by Lisa Fiedler
“Remove her,” shouts Horatio. “She will be harmed.”
“I am harmed!” I respond, for Barnardo’s callused hand grips my arm as though I am his prisoner.
“Take her to her closet,” Horatio instructs.
There is a cruel glint in Barnardo’s eyes as he drags me hard across the stones from the great hall toward the stairs. His dirty nails dig into my flesh, and a sickening heat doth radiate from his body near mine.
“Unhand me, sirrah,” I snarl.
But he ignores it, yanking me off my feet to carry me to my room. Inside, he drops me in a heap upon my pallet.
“Barnardo! You forget yourself.”
“I forget nothing,” says he, his eyes at once vacant and menacing as they slide o’er me. “I forget not how you have cast your randy gaze at me … .”
“God’s blood!” My eyes go round with scandalized disgust. “You will be punished for speaking to me so. I am a lady of this court!”
“Aye, and more enticing for it.” His lips glisten as his tongue strokes them, then from those lips comes a most guttural sound I can only guess is meant to be a laugh. “I know you do desire me, Ophelia. For I have seen thee sigh and blush whene’er I pass.”
Horror rises in me like bile. “Near blasphemy is that, Barnardo! If I’ve sighed in your presence, ’tis only out of pity that one could be so dull as thee.”
He takes a rough hold of my chin and glares at me unkindly. “I will show you how dull I am,” he growls.
A chill creeps upon my flesh, for his bawdy undertone is clear. I make to slap his face, but he catches my hand and twists my arm behind me, jerking me to his chest.
“Do not attempt a struggle, wench, for I would snap thy bone in two as soon as I would kiss thee.” His foul breath is hot beside my ear. “Rank and privilege be damned; beneath, we are man and woman. This night, in this chamber, I will prove that to you.”
Awareness whirls, and anger boils! The fiend’s grip does not falter as his free hand presses ’gainst my hip. I pray to the saints above, and to my mother, for assistance.
Barnardo pulls me round to face him; his hand slithers upward to cup my breast. I near convulse at his touch, giving forth a shudder of true disgust. He laughs, mistaking my repugnance for passion.
“Ah, the lady likes this! You see, how like a whore a lady is when Barnardo handles her? You want this, Ophelia, do not make to disclaim it.”
Through a haze of rage, I glimpse the row of pots along my window ledge.
Inspiration!
At once, I effect an expression of utter coyness, and will the fury from my voice to speak. “A drink, sir?”
“What?” Waylaid, Barnardo flinches, drawing back to study my eyes.
I lower my lashes. “You are true, good Barnardo. I confess, I have oft looked hungrily upon thee, thinking thoughts most intimate. You have discovered me, and now we are free to bring those thoughts to action.”
He blinks, as beads of perspiration glisten on his brow. “What?”
“A drink,” I whisper. “A toast to us, together at last.” I go up on tiptoe to place a small kiss upon his throat, ignoring the odious taste of his skin. His grip upon me falters; he clings lightly now, as I lead him to the ledge.
Barnardo gulps. “Wine. Aye.”
“Wine and then some,” I say in a husky giggle, seductive and contrived, as I run my fingers gracefully up a slim stem of dogbane, an herb sometimes called bitterroot.
“This night calls for something mystical, a secret nectar. Now, pour the wine, sir, whilst I prepare the potion.”
“Potion?” His eyes narrow, not with distrust but with interest. “Pray tell, vixen, what manner of manly talent dost thou crave which this tonic might provide?”
I bring my lips close to his ear and whisper a promise so salacious I can actually feel his pulse quicken. I repeat the order. “Pour the wine.”
He does so, trembling. The tide has shifted; prisoner am I no longer. It frightens him, nay, terrifies him, to imagine that what he thought to take will be so freely given. I’ve drained him of all power in this position—and soon I will drain him of much else!
He hands me my goblet and his. I’ve no time to calculate the amount of dogbane required for his size, and so I overcompensate with a fat handful of blooms, several seeds from one plump pod, and a great milky drop of the stem’s thick juice.
He watches as each ingredient sends ripples ’cross the cup.
