by P. N. Elrod
While I made more detailed arrangements to carry the wretch to foreign shores where his ravings would be ignored, Gertrude attempted to impart some measure of parental authority to Hamlet in her chambers. At the least she would keep him busy while I set things in motion for his removal. I judged she of all would be safe, especially while Polonius played both watchdog and witness as he’d done so many other times before under a variety of circumstances.
But young Hamlet, deranged and worked into a frenzy, did, in the violence of his madness, discover and murder loyal Polonius right in front of poor Gertrude, running him bloodily through with his sword.
Oh, God, what a foul and fell deed it was, and when I learned of it I was torn between boundless grief and a matching fury at the senseless death of a harmless old man. In my heart I called Polonius my second father; if depth of grief could be measured by depth of love, then never would I struggle free of the darkness that enveloped my heart.
But. . .the demands and duties of office forced me to rouse, put off my feelings, and deal with the calamity. There would be no trial, sparing Gertrude that agony. There could be none, since lunatics are not responsible for their wildness. Hamlet would depart for England that night, and so he did, under the close guard of two watchful courtiers.
Then all that remained was this second anguish to live through, and I felt it even more keenly than the loss of my brother, for I might have prevented this death by arresting Hamlet immediately after the disrupted play. Again and again I berated myself for not sending a guard along with Polonius, or instructing him to have a trusted man within close call.
Alas, Gertrude withdrew from me. The ordeal of seeing gentle Polonius murdered had been too much. She’d witnessed a side of her son she never knew existed, not only his mindless ferocity, but his staring awe when he conversed with empty air as though his father stood before them. This reminder of her first husband must have plucked a deep chord of guilt in her heart. I wanted to give her comfort, and perhaps in the giving receive some crumb of it for myself, but from that night on, she held herself aloof from my solitary company, even if only to talk as one friend to another. Without her, without Polonius, I was utterly and wretchedly alone.
Time might have eventually closed even these bleeding wounds to our family, but it was not to be. Young Ophelia was unable to accept her father’s death at the hands of the very man she loved to distraction. Ever excessive in her affections, now did she also slip into madness. Hers was not violent though, and her wandering speech soft, if disturbing. I conjectured then if Hamlet had not at some time pressed his attentions to the point of bedding her, and thus passed on his affliction. I consulted several physicians about the progress of such a disease and was again assured its onset toward madness was slow. It was her mind and spirit that were shot through with lunacy, not her body.
But I had other concerns to keep me engaged.
The news of Polonius’s murder ran fast to the general rabble, causing much unrest, for the old man was popular with them. We gave him an obscure burial, which turned out to be a mistake on my part. As a lifelong servant of the court he deserved better, his bier heaped high with honors and ceremonial ostentation, with proclamations about his virtues made to the people, but at the time I thought it might better to keep things quiet and private. Instead, the scandal of his death was only magnified by this seeming suppression of his passing.
Rumors flew about like scattered birds, the worst being that I had killed him or commanded his death be carried out by a man masquerading as the virtuous Hamlet, then spiriting the assassin away to safety. It was folly, of course, but if a lie is repeated often enough it becomes truth, and there were those in the court who would be glad to see me toppled. There would be no surprise in me to learn Hamlet, in the forefront of that gathering, turned out to be the source of the falsehood.
A garbled version of events traveled swiftly to Paris and thus to Laertes. He sped light along the roads with few companions, changing mounts and pausing to sleep only when he actually fell from the saddle. By the time he reached the borders of Denmark there were crowds waiting to greet him and declare him to be the next king. He used them to expedite his safe passage to Elsinore and to break through my own guards, storming into my chambers threatening hot revenge.
However much the mob hailed him, though, he persuaded them to stand down and wait without, and that was how I knew him to be uninterested in the crown itself. He was a hurting son wanting his father, nothing more.
Gertrude’s presence also brought him up short, made him more willing to listen. She was like a second mother to him and bravely seized upon his sword arm lest he raise it to strike me. I had no fear of him, though. After so many batterings from other quarters I could deal with one angry young man, but it did take all my skill of reasoning to turn him around. Once he saw my own ravaged face an understanding came to him that our hearts were as one in our mourning for a lost parent.
Then did Ophelia come wandering barefoot through the chamber, festooned like a bride in blossoms and weeds alike, singing ribald songs a maiden should not know. Gertrude collapsed into tears from this, and Laertes was frozen by such a shock as to be struck dumb. Ophelia recognized him not, but happily insisted on decking us with some of her garlands as if in celebration of a wedding. For each she had a story or saying that herbalists use to memorize the qualities of each plant.
That is when the awful truth came to me, painful as a knife in the vitals. I felt my legs go weak in reaction, as sick at heart as I’d ever been. I had to sit lest I drop into a womanish faint.
