by Lisa Fiedler
“Soft, my lord … forgive me, but I must say what I must say. I have been out … on the guard’s platform.”
“The guard’s platform, lady? Did you seek to be of some assistance to the soldiers?”
(Little does he know how desperately they required it!)
“No, my lord. I went on an inkling. I believed something was to be seen there.”
Hamlet rises now, makes his way toward me, and stands close. I feel his breath; his chest comes even with my forehead.
“And were you correct?” He whispers this, his thumb beneath my chin, lifting.
“I was, sir.”
There is a kiss waiting. I reach for it, eyes closed, and rise on tiptoe. My Hamlet meets me, lips to lips, tenderly and possessed of a calm satisfaction I’ve not felt from him in weeks. It nearly does me in. The kiss lasts moments, hours, days. It is a second at most, but enough.
“Tell me.”
“I saw … the King.”
His muscles go taut, rigid with hatred. “Claudius was on the guard’s watch?”
“No.”
“But Claudius is King.”
“Aye, my lord, and Denmark be the worse for it”
This earns a smile, a sweeter kiss. “I do love thee, Ophelia.”
“And I thee, my lord.”
“But …”
Nay, not but! I brace myself “My lord?”
“I am sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“For I am torn, my lady, at the very seams of my being. On the one side, I am teeming with such indescribable happiness, the total cause of which is that I lay mine eyes on you!”
“This sounds not like something for which one should apologize.”
“Nay, love, but it is not the happiness in my heart for which I beg pardon. It is the other side, the side which harbors a sadness so sharp it slices me to the core. I despise life, even as I adore it. I am split, you see, catapulted to heaven by my love for you, and dashed to hell with the thought of enduring life in such a world as this.”
“I am content with the half that loves me,” I assure him.
“Grateful am I that you say so, lady, but, God, O God, can it be fair?” His torment sends him pacing, wide, weary strides as heavy as his thoughts. “Is it fair I ask you love me when I love nothing in my sight save you?”
“You never asked, Hamlet. I love you of my own accord.”
And now, of a sudden, I find myself wrapped in his arms, pulled fast against him. He smells manly, of clean linen, and new leather, and fire—holding me tight for long, long minutes, while his chest heaves with great sobs.
When again he speaks, his voice is gently gruff “You will not feel abandoned, then? You will understand that the part of myself where I keep your love is safe and separate from the part so riddled with despair?”
“I understand, dear Hamlet.”
He laughs at this, then steadies himself with a breath. “Now, then, love. Pray, what did you see on the platform?”
“A ghost.”
Hamlet steps backward and regards me with narrow eyes. “Seek you to make me laugh some more?”
“No. There is nothing humorous in this, sir. I saw a ghost. The ghost of our late King. Your father’s spirit, Hamlet! I swear by Saint James’ sandal, it is so. I saw it.”
There is something in his eyes now—some stony hesitation that is not quite disbelief He studies me, and I meet his gaze. “I grant it is difficult to take for truth, but you must, good Hamlet. Do not doubt it.”
“You do not doubt it, lady, I shall.” He is already three strides toward the door, but I call him back.
“Not now. ’Tis nearly full light, and he has gone. But he will return. The same instinct that sent me out this night tells me so. Something is sorely unsettled if such a noble spirit as your father’s cannot rest”
Hamlet drops to a seat, one hand rakes his lovely hair, and his face is filled with hope and horror. “What could be so wicked that could drag a man from death?”
“I believe he will tell you.”
He thinks on this, his eyes shining. “Who else saw?”
“The guard Barnardo. Marcellus. And Horatio.”
“Horatio. My trusted friend. He is here? And saw the spirit. Yet he has not come to tell me.”
“He plans to, my lord. I suspect he delays only so as not to disturb your sleep.”
“Sleep … ,”says Hamlet. “I barely remember the state.”
“Aye, sir. I understand.”
“Did Horatio or the others speak to the ghost?”