“Drink, sir, and lustily.” I stroke his cheek. “Though I am certain you need no assistance in romantic matters, I believe we both have much to gain from the gifts of this potion.”
He hurries the chalice to his mouth to guzzle the well-laced wine, gulping it down his gullet. I sip mine daintily.
For a moment, he waits, a look of wondrous expectancy on his face. I chew my lower lip, afeared mayhap the malicious mixture be too slight for this monster’s considerable girth.
“Anything, sir?” I venture.
Barnardo tilts his head in thought. And then a most unpleasant rumble thunders forth from his midsection.
The idiot smiles. “Ah … something. Something indeed!” His eyes gleam. “Ready thyself, wench, to be astonished and grateful.”
I cannot suppress the yelp of dread as his lips come down to mine. And then an even greater rumble. The kiss becomes a moan.
He growls. “God’s teeth!”
“Sir?”
“I fear your potion hath faulty aim. It’s not gone far south enough to cast its spell! Dear God, the magic has sorely missed its mark.”
“No, Barnardo,” I assure him. “It has made a direct hit!”
Again he groans. His skin, I note, is a most offensive green in color.
You … demous … wench!”
“I shall once more remind you, cur, that is not how one addresses a lady!”
Using the heat of all my hatred, I fold a fist and land it hard upon his jaw. He staggers backward, the polluted wine sloshing from his cup. “That one is for me,” I tell him. “And this”—with every ounce of strength I possess, I direct my knee into the spot he described as south of his stomach—“is for Anne!”
He is breathless a moment, then a most repulsive sound hammers through my chamber as the heaving commences. Grinning, I call o’er my shoulder, as I leave him there to sully the rushes with his retching:
“A feminine mind hath kept thy male body from its most ignoble goal.
Would that with your supper there, you’d spew forth your tainted soul!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
MY FATHER’S HOUSE AWAITS ME, WARMLY. I HAVE run all the way from Elsinore.
“Ophelia, child! What is the matter?”
I stumble inside to be caught in his embrace.
“Father … the play. Oh, Father, the play …”
“There, now,” he whispers, leading me to a seat beside the hearth. “Catch your breath, and tell me what has happened.”
Around us wafts the liquid scent of herbs well steeped. I brush the snow from my skirts, kick off my damp shoes. “Hamlet hath proven Claudius guilty of the murder of the King.”
“At the play?”
“Through the play,” I clarify. “With the play. In the play. Hamlet adjusted the plot so that it was, in fact, a re-enactment of Claudius’s crime.”
“Clever lad.”
“Yes, for, at the sight of it, Claudius did fly into a most turbid fit! Evidence of his culpability, surely! I would have gone after him, as Hamlet did, but Horatio did worry for my safety. He ordered, in good faith, a guard, Barnardo, to attend me to mine chamber! By the blood of Saint Ermengild, I have never before feared the presence of a man, but tonight …”
His eyes go dark with worry. “Did the brute harm thee, daughter?”
“Nearly, but I sallied his scheme!” The memory sets a queer feeling of pride and repulsion tumbling in my belly. “I sensed his aim was not to seduce but to overpower me.”
“Aye, men of that ilk are often so inclined
. What did you do?”
“I made to enjoy it, Father, pretending that his attentions did excite me. It confounded him, the witless dolt, to be removed of his might. Frightened him as well, I do believe.”
My father approves. “When a woman is without a dirk, she is fortunate to have intellect as a weapon.” He strokes my rumpled hair. “What then?”
“I fed him dogbane, sir.”
“Dogbane!” At this, a most appreciative laugh! “Zounds, child, you’ll return to find fouled rushes for certain.”
“A small price, Father.” I clear my throat and go on with my confession. “And then I slugged him. In the jaw, to begin, and followed with a knee to his …”
“So you pummeled the cur, besides! Ho! I have here a quite resourceful girl.”
The laughter rings louder as mine mingles with his. “It is most satisfying for a daughter to so please her rather.”
His laughter trails off. We are silent a moment; he reaches for a horn cup, pours some herb-scented liquid, and hands the drink to me. I sip gratefully. The concoction is warm, with a leafy-sweet sting. He waits till I have finished the cup.
