by Lisa Fiedler
“Oh, it is brilliance,” I pronounce, clapping my hands. “You will elicit the King’s confession with false madness! Claudius and all will believe your comprehension limited, your judgment askew; therefore, he will not suspect that you suspect and, therefore, will sooner divulge his secret.”
“You understand!” Hamlet allows a grin. “Only when there remains no question of his guilt will I take action.”
“It is genius, my lord.”
“Madness and genius are close cousins, love.” His smile falters. “And yet …”
Hamlet’s heavy breath causes the flames to tremble on the candles.
“Yet what, my lord?”
“Well, I would ask thee not allow this be made known to any of the dull-witted, war-mongering men of this earth, but I, like you, have little love of vengeance.”
“Now I am confused. Will you kill him or not?”
“Aye …” Hamlet closes his eyes. “ … Nay.” He drags one hand across his face in frustration. “I cannot say. I do not know.”
“Do not bother yourself with it now, my lord. I trust you will do the honorable thing when the moment calls for it. To begin, it’s as sound a scheme as it can be, having madness at its core. And I believe I have already begun to assist you in it.”
Hamlet kisses my hair. “How do you help, love?”
“My lord, did you not this very night admit that if you do not soon have me you will indeed go mad?”
Hamlet throws back his head and laughs—a rugged noise that sends a shiver to my spine. And then, with only the breaking dawn to witness it, he brings his lips to mine.
There is a tender invitation in his kisses, and I discover that a choice is a changeable thing; I will be sure to tell as much to Anne.
I do not know how many hours pass that I am in his arms. But this much is certain—if Hamlet is mad, I am not to blame.
Together, we have planned how ’twill begin, and now I tell of it to Anne.
We are deep in the kitchen, alone at midmorning, and she is spicing oldish mutton with saffron and pepper in an attempt to make it edible. For my part, I cannot keep my hands off the figs, or the almonds which await nearby in small piles. Anne has a smudge of cinnamon on her chin, and smells as lovely as she looks.
“Henceforth,” I explain, biting into the sugary flesh of a fig, “Hamlet will put forth a plagued appearance. He will wander Elsinore as a man who is lost—in time and in place and in purpose. He shall ramble on in riots of words which will only skim the calm surface of sanity as stones across a quiet pool.”
“So he will speak nonsense?”
“Aye.”
“There is not much new in that.”
I roll an onion across the wooden table. “There is more.”
“Pray tell.”
“Hamlet will handle me poorly.”
Anne stops spicing. “He would harm you, Lia?”
“Nay! But I will seem to suffer his moods more directly, for we will lead everyone to believe that I am the cause of them.”
“You will pretend Hamlet is crazed with love unrequited?”
“That is it. And in his madness, he will treat me, in varying degrees, with indifference, adoration, loathing, longing, and cruelty. It will be merely a pretense.”
I rest my elbows on the rough-hewn tabletop, drop my chin in my hands, and watch Anne use her greasy thumb to swipe a lock of hair from her face. “This noon, in a most agitated state, I shall to my father’s chamber make, where I will express to him that Hamlet has just made me a most improper visit. I, acting near crazed myself, will describe in Hamlet a most peculiar attitude, reporting that he was wild-eyed but silent, disheveled in dress, and distressed in demeanor. I will feign great fear of him.”
Anne lets out a small snort of laughter. “That is a good one, verily!”
“’Tis true. This will be a most difficult role to play. God’s truth, I do not know how I will bring my mouth to form but one unflattering word about him!”
“Imagine that you speak of Barnardo, then,” advises Anne. “I daresay, that one is a few knights short of a crusade.”
I smile. “He is an oaf, to be sure.”
“Aye.” Anne’s eyes darken. “To be sure.”
Now I am alert. “What is it?”
“’Tis nothing.” She shakes her head.
I straighten up to take her shoulders and turn her to face me. “What hath Barnardo done to thee?”
