“No choice,” he muttered, and turned for the tower stairs down to the guard room, hand on his belt, thinking of how he’d silence the men at the gate.
Three steps and then something moved behind him. Voltemand tried to turn. Tried to speak. But there was something both cold and hot at his neck. His hands found their way there automatically.
Recoiled at what they met.
In the thin light of a winter moon breaking cloud the man from Copenhagen stared at his gloved fingers. Blood dripped from them. The words he wanted failed him. His throat gagged. His eyes dimmed. Whirling round he saw a black shape moving out of his vision.
A picture then. A man had waited, come out of the shadows, slashed at him with a sword.
Found his neck, his throat. His very being.
“Why…?” he thought and couldn’t say.
A face caught in the silver light then. Young, familiar. Angry and determined.
Laertes, son of Polonius, drew back his sword once more, swept it out in a fast horizontal arc that decapitated the man before him in one clean, powerful movement.
The body fell in a heap. Laertes walked over and picked up the bloody head.
Mouth agape, eyes open, trim moustache now covered in gore.
“You’re a pretty sight, traitor,” Laertes whispered. “And tomorrow you’ll give me a better one.”
Then he strode to the battlements, found a gap, leapt up onto the step.
Out into the night he bellowed, “Fortinbras, prince of Norway. I have your friend Voltemand. He wants a word.”
His fingers took a tight grip of the dead man’s hair. Laertes whirled the grisly head beneath his arm and propelled it out into the black night.
A thud somewhere. The sound of men coming. Curious at first. Then horrified.
Minutes later in the Norwegian campaign tent Gregor looked at the thing and laughed.
“Is this your spy then, Fortinbras? Our free passage into the castle?”
The Scotsman picked up the severed head, put his ear close to the gaping, dripping mouth.
“What’s that you say, pal? Everything’s just wonderful, is it?”
He threw the thing into a corner.
“Don’t talk much these Danes, do they? Anything else you’ve heard, my lord?”
“One way or another we enter Elsinore tomorrow.”
“How?” Gregor demanded. “Can’t scale those walls. Can’t starve them out. Either you find another friend inside that place, one who’s still got a mouth he can use, or we’re buggered here.”
“Tomorrow we go in.”
The Scot picked up his gloves and looked at the dark night beyond the tent flap.
“From this point on our camp’s our own, Prince. Do not enter. You or your men. If you want to speak with me you send in a minion to request it. If we’re still sitting in this shit tomorrow, eating greasy lamb and polishing our blades…” He stabbed a finger across the table. “Then we’ll settle this matter. Once and for all.”
5
Now Cracks A Noble Heart
The next morning a bright sun rose over Elsinore. Gulls hung in a blue and cloudless sky above the still waters of the Øresund. Sheep grazed the fields beside the port. But no boats moved. No farmers brought their wagons into the town. A foreign army was encamped at the gate. There were rumours of defections. Of a vanished Lord Chamberlain with treacherous intentions. The court was close to chaos.
Inside the castle the atmosphere was feverish, unreal. Gossips whispered about an abdication, a pact with the Norwegian forces, discord at the summit of the royal family. And there was excitement, too, since another show was on the way, perhaps one as strange and shocking as the visit by the English players which seemed to prompt the kingdom’s present crisis. Two men, a prince and a high-born noble, would settle their differences with a duel. A harmless counterfeit battle, unlike the bloody encounter on the ice between Old Hamlet and the father of Fortinbras, now threatening the very crown of Denmark.
It seemed an odd piece of theatre to offer with an enemy army at the walls. Yet these were strange times, and had seemed that way since Old Hamlet died. In the face of conflict Claudius was adamant. The duel would take place. After that distraction the business of court, of diplomacy and defence, could resume.
The Queen stayed in her quarters, solitary with her ladies-in-waiting, praying that the meeting between Hamlet and Laertes would bring to an end the bad blood that had seemed to infect the throne of late. In his room Hamlet practised with his rapier, taking guidance from Horatio, a man who seemed to know more about fencing than his mild and scholarly appearance would suggest.
