by P. N. Elrod
Of course it did not hurt to write in secret to the old uncle of Fortinbras, a long-time friend of mine, and let him know what his nephew was about. Though ancient in years, he still held influence over the boy, and with a stern lecture, a bribe, and a suggestion to direct his wrath and energy against our common enemy, the Polack, disaster for us both was turned aside.
All seemed well—except for the dark shadow of my brother’s most strange and unnatural death hanging over my heart. Polonius and I devoted many hours to discussion of this man or that, trying to discover who could have been responsible. One by one we proposed and ultimately discarded them all. None in the court had anything to gain by Hamlet’s death and much to lose. They knew the crown would have gone to young Hamlet, and if anything happened to him, then an election would be held to decide the next king. No one of them held so much power or the esteem of his fellows to guarantee to influence the vote to himself. There likely would have been factions and perhaps even civil war as a result.
My next progression, which I kept very much to myself, was to consider Laertes, Polonius’s son. Laertes was a fit young fellow and skilled to action—but in Paris at the time. He might have set some agent of his to do the actual murder, but what reason could he have to kill our liege? He was a virtuous man, almost monk-like and full of love for others, and like the rest of us expected young Hamlet to inherit the crown. He had nothing to gain.
Who was left? Not gentle Gertrude, who had loved her husband as land loves the rain, and I did not for an instant think she had the savageness nor the knowledge to do it.
We questioned Francisco most closely, the poor man. I daresay he thought we were preparing to accuse him of treason, but even as he stood watch at the orchard door, other guards stood their watch within his sight. Between them their movements were accounted for and it was clear that no one had entered the orchard.
Of course, that meant nothing if the murderer had concealed himself there earlier in the day. He could easily elude the patrols of the one gardener until the afternoon, and then escape later in the confusion after the body was found.
Ultimately we concluded that some agent for Fortinbras had carried out the assassination, for he could be the only one advantaged by the crime. It must have been a sore disappointment his ploy did not work as he’d planned.
How it rankled that we could not make a fair and open accusation against him, but for the sake of Denmark’s continued peace we remained silent, and publicly gave sad credence to the physician’s conclusion that a serpent’s sting was to blame for so strange a death. A search was made and many snakes were found, but all were the benign sort that, lacking venom, cleanse the land of rats and mice. Though innocent of regicide, they were slaughtered by an army of gardeners.
So the days and weeks passed, our griefs were gradually softened by our joys, for Gertrude was an absolute delight to me, and peaceful order replaced the disruption in our lives.
Until Hamlet returned home.
Of course he was considerably upset, not only by his father’s death, but in finding that I had—in his eyes—stolen the succession from him. He objected also to the marriage, making clear our haste was what infuriated him the most. Had his mother delayed and ruled as queen, then might he have made his claim. We had considered that as a possibility, but discarded it. Gertrude was no soldier, and though popular with the people, to the gathered nobles she was merely a weak woman, and they would not follow a woman’s orders.
Polonius and I both tried to reason with Hamlet on the dire nature of the threat from Norway, but a disaster that never happens is easily disregarded, and he did so, loudly and often.
That was when we became aware of an odd change in him. As well as being versed in the rougher arts of a high-born gentleman he had ever been a pleasant, studious sort, most charming in his manner, a trait he’d inherited from his mother. Now was he darker in his moods and raiment, surly, and given to fits of passionate rage with no cause. We seemed to be dealing with a rebellious, uncontrolled youth of fifteen, not a grown man of thirty.
He’d returned to us from Wittenberg gaunt of face, his eyes wild, and often his speech wandered in ways comparable to Polonius’s convoluted, but canny method. But there was no plan in Hamlet’s ramblings, unless it was to give pain to those closest to him. I was his chief target for insult, but for Gertrude’s sake I endured it. She and I set some of Hamlet’s old friends to watching him in an attempt to discover the source of his rash behavior, but he was as guarded with them as I was years ago while acting as ambassador to the Polish court. He could not or would not divulge the reason for those periods of turbulence that bordered on the dangerous, though he had confessed to them that he was aware of his behavior. It occurred to me that this might be some childish means to gain attention. If so, then a bout of healthy sea-voyaging might set him right again.
