Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

Ophelia laughed.

  “Do I look like a spy?”

  “If you could tell a spy from the way they looked they wouldn’t be spies, would they?”

  “This concerns a simple, emotional issue written in confidence,” she insisted, holding out the envelope. “Nothing more. A matter of the heart.”

  He grimaced.

  “I may be a ship’s captain, love. But I know enough to understand emotions are rarely simple. It’s to your brother, isn’t it?”

  He was wavering. She’d no idea what else she could offer. The last crates were on board. The ship’s mate was calling for the remainder of the crew to get on board.

  “It’s to Laertes, yes. Son of Polonius. The master of spies here. A man whose authority you’d never dare question if he was alive. Will you carry it or not, sir?”

  He sniffed and took the envelope.

  “You’re a pretty one. I’ll say that. Best get hanged for beauty, eh?”

  She handed over the purse and thanked him.

  The captain turned to his crew and bellowed, “All on board who wants to travel. Anyone who don’t can bugger off now.”

  The young bookkeeper hurried down the gangplank ahead of her. Perhaps dealing with paperwork, she reckoned.

  Then Ophelia retired to the shadows of a warehouse by the quay and watched the wooden trader raise sail, heading out into the flat waters of the Øresund. One day and she’d be at the foot of the Baltic in Lübeck and Laertes would have her letter.

  She stayed long enough to see the ship turn and head off on the southerly wind. Then she returned to the castle, locked herself in the quarters, knew how hard it would be to wait for an answer. And if none came?

  There would be a stratagem for that too. She found more paper, and began to write.

  So caught up in the act she never once went to the window, never saw a swift customs cutter leave harbour to chase after the trader’s vessel, a man in black in the prow, watching as the two vessels closed.

  Hamlet’s ship was small and meant for commerce, not battle. There was only a pair of small, crude cannons for defence. He watched with sour apprehension as these were brought to the stern and loaded with chain.

  “Aim for the rigging!” roared the captain.

  Slowing the pirate ship down was their only chance of escape, and it was a slim one. Now that the sun was higher they could see that the enemy vessel was sleek and trim, high in the water and arrayed along its side with serious artillery.

  “Why aren’t they shooting?” asked Guildenstern, pale with fear.

  “Because they want the ship,” Hamlet told him. “They’re going to board us.”

  The first cannon blast missed entirely. The second cut a rope or two and slashed the edge of one sail. Still the pirate ship came on hard, nosing away as it got close so that the two vessels were side by side only twenty yards apart. The sky darkened. Hamlet looked up to see a dozen or more grappling irons raining down on them trailing ropes. They scraped along the deck, shedding splinters, then snagged fast. Men opposite, faces visible, grim and violent, heaved and the two ships ground together, the sea beneath them spouting, as the boarding planks slammed down and climbing nets flew across.

  The pirate ship’s rail was suddenly a mass of bodies vaulting over and streaming across, clubs and cutlasses and axes in their hands.

  The captain was cocking a snaplock pistol, grim-faced.

  “What are our chances?” Rosencrantz asked.

  “If they take the ship they’ll kill us all and chuck us in the briny. That answer your question?”

  “I meant what are our chances of fighting them off.”

  The captain took a deep breath and glared at him.

  “The only chance is if we cripple their sails. Then we might get away. If it comes to a pitched battle we’ve had it.”

  He shook his head and aimed his pistol at one of the brutes who was crossing the nearest boarding plank. There was a cry, a curse, a rush of air and then a crossbow bolt was sprouting from his chest. The captain fell backwards, dead before he hit the planking.

  Rosencrantz and Guildenstern backed away. Hamlet dropped to the corpse, snatched up the pistol, aimed and fired in one quick motion, felling the closest boarder who tumbled screaming into the sea. Then he snatched out his rapier and stepped up onto the plank.

  The blade was too long for deck fighting but out here, where he had room to thrust and couldn’t be hemmed in by enemies with cutting swords, he might do better. One more step along the plank, out over the dark water. The next pirate brandished a pair of hatchets, hesitated, roared and ran at him. Hamlet held his ground, dropped the tip of his sword under the wild axe parry and lunged precisely, pulling the blade from his heart before he fell.

