Antique Dane

by C. Clerk

Hamlet, Horatio and Fortinbras. So now I am alone in the world, with no brother, neighbour or friend, nor any company left me but my own.

Nor earth to me give food, nor heaven light!
Sport and repose lock from me day and night!
To desperation turn my trust and hope!
An anchor's cheer in prison be my scope!
Each opposite that blanks the face of joy
Meet what I would have well and it destroy!
Both here and hence pursue me lasting strife,
If, once a widow, ever I be wife!

-- Player Queen

I returned, in Elsinore, to my little room down the corridor from where Hamlet had slept.

I was walking back from the library, the fine palace library where I have spent many hours reading books of philosophy and literature, sometime to study, more often for pleasure. I had read when Hamlet did not need me, or was occupied. Sometimes Hamlet did not want to have anyone near him. I was careful to tell when he felt so; sometimes it was difficult. He never sent me away directly, unless there was some legitimate excuse. Though whether or not he loved me, I felt that Hamlet sometimes needed to sit alone, even before the death of his father.

Whenever I passed his room now, then, I always had the momentary feeling that he was inside, at his desk or bed, or with one arm reclining on the windowsill, the fresh breeze cooling the flush in his cheeks. He became flushed when he was discontent, sometimes, even if his anger or frustration was not obvious, and so he sat alone to calm himself. It often did not work, for his mind worked more strongly on him than any outer action.

And I passed his room now, and had this feeling. I could very clearly visualise him, in my mind, in all the positions I had seen him in whenever I walked into his room. He became several Hamlets, but I could not hold back the inevitable knowledge that when I walked in, the fresh breeze would be stirring the curtains, and discarded quill, and the clothes in the open wardrobe, and not cooling a flush in my Hamlet's cheek.

I passed the door. It was painful to pass. I told myself I was passing because Hamlet did not wish to be disturbed.

Inside my room, I washed my face and body, put on my gown and cap and got into bed. I had at my bedside a Rosseau, Reveries of a Solitary Walker; a book that I had been enjoying the day Hamlet had come to tell me about the wager and the duel, and we had talked of – oh, I had sat and listened to my Hamlet's words rendering all the gentle philosophies I had admired to naught. I had often written down things that my Hamlet had said, believing that one day I might get up the courage to ask him if I might share them with the world. But I had found to write of what he had spoken of that day to be too close, too tender to put to paper. I did not want to make what he had said letters on a page, for the letters would not convey his expression at that moment, or his manner of speaking. And that was half the heart of the matter.

When I felt strong enough to think of him, I often thought of his words that day. It was more hurtful, I found, to think of him at his happiest, when he held his hands in childish array and bounced. I tried to re-create his bouncing action in my head, then, as the thought came. And then, when I had difficulty, I stood in the center of the room in my bare feet and tried to do it, briefly, most embarrassedly, in case he was – watching. I gave a little bounce with my hands pulled up to my chest. That sweet action, and his face – it was too much now. I crawled into bed, with my breathing great and hard. Tears did not come, because I had cried several times over the course of the day, but my body heaved as though to try. There was no noise for some minutes, as I pulled the covers over myself, and then there was a sudden throaty moan I made in the silence, as my breathing rasped. I felt ill. I went to the basin and emptied my stomach of sickness.

It was difficult, but I tried to be quiet about the action. I had no wish for anyone to come in and comfort me; it had already happened several times in public, where my grief became too quick and great to be rushed into privacy. Being comforted by acquataintances, lords and ladies whom I had briefly met through my prince, was a terrible experience that left me much worse than before. I had no wish to either share nor bother any man or woman with my troubles.

I was dizzy from illness. It took me several slow steps to creep back into my bed; the back of my head throbbed as I lay down, but my mind ceased to whirl. Colours played over the black before me, blue and red. My body was stiff, and would not relax.

I lay for a while, in great discomfort, a sweat starting. Since I had not a clear thought in my head come through my visions of Hamlet that came and went, I am not sure if I slept. I may have. All I remember next is being on my side, clear-headed and with a cool wind drying my back, realising that there was a man beside me.

I could hear him breathing, and his presence was tangible. His shape was vague in the dark, and I could not make out his face. It could not possibly be Hamlet. It could not possibly be Hamlet, unless I was dead or asleep.

