Ophelia

by Jackie French

  Chapter 15

  The curtain at the servants’ entrance parted. Two actors came out, dressed as king and queen. The player queen had not shaved today; I could see the pale fuzz of her young man’s beard. She wore a dress that Queen Gertrude had discarded the year before because the moths had eaten holes in each sleeve. They must have been darned for the play, I thought.

  The player king and queen embraced on stage. I looked at the real king and queen: they sat politely smiling, thinking it a compliment to them.

  The stage queen laid out a blanket, painted as grass and flowers. The stage king lay down, as if asleep. The stage queen left, and another player came through the curtain. He raised his eyebrows at us and held his finger to his lips. He tiptoed up to the sleeping king. I caught my breath.

  The actor took off the player king’s crown. He kissed it, then put it back. Slowly, looking right and left, he took a vial from his jacket. He held it up for all to see, then bent towards the sleeping king. Slowly, so slowly, the villain poured the poison in the king’s ear.

  I forced my face to appear calm. I glanced down at Hamlet. He watched King Claudius. His eyes were steady sapphires now, not the wide bright eyes of madness.

  King Claudius clutched the arms of his chair. His eyes were stone. His mouth still smiled politely.

  Up on the stage, the player queen returned. She kneeled beside the king. She kissed him, then fell back in shock. She clutched her heart, then clasped her hands, imploring to all of us. She kissed the king again and again, lifted his head, then showed us how it lolled. The player king was dead.

  I heard a gasp. From Queen Gertrude? But when I glanced up, her face was like a rock.

  I stared back at the players. The poisoner slipped back on stage. He lifted the queen’s hands and kissed her cheek, as the player king’s body was borne from the stage. The player queen shook her head once, twice. But on the third kiss, she smiled and gave the poisoner her lips.

  No one in the entire hall moved, except the figures on stage. No one even coughed. How could anyone here miss what this play meant? The wild story Hamlet had told me, which he claimed his father’s ghost had told him, had been acted in front of the whole court. Hamlet was mad! He must be mad.

  I looked at his face. He did not look mad. For the first time since I had seen him in the glade in the forest, he looked quiet, in control.

  I glanced at King Claudius. His face was harder than the palace walls. He saw me looking. I dropped my eyes and hoped my face had not betrayed me.

  The players left the stage. The main play, with words, was yet to come; this was only the mime.

  I whispered to Hamlet, ‘What means this, my lord?’

  Hamlet looked at King Claudius still, not at me. ‘It means mischief.’ His voice was quiet; not that of a madman, nor of one who hated me.

  ‘Will the players give the same tale?’ I whispered as the prologue entered, dressed in black velvet.

  ‘We shall know by this fellow.’ Hamlet still spoke softly, for me alone to hear. ‘The players cannot keep a secret; they’ll tell all.’

  ‘Will he tell us what this show meant?’

  He looked at me fully then and gave his mad grin. ‘Ay, or any show that you’ll show him.’ He added loudly, ‘Be not you ashamed to show, he’ll not shame to tell you what it means.’

  I tried not to look at those who stared at us.

  ‘You are naught,’ I said quietly, but clearly enough for those on either side of us to hear. ‘You are naught! I’ll mark the play.’

  The prologue bowed. ‘For us, and for our tragedy,’ he proclaimed, ‘here stooping to your clemency, we beg your hearing patiently.’ And he left the stage, stepping behind the curtain.

  ‘Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring?’ asked Hamlet, again too loudly.

  ‘It is brief, my lord,’ I agreed.

  He looked up at me. ‘As woman’s love.’

  I shook my head numbly. His look gentled a little.

  The player king and queen entered again, and Hamlet turned to them.

  The player king began to speak, telling us how he and the queen had been married thirty years.

  The player queen clasped her hands and responded. ‘So many journeys may the sun and moon make us again count over before our love is done! But woe is me, you are so sick of late. Where love is great, the littlest doubts are fear; where little fears are great, great love grows there.’

