by P. N. Elrod
I had other objections, but in my heart knew he was right. If we waited two months for Hamlet’s return it would be too late, and Fortinbras would have swept in.
Thus did Polonius persuade me to my duty.
But I nearly ran craven from it when he broached the subject of the queen.
“She is loved by the rabble,” he said. “Win her to your side, and you win their hearts as well.”
I did not take his full meaning, thinking he meant her support for my cause was all that was needed. “She will prefer her son over me for the throne, which is to be expected. But once she knows the seriousness of this difficulty, she will come around.”
“Do not count on that, for she has a blind eye when it comes to the lad. However, if played gently and well, she will prefer her husband over her son.”
This was a day of thick sight for me. “But my brother is gone.”
“I refer to you, sir. Become her husband.”
To that I responded with a staring eye, unsure if I heard him aright.
He pressed on. “The advantage is obvious. The queen remains the queen—which to her is far better than being the queen mother. She retains her honors and respect and position in the court, you have gained her approval and with that the support of the rabble, which counts for much, and young Hamlet is still the heir. Denmark is made secure by keeping the crown within the stability of a long-established royal family, its care in the hands of an honorable and well-schooled lord who will hold and protect it most diligently.”
A wily old fellow was Polonius, but he seemed to have overstepped himself with this outrageous suggestion. A marriage was quite absurd, though it was sound politics and nothing new to me.
Many years ago in my youth I’d been betrothed to a number of young ladies. My father’s political maneuverings demanded such matrimonial alliances, and I took none of them seriously. Sometimes the girl died, in others the contract was cancelled as her father in turn arranged a better match. On one occasion negotiations went so far that I was able to meet the girl, which was a bit of an advancement. She seemed a comely quiet sort, but things never progressed beyond that first meeting. The alliance ceased to be of import and the marriage postponed indefinitely. So far as I knew I might still be engaged to her, but had long since forgotten her name.
Of course I’d availed myself of fleshly pleasures, cheerfully leaving abstinence to those priests who chose to give attention to that vow. I’d had mistresses here and there where my duties carried me, for I found foreign women to be wonderfully captivating. But for good or ill I had never been the sort to lose my heart to any one woman for any length of time. I had no desire to father children, and if I had done so, then their mothers kept the glad tidings to themselves. The expectation of marriage had ceased to be of import to me for whole decades, so Polonius had much work convincing me to even listen.
But for the sake of the state, I did give ear to his argument, and after much thought concluded that he was right. This would not be the first time a ruler made a bride of the previous king’s wife, but I was uncomfortable that this was my brother’s wife. For most, such an alliance would stink of foul incest. However, Polonius had arguments against that, supported by Holy Scripture no less.
With a sigh, and an unaccustomed palpitation in my heart inspired by terror, not love-sickness, I gave him leave to speak to Gertrude on the matter. He must make clear the fact that this marriage was strictly for the good of the state, and that I’d never presume to make overtures to her for any other reason. I had too much respect for my brother’s memory for that. She was still in the deepest mourning for him, and on several occasions we sat together in the company of her ladies and grieved together, which had provided much comfort to me. We’d known each other for over thirty years, and I thought of her as a friend, nothing more.
To Polonius I said I would consent to offer suit to my former sister-in-law only if she was willing, and the arrangement of the marriage bed—or beds in their separate chambers—was entirely up to her. There was no need for us to beget an heir, after all, so a consummation was not necessary.
Polonius, choosing his moment most carefully, broached the subject with Gertrude. I know not what he said to her, but with his soft persuasions and influence he added royal matchmaker to his list of accomplishments.
What another shock it was to learn that Gertrude desired to be my bride—in the traditional sense.
Whether she wanted me for myself as a man or as some remnant of her late husband, as her protector or a means to continue as queen, perhaps all and more, I did not inquire. Let it suffice that I spent some hours talking with her with this new aspect included in the conversation and began to see her in a wholly different light. She had happily retained a great portion of her youthful beauty and charm and used it to good effect. Combined with her artless sincerity of warmth toward me I stood no chance and suffered the supreme loss of composure that occurs when a man of middle years falls in love for the first time.
After that, events set their own course. The nobles supported me to take the crown, which I did, and within a month of leading the procession for my poor brother’s internment I was leading the wedding party in to feast. Though the crowning and especially the marriage were scandalously quick, the results were as Polonius predicted. Fortinbras held back to see what direction I would take. Certainly the quick activity in the Danish court had served him an unexpected turn. I made certain his spies had every chance to observe how busy the shipyards and armorers were—the first orders I issued as king were to give them custom. With no other hint of my intent, Fortinbras was free to draw his own conclusions, and so he hesitated. All to our advantage.
There was some grumbling in my court about the expense of arming, particularly for a battle that might not happen, but I knew it was cheaper to build for war than to have war itself, and with the building, stave off conflict. By spending a hundred on weapons that might never come to use, I saved the land ten times ten thousand and more in bloody conflict—an excellent bargain.
Of course it did not hurt to write in secret to the old uncle of Fortinbras, a long-time friend of mine, and let him know what his nephew was about. Though ancient in years, he still held influence over the boy, and with a stern lecture, a bribe, and a suggestion to direct his wrath and energy against our common enemy, the Polack, disaster for us both was turned aside.
