Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

  Oswald signalled the point, but for a fraction of a second Horatio thought Laertes would complete his attack anyway. He held his rapier over Hamlet’s head, frozen, his eyes full of fury, face flushed and dripping sweat. Horatio took a hurried step forward.

  “That’s five. Time for a break.”

  “Indeed,” agreed the king, standing and indicating the chalice to his nephew. “Take some wine, Hamlet.”

  “Wine, uncle? This is a contest of arms. Not a drinking match.”

  Claudius came closer and extended the goblet to him.

  “You need refreshment, nephew.”

  “Are you deaf, sir?” Hamlet kept his eyes still on Laertes who had yet to lower his sword. Something here was wrong. “I’m not thirsty. And even if I was I doubt I’d like the taste of pearl.”

  A sudden movement. The Queen came between the two of them and snatched the cup.

  “I’ll drink to my son. I never knew he could fight like this. Pearl or no pearl. In honour of your play so far!”

  The cup came up. Claudius fought to stop her. But she stepped back.

  “I may raise a glass to my son if I wish it,” Gertrude insisted, staring him down.

  Then she brought the chalice to her lips, gulped greedily at the wine. Red liquid on her lips. And in the King’s eyes a sudden dismay.

  Laertes retreated.

  “Hamlet,” Horatio whispered.

  The Prince looked elated.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Keep your shoulder turned. You’re showing him too much of your chest.”

  “If he keeps driving like a berserker it won’t matter how much of my chest I show him. Where’s that jester when you want him? He should be watching this!”

  Horatio shook his head.

  “Jester?”

  “Old Yorick’s son, for God’s sake! He almost lives in my quarters…”

  “The old jester never had a…”

  “Oh enough of this,” Hamlet declared, casting wildly around the room, seeing nothing. “Never mind. Come on.” He cut a circle in the air with the rapier. “We begin again.”

  The sign was simple: Elias waited by the eastern gate and kept his eyes on the keep tower. Eventually a standard emerged. The Dannebrog, the national flag, a white cross on a red background, thrown down from Heaven by God to the Danish forces struggling through a famous battle in Estonia centuries before.

  Perhaps Claudius had a sense of irony rare in one of his kind. For after this day it was unlikely the Dannebrog would be flying over a free nation.

  He turned to the surly pair guarding the gate and told them to open it. The biggest, oldest, ugliest stared at him in astonishment.

  “There’s a thousand or so stinking Norwegians out there, sir. No offence but are you off your head?”

  “Not yet,” Elias answered with a laugh. “Just do it, man. There’s matters afoot here you needn’t worry about.”

  A crack opened big enough for an old Dane to squeeze through. Elias picked up his square of white fabric attached to a small pole and walked out into the bright day waving it.

  The Norwegians were encamped just a hundred yards away, surly, hungry men, staring at him as he approached. To the right were the tents of the mercenaries under the Scot Gregor, a cunning, experienced man whose history Elias had studied at length the previous night as he went through the intelligence reports gathered over the weeks since Fortinbras first moved to Helsingborg, opposite on the straits.

  There was division here. A physical one between the two camps. A point worth noting.

  He walked forward beneath the white flag. A man in armour on a grey stallion rode out to meet him. The Norwegian prince himself, face wreathed in fury.

  Elias smiled.

  “This is a fine morning, Fortinbras,” the Dane said. “Too beautiful to stain with blood. I’m sure you’ll agree…”

  Armed men round him, halberds in their arms, swords raised. He had no weapon. Only the white flag which he raised again, still looking up at the figure on the horse.

  “Would your compatriot, Voltemand, agree?” Fortinbras demanded.

  The old man nodded.

  “Oh yes, him. A gift from Claudius, I believe. A greeting designed to tell you that whatever we may be… however fragile the kingdom…” The smile vanished and the white cloth came down. “We’re Danes, my friend. Offer us suitable terms and you’ll find no more faithful friends on earth. Push us too far and we will fight. Any way we can.” He glanced towards the sea. “As your father discovered all those years ago.”

