Ophelia

by Jackie French

  ‘Laertes,’ I whispered. But I didn’t try to reach him now. My brother had more in common with Hamlet than with me. Warrior cradled warrior. I was just a girl. A girl who had done nothing. Who had not even saved her brother, much less her country.

  ‘I can … I can no more.’ Laertes sank back. His voice rose in one last despairing whisper. ‘The king! The king is to blame!’

  And then my brother died.

  The wind carried his words, soft as they were, through the garden. I sensed the moment they struck each lord and lady of the court, the guards and servants watching from the towers above.

  Hamlet cradled my dead brother for a heartbeat more, then laid him gently on the grass. I crawled over to my brother. No one stopped me now. Perhaps they took me for my brother’s servant, anguished at his loss. Besides, all watched Hamlet now.

  I cradled my brother’s corpse as Hamlet rose, his gaze on the king. One step, another. Hamlet drew back his rapier.

  ‘The point poisoned?’ Hamlet’s voice was a hawk’s croak, harsh and high. ‘Then poison, do your work!’

  He thrust the rapier at the king’s heart. The watchers around me gasped; then gasped again as the narrow blade buckled on the king’s thick doublet. Claudius was wearing leather, or even mail underneath, I thought. He was prepared for exactly this.

  ‘Defend me, friends!’ the king shouted. ‘I am but hurt!’

  Someone screamed.

  Another called, ‘Treason!’ but without conviction.

  No one stepped to help the king.

  Lady Annika stood, then Lady Anna and Lady Hilda: three avenging angels next to the body of their mistress. They stared at the king, implacable. I had never known the three old women could look like this. Even their gazes could shred glass.

  The king’s guards glanced at them, then looked at the slain queen, and then at Laertes, limp in my arms. Then they too stared at the king.

  The king stood up slowly. Was he still the king now no one would obey him? He stared around the garden, as if daring each courtier to move. He gazed at Hamlet again, then back at the court, as if hoping someone might throw him a sword.

  No one moved.

  Hamlet grabbed the poisoned goblet. ‘Here, you incestuous, murderous Dane. Drink your potion! Then follow my mother.’

  He seized the king’s collar, as if he were a hound, and forced him down till he kneeled upon the grass. The king opened his mouth as if to command his guards to strike — too late. The poisoned wine frothed red about his lips as Hamlet poured it down his throat.

  Claudius stared at Hamlet, gulping and retching. He reached out once more towards his court. They stood there as still as the stones in the graveyard, each man, each woman, watching silently as the king’s fingers grew limp.

  The king collapsed, a small heap of old man and black velvet on the ground. Still no one went to him.

  Lady Anna and Lady Hilda bent again to their dear queen. Lady Annika gestured to a footman to help them carry her.

  My chest hurt. I had forgotten to breathe. I forced myself to take in air.

  Laertes moved in my arms. Not dead! I whispered his name, hope ripping through me. It was so small a wound. Perhaps there was too little poison in it to kill him. Please, let my brother live …

  ‘Hamlet?’ Laertes’s voice was a strangled gasp.

  Hamlet ran to us and kneeled on the grass. I could smell his breath, his sweat, and feel my brother’s cooling warmth, yet I seemed as invisible to them as if I truly lay in the graveyard. Who looked at the face of a servant boy? Who noticed his tears?

  Laertes reached out a trembling hand. ‘Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. You are not responsible for my death, nor my father’s. Nor am I responsible for yours.’

  His eyes widened as Hamlet’s hand joined his. For a moment I thought, hoped, that the poison had bled itself from him. But then his body dropped, as if death weighed more than all his life. His frozen eyes gazed at the sky, not at his sister.

  ‘Heaven make you free of it,’ said Hamlet softly. He smiled, a strange smile, almost of relief. ‘I follow you.’ He looked up at his friend. ‘I am dead, Horatio,’ he said quietly.

  He stood, walked two paces, staggered.

  Horatio caught him and lowered him to the ground. The court stared, as if this were a play. The final act, I thought numbly, still cradling my dead brother.

  Hamlet looked around the silent audience. ‘You that look pale and tremble at this chance,’ he whispered, ‘oh, I could tell you …’ His voice faltered. ‘Oh, but let it be. Horatio, I am dead. You live. You tell my story, and tell it right.’

