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Hamlet: The Comedy
Hamlet: The Comedy
Hamlet: The Comedy
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Hamlet: The Comedy

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Amundi, jester to Denmark’s King Claudius, has a slew of problems. Just when tensions at their maximum because of an imminent threat of invasion by Norwegians, Prince Hamlet returns to Elsinore Castle, more than a little upset that his mother has married her brother-in-law. It’s a rough time to be a jester. Worse yet, Amundi has his own problems, particularly a love affair that seems certain to land him in the torture room. In spite of that, he does his best to stay alive in a milieu in which his religion, the social structure, and the nature of war are showing signs of strain.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherLenny Everson
Release dateFeb 28, 2017
ISBN9781370349494
Hamlet: The Comedy
Author

Lenny Everson

List of Completed Works by Lenny Everson (As of November, 2014, over 36,000 copies of Lenny's works have been downloaded.) Novels •Death On a Small, Dark Lake. 67,700 words. Our hero snags a body in a remote lake. •Death on a Rocky Little Island 71,500 words. Our hero convinces a friend to take a canoeing trip to the 30,000 islands. •Mount Moriah 50,000 words. A strange sequence events involves a priest, a poet, a CSIS agent, a space alien, four horny teens, among others. My most fun fiction. •Last Exit to Pine Lake. 45,000 words. A dying writer goes back into the bush to off himself. Grimly literary. My best fiction. •Ally Oop Through the Ulysses Trees. As much fun as Mount Moriah! •Marley Was Dead: A Christmas Carol Mystery Novelettes •Granite and Dry Blood. 9,700 words. Our hero wants to write a book on Massassauga Park. Various people would prefer that he didn’t. •Death on a Foggy Spring Portage. 11,800 words. One member of a paddling group is found dead on a muddy portage. Screenplays •Murder on a Foggy Spring Portage. One member of a paddling group is found dead on a muddy portage. Plays •Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont. Ghosts of the two Métis leaders meet in today’s world to remember their lives. A short (20-minute) play for two actors. Full-Length Poetry Books •The Minor Odyssey of Lollie Heronfeathers Singer. A middle-aged woman tries to connect with her aboriginal ancestry. •In The Tavern of Lost Souls. Four poets meet at a grungy bar once a month to give their poetic answers to random questions. •Love in a Canoe. A set of five chapbooks and a songbook about the love of canoeing. With illustrations. •Louis Riel and Gabriel Dumont are Dead. Ghosts of the two Métis leaders meet in today’s world to remember their lives. Includes the play. Poetry Chapbooks •Encounter in a Small, Old Cemetery. Autumn. Midnight. Poet visits a small, old private graveyard. Best poem I ever wrote. •Fire and Ashes. Poems about life’s flames and regrets. •The Empty Tarmac of a Long-Abandoned Airport. Poems about having a midlife crisis. •Love Poems A compilation •Pray for Me: 22 Poems Probably Slandering God and Jesus •Ballads from an Unlucky Fisherman: Poems from a fisherman •Tweetable Limericks. 60 limericks small enough to be tweets •Hiking Poems. Co-Authored Poetry Chapbooks •Who Would Be a God? Susan Ioannou and Lenny debate the merits of being a god. •How to Dance Naked in the Moonlight. Katherine L. Gordon (Celtic pagan) and Lenny (skeptic) confront the ceremony. •Cats and Dogs. With I. B. Iskov •For Ko Aye Aung: A Plea for His Release from Prison. For Amnesty International, with other poets. Non-Fiction Chapbooks •If You Condemn Gays: The Bible on Homosexuality and Other Items. •The Architecture of Suburban West Kitchener. A light look at house styles. •The Architecture of The University of Waterloo. A light look at the campus buildings. •Making Tourist Attractions for Towns and Small Cities. Advice. •Technological Solutions to Global Warming. •Hyphens: A Guide for the Early Twenty-First Century. •Colons and Semicolons: A Guide for the Early Twenty-First Century. •How to Review Draft Technical Writings •Rebecca’s Trail (Grand River Trail) in Winter •7 Temples to Bill Gates: a modern mystery •The Great God Pan - or Not •Two in a Tent: Camping Humor. •Why Haven't Aliens Contacted us? Songbooks •Dance Songs for Weddings Available on Smashwords •Canoe Songs. part of a set of six chapbooks about the love of canoeing. With illustrations.. Available on Smashwords •18 Dingbat Songs for Kids Available on Smashwords I’d like to thank all the people who downloaded my writings. And I’d like to thank Smashwords for making them available to the world. I started out as a poet, and spent most of my life producing poems. Some of them are really fine poems, but, of course, the monetary value of poetry in this world isn’t much. Actually, I once calculated poetry has a negative monetary value; poets are lucky if they don’t have to pay people to listen to them. But I always admired people who told me they were “writing a novel.” I don’t know why, but I did. So eventually, I sat down and wrote a novel, just to show I could actually do it. The result was Death on a Small, Dark Lake, more than two thousand copies of which have been downloaded. It wasn’t really very good, but at least I could say, “I wrote a novel!” I stuck to what I knew best, canoeing and the lake country north of Peterborough, Ontario, the edge of Canada’s lake country. I wrote Death on a Rocky Little Island in an effort to make some more believable characters, but I can’t really say I succeeded. People have downloaded a few more copies of that, so maybe it was a bit better constructed than the first novel. It included canoes, of course. Then one of my friends taunted me into doing something for NaNoWriMo, the endeavor in which a person tries to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November. I was, er, a few days over, but I got it done. It turned out to be a bit incoherent in spots, but in general, a lot of fun; I recommend it, if your standards aren’t too high. And there are no canoes in it. By that time, I figured I could write something “literary.” The result – with more canoes of course – was Last Exit to Pine Lake. If it’s less fun, well, it’s meant to be. If most people don’t like it, well, that’s normal for literary novels, so it doesn’t bother me. My literary bent done, I wrote Ally Oop Through the Ulysses Trees. It was intended to be fun, and it’s lots better than the first two novels I wrote. I even put myself, in a canoe, as a minor character. Then I thought I’d just write a novel that would sell. For money, like. Smashwords said romance generally sold well, so I wrote Fire and Spark, under the name, “Laura Singer.” (You can search for it.) It wasn’t all that bad, for a guy’s first romance novel. Really, it is, although my wife said it should be subtitled, Five Canoes; No Sex. I again added myself as a minor character. But it didn’t sell, so I added it to my list of free books on Smashwords. You’re welcome. Last fall, I finished another book that I thought would actually sell, Marley Was Dead: A Christmas Carol Mystery. My wife thought it was really good, mostly because of the historical details of social life. It didn’t sell, of course, so it’s free now. You’re welcome, again. As for the poetry, the most popular are Hiking Poems and 21 Poems for Love, Weddings, and Anniversaries. And then there’s the rest. The opinion pieces are just my explorations of things that I wanted to know more about. I studied the subject, briefly, and published my findings. They’re not scholarly, but well worth what you’ll pay for them. A few are getting outdated, but nobody’s written to me to ask for updates. If you want to learn more about any of my writings, email me at lennypoet@hotmail.ca. Like Lenny’s poems? Just type in (or copy) the YouTube address) from any item on the list below into your search engine. You should get a YouTube video of Lenny reading a poem. https://youtu.be/SfHAKSgn7lc https://youtu.be/29dmESWIgrg https://youtu.be/hyYqYhDl35E https://youtu.be/x8ufRDD65_s https://youtu.be/u0Bw6xUcEFM n https://youtu.be/g3PxjmjRl1g https://youtu.be/WCmoGGdLrTw https://youtu.be/IIL7e2cWWVA https://youtu.be/SfbwWwgd5Yo https://youtu.be/ZAuuYEUsMh0y https://youtu.be/Hw4v7RmZqk4 https://youtu.be/BmTywRZwe1o https://youtu.be/lYGmMyxgKGQd https://youtu.be/I8tA3dwv-WA https://youtu.be/yaX9WYb2y3o https://youtu.be/Y1Saq1UZ0kE https://youtu.be/FDBlHLuBmcw https://youtu.be/yTiSQLzU4nM https://youtu.be/On8ClcmNWsw https://youtu.be/L3IwGhkqIKMd https://youtu.be/KhOxMvR4wGE https://youtu.be/R6ybqmVUUCA https://youtu.be/BiiYKsR8YaE https://youtu.be/Y9a6pNuEoX0 https://youtu.be/ZyOn3Smu8ZY https://youtu.be/5U0zTnAw7X4

