Claudius draws his breath in with a hiss, “So. My brother has outflanked his opposition again, has he?”
I stare directly at the King’s youngest brother. “Perhaps you have underestimated his skills, my Lord.” I show my best, most addled grimace, to keep him from his thoughts. There is silence in the room until the Prince coughs and starts to cry in that steady, persistent way infants have that is so like falling rain.
Gertrude bends down at once and picks him up, holding him close to her, letting him fuss. She looks at Claudius. “I hate to leave him when he is like this.”
“You have a duty, my Queen,” Claudius reminds her, becoming the respectful courtier once again, smooth of tongue and conciliating in manner. “Yorick will take care of him, and Sigtha is in the next room. You have only to call her, if you think the jester is not able to do what the Prince requires.” “Yes,” says Gertrude, speaking to her babe.
“Madame, put the boy down and come with me,” says Claudius, more forcefully. “It is fitting.”
She sighs and returns young Hamlet to his cradle. She stares at him for a short while, then rises and looks directly at Claudius, “I am ready,” she says. “What play are they doing for us tonight?”
“It will surprise you, my Queen,” says Claudius, holding his arm for Gertrude to rest her hand upon. “It is called The Prince of Riddles. They learned it in Vienna, or so they claim. Who knows if that is true or not? but I am assured that they have not played it north of Rouen, and therefore it is a fairly certain thing that few at court will know it.” He opens the door and allows her to pass through it. Then he, too, is gone.
I watch the babe in the cradle and do my best to keep from recognizing the thoughts that fill my mind; in the depths of my soul I know what I have seen, but I have no desire for such understanding. So I tell the Prince stories, all that I can think of, while the court attends the play, and the winter storm keens over Elsinor like the souls of the unavenged dead.
* * *
“How went the play?” I ask Hieronymous the next day as we meet in the corridors leading to the bath house, whither both of us are bound; for this is the day and time that we who entertain use the great wooden tubs filled with hot water, and the small rooms above where the steam was a thick, sweltering fog. This is one of my favorite times at Elsinor, because I have an inordinate fondness for bathing. My father used to say of me that I had the makings of an old Roman, because I would be content to bathe every day if custom and good sense allowed it.
“Well enough, given our preparation,” comes the answer in a thickened voice. “But I fear I have taken a chill. I hope to sweat it out of me today, before it can make my voice any worse.” “Good cess to you, then,” I say, noticing that his eyes have that heavy look that comes with a chill. We have almost reached the door, when I add, “I will speak with Hamlet this evening, while he plays with the Prince. Something will be arranged, I promise you.” “Mect told me the same thing,” says Hieronymous. “That something would be arranged.”
As I pull the door open for us, clouds of steam billow out, and the smell of dampness is all around us. “Have the attendant put birch leaves and bark in your bath,” I recommend, repeating my mother’s old nostrum for the aches and fever that come with chilling. “Make sure you rub them on your skin.”
Hieronymous looks at me in mild astonishment that does not conceal a sudden doubt. “Why? What is the purpose of birch leaves and bark?”
“To lessen your illness,” I tell him as blandly as I can, for I do not like having my motives so obviously questioned. “It is an old remedy that has worked well for me for a very long time. I use it myself.”
“Birch leaves?” he asks. “In the bath-water?”
“And bark. The bark is important, according to what my mother told me,” I say as the heavy door swings closed behind us, and we are caught in the muted light of the bath house. “She used to make a tea of it, as well. I will have some prepared for you, if you like.”
He considers this offer as if he were afraid I would deceive him. At last he nods his head. “Yes. All right. I’ll try it. I cannot continue as I am, that much is certain.” This last is nearly an accusation and he stares hard at me before one of the attendants, a good-looking young man with a soft expression, comes to lead him to his alcove where a tub and its pleasures are waiting.
Before he is obscured by the wraiths of steam, I see him lean over and say something to the attendant, who says, “Yes. We have birch here.”