  ‘No!’ Horatio gazed at Hamlet fiercely, then grabbed the poisoned goblet. ‘I am more antique Roman than a Dane. There’s some liquor left.’

  Hamlet still wore that strange smile. At last, he was king of Denmark. He lay on the ground, curled a little, still smiling, like a child who longs for sleep and knows the longed-for rest has come.

  ‘Give me the cup,’ he whispered. ‘Oh, good Horatio, I leave a wounded name. If you ever loved me, do this for me. Hold yourself away from happy death, just for a while. Stay in this harsh world to tell my story.’

  Thunder growled over the forest. I looked up, startled. The sky was clear. There were no tears of rain, like the tears shed here.

  The sound came again. Not thunder. Cannon.

  ‘Young Fortinbras!’ shouted someone. ‘He is come from Poland!’

  Hamlet raised himself on one elbow. Horatio helped him, and the lord of the exchequer, and then more lords, at last acknowledging their king.

  ‘Tell Fortinbras he had my dying voice. Tell him …’ He smiled up at Horatio. Not at me. No, not at me. ‘Tell him the rest is silence.’

  The lord of the exchequer took Claudius’s crown and laid it by Hamlet’s head. The other lords stood, heads bowed at the young man who was king now only with his death. I sat there holding my brother in my arms, both of us forgotten.

  So much lost for one small crown, I thought. A dead queen, two dead kings and a dead brother lying on the grass — murder, treason, love and hatred, all played out in a garden.

  I laid my brother down. I could not claim him now. All I could give him, and my father, was the good name of our house. To do that the boy must vanish. I stood, my knees like butter.

  Horatio still sat by Hamlet. He bent and kissed the pale blue cheek. ‘Now cracks a noble heart,’ he said softly. ‘Goodnight, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’

  Goodnight, I thought. The rest, indeed, was silence.

  Chapter 26

  I stumbled from the garden, through the crowd of watching servants, along the palace’s deserted corridors.

  They were all gone: my father, my brother, my lover. The queen who had loved me, as I had truly loved her at the last. The prince who had loved me too, in his poor mad fashion. The brother who had loved the idea of a sister more than the girl I was; who had never really seen me, even when I held his dying body. The king who might have killed me. All gone.

  My heart should have been ripped from me. I felt it, and found that it was still there, beating. I was here, even if they had vanished into the realm of death.

  And what was left? Fortinbras and his army, at our gates. Ophelia: no man’s daughter and no man’s sister now. My family’s estates would be inherited by a distant cousin, not by a girl. All around me seemed grey, as if the clouds had eaten Denmark.

  Doubt thou the stars are fire …

  I had loved him, but I could not mourn him. Denmark was safer for his loss.

  I had lost my own life with those corpses in the garden. No brother to protect me; no lover to comfort me; no queen to order my days. It wasn’t even safe for me to flee to our estates and wait to see if the cousin who inherited them would give me a home. No girl would be safe travelling through the countryside with Fortinbras’s army in our land.

  ‘Oh, ghosts,’ I whispered, ‘tell me what I should do.’

  But no
ghost fluttered towards me, not the ghost of father, brother, king. Ghosts could not come by day. They had no message for me. Nothing.

  And that, I thought, is what my life is now. Nothing. I had no place to flee to, neither as a girl, nor as the boy I appeared to be. Ophelia was like the flowers strewn upon the ground, her future as soon faded. I glanced down at my shirt and breeches.

  But I was not Ophelia now, I realised; Ophelia was in the grave in the churchyard. She could stay there. What use was she now? Horatio would see my brother buried. And poor Hamlet had no need of me, nor the queen. In my trousers I was …

  I felt a smile, faint as a breeze across my face. Sir Roderick, I thought. No, perhaps not sir, for then I would have to explain where my estate was. Nor was I dressed fine enough to be a knight.

  Slowly, colour seeped back into my world. Safer to be William the Smith’s son. Bill Smithson, orphaned by … by the plague. And how did Bill Smithson live?