  “Perhaps I’ll send Claudius a gift of my own then,” the Norwegian prince roared. “Seize him! Search him! Take him to my tent for interrogation.”

  Then he snatched the meagre banner Elias held and his massive charger stamped the white standard into the mud with its hooves.

  Laertes had started the duel in a foul mood and now it was even blacker. He saw how Claudius glared at him after the last lost point, storming back only to be bested again. Even the Queen was toasting her son and all knew how estranged they’d been of late.

  Claudius had been clear in his instruction. Play the contest properly. Fight fairly to begin with. And reach for the deadly weapon only at the end, when Hamlet’s collapse might be attributed to excitement or exhaustion, not the skills of an Italian poisoner.

  Even so he wanted to win those early bouts, and was furious to have been bested so clearly.

  “This sword’s no good,” he snapped, throwing it at Reynaldo. “The balance is off. Get me the one with the gold hilt.”

  The second came close to him and whispered, “I’m not sure that one was checked by the weapons arbiter. If you like I can ask…”

  “Just get it. We’re ready to start.”

  Reynaldo nodded, walked quickly to the rack and drew the gold hilted rapier. The tip, he saw, was uncorked. He returned to Laertes, holding the weapon carefully in his arms.

  “My lord,” he faltered, “I’m not sure that one’s… eligible. The point…”

  “Whose side are you on, minion?”

  “Yours, sir. Naturally.”

  “Then give me the sword I asked for.”

  At that Laertes snatched the hilt.

  “And a towel now.”

  Reynaldo nodded and fetched the cloth he’d brought to mop his master’s brow.

  Something had happened in the meantime. Laertes grabbed the towel, wiped the tip of his sword, then slipped something into the pocket of his doublet. A vial or flask it looked like. There was a stain on the end of the blade. Purple, thick. Wrong.

  He opened his mouth to ask what it was but Laertes’s eyes met his and stared him down.

  “This is for my sister,” he hissed. “And my father. Say a word and you’ll regret it.”

  After a long moment Reynaldo lowered his gaze, took a step backwards towards his chair. Then Laertes re-joined the duel.

  There’d been worse treatment over the years, Elias thought to himself. All the Norwegians had offered was a little rough handling. A couple of men spitting in his face. A kick or two. Now he was seated in a chair in the command tent, wiping his face clean, watched by Fortinbras and the Scot.

  A foot soldier came in at the Norwegian’s command and brandished something bloody and grim. A severed head.

  “Why show me this?” Elias asked. “Do traitors in Norway receive the nation’s thanks and a pair of kid gloves?”

  The Scot laughed at that and shook his head.

  “I like this one. He’s got guts. Making a fool of you out on the field like that. Then walking in here bold as brass.”

  He picked up what remained of Voltemand and kicked it out of the tent flap.

  “You should listen to our friend here. He’s got more brains than that dead fool…”

  The Dane bowed politely.

  “Which means,” the mercenary added, “we can’t let you back in that castle alive. Not till this is over. Now you know we have our…” He winked at the Norwegian. �
��Differences.”

  “What do you have to offer?” Fortinbras asked with a surly stare.

  “What do you want?” the Dane asked getting another guffaw from the Scot.

  “I want Elsinore. I want the crown.”

  Elias sighed and smiled at him.

  “We’ve been here before. Give me the guarantees – safe passage, no plunder, fair treatment of our people – and we have something to discuss. Or test the mettle of your men against our walls.”

  Fortinbras snorted with disgust.

  “Why should I bargain with a coward like Claudius? A king who sends an old man beneath a white flag to haggle for him? Open those gates for me now and I’ll spare who I choose. Force me to sit here in your filth one day longer and we’ll slaughter every last one of you. Man, woman and child. Take that message back to your king. ”

  A shrug from Elias. No answer. Not a move.

  “Perhaps I’ll put that in a letter and stuff it in your mouth,” the prince from Oslo said. “Then throw your head back behind those walls as you threw my man’s to me.”

  The warrior from Scotland groaned.

  “Etiquette’s not your strong point, is it?” Gregor leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. “This chap has something on his mind. Out with it, Dane.’ He nodded at Fortinbras. “His problem’s imagination. Mine’s patience. Best you don’t tempt both.”