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    Hamlet - Lenny Everson

    Hamlet: the Comedy

    Or Perhaps a Cometragedy,

    as told by Amundi, Last Jester to Denmark.

    Translated into modern English by

    Lenny Everson

    rev 2

    Copyright 2017 Lenny Everson

    Smashwords Edition, License Notes

    This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

    Cover design by Lenny Everson

    For Dianne

    Published at Smashwords:

    ****

    Note:

    Without knowing Shakespeare’s Hamlet, you probably won’t understand this novel. If you like Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet, you probably won’t like this novel. Good luck to the rest of you.

    See chapter 23 if you need a summary of the play; chapter 24 for a list of characters.

    Chapter 1: Wind

    Denmark is a damned windy country. On a windy, windy afternoon, a prince and his friends might pass a noisy tavern, and the fools inside might not even notice, even if the wind were blowing strongly in the direction of Elsinore.

    Prince Hamlet, accompanied by his friend, Horatio, and perhaps one or two others, seems to have passed Melka’s Young Dog Tavern one afternoon when the usual wind was banging the branches of oak trees against the tavern roof.

    I’d been waiting for Hamlet to arrive back in Denmark, and was angry with myself when I found I’d missed him. I’ve thought it over a few times since then. Maybe I could have done something different, and maybe it would all have worked out better for me and Tola. And for Ophelia. And for Hamlet. And for Denmark. Dust in the wind, as they say, dust in the wind.