"Who – who is it?" I said softly.

"Your king."

"My lord," I said in startled alarm, covering my bedclothed body and trying to hold myself as formally as I could while lying on my side. I considered getting up, but decided against it, since he was lying down. My mind struggled to make sense of the situation; my king finding fit to lie beside me, in the dead time of night; he had not shown any special interest in me since I had told Hamlet's story to the court some weeks ago. "What would you have of me?"

I could think of no other fitting words. There was no possibility that I could question King Fortinbras, not only for reason of station, but that he was a direct man, from what I knew of him, and would not be even distantly crossed or delayed.

"Tell me," he said in his clear, deep tone, and paused. I waited, curious and nervous, for his words. "What would thou, now thy lord is dead?"

A second surprise; the question was so trivial. It seemed not something that would prompt him to visit me in the night. For a moment I could hardly consider an answer, so caught was I with wonder at his query. Finally I found words.

"I do not know, your grace. I had not thought." I had not. I had found little time for any thoughts but those of Hamlet, and I suddenly realised – with a sickened shame – that now that he was dead I could hardly be welcome to Elsinore. And indeed, the King too was of this mind, it seemed. His voice came hard and strong out of the darkness, in the one tone he used with all men.

"Thou hadst assumed, then, that thou wouldst have free lodging here? Elsinore is mine, and a home of mine is not a thoroughfare, nor an inn; nor is it a place for broken-hearted scholars to deliberate."

"Of course not, my lord," I said, bowing sideways, so mortified was I at overlooking permission. "I never assumed – I would not permit myself stay, let alone try on the humours of others."

"And if the scholar was sent hence?" I cringed at the dryness of his tone; how arrogant and presumptuous I must have seemed in my haunting of Elsinore.

"I would go home; at least, I think I may."

"Not back to Wittenburg?" The warmth of him moved forward. I could make out a tracing of his features, coming forward ghostly in colour; his pale eyes and dark curls over a straight forehead and nose. The lack of space, of formality, made me uncomfortable. And he was my king; without formality, I could tell less what he thought of me, or what I was to do.

"No," I said, the answers forming themselves. I was too fiercely dwelling on my confusion; I tried to think properly. "At least – not for some time."

"Why not?" said my King. There was no curiosity in the words. I saw his eyes travel down; I felt there was some other thing he would have of me, but I knew not what. His focus was not our conversation. I hoped it was some errand that would send me away from Elsinore; away from my King – who was fast unsettling me. Away from the shell and soul and living memories of Hamlet, prompted by the familiar surroundings.

"I have been finding study difficult," I said, for it was true. I could hardly read some days, and very seldom could concentrate on a fact or idea. "And Wittenburg – it would not be…"

I had said too much in my distraction. I closed my mouth and looked down at my limp hands, curled in against my chest. My King started suddenly, and I looked up; anger showed on the faint features of his brow and eye. Or irritation; but it was strong. I looked at him carefully, trying to be as unchallenging as possible.

"What?" he said. "What dost thou say, Horatio?"

"Nothing, my lord," I realised suddenly that my King was hardly older than Hamlet had been. However, he seemed older. "It was not of interest."

"I will decide what is of interest to me," he said, and I quickly realised my mistake.

"Yes, my lord," I said, relieved that he was not angrier. I had seen his anger in court before, turned on his men; it had been terrible in a way that is not obvious. He had not raved, but he had culled with his arrow-like voice in a way I had not even see old King Hamlet do. He seemed milder here; the tone was the same, but there was not such awful intention in it. And he kept casting his eyes downward, and then up again. I felt that I must know his mind soon.

But he returned his eyes to my face and gave a small nod.

"Continue what you were saying."

It was difficult to recall the topic of conversation. I realised that he had wanted me to continue what I had been saying about Wittenburg, which I could not do. I could not. But I forced the words, making my voice as clear and unaffected as I could.

"Wittenburg would hold less joy for me, with my lord absent."

"Then what?" he said, and I felt his irritation but knew no remedy for it. "You would stay at home?"

