet has three oil lamps set out on his table where maps are awaiting his attention; his fine Crusader’s gown is over his night-rail, keeping him warm in this chilly room, for the fire has long since been banked.
“What else did they say?” he asks me, wringing every last piece of information from me. In the hours since I have answered his summons, I have answered this question in myriad forms. “I think most were offended,” I conclude as I began. “It was fortunate that you were with Claudius and Counts Holberg and Axel while the performance was going on, otherwise it might have been much worse.” I have been offering this to him for more than two hours, in the hope it will calm his worry.
“True, true,” he says quietly. “And the letters they carry away at dawn were signed before all the uproar began.”
“It will go well,” I promise him, seeing how filled with anguish he is, and wishing I could find the one phrase, the one explanation that will banish his anxieties.
“And they will be gone in a few hours, no matter what they make of the stories they have heard tonight.” He glances down at the maps. “They can show Fortinbras the new boundary with Poland, and be satisfied.” “They will be,” I say with conviction.
Dreamily Hamlet stares into the dark grate, as if drawn by the red, winking eyes of the last few smoldering coals. “I did intend to care for Gertrude.” “And you have, my King,” I tell him again.
“She pleases me as much as any woman ever has. What a pretty girl she was when she came here, and how well she has tried to please me, even now. I am captivated by her charming ways and her sweetness.” He sighs. “But the rest is only my duty, and I doubt I have ever concealed that from her, not as I wished to.” I do not know what to tell him, for I recall the many times I have heard Gertrude and her women discuss their private dealings with men, and I know that the King is not the only one who felt distressed. I try not to yawn, for it is very late and I have not had anything more to eat than a stuffed bread to break my fast the previous morning.
�
�If I had not gone to war, I might not have succumbed as I did,” Hamlet goes on in the same remote way. “While I was with Gertrude, I knew it was my duty to get sons of her. And I made sure she increased.”
“That you did, my King,” I say to him, wishing I did not have to listen to this.
“If she had not lost that first child!” He slaps the map again. “But she did. And then young Hamlet came, and with him, the whispers. They were more damning than outright accusations would be, and they made me think again of.… I might have been able to forget how I missed.… But Hamlet came after Claudius returned, and the rumors flew. I wanted to put the thoughts from my mind for the sake of Denmark and the succession, but.… There were constant reminders in the knowing way courtiers looked at my son. And he is my son.”
“You declared him so at his birth,” I remind him.
“He will be King of Denmark when I am gone. That, at least, is certain. And he will be ready to assume the throne when I die.” He gets up and goes to stand near the dying coals. “If I have done nothing else, I have given Denmark a worthy Prince. When he becomes King …” He looks over toward me. “You have done so much for the boy. That he still knows me is your doing, I am sure of it.”
“He is a child who loves tales of valor, my King. It was a small matter to remind him that his father is just one such hero.” I try to make light of what I have done, for the sake of the Prince if not for the King; I cannot keep myself from adding, “I hope he will not forget me when he is grown.” “He will never forget you,” Hamlet says emphatically. “There will be no chance for that. You will be at his side when he mounts the throne.”
I commend that wish to the Male Goddess and lower my head. “It is ill to fix the future so rigorously.” The King considers this and nods. “Very well. My son will not forget you. That much I can say without doubts.” Then he stretches. “It is very late, and we are both tired.”
“Yes,” I say to him, and this time let the yawn escape.
“You have been kept too busy, you and Mect. I must find another jester, to ease your burden.” Hamlet smiles at me and for once I take no satisfaction in his apparent approval. “We have been able to manage thus far,” I say cautiously.
“But there will be more for you to do now, both of you, and without help, I am certain one of you will falter. So rest content: you will be relieved.” He reaches down and touches my shoulder. “Besides, you have more to carry than simply amusing the court. You have the Prince. And the burden of your knowledge.” I regard him with dawning apprehension. “None of these things is too great a weight for me to bear, my King.” To my dismay, I end on a yawn. “But you are tired. And so am I.” He waves in the direction of the door. “Then get you to bed, my friend. Neither you nor I will be able to decide how I am to deal with the court and the Queen, not now, not at this hour, or whether one or two new jesters are wanted. Wait upon me after the Council meets and we will have an opportunity to assess how far-reaching the damage of that puppet-play might be, as a first concern.” He rubs his eyes and then scratches absently at his chest.
I bow to him and look toward the door, then turn back to say the one thing that has remained uppermost in my thoughts all evening. “You must not be forced to bargain in weakness. No one questions your valor, my King, or your courage, certainly not the Emperor, or all the Danes. If you will use both strengths with wisdom, you will win through.”