    ***

    Chapter 2: Tavern of Fools

    I sat with Ingald inside Melka's Young Dog tavern, late on that afternoon in spring. It had been raining and the road outside was pretty well chewed up by wagons heading for Elsinore Castle, a day’s travel away. Most of the wagons and carts were carrying military supplies to the castle or coming back for more. What did one expect? Denmark was facing a war it wasn’t sure it could win.

    A few minutes before, a sailor had come in, taken a quick look at his usual place now filled with clowns, fools, jesters, and a few crooks, and turned to leave. I’d grabbed his tunic. The ferry’s not in, is it? It’s not due until tomorrow.

    He’d shook himself loose. Special boat. We brought Prince Hamlet in.

    Shit. How long ago?

    He’d shrugged. A couple of hours, maybe. Who are all these clowns?

    Jesters, I said. This is the Convention of Fools, the third ever held in Denmark. And the second one I’ve been to, I added, not bothering to mention that it had been my idea. As the king’s jester, an idea of mine got a bit of respect, or as much as any jester could in a country where humor was often considered a suspicious activity.

    You’ll be gone, soon? He hadn’t looked happy.

    Tomorrow by noon.

    The convention had been good, and most of the various Danish Lords and other nobles had, to my surprise, financed their fools to go. I guess they were getting tired of the same old jokes. As was I. The laughter was loud and the jokes had generally awful, but there was the odd one I could use.

    You don’t seem happy. You were hoping to talk to Hamlet? Ingald was young, but quick. A shortish fellow with dark hair, an olive complexion, and a accent from some Mediterranean country, Ingald had walked up to me and Soldir the night before. Like Soldir, he wanted to be an apprentice fool.

    That seemed bizarre to me. Soldir, a tall old soldier with a scraggly beard and a bad limp, had asked to be an apprentice the week before. Now another one….

    I’d explained to Ingald that the pay from the castle wasn’t great, but I’d pay a bit out of my own salary, which wasn’t bad. Ingald had waved it off. Not a problem, he’d assured me. Once I’d confirmed that he could act the role of woman or man, I’d said I’d give him a month’s trial. He’d smiled a big smile. I was to learn that his smile tended to make women weak at the knees. Or maybe it was just that, in Denmark, a tanned man with a foreign accent was an exotic item.

    No, I said. I don’t need to talk to the prince, but it would have been good to be at Elsinore Castle when he gets there.

    He’s coming back for the funeral? Isn’t that a bit late? The funeral of Old King Hamlet, Prince Hamlet’s father was more than a month in the past. Ingald looked at me with his most innocent look (I was to learn how well he could do that). Perhaps he’s going to claim his right to the throne?

    I scratched my chin. I think if that were his plan, he’d come with an army of some sort. Shortly after Old King Hamlet had died, Hamlet’s mother had married her late husband’s brother, Claudius, and they now occupied the throne of Denmark."

    Maybe to lend a hand fighting the Norwegians?

    I rolled my eyes. I’m not sure how much good he’d be at that.

    Then?

    I don’t know, I said. Personally I’d have stayed at school in Wittenberg, if I were the prince. But he sent word and now he’s most of the way to Elsinore and I’m here. I spat onto the floor.

    That’s a problem?

    Only if Claudius decides to have an entertainment to welcome him home. If that happens, I should be there.

    Ingald smiled. Because only you can provide a good one?

    Or, I said, they might find out how little they actually need me.

    Head on a pike, Ingald said. He’d obviously been listening. Having a jester’s separated head put onto a pike pole outside a noble’s residence was, at least in legend, that noble’s way of advertising a vacancy for a new jester. Pike poles are long spears that have multiple functions, including display. Around the tavern, we fools joked about it a lot, speculating whose head was likely to be next.

    I fumed. Not much point in leaving for Elsinore this late in the day, I said.

    Ingald nodded. Can you introduce me to anybody I’m likely to meet again?

    I looked around. Shoop the shitter, I said, pointing to a nondescript man at the next table, crying into his beer. Learned at the feet of Yorick, one of my predecessors, dead a couple of decades. We slipped over to sit beside him. Shoop ignored us.

    Abruptly Soldir pushed the door open and stood there with a large pot of what smelled like sheep stew. He looked around carefully before coming into the room. Melka followed him in with a large tray of bread. She looked very happy.

    With a shortage of seats in the place, some men had volunteered to wait for supper. There were more jokes on the improvised stage. We laughed, dutifully. I heard that last one in Istanbul, Ingald said. Do jesters run out of new jests eventually?

    Everything, wise and foolish, has been said before, I told him. But nobody sober listens to much. So we can keep going back and starting all over again. Except the oldest, most tiresome jokes. We save those for late at night when the men are drunk. Then they want to hear them again. I looked around. Most of these people have learned two essential lessons, my friends. First, that a day in which you haven’t laughed is a day wasted.":

    And the second? Ingald asked.

    The secret one. That the aim of a joke is not to degrade the human being – that’s foolish and dangerous – but to remind him that he’s already degraded.