“He’s done naught, but not for lack of trying.” Sighing, she wipes her hands on her skirt. “When I left your room yesternight, I met him on the stairs. To be polite, I bid him a good evening and smiled. Apparently, he took it to mean more than mere manners, for the next moment found me up against the wall.”
“Roughly … ?”
“Aye. His hold was steady, and he was kissing my neck and shoulders as though he’d been invited to do so.”
“God’s mercy, Anne!” I throw my arms around her and squeeze, then pull back and look her in the eye. “Why did you not fight him?”
“Well, for one thing,” says Anne, rolling her eyes, “the man carries a sword. All things considered, Lia, I thought it far better to have my throat kissed than slit!”
“So you allowed it?”
“What choice had I?”
“Uuhhcckk.”
“Indeed, uhck! Although I believe Barnardo actually thought I was enjoying myself and was grateful for his advances. He is either too full of himself or too stupid to imagine otherwise.”
“But, Anne!” I clasp her hands, ignoring the oily residue which clings to them. “You did nothing to incite this behavior!”
She shrugs. “I did smile.”
“That does not give him such right as to molest you!”
“No, it does not. But he is a soldier, Lia, and I am a servant.” Calmly, she shakes free of my hands and goes back to her task. “It happens. I just count myself lucky that it was not worse. It has been, you know, for others.”
At that, my skin goes cold. I did not know. Could my father have been correct when he called me “green” and “unsifted”—naïve?
“Women of my station …” Anne begins, rubbing pepper into a slick, graying slice of mutton, “must tolerate this sort of thing. We exist, to men’s minds, only to be of use to them … and in any number of ways, some bearable, some vile. But men believe that it is to them to decide. And we have little means of defying that.”
My jaw drops. “You don’t believe that!” I gasp. “You cannot have spent as many years in my company as you have and still believe that.”
“It is not so much that I believe it, as that I accept it.” Anne gives me a sad smile. “It is not the same for us, Lia. You are a lady. A well-born, beautiful lady. You are protected by your birth. I, though …” She sighs. “I am just one who doctors rotting meat.”
“That is not so! You are more.”
“To thee, perhaps. And for that, you have my love.” Silence fills the kitchen. Finally, Anne draws a deep breath and says, “Go on.”
“There is to be a note, written in the Prince’s hand, to me.”
“What manner of note?”
“A letter which describes Lord Hamlet’s love! A love in all its mad grandeur. A love fit to punish, to poison.”
“But to what purpose, this letter?” asks Anne. “It is no secret that you and Hamlet each have it badly for the other.”
“Ah! But this note will be writ as a most puzzling piece of poetry. And since my father has denied me be near Hamlet, or speak to Hamlet, or—oh, the old fool—even think on Hamlet, he will leap to conclude that it is none but my avoidance that causes Hamlet to express himself so wildly, and without reason. Then, as he has such poor regard for me, he will surely present me to Claudius as a pawn in proving good Hamlet’s ill-state.”
“So this note shall be the proof that Hamlet’s missing mind was lost in his pursuit of you?”
I nod.
Anne gives me a long look. “Would you know what I think
, Lia?”
“Yes.”
“I think you’re both mad, and need no note to confirm my suspicions!”
I give her hand a playful slap.
“And that is the entire plan?”
“Aye. Unless events arise to alter it.”
“And what of Horatio? Hath he a role in this deception?”
“Only to keep silent on’t.”
“And me?”
“Oh, we may have use for you,” I tell her. “Later.”
“Later?”
“When Hamlet kills the King.”
Anne blinks at me once, twice, then her knees crumble and she is facedown in a platter of figs.
Anne is lying on a cot in her grim room adjacent to the larder. I have removed her stockings and elevated her feet. She is an amusing sight. I struggle not to laugh.
“Lia, I do not see what you find so comical! Murder is a sin unsurpassed.”
“This is not murder, this is vengeance.”
“You split hairs!” Anne draws the coverlet to her chin and frowns.
