Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

“I know.”

  “Then why are you treating me like a priest or – worse – a philosopher? If you wanted reflections on the nature of the universe and your place in it, you should have stayed in school. You want fart noises and cock jokes, I’m your man. If it’s sympathy you’re after talk to your chum Horatio. Or Ophelia.”

  “I’m done with Ophelia.”

  “Or she’s done with you.”

  “Amounts to the same thing.”

  Yorick grinned.

  “Not the same as rejection though, is it, Romeo?”

  “It doesn’t feel anything at all.”

  “Oh.,” The jester drew out the single syllable. “So that’s the pose of the day, is it? Fine. You’re a man of iron. Of stone. A stoic of pure purpose, undistracted by feeble human emotions. You’ll make your father proud yet. Were he not dead…”

  Hamlet turned quickly on him, the knife sweeping out towards the dwarf so that he jumped back and ran away, cackling.

  Then stopped at the door, looked serious for a moment.

  “So let me understand this, Hamlet. Neither of us has room for error. A spook on the battlements says your father was murdered by your uncle. And the game is… what?”

  “I play the fool.”

  “That’s my job, not yours.”

  He poked Yorick’s harlequin jacket.

  “The mad fool. The lunatic. The king’s deranged stepson. More to be pitied than feared. Ignored. An embarrassment to the court. And so… invisible… I bide my time…”

  He stopped. Yorick cocked his head to one side.

  “And…?” He waved his hands for more.

  “I think. Got a better idea?”

  A pause then, “Not at the moment I’ll admit. But if this is the game, you need to play your part to the full. As if you mean it. No point in shrieking at the walls in here. Mingle. Mooch.” He slapped Hamlet’s leg. “Look at things that aren’t there. Weep. Sigh. Groan. Groaning’s always good. And do it…” His stubby arm pointed at the door. “Out there. Where they’ll all see.”

  A hard nudge with a bony elbow then.

  “Quite futile trying to prove your madness to me, sunshine. I know it only too well.”

  Hamlet grabbed at his cloak.

  The jester dodged him, rubbed his hands together in glee.

  “And now I’m off to exercise my third best talent, after telling ribald stories and juggling.”

  “Which is?”

  A bright, broad grin. “I’m going… snooping.”

  Claudius sat at his desk, peering at a shag-edged roll of parchment on which a map of the country and its neighbours had been etched and shaded in colour. A series of dated notes had recently been written in.

  “The Lord Chamberlain, my liege,” said the page at the door.

  “Good. Send him in.”

  He went back to his examination of the papers, barely looking up when Polonius entered.

  “I’ve been tracking Fortinbras’s movements.” He tapped a circle of red ink. “We’ve heard nothing for days.”

  “May I?”

  Polonius sidled over to the desk and ran his fingers over the map. Then the old man reached for the quill, dipped it, and added a new red circle – just across the Øresund.

  “So there’s only that narrow puddle of water between us?” the King asked, rising from his chair. “You’re sure of that?”

  “Absolutely, my lord. Though this is not what I came to report.”

  There was something in the old councillor’s tone.

  “Which is?”

  “A delicate matter, my liege. It pertains to your...” Polonius hesitated. “To Prince Hamlet.”

  Claudius tapped his finger on the map.

  “A Norwegian army on our doorstep’s more pressing than my nephew’s misery.”

  A pompous smile broke on the old man’s face.

  “Stability at home is never more important than at times of diplomatic crisis.”

  Another easy adage. Half of what he said sounded like an old wives’ motto.

  Claudius frowned.

  “Very well. Out with it. What’s my beloved nephew done now?”

  “It’s not so much what he’s done. More what’s happened to him as a result. It involves, I’m ashamed to say, my daughter. The two of them have been… involved.”

  Polonius let the phrase hang in the air.

  “Just how involved?”

  “Too much for a caring father and a virtuous household to be comfortable with. Illicitly, behind my back I fear she… seduced him.”

  Claudius laughed at that.