  There was a space behind the man. Without thinking, Hamlet ran forward, spitted the next pirate on his sword before he was halfway along the plank then leapt onto the enemy deck . The pirate crew was intent on boarding the trader, not being invaded itself, and in the smoky hue and cry of battle Hamlet found he had gone unnoticed.

  He returned to the man he’d killed and took from his bloody hand a battle axe with a broad half-moon blade then moved on to the nearest mast and started hacking ropes.

  Behind him the battle was a chaos of screaming and shouting. From time to time there came the flat crack of a pistol but mostly it was hand-to-hand combat. Beyond the crash of metal against metal there was little to distract him. Another rope he slashed with his sword, and then the next. With the third a spar came swinging free and the wind fell from the sail.

  Finally that got the pirates’ attention.

  Two men came for him. The first he met with the axe, leaping and swinging so that he caught the raider just above the elbow. The man crumpled to the deck, screaming. Hamlet turned to face the other, dragging his rapier from its scabbard, advancing on him, shoulder first, as if they were in fencing school. The pirate grinned at that, and came on slashing with his cutlass.

  Hamlet gave ground, caught the squat weapon on his sword in his right hand as he swung the axe with his left. The pirate saw the blade too late, and as he flinched away it caught him in the side.

  Another down and no one else near. He went back to work on the rigging, moving to the central mast, cutting at everything he found. A rope whipped past his head. The mainsail seemed to deflate like an old balloon.

  Instantly the ship groaned as its momentum stalled. Two of the boarding planks were yanked back and fell into the sea with the men still on them. The nets tensed and it was suddenly clear that the merchant ship was breaking free. On the other side the sailors were breaking from the pirates in order to cut the grappling lines.

  “Back to the ship!” shouted one of the pirates, Irish by the sound of his voice.

  Good idea, Hamlet thought.

  But in his case easier said than done. As he scanned the deck for a point to cross there were only pirates coming towards him. He grabbed one of the hanging ropes and started running for the side, leaping out over the water only for the long sweep to swing him back to the pirate vessel in a broad arc.

  Then the ships parted. The trader rocked into the wind and freedom. Hamlet looked down, knowing he’d never reach it. Knowing, too, that if he dropped into the water the pirates would watch him get ploughed beneath their hull.

  Death had rarely been far from his thoughts these past weeks. But never like this.

  Then he heard a cry. His name.

  “Hamlet! Prince! Oh… Hamlet! Dearest sir…”

  Not Yorick. This was a long, wavering cry full of anguish and despair. The rope returned to the enemy ship. Hamlet dropped to the deck and in an instant four powerful arms grabbed him then a knife went to his throat.

  This was all unreal. He barely noticed. All he could think of was the man who’d called out his name with such terrible sadness. It was Guildenstern. The fat little fool sent to Wittenberg by Polonius to pose as a friend when in truth he was nothing more than a spy.

  Not a bad man. Just
a weak one. A friend almost. One who, only hours before, Hamlet had despatched to a grim and certain death.

  Two hundred miles south on the rolling waters of the Øresund there was an uneasy standoff between the king’s vessel and the ship bound for Lübeck.

  Four soldiers came on board with Voltemand, hands on weapons, ready to draw. Reynaldo the bookkeeper with one, pointing out the man he wanted. All eyes were on the ship’s captain as the Lord Chamberlain of Denmark ordered him into the small cabin.

  “We are, I think, correctly ordered when it comes to duties and documents, sir,” the skipper said in a friendly tone. “If a mistake’s been made it’s an oversight, nothing more. We’re all good Danes and wish to do what we can for our country. If…”

  He looked at Reynaldo.

  “You were supposed to be on board with us, lad. It’s not our fault we left without you. A ship don’t wait on passengers. No use calling in fine lords to pull us back when you’re too bloody tardy to…”

  “Quiet,” Voltemand ordered. “This is nothing to do with your passengers. A woman gave you a letter to carry to Lübeck.”

