Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

  “What?”

  A long silence between them. When she shook her head her hair moved like August straw and he knew how much he’d lost. Her eyes were on his, the pistol seemingly forgotten though it still pointed squarely at him.

  Hamlet reached down and took the gun from her fingers, too easily. Then laughed.

  “Oh love. You haven’t a clue. Here.” He moved the mechanism, corrected it. “And here.”

  Then returned it to her hand.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean we’re fools, the pair of us. Polonius schemed with my uncle to kill my father. By putting put poison in his ear. The play pricked what passes for his conscience. The way he reacted shows his guilt as clear as the light of day.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “That and a few other things.”

  “You know this?”

  “As much as I know that every word I wrote in those letters you threw back at me was true.”

  He placed his fingers on her shoulder, touched the warm flesh of her neck. She didn’t recoil.

  “They tell me my father was a cruel man. I never noticed. Or never allowed myself that pain. Perhaps sons don’t. For his final years I was in Wittenberg, apart from the summer. And that I spent with you.” He looked at her. “Was it true?”

  “All men are cruel.”

  “But a few have love inside them too. Did he?”

  No answer.

  “Did I?”

  “Once,” she whispered. “And then you were mad. Or pretending to be.”

  “Pretending? I abandoned you. I walked away and…”

  So many conflicting thoughts and desires. Perhaps he could smuggle her onto the ship. Take her with him to England. Though what might happen there…

  He took her fingers, pointed the gun barrel at his chest.

  “Shoot me. Have done with it. I deserve no better. I murdered your father yet I couldn’t kill my uncle. I don’t know why. Perhaps that, too, was an odd, unwanted love. He was kind to me once. Still was until today.”

  His hand moved, found her hair.

  “As you were always.”

  A sudden stern commanding tone to his voice.

  “Shoot me and have done with it. No one will blame you. And somewhere my sad shade will weep with gratitude.”

  Her fingers didn’t move.

  “I hate you.”

  He smiled.

  “Then do it.”

  Ophelia sighed, didn’t look at him. Her hand came away and with it the gun.

  Abruptly Hamlet snatched it from her, thrust the muzzle to his neck but she was on him in an instant, pointing the barrel into the darkness, pulling at the trigger.

  A snap, a spark, a puff of smoke into the shadows. Then nothing.

  The Prince rolled back his head, laughed, almost cried.

  “I even fail at this. The most helpless, hopeless, useless man in all the world.”

  She took the gun from him.

  “True,” Ophelia agreed. Then looked at him and found herself laughing briefly too. “Here we are, me about to bury my father. You headed for England and exile. Acting as if this were somehow… happiness.”

  His hand went round her waist. He pulled her to him.

  “If there’s time we’ll give one another joy again. The briefest but greatest there ever is and in your arms…”

  Her fingers flew to his lips and silenced him.

  “Time abandoned us the moment you left me last summer.”

  “Perhaps there’s a watchmaker in London. With a mechanism that will let me wind back the months…”

  Her eyes grew damp.

  “And then we go through this misery again.”

  He glanced down the passageway.

  “There must be somewhere…”

  “A part of me came to kill you, not to love you.”

  “Not much to choose between them, is there? Ophelia…”

  There was something in her eyes he recognised. The quick cunning she used to hide them in the woods.

  “How long will you be in England?” she asked.

  “Not a minute more than I can manage. Though how I can find my way safely back to Elsinore…”

  Her hand touched his cheek.

  “The people love you, Hamlet. They recognise a good heart when they see one.”

  “What use is that? I’m a murderer now. Of your own father…”

  She rapped her knuckles on the wall.

  “The only things set in stone are these. Perhaps Elsinore is more open to change than you imagine.”

  Hamlet gazed at her.

  “My sweet. It sounds like you’re plotting. How very unladylike.”

  “You think? I am my father’s daughter.”

  He shook his head.