“Pray thee, child,” he asks in a solemn voice, “what now?”
“I must speak to Hamlet. We shall confer, to determine a course. He will surely kill the King, and quickly, now that his guilt has been availed!”
“Lia!”
We whirl, my father and I, to find Anne in the doorway, shivering.
My father is up and bundling her inside. He pours some of the hot liquid into a second vessel and gives it to Anne. For a moment, she but stares at him.
“Anne,” I say softly, “my father.”
She does not think to question it—rather, drops a small curtsy, still trembling. My father guides her to the seat that was his, then brings a shawl for her shoulders.
A look of concern tightens her face. “I saw you spirited off by Barnardo after the King’s wild exit from the play.”
“Not to worry, friend, as I am well.”
“Saints be praised, then.” She sighs, crossing herself “For you may be the only one!”
“How did you find me?” I ask, falling to my knees to remove her sodden slippers. I notice that most of her skirt is soaked through and her right leg is wet to the knee.
“’Twas a task, that!” she assures me. “I thought first to try the stream, as you oft go there to ruminate. I tripped thrice over snow-covered stones on the way, and did not realize I’d reached the pool until I’d put my foot through the thin ice that covered it! Lucky I am that the moon be bright this night, else I would ne’er have seen your tracks in the snow on the opposite side. I leapt across, and followed the trail.” She pauses to sip from the cup, then slants a questioning glance at my father.
“Speak freely,” I tell her. “He knows all.”
Anne closes her eyes. “So much, in so short a span, hath happened!”
“Hamlet—is he hurt?”
“No. But he is in greatest danger.”
“How do you know?” my father asks, taking her empty cup to fill it yet again.
“I followed him from the moment he left the play in pursuit of Claudius. At first I could not decide whether to go after you, Lia, should you need me in defense against Barnardo. But as you are more capable than most of taking care of yourself, I determined I would better serve thee by gathering information. So off I went, on Hamlet’s heels.”
She inhales, a long shuddering breath. “I had all I could do to keep sight of him in the fray. He went first to Horatio, then led him to a private place, out of doors. The south quadrangle. And there, as I concealed myself in the shadow of the broad door, Hamlet explained to Horatio that he did now believe the ghost’s word. Not a moment later, his old friends discovered them. You remember, Lia—the teeth, the curls?”
“That would be Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Yes, Anne. I remember.”
“They bid Hamlet go to his mother, saying that his behavior had struck her into amazement.”
“Did he go?”
“Not straightaway. In fact, he lingered with his fellows, playing mad, beseeching one to play upon a pipe. I listened from the shadows, and then Horatio caught sight of me. I called upon all courage and crooked my finger at him.”
This surprises me, and for a moment I forget the dire nature of her tale. “You crooked your finger at Horatio?” I actually smile. “How flirtatious, Anne.”
“It was hardly flirtation, Lia. ’Twas desperation, nothing more.”
“Still, ’twas bold! I’m proud of you.”
“I told Horatio my plan to follow the Prince in order that I might bring all news to thee. His eyes did dance with approval as he praised the breadth of my bravery, called me a most loyal and—dare I repeat it?—lovely friend.”
“Methinks good Horatio partook of some flirtation of his own.”
Anne flushes clear to her shoulders. “He did then a most remarkable thing! He pulled from his boot a small dagger—which he gave to me, saying, ‘Take this to protect thyself, for suddenly I find that I would be inconsolable should any harm come to thee.’”
“This Horatio,” my father observes, “seems a smooth one.”
“Smooth, perhaps, but genuine,” I tell Anne. “I am sure of it!”
Again, she blushes. “When the dagger was safely in my sleeve, he touched my cheek, then went back to the hall to attempt to calm the ruckus. No sooner did he go than your father—that is, your other father—which is to say, the one who was your father, but never really—”
“Yes, yes. Polonius. We know to whom you refer.”
“Polonius, yes.” She nods, struggling to retain her logic. “Polonius appeared, also to summon Hamlet to the Queen. Here, now, I found a problem. I felt it crucial for me to hear the Prince’s discourse with the Queen, but, were I to attempt to follow him to Gertrude’s chamber, I would surely be noticed. Can you guess what I did?”
