Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

  Then there was a loud commotion in the hallway and a man’s angry voice boomed through the hall.

  “Who’s behind this? Get these scum out of here. I expressly said they weren’t welcome!”

  Polonius, the Lord Chamberlain. The man whose fingers were on the purse strings.

  “Oh bugger,” Burbage whispered.

  Hamlet was on the old man instantly, twice as loud.

  “And I… told them they were!”

  The players fell uncomfortably silent as Polonius, red faced, marched into the room.

  “Far be it from me to contradict the wishes of the prince...”

  “Well shut up, then!” Hamlet yelled, leaping from the table to confront him. “You’re nothing more than a jumped-up clerk in the presence of artists. Take your ledgers and your notebooks and sit in silence. Or get out.”

  “Hosting common players,” Polonius began, officious and irritated, “is hardly a suitable activity...”

  Hamlet drew his sword and held it front of him.

  “One more word and I swear I’ll trim that goatish beard of yours and stuff a pillow with it. So what do you say? Ready to let the man speak?”

  Polonius’s back stiffened.

  “If you wish it.”

  “I do.”

  Then he gave Burbage an encouraging nod and the actor, this time pausing for only a second, began.

  “Pyrrhus didn’t break stride,” he recited, eyes flashing around the watching faces. “Anyone who got in his way felt the edge of his sword. Each step took him further from the wooden horse and deeper into the city which was already ablaze, and when someone stood in his way – man, woman, or child, they got it in the neck. By the time he found Priam, Pyrrhus looked like a devil, dripping blood from head to foot. A monster.

  “The old man spies him, but he’s already exhausted and can barely hold his sword. He starts to beg for mercy, but Pyrrhus just keeps coming, muttering the name of his father, Achilles. Well, when Priam hears that name, he knows he’s a dead man. Pyrrhus hasn’t just stumbled on him by chance, and he’s not looking to capture the old king for ransom. Achilles was dead, killed by Paris, Priam’s son. Pyrrhus is there for revenge, a father for a father.”

  “This is too long,” Polonius grumbled.

  “A common perception,” Kemp agreed. “All talk, isn’t it?”

  “Out!” yelled Hamlet. “Both of you!”

  Polonius looked affronted, but clearly didn’t care to listen to any more, of the play or the abuse. He got to his feet and stalked off. Kemp, sulky and unsure what to do, went to the back of the troupe and stayed there out of sight.

  “Get to the bit about Priam’s wife,” Hamlet ordered. “Come to Hecuba.”

  Burbage braced himself once more, then told the rest, the story of the old queen rushing through the ravaged and blazing city, clad in nothing but her night gown, looking for her husband. He told of how she came upon him, Pyrrhus motionless, sword raised over the fallen king, as if listening to Troy collapsing all around him. For a moment, she thinks he will be merciful, but then the sword comes down, over and over again, and she can only watch and scream, and cry.

  It was a moving speech, one the actor delivered with great skill. As he described the awful scene, tears started to his eyes and began to trickle down his cheeks.

  “Stop,” Hamlet cried. “That’s enough.”

  He took a step towards the actor and studied his face, fascinated. Slowly the rest of the company got to their feet, watching, as spellbound as they had been by Burbage’s performance. Hamlet raised one hand to Burbage’s cheek and touched the trace of his tears, testing it between his fingers then studying his fingers with something like awe.

  The other actors shifted uncomfortably. Then the moment evaporated and Hamlet began applauding loudly, hooting and cheering until the others joined in, and Burbage – slightly alarmed – recovered sufficient composure to take a bow.

  “Good work, man. Very good. I’ll run up on those new scenes and then you can rehearse The Murder of Gonzago for tomorrow night.”

  “Scenes?” Kemp objected from the back of the crowd. “I thought it was just a couple of extra speeches.”

  Hamlet sought him out, prodded him in the chest.

  “I told you to leave, sir.”

  “But my lord! You heard our master? You saw his tears? Who could walk away from such a performance? Such an artist at his very peak?”

  Burbage fingered his collar and beamed proudly.

