Still nothing. A single sighing snore from the left bunk. Then a creaking groan from the rolling ship itself, far louder than the noise the door had made.
Hamlet took a careful breath and stepped inside, gently pulling the door behind him.
It was close in the cabin, the air fetid with the aroma of old vomit. There would be an oil lamp hanging somewhere, but it had been blown out so the room was utterly dark. He dropped into a squat, cautiously spread his hands and, with infinite care, inched forward, feeling for the ends of the bunks. He found them then, reaching further, the soft, cool flesh of a leg. Hamlet flinched away instantly, sat motionless, waiting.
Whichever of them it was rolled in his sleep, but did not wake.
Pressing on he neared the heads of the bunks, conscious that he was squatting right between the two men. As his fingers swept the wooden boards beneath the bunks his left hand snagged on something. A thin strap. Leather. With a purse-like satchel attached.
Heart thudding he fumbled for the buckle, opened it and felt inside. Odds and ends. A small knife. A ball of twine. A bottle with a stopper, probably perfume. And a letter, the envelope large and stiff, sealed with wax and bound with ribbon.
He took it out, closed up the satchel and pushed it back where he had found it, then crawled to the door. Moments later he was back on deck and walking briskly to his berth, the letter slipped beneath his shirt, pressed tightly to his heart.
A day she waited. Nervous. Uncertain what to do. Then she walked down to the harbour, talked to the sailors there. A ship was leaving for Lübeck early the next morning, expected to arrive the following day. Once a vessel had quit the harbour there was no bringing it back. No chance for Voltemand’s spies to intervene before Laertes heard what she had to tell him.
It took only money to persuade the captain to take a private letter to the Inn of the Three Wise Virgins. Then she had a long and empty evening to write it. A night in which to be more candid with her distant brother than she’d ever managed in their father’s lifetime.
She told the servants she had a headache and was retiring to her bed. Even Voltemand would never dare to disturb her there.
Then, at the small table in the cold room, she took out her quill, the inkwell, and began to write.
On the other side of the castle in the royal quarters, the king and queen sat alone in an uneasy silence, barely touching the food set before them.
Finally Gertrude leaned over, stole a piece of meat from his plate and said, “Not hungry, sir?”
“Affairs of state,” Claudius grumbled.
“Perhaps you should share the burden with your consort?”
“Do you know about wars, madam? About intrigue?”
She laughed.
“We both know plenty about the latter, don’t we?”
He got up to go. Her hand stayed him.
“Don’t be cold with me, Claudius. We undertook a long journey here. Together.”
“Together? You think that?”
“I believed so. Is there news of Hamlet? When will he be in London?”
“I’m only King of Denmark. Not the wind and the tides.”
“What will he do once he’s there?”
“As I told you! Matters of state. No business of yours.”
“He’s my son. Your nephew. You said your preferred heir, should the lords wish it.”
“The lords… the lords… What they wish and what they say they wish may be two very different things.”
She nodded, felt she understood.
“Who schemes against you?”
“Who doesn’t? If Fortinbras goes on to Poland I’ll be applauded victor for my diplomacy. If he comes here hunting territory… who knows?”
“This creature of yours… Voltemand…”
“…is the only loyal servant I have. Don’t get between us, Gertrude.”
“And yet I never met the man before. Why is that?”
“Because you are queen and I am king. There are matters which lie beyond your interest…”
“I hurried into this union, Claudius! It helped you to the throne.”
He shook his head.
“Was that why we married then? To put a crown on my head?”
“No!” He’d never reduced her to tears, unlike his brother. “We used to share…”
“Like he did? My brother beat you black and blue and all I could do was watch. He bedded anything he felt like. Didn’t even look at his own son. And here you are. Questioning me…”
She didn’t take her eyes off him.
“I loathed that man. As he loathed me. You know that, Claudius. But ever since the day he died it’s as if there’s been a poison in this place. Worming its way into our lives. Our minds. Our bed…”
“Then find another! Go back to your old quarters. Where you retreated when you realised what you’d married before. Stay there. I’ve a kingdom in crisis. Perhaps a foreign army on the way. If…”
“I wear your ring because I love you!” Her voice was too high, too loud. She knew it and wondered if the servants might hear. “Because I believed you loved me. Not a throne. Not a piece of metal…”
“And you doubt that now?”
He looked both hurt and angry then. With a beard and a few scars he might have been his brother. Or himself, seized by the dead man’s shade.
She looked into his face and whispered, “There’s a venom in this place, husband. I don’t know how it got here. Or how we make it go away. But it’s among us. I know you feel it, just as I do.”
The King nodded.
“Then I’ll leach the venom from our veins. And if the blame’s mine for some reason I’ll take that on my shoulders. This misery…” He leaned back, closed his eyes. “It seems to go on forever. But I will deal with it as best I can.”
He got up from the table then and she didn’t try to stop him.
“Perhaps it would be best if you thought of quitting Elsinore for a while, Gertrude…”
“I will not leave you! Not if an army’s on the way.”
He was silent.
