“Rumour has it you got your first job the day after Adam and Eve got kicked out of Eden.”
“Not far off. A little respect wouldn’t go amiss. Why must royalty make us feel like vagrants and street musicians? If we were playing in front of our adoring crowd in London...”
“Well we’re not and they normally chuck cabbages at us,” Kemp said, breaking from the door. “Anyway… Hamlet’s coming.”
The chatter dried up. The troupe of actors stopped lounging, muttering their lines, munching on meat pies, got to their feet, eyes on the door, expectant.
“Ready?” the Prince asked when he came in.
Burbage frowned.
“We’re professionals, sir. We always are. What about your audience?”
“They will be when I announce you. You have the changes memorised?”
Hurried nods around the little room.
“And just the lines as written. No adlibbing. And yes, Kemp, I’m looking at you.”
The actor made an exaggerated face: shocked and hurt. Then grinned.
“And get their attention,” Hamlet added. “Especially in the murder scene.”
More nods, and a hush of expectation.
The Prince smoothed his black doublet.
“Right,” he said. “We’re on.”
He nodded at an actor at the back who wore a drum around his neck. The man began to beat a loud, steady rhythm. Hamlet flung open the door into the great hall wide and led the procession out, through the ranks of spectators, past the statue of Old Yorick, a naked dwarf seated on a laughing tortoise, hand outstretched to the open space before the royal dais.
Actors. Audiences. One watching the other, always. Burbage had seen this so often. The look of anticipation, of boredom among some, excitement among others. And then there was the King. A pleasant-faced man, not cruel or infamous like some of the monarchs they’d played for.
He sat at the head of the royal table, playing the part himself. Waving off Polonius when the old man stooped to his ear to whisper something. Determined to see this through.
The Queen had eyes only for her son though she seemed anxious, sitting up stiffly, smiling too widely to show the royal approval her courtiers and servants should imitate.
There was a polite round of applause. Hamlet led the players onto the makeshift stage then flung himself at Ophelia’s feet, lay sprawled on the floor, facing the stage, with his head resting on her legs. She looked alarmed, her eyes flashing to her father, but then found a version of the Queen’s smile and watched the actors as if afraid to look anywhere else.
Burbage could read his public as well as any man and this was the oddest bunch he’d ever seen. It felt like an audience of one – Prince Hamlet. And a room full of wary actors indulging him and… afraid.
The cagey look on Kemp’s face told him he wasn’t the only who’d noticed something was up.
Afraid of Hamlet? Perhaps. Burbage understood stage fright: the real and paralyzing terror of being up there, suddenly unable to remember your lines or even what was happening in the scene. He knew the bowel-clenching horror of wanting so desperately to get through a speech, stumble off, hide somewhere no one could see you.
He’d just never felt that subtle, lurking terror from an audience.
Kemp declaimed the prologue, a half-dozen lines of apology and throat clearing to beg the audience’s attention.
Then they were off. It went well at first, he thought, watching from the side. Burbage was no fan of Gonzago. It was a posturing, ponderous play. Sound enough if you were in the mood for melodrama, but predictable, especially when you could act it in your sleep.
The first couple of scenes passed without a hitch. Then it was his turn to enter, playing the doomed king. And something curious occurred.
Hamlet got up and left Ophelia’s side, falling into an awkward pose in front of the stage. As Burbage spoke his piece – a tedious declaration in which the whiskery monarch declared his wife should remarry were he to die – he found the Prince staring at him acutely, murmuring the very lines word for word though he had no script in his hands.
The old queen was played diligently by one of the boys shoved inside an old gown and plastered in make-up. In her protestations of undying love for her husband she went so far as to say that sleeping with another man would be like murdering her current husband.
At that Hamlet gasped with delight and clapped his hand like a child.
Then he started talking. Not the play’s lines, like before, but a running commentary, delivered with backward glances to the courtly audience full of observations and pithy remarks.
“Good, isn’t it?”
“Great line.”
“You think she’ll keep her word?”
Each intervention was met with an embarrassed hush. Soon there was a tension a man could cut with a knife.
And then, the scene Hamlet himself had written.
The murder.
Burbage was to lie on his side while Kemp came stalking in and poured a vial of poison into his ear.
The troupe had proved awkward about this in rehearsal. Several actors found it implausible to say the least. But Hamlet had been adamant when a rewrite was suggested. Loudly so. It was murder his way or no play at all. So they did it, Burbage lying there, feeling the thick, cold liquid – treacle in fact – pooling in his ear then running down his neck.
“This is the king’s nephew!” Hamlet announced, standing up and pointing. “He kills him for his crown. Then seduces the monarch’s wife, a woman of his own blood, who had earlier sworn...”
And that was as far they got.
Burbage was lying rigid, his eyes closed, but he heard the tumult in the hall, the shouting, the scraping of benches and chairs, as one by one the place emptied. He sat up in time to see the king leading the exodus, face flushed with fury. The queen was white, eyes bright with tears.
As they left everyone avoided the prince who pranced around the stage with delight as if awaiting an encore.