But before I could act upon the idea it was with great hesitation Polonius put into words that which I feared, that young Hamlet was indeed truly losing his wits. Certainly his doting mother noticed, though she vainly hoped it to be a temporary thing brought on by his unrelenting grief for his father’s death. She prayed nightly he would find a cure and be restored. She later fixed on the idea—put forth by Polonius as a straw to comfort her—that her son was mad with love for the old man’s daughter, Ophelia.
“It is not for love of my daughter, though,” he said to me in private after we’d witnessed a harrowing encounter between Hamlet and Ophelia that reduced the poor girl to tears. “ ’Twas love for another’s daughter that’s the root of this.”
“Whose?” I asked.
“A nameless trull in the brothels of Wittenberg has obviously passed the French pox to him.”
Oh, dear God, no. I objected greatly to this. I did not want it to be.
“My lord, I have seen its like before. He shows the signs, and his mind grows more bewildered each day.”
“I know the signs, too, and it takes years, even decades for the madness to establish itself. ’Tis a slow process or so I’ve always been told.”
“Who is to say it has not? When he was yet beardless the first cravings of manhood might have taken him to a whore tainted with the rot. It could well have happened fifteen or more years ago and now the pox begins to briskly manifest. That which pollutes his blood is proceeding with its foul work far faster than normal, or so it appears to us who have not seen him in over a year. His friends are perhaps unaware of it for they’ve grown used to its gradual rise. He has his lucid moments, but they decrease in duration, while his ravings increase. You’ve yourself marked his deterioration. He is sinking into madness as surely as a ship stranded on sharp rocks, battered by the waves, is taken apart piece by piece. At this pace within a few months he will be wholly lost to us.”
I loved my nephew, so the sight of the change in him was most painful to me. For those with eyes to see—myself and Polonius, among others of the court—young Hamlet’s doom was upon him like a black cloud over his head.
Poor Gertrude. Poor Denmark. “We must do something.”
“I know of no cure, lord.”
“Nor I.” I gave some quick thought to the matter, recalling what others in my position had done to deal with such difficulties. There were few choices open, and now I had to also freshly consider the succession since he would likely die before me.
The contagion gnawing at his brain would consume him to full madness in too short a season. Even if in that time I arranged a marriage and he bred an heir, the child would likely also suffer enfeeblement. My duties in other courts had been depressingly instructive. I’d seen at first hand how the indiscretions of one generation were passed to the next, resulting in malformed or simple-minded progeny who died young. Yet often would they come to the rule of their land regardless of their competency, which ever and always led to disaster.
I discarded that possibility and put off for the moment the succession issue. Now was I a stepfather as well as an uncle and had to think how to deal
with this coming tragedy.
Had Hamlet been suffering from any other kind of pox, plague, or cancer, there would be no question of our providing him the best of care here in his home for as long as needed. It would have been highly painful to his mother and myself, but in that pain we might find a kind of comfort in knowing that one is trying one’s best to give succor to a much-loved child.
But madness such as this would be too terrible to endure. His outbursts, so unlike his normal self, were an agony to Gertrude and promised to become worse in time. Should her last memory of her son be of him tied to a bed raving and spitting vile words at her blameless self? I would not put her gentle soul through that hell.
“He cannot remain here,” I finally said. “We will spare him the humiliation of having his family and friends watch his decline. He can go to England and live out what time remains there. We’ll tell him he’s to collect their tardy tribute to give purpose to the journey so it doesn’t appear to be banishment.”
“Might he not raise a force against you, lord?” Polonius was ever worried about upstarts disrupting the peace of the land.
“Hardly there. Their king has no stomach for foreign wars. We will also send a letter for his eyes only, requiring him to keep Hamlet under watch and out of mischief. When the boy is no longer capable, he’s to be placed under care in some gentle hospice monastery. A portion of the tribute money will pay for it. We trust our ambassador there; he will see to it our prince is looked after according to his station.”