  “This is a dream. I’ll be in England. And everything I’ve attempted here has come to little more…” He could barely look at her, “…than the murder of an accomplice. Not the villain himself. I’m captive to the wishes of the King now. If he…”

  “Hush!” she ordered. “Be quiet and listen to me. I’ve access to my father’s papers now. His records. Everything. What if somehow there were evidence? Proof of what he and Claudius did?”

  He looked interested.

  “Then a judge would throw it out, since the judge would be the King’s.”

  “But if you were to hold it. To publish it. The people do love you. They have no great affection for your uncle, especially with Norway’s army at the door. If you were to prove he killed your father. And perhaps reach an accommodation with Fortinbras along the way…”

  A quick and pretty smile. It broke his heart twice over.

  “Who knows? Perhaps you could come back to wear the crown,” she said.

  “And you my queen. There’s a dream worth having. Claudius would take your pretty head in an instant if he heard a word of it.”

  “And what’s that worth?”

  “Everything if we’re together.”.

  “And nothing if we’re not. Oh, damn…”

  She threw the pistol into a shadowy corner.

  “I hoped you’d be horrid to me again. That would have made things so much easier.”

  He shrugged.

  “That’s possible if you want it…”

  “Take me somewhere,” she sighed, reaching for him, hands in his hair, mouth fighting for his. “Quick, before you go.”

  There was a man Gertrude didn’t recognise in the king’s study. Lean, about thirty, of average height, with a black velvet jacket and trousers, an intelligent handsome face, a trim dark moustache in the Italian fashion.

  He was the new Lord Chamberlain, Claudius said. Voltemand, a man who’d spent the last few years in Copenhagen overseeing the harbour dues. He came from a trusted family, one that had once provided captains for Viking ships and now produced treasurers and tax collectors.

  Gertrude took one long look at him, glanced at Claudius and asked, “Do we need to be so hasty?”

  Voltemand smiled then nodded.

  “A good question, madam. Polonius is not yet buried. Perhaps it would be more decent to wait a while.” He glanced at the king. “To interview other candidates. It’s important you make the right decision. In the meantime… I will perform whatever function you wish.”

  “That makes sense.” She took a seat, hoping it wasn’t so obvious she had acquired a dislike to the man already.

  “No need. You’re the Lord Chamberlain and that’s that,” Claudius replied.

  The king waved a letter at his wife.

  “It was on his recommendation that we had Voltemand send messages to Magnus in Oslo, to keep young Fortinbras in check. A fine job he did too. I have a note here from Polonius advising I promote him to the highest position available by way of reward. If the old man placed sufficient trust in our friend here that’s good enough for me.”

  “Do I have any say in the matter?”

  “No. There may be a war coming. To say nothing of the mess your son’s left for me to clean up.”<
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  She looked at him coldly.

  “I am your wife, the queen and Hamlet’s mother. Would it not have been at least good manners to have told me you planned to send him into exile?”

  Claudius sighed.

  “It would. I’m sorry. It was a hasty decision. Polonius pressed it upon me. Had I reflected on it this morning I would have reconsidered. But the circumstances have changed somewhat…”

  “You’re a poor liar, sir.”

  He glared at her. Voltemand shifted awkwardly, looking at the carpet, trying to smile.

  “You, my lady, should know your place,” Claudius said without feeling. “Hamlet will go to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. They have instructions to deal with matters of state in London. Problems over tributes and taxation. The kind of tedious civil affairs a prince like Hamlet should be concerned with if he’s to wear this crown one day.”

  Gertrude got up, stormed over, jabbed a finger in his face.

  “Don’t play games with me. He’s sick, Claudius. If this journey will cure him…”

  “Travel and an absence from his troubles should surely ease his mind,” Voltemand said easily.

  “Do you know my son, sir? Have the two of you ever met?”

  “I’ve watched him from afar, madam. He’s a fine young man who will one day make a worthy king I’m sure. Once this present ailment has left him.”

  “How long?”

