Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

  Men and women lived and died, mostly without consequence. That was one of his many, oft-repeated aphorisms. And now he was a corpse in a simple pine coffin, borne by paid bearers out of the chapel into the bright day. A quiet ceremony on the King’s orders. He wanted no fuss, no gossip, no trouble.

  She followed the procession in silence. The graveyard was at the seaward end of the castle, manned by a couple of sextons who went about their business with surprising good cheer. That morning she’d talked to them, tipped the more senior for the best plot he could provide, left them setting their spades to the hard brown earth.

  Something the man said had stayed with her.

  “You’re lucky, darling,” the sexton chuckled taking her coin.

  “Lucky? Why’s that? My father’s dead.”

  “Well everyone’s dead in the end, love. But you and yours get buried inside the castle walls. Along with all the other posh folk. Nowhere better except the royal crypt and that’s just for their highnesses, ain’t it? We mere mortals…” He punched his fellow gravedigger on the arm. “They chuck us in the ground outside. Down by the water’s edge. Where wolves and badgers can come and dig you up. And not much to mark your grave either.”

  The other one spat in the bare earth.

  “If you’re dead it don’t matter, you dolt.”

  And then the two of them laughed.

  If you’re dead it didn’t matter all, she thought, as she watched the coffin bearers come to a halt, gently place their grim cargo on the ground, listen to the words of the priest and watch him scatter the earth.

  She closed her eyes and thought, “He never loved me. Never said a kind word. I was one more pawn to be shuffled round his chess board. A player in a game, nothing more. To be sacrificed if needed.”

  Held by black bands the coffin was slowly lowered to the base of the grave. The sextons reached for their spades and began to shovel the hard, dry Elsinore soil, pebbles rattling as they found the plain, unseasoned pine of the casket.

  A hand on her shoulder. She looked. Saw the lined, unhappy face of Gertrude.

  “You can cry if you want,” the Queen said.

  “But I don’t.”

  She handed Ophelia a handkerchief. It wasn’t true. Tears were rolling down her cheek, unwanted, without a thought. She took the fabric, wiped them away. Realised she didn’t want to watch this pointless ceremony any more.

  “May we speak?” Gertrude asked. “Frankly. When you’re ready.”

  “I’m ready now, my lady,” she said and the two of them walked away from the black mourners and the small choir paid to sing a final hymn.

  In the shadow of the main gate they stood shivering.

  “Is he gone?” Ophelia asked.

  “Your father? Of course…”

  “I meant Hamlet.”

  The queen took her hand and led her up the steps to the battlements. The day was so clear they could see smoke rising from chimneys in Helsingborg across the water. A small ship, white sails billowing with the lively breeze, headed towards the broad open water called the Kattegat which led to the North Sea, and then the world beyond.

  “My husband… Old Hamlet…” the queen said, hair blowing in the wind, “used to say this narrow stretch of water was Denmark’s treasure trove. It’s the only way for foreigners into the Baltic. All those rich states they call the Hanseatic League. The English, the French… anyone we choose must pay tribute to pass the channel.”

  “I know. My father told me many times. Is this an occasion for a history lesson?”

  Gertrude stared at her.

  “You’ve a sharp tongue on you when you wish it. There are those in this castle who think you a feeble-minded, willing young girl. Not I.”

  “I asked a question. I was wondering about the relevance of your answer.”

  “The relevance is Hamlet has gone to England to seek back payment of some of those dues. Money we’re owed. Which may come in useful should Fortinbras’s intentions be more hostile towards us than he claims.”

  Ophelia drew her cloak around her, couldn’t stop following the distant motion of the ship on the grey sea. The wind had truly filled her sails. She moved rapidly away from Elsinore, from Denmark. Once beyond the Kattegat the vessel would be in waters beyond the rule of law, full of brigands and hostile ships of many nations. The journey to England was commonplace, but not without peril.

  “When will he return?”