  I did smile then, as a path opened up before me, like a trail between nettles. Bill Smithson could live well. My mother’s jewels were hidden behind her portrait in my bedroom: strings of pearls and rubies, a tiara and an emerald brooch. Jewels could be carried in one’s purse. No, they would be safer wrapped in a stocking and tied about my body. I could sell the stones one by one. And I had money too. I suspected my housekeeping allowance would buy me passage to anywhere in Europe.

  I would have to travel on foot at first, hiding from other travellers. But it was summer: I could hide between the trees, sleep in my cloak at night. And when I was far enough away from Elsinore, I could take a coach to … where?

  I smiled. It seemed so right. To Wittenberg, of course.

  Bill Smithson had been brought up to fashion iron into many shapes, but he had a heart that loved learning. He would hire a tutor at Wittenberg, learn Greek and Latin till he had enough to go to the university. And then he would have the entire universe to study.

  One pearl sold every year might give me a cottage. A servant whom I could trust, because betraying me would mean losing their employment. And one day, perhaps, Bill Smithson might vanish, and a widow appear, who might love a man and marry him — if he let her keep her books.

  I had a future now.

  I began to run, up the stairs, and along the corridor to the door that led to our house.

  The door was shut. No guard stood beside it. I opened it, listened. All was quiet — in our house as well as in the palace. I had seen no one on my way here. The whole palace was grieving; or, perhaps, gathering the silver before Fortinbras’s soldiers stole it.

  I walked to my room unseen, shut the door and reached for the key hidden behind a tapestry. I pushed aside the portrait of my mother, which hid the safe that held the jewels. I opened the door and pulled out the jewel box.

  Now for stockings, to hide the treasure about my waist.

  ‘Ophelia?’

  I started and turned. Lady Annika stood at the door, her usually sleepy eyes as sharp and penetrating as sapphires. She must have come here straight from the garden.

  I bowed, and made my voice gruff. ‘My pardon, lady, I have the wrong apartment. I bid you adieu —’

  ‘My dear, you have been wearing those … garments for five years or more. Did you think we didn’t know?’ She added sharply, ‘I hope you have not cut off your hair.’

  I stared at her, stunned, then pulled my cap off automatically and let my hair tumble down. ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Good, for we have need of it.’

  ‘Madam, I do not understand.’ Who was this woman with a familiar face but a voice of steel?

  ‘There is an army at our door. And chaos, if we do not deal with it. Here, sit. Now put your skirts back on.’

  She blew her whistle to call the servants. I heard feet running up the stairs, then along the corridor.

  Lady Annika went to the door to stop Gerda from looking in. ‘A posset for the Lady Ophelia. And one for me.’

  I hadn’t realised I was hungry until I heard the words. I hadn’t eaten since the night before.

  ‘But, my lady, Lady Ophelia is dead,’ said Gerda’s tear-hoarse voice.

  ‘A mistake. A farm girl, sadly drowned instead.’

  ‘She is alive! Oh, madam —’

  ‘And hungry. Hurry!’ Lady Annika shut the door and turned to me. ‘Denmark needs a queen.’

  ‘The queen is dead,’ I said stupidly.

  ‘I know,’ Lady Annika’s voice was dry, ‘I was there. I was there when she was made queen too, at both her marriages. Poor Gertrude did her best, but now we need another. Young Fortinbras will be heading for the throne room. We do not want him to find it empty. Quickly, into your skirts. No, into your nightdress first, so the servants may see you in it. We will say you have been ill, delirious with a fever. That should stop all talk of madness too. Though it was a good show you put on, girl.’ She smiled at me. ‘I pretended to be mad once, when my father wanted to marry me to a brute. It worked too. Well, we women must use the weapons we have to hand.’

  She moved to the chest where my nightdresses were kept, leaving the way to the door clear. Should I run with the jewels now? The roads would not be safe, but I might hide on a fishing boat. Surely there would be many captains sailing with the tide, to keep their ships safe during the invasion. I could be safe in Wittenberg by next week. What did I want with more plotting, this time by a sleepy crone?

  Yet she did not look sleepy now. Nor as old as I’d once thought her. I stared at her. Hamlet had tried to hide in madness. Could age and infirmity be a disguise too?

  ‘The servants will know I haven’t been here,’ I said.

