Alas, Poor Yorick Read online

  “Surely it cannot be as bad as all that,” says Raissa.

  Ricardis cannot share her amusement. “You would not think it is possible, to grow so desperate so soon after marriage, would you? I did not think it could happen when we set out, but that was weeks and weeks ago. I thought I would come to enjoy the place. Yet this last month I have been afraid I would go mad, with only the sea and Polonius’ mother for company, and she caring for nothing but that I give him an heir.” Color mounts in Gertrude’s face. Margitha smiles without any sympathy for her old companion’s plight. “Yet you have a husband, and his mother protects you. Where is the burden in that, but idleness?”

  Raissa cocks her head like a bird, mischief in her eyes. “Pride has a price, or so they say in Lorraine.”

  “Raissa,” says Gertrude very quietly.

  For once Raissa is discomfited and looks about her as if she had done something shameful. “It was not my meaning, my Queen,” she says at last.

  “No; I hope not,” Gertrude responds.

  Margitha does what she can to restore their congeniality, “So you welcome this interlude at court? Isn’t it more pleasant to be the mistress in your own establishment than a waiting-woman here?” “I would rather be here at Elsinor,” says Ricardis with feeling, and a single, angry glance at Raissa, “I miss having other women to talk to, and good food, and celebrations, and new-comers around the place, and even the jesters. I know I used to complain of it all, but I was wrong. There are many good things at court, and I long for them, even the things I thought I disliked. To be dependent on my husband and his mother for all my society is becoming unbearable. I know that this is the way wives live; it was what my mother had, and hers before her, but I cannot bear it. I cannot. It is his mother who rules his household, make no doubt of that, and I am nothing more than an interloper, or a servant to be put in her place.” Her sigh trembles, and she goes on as if compelled to speak. “His mother is my society there, and she wants no part of me. There is also his young sister, but she is nothing more than a child. She is delightful in her way but she understands so very little. And Polonius is away much of the time. And when he comes back, he—” She looks down at the length of linen that Gertrude is working with scenes of harvest and merry-making. Her chin trembles; she puts her hand up to conceal this and then she bursts out, “Why is it that men are so fast? It is over before it has hardly begun. It is unendurable.” She makes an attempt to moderate her emotions, though her good humor is an effort. “But I have not yet accommodated myself to him when…. My husband is a good man, and I am pleased to be his wife. I know that Fate has dealt kindly with me, to give me Polonius. I know I am well-honored for his name. Ours is a good marriage. I am truly cognizant of it. But he is…too quick. He has no more begun his work when it is over, and he is asleep! I know it is wrong to abandon myself to Lilith, I know it is sin to use the flesh for more than creation, I know it! but surely there is something better than—”

  As I continue to play, I ask the Male Goddess to let them forget I am here, and to help me to keep silent about what I hear. The other women exchange uneasy, knowing glances, and for once Gertrude speaks, and although there is little inflection in her words, each one strikes like sleet in a storm. “They keep their own counsel. They never ask us, and are angry when we speak to them. Not even their whores can instruct them, I fear. They talk only among themselves, boasting and preening, and they say that they are experienced of women, and much sought-after because of their skills, when they know nothing of.… They share their ignorance and think that they comprehend us.”

  “It is because they are fools,” says Raissa very softly. “All of them. And jealous of their place. They will give a flower to a woman when seeking her favor, but when that is obtained, then she is of less concern to them than the teasing of a mare. They assume compliance.”

  Margitha looks away from Gertrude, but Ricardis does not. “I supposed that he might as well have taken pleasure with himself, for all he thinks of me,” she declares boldly, her chin up and her eyes bright. “I have tried to console myself with the thought that I will have children. He is very eager to have a son; he often tells me that he will be the proudest man alive when he has a son. Perhaps then he will be more mindful of me. If he has proof that we are united, then he might learn more regard.”

  “I have heard that does happen,” says Margitha, but without much faith in her own assertion.

