Leon Garfield's Shakespeare Stories

by Leon Garfield

  “The King is kind,” he said bitterly, “and well we know the King knows at what time to promise, when to pay,” and then went on to deliver so damning an account of the King’s misdeeds and the King’s ingratitude, that no king could have endured it and remained a king.

  “Shall I return this answer to the King?” asked Sir Walter, whose patience had been strained by the young man’s furious recital of the wrongs done him.

  Hotspur paused, and shook his head. The reproach in the herald’s voice had moved him. “Not so, Sir Walter,” he replied at length. “We’ll withdraw awhile . . . go to the King . . . and in the morning early shall mine uncle bring him our purposes . . .”

  “I would you would accept of grace and love,” urged Sir Walter.

  “And may be so we shall,” returned Hotspur, but more out of kindness than belief.

  The morning was pale and the sun bloody. It glinted on helmets and breast-plates like painted wounds. A herald’s approach was sounded, and Worcester, that discontented, dangerous Earl, presented himself before the King. He had brought Hotspur’s answer. It was violent and intemperate. Tight-lipped, he listened to the accusations of ingratitude, double-dealing and dishonourable theft of the crown. In part, he knew them to be true; but he was the King, and that high office absolved him from the crimes of private men. He was answerable only to God and his own heart. Government was all. Coldly he dismissed the accusations as being no more than the gilding of insurrection.

  Prince Hal, stern in unaccustomed steel, stood beside his father. He surveyed the ranked soldiers whose pale faces looked anxiously at the day, as if wondering if they should see another.

  “In both your armies,” he said to the scowling Earl, “there is many a soul shall pay full dearly for this encounter if once they join in trial.” He made no attempt to rebut Hotspur’s charges or even to defend his father’s name; instead, after paying due homage to Hotspur’s courage and high honour, he offered himself in single combat against the other Harry, so that the blood of many might be saved.

  It was a brave and chivalrous speech; it was a young man’s speech; it was also, in the King’s opinion, a foolish speech. It harked back to the old days of tournaments, that were long out of fashion.

  “And, Prince of Wales, so dare we venture thee,” he said, in public recognition of his son’s valour; but then went on in a shrewder vein: “Albeit, considerations infinite do make against it.”

  This king was not so foolish as to risk all on one man’s courage, particularly when he himself had the advantage in numbers. Besides, he suspected that his own Harry would be no match for the other. Accordingly he dismissed Worcester with no more than the offer of a pardon if the rebels would lay down their arms. Otherwise, they must take the dreadful consequences.

  “We offer fair,” he said. “Take it advisedly.”

  “It will not be accepted,” said the Prince, when Worcester had departed. “The Douglas and the Hotspur both together are confident against the world in arms.”

  The King nodded. He knew that the battle must come.

  “God befriend us,” he said, as if to reassure his son, “as our cause is just.”

  He moved away, and with him went all the assembled earls, lords and captains, clanking grimly in their steel. The Prince, momentarily alone, frowned as he thought of the coming fight, of proud Hotspur who risked everything for honour, and of his father who risked nothing; of the justice of Hotspur’s accusations, and the deviousness of his father’s ways . . . and of good men dying for another’s cause.

  A loud clatter broke in on his thoughts, a mighty clashing, as of a kitchen in a gale. It was Falstaff in armour, and overflowing it, like too large a feast crammed into too few pots and pans. His breastplate lay upon his chest like a small tureen.

  “Hal,” he said uneasily, “if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so. ’Tis a point of friendship.”

  The Prince smiled ruefully at the fat and fearful old man. “Say thy prayers, and farewell.”

  “I would ’twere bed-time, Hal, and all well.”

  “Why, thou owest God a death,” said the Prince.

  “ ’Tis not due yet,” cried Falstaff indignantly; but the Prince had gone to make ready for the battle. Falstaff shrugged his shoulders, and his armour chimed like church bells. He stared round at the little world of fluttering banners and painted shields, of kings and princes, and shivering wretches preparing to kill each other . . . for no better reason than for honour. He frowned, as if mightily puzzled.