Yorick was nowhere to be seen. Every inquiry of Horatio and the servants drew a blank look. The jester had vanished yet again.
So Hamlet focused on his rapier, the cut, the thrust, the thrill of action. And in that world was lost, seeing no one but himself.
Across the royal quarters, in the King’s study, Claudius briefed Elias, one of the few men he’d come to trust within the court. Whatever happened this day the die were, to some extent, cast. Fortinbras would enter Elsinore, one way or another. It was important that happen on the best, least violent terms possible. With the treacherous Voltemand out of the way Elias was the only man for the job.
“You understand me fully? There’s no room for doubt,” Claudius asked when he’d finished as sound and detailed a diplomatic briefing as he’d given in his life.
“I believe so, sir,” the old Dane answered.
“You look at me askance, Elias. Do you think I have other options?”
“If you had them, you’d take them, wouldn’t you? Few men would give up the most precious thing they own so lightly.”
“Nothing here’s done lightly,” the King snapped. Then he took his circlet of gold and silver and placed it on the desk. “And you read me wrong. I’ve something far more precious than this worthless bauble. Were I to lose my lady, my love…”
Elias nodded and kept quiet.
“You’re a brave man,” Claudius added, and patted him the shoulder. “I apologise if I seem harsh with you.”
“You’re the King,” the old courtier said with chuckle. “You do what you like. It’s not my place to question it.”
“Perhaps it should be. How many battles have you fought? How many wars?”
Elias had to screw up his eyes and think about that.
“Enough. Too many. Your brother was overly fond of fighting, if I may be so bold. I did my best to seek peace where it was available. And keep the bloody side brief and confined to the military.” He scowled. “Not that I was as successful as I’d like.”
“You fought for your country. All I ever did was talk. And…”
“The state needs men who can negotiate and bargain,” the old Dane interrupted, as if he wanted to hear no more. “Perhaps they serve the people better than warriors on occasion.”
“You didn’t hear me out,” Claudius complained.
Elias picked up his gloves and the white flag of truce he’d brought with him.
“Best I be on my way, lord. This signal of yours…?”
“Look for it on the walls. Leave when you see it. Once this piece of theatre with my nephew and Laertes is over you’ll see it again. Then you know what to do. If there’s an agreement we proceed.”
The old courtier didn’t blink.
“And if not … then I owe you my gratitude. And my admiration for your courage. They will honour a well-meant truce, surely?”
“Only one way of finding out,” Elias answered with a grim smile.
Claudius stood up, shook his hand, wished him well then watched him leave, taking the piece of cloth with him.
After that he sat alone with his bleak thoughts and two gifts from Voltemand he still possessed, supplied by the dead man’s wife, supposedly from the Medici court. A place that had the best poisoners in Europe.
The first was a vial of purple liquid, venom for a dagger. Not so different to the potion Claudiu
s had poured into his sleeping brother’s ear. The second he hesitated over. Perhaps his nephew would best his stronger, more skilled opponent. What then? His story had to end. There was no reconciliation between them and both knew it. The murder of a father – however foul – was not a matter to be forgiven.
If Polonius’s son missed his mark then Claudius alone must act.
He looked at this exotic instrument of murder. A pearl, large and beautiful. A tiny hole drilled in the base, arsenic, sudden and deadly, filling most of the space inside.
The King placed the thing back in the velvet pouch it came in, at such a high and painful price.
Then he called a servant.
“Fetch me, Laertes,” he ordered. “I wish to speak to him before this… entertainment.”
Outside he could hear the drumbeat of foreign soldiers, shouts from their marching drills, their voices harsh and violent on the bitter breeze.
The Great Hall had been cleared, benches and chairs pushed to the walls, tables removed entirely to make room between the doors and the low, sad statue of Old Yorick. The same space had been given over to the play that had so inflamed the King. Now it was set for more dark theatre.