  “It’s always the woman when there’s blame to be apportioned, isn’t it? Is this affair common knowledge? Or can we keep it quiet? They’re young. She’s beautiful. He’s a handsome lad, too. It’s understandable. But I’ll need Hamlet betrothed to a foreign princess one day. If there’s a girl who’ll have him. I can’t have gossip. It has to stop.”

  Polonius nodded.

  “It has. Only those in my employ know of it. A serving girl who’s now far from Elsinore. And the guilty parties themselves. That’s it.”

  “And you’re sure this is done with?”

  “From the moment I learned of it. Unfortunately the prince is mightily distressed by my daughter’s rejection of his company. He has become... unbalanced.”

  Claudius shook his head.

  “Lovelorn, you mean?”

  “No. Much worse than that. You’ve seen for yourself. His behaviour has become erratic and unpredictable. Ophelia, finally showing the duty she owes to me, reports that his...dealings with her show him to be unstable. Prone to violent outpourings of emotion which, apart from being unseemly about the court, may – I fear – turn dangerous.”

  “Dangerous? To whom?”

  Polonius licked his dry lips and stared at the King.

  “To himself in the first instance. To those who are – or seem to him to be – involved in his misery too I imagine. My daughter. Myself. Even others who are unconnected to this matter but against whom he wishes to bear a grudge.”

  Another phrase left floating in silence.

  “You mean me?”

  “The prince has spoken openly of his dissatisfaction with the circumstances of your coronation. The haste of your marriage to his mother. He is neither rational nor reliable, and I’m afraid that some desperate act of violence is not beyond him. The odd death of his father from a snake in winter.” A smile. “We never did find that viper, did we?”

  “No,” the King snapped. “As if I need this now. What do you propose?”

  Polonius produced a notebook and turned to a page marked with a red ribbon.

  “We double the guard on your royal person. We surround him with those we can trust to relay his words, his thoughts directly to us. Ophelia may be one of them.”

  “Is there anyone you wouldn’t use as a spy, Polonius?”

  A diplomatic smile.

  “Not if they’re needed. She’ll do as I tell her.”

  “What about friends of his? Drinking mates. Find out which of them can be bought.”

  The old man nodded and made a note.

  “But not that chap Horatio,” Claudius added. “He worships my nephew. Those two you sent to Wittenberg to watch him when he first went out there? I forget the names. Sycophantic little turds, always dressed to the nines.”

  Polonius scowled.

  “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Minor nobles. They never earned the pittance I paid them. They can start now. I’ll have them here by tomorrow.”

  “Your daughter and two so-called friends. Is that enough by way of spies? Can they handle a distraught young man like Hamlet?”

  “We’ll see. I believe so.”

  The King returned to the map.

  “Good. And keep this between us. No word to the Queen. She’s… easily upset.”

  He stabbed a finger on the narrow stretch of sea in front of them.

  “If that freezes…”

  “It won’t.”


  “Your spies can read the weather now, can they?”

  “No.” Polonius stared at him with a sour face. “But there’s plenty of men in the harbour who can. Ship’s captains. Your admirals. Fortinbras won’t find his way here that way.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Polonius smiled.

  “I am, sir. I warrant it.”

  Inching along the Elsinore road between town and castle were a pair of horse drawn wagons loaded with a dozen men and an assortment of crates and trunks. English actors touring the continent. The public theatres were closed for the winter, so they picked their way around the surrounding countryside, playing in the stately homes and palaces whose owners didn’t threaten to set the dogs on them when they came calling. It was an uncertain way to make a living, and Richard Burbage, the company’s veteran thespian and unofficial leader, had already voiced his dissatisfaction about their current excursion.

  “Three days through snow and ice with a wind that could cut you in half,” he remarked, “and for what? So some lackey can greet us at the gate and tell us to piss off?”

  Kemp, the clown, the only person who had been with the company long enough to stand up to him, shrugged.

  “Might go all right.”

  Burbage glared him.