  The player king kissed the queen’s now smooth cheek. Someone had shaved off her beard fluff in the interval. ‘Faith, I must leave thee, love, and shortly too, and thou shalt live in this fair world behind, honoured, beloved, and haply one as kind for husband shalt thou —’

  ‘Oh, confound the rest!’ the player queen cried. ‘Such love must be treason in my breast! In second husband let me be accursed! None shall wed me second, but who killed the first.’

  Who killed the first. It was out: the words spoken so everyone in court could hear, but said by an actor, not a prince.

  I welded a smile of mild amusement to my face and looked down at Hamlet. His eyes were on the king. ‘Wormwood,’ he muttered.

  Bitter indeed, I thought.

  The players were still talking. I hardly heard them. I tried to watch King Claudius and Queen Gertrude without them noticing.

  Up on stage, the player king doubted his queen’s word. She swore her love, crying that she could never marry again. ‘Both here and hence, pursue me lasting strife if once a widow ever I be a wife!’

  Hamlet twisted his head to look up into my face. ‘If she should break it now,’ he said softly.

  ‘Sweet, leave me here awhile,’ said the player king. ‘I would like to entice the tedious day with sleep.’

  The player queen kissed him on the lips. Someone tittered at the back of the hall.

  Don’t they see what this play is about? I thought. Do they only see a man kissing a young man in a dress?

  The player queen left the stage, leaving the player king sleeping on the green and flowery blanket.

  ‘Madam, how do you like this play?’ Hamlet called to his mother, his head still resting against my legs.

  Queen Gertrude gave a wry smile. ‘The lady protests too much, methinks.’

  ‘Oh, but she’ll keep her word,’ Hamlet said lightly as he turned his head away.

  The queen’s face showed no guilt, though her eyes were sad. She thinks the poisoning plot is preposterous, I thought. But the play must bring back memories she would rather forget.

  But the king? King Claudius bent towards Hamlet, his voice harsh. ‘Do you know the rest of the play? Is there offence in it?’

  Hamlet gave his smile of mad innocence. ‘No, no, they do but jest, poison in jest. No offence in the world.’

  The king stared at him, his face colder than the tower in winter. ‘What do you call this play?’

  ‘The Mouse-trap,’ said Hamlet gaily to the ceiling. ‘It is about a murder done in far Vienna. A knavish bit of work, but what of that? Your Majesty, and all of us that have free souls, are not touched by it.’

  King Claudius sat back, his face steel.

  Hamlet spoke louder still, his voice again the madman’s gay lilt. ‘Let the sore old horse wince,’ he told the ceiling. ‘Our withers are not chafed.’

  Another actor entered.

  ‘This is one Lucianus, nephew to the king,’ said Hamlet, turning his face to me.

  I wished he would be quiet. I wished I had never come.

  ‘You are as good as a chorus, my lord,’ I said, trying to make it sound as if he was talking about the play.

  He moved his head from my legs to look up into my eyes. ‘I could even tell you the story of you and your love, if we made it into a puppet show.’

  I looked away. ‘You are sharp, my lord.’

  Please, please, I thought, let them think we are only talking about the play.

  ‘You could blunt my edge, but it might make you moan a little,’ said Hamlet softly.

 
Both better and worse. At least only Lady Anna had heard his crudeness this time. I hoped.

  ‘For better and worse? So must you take your husbands,’ said Hamlet. I hadn’t realised I’d whispered the words aloud. He sat straighter and called to the players. ‘Begin, murderer. Damn you, stop fiddling with your make-up and begin! Come — the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.’

  The actor playing Lucianus glanced down at him. I doubted he was used to the audience giving directions. But he began his speech well.

  ‘Thoughts black, hands apt, drugs fit, and time agreeing,’ he proclaimed. He looked sneakily to either side, then whispered loudly, ‘Confederate season, else no creature seeing.’

  He held up the poison. ‘Thou mixture rank, of midnight weeds collected, with Hecate’s ban thrice blasted, thrice infected.’ He kneeled beside the sleeping king. ‘Thy natural magic and dire property on wholesome life steal away this healthy life immediately,’ he muttered, and lifted the vial and poured the poison in the player king’s ear.

  The player king gave a small sad grunt. His hands fell back upon the stage.