My attendant hands me a drying sheet and a ball of soap wrapped in a washing cloth, then leaves me alone. As I climb out of my clothes, I stretch, trying to loosen the ache in my shoulder where I have been carrying the Prince. I know the discomfort is a small price to pay for the pleasure it gives the child, but this morning, I can find it in my soul to begrudge him a little of his delights so that I can sleep without waking from twinges. I take my statue of the Male Goddess from the deep outer sleeves of my pourpoint, and put it with the soap, where I hope no one will notice Him-in-Her.
I always bring the statue to the bath, and I always conceal it in the same way. For the Male Goddess is of the water, and it shows homage to bring the statue to the water. As I climb up the short ladder into the enormous wooden tub, I guard the statue with my body, and put it into the water before I get in. The long-necked, big-breasted woman who is also an erect cock darkens in the water to a rosy-tan shade, making it appear more like true flesh than it usually does. Fortunately the priests at court pay no heed to jesters, or they might see this as a rival baptism, and protest. I take care to wash it carefully before I wash myself, for the Male Goddess is worse than a cat when it comes to requiring attention.
There is something quite magical about soaking in hot water. I lean back and let the water hold me up, and the fatigue which held my muscles locked begins to ease. The kindness of the Male Goddess fills me with satisfaction. I see that the attendant has brought me a cup of warm milk with honey in it, as he always does. I take the cup and and sip from it, letting myself sink to my neck in the water in order to get the full benefit of the milk. It seems almost a shame to wash when I am held by such a delightful lethargy. But I have to present myself to the Queen to entertain the Prince in two hours. With a sigh of resignation, I reach for the cloth and the soap and set to work, starting at the top of my head and working down, as the Male Goddess recommends, or any groom can tell you is the right way. By the time I climb out of the tub, my skin is rosy and my hair is a mass of easy, burnished ringlets and I smell of rosemary and pine from the oils in the soap.
I put the statue of the Male Goddess back in my outer sleeve and reach for my winter camisa, which is made of fine-spun wool, not the light linen of summer. As I tie the six closures, I hear certain unmistakeable sounds from the alcove beyond. So Hieronymous is amusing himself with the bath attendant. Well, I remind myself, he is not the first nor the last, and the attendants are chosen for their liking of such things as much as for their low station in life. Still, I think, Hieronymous will have to wash twice now, and I grin.
DIPLOMACY
On the first morning in March the Counsellors gather in the Audience Chamber to receive the envoy from the King of Poland. He is a tall, lean fellow with a nasty scar that runs from the edge of his jaw to his neck and disappears under the high collar of his gipon, running who knows how far down his chest. He is one of the King’s cousins, and made a name for himself in the cavalry. He has on those foolish, long-toed poulaines, with the points so exaggerated that they have to be tied by gold laces to just below his knees. They say that these are the greatest fashion in Poland, and tells me more than I like to know about the Poles, whose reputation for recklessness seems well-earned. He speaks in Latin, since he has no Danish and would not admit he understands German even if he were as fluent in it as the Emperor himself.
“I am here at the behest of the King of Poland,” he says in his impressive, rasping voice, after he has made his bow to Hamlet. “It is in regar
d to the harbor disputes that flared up again not so many weeks since.”
“Harbor disputes,” says Hamlet, his Latin sounding less practiced than the envoys. “I recall no harbor disputes.” He looks down at me once, and winks with his averted eye, so as not to offend the envoy.
“Surely you must know, good King, that there have been unreasonable taxes levied against Polish ships landing at Danish harbors,” the envoy says pleasantly. “My King made sure word was sent to you.”
“We have a letter in hand from King Ladislaw, but we have answered it already,” Hamlet assures the envoy. “We are honored that the King sends us his envoy, and we welcome you to Denmark most willingly, for your own sake and the sake of your King.” “Surely your response in the letter is…the result of a misunderstanding. You were informed that there had been an increase in the taxations made on Polish goods and ships, and yet nothing has been done to change that.” He is one of those men who look as if their skin will crack if they smile, and so his effort now is most noticable. “What would you wish to have changed? You charge an extra tax to Danish ships in Polish harbors, don’t you? Why do you object if we do the same?” Hamlet proposes his question as if there is no reason for the envoy to protest.