  “Can honour set to a leg?” he wondered. He pondered deeply; then shook his head. “No. Or an arm? No. Or take away the grief of a wound? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then? No.” He looked mournful, as if it was a real sorrow to him that honour could not undo the harm that honour had done. “What is honour?” he demanded. He thought again. “A word. Who hath it? Him that died a-Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No.” With each repetition of the word honour, it seemed to become more meaningless. “I’ll none of it!” grunted Falstaff at length; and, with a further shrug of his fat, plated shoulders, went off to lead his gnawed lambs to the slaughter.

  Worcester returned to the rebel camp. He said nothing of the offered pardon. He knew, full well, that it would never be extended to him. He would be made to bear the blame for all. His only hope lay in the chance of battle, and he was prepared to shed the blood of thousands to save his own. No matter; Hotspur’s bright glory would cover all; for many misshapen creatures creep along under the richly embroidered cloak of honour.

  The sky was melancholy; and the wind, blustering across the field outside Shrewsbury, seemed to cause the opposing forces to bend and tremble, like the shaking of wheat. Suddenly tiny voices shouted; trumpets shrieked as if in fright; and the ground began to shudder under the advancing thunder of horses’ hooves. Slowly at first, and then with gathering speed, the armies rushed towards each other, so that, for a moment, they might have been intent upon a wild and joyous meeting. Then they met.

  Shouts and screams of men and horses filled the air. Cannons roared; bright figures crashed and struggled; thick flowers of dust bloomed among them, and spreading, formed a huge rolling cloud that obscured all but the jagged edges of the conflict. Within this hellish cloud, men ran hither and thither, bleeding, screaming, cursing, looking for other men to kill. Among them, Hotspur searched for the other Harry, and the other Harry searched for him. Fat Falstaff searched for safety; and the wild Scot, Douglas, searched to kill the King. But the world, that day, seemed full of kings; that careful man, the true King, had dressed many in his armour. See! here was another! Douglas attacked, and in moments the royal armour fell and blood rushed out of it. Hotspur appeared, like the spirit of battle.

  “All’s done, all’s won!” panted Douglas, “here breathless lies the King!”

  But it was only another image he had killed; it was Sir Walter Blunt.

  “Up and away!” cried Hotspur; and the two great soldiers vanished into the murky air.

  There was quiet for a moment; and safety. The large shape of Falstaff appeared, very cautiously, as if he was squeezing sideways through a narrow gap in the air. He advanced, clutching a sword that had seen much action, but had wisely taken no part in it. He stumbled over the dead man.

  “Soft! Who are you? Sir Walter Blunt—there’s honour for you!”

  He shook his head; then looked about him as if for his followers. There were none. He shrugged his shoulders, and sighed:

  “I have led my ragamuffins where they are peppered; there’s not three of my hundred and fifty left alive, and they are for the town’s end to beg during life.”

  Hal found him.

  “What, standst thou idle here?” he demanded angrily. “Lend me thy sword.”

  But Falstaff would not part with it. Instead he offered his pistol.

  “Give it me; what, is it in the case?”

  “Ay, Hal,” apologised Falstaff, “ ’tis hot, ’tis hot . . .”
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  The Prince took the case and drew out, not a pistol, but a bottle of sack. Furiously the Prince threw it at the fat man who mocked everything, and rushed away in search of Hotspur, his heart’s enemy. Ruefully Falstaff stared after the enraged Prince; then he glanced down at the dead man. He shuddered.

  “I like not such grinning honour as Sir Walter hath. Give me life,” he grunted; and crept away, glinting and clanking, to find some safer place.

  The smoky air seemed full of holes, like clearings in a noisy roaring forest, beyond which could be seen the shadowy shapes of struggling men. In one such clearing stood the King, the true King. His companions had left him to stiffen resistance where it faltered, so that briefly he was alone. An armoured figure came out of the dust. It was Douglas!