  Gertrude returned Hamlet’s pleasant smile as he adopted his fencing stance to begin the duel again. He was doing well. Better than she’d ever expected. Laertes was supposed to be the better swordsman. But Polonius’s boy seemed clumsy, flustered. Strangely nervous and, if she was any judge, over compensating with anger.

  The wine she couldn’t finish. It tasted odd. A few of the more senior courtiers had left the room. Claudius had promised negotiations with the Norwegians. A peaceful end to the half-hearted standoff outside the walls. Territory or submission would save them. Elias, a good man, better than the vanished Voltemand, would see to that.

  Then Hamlet would be restored to health. With her and Claudius. Or without his uncle. One way or another.

  She applauded as he led the next bout though her hands felt strange. Weak and unmanageable.

  A further hit for Hamlet. Laertes broke away shouting his frustration with foul curses. She glanced at her husband and got no response in return. This duel was his idea, a way of brokering peace between two families. Yet he looked downcast. Lost even. As if he’d wanted Laertes to win to spite her. Or perhaps...

  She closed her eyes and tried to think. Her mouth felt odd, tingly and numb. Her throat, too. When she moved her tongue around it felt sluggish and thick. The sensation reminded her of an opiate from the east the old king had made her take once, to sate his desire. Not unpleasant in itself though the memory of what followed was bleak and vile.

  Thirsty she reached for the chalice to drink.

  Another point lost and this time Laertes’s fury got the better of him. After the hit had been called he closed on her son and leaned in to say something. Hamlet hesitated, straining to hear over the applause, and in that moment Laertes made a sudden movement with his sword. Hamlet stepped quickly back, clutching his forearm, and Gertrude could see a slim cut close to his wrist, dropping blood.

  Silence in the room. Though not in her head. Something there, like a distant ocean, was starting to roar.

  “Hamlet…” she whispered.

  But already he was bellowing his fury, sword forgotten, grabbing Laertes and punching him in the face. Laertes dropped his blade and the two men wrestled briefly, till Oswald and their seconds leapt in to pull them apart.

  “Hamlet, my son…”

  The words were so faint she wasn’t sure she’d even uttered them. Gertrude felt feverish and sickly sweaty. Her breathing became laboured and shallow. Sick. She was sure of it.

  Her right hand began to twitch wildly so she had to drag it away from the chalice for fear of knocking it over.

  The wine…

  Her eyes slid from the struggling fencers – back on guard, their swords somehow switched in the melee so that Hamlet had the rapier with the golden hilt –to the cup beside her.

  Confused, head aching, she watched as the two men rejoined the fight with different swords. Hamlet clutching the blade of Laertes now, fighting back violently. Polonius’s boy wild-eyed and anxious with his opponent’s slender rapier.

  It seemed to her there was blood and that seemed wrong.

  Her thirst was raging. She reached unsteadily for the cup again, remembering at the last moment not to down every last drop all because her husband had dropped a pearl there. A trophy for the victor.

  Gertrude glanced at him then. Claudius caught her eyes and immediately looked away.

  She stared into the goblet. Yellow wine, cloudy, with a dusty substance swirling at the surface not quite dissolved...

  Down she fell, legs starting to spasm, and her gaze went past the fencers to where the king sat, face ashen, eyes on nothing in the hall but her.

  A bigger prize, Elias said and then they listened. That was the reward on offer.

  “How big?” Fortinbras demanded.

  The Dane relaxed and told them.

  “Two thrones instead of one.” Gregor nudged the Norwegian’s arm. “Now there’s an offer to turn any prince’s head. And those of the men behind him.”

  Fortinbras hesitated, looked at Elias and then the Scot.

  “You included?” he asked.

  “If we can trust this one,” Gregor replied looking closely at the man opposite. “Well, Dane? Can we?”

  Elias met his gaze.

  “Your name’s Gregor Macbeth. Lord of Moray.”

  “You like to know your enemies,” the Scot agreed.