Gentle Ophelia—who knew the name and nature of every flower in the land, who distilled their petals into sweet perfumes and their leaves into cures for small ills—could she not just as well concoct a deadly brew of henbane and other poisonous plants and roots? She knew the story of the gentleman’s revenge that I’d brought from Italy as well as any; might she also have learned the ingredients for making juice of hebenon from some forgotten volume in Elsinore’s book room?
She had right of entry to the orchard when the king was not there. If she hid herself within its twisting paths well before my brother’s arrival—then all she had to do was wait until he slept, then steal soft upon him and. . .
And let herself out later. Or, if there was sufficient confusion attending the discovery, add herself to the gathering and thus make her egress. I’d not noticed her presence that day, like all others, my attention was elsewhere.
But why?
For her thwarted love of Hamlet?
It seemed a foolish, petty motive to me, but to an inexperienced girl caught in the excessive throes of first love. . .I recalled the heat and anguish of my own youth. In those hasty days there is no restraint to the extremes of emotions, and one chafes bitterly against the unfair limits set by others.
And—most telling of all—it was less than a week before my brother’s murder that he’d forbade Ophelia’s marriage to his son.
With this in mind it was like a book opened to a telling page that revealed all. No man would benefit by the king’s death, only this otherwise innocent young girl. In the course of time Hamlet would assume the throne and claim her as his bride, sweeping her off to be his queen as in some old tale told in the nursery. How she must have repeated it to herself in the dreaming dark of her virgin’s bed. How must she have resented and despised my brother for trampling upon her perfect musings.
The fates can be kind in their way, for it was just as well that Polonius was dead, never to know this terrible truth. Would that they had granted me a similar ignorance.
Never could I speak to Gertrude about this, for she might well reproach herself for indirectly causing her first husband’s death. If she’d argued just a little harder for the marriage. . .that was where her mind would take her.
Nor could I speak to Laertes. He had enough misery.
Dear God, but I wanted someone to talk to, but a king’s lot must needs be lonely, his burdens heavy beyond bearing, a
nd only death can bring him to lay them aside.
Laertes and I did come to an accord on one matter, and that was our blaming Hamlet for Polonius’s murder. Yes, it is wicked to hold a lunatic responsible for his rash acts, but a man’s nature can only endure so much and no more, and we had reached our limit. When I received notice that Hamlet had somehow slipped his watchers’ leash and was returned to Denmark it was too great for either of us to continue without taking action. Laertes was all for waylaying him on the road or cutting his throat as he prayed in church, but I with a cooler head and more experience had a better plan. Ironically, it was with Ophelia’s unknowing help.
While visiting Polonius’s chambers, ostensibly to sort out state papers, I also made a sortie to the maid’s own room. It was in considerable disorder as might be expected given her deranged state, but there did I find all the evidence needed to confirm that it was she who murdered my brother. Upon a long bench did she store and refine her perfumes and potions, and in certain bottles hidden behind more innocent distillations she kept the deadly results of her shadowy delvings. There was no mistaking them. Though the bottles were sardonically labeled with names like Heart’s Desire and Maiden’s Wish they stank foul of the grave. I took them away with me, confident she would not miss them now and in secret tested each on vermin supplied to me by the castle rat catcher.
It was frightening to see the effect of her dire inventions, more so to realize that she’d gone unsuspected all these months. At any time she might have taken it into her head to deliver a cruel finish to all of us had she chosen.
But I mentioned none of this to Laertes and only produced one of the poisons, along with a design to remove Hamlet’s destructive presence from us altogether. All Laertes had to do was meet his father’s murderer and make a public reconciliation with him. Then they would conduct an apparently friendly passage of arms as a means to settle a wager. During the course of their demonstration I would see to it Hamlet drank from my own cup of wine. Within the hour he would be dead, seemingly from overexertion, and that would be the end of the matter. It is not unknown for an otherwise fit and hearty man to fall if pressed to his limits. His mother would be sore grieved, but hold none to blame and accept it as God’s will.
Some might think this a cold and malicious action on my part, but along with the burdens of rule it is also a king’s grim lot to order the execution of those who threaten the stability of the state. I would have been entirely within my royal duty and powers to have him arrested and beheaded the same night of the old man’s murder. Only my love for Gertrude held me back from meting out justice.
Laertes then surprised me by also producing a poisonous unction. The smallest scratch would finish Hamlet off, he said. I knew he’d bought it to commit royal murder on my nephew and perhaps even myself, but held back from comment. I, the king, was about to sanction that nephew’s death, changing it from murder to a lawful execution by my word alone. Besides, Hamlet was dying already, we were but speeding the process. Such was my power, and Heaven knows I took no pride in it.
For all that sorrow, the thought came to me of who to declare as my heir once Hamlet was gone. With the troubles that issue from bearing the weight of a heavy crown, it was not a responsibility I would willingly lay upon anyone. I had discussed several possibilities with dear Polonius, one of whom was Laertes himself. He was a good and studious man, perhaps too good of heart to be a ruler, for one is often required to do unpleasant acts for the health of the state. But his fiery resolution to avenge his father, tempered by his willingness to hear my side before taking rash action decided me to name him my heir after the duel.