"Yes, my lord," tiredness came down darkly. My king's face slipped in and out of focus. I hoped he would not stay much longer, for I doubted my conversation would soon be of any interest. But I also hoped to know his intentions. Either way, I could not influence my king's mind in any direction.

Then fell a silence; there seemed to be little more to say of my meagre background. I was so bold as to close my eyes, as I could not see his in the dark and I doubted he could see mine. When I did so my throbbing head calmed to a coolness; I heard only the quiet rush of the night.

I was neglectfully beginning to doze – oh, thank heaven he did not find me asleep when next he spoke – when I heard him suddenly. His voice sounded like a sudden bellow in the silence.

"Are you married?"

I opened my eyes. The very question seemed dreamlike, absurd, and had always whenever anyone had asked me it. It wasn't just the circumstance. I think perhaps it has because of my long years of definite and unnatural sexuality.

"No, my lord," I said, my words coming out in a dry rasp. I waited, exhausted, for his next words. I was half-asleep now and wasn't sure how long I would remain awake.

"Have you a lover?"

"No, my lord," I felt nausea again at the word 'lover', and began to wake up again with the discomfort. At least that was a positive effect, if only to exchange one negative symptom for another.

"Had you one of late?" he said, and I was fully awake again and crying. There was no pressure to the throat, or heat to the face to warn me; tears simply came as though constant enough to have forgotten to give sign. I spoke, forcing speech.

"Yes, my lord," very quietly, so to better keep the tremor from my voice. It came out very slight. The king could not possibly know how his words affected me, so it would be entirely insolent to make a scene before him. And of course, if he asked why – I could not lie to him.

I hoped he would speak again, so the silence might not reveal my state, but again he paused, perhaps to consider.

And then I realised that he would guess; he would guess about my Hamlet, for he knew from the story that we were close friends – and I had had a lover of late – and now he was going to question me. He was going to question me about it, and I thought that if he did, I might faint. I was dizzy with the thought. Sentences from the Rosseau went wildly through my head, unrelated to anything.

I could not see his face to tell, but he said suddenly,

"You are very honest."

I felt relief. I had never heard his voice soften, and I did not now, but the words were clear enough. I felt, if nothing else, he had been merciful now. It was mercy when I most needed it, and I had not expected the kindness.

"Thank you, my lord." The words seemed little. I expected another silence.

"You are a scholar," said my King suddenly.

"Ay, my lord," I said, looking up.

"I wish for you to remain here," he said.

I slowly nodded. I wished to leave, of course, but somehow my upset at being forced to stay was not strong. It was not that I felt I was fated to stay, but perhaps the urge to leave was simply a push of the body and mind to – rid itself of Hamlet, with the immediacy of choking. When one chokes, nothing else can be done until the object is freed. The tools of body and mind are rendered useless. And so I knew it was; I knew I could have no calm, or quiet, or rest, or even health, while Hamlet was dead and I was in Elsinore.

I had tried to leave, and now, it seemed, I could not. I settled back back into my ills with with a kind of relief. It was not fate. It just happened that I would grieve until I died.

"My lord," I affirmed, with a soft breath.

"As a clerk," my King continued. "you will assist my chamberlain."

I saw Polonius' face in my mind.

"But he is…" I began, confused.

"Ha?"

"Nothing, my lord," I said quickly, feeling foolish. "I was – thinking of someone else."

I had no wish to tell my king that my mind was so fully in the past that I had assumed he spoke of a dead man, or employed a ghost as advisor.

My king said nothing for a time. When I could only hear him breathing steadily, I felt my muscles begin to relax; I had not realised they had been tight. My fingers were also wound tightly together. I pulled them apart, and they were hot and damp. Finally I found the courage to move, and settled my head in a more comfortable hollow in the pillow. The air had suddenly cooled, and I felt much more comfortable, but still my king lay beside me.

I waited. The longer he lay without a word, the more nervous I again became. But I lay, watching him. All I could see was the pale line of his shoulder, his head turned into deep shadow. He wore a long, shining robe that did not suit his warlike frame, and he lay very still.

Suddenly his arm – his hand – moved slightly. It came down to his side, but did not settle. I saw the shape of it under the blanket. It reached – in my direction. Toward me. I felt it would stop, but it did not. And then I felt his fingertips against my stomach, trailing up with the slightest touch; they alighted on my hipbone. And then all was still again.

