Barnardo could only nod and stare at the path it had followed, from the tower, through them, into nothing.
“It was the old king,” he whispered. “Hamlet. And I swear…”
The words were gone again. It was the student who found them first.
“The thing wanted to speak,” Horatio said.
He leaned against the wall and eyed them.
“To someone. Not to us.”
The castle of Elsinore sat at the narrowest point of the sound between Denmark and Sweden, a glittering stronghold with one foot in the old world, blockish and practical, one in the new, shiny and ornamented. Both were, in their ways, impressive, but its halls and passages seemed caught in transition, hesitating between its fortress past and its palace future.
In daylight it was the latter that was easiest to see. Courtiers in their finery congregated in the Great Hall, loitering in hope of a royal audience, a banquet or dance in the ballroom with its towering ceiling. Some were visiting dignitaries, a few statesmen and their wives, or lawyers with briefs and maps and contracts. Others seemed strictly decorative, lounging and gaming and singing as if to remind the world that this northernmost of the great European palaces liked to think itself a cultured outpost of Renaissance Europe, a walled version of distant Florence reimagined for the cold bleak wastes of Denmark.
Scores of servants ran through tight passageways with trays of food from the kitchens, while others unloaded wagons of meat and vegetables in the courtyard or hauled wood for the ovens and the fireplaces in the royal apartments. Boar were dressed and roasted on spits, tables and trenchers scrubbed, rushes strewn on the floors, beer brewed and kegged, clothes mended, boots heeled, armour oiled, blades – military and kitchen alike – were honed, and bed linen packed for laundering in the river. Behind discrete doors and carefully hung tapestries, the business of daily life in the castle cranked and sweated regardless of day or season.
Outside, for all its newer gloss, the medieval fortress still loomed large over Elsinore’s palatial aspirations. The ramparts had been raised and modernized. A square cannon tower had been added which looked down on the waters of the sound and the strip of land which bound the castle to the town. Enemies, after all, could be lurking anywhere.
Inside the perimeter walls were rune stones far older than the castle itself, boulders roughly carved with pictograms and ancient, linear script, remembering exploits from another more primitive world, that of the Vikings, an era the refurbished and glamorous parts of the castle seemed keen to forget.
Elsinore breathed. It pulsed with life, with births and deaths, with whispered trysts, political indirection, meetings, lies, promises kept and broken. It groaned with food and sex and snoring. And it watched. More than anything else, it looked out to the horizon, and down to those who called it home: a parent, a spy, a judge. The castle saw all.
And now, on this bright, cold, January day, it witnessed a little man running, scampering as if his very life depended on it.
Like an imp set free, like a demon sprinting through the darkness, the dwarf scurried down the icy stone corridors of Elsinore, bouncing off the damp, dank walls, chattering to himself, laughing at the jokes to come.
So many of them.
So much planning, scheming, hoping.
Yorick, son of Yorick. A small creature, big on ambition. Latest in a long line of Elsinore jesters. A fool before royalty. The one true, honest voice among the craven court followers who hung around the throne like flies sniffing the presence of a corpse.
Four foot and a bit. Gross, jowly bearded face. Fat, bowed legs. Big belly, big nose, big head. Through the Great Hall he darted, past the sovereigns’ seats, the paintings, the tapestries, the statue of his father, placed there by Old Hamlet. A joke for a joke.
He paused, looked at the object beneath the sputtering brands in the wall. The jest seemed cruel, unnecessary.
Naked, Old Yorick sat on a huge tortoise. Flabby right arm out in a regal pose, acknowledging his people, left on his fat side, holding in his greedy girth.
Gross arse, strong, gnarled hands. Small prick. An expression of fear on his finely-sculptured face. Even the tortoise that bore his weight was laughing.
Everyone did, the dwarf thought. That was why creatures like him existed. To serve as objects of mirth and derision for normal men. To show them a mirror of humanity then raise their spirits as they witnessed the ugly truth.