“Not unless you ask it, sir.”
There was a sadness and resignation in his face at that moment. Defeat too, and that was new.
“I ask nothing of you, wife, except your love. Which in the present circumstances is, I see, a demand too far. Retire to your old quarters, Gertrude. Keep with your women.”
“Claudius…”
“I will restore equilibrium to this land. One way or another. If this world is out of kilter I will right it. If not me… then who?”
“The man who made it so,” she whispered, watching him intently.
He called for the servants.
“It’s been two months since those quarters of yours were occupied. If there’s anything you need for them then order it. No need to ask.”
The letter bore the formal, spidery hand of Polonius. In the cramped cabin Hamlet held it close to the candle flame reading the contents in disbelief.
“Well?” Yorick asked. “Let me guess. They’re planning to throw you a birthday party and needed the English royal court to lay on currant buns, whores and fireworks?”
“Quiet, fool. I’m busy.”
He went through each line again. There could be no mistake. The directions were clear. This was a direct communication on behalf of Claudius to the English king and it contained a simple request. That – in accord with their recent treaties and the state of goodwill between their nations – England should do what Denmark could not without unsettling the stability of the country. Put Prince Hamlet, who accompanied the letter carriers, to death immediately as a material threat to both their nations.
He scanned it one last time, then thrust it into Yorick’s hands.
“See for yourself.”
The jester read, his eyes widening. For once he looked shocked before that familiar, cunning grin returned and he asked simply, “Surprised?”
Hamlet lay on the bed, eyes closed.
“A little.�
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“Well I’m not,” Yorick declared. “Look on the bright side.”
Hamlet got up, puzzled and stared at him.
“I’m in a puke-filled tub on the way to England. Carrying my own death warrant. The bright side?”
Yorick punched his arm.
“The decision’s made for you. The gloves have come off. Now you can put away your student act and become your true self.” He swept the air with an imaginary rapier. “A man of action. Vengeance personified.”
“We have to get back to Denmark,” Hamlet noted.
The pretend sword went down.
“Oh yes. That. Might prove tricky. Unless you intend to kill all on board here and somehow steer us back to Elsinore by yourself. Do you know your way around a boat? I don’t.”
“I’ll think of something.”
It was a feeble reply and they both knew it.
“And in the meantime?” Yorick prompted, waggling the letter under his nose. “What about this?”
Hamlet rooted around the bottom of his personal trunk and pulled out a velvet bag containing a stick of sealing wax and a gold signet ring.
“My father’s. It has the royal court of arms on it and is therefore...”
“The same seal as the one Polonius used to close the letter,” Yorick declared, raising a stubby finger. “So you can close it up and they’ll be none the wiser. Clever boy!”
The Prince looked at him and sighed with disappointment.
“Is that really the best you can do?”
“Well, yes,” the jester admitted. “I mean. I’m the humorous sort. Not good at sneaky…”
“I can change the letter, Yorick! Rewrite it. Then reseal it. And the English will never know. Nor those two treacherous halfwits either.”
Yorick considered this.
“Blimey. You’re born to this. What are you going to say?”
Hamlet didn’t answer. He plucked out a pen, an ink bottle and a piece of plain parchment then began to write. When he’d added the final instruction for the English king the jester read through it and stared at him with horror in his eyes.
“Isn’t that just a touch excessive? In the circumstances? I mean, I know what I said about that pair but…”
Hamlet folded the letter back into the original envelope then reached for a candle and the wax.
“Ah the power of princes,” the jester sighed. “To determine the fate of ordinary men with a few lines of ink on parchment and a royal ring.”
“They had it coming,” Hamlet muttered and dribbled the red liquid across the paper.
Elsinore, Thursday
Dearest Brother
Know that I love you. Know that what I speak now is the grim truth, and that if any but you see it I shall be dead before you return to Danish shores.
Yes, Hamlet killed our father. Yes, it was a cruel and shocking deed. But before you sit in judgement on the prince understand this: he, like us, is wronged. By our father, by Claudius. Perhaps by his mother too – that I cannot tell.
Since his death, prompted by Hamlet’s suspicions, I have found proof in our father’s private papers. The necessary pages I’ve kept; the rest destroyed, for my own safety and for the sanity of our family. We both knew our father for a secretive, callous man. Our duty to him does not make us blind. He hated me. You he found lacking in the mettle he expected. Do not ask for details. I’ve read his most private thoughts, set down in every last detail. In time I hope to forget them. Perhaps remember those rare moments when he seemed to love us, or at least showed a little respect.
If only the largest crime that could be laid at his door was that of a neglectful parent…
At this point Ophelia broke off, went to the door and checked there was no one near. When she returned to the page the words there seemed so meagre and inadequate. Hers had never been a close, frank family. But now the paucity of her prose seemed to damn them as much as the knowledge she had to impart.
She retrieved the quill.