All seemed well—except for the dark shadow of my brother’s most strange and unnatural death hanging over my heart. Polonius and I devoted many hours to discussion of this man or that, trying to discover who could have been responsible. One by one we proposed and ultimately discarded them all. None in the court had anything to gain by Hamlet’s death and much to lose. They knew the crown would have gone to young Hamlet, and if anything happened to him, then an election would be held to decide the next king. No one of them held so much power or the esteem of his fellows to guarantee to influence the vote to himself. There likely would have been factions and perhaps even civil war as a result.
My next progression, which I kept very much to myself, was to consider Laertes, Polonius’s son. Laertes was a fit young fellow and skilled to action—but in Paris at the time. He might have set some agent of his to do the actual murder, but what reason could he have to kill our liege? He was a virtuous man, almost monk-like and full of love for others, and like the rest of us expected young Hamlet to inherit the crown. He had nothing to gain.
Who was left? Not gentle Gertrude, who had loved her husband as land loves the rain, and I did not for an instant think she had the savageness nor the knowledge to do it.
We questioned Francisco most closely, the poor man. I daresay he thought we were preparing to accuse him of treason, but even as he stood watch at the orchard door, other guards stood their watch within his sight. Between them their movements were accounted for and it was clear that no one had entered the orchard.
Of course, that meant nothing if the murderer had concealed himself there earlier in
the day. He could easily elude the patrols of the one gardener until the afternoon, and then escape later in the confusion after the body was found.
Ultimately we concluded that some agent for Fortinbras had carried out the assassination, for he could be the only one advantaged by the crime. It must have been a sore disappointment his ploy did not work as he’d planned.
How it rankled that we could not make a fair and open accusation against him, but for the sake of Denmark’s continued peace we remained silent, and publicly gave sad credence to the physician’s conclusion that a serpent’s sting was to blame for so strange a death. A search was made and many snakes were found, but all were the benign sort that, lacking venom, cleanse the land of rats and mice. Though innocent of regicide, they were slaughtered by an army of gardeners.
So the days and weeks passed, our griefs were gradually softened by our joys, for Gertrude was an absolute delight to me, and peaceful order replaced the disruption in our lives.
Until Hamlet returned home.
Of course he was considerably upset, not only by his father’s death, but in finding that I had—in his eyes—stolen the succession from him. He objected also to the marriage, making clear our haste was what infuriated him the most. Had his mother delayed and ruled as queen, then might he have made his claim. We had considered that as a possibility, but discarded it. Gertrude was no soldier, and though popular with the people, to the gathered nobles she was merely a weak woman, and they would not follow a woman’s orders.
Polonius and I both tried to reason with Hamlet on the dire nature of the threat from Norway, but a disaster that never happens is easily disregarded, and he did so, loudly and often.
That was when we became aware of an odd change in him. As well as being versed in the rougher arts of a high-born gentleman he had ever been a pleasant, studious sort, most charming in his manner, a trait he’d inherited from his mother. Now was he darker in his moods and raiment, surly, and given to fits of passionate rage with no cause. We seemed to be dealing with a rebellious, uncontrolled youth of fifteen, not a grown man of thirty.
He’d returned to us from Wittenberg gaunt of face, his eyes wild, and often his speech wandered in ways comparable to Polonius’s convoluted, but canny method. But there was no plan in Hamlet’s ramblings, unless it was to give pain to those closest to him. I was his chief target for insult, but for Gertrude’s sake I endured it. She and I set some of Hamlet’s old friends to watching him in an attempt to discover the source of his rash behavior, but he was as guarded with them as I was years ago while acting as ambassador to the Polish court. He could not or would not divulge the reason for those periods of turbulence that bordered on the dangerous, though he had confessed to them that he was aware of his behavior. It occurred to me that this might be some childish means to gain attention. If so, then a bout of healthy sea-voyaging might set him right again.
But before I could act upon the idea it was with great hesitation Polonius put into words that which I feared, that young Hamlet was indeed truly losing his wits. Certainly his doting mother noticed, though she vainly hoped it to be a temporary thing brought on by his unrelenting grief for his father’s death. She prayed nightly he would find a cure and be restored. She later fixed on the idea—put forth by Polonius as a straw to comfort her—that her son was mad with love for the old man’s daughter, Ophelia.
“It is not for love of my daughter, though,” he said to me in private after we’d witnessed a harrowing encounter between Hamlet and Ophelia that reduced the poor girl to tears. “ ’Twas love for another’s daughter that’s the root of this.”
“Whose?” I asked.
“A nameless trull in the brothels of Wittenberg has obviously passed the French pox to him.”
Oh, dear God, no. I objected greatly to this. I did not want it to be.
“My lord, I have seen its like before. He shows the signs, and his mind grows more bewildered each day.”
“I know the signs, too, and it takes years, even decades for the madness to establish itself. ’Tis a slow process or so I’ve always been told.”