He stopped for a moment. Tried to imagine this dead stone face alive. Failed. Walked on, more slowly now. Into the east wing, the royal quarters. Past guards who never acknowledged him. Past the quarters of servants who hadn’t raised a squeak in protest back when Old Yorick was put to the sword.
The door to the Queen’s apartment was ajar. He slunk into the shadows cast by three torches, edged close to the bedroom. Listened to the rhythmic sighs within.
Moved nearer, shrank to the floor like a cellar rat. Spied on them through the keyhole. Claudius and Gertrude. He over her, bed shirt around his hips, face wreathed in a passionate desperation.
All the noises and motions of love. None of the profit.
The King was near fifty. The Queen two years younger. Two months married after the sudden death of Old Hamlet, her husband, his brother.
The jester stopped on the threshold. Finger to lips. Thinking of a joke fitting the circumstances. Something about sowing seed on stony ground. Empty pleasures pursued too late. The waste of warm and wrinkled skin.
Yet he stayed in the shadows. A fool by fate and calling, not by temperament.
The king cried. The queen followed. Hidden behind the long drape Yorick stifled a laugh.
Moved on. One room only. Hamlet had stayed there since he was a child, a closeness demanded by a too-caring, worried mother.
This door was fully open. The jester considered marching in, bold as brass, leaping onto the dishevelled double bed. Tussling the hair of the tall, skinny figure there. Trying to find humour amongst the misery.
Then he took one look and thought better of it.
Hamlet lay stiff on the sheets, head back on the pillow, fists tight over his ears, eyes on the ceiling, listening to the grunts and snorts and creaks his mother made with the king, his stepfather. It was that man, Claudius, who had raised the prince far more than Old Hamlet had. That heartless old bastard had always been too busy with wars and scheming to notice the fragile, solitary child he’d bred in the equally heartless fortress.
Here, or so the seers said, deep beneath the rock, lay Holger Danske, Denmark’s Arthur, the hero of legend, clutching his broadsword Curtana, sleeping the enchanted sleep given him by Morgan Le Fay. Waiting for the moment the realm was threatened, ready to wake and save Denmark from her foes.
Yorick wasn’t sure he believed the seers. But Holger Danske’s time might be near. There were, he had heard, enemies abroad. The nation was divided, ruled by a diffident monarch and a queen whose only son was a reclusive and seemingly perpetual student. An unlikely successor to the throne in Elsinore. Perhaps it was a good thing that it wasn’t blood line alone that counted when it came to the selection of the Danish monarch.
The moans from the royal bedroom abated. Pants and low arrhythmic breathing took their place.
The dwarf slunk from the royal quarters, made his way to the western tower, out to the battlements. He’d heard the rumours of strange happenings there. Ever curious he needed to know.
January out in the fresh air. The Øresund channel that separated Denmark from Sweden was narrow here. Frozen in the worst of winters, the ice so thick that Norway’s armies, which occupied the territory opposite, might cross from one side to the other.
The jester climbed to the highest wall of the fortress. Dawn was breaking over the dark water below. Small boats, lights at the stern, Danish and foreign, were out chasing the silver rush of herring that fed the Nordic nations and always would.
His limbs were small, deformed, yet strong. The dwarf leapt onto the castellated wall at a run. Stood
on the rough stone, stared down at the land below. The hovels of Elsinore’s servants. The jetties of the port. Between them the too-small cemetery for the ordinary folk, a place he visited from time to time, watching as the sextons shifted old bodies to make way for new.
This was Elsinore. Hard rock, barren lineage, a black world in turmoil.
Home. The only one he had.
A noise. A cry from along the wall, in the guardhouse by the northern tower.
A single word caught on the icy night air.
Ghost.
Nothing there now in the first light of day.
He looked over the battlements at the little harbour, the narrow stretch of sea. Took a deep breath and spat into the fresh breeze like a child.
Then went back down to the royal quarters. Quiet in the queen’s chamber now. The king had returned to his own room and the dressers who would prepare him for the visitors waiting in the hall below. There was talk about meetings to come, about the Prince rousing himself from his constant mourning and take part in the business of the court.