  Now Ricardis is embarrassed at having said so much about her husband, and to these women. She takes a more optimistic tone. “This is a small matter, taken with the other factors. Complaints of this sort are less significant than the quality of his character. He is a generous man, and learned. His position is excellent. He has never beaten me. He has only this fault, if it is a fault, and his virtues far out-shine this one thing. There are those who say it is just his way, and in time I will learn.… But in all other things he is a good man, and I am grateful to be his wife.” “I warrant it is his mother who tells you that,” says Raissa with a quick, furious grin, “That you will learn to live with him without fleshly pleasure.”

  Gertrude nods once as if her head were heavy with understanding. “She tells you that children will make a difference, doesn’t she? Perhaps they will; I don’t know,” she says slowly.

  “There was a woman I knew when I was a child,” says Raissa suddenly, “She was reputed for her devotion to her husband, and his to her. But when she followed his coffin to the graveyard, she said that she was glad to have bested him at last. She said that all she had lived for these long years was the hope that she would survive him and could spit on his grave.” She stops, then adds, “She said that he had been indifferent to her, as if she were nothing more than a cooking pot. She could have accepted his hatred but she could never forgive his indifference.”

  Ricardis puts her hands to her cheeks. “That poor woman.”

  “She died not quite a year after he did,” Raissa went on. “Almost everyone said it was grief that killed her, but it wasn’t. I know it wasn’t.”

  The women are silent for a short while.

  Then: “I hope Polonius’ mother is right,” Gertrude says quietly. “I hope that you will be able to show him a better way, in time. But there seems to be no way to change them, not once they decide that what pleasures them must pleasure us as well.” She sighs once. “It would not require much—a gesture, a word, some token, a way of speaking to make it less a ritual and more a.…” “More a joy,” says Ricardis sadly. “Yes,” says Gertrude.

  * * *

  The kitchen cat wakens me with her determined kneading of my side, just below my ribs where the fat makes a little roll above my hip and only my thin rail is between her claws and me; the pressure and pricks of her taloned feet rouse me abruptly out of a troubling dream. I reach out even as I wake and move her so that she will not scratch me. She, being a cat, returns to her chosen place and resumes her self-set task.

  Her purr is steady and determined, and her eyes are half-closed with contentment. “That’s painful,” I whisper to her, and pick her up a second time, placing her near my head where she can maul my pillow instead. I do not mind her claws, nor her affectionate contempt for me, because she is a cat, and in the way of cats she is being kind. How strange, I think to myself as I touch her, that I am afraid to give her a name, as if that would set her apart from the other cats and somehow expose her to new dangers. What would be the harm in a name? What is the danger in it? I have no answer for my own question.

  I pet the cat and speak nonsense to her, but she will have none of it; she will not be catered to. Perhaps she is offended, or perhaps she senses my apprehension. With a contemptuous flip of her tail, she returns to my side, and is frustrated when I shift my position to lie on it. Disgruntled, she comes back toward my shoulder, still moving with determination while she selects another place, one of her choosing, not mine. As I fondle her ears, she turns and gently bites my hand, showing me that she is not going to be bribed,
least of all by the scratches she thinks of as her due. Then she licks my palm with her raspy tongue before settling down to wash herself, for the time being ignoring me entirely as she sets her fur in order.

  It is hard to watch her in the dark, to discern what shape is her and what is the night. I make a test of it for myself, refusing to touch her to confirm what my eyes struggle to make out. I think of the little Male Goddess hidden beneath the mattress, and wonder what He-in-She must see there in the perpetual shadow, and what the shapes must mean to Him-in-Her. I move so that only my head and pillow rest over the little figure, so that He-in-She will not have to bear all my weight as well as the isolation of His-in-Her hiding place. Once again the cat washes my hand, this time taking longer, as if she were caring for one of her kittens. She is methodical in what she does, and tenacious, holding my fingers open with her paws. When I turn my hand over, she keeps at her washing, taking special care to bite at my nails in the same way she cleans her claws. Occasionally she purrs her satisfaction in her work, and once she bites my knuckle as if to rid it of the knob of bone. I utter a single sound and she resumes her licking. It may be that she is preparing for her next birthing, for she is beginning to show her pregnancy.