  Lady Annika looked up from the chest. ‘The servants will gossip, as they always do. But a girl lying in her bed, delirious and fevered after the death of her father, is more believable than a young lady faking her own death, then hiding in man’s clothing up a tower.’

  ‘You knew I went there?’

  ‘For years, my dear. You are not the only one who can’t sleep at night.’

  I shook my head to clear it. Lady Annika was right: I did need food.

  Her dried-apple face softened. ‘My dear, I recognised you in the garden too. Do not worry, I am sure no one else did. There was too much else to look at.’

  I nodded numbly, remembering our dead queen, Hamlet, my brother.

  ‘I loved her too,’ said Lady Annika quietly. ‘Such a sweet girl she was. And courageous. No matter what that brute did, she bore it and kept smiling. Ah, a smile can be a weapon too.’

  I nodded mutely.

  ‘I loved Hamlet as well,’ said Lady Annika.

  I stared at her, startled.

  ‘He was such a pretty baby, all curls and gurgles. I remember the day his father ordered the curls cut off. His son should not look soft and girl-like. Hamlet cried. Not for the curls, but because he did not have his father’s love. He would never have it, for his father did not have any to give. Oh, yes, my dear, I have seen a lot, and loved too. And lost much that I loved. But not all of it.’ Her eyes met mine. ‘My life is not over yet. Neither is yours. We both still have worlds to conquer, if you have the stomach for it.’

  I said nothing. Had no words to say.

  ‘Well? Gertrude said you had the stomach of a queen. Was she wrong?’

  And suddenly words came, and courage too. ‘No,’ I said. ‘She was not wrong.’

  I felt my ghosts smile at my answer. I was not alone. If ghosts could walk the earth for vengeance, surely they could walk it for good too. I could feel Father near me, as surely as if he stood there making a speech. King Fortinbras as well, nodding. And the shade of Queen Gertrude, there to support me as I had once supported her.

  The door opened. Gerda came in, with the kitchen maid and a laden tray, peering at me with hope and joy.

  ‘Put it down. We will help ourselves,’ said Lady Annika.

  She handed me a goblet of posset. I clutched at its warmth, despite the sunny day, and sipped. Cream and brandy, eggs and nutm
eg. I found my hands were shaking. I’d had enough of weeping, but tears came nonetheless.

  Lady Annika watched me calmly. ‘For whom do you weep?’

  Was it for Laertes? I asked myself. Or for poor Hamlet, who had loved me, but perhaps not as much as he had claimed?

  ‘I weep for Denmark,’ I whispered. ‘Who shall care for her now?’

  ‘Young Fortinbras may do quite well,’ Lady Annika said. ‘We’ve had good reports of him. He even seems to be keeping his army under control, which is harder, I believe, than persuading it to win. But Denmark needs a queen. She has needed one for many years, but old King Hamlet would never have one sitting by his side. He had to go, of course,’ she added, ‘with young Fortinbras ready to tear him off the throne. It is a pity that when Gertrude finally had a throne, her reign was cut so short.’

  I looked at Lady Annika, peering serenely at me from between her wrinkles. How much of the plot to kill King Hamlet did you know? I wondered. Did you and Gertrude plan it together; perhaps not all, but some? Did she smile at Claudius, knowing it would inflame him enough to kill his brother? What was this old woman planning now?

  ‘You said we need a queen,’ I said slowly.

  ‘We do. Young Fortinbras has no wife.’

  ‘And you would give me to him?’

  ‘I would give him myself, gladly,’ she said frankly, ‘were I fifty years younger.’ She smiled, and I saw in it the rags left of her beauty. ‘Or even thirty years, perhaps. But you must net him now.’

  ‘How, madam?’ And then I knew.

  She saw it in my face. ‘Well done, girl. We will advise you, of course.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The ladies of your court. Did you think we were there only to sew tapestries?’

  She clapped her hands. The maids must have been listening outside the door for they opened it at once.

  ‘The gold dress hanging in my chambers — bring it here,’ she told them. She looked at me again. ‘And we must do something with your hair.’

  Chapter 27

  They dressed me, the three women — Lady Annika, Lady Hilda and Lady Anna — in a green silk petticoat with an overskirt of gold, gold sleeves and a green kirtle. They brushed my hair and left it hanging loose, my head crowned with ropes of pearls and roses.