He has my pity, but I can think of none better suited. I’ve learned to my grief what a terrible burden it is to be king. The state lives on, hopefully in good health, but in the effort to preserve that health for others my own life has been ripped to shreds and patches. May it please God to spare me from further miseries.
Here Gertrude comes, and there is a look on her weeping face that augurs more sorrows for us. In my heart I fear some evil has befallen Ophelia and her sins have found her out. . .
* * *
Last night I dreamed of my dead brother walking the upper platform of Elsinore as was his habit in life, but clothed in warlike raiment. This bodes ill for my beloved Denmark.
Dear God, whatever transpires in the days ahead, I pray You send me wisdom enough to do right for all.
Now and in those times to come, angels and ministers of grace defend us.
-- Claudius Rex --
* * * * * * *
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FUGITIVE
Author’s Note: I became a gushing fan of Lois McMaster Bujold in the 90s, reading and re-reading her Miles Vorkosigan series not only to gleefully relish in the characters and their stories, but to improve my own writing from her example. I had to be peeled off the ceiling when she invited me to contribute to her science fiction collection with Roland Green, WOMEN AT WAR. The following story in my files was tweaked to fit the theme. Changing the original protagonist from male to female brought a new level to things, and made the main character even more paranoid and ruthless.
Have I mentioned that writers never stop tinkering? Some 16 years after publication, the length of this story doubled as I gave it a tune up for this collection and its “voice” took on a decidedly British accent!
Cold wind cut Kella’s eyes as she crept to the crest of the hillock to look for hunting parties in her wake. Nothing on two legs was in sight, just dusty gray and brown vegetation covering thousands of identical hillocks in every direction. The western horizon was still blurred by smoke, which surprised her. Things must be bad if they’d not gotten the fires under control by now. Maybe the prison authorities decided to let the place burn.
The sky was empty of movement. The attack that had enabled her escape would have knocked out any fliers or, at minimum, their control systems. One good pulse would fry anything left unshielded. Of course, if the orbiting scanners were working then this was for nothing and she and her companion would soon be picked up and—
She cut that thought off and scrambled down to where Farron lay curled on the lee side in an attempt to escape the wind. His head rested on one crooked arm, and he was sound asleep. Kella envied his easy surrender to the physical. Her own body craved rest, but her mind wouldn’t settle enough to allow it; she had to focus to keep it from racing in useless speculation about the future. Useless, since it was unlikely she had one. Options for escapees from Riganth were limited to a return to their cells or death. Freedom was a fool’s hope.
Kella gave an inward shrug. Fool or not, she would die before going back to her cage.
She was tempted to leave Farron where he lay, but the man’s skills were her only insurance against an unknown future. He was not wanted, but necessary. If they were lucky they had a few hours left to reach their goal—her goal; Farron was too doped to think straight. If they hurried, a few hours might be enough. After that, what was left of the authorities at the prison would have reorganized and begun tracking down strays.
Farron protested the hard shake and subsequent pull to his feet, but followed as she threaded between the higher bits of drab landscape. Except for the cough he’d picked up in prison, the only sounds in this primal world were their footsteps and the endless susurrating wind bearing them away to infinity. It stank of burning plastic, chemicals, and organics.
She took Farron’s hand when he stumbled, leading him around the less obvious obstacles. Touching another human felt strange to her after so many days of isolation. In those stretches when she’d been aware enough to mark the time, she kept count of at least three hundred of them, though that had to be an underestimation.
Farron paused, his grip tightened, stopping her. He blinked, puzzled. “Are we outside?”
“Yes, we’re outside.”
“It’s cold.”
“Yes, it is.”
Was he waking up or had he gone simple like so many other
s? The drugs given to the general population induced docility and suppressed the libido, but a percentage of prisoners reacted badly, their brains shutting down by degrees. The worst were taken away. She heard what happened to them. If Farron was too far gone it would be a mercy if she broke his neck now than—
He struggled to get out words. “But. . .we shouldn’t be here. Should we?”
She felt a wash of relief. Cognition was intact somewhere inside his skull if he could form that complex a question. “It’ll be all right. Come with me.”
“My feet hurt.”
He wore prison scuffs, which were not intended for walks in the wilderness. Her feet were encased in regulation boots, taken from a guard she’d particularly enjoyed killing. The boots were too large, but she preferred their chafing over bruises and cuts. “So do mine.”
“I’m tired.”
“We’ll rest soon.”
He accepted her word and came along. They put a few more klicks between themselves and hell.
The wind rose, roaring, thick with the smell of destruction. She checked the sky, cursed, and quickly dragged Farron to the steep base of a hillock, pulling him down next to her. Not the best shelter, but it would have to serve. The wind moaned like a living thing, whipping the low growing plants.