  The captain laughed.

  “We carry all manner of cargo, sir. Salt herring and cod. Fabrics. Hard spirits. They love that over there…”

  Voltemand was on him, fingers at his throat. The two men behind drew their swords.

  “If you toy with me I’ll have you hanged, drawn and quartered before the morning’s out. We’ll stick your head on a pike for your wife to laugh at…”

  “A letter?”

  “A young woman named Ophelia paid you to carry it. Reynaldo here saw everything.”

  The ship’s master smiled at the young spy.

  “Well isn’t he the clever one? The lady said it was a private message of an emotional nature. Nothing to do with matters of state. Simply a note to her brother in Lübeck. I…” He glanced towards the worried crew beyond the door. “No one on this ship would help or harbour any enemy of the king.”

  “Give,” Voltemand ordered.

  The captain reached inside his jacket and handed over the envelope.

  “And the money she paid. You won’t be earning that now, will you?”

  The Danish marks were still in the little leather purse she’d used. He hadn’t even counted them.

  “May we resume our journey now, my lord?”

  “Do that. Make no contact with Laertes in Lübeck. After that find yourself another route to ply. I’ve no wish to see you back in Elsinore before spring’s out.”

  The captain shook his head.

  “We’ve family, sir. Mouths to feed. Children to keep.”

  Voltemand ripped open the envelope and started to read. Then looked at him.

  “And what if they’re orphans? Offspring of traitors whose estates have been seized for their sedition? Who’ll feed them then?”

  He called his men to get ready to return to the cutter.

  “Keep silent,” Voltemand ordered. “Keep distant. Then, if you’re lucky and I’m willing, you may live.”

  One hour later the new Lord Chamberlain was in the study of the king, brandishing the letter.

  “This is treason. Treachery plain and simple.”

  Claudius looked at the careful, intelligent writing. Read the affection and concern between the lines.

  “It’s the truth,” he said softly. “Isn’t it?”

  The man in front of him laughed.

  “Treason usually is. If it wasn’t why would it worry us?”

  “The girl’s lost her father.” Claudius pushed the letter away. “She’s distressed. Alone without her brother.” He stared at Voltemand. “Forced to stay in a familiar apartment with a stranger she may find… hostile.”

  “The wench is trying to inflame your nephew. I suspected something was amiss with her from the start.”

  Claudius shook his head.

  “There’s another letter damning Hamlet. One that carries my seal and the words your predecessor put in my mouth. What does it matter if she thinks Hamlet’s coming back for his vengeance? Within a week he’ll be dead in London and I’ll be damned twice over, for killing a father and his son.”

  Voltemand seemed taken aback by this news.

  “Polonius ordered his death? Or you?”

  “It was the old man’s notion. I merely... acquiesced. As I usually do. Does it matter?“

  “It’s not just Hamlet the girl wants to toy with. Her brother…”

  Claudius shook his head.

  “I’ve enough blood on my hands already. Her brother’s a decent man. He thinks she’s mad in any case. Sent that way by Hamlet …”

  “Laertes won’t be in Lübeck forever. He’ll come back here. She’ll tell him to his face what she tried to say in this letter.”

  Claudius gazed at the window. This cold season seemed endless. As if his brother’s death had condemned the kingdom to perpetual winter.

  “What would you have me do, Voltemand? My conscience labours under the weight of my brother’s murder. And though I did not shed it the blood of Polonius is on my hands too. Hamlet, a child I adored and who once loved me, is now on a ship to a foreign land, there to die. My queen is slipping away from me and there’s nothing else, no love in all the world, I seek but hers. What would you have me do, sir? Add a young girl’s corpse to the list too?”

  The man from Copenhagen scowled.

  “A king rules. A king demands. We still have Fortinbras on manoeuvres not a few leagues from my home. This isn’t a time for faint hearts. Besides…” He cast a cold and bitter glance at Claudius. “Once you’re a little way into blood there’s no turning back. Not unless you want to be wading through your own before long. I came here to serve you, Claudius. To build and maintain your grip upon the throne.” He stabbed a finger at his chest. “But I have cares and ambitions, too. A wise monarch looks to keep those around him happy. Or pays the price.”