“Horatio attempted but failed miserably. I thought to try but feared the men would disapprove. I wanted to tell the spirit of your enduring devotion, your deep sadness, and your love. Horatio discovered me and advised that I keep silent, as it is unseemly for me to be roaming the castle at dawn.”
“I am sure you had good reason for your wandering.”
“I did, my lord. The moon beckoned me.”
Hamlet sighs. “I am familiar with that call.”
“Horatio was concerned that you might be troubled by even my accidental nearness to him.” I pause, then venture boldly: “Are you, my lord?”
“Do you ask if I am jealous, love?”
I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
Again, he gives me the gift of his laughter. “You are as honest as you are lovely,” he tells me. “And so I will be honest with thee. Aye, I am desperately jealous of Horatio. And Marcellus, and Barnardo, and the groom who tends to your mare, and the servant who sets your plate before you, and the one who clears it away. In short, my lady, I am jealous of any man who has even the briefest opportunity to look upon you!”
I cannot suppress a scowl. “I thought you trusted me!”
“I do trust you, sweet Ophelia. It is the entire male gender which I mistrust. My greatest fear is that one day a better man than I will come along and steal you away.”
“There is no better man than you,” I assure him, tingling at the flattery. “But as I do not wish to be scolded by Horatio when he brings this news, please do not let on that I have beat him to it.”
“I swear it.” He kisses me once more, and there is starlight in it. “You must go.”
“I wish you sleep, sweet Hamlet.”
“And I wish you the same. Good night, Ophelia.”
“Good night.”
Another kiss, and I am gone.
I dress.
A day gown, the color of the moon, embroidered at the cuffs with silver-pink roses. Customarily, ’tis Anne who dresses me, but, wanting to miss nothing, I have sent her ahead for a most significant purpose. Now I am at the mercy of the Queen’s eldest attendant. I urge her to make haste, impatient with her for she is meticulous and precise—every fastening fixed, every wrinkle smoothed. When Anne assists me in the burdensome task of getting dressed, we hurry so that ’tis a wonder I manage to leave my chamber with my ankles concealed.
I am wanted in the audience chamber with the rest of the courtiers. The new King Claudius, uncle to Hamlet and now stepfather as well, has summoned one and all. Anne, at this very moment, will be pressing herself against the railing of the gallery, listening for news to report to me. Were I not so interested in two of the points at issue, I would not e’en attend.
Oh, what an ugly affair it is, and yet all of them smile and smile, toasting the circumstance as if ’twere blessed. I loathe it, and fear it. This is how it goes:
Our King Hamlet died suddenly, not four months past. The Queen, his widow, my Hamlet’s beloved mother, did mourn him greatly at first.
And yet, such agony did not last.
Too soon the sobbing ceased, too sudden were made the plans to marry. Queen Gertrude was to become wife to the brother of her husband. I imagined her cheeks still damp with tears of mourning whilst her newlywed King splattered his unjust kisses upon them.
In truth, it all disgusted me. Disgusts me still.
And to see the pained expression on Hamlet’s
face as the vows were spoken. That was the start of his melancholy mood—as if the loss of his father were not enough! It is even sickening to say it—his uncle now his father, his mother now his aunt. It is nothing less than evil, nothing less than sin.
It is a celebration of this sin to which I hurry now. I will take no pleasure in it, I go only because my father, Polonius, wills it so.
My father … Shall I even begin?
Some find him quite entertaining, a comical sort, who revels in the sound of his own voice, regardless whether there be matter in his words. I have long ago come to understand that my father does not love me. It is not for anything I’ve done or not done. Love is an emotion for which he has no use. He boasts of my brother, a student, a soldier, a son—but I am a daughter, a useless burden; he will see to my marriage and forget me.
But my mother loved me dearly and my brother, Laertes, as well.
He is very like our mother, Laertes is. Kind and beautiful and wise. Laertes loves me—I know this to be true. He is as no brother ever was—devoted, concerned, sometimes a nuisance, but always a dear friend. He worries after me, which I have never quite understood but always liked.