“Who is to say it has not? When he was yet beardless the first cravings of manhood might have taken him to a whore tainted with the rot. It could well have happened fifteen or more years ago and now the pox begins to briskly manifest. That which pollutes his blood is proceeding with its foul work far faster than normal, or so it appears to us who have not seen him in over a year. His friends are perhaps unaware of it for they’ve grown used to its gradual rise. He has his lucid moments, but they decrease in duration, while his ravings increase. You’ve yourself marked his deterioration. He is sinking into madness as surely as a ship stranded on sharp rocks, battered by the waves, is taken apart piece by piece. At this pace within a few months he will be wholly lost to us.”
I loved my nephew, so the sight of the change in him was most painful to me. For those with eyes to see—myself and Polonius, among others of the court—young Hamlet’s doom was upon him like a black cloud over his head.
Poor Gertrude. Poor Denmark. “We must do something.”
“I know of no cure, lord.”
“Nor I.” I gave some quick thought to the matter, recalling what others in my position had done to deal with such difficulties. There were few choices open, and now I had to also freshly consider the succession since he would likely die before me.
The contagion gnawing at his brain would consume him to full madness in too short a season. Even if in that time I arranged a marriage and he bred an heir, the child would likely also suffer enfeeblement. My duties in other courts had been depressingly instructive. I’d seen at first hand how the indiscretions of one generation were passed to the next, resulting in malformed or simple-minded progeny who died young. Yet often would they come to the rule of their land regardless of their competency, which ever and always led to disaster.
I discarded that possibility and put off for the moment the succession issue. Now was I a stepfather as well as an uncle and had to think how to deal with this coming tragedy.
Had Hamlet been suffering from any other kind of pox, plague, or cancer, there would be no question of our providing him the best of care here in his home for as long as needed. It would have been highly painful to his mother and myself, but in that pain we might find a kind of comfort in knowing that one is trying one’s best to give succor to a much-loved child.
But madness such as this would be too terrible to endure. His outbursts, so unlike his normal self, were an agony to Gertrude and promised to become worse in time. Should her last memory of her son be of him tied to a bed raving and spitting vile words at her blameless self? I would not put her gentle soul through that hell.
“He cannot remain here,” I finally said. “We will spare him the humiliation of having his family and friends watch his decline. He can go to England and live out what time remains there. We’ll tell him he’s to collect their tardy tribute to give purpose to the journey so it doesn’t appear to be banishment.”
“Might he not raise a force against you, lord?” Polonius was ever worried about upstarts disrupting the peace of the land.
“Hardly there. Their king has no stomach for foreign wars. We will also send a letter for his eyes only, requiring him to keep Hamlet under watch and out of mischief. When the boy is no longer capable, he’s to be placed under care in some gentle hospice monastery. A portion of the tribute money will pay for it. We trust our ambassador there; he will see to it our prince is looked after according to his station.”
This news was hard received by little Ophelia, despite her a distressing encounter with Hamlet, who had shown a side of himself that none should see. But the hearts of young girls can become fast fixed, even when it means their own destruction. She was a sweet child and quite unspoiled, but for this love fantasy of hers. Sadly, it had once been fueled by Hamlet himself. During one of his summer visits he’d spent some time with her, and she had taken his casual attentions too seriously. Indeed there
was a time when the girl expected to be Hamlet’s bride, and put it forth among her ladies as though it was inevitable. The rumor was enough for my brother and Gertrude to see her privately. Apparently Gertrude was in favor of such a joining, but a royal prince is not free to marry as an ordinary man might. This was most clearly explained to Ophelia. Gertrude said the child fled the room in tears, but such is the way of things, and in time she recovered.
When Hamlet returned, though, Ophelia’s feelings for him were stirred up again, and Polonius and even her brother Laertes had to step in to curb her spirited affections. Hamlet inadvertently helped with his brutal rejection of her. Polonius had ordered her to return some small gifts as the prince had given during lighter days, and he took it badly, venting his temper on her. Polonius and I watched the sorry show from hiding, ready to emerge to protect her should Hamlet turn violent. Thankfully, he did not, but the encounter was a traumatic one for all, and I was very relieved when Hamlet finally stormed out.
Ophelia, in that moment, must have finally realized he was mad, but still she pined for him. Certainly there could be no match between them now. I would have no objection were he robust and back to his former gentle self, but to inflict a diseased lunatic upon that fragile girl would be cruel folly. Her father made an end of the suit, and though it was hard for his daughter, better that than a ruinous marriage.
So might we have peacefully proceeded in the plan to send him packing had I but known Hamlet was hatching a plot of his own to bring me into disrepute. Its culmination took place the night a troupe of traveling players came to Elsinore. What a dreadful outcome did they, unknowing, bring about.
Things began well, for Gertrude took Hamlet’s interest in holding a play for the court as a good sign. He had been in a high humor that day, more like his old self, but to me there still seemed to be a sharpness to his manner that was not quite right. Many times I caught him throwing looks my way that might as well been daggers. It made my heart ache, but I’d grown used to the fact that he would likely never forgive me for my expedient actions to save the throne. It was also in my heart that he was aware of his deterioration, and knew he would never live to inherit that seat. Of course, he could never admit it to himself. It was far easier to blame me for all offenses.