  ‘He poisons the king in his garden for his kingdom,’ said Hamlet conversationally. ‘His name is Gonzago. The original story was written in very choice Italian.’ He smiled, that innocent smile. ‘You shall see how the murderer wins the love of Gonzago’s wife,’ he added, gazing slowly around the assembled court.

  King Claudius gave a grunt of fury. Queen Gertrude clutched his hand, looking puzzled. Claudius shook it off.

  I glanced around the audience. Most had one eye on the king’s anger, the other on the play. But this play had no brother marrying his sister-in-law, nor was the poisoner the king’s brother. Only those who knew or suspected that King Claudius had poisoned his brother would see its mirror in this. Hamlet. The king. And me.

  If the king reacted, then we — and the whole court — might see his guilt.

  So Hamlet wanted proof of the ghost’s words. Not a fool then, nor, I thought, as foolish as he had lately seemed. I thought again of his letter to me: what had he been telling me? Doubt truth to be a liar …

  On stage, the poisoner gazed in triumph at the body of the player king. King Claudius surged up from his throne.

  ‘The king rises,’ I whispered in warning.

  Hamlet smiled at me. A real smile. ‘What, frightened by false fire?’ His voice was equally quiet.

  No, I thought, not false fire. I gazed at Hamlet. He nodded. He had done it: proved the ghost’s impossible tale to be true.

  It was brilliant. It was foolish. It was desperately dangerous, for us all.

  The king stood there, in front of all the court. I thought for a second that he might control himself and sit back down.

  ‘How fares my lord?’ cried the queen.

  Her face was innocent. The king’s was not.

  ‘Give me light!’ he shouted.

  Two footmen grabbed the torches lighting the play and ran towards him. He strode away. The flames cast flickering shadows in the darkness of the corridor.

  The lights vanished. The king had fled.

  It was impossible. Melodrama. But it was true. King Claudius had killed his brother, Hamlet’s father. Poured poison in his ear. No one had witnessed it but the king himself. And now Claudius had shown us that he was guilty.

  Chapter 16

  The court sat in the shadowed hall, stunned. Even Queen Gertrude sat motionless. The actor who had played the poisoner stood with his mouth open, waiting for a cue, from Hamlet or the other players. It was as if the clocks had stopped in Denmark.

  Someone moved. My father. ‘Stop the play,’ he commanded.

  The player nodded gratefully. He slipped behind the curtain. More footmen hurried in, holding flaming torches. Light had reached our world again.

  I looked around. Some faces were puzzled. Others were carefully blank. They were the ones who understood. Lady Annika seemed to doze, despite the tumult, but her hands in her lap were tense. Everyone at court would know the truth soon, I thought, as gossip flowed around the palace. But how many would admit that that gossip might be true? Or act upon it? That was the real question.

  Perhaps all along some of the council had thought the king’s death … convenient, but they had accepted Claudius as king. Would that change now, just because of a play? All the play had done was prove the king’s guilt; and show King Claudius that Hamlet knew of it. Tonight’s demonstration might be brushed off, but every moment Hamlet stayed in Denmark now was a danger to King Claudius and his throne, and to the very peace of Denmark.

  I looked at Hamlet, sitting quietly now next to me. It was impossible to read his expression. All about us courtiers were rising, muttering or far too quiet.

  ‘You must go,’ Hamlet said softly.

  He was not mad; had never been mad. Or only with the anguish that treachery had made. No true madman had connived this.

  Doubt truth to be a liar … I had been a fool! That was what his letter to me had meant. Suddenly I realised that he had been telling me to ignore everything he did, all that made him seem mad. I was to trust only one thing: that he loved me.

  And despite all I had done, or not done, he still did. Even tonight he had been protecting me, manipulating me into showing the court that I was not a light-of-love who welcomed his advances. His coarseness towards me, so loud, so public, so much the ravings of a madman, had given me the chance to show that I was pure. He had given me back my reputation.

  ‘What comes now?’ I whispered.

  ‘Guilt. Innocence. Accusations,’ he murmured so only I could hear. ‘I must be mad again tonight. Mad till I leave for England. Mad, I am safe. Sane, I am an accuser.’ He met my eyes. ‘I would not have you see me mad again.’