“I don’t. Men do.”
“I’ll have none of it.”
“Yes, you will,” I tell her calmly, standing and handing her her slippers. “But let us not talk on it now.” I move to the door.
“Where are you going?” she asks.
“To meet my dearest Hamlet at the stream.” I smile at her over my shoulder. “We’ve a letter to compose.”
CHAPTER FOUR
WE ARE TOGETHER ON THE BANK OF THE STREAM. It glistens and tumbles and splashes itself, shallow in spots, deeper in others. In the distance, the sun throws long shadows from the towers of Elsinore.
On the opposite bank, I notice a figure, a man in dusty clothes, with a spade on his shoulder. He walks at a jaunty, almost musical pace. When he reaches the point directly across the stream from us, he turns and lifts his spade in a friendly salute.
I can see the dark lashes that rim his eyes from here. I wave.
“Who is that?” I ask.
Hamlet tilts his head backward. “Ah. The gravedigger. I’ve heard him sing.”
“A singing gravedigger?”
“He is.”
“That is an unlikely combination.”
Hamlet nods.
I watch the man as he climbs the small hill that swells beyond the stream, away from Elsinore. There is a path down the other side which leads to the graveyard. Anne and I explored there once as girls; Laertes and Hamlet followed and frightened us near to death!
“I have never seen him,” I say, more to myself than to Hamlet. “And yet he seems familiar.”
Hamlet has not heard. I return to my teasing of him with a grass blade, leading it toward his temple, then sweeping small circles around his ear. He is ticklish there.
“Stop.” It is not an order, but a plea.
“’Tis fun.”
Laughing, he catches the weapon of my attack between his fingers and tears the blade in two. “We will accomplish nothing, lady, if you continue this torture.” Hamlet rolls to his side and picks up a quill. “What shall we write in this letter? I cannot decide.” His eyes darken in self-accusation, and he adds, “I can never decide.”
“That is not true, my lord. You never have trouble deciding how best to make me smile.”
He grins his gratitude, and reaches for me.
“The letter,” I remind him.
“Yes. How will it begin?”
“Dear Ophelia.”
“Too plain. Perhaps …” He thinks. “‘To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautiful Ophelia’?”
“Oh!” My heart beomes a thousand glittering butterflies! I imagine they escape my body on the shine of my eyes. “That’s a pretty phrase; ‘beautiful’ is a lovely word.”
“I am glad that you are pleased.”
“But we must change it.”
“Change what is pretty and lovely?”
“Just by the breadth of a few letters, just enough to allow for misunderstanding. You may call me the most beautified Ophelia. Implying that there may be falsehood in my beauty.”
“Clever girl.” Hamlet writes it. “And then … ?”
“Well,” I say, plucking another stalk of grass and wrapping it round my finger. “If you are to convince Claudius that you are mad for love, you must compose lines to indicate that you love madly.”
“I do love madly,” says Hamlet.
I blush, liking his honesty and the ease with which he attests to this. “That is good to hear, my lord. But we’re wanting to show that love has tricked you outside of yourself That love has knocked you senseless.”
“That is the truth.” He smiles. Then a ragged breath escapes him. “I only wish there were more truths alive at Elsinore. I so greatly hate the lies.”
“The lies, my lord?” A chill wind whips through, and I move closer to his warmth. “I do not believe it is the lies of which we should be wary.”
“What mean you?”
“I mean that the lies merely disguise what is the plentiful truth, and the truth of this situation is a far greater danger than the lie.”
He looks at me a moment. “You are keen, my love. I had not thought on it as such.”
“We ourselves are about to lie, are we not?”
His eyes get warm. “Again, love?”
“You are shameless!” I tell him, laughing. “You know my meaning is that we are about to compose a lie in this letter!”
“Yes. So let us have at it. ‘Most beautified Ophelia. You must not doubt my love.’ How sounds that?”