  “No man of feeling,” Hamlet agreed. He looked round at them. “Make sure my new words are delivered with such force, I beg you.”

  “Tears?” Kemp demanded. “You’ll be wanting tears too?”

  “Do they cost extra?”

  Burbage wiped his cheeks with his sleeve.

  “No, Prince. Since it’s you I’ll chuck them in for free.”

  The Scots were getting restless. Two days running Gregor had been sniffing round the tent asking for news from the ailing king. Fortinbras had stonewalled him. But the Scot knew. Letters had come from Oslo demanding he stand down his troops and send the foreigners home. Claudius, the Danish king, was promising gifts. A little land. A little money. And Norway was willing to be bought off for a pittance.

  Again.

  Mercenaries were always dangerous when they were bored. The encampment outside Helsingborg had few of the amusements they craved. Only a handful of women. A meagre supply of beer. They needed a fight and the chance of plunder. Without that they’d soon be off. Or worse taking their prizes from the locals.

  Maps on the table. Fortinbras studied them, thinking of numbers and deployments. The tent flap opened. The big man from Scotland was there again.

  “Did I ask for you?” the Norwegian wondered.

  “Just come to say goodbye.”

  Fortinbras leaned back in his chair.

  “You’ve been paid, Gregor. You and your men. Handsomely from my own pocket. You were hired for a campaign...”

  ‘Aye, sir. That we were. But since there is none…”

  That got no response.

  “And since your uncle’s deeply pissed off with you coming all this way and shaking your sword at old Claudius across the water there...”

  The Norwegian frowned.

  “He is? It’s news to me.”

  Gregor laughed, shook his head and pulled up a seat.

  “You know, mate... I’m very fond of you. Honestly. We all are. Even though you’re a lying bastard when you want to be.”

  “You should never call a prince of Norway a liar. That way lies bloodshed.”

  “Call it what you like then. Your uncle sent you sealed orders. They turned up with that messenger we saw this morning. I know what they say.”

  “Court business. Nothing of interest to you.”

  “He told you to stand us all down. Every last soldier of fortune. All the men you’ve conscripted from your estates. This...” The Scot gestured at the tent. “Well, it’s been an unprofitable adventure for us lot I must say. They said Claudius’s court was a fine one, full of riches just waiting to be lifted. Guess we’ll never find out now, will we?”

  Fortinbras pulled out a fresh map, drew an imaginary circle around one of the nations there.

  “Poland. You know it?”

  “Can’t say I do. Is it warmer than here?”

  “Much. They grow grapes and make good wine. The women...”

  Fortinbras winked, made an obscene gesture.

  Gregor laughed.

  “You’re a lying bastard.”

  “Twice you’ve said that, Scotsman. No more. Not if you want to see your home again.”

  The smile disappeared from the soldier’s bearded face.

  “What about Poland?”

  “My uncle has asked me to divert our attention from Claudius. For the moment. The Poles have been making warlike noises for some time. There’s an internal dispute within the ruling family. If we back one half against the other we’ve been promised land,
money... whatever you feel like pillaging from the losers’ cities.”

  The Scotsman’s heavy scarred fingers ran over the map.

  “Rich are they?”

  “Very.”

  He nodded towards the sea.

  “As rich as our friend over there?”

  “No one’s as wealthy as Denmark. Old Hamlet was a parsimonious crook. He taxed the life out of his people and never spent it on anything but soldiers and whores.”

  Gregor considered this.

  “Minded as I am to remember your words about lying, sir, I must say this doesn’t quite tally with what I’ve heard from a few people who ought to know.”

  Fortinbras jabbed his finger at a stretch of land well south of their present position.

  “As part of our settlement with Claudius we’ll be allowed safe passage through his territory here. From Malmo to Copenhagen, across the straits. If you want a ship back to Scotland you can find one there. You’d have to go to Copenhagen anyway. Claudius will never let your warriors use his port here.”

  The Scotsman nodded.

  “That rings true.”

