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.I take my shawm and begin to play “The Oath of Sir Edward”.Some time passes and Hamlet has finished his wine and mine has grown cool.I have gone through another four songs and my mouth is feeling stiff.Mother Bertrade enters the room, very dignified in her black and white garments and her voluminous guimp over her grey hair.“The Queen is doing well.You have no cause to worry for her safe delivery,” she says, looking directly at Hamlet.“If you are as most men are at this time, you will have imagined every horror.” “Is she—” Hamlet breaks off before he can form a question.“Bringing a babe into the world is hard work; make no doubt of that, my King.But your Queen is a strong lady and she knows what reward awaits her when her efforts are over.Set your fears aside.She will be tired when she is done, but nothing more than that.” Mother Bertrade gives a twitch to her skirts and curtsies.“Your son will be here with the dawn.Until then, content yourself; you have done your part.Let your Queen do hers.” Without any more display of courtesy, she withdraws from the reception room.When the door is closed Hamlet curses roundly, and adds to the air, “He had better be here by dawn, and he had better be he, old woman, or you will answer for it.”HAMLETDuring the night the squall becomes a proper storm, and so the first fading of night goes unnoticed.In the reception room next to the Queen’s apartments the fire has burned low, and for the last hour Hamlet has dozed in one of the chairs while I have done my best to stay awake in case there should be a summons.But Mother Bertrade comes to Hamlet, Raissa and Hildegarde with her.There is blood on her apron now, and in her arms is a tiny, red, wet, howling infant, half-wrapped in swaddling linen.Hamlet starts at the babe’s cries; he stands up slowly with awe on his face, nodding to Mother Bertrade.She is in her glory now, and she says as if she were announcing the arrival of tire Emperor, “My King, I have the honor to present your heir.”Hamlet’s eyes brighten as Mother Bertrade holds the precious bundle out to him.Custom requires that he take the infant, to show that he acknowledges it is his, and Hamlet does this with alacrity, holding the child awkwardly but with fierce protection.“And the Queen?”“She is well,” Mother Bertrade says.“Margitha is bathing her, and then she will be given broth and put to sleep.”“The child?” Pride and anxiety war in him, but I can see that pride is steadily vanquishing all other responses.“He is flawless, my King,” Mother Bertrade assures him.“He has the right number of everything he should have.”Again Hamlet nods, and calls over his shoulder, “Yorick, I want you to witness this.” I scramble to my feet and hasten to his side, bowing twice.This is an honor that I had supposed would be reserved for Claudius or Horatio or one of the elder Counsellors; for a jester to witness such a portentous moment is remarkable.“Here is my son and heir,” says Hamlet in the ritual phrase, and watches as Raissa and Hildegarde curtsy and I bow again.“Hamlet,” he names the boy.“Prince of Denmark.”* * *Within ten minutes everyone in Elsinor knows about the Prince.Bells ring from the chapel steeple and there is cheering in the soldiers’ barracks.The whole palace is a blaze of lights in the dark, blowing night.The messenger rides off to carry the joyous tidings through the countryside and to the cities.Hamlet orders that flagons be filled with beer and mead, the better to drink the health of his son.“A fine day for Denmark,” says Mect as he lifts his tankard and drinks deeply.I cannot help but wonder if the Emperor will agree when Mect sends his report, but I touch the rim of my flagon to Mect’s, saying, “True; the King is a happy man tonight.”“More fool he,” mutters Oduvit as he takes a long draught of the mead.“Enough of that,” I warn him.“It is sufficient to know that Hamlet recognizes the boy as his.”“You were there to see it done, weren’t you?” Oduvit asks nastily.“Strange, to use a jester instead of one of the Council.”“I was in attendance,” I remind Oduvit and the others.“I was the one he asked because I was there, and Hamlet did not have to delay establishing the legitimacy of the child, which he would have done waiting for a Counsellor.” “He gave the boy his name,” muses Hedrann.“He can have no doubt of his fatherhood to do that.”“Or he wants to put such rumors to rest,” Oduvit says quietly, his nose in his tankard.“What better way than to make it appear he has no doubts about the boy?”“You have a vile tongue, Oduvit,” says Hedrann.“I am a jester,” Oduvit answers with an exaggerated bow.“And I have eyes in my head.I know what I see.”“But you have no sense,” says Mect.“The King will not welcome the jibes he has endured these last seven months, not now that he has a son.” He regards the rest of us carefully.“It was one thing to make jest of the rumors before the child was born, but now Hamlet will not permit any of us to question his son’s Right.”I agree with Mect, and nod as he speaks, adding, “How are we to deal with the rumors now? They will not stop because the King has a son.”“We can ridicule them,” Mect says, and gives another hard look to Oduvit.“Keep in mind that we are the servants of Hamlet, father and son.”Oduvit laughs.“You are the servant of the Emperor, and we all know it,” he says without apology.Mect glares at Oduvit, “This is enough from you.”“Oh? Do you say I lie? Will you answer for it?” Oduvit’s face grows a mulberry color from anger.“I will not challenge you,” says Mect, his features weary and hard.“But you are putting yourself in danger when you say such things, along with the rest of us.” He sets his tankard aside and folds his arms.“Because we are all jesters.” “How unfortunate,” murmurs Oduvit with a sly smile.“Yes, it is,” says Mect severely.Oduvit gives no answer to Mect.* * *The King is pacing his Audience Chamber alone when I answer his summons.His countenance is lined with worry and there is a light in his eyes that comes from unshed tears.“My Queen has taken a fever,” he tells me as I bow to him.“Because of the birth?” I ask, dreading the answer, for the fevers of childbearing claim many women every year.“So they tell me,” Hamlet says, putting his hands to his face
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