by Lisa Fiedler
Laertes does not move, watching the emotion sweep o’er the Prince’s face, flash in his eyes. Mayhap Hamlet doubts his own senses; indeed, he did not expect such pain from a blunted sword. But a glance tells him he bleeds. His bellow breaks the stillness.
And now a tussle; the Prince deftly forces an exchange of swords. ’Tis brilliant, aye, but most contrary to our plan. Hamlet wields the sharp one now! Laertes dodges him, jerking sideways, but Hamlet is nimble, and with a shout delivers a long, jagged gash to Laertes’ chest.
“Part them!” cries the King.
“Nay, come again!” shouts Hamlet.
Across the platform, Gertrude attempts to rise from her throne. But the poison is swift, and she has not the strength to balance herself She sways, then drops to the floor.
Several servants fly to her aid. Claudius seems paralyzed upon his throne.
Horatio, still engrossed in the match, sweeps his gaze from Hamlet to Laertes. “They bleed on both sides!” he announces, then turns to the Prince. “How is it, my lord?”
Hamlet does not answer. Already, I recognize the poison’s aspect. The color drains from him, and his eyes drop though he struggles to keep them open. The same is true of my brother.
Laertes turns a sleepy but loathing glare to the King. His legs betray him now and give way; he drops to his knees dramatically. “I am justly killed with mine own treachery.”
Anne bends a look at me. “He overacts.”
I nod.
Hamlet is trying to reach the Queen but is stayed by those who would tend to his wound.
“How does the Queen?” he demands.
Claudius blanches. “She swoons to see them bleed,” he bluffs in a hollow voice.
But the Queen is wise to it now. “No, no, the drink, the drink!” She spreads her shivering arms, a last embrace for no one. “Oh, my dear Hamlet! The drink, the drink! I am poisoned.”
I do not know why I tremble, for I have orchestrated all of this. But I have seen one mother die, and though this death is temporary, ’tis still most painful. It is as though, in her closing moments, all her virtue is restored. In the final flutter of her eyes, I see her deep regret, her sorrow, her need to be forgiven. She is the Gertrude I once cherished. Oh, ’tis gut-wrenching to witness the waning of such grace, such goodness, e’en as I know this death is finite.
Hamlet is wild now, even as the exhaustion stalks him. “Oh, villainy! Treachery! Seek it out.”
But he need not seek it, for it comes to him in Laertes’ confession. “It is here, Hamlet,” he coughs, pointing to the Prince’s rapier to indicate its tainted tip. “Hamlet, thou art slain.” From his knees, at the center of the platform, he pants, fighting to remain alert. “No med’cine in the world can do thee good,” he lies.
’Tis of course for Claudius’s benefit he saith such. Hamlet stares at him, weakening rapidly, battling to grasp my brother’s meaning.
“The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, unbated and envenomed … . The King, the King’s to blame.”
“The point envenomed too!” Hamlet reels, dragging the hand that does not hold his weapon down the pallor of his face. He staggers toward the King. “Then, venom, do thy work.”
He slashes the blade through the air, catching Claudius near his ribs.
The King grunts, doubles over. Some in the crowd call “Treason!” as the King begs for help.
Now Hamlet stumbles to the table to snatch the cup. Taking hold of Claudius, he presses it to his lips and forces the wine down his gullet.
“Here, thou incestuous, murd’rous, damned Dane!” he shouts with what little strength remains within him. “Drink this potion.”
The King chokes, gags, ingesting the ruined wine.
Eyes flashing, Hamlet releases the King. “Follow my mother.”
I watch, heart thudding, as the pearl which bore the poison drops from the cup and rolls ’cross the platform, where Laertes scoops it up.
“He is justly served,” says my brother, on a cough. “It is a poison tempered by himself.” Holding the pearl between his fingers, Laertes gives the Prince a beseeching look. “Exchange forgiveness with me, noble Hamlet. Mine and my father’s death come not upon thee, nor thine on me.”
I glance around to check how the crowd receives it. A tear meanders down the cheek of the nobleman beside me. Brilliant Laertes. He has provided all with an ending most acceptable.