    A couple of toasts were made, to which we raised our cups: Some men are such fools; some fools are such men and It is better to love with fools than to fool with love. The toasts were as old as most of the jokes there, but who wouldn’t drink to them, if only out of politeness?

    Shoop was again muttering something about Yorick. The two servants, who might well have been Melka's daughters, kept the ale coming to those who had the money. Ingald flirted with the them, which got me fed as well.

    When Soldir sat at our table, I introduced him and Ingald to each other. They eyed each other suspiciously. Then Ingald asked about the death of Old King Hamlet. Why wasn’t he replaced by Prince Hamlet? That’s the way it goes in most kingdoms. He tasted the ale, then gave a skeptical look at the mug. I got the impression that he didn’t think much of our Danish ales, but having tried the Danish wine a couple of times, he’d decided that the ale, at least, wasn’t going to kill him.

    Hamlet was out of the country, at school, and by the time he got back Claudius had married Prince Hamlet’s mother, Queen Gertrude, Soldir told him.

    And the Danish Nobles didn’t object? Ingald seemed incredulous.

    In case you hadn’t noticed, I told the young man, Denmark’s under imminent threat of invasion by Norway. I looked around and lowered my voice even further. Old King Hamlet had the brains of a cucumber, and would still have been deciding what to do when the Norwegians were putting his head on a stake outside the palace gates. I took a big swig of ale. Most of the nobility were relieved when Claudius took over.

    Doesn’t that sound a bit suspicious, then?

    I winked at Ingald. Palace politics. Fools should keep out of it, and be wary of all rumors if they want to stay alive. I touched his hand, then waved for another ale. That may have something to do with Asser’s death, or so I’ve heard.

    To his blank look, I said, Asser was the royal jester before they hired me. I winked at him. Amundi; current royal court clown and your mentor in the jester business – if we don’t screw up too badly.

    You think?

    I nodded. Asser always pushed his jokes closer to the line than was safe. I paid for two ales. He was found in the moat. I shook my head He might have fallen off the battlements while having a shit –some do, you know. Or he may have been pushed.

    Do we lose many that way?

    I looked at Ingald. It’s warm in the castles and mansions, and there are girls who love to be entertained. So there are always applicants for the job. But we do lose a few from time to time.

    I thought it a safer business than whaling. Ingald shook his long hair. He wiped some ale foam from a lip barely able to grow a moustache deep enough to notice.

    I thought about asking him how he’d been a whaler at his age, but I didn’t know much about life in whatever tropical country he’d come from, and, besides, if you can’t tell tall tales, you’ll never make it in the jester business. Generally safe, I assured him, but you’ll be fed a lot of good wine and asked to make fun of some important people. That’s got a lot of fools tossed off bridges."

    I’ll try to remember that. He lowered his voice. I have two questions.

    I nodded.

    How close were Shoop and Yorick?

    I am, I said, tired of Yorick. He’s dead more than twenty years and he’s still making fools of us fools. They were at least good friends, I was. If it went further, I didn’t know about it. And the other question?

    When Ingald was somewhat fed, he asked, with his mouth full, Did you know Asser?

    I shook my head. He was a great guy they say. Everyone tells me that.

    Yet you seem rather hostile to the idea of inquiring into the manner of his death….

    When war’s imminent, it’s not a good time to get too inquisitive or rambunctious in the castle, I said. Too many spies, maybe. Too many suspicious people.

    Yet Soldir told me that the love of your life was inside Elsinore. Tola, I believe.

    Her husband’s there, too. I wondered if that knowledge was current in the remote colonies.

    Ah, Ingald said. Is he big, or powerful?

    His name is Grim, I said. Then I explained what that meant in language of the English. He’s the king’s Prime Minister, as well as Minister of War. I said, Powerful in influence with the king and the nobles.

    You can see yourself taking the same flight as Asser? Ingald laughed.

    I can. It’s a straight drop into the toilet soup that makes up the moat.

    You suspect he knows about you and your… feelings towards his wife?

    I gave him one eye. "I don’t know. But as we get closer to war with the Norwegians, life is getting cheaper in Denmark, and fewer questions are asked about other issues. He can hardly not know about Tola and I and the various bedrooms we’ve shared in the last two years. I dipped my bread into the last of the stew in my bowl. Yet he hasn’t, to this date, done anything. He could easily say I was a spy, and without the least proof my days of fooling around would end."

    Lots of bedrooms in the castle?

    Enough, although as war gets closer, people are moving into the castle.

    . And many rooms in an inn. Yet Soldir and Melka do it outside. Standing up. Don’t you find that unusual? He eyeballed Soldir.

    I said, I asked Soldir once, and this is what he told me. But I didn’t get a chance to tell my version of the story.

    You telling my story again? Soldir asked.

    I was about to, I acknowledged.

    Why not buy me another ale and let me tell it myself?

    Because I’ve heard it seven times and it won’t be Ingald here buying the ale. But I knew I was defeated. I pushed my mug, still mostly full, over to Soldir when he sat down, and tried to find a waitress to get more. Not much luck there, since they were busy serving stew.