This news was hard received by little Ophelia, despite her a distressing encounter with Hamlet, who had shown a side of himself that none should see. But the hearts of young girls can become fast fixed, even when it means their own destruction. She was a sweet child and quite unspoiled, but for this love fantasy of hers. Sadly, it had once been fueled by Hamlet himself. During one of his summer visits he’d spent some time with her, and she had taken his casual attentions too seriously. Indeed there was a time when the girl expected to be Hamlet’s bride, and put it forth among her ladies as though it was inevitable. The rumor was enough for my brother and Gertrude to see her privately. Apparently Gertrude was in favor of such a joining, but a royal prince is not free to marry as an ordinary man might. This was most clearly explained to Ophelia. Gertrude said the child fled the room in tears, but such is the way of things, and in time she recovered.
When Hamlet returned, though, Ophelia’s feelings for him were stirred up again, and Polonius and even her brother Laertes had to step in to curb her spirited affections. Hamlet inadvertently helped with his brutal rejection of her. Polonius had ordered her to return some small gifts as the prince had given during lighter days, and he took it badly, venting his temper on her. Polonius and I watched the sorry show from hiding, ready to emerge to protect her should Hamlet turn violent. Thankfully, he did not, but the encounter was a traumatic one for all, and I was very relieved when Hamlet finally stormed out.
Ophelia, in that moment, must have finally realized he was mad, but still she pined for him. Certainly there could be no match between them now. I would have no objection were he robust and back to his former gentle self, but to inflict a diseased lunatic upon that fragile girl would be cruel folly. Her father made an end of the suit, and though it was hard for his daughter, better that than a ruinous marriage.
So might we have peacefully proceeded in the plan to send him packing had I but known Hamlet was hatching a plot of his own to bring me into disrepute. Its culmination took place the night a troupe of traveling players came to Elsinore. What a dreadful outcome did they, unknowing, bring about.
Things began well, for Gertrude took Hamlet’s interest in holding a play for the court as a good sign. He had been in a high humor that day, more like his old self, but to me there still seemed to be a sharpness to his manner that was not quite right. Many times I caught him throwing looks my way that might as well been daggers. It made my heart ache, but I’d grown used to the fact that he would likely never forgive me for my expedient actions to save the throne. It was also in my heart that he was aware of his deterioration, and knew he would never live to inherit that seat. Of course, he could never admit it to himself. It was far easier to blame me for all offenses.
Members of the court took their places in the audience, and Gertrude and I came in and settled ourselves. Hamlet made a bit of a scene with Ophelia, which caused a general discomfort to those who heard. Gertrude tried to distract him over to herself, but he continued to walk on the brink of provocation with the girl. Though sweet of temper, she wasn’t particularly clever, and he still possessed enough of his wits to sting her with jibes and near-insults. She understood that he was bullying her, but wasn’t quick enough to hold her own against attack, retreating into red-faced silence until the play began. I thought I should have words with him afterward, but Gertrude shot me a glance that said she would deal with him. Clearly he still had some control over himself and harrying an innocent like Ophelia was not gentlemanly behavior. He’d been raised better than that.
The players went through their traditional prologues and miming to which I paid scant attention, focused as I was on Hamlet. If he continued to be a nuisance to Ophelia I would step in and halt things.
Would that he had done so, but he seemed aware of my attention and behaved himself, more or less. He shifted to making comments about the presentation, which was irritating but tolerable. The player king and queen stumbled through their lines as though they’d but learned them in that same hour, and the whole time Hamlet’s old school friend from Wittenberg, Horatio, held his gaze on me like a hawk. I knew some devilry must be afoot, but could not imagine what it might be. The man was too far distant to make a physical attack on my person, which was what I most dreaded. My guards would cut him down quick enough, so I felt safe, but hated the idea of more tales of scandal being heaped upon my court.