“Sane, sir, unfortunately. But you give me an idea. Wouldn’t mad love cause one to doubt what is surely undoubtable? Could love so true be so beyond doubtless as to render even the undoubtable doubtful by comparison?”
Hamlet shifts a look at me. “If that does not convey a damaged mind, I do not know what will.”
“Precisely! Write this: ‘Doubt thou the stars … doth shimmer on high.’”
Hamlet puts pen to parchment, then halts. “Or ‘Doubt thou the stars are fire.’ How is that?”
“Oh, that is even better! Go on.”
“Doubt … that the sun doth move.”
“Yes! Beauteous, my lord. ’Twould be nice if it could rhyme!”
Hamlet frowns. “Is that not a little much, love?”
I lift my chin, pretend a pout. “I’ve always wished for a love letter in rhyming verse.”
“Then you shall have one.” He grumbles in concentration a moment; then his pen moves again. “‘Doubt … truth … to be … a liar. But never doubt … I love.’”
“More …”
“‘O dear Ophelia, I am ill at these numbers … .’”
“No, sir, you are quite the opposite—you prove yourself quite talented at writing verse!”
He taps the parchment with the quill point. “I want to say, somehow, that in your arms our sighs do come in such great amounts that I am hopeless even to count them.”
“Yes, that is lovely, Hamlet. Try this: ‘I have not art to reckon …’”
The quill flies across the page. “‘ … art to reckon …’”
“‘My groans.’”
“‘My …’” His head snaps up, and his eyes lock on mine. Beneath them is a smile. “Groans, lady?”
“Groans, sire. Remember, you are meant to be mad. A madman would bar no honesty from his verse.”
“Honesty is one thing, sweet. This is sheer wantonness.” He laughs, shrugs, writes: “‘I have not art to reckon my groans … but … but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it.’” Hamlet lifts his gaze to me and repeats, “I love thee best. Believe it.”
“Pray, let that not be a piece of the made-up madness.”
“I have never been more lucid,” he promises, “more sure, or more sound.” He sweeps me into his arms and holds me. “What would your father say, were he to know that you do see me after he’s forbidden it?”
“He would be angry,” I say calmly.
“And angrier still if he knew … if he knew you plan to wed one who will kill a king.”
I lean away and study Hamlet closely. “You are worried.”
“Aye. It began the moment my father’s ghost did will this task to me. ’Tis the burden of my birth—to set this villainy to right. And though I may loathe the custom of revenge, I loathe foul Claudius more. And yet …”
“Yet?”
“It is a decision that all but grinds the enamel from my teeth.”
“But there is no decision, sir, for the decision has been made for you.”
“By a ghost?”
“Nay, by history!” I clasp his hand. “By centuries of backward-thinking sons of murdered fathers. Their grim legacy is visited upon your soul, and for that I pity you. It is not right, but it is done, and needs be done again.”
“Aye.” He nods, a heavy nod. “I will kill the King. But ’tis most difficult to act swiftly when regret does slow my blood.”
“Talk not to me of difficulty, good sir, until you have lived but one day as a woman.”
At last, a smile, or part of one at least. “Which brings me to the question of my mother’s response to all of this. She herself has become a question without answer, now a monster in mine eyes, and yet, as well, an angel. Victim of Claudius, to be certain, but also of her own feminine frailty.”
My mouth turns down at him. “I prefer we talk not on your notion of frailty and women, sir. In fact, I warn thee—go not there.”
“I have never called you frail, love,” he assures me. “Indeed, I can think of no more preposterous falsehood.”
“You are wise to say so, Hamlet. And now tell me of Fortinbras.”
He looks surprised. “You know of Fortinbras?”
I nod.
“I thought you had no appreciation for war.”
“Appreciation, my lord, is other than interest, and what does with thee is ever of utmost concern to me. I know that Fortinbras does march from Norway to avenge his father’s death and to conquer Elsinore, which means he would surely take your life—and, in so doing, mine as well.”