Here is the greater crime, brother. It’s set down day by day in his own hand, from the inception to the act. Not long before Old Hamlet died, the jester, Yorick, saw Claudius and Gertrude together in a hunting lodge in the forest. He informed the old king. In return for his honesty, Yorick was executed, to keep him quiet it seems. Our father was summoned by Old Hamlet and ordered to plot the further downfall of both of them, the king’s brother and his queen. There was to be no trial, no public accusations. Both were to be murdered quietly, by poison in the case of Gertrude and by a hunting accident for Claudius.
This is set down in the familiar hand we both know, signed by Polonius, written in the dry and unemotional fashion with which he managed the realm.
Perhaps it’s to his credit that he told the king he’d organise the deed then did the very opposite. I am an innocent in politics. I only knew Old Hamlet to be warlike, surly and cruel. But I never understood the hatred and the fear he generated in his own nobility. Our father did and appreciated how this might be used to his benefit. So instead of organising their murder he told Claudius of the plot that was afoot, and between them they planned the killing of the king instead.
It’s all here in black and white. How Polonius took advice on poison from a nobleman named Voltemand in Copenhagen, whose wife, being Italian, was familiar with potions from the Medici court. How he paid this creature for the substance and the instructions on how to use it. And how Claudius himself performed the deed, pouring the foul mixture into Hamlet’s ear while the king was numb with drink, then blaming the death on an imaginary viper within the castle walls.
There. You know it now. Believe me, brother. For this is true. I can show you the pages, the cost of the venom, the instructions on how it was to be administered. The concessions Polonius demanded from Claudius in return for gaining the support of the nobles for the throne when it fell vacant.
Every word I read in horror, understanding it to be true.
Hamlet also knows and this is why he is as he is. A murderer. A man bent on vengeance. Much like you.
A son who has been wronged. An innocent cheated by his own father. A decent man struggling to know which way to turn in a world that is falling into bloody anarchy and chaos. Also much like you.
Do not be hasty in your actions. Do not mention a word of this to any soul about you. We live in perilous times, where right and wrong, good and evil, meet each other in the dark night and fail to recognise themselves for what they are.
I am your ever-loving sister. Come back to Elsinore. Stay your sword till we have spoken. Hear me out, brother. Mark my words.
And then…
Ophelia stopped writing, lost for what to say. Everything she thought certain in the world now seemed false and treacherous. Every inch of Elsinore full of danger.
Then between us – as brother and sister! – we will decide what’s to be done. Beware of this Voltemand above all else. He is a sly and crooked man, and has seized our father’s old position, given to him by Claudius for reasons you must now understand full well.
And when you’ve read this letter burn it. That is the last thing I demand until we meet.
Your loving sister.
Ophelia
Replacing the envelope in Rosencrantz and Guildenstern’s leather satchel proved far easier than stealing it. The darkness didn’t bother him since he knew the layout of the cabin. The two men remained sound asleep throughout. In a minute it was done. If he was honest, Hamlet was glad that it was still too dark to see their faces. They had, after all, been friends of his once. Acquaintances, anyway. If they hadn’t betrayed him they might have had nothing to fear.
As he closed the cabin door behind him he turned to find himself face to face with the first mate, a huge, weather-beaten man with a mane of red hair. A moment of tension and fear, trying to think of how to explain what he was doing.
Then the sailor stepped around him and kept moving with such urgency that Hamlet sensed something was wrong. And it had nothing to do with d
ignitaries stealing in and out of each other’s cabins.
On the deck outside someone was yelling.
“What’s happening?” Hamlet called after the man.
“Don’t know yet,” said the burly mate. “Looks like we have a ship on our tail. I suggest you get under cover, sir. Leave this to us.”
Still he followed the man outside. The rain had stopped. The beginnings of dawn were showing in the east. Hamlet tracked back to the stern, where another crewman was gripping the aft rail and staring into the greyness behind them.
“Where is it?”
The crewman said nothing, but pointed a gnarled finger to a shadowy vessel cutting through the breakers.
“No lights,” the man said.
“Which means?”
“Don’t want to be seen, do they? Probably been tracking us for hours. Even days. Now they’re closing.”
Ships. He knew so little about them.
“Can we outrun them?”
The sailor snorted and have him a filthy look.
“You got a weapon, sir?”
“A sword. In my berth.”
“I’d find it if I were you,” the man grunted. “We got pirates calling.”
In Elsinore the ship’s captain was barking at his men impatiently when Ophelia hurried back to the harbour. It was barely daylight. What looked like the last goods were being hauled onto the small trading vessel. The man glared at her and shook his head when she came to the foot of the gangplank and held out the sealed envelope.
“You’re late, lady. And so am I. Should I ask the tide to wait too?”
“Your ship’s not yet laden, sir. You wouldn’t be gone yet whether I’d got here earlier or not.”
He grinned.
“You are a smart one. And the money?”
She held out the purse. There was a man close by she recognised. Reynaldo, a bookkeeper who often spoke with her father. Why he should be on a ship going south she couldn’t imagine…
“You’re not going to get me into trouble, are you?” the captain asked. “They hang spies here. In Lübeck too. Hang people who carry their secret messages too.”
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