In a withering but honest voice, Hamlet accepts and grants the absolution. His chin falls to his chest, he lurches forward. Good Horatio is at his elbow to hold him up.
“I am dead, Horatio.” ’Tis spoken as though he can’t quite believe it. He falls against his friend. Anne gasps. I wonder when I began to weep.
“Horatio, I am dead.” His head drops to Horatio’s shoulder. “Thou livest; report me and my cause aright to the unsatisfied.”
But Horatio too is weeping. To my astonishment he takes the near-empty goblet and makes to drink from it.
Again, Anne gasps. “He would take his life!”
“He believes you dead,” I whisper, “and his closest friend does die in his embrace. He is racked with despair.”
But before Horatio can bring the goblet to his lips, Hamlet summons the might to grab it.
“Let go!” is the Prince’s husky demand; the cup clatters to the floor. With eyes distant and desperate, he begs his friend remain alive to tell his story.
From a distance comes the sound of drums; without warning, a shot rings out.
Hamlet surrenders to the poison now, and would fall to the floor were it not for Horatio’s firm hold.
Many of the assembly rush to the window; from there the report is hollered back to us.
“They descend upon us—Norway and England at once!”
“Fortinbras comes to conquer Denmark,” cries the nobleman beside me, “and on his way salutes with shots those who arrive from English shores.”
“Why come the English?” asks Anne.
I know not; my eyes are fixed on Hamlet as he nears his transient slumber. Horatio leans closer, for the Prince’s voice has become a mere wisp of sound.
“I cannot hear,” says Anne from behind me. “What says the Prince?”
“Fortinbras will become the new lord of Elsinore, and Hamlet is for it,” I tell her. “He charges Horatio to impart all of what hath occurred to this new King, so that he may set it right.”
Hamlet heaves a heavy breath. He does not see me rush forth to be by his side, for his eyes close now in earnest. I press close to him, wanting to comfort him, to assure him that his spirit does not dissolve within him.
But to him this death is true death, and he slips from the world with one final, perfect thought.
Saith Hamlet, “The rest is silence.”
Silence.
Carefully, Horatio lowers his friend to the floor.
All present bow their heads in prayer as Horatio continues. “Good night, sweet Prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
I reach down to touch Hamlet’s cheek. ’Tis now that Horatio notices me. He looks blank for a moment. His brow wrinkles as he tries to place me, this grubby boy who weeps for the Prince. His face takes on a stunned expression. He drags me away from Hamlet to inquire: “Ophelia?” He blinks, mouth open. “But …”
I press a finger to my lips to hush him. Before I can speak, however, more drum noise assaults us, this time from within.
Horatio is alert now. I scramble back into the crowd. Next I know, the hall is filled with flags and attendants, and behind them strolls Fortinbras of Norway. Three men join them, whom I surmise to be the ambassadors from England. I do not tarry to hear what follows. There is something I must do.
I open the door to my chamber and step inside. A choke of sadness escapes my throat, for I know with all certainty that I will ne’er again enter this place. ’Twas here my mother rocked me as an infant in her arms; ’twas here she returned to me, a smoky vision with most miraculous news. ’Twas here that Ham
let and I …
I shall not dwell on’t. I press the tears from my eyes and hurry to gather what I came for.
When I leave, I close the door behind me.
Hope awaits. I don’t look back.
I return to the hall to find Fortinbras alone, surveying his new realm with a serious expression. All the “dead” have been removed, with the exception of Claudius. I expect servants will come for him anon. At this moment, I know, Horatio and Anne are having Laertes and Hamlet brought from the morgue to my father’s cottage. I smile, recalling the shocked look in Horatio’s eyes at finding me alive. ’Twas nothing compared with the joy he must feel at seeing Anne.
Now I step o’er Claudius’s body and boldly approach young Fortinbras.
He eyes me strangely. He is uncommonly large; even his voice is gigantic. “I did not expect the men of Denmark would be so delicate.”
At first, I do not catch the reference, and cock an eyebrow at him somewhat rudely. “Hm? Oh!” ’Tis now I remember how I am dressed. Swallowing hard, I remove my hood, letting my long hair cascade around my shoulders.