  “You think so? Because what a new king wants, what an unpopular king wants, a monarch being watched by every foreign power for signs of weakness, a rogue Norwegian army on his doorstep… what a king like that desires most in life is to watch a play.”

  “Might lighten his mood,” Kemp suggested with half a smile. “Christ knows they could use a little entertainment.”

  The road inclined as it snaked up to the fortress. The wagons’ wheels began to slip on the frozen cobbles so that the actors had to dismount and shove. One of the boys who played the women’s parts slipped and fell flat on his face in a muddy ditch. The hired men guffawed, but Burbage shot the boy a murderous look.

  “When we reach the gates, stay out of sight. And the first thing you do if we get inside is scrub your damn clothes spotless. I don’t care if you have to stand naked in the snow while you do it.”

  The boy nodded, chastened, and Burbage relented a little.

  “You know your lines, boy?”

  “For what, sir?”

  “The Malcontent, The Spanish Tragedy, Friar Bacon...”

  He ticked them off on his fingers.

  “Every one.”

  Burbage wasn’t sure he believed him.

  “You’d better. Another performance like that one last week and I’ll beat you till you can’t stand up straight. You hear me?”

  Kemp shot him a knowing look. They both understood Burbage wouldn’t hurt the lad. Audiences could smell fear and terrified boys on stage were nightmares to work with.

  “Maybe they’ll turn us away,” the actor said. “I heard that Prince Hamlet was home for his father’s funeral. Or his mother’s wedding, I suppose.”

  Burbage just shrugged. They’d performed for the prince two years before. Apparently Hamlet liked the theatre. Some of the servants said he took parts in plays at school. A friendly ear inside Elsinore might be what they needed to get their foot in the door. And with it decent food, a warm bed for a night or two, and a fee that would see them through the end of the month.

  The grim outline of the castle loomed over them.

  Kemp’s mood was growing gloomy.

  “Never much liked this place. It’s creepy.”

  Burbage grinned.

  “Not here to like it, are we? We’re the bringers of theatre. Supplying imagination to the gloomy Danes. The harbingers of joy… Oh God…” He scowled. “What were we thinking when we took that ship here, Will?”

  Kemp smiled.

  “Something about all the world being a stage. And we’re just players in it.”

  The old actor roared with laughter.

  “Oh yes. That!” He turned to yell at the hired men struggling with the wagons in the mud. “Push at it, you lazy bastards. Put a little colour in your cheeks. The King of Denmark awaits us.”

  Then, more quietly, “It could be worse I suppose. We might be playing for the Welsh.”

  While Claudius surveyed the two young men Polonius had delivered, Gertrude sat by the table in the study, lost in her thoughts.

  The tall visitor was Rosencrantz, skinny, lean and weasel-faced, sly-eyed. The diminutive one Guildenstern, tubby and with a fawning manner and even more garish clothes. Both wore new-fangled pistols on their right hips, short swords on the left. Neither looked as if they knew how to use them.

  Minor nobles from Aalborg in Jutland. Impoverished, ambitious, stupid.

  “I’m grateful you could get here so swiftly,” the King said.

  “A monarch’s desire…” Rosencrantz replied then winked at his fat companion.

  “Equates to his subject’s duty,” Guildenstern added. “May I say, on both our parts, your majesty, that never has Elsinore looked finer, yourself in better health, the Queen more lovely, the nation more secure. Were the Almighty himself to occupy the throne…”

  “Yes, yes,” Polonius snapped. “That’s taken as read. Do you know why you’re here? Have you heard rumours?”

  They twitched nervously.

  “Rumours?” the tall one said. “You mean about the Norwegians?” His hand went to the flashy new pistol. “Did you… did you bring us here to fight?”

  Claudius scowled and cast Polonius a vicious glance.

  “By the looks of you those things on your hips are no more than jewellery. No, no fighting for you my fine mannequins. You’re friends with my nephew, Hamlet?”

  They smiled and looked relieved.

  “Oh, yes,” Guildenstern replied.