  “Thank you,” I tell her, so quietly that a mouse’s footsteps might be louder. “You are good to Yorick, little cat.”

  She rises and stretches—I sense more than see the arch of her brindled back—and then she selects a place immediately next to my arm where she curls up to sleep, purring a little as she drifts into her dreams. A bit later she begins to snore.

  * * *

  It has been raining for two days and everyone is growing heartily sick of it. The roads are all but impassable and reports have been brought that there are two bridges in danger, one of them on the way Claudius is supposed to come. That is another cause for worry, of course—that Claudius will have to put up in some farmer’s hut because he cannot reach Elsinor.

  “I should have sent a larger escort,” says Hamlet, irritation making his temper short. “It is hardly unusual to have rain in the autumn. I should have considered it when I established my plans. Now I cannot go myself, to meet him at Martinus’ castle, because I am as trapped as he may be.” He pauses, and goes on darkly, “Not that I would want him to have long days to spend with Martinus. That old fox is ambitious as Lucifer, and it would not do for him to advance his purposes with my brother before he and I are reunited.”

  “He might not have landed yet, my King,” I point out to him as I do what I can to keep up with him as he strides down the long gallery toward the staircase that leads to the Throne Room. “Then he is on the ocean in a storm,” says Hamlet, refusing to be comforted. “His life might be in danger. I’d rather have him mired on bad roads than caught in the tempest. On the roads there is no chance of shipwreck, and he would be guarded from any misadventure. I hope he has been prudent. He was often impetuous when he was younger, but all his travels must have taught him some sense. He could have put in at the lower port, and be staying with Horatio.” At the mention of this name, his face darkens. “Horatio has not yet come back to court. He will not come without a plausible excuse. He might want to draw favor for himself by escorting my brother here to Elsinor.”

  “It would be an unusual ploy for him,” I remark, thinking that the old Counsellor rarely did anything so politic; in general he gave offense for refusing just such opportunities.

  “It might please Claudius to keep me at odds with Horatio. It would be like him, as he was of old. It is what he did as a boy: set me against the rest, and they against me.” He goes a few steps further, his brow furrowed with careful recollection, his eyes distant. “But he was the youngest, and our mother was careful with him, afraid that something would happen to him because he was small, and her babe. She wanted him to learn other tricks.”

  I shrug though it hurts my back. “If you insist on thinking only of dire things, I can do nothing.” The rain has worked on me as well as the rest, and I cannot keep from asking goading questions. “Are you going to send out couriers? Or must you wait for news that cannot be brought to you?”

  “How can I send couriers? The roads are as bad in one direction as the other. I’ll have to wait until the storm has passed before I can do anything but fret.” He glares at me, then shakes his head. “It’s not you, Yorick, I am brusque with everyone. It’s this infernal weather. It has come at the worst possible time.” His face darkens once more, his brow drawing down severely as he moves on. “Everyone despises it.”

  By everyone, I suppose he means Gertrude. I know better than to tax him with this possibility, but I do not want to give him no response beyond my acknowledgment, so I frame my mouth in a resigned smile and I remark lightly, “Especially those whose joints are sore.”

  Hamlet stops and looks down at me. “Ah. I should be flogged. No doubt you are wishing me in the inner circle of fire.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, “You suffer in this rain, do you not, Sir Yorick?”

  “No more than many another,” I say, which is true enough. “Still, I have been unthinking,” he tells me, his face still somber. “Stand a moment; I will wait with you.”

  Now that Hamlet has shown me such favor, I find it difficult to accept it. I stand as straight as my back will allow and I say to him, “Whether I move or whether I stand the hurt is the same. We might as well go on down the stairs as wait here for the hurt to go away. That will happen only when the rain abates.” “Spoken like a true knight,” Hamlet approves, his good-humor beginning to return. “Would that some of my fighting men were as staunch as you. Would you fall on your sword for me, I wonder? Are you Roman enough for that?”