Laertes used to fret over such things as my falling from horses and developing rashes from too close contact with my flowers (which he teasingly calls weeds). His worry has taken a new turn of late—and Hamlet, having made his affection for me known, is at the root of it. Laertes’ worry increases with the blossoming of my womanly figure. It is funny, and he is dear.
Laertes will speak to the King today, to learn whether he be permitted to return to France. I will ache for his absence but eagerly will await his return and the magnificent tales it will bring.
Yes, Laertes will speak to the King … and Horatio to the Prince. I heard him bid Marcellus join him in telling Hamlet what he hath witnessed on the watch; they will do so once the King’s gathering has dispersed.
In the audience chamber, all is glad and raucous. I slip in, unnoticed by all but Hamlet, who stays to himself, at a short but purposeful distance. His gaze rests on me for a long moment, and there is the memory of our last kiss in it.
I fix my eyes upon the King, who, from his high perch upon his brother’s throne, is a disquieting sight. His garments are of fine silk, his fingers are crowded with jeweled rings, heavy and glinting in the heavenly streamers of sunlight which inappropriately bathe him and his stolen Queen.
The Queen! Oh, how I once loved her. When married to King Hamlet, she was a proud and gentle presence. In truth, I thought Gertrude much like my own mother—a beauty, with playful spirit and fertile mind. But now I see she has misplaced her loveliness. She has the same bright-cobalt eyes as my Hamlet, and her smiling lips are petal-toned, also like his. But to me, today, she is cold and colorless—even as she doth blush warmly beneath her husband’s touch.
I arrive in time to hear the repugnant King inform good Hamlet that he shall not be permitted to return to school.
Oh, they deny him to go to Wittenberg! I all but shatter into joyful fragments of myself. Hamlet stays! But guilt swiftly trespasses upon this most selfish gladness, as my thoughts lean toward Hamlet’s desires.
Would he be lighter at Wittenberg, away from the ostentatious affection of his mother for her King? Does he long to be away, to free himself from the waking nightmare of this place?
I turn to him, and I fear I will see disappointment in his eyes. But it is in this instant that Hamlet turns to me, and, in the space of a heartbeat … he smiles.
He is pleased to remain! No doubt, I am beyond pleased to have him do so. And then dear Hamlet, my boyish Prince, surprises me with a sudden wink. It is flirtation, part, but something more.
A secret. A promise.
A prayer.
Anne has been hiding in the gallery. When the assemblage disperses, I hurry to meet her. We seclude ourselves there to listen as Horatio reports to Hamlet.
Hamlet is alone, awaiting the arrival of his friends. I am curious to hear if Horatio will be full true in his testimony. Will he confess his poor manners, his aggressive stance in the King’s presence? Or will he shave away the more prickly whiskers of the story to show himself smooth to judgment’s touch?
Now Hamlet’s solitude is stolen by the sound of footsteps as Horatio, Marcellus, and Barnardo enter. Barnardo looks as though he has already forgotten why he’s come. ’Tis true what Hamlet says of him: he is not the pointiest arrow in the quiver!
Hamlet and Horatio embrace. Now I shall learn how gifted a player is Hamlet.
Talk is small at first; then Hamlet, eager to get on with it, offers an inroad, confiding to Horatio, “My father—methinks I see my father.”
“Where, my lord?”
“In my mind’s eye, Horatio …”
The subject has surfaced. Now it is for Horatio, and he does not disappoint.
“My lord, I think I saw him yesternight.”
Hamlet’s expression is properly confused. “Saw who?”
“My lord,” says Horatio, “the King, your father.”
“The King, my father?”
Horatio holds up his hand, and asks for Hamlet’s indulgence of what will surely be a tale beyond belief. I lean so far o’er the balcony that Anne must clutch my skirt to keep me from toppling.
Horatio gives his testimony—the guards, the watch, the approximate time. He describes the ghost and relays that he was armed. He makes no mention of his commanding tone, nor does he admit his inclination to strike the apparition with his sword. It is for this reason I regret that men record history; they include only the details which reflect well upon themselves.