A hand caught the actor’s arm.
“We will get paid, sir?” the boy who played the queen asked meekly. “I was doing it best I could.”
“Not now, son,” the actor said in the gentlest tones he’d ever used to the lad.
It was clear to him now. These people knew Hamlet. They were afraid of this odd, unbalanced young man with reason. The prince had just threatened the life of the king, all within a few changed lines of a hoary tragedy.
In the drama in his head he was the murderous nephew. And Claudius somehow a victim to come. It was hardly surprising the king had fled in fury and fear.
Burbage looked at the prince whooping like a loon, flipping over tables, singing at the top of his voice.
In previous years he’d been good, intelligent company. One of the few nobles who combined intellect with energy and a sense of purpose.
“Sir,” the actor pleaded. “May we talk a while and…”
But then another hand took his shoulder. A strong one this time, and when he turned he found himself face to face with a burly soldier, Polonius next to him holding out a purse.
“This is half your fee,” the old man said, throwing the money at them. “Think yourself lucky you get a penny out of Elsinore.” He took out his fancy watch. “If you’re still here on the hour I’ll have that back and whip every last one of you.”
Then Polonius bellowed at the shrieking Hamlet, telling the Prince he’d offended his mother and should go to speak to her immediately.
“Time to depart this particular stage,” Kemp said, nudging his colleague’s arm.
“Aye,” the old actor agreed. “I long for England.”
Soon they were outside, seeking cheap lodgings in the town beyond the walls. Glad to get out of the fortress. Bad things were going to happen. Acts of blood and fury, real this time, not imagined.
He wanted to be far away when they started. Assuming they hadn’t already.
“There,” Polonius roared when he saw the pla
yers out of the gates and got back to the king’s study. “We have it. He knows. But…” His hand went to his forehead. “For the love of God… how?”
Claudius bent over his desk, a goblet of red wine in his right hand.
“What does it matter? You’re the lawyer here. What can he do?”
The old man scowled.
“Nothing. You’re the king. You are the law. Besides… he has no proof. No certainty. If he had why would he arrange this performance? I’ve seen that damned play before. It never had that scene. Hamlet wrote it. I’m sure of it.”
“He inserted it to prick my conscience fool! If you had one of your own you’d know.”
The King took a long swig, wished he had time and space to get drunk. That was new. The world was closing in on him.
“Hamlet knows I murdered his father. He thinks that by telling me I’ll somehow… respond. Give him opportunity to do the same to me perhaps. Or simply dispatch him to the same place.”
Polonius nodded.
“That last’s a possibility. I would wish to arrange it the way we did before. Quietly. Without fuss. He’s popular with the common folk. They love him for some reason. A trial wouldn’t go down well. More likely a sudden and tragic illness that confines him to his room, takes away the power of speech, and sees him off in swift measure. I know the man who can arrange the potions…”
Claudius got to his feet and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck.
“I killed his father because I had to. It was him or us.”
“And you’ve me to thank for that intelligence.”
The King was getting sick of this pompous, sly old man.
“Yes. You betrayed the old king so I could murder him and take his place. Thereby saving our lives. Yours too, perhaps.” Claudius paused then added, “For now.”
“What are we to do?”
The latest numbers for the treasury had arrived. Late taxes and shortfalls in the army left the kingdom in a weak position, too feeble for any coming war.
“The English have been neglecting the tribute negotiated by my late brother. Hamlet will sail there on the first possible ship. He can remain in London until his humour’s improved.”
Polonius nodded.
“And then?”
“And then I’ll see.”
“This won’t go away. He knows and that knowledge will fester. However long he spends in England.”
“We’re family, Polonius. A better, closer one than you’ll ever understand. And happy once. Perhaps in time again…”
“If I may suggest…”
Claudius slammed his goblet on the desk.
“You have your orders. Send those two idiots Rosencrantz and Guildenstern with him for company. Write the necessary papers to gain him a welcome in the English court. Trade off some of the money they owe us against his keep. If they see him as a hostage so be it. At least they’ll treat him well. Here…”
He handed the Lord Chamberlain the royal seal.
“Use this to finish the papers. I’ve no need to see them once you’ve done.”
Polonius took the seal and looked at it.
“Common practice would dictate the king reads anything that carries his mark. Unless you wish to delegate to me responsibility for…”
“Deal with it! As you see fit. Now leave me. I need some private time to think. And pray.”
Hamlet ranged the castle. Mad then. Truly. He craved Ophelia’s company though in truth there seemed no point in seeking her out. The cruel treatment he’d delivered earlier had a reason. An audience, her father, perhaps Claudius too, there to witness his feigned lunacy.
Yet a part of him had enjoyed uttering those harsh words. It was as the jester said. His father’s blood was inside him, and when the fever raged it took a course of its own.
A dagger in his belt. A pistol too. If he encountered Claudius now…
An hour he wandered. Then finally, down a narrow passageway he saw a familiar figure, harlequin suit, seated on a guard’s chair, fist beneath his chin.