I could not breathe. I held myself very still, and I could not think, though my mind was in panic. I could not read his face. I could not move away. And I was terribly unsure. He would take his hand away soon. And then he would give me an errand.

He clutched tighter and I flinched; his hand found the bone at my hip and squeezed gently.

"My – "

And then his arms were around me; he had sprung, and was kneeling upon me with a heavy heat. With one hand he flipped me to my back and I was powerless to stop him. For a few terrible seconds I hoped that his intentions were not what they were. But the moment passed, and then there was no question. I flattened myself against the bed, and tilted my head back and away, trembling all over. He lay full on top of me, and I could hardly breathe for the heaviness. There was an awful crushing on my chest and stomach. He was on top of me, and moving – in a way that – I felt the friction of it and was light-headed with horror. I could not think of the feel of his hips on mine. But I could not think of Hamlet. I could not think.

I had to speak.

"My lord king – please – no," the words came out low and trembling. His actions increased in speed. He held my arms to the bed. I heard my own low moan, and then his hand was in my hair, wrenching it back so my neck strained. I breathed in a gulp.

"Quiet," he said, clear and calm. He returned to the action. It was so continuous; there was no break, no mercy now; it was his hips on mine, and my robe suddenly around my waist, and his hands on me. His hands on my hips and thighs, and between them, leaving hot trails that I could feel. They throbbed with my shame; I could feel only guilt for this, tremendous guilt for somehow having attracted these attentions. I felt sure that Hamlet watched us. I shook within my skin, and my hands gripped as his lips touched my softest skin.

"Please, no, my lord," I breathed to the air, though I shamed to speak it, for I knew I was aroused. Hamlet would see. He would see. And I –

"You refuse me," said my king, looking up, and I saw his eyes shine for the first time tonight. His hand remained possessive of my thigh. His face had no expression; it was made up of stoic lines of shadow. "Your king." I was moving away, my limbs weakly moving. "Come here." I did, reluctantly.

"My lord," I said, and hid my face. "Please; why?"

"Because your looks please me. No doubt they pleased your prince too," the next I saw of him was a slight movement of the dark smile of his mouth, the shadow drawing up at one end. "Scholar. There was never any doubt of your position here."

I could hardly bear to think what he thought of me. How could I have made it seem so? I thought of my clothes; how I conducted myself. My mind worked in a kind of fever; I was hot and trembling. Perhaps I had a true fever. But I forced coherency in my mind, even as I sobbed in quick bursts that I tried to muffle. Why did he think so? That I was my Hamlet's concubine?

"My lord…" I could only look at him.

"Did they not?"

"I – I don't know," I never knew whether Hamlet was pleased with my looks. We did not discuss them.

"You are handsome," said my King, his tone unchanging.

"Thank you, my lord," I said. My body trembled more violently, down my back and arms. The air was cold, but I felt hot. The trembling almost made a noise. I heard my shiver. It frightened me to hear it; my throat was tightening like I might cry, but I felt no tears; I just made dry sobbing noises, louder and louder as they grew beyond restraint. My king watched me with neutral brows and mouth, as he had these past minutes. My noise carried on; I tried to force it away, but I have never been forceful. It was a breathing, harsh noise of panic. Pressure built in the back of my neck, as though it might press my brain upward.

My king reached out and struck me again, his hand slow, knowing I would not move. I tried to stop but found that I had not the slightest control anymore. He looked at me steadily, then pulled me down again so that I was lying flat. I knew I was panicking, and that I would not stop until he had gone.

I closed my eyes, desperate to be calm. There was nothing I could do.

He took me in his arms and touched me all over with his hands and lips again. I kept still. And then his hands began to pull my robe up further, over my head, and my mouth spoke again.

"My lord, please! I can't."

"Can't what?" he pulled the robe back down to look at me.

"Do this," I said. There was no reason why he could not.

"You will do it," said my king. "And you will not lie there. You will embrace me."

"My lord, please," my voice was almost lost in fits of breath. "I beg of you, my lord."

"Undress."

My teeth chattered. I stared at him; his face had grown angrier, the shadows dark and violent over it.