  I know that it is wrong to put too much faith in the praise of the high-born, but I cannot keep from smiling at these encomia. “Tell me where you want me to fight, and what enemy, and I will do it, rain or no rain.”

  “I believe you would,” says Hamlet with a gesture of approval, and starts walking again, signaling me to follow him.

  The ache in my bones is much lighter as I march after him.

  CLAUDIUS

  Claudius appears taller then when I saw him last, but it could be because he is much grander, his houpelande of fine brass-colored brocade with sleeves so vast that their dagged edges trail on the floor and the sleeves of the camisa beneath show their lace cuffs; his hair is cut in the manner of the French. His sword is from Lucca and his rings are Italian. His shoes have points on them, but not so long that he cannot walk up stairs but sideways with them. He goes on his knee to his brother with a grace that is not often seen in Denmark, and he speaks in well-modulated tones. He is easily the handsomest man in the whole Hall, and he carries himself as if multitudes trailed in his wake. “It does my heart good to look on your face again, Hamlet.”

  “Welcome home, brother Claudius,” says Hamlet, and comes down from his throne to raise up and embrace this elegant courtier. “It is my greatest delight to see you here once again.” He pauses and steps back a pace from Claudius, the better to take in the splendor of his dress. “When you left you claimed you wanted nothing more than a fur-lined cloak and stout boots. Travel appears to have changed you.” “So I hope,” answers Claudius, with so dazzling a smile that I see at least three of the Counsellors all but gnash their teeth. Then he becomes more earnest. “There are only the two of us left, brother.”

  I move a little closer, so that I am in front of the throne instead of behind; I can see Claudius’ features as he faces Hamlet. “You and I are all the hope of Denmark,” says Hamlet, and then gives Claudius a hearty hug, patting him on the back with determination, making sure that all the court sees what he has done. “Well, well, let us be ready to share our duties.” He grasps Claudius by the shoulder and swings him around to face the court. “Be sure that all know you are in the center of my favor.”

  I have never seen an expression quite like the one Claudius wears now: it is compounded of greed denied and envious love. At the moment I do not doubt that
Claudius is truly overjoyed to be received in this way, just as certainly as I do not doubt that he would rather pass through the fires of Hell than owe one iota of gratitude to his brother. I would ask the Male Goddess to bring contentment to Claudius, but I cannot believe that contentment is possible for him, nor would he know it if he were given it.

  “Let each of you,” Hamlet is going on, addressing his Counsellors, “be happy to receive Claudius among you.”

  Claudius has hung back from Hamlet, and it appears that this is more than royal reserve or the caution of one who has been away a long time; it seems to me that he has already started to resent his place at court, for he is still the younger brother of the King. He stands very straight, resplendent in fine brass-colored brocade, as out-of-place as a blackamoor would be.

  I cannot tell if Hamlet is aware of any of this, for he is passing among his Counsellors and courtiers, his manner so cordial that one might suppose there was never an argument at court. Those Hamlet addresses are at pains to approach Claudius at once, and to inquire about his journeys, aware that the King does not often walk with his arm around the shoulder of another, no matter how favored. How could it be, I ask myself and the Male Goddess, that Claudius’ ambivalence is unknown to Hamlet? And, if it is apparent, why should Hamlet deny it? At a signal from Hamlet, Polonius comes into the Hall and raps the flagging with the end of his staff. He executes a splendid bow, then stands aside as the Queen and her ladies come forward to be made known to Claudius, making a lesser bow to his wife as she follows Gertrude down the long aisle.

  Claudius stares as he watches Gertrude approach, his eyes like a famished man denied food at a banquet. I can see that he is rigid as he faces her, taut as a bowstring. After a weighty pause he bows gracefully and deeply to her, and she curtsies to him as if to Hamlet himself. “How fortunate for my brother that Heaven has graced him with so lovely and gracious a Queen.”