Hamlet cocks his head. “Do you think so? It may come to that, I suppose. I may have to consent to campaign again to protect my reputation and my son.” His laughter is soft and sad, as if he were recalling a dead friend. “I will bear that in mind while I go about my work with the Council tomorrow.” He makes a signal of approval. “You are ever my most trusted friend, Yorick.”
This tribute brings tears to my eyes and I do not trust myself to speak, for I am already so sleepy that I have said things I did not intend to, and suddenly my dread seems more the product of fatigue than any genuine danger. Hastily I withdraw, vowing to guard the Prince from all harm; as I close the door behind me, I lean against it to ease my shoulder and back, trying to work the deep, hard ache from them before going down to my little chamber.
So it is that I hear the inner door of Hamlet’s chamber open, and someone come into the room.
“Is it done?” Hamlet asks, with such sorrow that I can only feel for him that he should know such anguish. “Yes; as you have ordered.” The other voice is Mect’s.
I lean against the door now with more purpose than lessening my pain. Who has been made to suffer so terribly? And what has Mect to do with it? “If he did not know so much, he could be spared,” Hamlet says with a weary sigh. “You have waited as long as you dared, my King,” says Mect with no hint of sympathy in his word.
“You think too long,” says Hamlet. “So you have told me time and again. And the Emperor as well.” He pauses. “If it had not been for Ludwig’s order, I would not have consented.”
“It would still happen,” says Mect, “The throne is in danger and you must protect it from all who would compromise it.”
“I know,” Hamlet responds as if to surrender, “Is it quick?” “Yes. Very.”
“And painless,” Hamlet persists.
Mect does not answer at once. “It does not last long.” Again Hamlet is silent; I strain to hear what is transpiring in the chamber behind me. “Poor reward for one who loves me,” Hamlet says at last.
Immediately I think of Esmond, and all the trouble his devotion to the King has caused. Poor reward, indeed, I think, trying to decide how I will face Mect in the morning, knowing what I know.
“But necessary, my King. Absolutely necessary.” Mect’s voice is cold as mid-winter.
“I would not have allowed it if it weren’t. Yorick may be loyal, but he knows more than any of you,” says Hamlet, and then orders Mect to leave him. “I will expect to hear from you before the Council meets.”
“Be certain of it, my King.”
There is another short pause, and then I hear Hamlet add, “If you fail?” “I will not fail.” No sentence of death was more fatally pronounced than that one. “Have I ever failed?”
“See to it,” Hamlet says in mourning benediction.
With that, I flee, seeking the haven of my bed and the glorious ignorance of sleep.
YORICK
Voss has left a plate of supper out for me; it is on the trunk where I keep my clothes. And the kitchen cat has helped herself to my meal, as I can tell by the cubes of mutton that have been gnawed by the cat.
Now she lies on the floor, still and cold, her tongue sticking out, all swollen, dried foam on her nose and whiskers, and her paws drawn up to her taut belly, her lovely fur matted with vomit and piss.
I stand beside her for a long while, weeping in silence, all but numb with grief for her, and shamed that she died because she ate my food. She trusted me to care for her and her reward is this. That she should die for me! I feel rage burn within me, and a grim determination to see her avenged, even as I admit that I will not be able to do it; for Mect expects to find me dead in the morning, not my cat. With a sudden impulse I draw my statue of the Male Goddess from underneath my pillow and put it next to the pitiful carcass, vowing that she will not have died without purpose, though I may have no means to fulfill that vow. In time she will be vindicated—the Male Goddess will see to it. But the Male Goddess does not expect men to be perfect, and does not ask them to apologize for not being gods when they do not prevail. With that for comfort, I finger the kitchen cat’s ears for the last time, and touch her stiffened paws. Then I pick her up and wrap her in my old chaperon, the one she was wont to sleep on, and carry her out through the waning night to the midden, and use the great paddle to push her well into the hot interior, so that no one will find her and discover how she died.
They will succeed, no doubt of it. Mect is more the King’s tool than ever I have been, as Tollo and Hedrann and Oduvit surely have reason to know. Last night was only a flu
ke, and it has cost me my one ally; I begrudge them that more than my own betrayal. I now have a last duty—to honor my oath and serve the King with my life. What can I do but fulfill my pledge? What other course is open to me?
If they do not kill me today, then tomorrow, or in a week or a month when my guard has lessened. The King has ordered it, who has laughed at my wit and antics and made me his jester and a knight. I must prepare for it, and strive to face it, to die well, for the Prince’s sake. And my own.
The End
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The End
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 39