I thought of his voice when he was angry and my hands moved toward the neck of my gown. I had it pulled halfway over my head when I heard a great noise of blankets, like a thrashing – and my king laughing.

Slowly I dropped the neck of it back over me head. I saw a great figure before me, my king, but it could not be – my king was twisting wildly. I would have thought him in some terrible pain, but that he was laughing. My king was laughing. His mouth was open wide in a grin I had never before witnessed; his teeth were very white, and his eyes gleaming with tears in the dark. One of his legs kicked out dangerously. I drew back, off the bed, and watched him in amazement on my knees.

My king laughed for some minutes; long enough for my knees and legs to become sore from sitting on the ground. Every so often he would regain some little breath and begin to sit, his expression one of an ambiguous many, but always of shock, and then he would throw himself back again and bat himself all over, rolling about madly, the blankets kicking up.

The startle calmed me. My mind began to work, and I dared not hope for my first guess. But even at the possibility of it, I wept softly.

Suddenly all was done. My king lay on his back, and panted, and I cried, but only very quiet, with noise hardly above my breathing.

My king seemed exhausted. His head rolled and he looked at me.

"Your eyes are stars," he said, his voice weak. "You are a scholar; you can tell me what manner of devil that was."

I dared not say. Emotions collided in my throat and pulled it taut.

"Tell me!" my King sat up, and his voice rose to a quaking bellow that I found I could hardly hear.

"It was – I think it was – Lord Hamlet, my king," I said, and I was smiling a smile such as one might have when they died in their sleep.

"That is no man's ghost!" my king said, rising to his knees and looking about. "It – it tickled me!"

My laughter came freely and comfortably, such as it had never done. I had never been as comfortable laughing as now, before my angry king, where I could most be censured. I stood, my legs drained. My king watched; I sat down in obedience, gazing about at the room as though it had rearranged itself anew.

"What is it!" my King asked again, and stood up. "Show thyself, damned Satan!"

There was silence in the room, which touched me with a thin edge of fear. Not of Hamlet, but of the possibility that he had gone forever. After briefly tickling the King.

I began to laugh again.

I was pulled to the bed and thrown down, luckily into the pillow, though I was startled into silence. My King knelt above me, still breathless, his hands and arms coarse and tense at his sides. As though in retalliation, he struck me again across the face.

"Quiet," he said. "You will speak to the ghost, if it is your lord."

"In Latin?"

"Yes."

My heart beating fast, I spoke. My King had not tried to speak it. I could say anything I wanted. I poured passionate words into the air in a flat, emotionless tone. No doubt if Hamlet heard such a thing he would first laugh at it. I heard nothing.

"Does he speak?"

"No, my lord. At least, not to my ears." I felt he was gone.

I looked at my king. He was getting down off the bed like a child, one leg at a time. He looked about.

"Why did he do so? I must know."

"I cannot speak with him, my lord." I said, suddenly exhilherated; he was moving toward the door in minute steps. Then he stopped.

"He is jealous, is he not?"

Warmth went through me.

"I do not know, my lord."

My king stood still, midway between the bed and the door, weight on one foot, slightly unbalanced. His nose was up slightly in the air, and his gaze slid about, from one side to the other, as though he was examining every corner of the room.

"I have not heard…" he said, "of a corporal ghost. Belike it is a spirit of a different sort."

"I have heard of poltergeists, my lord," I said. Hamlet would do well as one. I settled my robe about me, feeling calmer. It was good to be an informer, to be clothed, to have no reason to be embarrassed. I thanked Hamlet as I might pray, a breath of relief from my lips.

"Poltergeists," my king repeated the word. He stayed for a moment, every part of him still; and then at once turned and ran from the room. It was a purposeful exit; not one of fear.

I collapsed to the bed. It was some time before I gained strength enough in my stomach to sit up. When I did, I looked around, knowing I would not see Hamlet. I hoped he would touch me, brush me; give some sign he was present. I felt strangely calm.

"Hamlet?" I said, not knowing what to hope or expect.

The sound of air drifting; the stars were peaceful outside, high over the battlements. I went to the window, with slow steps, and looked out. I waited as long as I thought I was able, looking at familiar constellations. Then I got back into bed. And even then, I lay a long time awake.

My heart beat hard in my throat until dawn.