  “Because it is. The choice is yours. Either way it makes sense for you to accompany us to Copenhagen. Once there take your ship home if you like. If not... should the fair ladies of Poland catch your fancy... come with us there.”

  The man had a bold, hearty laugh. Fortinbras listened, liked what he saw.

  “We strike camp in the morning, Gregor. Slowly. There’s no great rush. The Poles are still arranging their own loyalties.”

  “And we get to Copenhagen... when?”

  ‘When we wish.”

  He was the most experienced mercenary Fortinbras had ever employed. A veteran of campaigns that would fill the history books. No fool.

  “And in Copenhagen if we find that, for some strange reason, we need to make our way north to Elsinore. Not all the way to Poland... how long will that take?”

  Fortinbras got up from his seat, walked to the tent flap, opened it, looked out at his army.

  “Two days. Three at the most.”

  The great castle stood across the water, a hulking shape in the winter sun.

  “It’s a formidable place, Scotsman. They say Elsinore has never been entered by force in all its history. I understand your reluctance...”

  “I’ve toppled bigger than that. Don’t play those games…”

  “No games. So you’re with me?”

  “For now.” Gregor nodded at the fortress across the Øresund. “And I want a look in that place too. If there’s half a chance of it.”

  Hamlet had sat at the table in the hall, head in his hands, lost in thought until Burbage’s company realised he’d say no more. Then, with a few puzzled words, they had shuffled awkwardly out. For a minute or more after they had gone Hamlet said and did nothing.

  Then he spoke softly.

  “I know you’re there, fool. You can come out now.”

  Yorick rolled grinning from behind a drape at the far end of the room.

  “You spot everything, don’t you, Prince?”

  “Did you watch the whole thing?”

  “Heard enough, thank you. Tragedies. I don’t know what you see in them. Give me a bit of cross-dressing, mistaken identity and ribald banter any day. If it doesn’t make you laugh, what’s the point?”

  “You saw what happened to Burbage, didn’t you? As he described Hecuba’s grief and horror at her husband’s murder. You saw? He cried!”

  Yorick blew a raspberry.

  “Of course he cried. He’s an actor. It’s not emotion. It’s a trick. You just stare really hard till your eyes water.”

  “No! He was weeping. For a woman who’s been dead – if she ever existed – for a thousand years or more.”

  Yorick yawned.

  “This is all so very moving. Where’s the nearest toilet?”

  “So what would he do in my place? How would an emotional man like that react if the spirit of his own father charged him to revenge his murder? If Burbage can get so passionate about a woman…”

  “I’m slow today, Prince. Your point is…?”

  “Can you imagine the play that would come out of that?” Hamlet got to his feet and took up Burbage’s stance, eyes shut.

  “Well… I can imagine he might skip the play altogether and simply kill the chap who did it.”

  Hamlet glared at him.

  “But what if he’s wrong? If it’s your mistaken identity for real? And the ghost’s a liar? Or not a ghost at all? Some kind of devil sent to lead the avenger into damnation?”

  The jester scowled.

  “You’re a rational, modern man, Hamlet. You surely don’t believe in devils.”

  “I didn’t believe in ghosts either.”

  “Fine.” Yorick beamed at him. “I’ll play along. What new scheme do I smell a-cooking now?”

  “This. Tomorrow night I’ll have the actors play Claudius’s crime right in front of his eyes. Every detail as the ghost reported it. Then we’ll see, won’t we? The guilt will be all over his face. Maybe my mother’s too. Then we’ll know. Then we’ll act.”

  “In which sense?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll act, you say. Meaning you’ll take action and slit his throat? Or act in the sense of perform? Put on another of these little plays you like so much? A touch more make-believe to pass the time?”

  Hamlet glowered at him but said nothing.

  “Right,” said Yorick. “That’s what I thought.”

  The following day the castle was as quiet as it could be with a bunch of noisy, argumentative thespians going about their business. Hamlet wrote the new scenes for Gonzago and gave them to Burbage with directions. After that he stayed in his room, thinking, sulking, fiddling with his new-fangled pistol, practising with his rapier.