    Well, Ingald, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Almost five years ago, the former king of this – Soldir looked around as if to check for spies – accursed land saw fit to start another of his pointless and silly wars, this time with the Friesians.

    As if, I said, the Friesians had anything worth fighting for. Both Ingald and Soldir gave me a dirty look, so I went back to watching the butt ends of the women putting bowls of stew and chunks of bread in front of members of the fool’s convention.

    Both my brother and I were gathered up, given almost-straight spears, and found ourselves in the King’s army, heading south. He drank a good deal of my ale. I wished he’d drink more slowly, since I didn’t want him to run out of ale before he told his story. My brother, Soldir added, was my best friend and Melka’s husband."

    Ah, said Ingald.

    Foolishly, Soldir went on, my silly brother tried to learn how to be a good soldier.

    Not you? Ingald was served stew and bread, followed by Soldir and me.

    I, said Soldir, decided to dedicate myself to the art of staying alive. He winked at Ingald. It’s not as easy as it seems

    His audience said nothing, so Soldir went on. Cannon fodder. Arrow cushions. That’s what they needed and that’s what they got. A fifteen-foot spear and a small shield. If you don’t have good shoes on when they round you up, you’ll end up marching and fighting barefoot.

    The spear’s for throwing? Ingald looked intrigued.

    Not unless you’re desperate. Once you throw that spear, you’ve just thrown away your only weapon. Anyway, they’re usually too long for good throwing. No, the poor sods out in front of the army use their spears as pikes. Put the back end of the spear into the dirt, point the spear up and in the general direction of the enemy’s chest, try to get behind your little shield, and pray to every saint you can remember. He leaned over the table and his eyes glared. And coming at you are a bunch of armored bastards on giant horses.

    If I were out in front, Ingald said, I’d mess my pants on the spot.

    Most do, Soldir said. If you’re going to survive you need to get used to having crap in your pants. If you live, you can wash later. The horse attacks come after the other army has thinned you out with arrows and poked at you with the longest pikes they’ve got. But, he said, most horses aren’t stupid enough to gallop into a wall of spear points. The few that do are screaming horse screams of fright and pain and trying to turn back. If they can’t turn back, usually because there are too many other horses around them, they’re soon stuck with spears, bleeding to death, and stomping on us guys with the spears.

    And the guy on the horse?

    He’s probably shit in his tin suit, too, but he’s got a sword and he’s determined to go down swinging it.

    After a bit of silence, Ingald asked, And the art of staying alive?

    First, make sure your captain never knows you. If you’re brave and good, he’ll put you to the front to protect the idiots as long as you can before you die. You want to be in the middle, near the back.

    And if you’re an idiot?

    Fodder for arrows and spears and lances. Even your body might trip enemy soldiers and horses. A lance stuck through you is one less the enemy has to use. Soldir raised his eyebrows and sipped gently on some ale.

    Does that happen away from the battlefront? Ingald asked.

    There are always spies and scouts and lost soldiers wandering around. They kill men whose pants are down, or who are away from their comrades and in a bed not their own.

    Ah! Ingald smiled. That’s why….

    You get used to doing it standing up, Soldir said. The women prefer it in wartime, too. You never know when a wandering husband or cousin will show up from the battlefield.

    I must say, Ingald said, Melka doesn’t seem to have any complaints about your methods.

    I looked at Melka, who was supervising the serving of stew and ale, and, most importantly, the collection of money for both of these. There was no credit; anyone who didn’t provide money on the spot got no food or drink. Melka, while looking tough about the collection, also looked radiant.

    Melka’s husband, Soldir said, my brother, owned the tavern, and I bought and sold cattle. I had three wagons, five drivers, and customers throughout the area, mostly around Elsinore. He ate some mutton, swallowed a piece of bread, and washed it down with an ale that was good, but not great; Melka had obviously made a lot of the liquid in a hurry. Then the army came by.

    I should think, Ingald said, showing wisdom beyond his years, that disrupting your trade would not have been in the nation’s interest.

    I was a cattle drover, Soldir said, so they gave me a pike three times my height, with an iron point. My brother could cook and feed large groups. They put him into the squad that provided the animals for the army. Cattle, sheep, pigs. He drove them behind the army, which is what I should have been doing. When they ran low on animals, he was sent to appropriate them from the locals. He sighed. Some farmer defended his pig by killing my brother. Took him two days to die from the wound.

    How long were you in the army?

    Twenty-two years. Twenty-two long years. There were lots of breaks and I came back and helped Melka for quite a while, but sooner or later that idiot on the throne would decide to attack somebody he should have been trading with.

    You survived. Ingald looked my way, and I gave him permission to order more food and drink for the three of us.

    Aside from the horse kick to my leg, I took an arrow right in the chest, Soldir said. They pulled it out, but the iron point is still in there. He pointed at the centre of his chest. Right by my heart. Someday it’ll kill me. He chewed, then swallowed, a particularly tough piece of mutton. I hope it’s when I’m pressed against Melka’s sweaty buttocks.

    Now you’re out of the army?

    I am.