An hour before the combat was due to start Horatio had delivered Hamlet’s rapier and dagger to the castle smith and watched as that burly craftsman rounded the sharp end of each and tipped them with cork plugs. Then he’d returned to the hall and waited as they were measured for length and thickness against the blades Laertes had proposed. His were all fine Saxon weapons with swept hilts and inlaid handles. Horatio had tested one and found it light and finely balanced. The choice of a man who knew something of swordsmanship.
Hamlet’s by contrast, was the blade he always carried, a workmanlike weapon, sturdy and effective, but nothing like so refined. It had been a gift from a visiting French dignitary when Hamlet had turned eighteen and he’d worn it ever since. The parrying dagger, unlike Laertes’ carefully matched pairs, came from somewhere else entirely.
Horatio’s unease about the fencing match wouldn’t go away. The Prince was different since his bloody adventure at sea, more focused in some ways but also more resigned, as if he could see an end coming and no longer cared to prevent it. He was a skilled fencer though Laertes – if he kept his head –was faster and more practised. Not that it was the ignominy of losing a fencing match that worried Horatio.
Twice before the duel he checked the swords carefully to make sure there was no trickery. None was apparent, though he didn’t like the fact that Oswald, Laertes’ aide, was to be in charge of judging the contest.
“My master issued the challenge,” Oswald said tetchily when Horatio raised the matter. “Court rules. The king himself will serve as final judge in case of dispute.”
That was no better, but it was too late to object.
The crowd started to arrive a half hour later. Normally such an event would have been pleasant diversion made more notorious by the royal standing of one of the participants. Today there was an enemy army at the gates and here were the noble lords, quarrelling among one another when every man in Elsinore might be fighting for his life, and that of his loved ones, before the day was out.
The spectators quietly found their places around the room. The King and Queen sat at opposite ends of the area set aside for the duel. Horatio doubted that was merely a matter of symmetry. Perhaps it was to indicate that each backed a different party in the fray.
When everyone was in place one of the guards at the king’s elbow banged the butt of his halberd on the floor and the hall fell silent. Oswald rose, bowed to the king and queen in turn, then took his place in the centre of the field of play and addressed the room.
“This fencing match is the result of a challenge issue by my Lord Laertes to Prince Hamlet. Court rules apply. The winner is the first to ten hits. There will be a break after each five points scored, and fencers or their seconds can request one other pause each. My Lord Horatio will be Prince Hamlet’s second. Reynaldo will serve the same office for Lord Laertes. I will keep score. Appeals will be settled by his majesty the King.” He turned to the two men dressed in cloaks, white shirts and long black pants, before the throne. “Fencers, choose your weapons.”
A rack had been set against the chamber wall. Hamlet snatched his rapier and dagger, barely looking at them, though Laertes, who had submitted several from which he might choose, lingered before selecting his. Horatio followed this closely, trying to get a better look at the blue steel sword he’d picked. He didn’t recall seeing the weapon earlier. But it was hard to see properly and when each fencer presented their weapons to the king, Claudius merely tapped their corked tips and nodded, smiling.
“Take your places, my lords,” said Oswald.
Claudius rose, an ornate chalice of wine in his hand.
“I drink to you both,” he said, raising the cup and taking a sip. “And will award this precious prize to the victor.”
He showed the pearl to the crowd then dropped it into the chalice, and set the cup on a stand, retaking his seat as the crowd clapped politely.
“Before we begin…”
Hamlet turned to address the assembled court, shrugging out of his cloak and handing it to Horatio. “I wish to say something.”
There was a murmur in the crowd. The King and Queen watched avidly. Laertes became very still, something close to a sneer on his face.