“It is not our taxes that are being discussed, good King; it is yours.” He has taken on the look of a man struggling with a determined priest, not an envoy treating with a King. He attempts to restore the demeanor he wishes to present. “What my King wishes me to convey to you, Denmark, is that we will not let our ships be taxed unfairly without protest. It is the wish of my King that you make some reasonable provision for our cargos so that what profits we make are not taken up by your customs agents.”
This is considerably more blunt than Hamlet expects such men to be, and he straightens on the throne. “What our agents do is in accord with our mandate. If your King wishes an explanation, we will provide him with a record of our orders on this head.” The envoy realizes his gamble has failed. “I will present any document you wish to provide me to my King, for his assessment and the review of his advisors.” His face looks stiff and I cannot convince myself he will speak well of Hamlet to Poland.
“We will give instructions to our remembrancers to attend to this,” says Hamlet with greater formality than before; he is aware that this audience is not going as he had hoped, and is taking refuge in courtly form. “In the meantime, we ask you will join us this evening. We have players here at court and they offer much enjoyment to all of us. Let us plan to gather in the late afternoon, to see a comedy before our evening meal.”
Polonius rises and bows to Hamlet. “Would you wish me to make the arrangements with the players, my King?”
Hamlet motions him to sit down. “No. Yorick will tend to it.” He signals to me. “I leave it to the players to select the comedy. Inform them of the occasion and ask them to be wise in their choice.”
I also rise and bow to Hamlet, and then nod to the Polish envoy. As I leave the Audience Chamber, I see Claudius leaning over to whisper something to Polonius, who looks thoughtful at what he hears.
LOVERS
Raissa is laughing as she recalls the performance of the players given two afternoons ago. For once she has been in good humor with Hildegarde, and includes her in her conversation, which excludes Margitha. The two of them giggle as if they were maids in the same laundry.
Gertrude interrupts her sewing to interject, “I had never seen The Heir of Amalfi before, and I thought it would be a tragedy, and not the tangle of counter-currents that this was, with three heirs all vying for the title. The confusion was delicious, each claimant with a witness and a will! And when the victor is told how much in debt the Duchy is!” Her smile is genuine, without the strain that often blights her happiest mood these days. “It surprised me.”
“Did you see Mect?” asks Margitha, less animated than the other two waiting women. “He was almost convulsed with laughing. I have never seen a jester so amused,” “Yes,” cries Hildegarde. “When the third claimant to the title arrived, I thought he would split himself.”
Gertrude motions for the women to lower their voices. “Remember my son.” “We should be careful,” agrees Hildegarde, “The Prince is asleep.” She turns toward me and gives me an encouraging half-smile. “Sir Yorick will make sure he is not disturbed.”
“The third claimant,” says Raissa speculatively, the tip of her tongue moving over her lips. “That player is a very comely fellow. I have remarked it several times.” “That player is a player,” says Margitha with ill-disguised contempt. “Comely or not, he is hardly worthy of notice.”
“Any man with such fine skin and splendid eyes is worthy of notice,” Raissa says sharply. “And any woman who will not deign to notice is without good sense; there are few pleasures in life that cost so little as admiring a handsome man.” “If that man is worthy of admiration,” Margitha says, her back straighter than it was. “Otherwise, the woman cheapens herself in admiring a man who is not—”
“Worthy of her notice,” Raissa finishes for her. “If you will blind yourself willingly, who am I to stop you?” She looks over at Gertrude. “What do you say, my Queen? Would you notice a handsome man?”
Gertrude flushes and her expression is confused. “I…don’t know. It is not an easy question to answer.”
Raissa is aware that her inquiry is ill-phrased, and so she adds, “Did you notice the player we have been discussing?”