Silent as a church mouse Yorick crept back along the corridor. Hamlet was asleep in a tortured, childish pose, clutching the pillows to him, head buried in fine Rennes linen.
The fool shook him roughly by the collar.
He was a tall, handsome young man. Twenty seven though he often seemed younger. A pale, finely chiselled face, nothing like his father’s. Long fair hair. Mournful eyes that were the pale grey-blue of the sea in autumn. They possessed a sorrowful cast and had done so long before his father died.
“Why are you waking me?”
“Because it’s time to get up. The fornicating’s over. For now at least.”
A torrent of curses. The clown stood back, folded his arms, looked shocked.
“That’s unbecoming of a man who might one day wear the crown.”
“To hell with the throne.” He pulled the sheets over his head. “The lords would never choose me. Besides I want to sleep. Forever.”
“That’ll come soon enough.”
“Bugger off.”
Yorick dragged the bed clothes off him and wagged a fat finger.
“Don’t make me spank you. The King’s putting on his robes and telling all and sundry he desires your presence downstairs. There’s state business to be done. It’s expected. Best be dressed when old Polonius knocks on your door.”
A sly eye turned to the small library by the desk near the wall.
“Tell them I’m reading. It’s work.”
“They won’t believe you. This is your duty. Your fate. Here. I’ll fetch your boots. And some clothes that aren’t black for a change. Comb that long hair before I do, which will hurt, I promise.”
“Tell me one thing first.” Hamlet sat up, suddenly alert. “And don’t play the idiot with me. I know you.”
A bow, a flourish of his stunted arms.
“Then recognition is all I crave.”
“How did your father die?”
A pause. A moment of serious consideration.
“Much like yours, Hamlet. Mortality stole him.”
There was a line between impudence and treason. It was a fool’s job to tread it.
“Tell me!”
“But I did. Do you have cloth ears to go with your cloth brain?”
“One day…”
He laughed. Winked. Waited. Saw the anger die in Hamlet’s eyes.
“I’m just your hideous little pal. Don’t be angry.”
“I’m staying in bed.”
“Oh, no, you’re not… “There’s trouble coming.” Yorick’s hand went to the window. “Young Fortinbras has parked his Norwegian army out there behind Helsingborg. If the sea freezes and he’s so inclined we could have his fury on us in days. Then the Sound will run with blood like it did in your father’s time. So get your lazy arse down there now.”
A flourish. A perfect bow.
“Your highness…”
“We don’t want war,” Claudius said as they assembled in the Great Hall. “Not now.” He looked at Hamlet, with affection and concern. “Young Fortinbras has marched into Sweden with an army. How big that force is, how strong, how disciplined… we aren’t yet sure. Nor is it clear if this is just political sabre rattling. Or more… personal. I think he wants revenge. Your father killed his. In fair combat…” A nod at the walls. “Out there. But that was twenty seven years ago…”
“Some wounds heal slowly.”
Hamlet had rejected the jester’s advice and put on black. Shirt, doublet, trousers, shoes. The clothes made his face seem bloodless in the glorious hall with its gold and scarlet drapes, the ornate furniture, the tapestry map of Denmark and its shifting conquests on the wall. And the strange statue of a fat midget, perched on a tortoise, right hand outstretched like a sad emperor in his glory.
Outside the ordinary folk were close to starving. It had been a cold, meagre winter. Some blamed that on the sudden and unexpected death of the old king, as if a monarch’s blood was tied to the health of the nation. But within the castle the supply of luxuries hadn’t dried up. Servants moved around the room with beer from Jutland, figs from Italy, French wine and meat.
Claudius didn’t reach for them. Nor Gertrude, his queen who sat next to him, never taking her eyes off her son.
“I mourn for your father,” the King insisted. “Just as much as you…”
Hamlet laughed.
“How’s that possible?”
“He was my brother!”
“And now, two months on, you’ve wed his queen.”