  The jester was nowhere to be seen. Nor was Ophelia and he felt a touch guilty about how he’d treated her the day before. Around midday his mother came to see him and asked how he was. Didn’t listen much to the answer. Didn’t stay when he grew silent and unresponsive.

  He ate little except bread, drank nothing but water. Then in the afternoon, before the sun set, there was a break in the weather. Hamlet went to the stables, found his favourite horse. A piebald stallion called Zeus. Claudius had given him the mount when he was ten, saying it was a present from his father, away on a campaign against the Poles.

  Even at that age Hamlet hadn’t believed his uncle, though he’d wanted to. Old Hamlet never gave anything away lightly or without reason. And there was no point in handing his son an expensive pedigree horse newly imported, Claudius said, from France.

  He was a brave mount, full of spark and character. As a teenager, Hamlet had spent many hours on his back, riding through the woodlands around Elsinore, galloping through fields, leaping hedges.

  Later he’d lifted Ophelia into the saddle and led her quietly, discreetly into that same forest for different, more private purposes. By that stage Zeus was getting slow, wheezy and easily tired.

  On this day there was nothing godlike about him at all. He was old. Not yet broken, not ready for the final, quiet ride to the slaughter yard. But the years were eating at him visibly. Even so, when Hamlet approached, his grey head bucked up, a delighted whinny came from his throat and his tail swished in welcome.

  The stable hand came up. A young lad Hamlet hadn’t seen before. The boy patted Zeus on the back, fed him some straw.

  “I bet he was a fine one, sir.”

  “The finest,” Hamlet answered.

  “Of his time. In his day. They’re like us, aren’t they? Bold and so full of life for a while. Like it’ll never leave them. Then one day… not so quick as they were. And the next a little slower.”

  Zeus nudged the boy for more straw. The bond between them was obvious and affectionate.

  “He’s your favourite.”

  “That he is. Always has been since they took me in here a year ago.”

 
; “Why’s that?”

  “He’s a lonely old soul, that’s why.” Another slap. Just a touch more hay. “Don’t you eat too much old, lad. Then you’ll get fat and sick. And slower than you are.”

  “Lonely?”

  The stable lad pointed at the castle keep.

  “He was the prince’s horse. Hamlet. Had him from when he was a boy. Present from his dad, the old king.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s what my master told me. Young Hamlet loved this big, grey rascal. Used to ride him everywhere. Every day.” He laughed. “They may be kidding me here but they reckon now and again he used to come and muck him out too. Would sleep with him in the stable if old Zeus didn’t feel too well.”

  He shook his head.

  “Imagine that! A prince who mucks out horses. Who cares. Shame is he’s been in Wittenberg for a couple of years, studying. And when he does come home it’s nothing but tragedy, is it? Poor bugger…”

  Hamlet snorted.

  “I heard he was a cruel and selfish bastard…”

  “I will not listen to that, sir! Whoever you might be. My master’s lived here all his life. He reckons Prince Hamlet’s the best of them all. A fine young man. Bright as a button and strong too. Upset over his father now, but who wouldn’t be? I lost mine when Old Hamlet went to war over Jutland. I know what it feels like. And that young prince didn’t just lose a dad. He lost a king…”

  Hamlet patted the horse on the neck and said, “I’d like to take him out.”

  The lad’s cheery disposition disappeared.

  “This chap’s not yours to ride, now is he?”

  Hamlet reached into his purse, took out a couple of gold coins. As much as a stable hand like this would earn in a year.

  He held out the money.

  “But he’s not yours to ride, sir,” the lad repeated slowly.

  “And if I told you I was the Prince?”

  The boy gulped.

  “Then I’m dead, aren’t I? And asked for it.”

  Silence between them.

  Hamlet walked to the horse’s head. Looked into his grey eyes. There were cataracts forming there, like milky glass. But Zeus could see him. He was sure of that.

  “He’s too old for the saddle,” the stable lad said. “The master keeps on saying we should do him a favour. Take him you-know-where. But I tell you…”