  Gertrude sighed.

  “When he’s better. When the king allows it. That’s all I know.” She peered into Ophelia’s face. “It would be best if you didn’t hold out hopes for him. I’m sorry. If your father was still alive and Lord Chamberlain… perhaps there might have been a match. Not now.”

  “I could be his mistress.”

  Gertrude’s face fell.

  “That is not a position to covet. Believe me.”

  “So when… if… he returns I’m to leave him alone. And him me.”

  “That would be best. For both of you. I will be grateful. You won’t regret it.”

  “How do you know that, madam? How can you?”

  The Queen glowered at her.

  “You should keep a check on your temper and your words, child. This is a time to make friends, not enemies.”

  That, Ophelia thought, was doubtless wise advice. So she stayed silent.

  “There’s one more matter,” Gertrude added. “My husband has appointed a new Lord Chamberlain. A little hastily it seems to me. But men…”

  Ophelia waited.

  “His name is Voltemand.”

  “Voltemand! He’s not even an Elsinore man…”

  “The king decides! Not you or me. Voltemand it is. By rights he owns your apartments now. They belong to the title, not the man.”

  “So I’m fatherless and homeless! All in a single day.”

  “Only fatherless. Voltemand has no objection to you occupying your own rooms, while he takes your father’s and the office.”

  “Such kindness…”

  Gertrude watched her.

  “If it’s any comfort I’m of a similar opinion about the fellow. But you can stay there for a while. I’ll help you find other quarters. Perhaps there’s a household, beyond Elsinore, looking for a match.”

  “I can find a man if I want one, madam.”

  The queen laughed then.

  “It’s clear what my son saw in you. The two of you might be twins.” She placed her arm through Ophelia’s affectionately. “Headstrong. Innocent. And so full of life. As was I once. Or so I imagine.”

  Her eyes were on the horizon too, and the boat working its way across the Øresund.

  “But the years wear you down and make you see sense. You have my love and admiration, Ophelia. I will help you all I can. If Hamlet comes back with an English bride… what the two of you do in private is your business. But listen to me; in public… no.”

  “In the meantime I’m Voltemand’s handmaiden. As I was my father’s.”

  “Not at all. That I won’t allow.”

  Ophelia tried to think this through. Time was short. The man from Copenhagen seemed intelligent, determined, thorough.

  “Is the new Lord Chamberlain in place already?” In my quarters, I mean?”

  “Not yet. I left him with Claudius. They have much business to conclude.”

  Ophelia nodded.

  “So, my lady. May I have a few hours to myself in my rooms? To mourn. To think. It’s the only home I’ve ever known.”

  “I’ll ask Voltemand to give you till this afternoon.”

  “Will he listen?”

  Gertrude withdrew her arm and scowled.

  “If Claudius tells him. Will that do?”

  Two hours out. Guildenstern had been heaving over the side. Rosencrantz watched, laughing. Hamlet had seen enough of these two already. He retired to his cabin and not long after heard footsteps following down the corridor.

  They entered without knocking. The tall one happy, impudent. His little fa
t friend still green from the rolling sea.

  “It’s polite to give me notice.”

  “Oh come on,” Rosencrantz replied. “We’re all shipmates together now. No need to stand on ceremony.”

  Hamlet said nothing. The silence unnerved them.

  “Are you comfortable, sir?” the little one asked. “We told them to give you the most comfortable cabin. As befits your station.”

  He looked around at the bunk bed, the tiny table, the porthole window.

  “No. I require more luxury. Call in at the next port and find me carpets, fur bedding. A woman.”

  “There will be no port calls until Harwich,” Rosencrantz told him. “The captain has his orders. We’ve enough provisions to cross the North Sea. Once we arrive in England a coach will take us to London and the court.”

  Hamlet shrugged.

  “Then why ask if I’m comfortable?”

  “Out of politeness,” the tall one said coldly. “Nothing more.”