“Back,” Yorick ordered. “Shoo, boy.”
“Don’t shoo me, clown.”
The little man got up and blocked his way. Hamlet realised where his aimless wanderings had taken him. To the anteroom beside the king’s chapel. A few steps led down to a small altar richly decorated with statues of saints, precious paintings from the Netherlands and Italy. Gold and silver. A crucifix that often caught the moonlight falling from the stained glass window above.
His father’s body had lain in state here. In a sealed coffin to hide the horror of the sight.
“We’re going back to your room,” Yorick told him. “There we’ll drink two flagons of wine, one each. Nothing excessive. Along the way we’ll devour half a pig. And I shall recite you an ancient Greek tale. A favourite of mine. It concerns drink, sex and farting. If that doesn’t cure your melancholy nothing will.”
Hamlet pushed past him. There was a sound beyond, a light too. He could just make out a shape. The king on his knees before the altar. Praying out loud, in a voice he could almost hear.
“This is the moment,” Yorick said by his side, voice so soft and concerned it seemed unlike him. “Continue on this path and you may never return to what you once were.”
“As if I want that. As if I could.”
“Of course you can. You’re a prince. An intelligent creature. You have power over your own fate. More than most. If you choose to use it.”
“Out of my way,” he ordered and crouched by the door, one hand on the dagger, the other on the pistol.
Claudius was muttering in a low, frail tone. A soft and tender voice. Like the one he’d used when Hamlet was young, frightened and worried, alone in a castle his father had once more deserted for war.
The chapel was a solitary, private place. No congregation but the royal family and their bishop. Just the king now.
“Don’t do it,” Yorick whispered in Hamlet’s ear.
“Don’t stop me,” the prince said and got closer still.
He was mere yards behind the king’s back now, almost close enough to hear his garbled prayers. Claudius knelt, hands together, eyes closed before the cross.
Hamlet slid his dagger soundlessly from his belt and took another careful step forward.
Claudius’s hands came down. He leaned forward on the cold flagstones, then raised his head to stare at the painting above him: Mary, mother of God, rising to Heaven.
The jester sat beside the prince, arms folded, watching keenly.
Hamlet hesitated, listened. Watched as Claudius raised his hands again, eyes closed.
Lips murmuring a silent prayer.
Yorick clicked his fingers.
“Go on, then. Let’s have done with it.”
He could. One hand to the kneeling king’s face, jerking his head back. The other stabbing him in the throat. A life eking out on the cold the chapel floor…
“And then he goes to heaven,” Hamlet whispered. “A villain who kills my father. This is blood for blood. Not honourable retribution.”
Yorick screwed up his eyes, waved his hands about in bafflement.
“Excuse me?”
“I can’t kill a man on his knees, at prayer.”
Quietly he stepped back. Replaced his dagger in his belt dagger. Walked out, followed by the jester.
“Not now. Another time. When he’s drunk asleep, gaming, swearing, fornicating with her.”
Yorick struggled to keep up.
“Not wishing to be pedantic, old chap, but this seems a touch picky if you don’t mind my saying.”
The prince moved swiftly along the passage, the jester at his heels.
“When there’s no hint of salvation about him. And I know for sure his soul will go damned and black to hell. Then…”
Briefly he clutched at the dagger.
“Then’s the time.”
The dwarf ran in front and stopped him.
“Hang on a minute. How many times lately have you seen dea
r Claudius without a brace of guards at his side? That was your chance. The one time you might have reached him without taking a poleaxe to your guts. Not that I’m complaining you understand…”
“For someone who hated my father you’re suddenly very keen on seeing me revenge his death.”
Yorick shook his head as if to clear it.
“Not at all. I’m just puzzled, Hamlet. All this faffing about. Do you know what you want or not?”
“I’m not my father! I won’t spill blood unless…”
He went silent.
“Unless?”
“This isn’t black and white, Yorick! It’s complicated.”
Yorick nodded.
“Imagine all you could achieve if it wasn’t. Life would be so much simpler if you didn’t have to think things through.”
“Then better to achieve nothing,” Hamlet answered through clenched teeth. “Wine. Go fetch. I’ll even listen to your bawdy tales.”
He turned to go. In a rush the jester blocked his way again.
“But I told you, Hamlet. No going back. Not in this direction. There.” He pointed. “The queen’s quarters. She’s been asking for you. After that we’ll get drunk for Denmark. If you wish it.”
Hamlet moved on through the darkness, angry at himself, at everything around him. Especially his mother. The blood was singing in his ears as he flew down the narrow hallways, shrieking that this was all her fault.
The Queen’s closet was a tapestry-hung antechamber that led to her bedroom. Normally a place of maids and ladies in waiting. Not this strange and violent night. At Hamlet’s insistent knock, she answered herself. He barged past her, slamming the door behind him, looking around. There was no one else inside. None that he could see.
His mother had pulled herself together and seemed less upset than angry.
“What in the name of God was that?” she demanded.
“What, mother?” he asked with a shrug.
“The play, of course. If that absurd tantrum of yours can be called such.”
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