  “Like a brother he was to us in Wittenberg,” the other went on. “For which we shall always remain both grateful and honoured. That a prince of the realm should deign to mix with fellows such as…”

  Gertrude stared at them.

  “I heard you spent most your time in brothels and taverns, sirs. Are you saying you took my son with you?”

  The edginess returned.

  It was Rosencrantz who spoke.

  “When I say we were friends, my lady, I may have overstated the case. We know him more academically than socially. That would be improper given the difference between our respective stations.” A glance at Polonius. “But we reported back all the same. As the Lord Chamberlain requested.”

  “So you met him in the hallways now and again?” she asked. “Between lessons?”

  The fat one leaned forward.

  “Also on occasion outside. In the courtyard. A polite and pleasant student. More bookish than us, I’ll agree. A finer prospect for the Danish throne it’s hard to imagine…”

  “Except for you, your grace,” Rosencrantz broke in hastily. “Long live your majesties, and good health attend all your…”

  “Shut up!” Claudius barked. “Be silent and listen.”

  They were quaking then, their shiny pistols tinkling against their silver brocade belts.

  “Hamlet isn’t himself. He’s always had a solitary, introverted nature. A tendency to the reclusive…”

  “Truly I never noticed that,” Guildenstern began to say only to be quiet when his neighbour gave him a look.

  “He takes more note of his inward thoughts than the world around him,” the Queen explained. “It’s a temporary affliction made worse by his father’s death affecting a sensitive nature.”

  “Sensitive,” the fat one agreed.

  “He needs company. Familiar faces around him. Reminders of his happy student days.” She glanced at Polonius. “We were told there was no one in Denmark he better admired in Wittenberg than…” Gertrude looked them up and down. “Than you.”

  “And Horatio,” Guildenstern conceded, shame-faced.

  Gertrude nodded, pleased that they weren’t totally without self-awareness.

  “What do you truly want of us, madam?” Ro
sencrantz asked. “If it’s within our power we’ll surely give it. If not we’ll do our best.”

  Gertrude leaned forward from her chair and begged them, “Be his friends, sirs. Lighten his day. Ride with him.”

  “Riding? We’re pretty good at that.”

  “Go hunting.” They fell silent. “Fill his hours with pleasant activity. An intellectual young man needs something to occupy him. Otherwise his mind will dwell on dark and unnecessary thoughts.”

  The tall one bowed and flourished his hand.

  “Your highnesses ask that which you are entitled to command. On behalf of us both we give ourselves up to your wishes…”

  “And freely lay our services at your feet,” the fat one finished.

  Polonius stepped in front of the pair and gave them a small black book.

  “Keep close to him. When he speaks stay silent and listen. Then afterwards write down what he says and bring it to me.”

  They smiled and took the notebook.

  Claudius waved at the door.

  “That’s it!”

  “They’re idiots,” Gertrude said when the two were gone. “Hamlet will see through them in an instant.”

  Claudius got up and wandered to the window, stared out at the grey sea and Helsingborg across the water.

  “The crown needs idiots from time to time. We’d be lost without them.” He pointed at Polonius. “Make sure they do their job.”

  “As if I’d countenance otherwise,” the old man replied sourly, joining him at the window and peering down to where men and wagons had gathered at the main gate. “Are we finished here? It seems there are other matters needing my attention.”

  “Oh look!” Yorick scampered across the room, threw himself on the floor at Hamlet’s desk, rested his cheek on his right hand, grinning madly. “There I was thinking the dear boy would be out there sighing and groaning. All the time he’s back in his bedroom, reading booky-wookies again. What a fine and noble student. All those miserable grey Germans in Wittenberg will love you.”

  He scrambled to his feet, snatched the leather volume from Hamlet’s fingers.

  “The meditations of Marcus Aurelius. Stoic stuff. Anything saucy in it? A touch of rumpy-pumpy?”

  “Bit heavy for fools.”

  “True. Though that statue of my father out in the hall, sitting stark naked on a tortoise…”