  “A month or two no more,” the king said. “If there’s an army on our doorstep… it depends upon his state.”

  He took her hands.

  “I want him back. I want him well. We need him here. He’s popular, the object of some sympathy now. More than Polonius ever was from what I hear.”

  “No one likes the man who holds this position,” Voltemand observed cheerily. “If they love him the job’s not done well.”

  “Wise words.” Claudius took a set of keys from his desk. “These are for Polonius’s quarters. His offices. All his records. His staff works for you now. Judge them as you see fit. Fire any you feel merit it. No need for recourse to me.”

  “That was his home too!” Gertrude cried. “A few hours dead, not even buried, and you give it to a stranger. What about his daughter? Where’s she to live?”

  Claudius stared at her, angry now.

  “Polonius was a servant of the state! The realm stops for no one. Not even a king. This is what he would have wished.”

  “The king knows what dead men desire now, does he? Are you coming to the funeral or not?”

  They rarely argued. Never in public. Or with such venom.

  “You will represent the crown, I’m too busy with matters of state. Voltemand and I…”

  “And what of Ophelia? Do I tell her she’s homeless once we’ve buried him?”

  Voltemand came over. He looked sympathetic, concerned.

  “I’ve seen the lady now and then, when I’ve visited Elsinore. Also this morning to discuss the arrangement of the service. She’s naturally much distressed. With good reason. I would never wish to put her to further pain, my lady. The apartments are of some size. Until there’s an acceptable alternative it seems sensible, so long as she’s willing, that she keeps the rooms she has. And the servants. I’ll make my own arrangements. It will be of no inconvenience to me. Very much the opposite.”

  He smiled then and she knew for sure she loathed him.

  “I have a niece in Copenhagen much the same age. These girls, even with the losses Ophelia has borne, can become weak and feverish in the head. They imagine things. Have fancies that delude them. If I can be an uncle to her, help guide her back to a happy, contented state. Perhaps one day…”

  He shrugged.

  “It would be good if we could find her a noble husband.”

  “She’s about to bury her father!”

  The smile again.

  “Of course. But there will be a tomorrow. And a tomorrow after that. The future comes on whether we ask for it or not. Better we bury our parents than they bury us. With a little affection, some understanding and a little patience these juvenile fevers of the mind… perhaps one day she’ll laugh at them. As will your son.”

  Gertrude was lost for words.

  “Tell her at the funeral,” Claudius ordered. “If she’s not content with the idea…” He glanced at the papers on the desk then his wife. “Do something else. You must excuse us. There’s business to be done.”

  Hamlet hunted up and down the jetty. The captain of the little vessel was getting restless. So were Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, and the small team of soldiers they’d brought to make sure he sailed with the ship.

  Finally the fat one came up and tried to look commanding.

  “The tide calls us, sir,” he announced. “If we don’t heed its cry your father will be furious. At you. At us. Please…”

  “I’m looking for my companion. A little man. The jester. Yorick. Have you seen him?”

  Guildenstern rolled his eyes.

  “Your father said nothing about a jester. It’s only a small ship. There’s not much room…”

  “He didn’t say I couldn’t take him either.”

  Up and down the cobbled pier he marched, shouting the clown’s name. No response. Blank looks from those around, soldiers, sailors, fishermen bringing in their herring to be gutted, salted and sent for smoking by the woman in the harbour huts. It was a cold clear day and the Øresund had the aroma of winter: salt with ice behind it, and a touch of sharp, raw fish.

  He hadn’t seen Yorick since the previous night. There was no sign of him in Hamlet’s room. No news of the jester anywhere in the castle. The mention of his name drew blank looks. Had Claudius agreed to see him Hamlet would have asked if the fool had been dispatched back to foreign lands , the kind of life he’d led before his own father’s sudden execution.

  Finally, at the end of his tether, he found the harbourmaster. An old and decent man, with a ginger beard and fierce blue eyes. When Hamlet was young this man had taken him out on the channel in a sailing boat, giving the boy his first experience of the sea.