  “Another king!” he shouted. “They grow like Hydra’s heads . . . What art thou that counterfeit’st the person of a king?”

  “The King himself.”

  “I fear thou art another counterfeit!” cried Douglas; but nevertheless, attacked.

  The Scot was the younger man, and the stronger, and the true King staggered under his blows. In moments he would have fallen and joined all his images in death, so that true and false would have been one; but the Prince appeared. At once he drew off Douglas, and they fought. Douglas was fierce and powerful, but Hal had learned his fighting, not on the field of chivalry, but in the murky lanes and byways where cut-throats lurked. He was more than a match for Douglas who, cursing, fled.

  Hal extended his hand to his fallen father and drew him upright. The two looked deeply at one another; and, for a moment, in the smoke, fury and shrieks of the battle, there was a moment of reconciliation and peace. Then the King left the Prince and, even as he did so, the terrible moment came towards which Prince Hal’s life had always been moving. Hotspur found him.

  The two Harrys stared at one another almost with curiosity: the one who had just saved his father, and the other whose father had abandoned him in his need.

  “Two stars,” said Hal grimly, “keep not their motion in one sphere, nor can one England brook a double reign of Harry Percy and the Prince of Wales.”

  “Nor shall it, Harry,” returned Hotspur, “for the hour is come to end the one of us.”

  So at last they fought, as it was certain that they should from the very beginning; and it seemed that all the world hung upon the outcome of the single combat that Hal had first proposed, and that his cautious father had rejected. But the real cause for which they struck and stabbed and hacked at each other, for which they glared and bled and hopped like iron toads, was not for the fate of kingdoms; nor was it for honour, but for the jealousy of honour.

  Unknowingly they had attracted an onlooker. It was as if the brightness of the conflict had drawn a bloated moth. Falstaff hovered, anxiously watching the progress of the fight.

  “To it, Hal!” he urged his beloved Prince. “Nay, you shall find no boy’s play here, I can tell you!”

  So intent was he on watching the conflict, that, before he knew it, he himself was set upon by Douglas, still searching for kings. He was too heavy to run, and too fat to dodge, so he exchanged one or two valiant blows with the fierce Scot, and, as soon as he conveniently could, fell to earth with a dreadful clatter and a dying grunt. And then lay still. Douglas left him; and, at that very instant, Hal stabbed Hotspur to the heart.

  “O Harry, thou hast robbed me of my youth!” sighed Hotspur, as he lay, and bitterly whispered away the last of his life. “Percy,” he breathed, “thou art dust, and food for—”

  “For worms, brave Percy,” completed the Prince; for Hotspur was dead. Sadly now the conquering Harry looked down on his rival; and grieved. He knew that he had killed not only Hotspur’s youth but his own.

  Suddenly he spied the huge form of Falstaff, lying like a fallen world; and his grief passed from the general to the sharply particular.

  “What, old acquaintance,” he wept, “could not all this flesh keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man.”

  He left the scene of the dead hero and the coward; and, so much for the dues of honour, his tears were for the coward.

  An eye opened in Falstaff’s head. It swivelled cautiously from side to side. Safety. Falstaff arose. “The better part of valour,” said the knight, “is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life.”

  His wandering gaze fell upon the dead Hotspur. Alarm seized him. What if he was not quite dead? “Why may not he rise as well as I?” wondered Falstaff fearfully. He looked carefully about him. Nervously he raised his sword. “Nobody sees me,” he muttered; and, with a quick movement, stabbed the dead man through the thigh.

  Hotspur made no defence. “Come you along with me,” grunted Falstaff; and began to heave the remains of the hero on to his broad back.

  While he was thus engaged, the Prince and his younger brother returned to the scene. They stared at the resurrected Falstaff in amazement. The knight, quite unabashed at having been caught out in so gross a deception, regarded the two Princes with fat pride. He cast down Hotspur’s misused body, declaring:

  “There is Percy. If your father will do me any honour, so: if not, let him kill the next Percy himself. I look to be either earl or duke, I can assure you.”