  “I’d like something against the nausea. Not that I have any. But there’s a family recipe…” He closed his eyes as if trying to remember. “A raw egg with garlic in it. Vinegar. The blood of a fresh fish. And fried porridge.”

  Guildenstern’s hand went to his mouth and he raced for the door. Rosencrantz stayed and stared at the prince.

  “Jokes pall on the ocean, don’t you think?”

  “Not if they’re good ones. What exactly do we have to discuss with the English court? Where are the documents? I wish to study them.”

  Rosencrantz hesitated, then said, “The formal papers preceded us. We receive them when we’re there.”

  “Then what am I to read, sir? How shall I pass the time?”

  The tall man laughed.

  “Talking to yourself?” He juggled a finger at his ear. “That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

  “I find I get a better class of conversation that way. Shouldn’t you go and look after your friend?” Guildenstern was coughing and heaving somewhere outside. “It sounds as if he needs it.”

  Rosencrantz didn’t move.

  “What?” Hamlet asked.

  “Ships are great levellers, don’t you think?”

  “You’ve lost me, sir.”

  A long forefinger jabbed at him.

  “Don’t push your luck. You don’t have Claudius or the king’s soldiers to do your bidding here. Or us.”

  Hamlet got up, caught his collar, propelled him to the door.

  “I gathered that,” he said then dispatched him outside with a boot to the arse.

  Back in the Lord Chamberlain’s quarters Ophelia rushed about, wondering where to start. Men were clearing out her father’s bedroom already, making way for Voltemand’s things. But his office remained untouched. That made sense. Nothing would change except the identity of the official who occupied the grand chair by the window, behind the desk that managed the realm.

  Polonius had been a parsimonious man, using scribes and clerks reluctantly. Partly this was money. Partly a matter of trust. As much as he could he wrote letters in his own hand, kept records privately, writing up the day’s events himself in the evening.

  His daughter knew this well. She’d been the one to fetch him food and wine as he worked at the desk under the light of an oil lamp.

  But what happened to those records after he’d written them…

  She went to her own quarters. In the sitting room stood a small bureau where she wrote. A few love letters from Hamlet remained in the drawers, those she hadn’t tried to return when her father ordered it. Private missives, tender, frank and painful on both parts.

  Reading through a few she wondered what Claudius, Gertrude or Voltemand might make of these sad, lost sentiments. Then, with a heavy heart, she bundled them up and walked to the fire.

  The parchment burned easily, sending a steady spiral of smoke up the narrow chimney.

  Love and hope, fear and despair, all reduced to a single grey cloud and a scattering of ash and embers.

  She tried to imagine where his little ship was now, then thought again of what they’d discussed before that last brief embrace.

  If there were some way she could prove his suspicions, a form of hard evidence, ink on parchment, that confirmed the king’s guilt, then Gertrude’s kind yet heartless calculation – that she was fit to be no better than wife to a provincial lord, and at best mistress to her son – might prove mistaken. The thing Hamlet yearned for most – a sense of justice – could be delivered to him, and with that would surely come his constant, unwavering love.

  At that moment she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Blonde hair, pale skin, fresh face. They took her for a girl, still. None knew that she’d slipped into the woods with the king’s son and enjoyed such sweet and secret pleasures there. And almost borne his child.

  “They see a courtier’s feeble daughter, not me,” Ophelia whispered. “Only Hamlet has that talent.”

  Yet to pry into state affairs was surely dangerous. Treason even. The king had little love for anyone who intruded into his business. And Gertrude had her own interests.

  The face in the glass glared back at her.

  “I am not a weak and fearful girl.”

  She walked out into the hall and looked at the closed door to her father’s study. So many hours she’d spent fetching and carrying for him there. She could picture it in her head now. The empty chair at the tidy desk. The quill pen, the inkwell, the pot of pounce for drying Polonius’s spidery handwriting. Missives that condemned men to death and a nation to war. Or simply changed the plumbing, or the way a farmer might be taxed. All came from there.