  “More than five hundred years ago an ancestor of mine, Sueno, then the King of Norway, met an ancestor of yours on the battlefield. Your territory, not ours then.” The Dane shrugged. “Scotland. Down the Great Glen, at Inverlochy.”

  Gregor grinned.

  “This is a long way to come for a history lesson, mate.”

  “This isn’t history,” Elias insisted. “It’s about who we are. Sueno was old and stupid. He lost.”

  “Your point, man? What…”

  “My point’s your ancestor Macbeth treated the King of Norway honourably. Let him sail home for a suitable ransom. Then went about his own business.” He opened his hands in a generous gesture. “We’re modern men, not savages. If our forebears could behave with such expedient decency, is it really beyond the likes of us?”

  “When the hurlyburly's done and the battle's lost and won,” Gregor murmured, smiling. “Two thrones not one. I can do business with a man like you.” He nudged his neighbour’s elbow. “So can he. Can’t you, Prince of Norway?”

  “We need guarantees…” Fortinbras began.

  “We need a sign,” the Scot cut in. “What is it?”

  Elias got to his feet and walked to opening of the tent.

  “The Dannebrog,” he said. “The flag of Denmark. When it appears on the keep tower we move. If I walk before you, sirs, none will do you harm or offer anything but a wary welcome. That I guarantee.”

  The King watched her fall and felt his world tumble with her. One death he’d wanted in all his life. A deserved one. That of her murderous husband. No one else.

  Yet blood beckoned blood. Ophelia, Polonius, the vile man Voltemand followed in Old Hamlet’s wake. And now Gertrude’s son. Laertes’ had reached for the venom-tipped blade. Even so, ever the diplomat, a man for planning, Claudius had erred on caution. So he’d dropped the pearl drilled with arsenic into the chalice, determined to keep hold of it in case Polonius’s boy failed.

  Too late. Claudius watched helpless as the poison from Voltemand’s Italian wife took hold, powerless to intervene.

  Falling to the hard stone Gertrude convulsed in front of his eyes, staring at him and he thought… she knows.

  The courtiers and servants had noticed, too. Only t
he duellists fought on, oblivious to the tragedy in their midst, Hamlet stabbing Laertes deep in the gut with the venomous tip of his sword.

  Claudius got unsteadily to his feet, walking out into the stalled contest, all eyes on him now as he made for the woman he loved.

  The woman he’d killed. Was this justice? Or the wrath of God for all his many crimes? Vengeance taking vengeance itself, stealing the life of the one thing he truly loved, trampling her in the dirt?

  He pulled aside a servant. Told them to make the sign from the walls they’d used earlier. Then walked as if in a trance, blind to the chaos around him, not hearing the shouted accusations of the fighters. Paying no heed to anyone as he made his slow, tortured way to his dying queen.

  Outside the walls the three of them, Dane, Scot, Norwegian, stood by the command tent, watching the keep. A glittering, armoured arm appeared. And then a red-and-white standard.

  “Follow me,” Elias ordered. “Leave your main forces where they are. Bring an honour guard of your most trusted warriors. Tell them to keep their weapons sheathed.”

  “We said nothing about leaving our army outside the walls,” Fortinbras objected. “You could cut us down the moment we’re behind your doors.”

  The Dane shook his head.

  “Why would we do that, sir? You’re our new king. And with you we’ll conquer Norway. Two realms. Two thrones. If you doubt my word perhaps we have no bargain to strike.”

  “I want my army in there…”

  “No!” It was the Scot who intervened, with force. “Put a thousand men inside that castle and they’ll be drunk and pillaging before nightfall. However much you threaten to hang them. I’ve seen your so-called soldiers, Fortinbras. If they were any good you wouldn’t need the likes of me.”

  He barked some orders to his own men and a group of them started to come over.

  “We’ll be your honour guard. I like this Dane. There’ll be no trouble.”

  Before Fortinbras could answer Elias grunted his thanks then set off for the walls. The eastern gate was opening ahead of them already.

  The duellists had stopped, breathless, unsteady on their feet. Blades down. Both watching Claudius bent over his stricken Queen.