    And you’re planning on being a fool? Ingald noted.

    A shake of the head. I’ve been a sage for a week, learning from Amundi. Anyone who stays in the army is a fool.

    So you’ll be a wise man who plays the fool.

    Soldir shrugged. There’s many a fool playing the role of the wise man.

    How long can you stay out of the army? I asked.

    I should be fine. Claudius is a better king than old King Hamlet was, God rest his stupid soul. With enough preparation for the castle, Fortinbras might think twice about attacking. With enough diplomacy, maybe someone can talk him out of it. In any case, I’m too old to soldier.

    What about Prince Hamlet, I asked him. He might end up with the crown, sooner or later.

    Soldir gave a pained look. You know him better than I do.

    Brighter than his father, I said, but incapable of thinking beyond the walls of the castle. And incapable of making up his mind. Some say used to say it takes Hamlet till lunch to decide what he’s going to have had for breakfast.

    I’ve heard he’s coming back to Elsinore, Ingald said. The prince has been studying abroad. The kid seemed to have good information.

    Is that why he wasn’t made king when his father died? Soldir asked. Soldir nodded towards me. You’d know better than I would, he said. Loitering around the castle and amusing the locals by painting faces on your ass and dropping your pants.

    Yeah, I said, that’s my big act. I turned to Ingald. They outmaneuvered the prince, I think. Had he been here, someone would have rushed him onto the throne and dropped the crown on his head. I checked around the room and lowered my voice. Much to the dismay of almost everyone in this benighted cattle-meadow they call Denmark.

    Really? Ingald asked. The prince wasn’t popular?

    Soldir nodded his head. Word among the troops was that Prince Hamlet is a disaster waiting to happen. He put his hands out in front of him. "Not that he didn’t have his supporters; there are a few nobles that don’t like Claudius very much, but some of them are suspected of having close connections to the Norwegians. Or so the rumors go."

    There are rumors of spies?

    Oh, yeah, I said. And people who travel a bit, like the people in this convention – I waved an arm – are particularly suspect."

    We should take care? Ingald didn’t seem worried.

    I smiled at him and said in a louder voice, I support the king. The king knows what’s best for Denmark.

    Soldir rolled his eyes. Ingald noticed and said, You don’t think opposing opinion is a good idea at this time?

    If it looks like the king’s army is losing, any critic will end up for example, hanging from a tree. If we win, they’ll just beat you during the celebration. There’s a time when wise men keep thoughts to themselves.

    There was a long pause as we considered our options as fools. Myself, I was thinking of ways to make jokes about Norwegians. Unfortunately, if the Norwegians won the war, I might have to skip county as quickly as I could.

    Just how did all this business between the Danes and the Norwegians start? Ingald asked suddenly.

    Soldir just laughed and rolled his eyes.

    We’re all Scandinavians, I told Ingald. When he looked as if that didn’t mean a lot to him, I added, Norsemen. Vikings

    He still looked a little blank.

    Chopping each other is our culture, our history, and in our blood. Someone kicked someone's pig three centuries ago, and the lopping and chopping goes on. It used to be single-handed combat, but we've learned from the French and the Germans and now it's a group thing. I laughed. The coming war between Norway and Denmark may seem to have started when Old King Hamlet killed Old King Fortinbras, but that was just the last chapter in a wonderful saga that goes back centuries.

    I would have gone on – Vikings have an interesting history, but a set of twin jesters stood up, and cleared their throats.

    Now, these two, I whispered to Ingald. One's a devout Christian and one's a heathen atheist. I can never remember which is which, though. They claim to know 114 ways to have a threesome in a bed. They're probably lying…. I didn't get to explain to Ingald that lying is an art form among jesters, and a good lie is admired, when they broke into the Jester’s Song.

    The worms crawl in and the worms crawl out

    The ones that go in are lean and thin

    The ones that crawl out are fat and stout

    Your eyes fall in and your teeth fall out

    Your brains come tumbling down your snout

    Be merry my friends be merry

    They weren't halfway through the second line when someone took up a lyre, and most of the rest raised cups and joined them in the song. At the last line there was a drinking pause, and a fat man got up. Eric Falstaffe, I said. Born in England to a family that's hung around royalty since the Romans left. I don't trust him. But Falstaffe began to sing,

    "Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by,

    For you may be the next one to die.

    They wrap you up in a big white sheet

    From your head down to your feet.

    They put you in a big black box…

    And cover you up with dirt and rocks!

    He sat down at the end of his contribution. And the six line chorus was sung by everybody. Shoop, small and thin, got up. Shoop the Poop, I said to Ingald. Before I could explain, Soldir did another verse. It was similar to a verse I'd heard before, but just different enough that I didn't try to sing along.

    All goes well for about a week,

    Until your coffin begins to leak.

    The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out,

    The worms play pinochle on your scalp,

    They eat your eyes, they eat your nose,

    They eat the jelly between your toes.

    A big green worm with rolling eyes

    Crawls in your stomach and out your sides.

    Your stomach turns a slimy green,

    And pus pours out like whipping cream.