“Well, I know that you are a most clever and resourceful girl, and so my guess is that you hastened to the hidden door—the one Laertes revealed to us as children, the one which opens on a little-known passageway leading directly to the Queen’s sitting room.”
I pause to recollect how, when Anne and I were very young, we’d make mischievous use of that tunnel, secreting ourselves into Gertrude’s room and playing dress up in her jewels and gowns! “I remember it thick with cobwebs.”
“They are still there!” snaps Anne, swiping at the sticky remains of one that clings to her hair. “But, yes! I bested Hamlet by several minutes, taking that shortcut. I arrived at Gertrude’s chamber the same moment as Polonius, who made his entrance properly through the door. Gertrude was pacing, wringing her hands and crying out, holding first her head and then her heart. With Polonius focused on her antics, I was able to slip into the room and quickly conceal myself behind the large woven tapestry that hangs on the broadest wall.”
“A perfect hiding spot.”
“Hah!” Anne lets out a snort. “I thought so too, at the time. You will see presently that it was nearly the end of me.”
My eyes go round. “Go on!”
“From my place of concealment, I listened as Polonius urged Gertrude to chastise the Prince for his pranks. We heard Hamlet approaching, and next I knew—there was Polonius, beside me behind the arras!”
“Dear God! What did he do?”
“Nothing. The old fool was so stunned to find me there, he merely gaped. This gave me opportunity to withdraw Horatio’s dagger and hold it to his throat. I did not need to tell him my purpose; he knew that if he uttered but a single sound I would slit his throat.”
“Anne! How positively heroic!”
“Not at all like me,” she admits. “But the circumstance allowed none other.” She pauses to sip from the cup. “Hamlet stormed in then, in a most indescribable state. His voice was heavy with hatred, disappointment, dread! Such a screaming scolding did he hurl against his Queen, her terror almost tangible, reaching us even behind the weig
hty cover of the arras! Through a small hole worn in the fabric of the tapestry, I saw her reach out her arms in an overture of motherly comfort. But Hamlet shoved away her embrace, causing her to topple backward on the bed. And then, in mortal fear, she did cry out, ‘Help, ho!’ Polonius lost his composure and echoed her shout with a shout of his own! Hamlet, convinced, I am sure, that the voice was Claudius’s, withdrew his rapier and, with instinctive accuracy, drove it through the arras into the heart of his hidden prey.”
“Hell’s teeth, Anne, you were standing right beside him!”
She shakes her head at the memory. “Had his aim been less than true, I might be telling this tale to you dead!”
“What then?”
“Polonius fell. Slid, actually, down the wall and out from under, so that his legs were visible from the other side. Hamlet grabbed him at the ankles and yanked, causing only the faintest ripple of the tapestry, thus not unveiling me as I stood there frozen, still holding Horatio’s dagger poised in the spot where Polonius’s throat had been.”
“And what said Hamlet when he found ’twas not the King he murdered?”
“Well, he called the deceased a rash, intruding fool, but there was deep remorse in his tone. I do not believe that Prince Hamlet is overly fond of murder.”
“How did the Queen react?”
“There was a good deal more crying and pleading as Hamlet continued his brutal reprimand. It was a most unpleasant scene, Hamlet ranting, Gertrude writhing! I felt terribly impolite witnessing it, and of course there was Polonius’s blood pooling at my feet … . I daresay, I was almost relieved when the ghost arrived!”
My father’s eyes widen in shock. “Ghost?”
Anne nods and replies in a casual tone, “The ghost of Hamlet’s father.”
“Ah,” says my father weakly. “That ghost.”
Eagerly, I inquire: “Did Gertrude see the apparition?”
“Nay, she did not. Or, at least, she said she did not. When Hamlet addressed the specter, she seemed certain more than ever of his madness. The ghost reminded Hamlet that his purpose was not to bully his mother but, rather, to avenge his father. When the ghost departed, Hamlet’s mien was far less violent; they talked of his packing off to England.”