  Claudius didn’t know whether to laugh or not.

  “Is that a threat? Is this the position to which I’m reduced? Listening to the menaces of a man who not long ago was collecting tithes from herring fishermen in Copenhagen?”

  “That money helped you seize the throne. Polonius told me. Much else besides…”

  “I murdered my own brother with poison you were paid to procure!” the king yelled, slamming his fist on Ophelia’s letter. “What else is there to know?”

  “Nothing. I am your loyal servant. It’s in my interests as much as yours that none of this… idle gossip becomes public.”

  “I could have you hanged.”

  Voltemand laughed.

  “Not practical, my lord. I’d still have chance to speak before they put the noose around my neck. And those few words would damn you too…”

  The king snatched a dagger from his belt and brandished it.

  The man before him shook his head.

  “You’re not a murderer, Claudius. That’s the problem. You’ve too much conscience about you. Too fond an association with the past to worry about what matters. The future. Although…” A wry smile. “You could order me to murder myself I suppose.”

  “What do you want?”

  A shrug.

  “The usual things. Money. Power. Security.” He fixed Claudius in the eye. “Perhaps when you’re gone they’ll choose someone lowborn for a king.”

  “What? A tax collector from Denmark?”

  “Taxes make the realm go round. Much more than weak and indecisive monarchs.” He picked up the letter. “Hamlet may be headed for the grave but Laertes isn’t. He could be here in days. What are your orders, my king?”

  Silence.

  “Do nothing?” Voltemand taunted him. “Or should I go to the chapel and pray for the Almighty to shine his eternal love upon Denmark, that we may live in peace and just prosperity till the end of our days?”

  “Do not push me too far, sir. Even a weak king has his limits. If I didn’t we wouldn’t be here.”

  Voltemand placed the letter in hi
s jacket, stared at Claudius impudently, kept silent.

  “Do whatever you see fit, man. I don’t want to know.”

  “Your highness…”

  An exaggerated bow, a flourish of the hands, then he was gone from the room. Claudius sat miserable and distraught for a while. After a while he called for wine, strong red Frankish. Plenty of it.

  Pinned to the mast, arms gripped hard by two hulking pirates, Hamlet had to stifle an urge to laugh. A third, a weasel of a man, had a pistol to his head and a powerful urge to pull the trigger.

  He’d cost them their prize, a good number of men and left them adrift on the open sea. More a scholar than a man of action, was he? It would take hours to undo what a few strokes of his axe had achieved and they weren’t happy about it.

  “You’ll pay for what you did,” said the weasel, cocking his pistol and stepping back so he could have the satisfaction of watching the lead ball work its violence.

  Hamlet looked at him, a resigned smile on his face.

  “That’s the trouble with pleasure. It always comes at a price.”

  “Pleasure? You thought it was fun, did you? Crippling our ship? All that bloody mayhem.”

  “Course it was! You’re a buccaneer. A brave upon the ocean. In my place you’d have done the same. Stopping a pirate ship single-handed? If a chap of your blood doesn’t recognise a spot of spirit when he sees it…”

  “He has a point there,” one of the big men holding him noted. “Mostly them merchant men wet their pants and chuck themselves over the side when they see us coming. This young fellow’s got spunk, I’ll say that for him.”

  Hamlet nodded in agreement.

  “Thank you for that, sir. Kindly and aptly put if I may so. I’m offended your friend here seeks to play the aggrieved high party. After all you were about to butcher everyone on that ship. I don’t think you have a lot of moral high ground in this matter.”

  “High or low, you’re going in it,” the weasel grumbled, looking down the sights of his gun.

  “Strictly speaking you’ll have to take me to shore first,” Hamlet pointed out brightly. “To put me in the ground, I mean. Out here, you’ll have to put me in the water, which doesn’t sound quite as menacing somehow.”