    You'll spread it on a slice of bread,

    And this is what you eat when you are dead.

    Then the whole tavern, serving girls and all, joined in the chorus. This guy, I said when a small man with a big head and a very bright outfit got onto the table top. He likes boys, but you can trust him.

    First you're sick and then you're worse

    And then it's time to call the hearse

    They take you out to the family plot,

    And there you wither, decay, and rot.

    They put you in the cold, cold ground

    With all your relatives standing around.

    The worms crawl in The worms crawl out

    The worms they crawl all about

    And when your bones begin to rot

    The worms are there…. but you are not.

    There was what was supposed to be the last chorus, but when it was finished, I shouted:

    The Norwegian soldiers will soon find out

    When their brains go trickling down their snouts

    It better not to mess with Danes

    If they want to keep their brains.

    There was a puzzled silence when I sat down; out of nowhere I'd changed the theme and message of what was one of the most popular songs in Europe. Those who looked at me puzzled followed my gaze to the door. Two soldiers stood on either side of a middle-aged man. The man himself was of average size, dressed very well, and with an air of power and brutality that stopped conversation.

    The man looked around the now-silent room, and smiled. He looked at me, nodded, and indicated to his guard that he was done at the Young Dog Tavern. They left, and a few moments later there was the sound of a dozen or more horses moving away down the road.

    I broke the silence. Gentlemen of Entertainment, you have just met the Grim, the Minister of War for Denmark. I took a chokingly large quantity of ale, and said, I guess he didn't like our song enough to stay.

    You look pale, Soldir said to me. But he didn't round us up for the Danish army. Was it because he knew you?

    If they need clowns at the front of the troops to taunt the Norwegian cavalry, they'll be back. Right now they probably looking for people plotting insurrections. I was shaking a bit.

    Ingald raised his eyebrows. A Norwegian fifth column?

    Not for the war, I said, waving for another round for all at my table. The argument about the monarchy. There are those who believe Prince Hamlet should be given the crown, as Danish tradition dictates.

    And, in normal times, he would be king?

    What has been done reeks of desperate measures, of people risking all and frightened to death of what they've done.

    Yet you seem to agree with the result, if not the measures, Shoop said, sitting beside us, taking ale from the young woman and passing the mugs around." I paid.

    I am not a fan of the Norwegians, I said. "Hamlet would be a disaster.

    Are they expecting him to return to Elsinore? Ingald asked.

    Soon, I said.

    And that guy who was at the door?

    Grim, I said. Don’t know why he was here. There was no need for him to come. He has more than adequate lieutenants to check out gatherings.

    He's an important man, Shoop observed.

    Supposedly Polonius outranks him, but Polonius has worms eating his brain before he's dead. Grim is the true power, and the one who decides who must be executed to keep the castle and the country from wandering away from the truth.

    He knows you, Ingald said.

    I've been Fool for the court since Claudius became king. He's watched me entertain at the wedding and afterwards.

    He smiled at you. Friends?

    I lowered my voice. He has a young wife. Tola."

    Ah, said Soldir. "That Grim. That Tola. And she's that friend of yours. That close friend. I said nothing, so the old soldier went on, using a forearm to wipe foam from his beard. That smile of his; did you see the hangman's noose in it?"

    I said nothing. Shoop said, He should be so lucky. The torture chamber has the rat’s cage. he explained. They put a cage of hungry rats on your chest, and let them eat their way into you.

    Eventually, a trio stood on a small platform at the end of the tavern and did a comic routine about two farmers who were trying, and failing, to master juggling cats. Another comic did a remarkable spoof of the ghost of Old King Hamlet still ogling young girls.

    You're fooling around with the wife of the guy who's not only one of the most influential and powerful men in the kingdom, but has access to hired executioners, Ingald said. He sighed. Be merry, my friend; be merry. Soldir just laughed.

    How about Claudius and Gertrude? Our new king and old queen? You high in their favor?

    I shook my head. Claudius trusts nobody. Gertrude has put her future – and her ass – into Claudius's hands. I looked around. Most of the rest of the customers were sharing tricks or jokes; it seemed so joyously peaceful compared to the restrained madness of the castle.

    It was dark when another man I recognized came in. I waved to him, and he came to our table. This, I told the others, is a fine fellow. Actually, he wasn't that fine, relying more on fleecing country yokels on market day than making people laugh, but I didn't feel I should bring that up right now. How's the castle holding up while I'm gone? I asked, lightly.

    The castle's still getting stronger with the work they're doing on it, he said, not sitting down. The kingdom, maybe not so much. You missed the excitement of the week.

    And that was?

    News. Prince Hamlet’s come home from school to see his mother and his new father.

    I blinked my eyes a couple of times. "You're kidding?

    Nope. He arrived yesterday at dusk. The man laughed and went to join some closer friends.

    You don't look happy at the news, Ingald said.

    I thought about it a bit. Gentlemen, I said, I need to get back to Elsinore as soon as I can. I'll be leaving tomorrow morning.

    You expect trouble or entertainment? Soldir was quick off the mark.