“I am not a man, my lord. I am Ophelia, a lady of this court.
Now I have his attention.
“A lady of this court in tattered breeches?” Fortinbras folds his arms across his chest and smiles slightly.
I ignore the warm invitation in his voice. “Permit me, Your Majesty, but I would tell thee of the turn of events that brings us to this peculiar situation.”
He looks at me in Tuck’s braies. “I find myself very willing to listen to anything you might have to say. Pray, give me your story.”
I draw a deep breath. “Well … it began with the King that’s dead. His brother, who lies here, appearing quite dead himself, poisoned him. ’Twould have gone unknown, his death being thought natural, except that the ghost told the Prince.”
“Ghost?”
“Of the deceased King Hamlet. He came upon the guard’s watch and told of his murder to the Prince. But not before his evil brother had married his wife.”
“The Queen? She who has just been carried away to the morgue?”
“Aye. They married hastily, and Claudius became King. It was then that the ghost appeared to reveal the truth. The Prince was reluctant to believe the word of a ghost, of course, and so he set out to prove that his uncle, now his stepfather, was to blame, in order that he might rightfully avenge his father’s death. ’Twas then the Prince went mad.”
Fortinbras lowers his brows. “The Prince went mad.”
“Aye, but not really. ’Twas feigned, you see, for the purpose of drawing out the King.”
“The King that’s dead?”
“No, the forged one, his uncle.” I motion with my head to the body behind me. “That one, who merely looks dead. Hamlet pretended madness, which the general populace of this castle did attribute to my refusal to return his love. He also reconstructed the argument of a play. A play performed by traveling players, amended by the Prince to describe the murderous deed committed by Claudius against his brother. Claudius was most upset by it, leading the Prince, and, for that matter, myself, to accept the accusation put forth by the ghost. Alas, our plan went slightly awry here; Hamlet accidentally killed my father … .”
Fortinbras gives me an incredulous look.
“Well, not my father; but the man believed by all to be my father.” I pause to smile. “That, my lord, is another story altogether.”
“Hmm.”
“Claudius then sent Hamlet to England, requesting he be put to death. Anne found that out.”
“Anne?” Before I can begin my explanation regarding Anne, he holds up his hands and says in a resigned voice, “Anne. Yes. Go on.”
“I was most despondent, as you might guess, to imagine Hamlet dead, and more determined to prove the King guilty. ’Twas then that I put on my own antic disposition, and, if I do say, ’twas quite convincing. About this time, the King commenced to make lewd advances toward me, and as I would rather be dead than touched by him, I died. Not wholly, merely long enough to be thought buried. ’Twas accomplished with the use of a poison which gives the illusion of death. ’Twas quite useful, too, for ’tis that same poison that is responsible for the seeming death of Prince Hamlet, my brother, the Queen”—I jerk my thumb in the direction of Claudius’s cadaverous form—“and him.”
Fortinbras stares at me a long moment.
“Am I to understand,” he says at last, “that the King is still alive?”
“Aye. And it falls to you to decide if he shall remain thus. Claudius looks dead, but ’tis only sleep which has besieged him.” I reach into the pocket of my breeches and produce a vial containing the antidote. “This will save him, should you deem him deserving of salvation. You are lord of Elsinore now, so ’tis up to you to choose.”
Fortinbras studies the King and frowns. “I have much to arrange here,” he mutters thoughtfully. “I would see the castle, then the grounds. And ’twould be good to view my chambers, mayhap bathe as well.” He shrugs, then turns to me. “I shall decide all of this on the morrow, then, for I find that I am hungry, and should much enjoy dining with a lady fair as thee.”
Dinner? At a time such as this? Does he jest? I blink at him in disbelief
“Well, Ophelia? Surely this business will wait till—”
“No!” I thunder in reply. “That is, no thank you, Highness.”
He stares at me, his eyes solemn. ’Tis as though I can see the weight of his duty bearing down upon him. He sighs gustily.