  ‘My lord, I did not mean … my father would not allow …’

  I wanted to explain, but had no words. I wasn’t even sure what I felt for this man who had twisted my father, myself, his mother, into his play of revenge. But I knew one thing.

  I reached into my dress and pulled out his locket. ‘You are still against my heart, my lord. It has never left me. Never.’

  ‘Then let my heart stay here, safe with you. You must go now.’

  ‘My lord, you will … you will take care?’

  ‘I will be mad most carefully.’ He took my hand and kissed it briefly.

  I wanted to ask what he planned to do in England. England was our ally, but would it support Claudius for king, or Hamlet? Claudius was king already. But Hamlet could offer the English king what Claudius could not: a marriage, between Hamlet and England. I sat like a statue, feeling his warmth beside me. No, I did not doubt his love. A prince may love wherever he likes. But his marriage must be for his country.

  I found my voice. I even kept it steady. ‘My lord, I wish you well in England. In whatever you must choose there.’

  I meant the words. They were the hardest gift I had ever given.

  He met my eyes. Had he understood?

  ‘I must see my mother now, before I leave,’ he said.

  This was goodbye. If Hamlet returned wed, I could not be a royal mistress. A miller’s daughter might, but not I. Not if I wanted to keep my father’s honour. I loved my father. I found, suddenly, that I cared for myself too. I would be no man’s, bound by his whim.

  I stood, wishing I could stay, wanting to advise him, quietly, as my father had advised his father. Hamlet was not mad. Nor was he a fool. But he had not been wise either.

  Playing mad had lulled King Claudius’s suspicions for a while, had convinced him that Hamlet wasn’t trying to win the lords over to his side in rebellion. But those same lords would be even less likely to support Hamlet now. The lords would always wonder if he had truly been mad, might become mad again. History remembered too many mad kings and the horrors of their times.

  If Hamlet had only done what I had asked the first day we met: played the sober dutiful prince, gained the trust of the lords of Denmark. Instead, he had lost even the rags of t
heir regard, and gained nothing, not even me. Only the certainty of King Claudius’s guilt. Did knowing his father’s ghost had not lied mean so much to him?

  I looked at him, standing alone despite the people all around. Always alone, I thought. Always wondering who is his true friend, or who, like Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, love him only because he is a prince. Even I … I swallowed, the truth bitter in my throat. Even I.

  ‘Go,’ said Hamlet softly. ‘Do not look at me. I would not have you in danger with me for the world. Go now.’

  ‘My lord,’ I whispered, and turned towards the door, my face blank. I heard a murmur, so soft it might have been the wind: ‘Doubt that the sun doth move …’

  I would not cry. I felt Lady Annika’s gaze on me, briefly, as she and Lady Anna and Lady Hilda clustered about the queen. I curtseyed to her. For the first time since I had known her, Queen Gertrude looked bewildered. I could not see my father.

  All around me people jostled towards the door. I had never heard a crowd so silent. No one wanted to be seen talking tonight, in case someone wondered they whispered treason.

  I wanted to turn and watch Prince Hamlet go. I wanted to feel his kiss, once more. Just once. Wanted to comfort him. Most of all I wanted to try to steady him, an unchecked raft upon the snow-fed stream of anger and revenge.

  But I was just a girl. I let myself be carried out among the throng.

  Gerda waited to undress me. I shook my head. ‘Get yourself to bed,’ I told her.

  ‘But, my lady —’

  ‘Gentle Gerda. Go.’

  This night was not finished yet. I glanced outside. The summer sun had finally sunk to its brief rest, but what had been stirred up in the palace could not be calmed. Scrambled eggs cannot be unscrambled. Cheese will not turn back to milk. King Claudius had shown his guilt to Hamlet tonight. Others must be wondering, and watching. King Claudius had killed once to get his throne. Would he kill Hamlet now to keep it?

  I had to speak to Father. Should have spoken to him before. Father must know how things truly stood, what Hamlet believed, what King Claudius had shown to be true. Father might seem foolish, but he knew this nation. Suddenly I wondered if Father put on his cloak of pomposity to hide his wisdom, as Hamlet had used madness. The most powerful lord in Denmark might be a threat to a king. But Father had carefully never challenged anyone.