“’Tis very strange,” says Hamlet, as if he’s been told nothing of it before; he blinks and shakes his head in consternation. (I almost believe his amazement myself!)
“I will watch tonight,” Hamlet whispers. “Perchance ’twill walk again.”
Before they depart, Hamlet implores them to keep their silence. He says he will visit them upon the platform ’twixt eleven and twelve.
(Will he visit me at ten? He is surely welcome.)
When they have gone, Anne hurries away that she might cross paths with Horatio in the hall. Hamlet lifts his divine eyes to mine in the gallery.
“My father’s spirit—in arms! All is not well. I doubt some foul play. Would the night were come … .”
(Aye, I am thinking, in particular the hour of ten!)
I wave to him a kiss from my fingertips, and he is off. Then Anne’s voice is calling me from the hall, telling me I must to my father’s quarters.
I have almost forgotten—my dear Laertes is to depart for France.
A storm does rage within me.
It is not just rain in my soul which pours from the cloud-swept emotion of Laertes’ bittersweet farewell; there is also a rumbling thunder that echoes after the lightning of my father’s harsh command. He has decreed that I am not to talk to the Lord Hamlet.
I repeat his bruising declaration to Anne. We are alone in my room, where I have thrown myself upon the pallet, and my tears spill freely, my fury overrun only by a deep, deep yearning to share this with my mother.
“He prohibits you even speak to Hamlet?” Anne is stunned. “He cannot mean that!”
“Oh, by the devil’s long tail, he means it! While to my brother he gives advice … and gives, and gives advice … of a most trivial nature. ‘Buy costly clothes. Dress well, keep your thoughts to yourself, resist the urge to borrow or lend a coin!’ This is what he tells his son—‘To thine own self be true.’”
Anne frowns. “How may one be true to oneself when one is expected to follow these many lofty and particular directives of another?”
“You see? My father is a fool, and a cruel-hearted one at that. For from his daugher he demands the very opposite—that I deny who I am, by forsaking the love that defines me.”
Anne is quiet a moment. “Will you?”
“Will I? Aye, a will have I. And a most solid one, you mark it. I will what I w
ill.”
Anne rolls her eyes. “You speak now like Hamlet,” she laments with a sigh. “I am lost. You’ve blown in here as on a bitter breeze to announce your father forbids you love your love. That I understand. But, marry, much is left unsaid.”
“What else would you know?”
“Well, to begin,” says Anne, “I would know what Laertes said to thee upon his leave.”
I expel a long, windy breath. “He expressed most brotherly concerns.”
“Touching Hamlet?”
“Aye, and touching Hamlet is most certainly not allowed.”
“Lia!” Anne blushes, then shakes her head. “So Laertes’ perception reflects your father’s? He too would have you be scarce with the Prince?”
“Aye. He urged me think on Hamlet’s attention as a condition not permanent. Sweet, but not lasting. I tell you, Anne, it was all I had to keep from breaking into laughter when talked he of a growing body as—believe you this?—a ‘temple.’”
“He did not!” Anne bursts into giggles.
“Aye,” I say, giggling myself “He did.”
I move toward the collection of pots beside my window and absently examine a withering fennel plant which grows there. “He spoke of buds and blossoms, and how the cankerworm might be their ruin! His point, of course, had naught to do with botany but with chastity. Suffice it to say that my brother took great pains to suggest I protect my virtue from Hamlet’s advances. He bid me not be gullible to Hamlet’s pleading.”
“Does Hamlet plead?”
“Well … I would not call it pleading, but he does propose, and coax, and both he does convincingly. Laertes warned that I might lose my heart, or—hear this one, Anne—my ‘chaste treasure.’”
“Hah!” Annes shakes her head. “Whilst he goes off to France to enjoy himself treasure-hunting among the women there!”
I sigh. “True. But I care not how my brother tends his garden, if you get my meaning. That is his business. As Hamlet is mine.”
“And what,” Anne whispers, “do you intend with regard to the matter of such tending?” She pauses to summon boldness, then inquires, “Would you give yourself to Hamlet soon?”