“No dinner, then. A pity.” For a moment, his eyes brighten with mischief “Unless you would join me for the purpose of providing more thorough edification regarding this slumberous villain’s crimes.”
I reach beneath my tunic and withdraw the scroll on which I inscribed the extent of Claudius’s crimes. “’Tis all written here. I would ask thee to strongly consider his offenses in naming his fate.”
He takes the scroll. “And the Queen? Does she merely sleep as well?”
I nod.
“What dost thou recommend with regard to her judgment? Would you have me spare her life?”
“I would, my lord. There is much that is good in her. I beseech thee, revive her, and give her a place in this court. The poison becomes lethal in the fifth hour; therefore, I ask that you see to Her Majesty’s cure quickly.”
“As you desire, Lady Ophelia.” Fortinbras of Norway takes the vial, and my hand as well, which he draws slowly to his lips. “’Tis becoming clear to me that, even did I wish it, I could deny you nothing.”
Men! ’Tis an act of immeasurable will to refrain from rolling my eyes.
“I have one additional request, my liege, if I may”
“You need only speak it”
“In a chamber above the stairs, the one which o’erlooks the bailey to the east, you will find a rather impressive collection of wildflowers and herbs. I would ask that you see to it they are tended. It is my opinion that Sigrid, the chambermaid, is in dire need of a more productive pastime than the one with which she presently occupies herself And so I suggest it be Sigrid to whom my flowers are entrusted. Beyond the stream, at the end of the cemetery path, she will find the gravedigger’s cottage. He will instruct her in the care and employment of these precious plants.”
Fortinbras nods slowly, taking it all in. “So … the truth of it, then, is that the Lady Ophelia—who, despite her lovely hair and pretty eyes, wears old boots and boy’s breeches—has managed to create a most miraculous potion, which she employed to stage her own death, thereby successfully indicting a murderer, which is to say defeat a King, yet in the end her primary concern is for the health and well-being … of her flowers?”
“You are correct, sir.”
He turns my hand over in his and presses a soft kiss against my palm. “You are remarkable, you know. Must you leave Elsinore, Ophelia?”
“I must” And soon!
“So be it.” Reluctantly, he releases my hand. “But know you
this, dear one. The loss of thee is a blow from which I will not soon recover.”
“You are young, sire. You shall get over it.”
He laughs out loud. The sound is warm and sincere. At once, I understand that he is a good man. For the first time in many months, I feel there may be hope for this place.
“Godspeed, Lady Ophelia.”
Ignoring my boy’s costume, I offer him my most elegant curtsy. And I am off.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
MY FATHER TENDS TO LAERTES; HORATIO ASSISTS me with Hamlet. Anne has already wrapped his wound, having given it a thorough cleansing whilst I readied the attenuated antidote. She did the same for Laertes, whose injury was slightly more severe.
The mood in the cottage is both hopeful and solemn. No one speaks; we seem to know by some good magic what is required of each of us. Indeed, I have not uttered so much as a sound since returning here from Elsinore.
Now Horatio holds the Prince up by his shoulders so that he is almost sitting. I use one trembling finger to part his lips, then gently pour the watery mixture in.
Wiping my palms on the front of my breeches, I notice how my knees quiver within them. In my heart, I pray fiercely that my father has rightly surmised the necessary proportion of water to repair the antidote and spare Hamlet and Laertes the nightmare I endured. But ’tis nigh the close of that mysterious fourth hour; they have slept far longer than I. What, then, if their extended sleep requires the potion at its strongest? My thoughts churn, and I cannot stop the trembling of my hands.
Anne and Horatio stand above the Prince, staring hopefully down at him. In truth, I cannot bear to watch. The bluish tint to his lips terrifies me, and the blood-soaked bandage is none too pleasant a sight either. Since I refuse to swoon for any reason, I turn my back to Hamlet.
This is not cowardice; this is worry. And I am not at all ashamed of that.
Across the room, Laertes, who drank first, begins to stir. My heart leaps, and my soul shouts for joy, but still I make no sound, no move other than to lean forward and press my palms against the table. Were I not to, I fear I would crumble in an anxious heap.