“You have been discussing,” Margitha corrects with heavy emphasis on you, to make it more apparent that she wants no part of this speculation. “I have been attempting not to discuss him.”
“Yes,” says Gertrude, the color fading from her cheeks, “A very well-disposed young man, without doubt. I see no harm in being aware that he is good-looking; it is certainly the reason he was put in that part, so that he has reason to win the heart of the Duchess of Milan in the end.” She glances toward Raissa, and says, “But do not pester Margitha. It may be he is not to her taste.”
“Not to her taste? With hair like honey and a face an angel would wish to have?” Raissa is incredulous.
“Yes. Perhaps Margitha does not prefer fair men.” This is offered as a means for the dispute to end, and Margitha seizes on it.
“Yes. I prefer men who have dark hair and strong bodies,” she says, her eyes bright with challenge. “Fair, slender men always seem weak to me. Too girlish. If I want such beauty, I can find it more readily among women, which is not where I would wish to go for such indulgence.” “More fool you,” says Raissa, pouting a little for having failed to gain the admission she sought. “Handsome men are as rare as clean pigs, and well-mannered ones are rarer still.”
In his cradle, young Hamlet is sleeping. He is becoming a fairly active baby, given to sudden bursts of concentration and energy that send him rushing about only to be followed by equally sudden slumbers as he recruits his strength for another sally, though he is no match for some I have seen; he is more inquisitive than adventuresome. I have spent most of the morning keeping up with him. I would not mind having the chance to nap with him now, but it is not possible, so I continue to play soft airs on my shawm, hoping it will make his dreams sweet. “Do you think what they say about the players is true?” Raissa continues, with a quick look at Margitha, whom she is determined to torment. That is her way: there must always be someone she is needling or she is unhappy. “That they are all lovers of men, which is why they make women of the youths in the troupe?”
Margitha does her best not to be shocked, but her efforts are not sufficient to silence Raissa. “All the more reason to pay no heed to them.”
“If it is true,” says Hildegarde.
“Why would it not be true?” asks Raissa, looking innocent. “What better way to gain access to women safely than to have it thought they are not to your liking,” says Gertrude in sudden heat; again her face grows rosy. “Even sensible women would be caught unaware with such a ploy.”
“Surely no man woul
d let such a thing be believed of him if it were not true!” exclaims Hildegarde with feeling. “It is unthinkable.” “It may be, but men have done it, and quite successfully,” says Raissa, an edge in her voice that catches my attention and gives me to wonder. “And women have been persuaded by the suggestion that they could turn a man away from his own sex to ours. It is a matter of pride as much as lust. Two great sins at once.” “Players, and musicians, and those of that ilk,” says Margitha, once again looking haughty. “Not necessarily,” says Gertrude suddenly. “There was a page at my father’s court who…who seduced a number of ladies by claiming he feared that the love of men would disgrace him, and he convinced the women that they would save him from grave sins as well as disappointing his family if they would teach him how to love women. He said that no other woman but the one he approached had ever stirred him in the flesh, which gave him hope.”
“And the women believed him,” said Raissa. “They all but lined up at his door for the chance to show him he would like women better than he claimed to like men. Each woman thought she was his only salvation, and therefore was obliged to do everything she could for him, for their vanity as much as a wish to aid him. As I have said already, it is pride and lust together that makes women fools over such men. If the man is good to look at, he is the more dangerous because surrender is so much more enjoyable, and the man is seen as the greater prize. At least that was what I saw in Lorraine.” She looks around at Gertrude, “What finally became of him?”
“He was wounded in battle, six years ago,” says Gertrude quietly. “He lost a leg and a hand. He lives on his family estate with his brother.”
“Lucky to be alive, with such wounds,” murmurs Hildegarde, who has lost her father to the mortification of a wounded foot. “He does not often think so,” Gertrude says. “He has become bitter and angry for the cruel trick that fate has played upon him. Or so I have been told by those who have seen him.”
Alas, Poor Yorick Page 18