  The Prince’s wonderment turned to indignation.

  “Why, Percy I killed myself, and saw thee dead.”

  “Didst thou?” said Falstaff pityingly. “Lord, Lord, how this world is given to lying! I grant you I was down, and out of breath, and so was he, but we rose both at an instant and fought a long hour by Shrewsbury clock.”

  Prince Hal, much divided between the claims of pride, honour, and old friendship, shook his head and smiled.

  “If a lie may do thee grace,” he murmured to the old rogue who, in many ways, had been a wiser and a better father to him than his own, “I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.”

  A trumpet sounded, the rebels were in retreat. The King had won the day; and Hotspur, with all his honour, justice and high nobility, was in the dust. But Falstaff had survived.

  “I’ll follow,” he said, preparing to roll on after the victors, “as they say, for reward. He that rewards me, God reward him.”

  So the fat man strode on, with his head high and his chest thrust out, but some little way behind his paunch.

  More work was to be done. Battles were to be won against Mortimer, Glendower and the Duke of Northumberland. But the King was confident. The father had forgiven his son; all that now remained was for the son to forgive his father.

  Hamlet

  It happened in Denmark, long ago. High up on the battlements of the castle at Elsinore, two sentinels, their cloaks snapping in the whipping dark, met at the limit of their watch: the one ending, the other beginning. Their faces, seen faintly by the light of a thin seeding of stars, were white as bone. It was midnight. Presently they were joined by two companions, and the relieved sentinel took his departure, very gladly. The three remaining stared uneasily about them.

  “What, has this thing appeared again tonight?” asked one of the newcomers, a young man by name of Horatio.

  “I have seen nothing,” answered the sentinel, but softly and with many a wary look about him.

  For two nights now the sentinels had seen a strange, unnatural sight. Between midnight and one o’clock, a phantom figure had soundlessly stalked the battlements. It had been, so far as could be made out in the shaking dark, the spirit of the dead King.

  “Tush, tush, ’twill not appear,” murmured Horatio. He was a visitor to Elsinore from Wittenburg, where he had been at the University with Prince Hamlet, the dead King’s son. Being a student of philosophy and not much given to dreaming, he had little faith in ghosts, phantoms and spectres of the night. He smiled at his pale companions, who had dragged him up to this cold, dark, windy place with their fantastic tale of—

  “Look where it comes again!”

  He looked; and his sensible eyes sta
rted from his sensible head. All reason fled for in weirdly gleaming armour and with weightless tread, the dead King stalked slowly by! The watchers, huddled in their cloaks, trembled with amazement and dread.

  “Speak to it, Horatio!” breathed one, for the apparition seemed to linger. Horatio made the attempt, as boldly as he was able; and the night seemed to freeze as the dead King turned upon them a shadowy countenance that was grim with grief. Then it stalked away, and vanished into some invisible curtain of the night.

  They watched after it till their eyes ached with staring; then they turned to one another in bewilderment. What could be the meaning of the apparition? Why had the dead King returned, and with looks so heavy with despair? Horatio, a little recovered in voice and colour, supposed the cause to lie in some danger to the state. Fortinbras, the Prince of Norway, was arming to seize back the lands that the dead King had boldly conquered. Surely it was this threat that had troubled the King’s spirit and had dragged it from the grave?

  But even as he proposed such a cause, which seemed likely enough, the ghost returned, as if to deny it.

  “Stay!” cried Horatio, “if thou hast any sound or use of voice, speak to me!”

  But it would not. It raised its arms as if in horror. From far off, a cock crew. The phantom wavered, became insubstantial, then faded, leaving on the dark air no more than an impress of measureless grief and despair.

  “It was about to speak when the cock crew,” whispered one.

  “And then it started like a guilty thing upon a fearful summons,” said Horatio; and straightway it was agreed that Prince Hamlet should be told of what had been seen. If to no one else, the dead father would surely speak to his living son.