  “I’m trying to find Young Yorick,” Hamlet told him as the man oversaw the unloading of baskets of fish, still flapping, from one of the small coble boats the locals used inshore. “I want him with me in England. Have you seen him?”

  There was a look in the harbourmaster’s eyes he couldn’t read. Puzzlement, confusion, embarrassment.

  “Claudius wishes you to go to England, my lord. Do as the King asks. Let’s have no nonsense. The ship must sail now or the tide will keep you back another twelve hours or more. The weather…” He looked at the blue winter sky. “It’s set fair. The wind’s good. It won’t stay that way. It never does. You need to depart, sir.”

  Hamlet looked around the harbour, then back at the towering walls of Elsinore. His childhood home.

  “To leave Denmark? For England?”

  “If what they say about Fortinbras is true,” the harbourmaster replied, “perhaps it’s for the best. You’re more scholar than a warrior, aren’t you? And from what I hear you need some respite from this place.”

  “Because I’m mad?”

  He didn’t like making this good man feel awkward.

  “They say you’re not well.”

  “And there are good doctors in England? Better than here?”

  “I’m a servant, Hamlet. Nothing more. I’ve my orders. If you’re not on that ship shortly those soldiers…” He nodded at three men in armour, watching him, hands on swords, at the foot of the quay. “They will put you on it. Whether you go easily or not.”

  “I want Yorick. I want my jester. Not the king’s two idiots for company…”

  The harbourmaster closed his eyes, exasperated.

  “Don’t make a scene. The people here like you. They know you have a kind heart. They wish you well. But if they should see you sick in the head…”

  The soldiers were coming for him now.

  “If you’re forced onto that vessel like
a criminal going to justice it won’t serve you well when you return…”

  “When I return? You think that’ll be soon?”

  The men arrived, stamped feet, hands on swords. Stared at him.

  “What do you want?” Hamlet asked.

  “The king demands your presence on ship,” the tallest said. A fearsome-looking man with a battle scar across his cheek. “One way or another.”

  Hamlet had his dagger. His pistol. More scholar than warrior? He might show them otherwise. He could fight them right there. And if he was lost in a bloody and pointless scuffle here on the dockside, what difference would it make?

  But Ophelia had put an idea in his head. A dream. A hint of possible redemption.

  “Is my baggage on board?” he asked.

  “All three trunks,” the soldier said.

  It seemed a lot but then he hadn’t packed himself.

  “We’re going now,” the man added. “You can walk or we can lug you.”

  Hamlet clapped the harbourmaster’s shoulder then pointed to the fishwives in the huts.

  “Tell them to go lightly with the salt but smoke them well. I’ll be back before you know it and wanting some of their wares.”

  For the first time the man smiled.

  “I’ll do that, sir. And look forward to the day.”

  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern followed him on board. The gang plank was pulled up, then the anchor. The sail rose and the wind caught it. Slowly, yet picking up speed, the little barque pulled out onto the Øresund, was soon midway between Elsinore in Denmark and Helsingborg in Sweden, heading north, out to the open sea and England.

  From afar the castle looked like a sprawling stone monster, slumbering on the hill above the port. Somewhere within those walls Ophelia was burying her father, a man he’d murdered. Somewhere Claudius plotted. Of that, and little else, Hamlet felt sure.

  The congregation in the castle church was small and there principally out of duty, not love. When he lived Polonius had a constant stream of visitors to his door. But they were men who wanted something, seeking advancement not friendship or company. Ophelia knew him to be a cold and solitary man. An employer of spies and minions, neither of whom were known to mourn their masters.

  And what of his daughter? Who would mourn her when the time came? Her mother had died in childbirth. He’d never tired of reminding her of that, as if it were her fault somehow. Not that Polonius ever spoke with much affection about his late wife. There was no portrait in their quarters, no letters, no sign of fondness between them at all.