  His invoices, receipts and business correspondence. He locked the door when he went in, locked it when he came out. Voltemand had his key now. Surely that came with the position.

  But there was another. She was her father’s servant as much as his daughter. Perhaps more. Each night, on the hour, she had to enter, ask his wishes, fetch him anything he needed.

  Hers still sat inside her gown, tied to her undergarments by a ribbon.

  Ophelia checked the apartment. No sign of Voltemand or anyone new.

  Then went back to the office, looked round nervously. Took out the key and let herself in.

  The three trunks from Elsinore were stored between the porthole and the bunk. As Hamlet sat on the single seat by a small table he saw the lid of the largest begin to rise. A small, stocky figure stood up, flourished an arm and declared, “Ta da! Rejoice! The entertainment’s arrived.”

  Yorick cast a suspicious glance at the door.

  “Those two travelling companions of yours are very hugger-mugger. Do you think they’re queer? Riding the wrong horse? Biting the…?”

  Hamlet scratched his head.

  “I was looking for you everywhere. I didn’t know you’d got on board.”

  “Spur of the moment decision,” the little man said climbing out of the trunk. “You should be honoured. I hate boats. They always stink of poo and spew.” Yorick looked around the cabin, walked to the door, stared at the chamber pot there, grimaced and held his nose. “Though had I been aware I’d be condemned to travel with the hoi polloi… is this the best they’ve got?”

  “The very best.”

  “Oh well.” The jester clapped his hands, went to the table, picked up a piece of dry ship’s biscuit. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “What?”

  “Honoured?”

  Hamlet closed his eyes and laughed.

  “Yes. Deeply.”

  The jester did a little dance, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Good. Then I have a purpose once again.”

  “Won’t they miss you? In the castle?”

  Yorick brushed away the idea.

  “Doubt it. I rather feel my career’s peaked in Elsinore. Besides the place is no fun without you to bate. Sorry. I mean… amuse.”

  He crunched on the biscuit, pulled a disgusted face, then went to the porthole and lobbed it out. A fierce cold wind blew
in at that moment. There was the salt tang of the ocean and from somewhere the plaintive cries of gulls.

  Yorick came and sat on the bed.

  “Let’s hear it then. Brief me, if you will.”

  Hamlet folded his arms, realised he was glad of his company. The little man made him think. Ask questions. Raise doubts in his own head. Without the jester’s questioning voice he felt adrift, bereft of direction.

  “I’m an embarrassment to my uncle. To spare the court seeing my malady I’m being sent to England with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern for company. There to learn…”

  “What?”

  “Manners.”

  “Manners? From the English? Are you serious? What are they supposed to teach you? The finer arts of farting? Bloody hell…”

  “Claudius wants me out of the way.” Hamlet shrugged. “Perhaps it’s not a bad idea.” He looked Yorick in the eye. “You saw I couldn’t kill him. I had the chance. On his knees in the chapel. Praying. I couldn’t…”

  “And yet you stabbed an old man hiding behind a curtain.” Yorick paused then said very slowly, “By mistake one assumes.”

  Silence.

  “Well, let’s call it an unfortunate blunder, shall we? Either way that nasty old bastard’s dead.”

  “I told you. If I murder a man at prayer I go to hell and he doesn’t. I don’t mind the former. But…”

  Yorick put a finger to his cheek.

  “We’re back with that one, are we? I never realised. Is there a book you can consult that has all the rules? Must be difficult mastering them…”

  He realised now the memories had stayed his hand too. When Hamlet was a child it was Claudius who took him to that same chapel. Who sat with him, reading the Bible. Talking about those strange and savage stories, trying to find some sense in them. Telling whispered jokes when the priest’s sermon went on and on.

  “What if he wasn’t praying?” Yorick asked. “What if he was just…?”