There, too, was the possibility that Hamlet might, while others were distracted by the show, attack me. He was armed with sword and dagger as was the fashion and necessity of the time. However, I had instructed my guard to be particularly alert to any threatening move on his part. After that awful business with Ophelia I concluded that he might eventually give in to a violent impulse and direct it at me. They were well aware of Prince Hamlet’s growing madness and prepared, I hoped, to deal briskly with it should he lose control.
But he had no need. I was the one who fell into a fit, maneuvered there by a cunning made vicious by his disease.
Rumor has it I stopped the play out of guilt, for the players enacted a performance of a man’s murder in a garden, his assassin, who was his own nephew, marrying the shallow and betraying widow in order to inherit everything.
At first I could not comprehend what I was seeing. I thought I must be interpreting it the wrong way, but as each ill-memorized line pressed upon my ears the more my disbelief gave way to rage.
The offensive parallels to my brother’s demise were too great to be ignored, nor could I possibly contain my fury at so brazen an insult. I’d loved my brother, and to be accused of killing him by a boy I loved as much as a son was vile beyond imagining, yet Hamlet had imagined it, and it was at his instigation that the show was carried out. Only true madness could have created and birthed such a twisted thought from his innermost mind.
I rose and roared for lights, bringing to an end to the mockery. The players stood rooted in place, horror on their painted faces. They knew they had committed a supreme offense, but were obviously ignorant of what it might be. My gaze next fell upon Hamlet. On his face was a look of such vicious, lunatic exultation that I actually felt sickened at the sight. I’d not had such a reaction since the day I’d fought at his father’s side in my first battle. The fighting itself inspired a perilous euphoria, but afterwards, when one sees the bloody bodies strewn helpless and twitching in their death throes on the field. . .I was not impervious to pity or revulsion and had staggered to one side to spew my guts on the red-stained grass. It took all my
self-control now to keep from repeating that youthful weakness in front of all. I gulped back the impulse, breathed deep of the thick, smoky air from the lamps and torches, and inwardly vowed that young Hamlet would pay dear for this indecent cruelty.
This was not the time or place to confront him. It must be done in private—after I’d mastered myself. Until now his tragic disease had been a family matter; by this display he’d made it devastatingly public.
The disaster of the play alone was more than enough woe, but on this terrible night an army of troubles began ravening within Elsinore’s walls.
After leaving the great hall in considerable disorder and disarray I took myself in haste to the chapel. It was one place where I thought I’d be left in peace by the constant press of courtiers, but two of them turned up to disturb my attempt at calming devotions. As there was no ignoring them, I ordered them to prepare for their instant dispatch to England with my wayward nephew. They fled, quickly to be replaced by Polonius who informed me that Gertrude had summoned Hamlet to her closet. My old friend promised to listen in on that exchange and acquaint me of the details soon after, and took himself away.
Alone for the moment, I bent both knees and spent time in sincere prayer in an attempt to soothe myself to coherence, but it availed me not. I was not a man used to being angry, and containing it did not sit well with me, nor was I in a position to express it as before my rise in rank. There were many times when I saw my father and brother bound by the same circumstance. How it rankled them that they could not be forthright, but had to bury their feelings deep for the sake of the state. I had little to no practice at this bitter portion of royalty, and certainly those waiting without quickly backed down when at last I emerged from the chapel, still thunderous of aspect. None offered useless words of kindness or comfort, but maintained a wise silence.
I shortly called a small gathering to my council room to formally deal with the crisis. This very night Hamlet would depart for England, in fetters if need be. The timing was wretched, for it would indeed appear that I’d been stung with guilt inspired by the mummery of the play. In truth, I had put off sending him to sea, for his presence was a dear thing to Gertrude. She seemed to take her very breath from his glance, and I was loath to bring her pain. But I measured the brief sharp hurt of his leaving against the ongoing agony of months of his out-of-control rants and accusations. If he turned his wrath upon her. . .better to cut the festering limb off now before the poison spread to the rest of the body.