“Laertes. I’ve hurt you grievously. The manner, the circumstances are more complex than anyone realises. But I make no excuses. What I did, I did. Believe me when I say I’m sorry for that. Sorrier, perhaps, than you’ll ever know or imagine. It was, I suppose, a kind of madness, though some lunacies are shared, caught from others, like diseases. What drove me to these acts I do not wish to say. But…” He bowed to the man across from him. “I never meant you harm or sorrow, sir. I hope for your forgiveness. Perhaps there will never be another day for it to be granted. Nevertheless…”
He sighed. The crowd watched, rapt by the performance. There was an uncertain patter of applause from the gathered courtiers, and several faces turned to Laertes to see if he would respond.
The son of Polonius took a breath and nodded. Still with a scowl on his face, he said, “Your words as usual are most compelling. You have my forgiveness if you wish it, Prince.” At that he flexed his blade. “But for the sake of my family’s honour you will satisfy me with this contest.”
Hamlet’s eyes met Horatio’s and a wan smile appeared on his face.
“I wouldn’t ask for it to be otherwise.”
Oswald stepped between them.
“Then if both parties are ready let combat begin.”
“ Laertes took position, face set, body taut with anticipation.
“Ready!”
“I’ve been ready all my life,” Hamlet answered languidly, swishing at the air with his sword. “Come on, sir. I think it’s time.”
Horatio folded Hamlet’s cloak and set it on the chair reserved for him where a servant with a pitcher of water hovered at the ready. When he turned back, the two fencers were in position, dagger hands raised, sword blades just touching so that in the silence they seemed to chime softly like distant bells.
Laertes moved first, a plunging, eager attack. Hamlet took a step back, caught the rapier blade on his dagger, swinging his own sword in an easy, precise swipe that made his opponent leap backwards. Even so the blade missed his chest by no more than an inch. Hamlet grinned. Laertes came on again, swinging high this time, cutting with his sword and stabbing with the smaller blade so that Hamlet had to parry both deftly.
Horatio shifted to get a better view as Laertes returned, cutting at Hamlet’s shoulder. The prince twisted away, deflecting the attack with a touch of his dagger and lunging low. His rapier point found Laertes’ doublet and Hamlet gave a wordless shout of triumph.
One point to the prince.
Laertes backed off slowly, conceding the matter. Oswald nodded to the applauding audience to show he’d regi
stered it.
“Well played, Hamlet,” said the Queen.
“It’s not a play this time, mother,” he said pleasantly. Then he nodded to her with a smile that was the most heartfelt Horatio had seen from him in weeks.
The Prince won the next point, too, and the one after that, in both cases keeping his head as Laertes’s frustration drove him to wilder swings.
“Three hits to nothing, Hamlet leads,” said Oswald, his smile a little strained.
Hamlet winked to Horatio, over his shoulder.
“Not just a schoolboy, eh?”
Laertes heard and his face darkened. He sprang forward, a long, unsteady lunge which Hamlet cut to the side and rolled from his body moving in close that Laertes could not turn his dagger in time, while Hamlet’s came up and touched him lightly on the throat.
“Four to the Prince,” Oswald announced.
For all Hamlet had said, this was theatre of a kind. The crowd were fully engaged now, the enemy outside the walls forgotten in the drama of the moment. Men began to take sides and call out encouragement to one or the other. Horatio hooted and clapped every sortie. All might yet be well.
The fifth pass was the longest, a steady back and forth tussle that took the pair of them careering around the room. The crowd shrank back at the force and violence of the encounter, gasping, cheering. Laertes cut from the elbow and the shoulder, broad strokes, slow but full of power which drove Hamlet back. The Prince countered with sudden, speedy lunges at which Laertes flailed wildly, only just managing to sweep them aside. He was sweating heavily now, while Hamlet still seemed calm and unflustered, almost clinical in his precision.
One more charge, Laertes with his sword high over his head, crying out with fury. A lesser man, thought Horatio, would have fled such an attack. But Hamlet held his ground, dropped to one knee and angled the corked tip of his sword into Laertes’ belly.
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