“Three,” Gertrude cut in. A fortnight before, the first time he’d made that dig, she’d been shocked, offended. Now she was tiring of the argument. “Would you deny me all happiness, Hamlet? Was I supposed to climb onto a funeral pyre with him as if we were still Vikings?”
She gestured at the guard next to her, dressed in finery, the latest musket from the English armourers leaning on his shoulder, a gunpowder flask on his belt.
“We’re a modern court. With ambassadors across Europe, seeking peace and trade and continuity. Not the marauders of old. The crown holds everything together. It may be yours one day if you….”
“Behave?”
A cold smile from the Queen.
“If you continue to study what is fitting for a king. If you show yourself to be a friend to Denmark, a leader, someone who understands the arts of the court, of diplomacy, even war.”
“If I become my father, you mean? Or my uncle?”
Colour rose in her cheeks. Gertrude nodded.
“Good men to emulate.”
Hamlet looked away.
Polonius, Lord Chamberlain to the court for thirty years, stood listening, one hand in his long white beard, the other fingering a pocket watch shaped like a golden drum.
He eyed Claudius and got the nod to speak.
“Fortinbras believes your father’s death gives him the opportunity – and the right – to demand the return of those lands Old Hamlet seized after he beat Old Norway in single combat. Through violence true, but legal violence. He has no right…”
“He has youth and vigour and an army,” the King objected. “He’ll make his own right. The way they do. Here…”
He summoned the ambassadors picked for the job of dealing with Magnus, the Norwegian king in Oslo. They were two nobles, the youngest, Voltemand, from Copenhagen, the elder, Elias, a local. Claudius looked at them. Two very different men, he thought. Elias he’d known since childhood, a decent, loyal lord. Voltemand came on the recommendation of Polonius and seemed more ambitious. Sly even.
He handed the letter to Elias. It was sealed with the mark of the crown.
“Fortinbras has ambitions above his station. He’s crown prince, not monarch. What our spies tell us…” A grateful glance at Polonius. “… is that Magnus himself is sick and impotent, weak in the head. Not long for the world. Perhaps he’ll nod and give the boy what he wants. But a little diplomacy and haggling about taxes and duties won’t g
o amiss. Let’s drive a stake between Magnus and his nephew, set one against the other…”
Voltemand nodded.
“Wise counsel, sir. Fortinbras is a rash and arrogant man from what I hear.”
“And if we hear that in Elsinore it must be kitchen gossip in Norway. Get private messages sent. Let’s stir matters for our Norwegian upstart cousin.”
The two departed. Claudius caught the eye of his stepson.
“There’s the scent of war in the air. I need you here. Not Wittenberg. This isn’t a time for reading books.”
Hamlet rolled his eyes, which always infuriated his uncle.
“I’m a student. Not a warrior.”
The King came over and looked at him frankly.
“We’re not like the Norwegians. They pick their kings through force and bribery. We elect ours from those of royal blood. But a king can name his preferred successor. To me you are my heir, Hamlet. A beloved nephew. The only one I have. The only one I wish. You’ve my trust and admiration. I love you as if you were my own.”
Gertrude joined them, wound her arms through theirs.
Hamlet wouldn’t look at her. Instead he stared at the cold floor and muttered, “I wish to mourn my father in private. I wish to study…”
“That’s enough!” A hard, chiding voice. Gertrude took his chin. “Claudius is your father now. One who adores you. More…”
She stumbled on the words.
“He has more time for you than Old Hamlet was ever allowed. It wasn’t his fault…”
“A few months in the grave and you’re married. Perhaps my extended mourning makes up for the brevity of yours.”
Her eyes flashed with anger.
“We own this land. We’re the shepherds of our people. The rules are what we make them, and they come with heavy duties. You must learn this, or the king’s favour will not be enough to put the crown on your head when he is gone. And you must learn it here. Not in Wittenberg.”
She removed her hand, unwound her arm.
“I’m your mother. I beg you… I pray for you to stay. For a Danish prince to flee the country at a time like this. It would look bad, Hamlet. You’d throw away your own reputation for a month spent wrapped in dusty books?”
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark Page 2