    God knows, I said. Someone there may need me to save Denmark.

    The night went on long after darkness. The fools, clowns, and jesters were polite in the castles and houses of nobility, but most had learned their trades in the town markets, where conning men out of their purses or practicing slight of hand was stock in trade. If a man got to be part of a noble's household, theft of so much as a spoon would get his head on a pike by the wall, but entertaining any willing housemaids was taken for granted. Some of those here were in the employ as nobles' part-time amusement, but often only as a small part of some other general labor. As jester to the crown, I was in a privileged position. My involvement with Tola was unlikely to end well, and I wondered where my head would be at next year's convention.

    At least I hoped there would be another convention. If the Norwegians took over, most gatherings would be banned as a matter of course, to prevent people from planning to get their country back. And, of course, there would be a lot of jokes that Norwegians didn't find funny.

    Can we get into the castle? Ingald asked, suddenly. I'd like to see it.

    And I, Soldir said. I, and my departed friends, have spilled enough blood for it, I think I deserve a peek. He looked at me.

    Wait a moment! I had enough problems without these dudes. And Shoop, of course, but I didn't want to mention Shoop.

    And Shoop the Poop, of course, Soldir said.

    Why Shoop? Ingald looked sadly at his empty mug.

    Shoop, I said, has a plan. I stopped, unsure of what to say next.

    Soldir laughed. Shoop wants to shit in Elsinore.

    Pardon? Ingald looked up, then around the room to Shoop.

    He wants, Soldir said, to do it in the house of every noble in Denmark. And the major Church holdings. And Elsinore's at the top of his list. Or so he tells us.

    But why?

    Soldir shrugged. He won't say.

    I can't see that it's a reason to take him along, I said. He's more likely than not to get us into trouble.

    Ask Amundi, Soldir said.

    I tried to think up something I could tell them, but failed. I owe Shoop, I said, Big time.

    Maybe someday he'll tell us, Soldir said, thumping me on the back. We all await that. Meantime, I’m only your acolyte, but I vote against it."

    I grunted.

    Maybe someday when the chief torturer is asking Amundi about Tola, he can add that to his list of questions. Go tell a joke, I said to Ingald. He got onto the stage, in spite of both of Melka’s daughters accidentally bumping into him on the way. Poor girls; carrying ale like that they were slow to dodge his hands.

    Actually, I was impressed. He had genuinely new jokes, mostly at the expense of the pope (these were well received) and the Church (so-so), and a few that somehow didn’t translate well.

    I congratulated him, but my mind was still on Elsinore castle and how to get back before things on the entertainment scene got out of control. Given the funeral, the wedding, the war, and the prince coming home, Elsinore castle was on the edge of craziness anyway, a tale told by a madman, full of sound and fury, and if it all meant anything, I couldn’t figure it out. I kept drinking and getting more sober.

    I stood up. We can discuss it at breakfast. Right now, I'm tired and I have a few lice to feed. Indeed most of the fools had stumbled off to whatever part of the inn they'd paid for. Ingald and I squeezed between a couple of jesters from the south, trying to keep away from Shoop. There was room enough only for two, and Soldir found floor space in another room. I wrestled with my sleep until I told Shoop that he’d have to find another way into Elsinore castle. He just shrugged and went to sleep.

    ***

    Chapter 3: Elsinore Castle in the Morning Sun

    Ingald and I got up early. It had been a cold night. I could have afforded a private room, and perhaps even a bed in which a pig had previously rolled (collecting many of the lice and fleas before they found me), but including Ingald would have stretched the money I was saving in case I ever needed to flee Denmark. And, if I could talk Tola into coming with me, that would require even more money. So I slept fitfully, getting up once or twice to piss out the window while Ingald watched my purse, and watching Ingald's purse when his bladder needed emptying. One time I had a long wait, since there was a jester, somewhat constipated, having a crap out the window. He wasn't in a joking mood, and I was glad to get back to my sleeping blanket, tuck my purse back under my balls, scratch at a few of the most annoying bugs, and fall asleep to the blended sounds of men snoring, scratching, farting, and mumbling.

    As I said, we got up early, had a breakfast of ale and oatmeal, and the three of us made plans for the invasion of Elsinore Castle.

    We just ride in? Ingald asked.

    What would you suggest for us? Soldir asked. A ladder over the back wall? Or being launched by trebuchet onto the roof? He laughed. We can walk in, in spite of the preparations for battle. Provisioning and refortifying a castle means a constant stream of strangers coming and going, and we’re just part of that crowd.

    Amazing, Ingald said.

    And, Soldir added, Amundi here is part of the king’s entourage, and if he’s with us, we’re welcome. Assuming he hasn’t pissed off King Claudius since I last asked.

    Not that I know of, I said, but you take your own chances. If war is declared, you’ll be tossed out. Only essential people in there.

    What about you?

    Don’t know, I admitted. I knew, in the back of my mind, that I didn’t really know the motive of either Soldir or Ingald for getting into the castle. The castle is full of guards, I said. Then, after more thought, I added. "But it is, as I said, being worked

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