The little one with the gun was getting angrier by the second.
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“It’s a gift, actually. Comes naturally of breeding. My father never loved me, you see. Comedy’s a kind of defence…”
“My old dad was like that,” the big man said and relaxed his grip a little. “A proper bastard.”
“We share a sad burden, my friend,” Hamlet agreed with a friendly nod. “Those lucky men who come from loving families will never understand it. Happily I don’t care whether I live or die. So shoot if you like, but don’t expect me to dignify the moment with politeness. Speaking of which, you people all smell terrible. Did you know that? Are there no baths…?”
The weasel slapped him with the butt of his pistol then levelled it at his heart.
“You’ll learn a little respect before you die, chum.”
Hamlet could taste blood on his tongue.
“Not for the likes of you. My uncle’s the king of Denmark and he can’t get a civil word out of me. So what chance has a scrawny water-rat got?”
With a vile curse the one with the gun reached back to hit him again. Then a hand from behind stopped him, pushed the pirate to one side. Hamlet found himself facing a giant of a man with a tangled mass of straw coloured hair, a bloody scar down his cheek and very bright blue eyes.
“Ah,” the Prince said. “Finally I’m talking to someone in authority.”
The others gave ground.
“The captain, may I presume? Some insignia or sign of office might help, sir. If…”
He was brandishing a club of what looked like hard, dense wood with a knotty and irregular end, shiny from use.
Hamlet winced at the thing and said, “I suppose that’ll do.”
Then closed his eyes. This, he thought, was it. Hopefully it would be quick.
“Your uncle’s that stuck-up bugger Claudius, King of Denmark?” the pirate asked.
One eye opened warily.
“So they tell me, sir.”
“Then you’re Hamlet, son of the old king?”
“If my mother can be believed, that’s right.”
The big man holding his arms spoke up.
“That’s what that bloke on the ship called him, right as the ships separated. I heard the name. Thought it was a funny one. Fights good for a dandy, I must say.”
Guildenstern, Hamlet thought, and his smile stalled.
“Don’t suppose you’ve got some proof?” the captain asked. “I mean you wouldn’t believe the lying toe rags we meet out here, all pretending they’re of royal blood, hoping for a ransom.” He tugged on his hair. “Don’t work out well for them when we find out otherwise.”
“Funnily enough. I have. If you reach into the pouch on my belt you’ll find my father’s seal. I don’t usually carry it. Maybe God was watching over me after all. Seems unlikely, but still….”
They rifled through his things, produced the seal and studied it with comic caution before pronouncing it genuine. The weasel, who had obviously been looking forward to shooting him, looked most disappointed.
Hamlet shrugged and tried to look sympathetic.
“Life, eh? If it’s any consolation the item that’s worth a fortune to you lacks any value whatsoever to its owner.”
“What?”
“My life, poltroon.”
“I’ll poltroon you…” he began, and lifted the pistol once more.
“Cut that out. The pair of you,” the captain remarked just as Hamlet was about to point out that poltroon wasn’t a verb. “We’ll make our money yet. A royal ransom’s got to be worth as much as a ragged merchant ship any day.”
“Absurd, isn’t it?” Hamlet agreed.
“Hoist sail! Set course for the Danish coast. And stick this one downstairs. Somewhere I can’t hear him.”
The bells from the chapel tower had tolled nine of the evening. Outside the weather was squally. Icy rain fell constantly. The castle felt freezing. She never went to the living room any more. That was Voltemand’s, not that he used it much. The man seemed to drift around Elsinore like a ghost, sending out spies and emissaries, flitting in and out of the king’s quarters then returning to write furiously at her father’s old desk.
Ophelia had no idea when he went to bed. Or with whom. He had a carnal look to him she recognised. But since her first rejection he hadn’t pestered her. And that seemed odd, though perhaps the man had better things to do.
In her head she could see Laertes receiving her letter. Imagine his immediate fury. Hope for some rational consideration once his temper had eased. She wasn’t seeking forgiveness for Hamlet. Only understanding. When he returned from England the three of them could meet, speak frankly…
There was a settlement to be reached there surely. A recognition of past misdeeds: their father’s, Hamlet’s uncle’s, the prince’s own. Once that conversation had taken place they could, perhaps, discuss how to proceed. Their individual safety was at stake. But more than that the realm of Denmark mattered, too. There was open gossip among the servants about the threat to Elsinore from across the water, the return of Young Fortinbras to avenge his father and seize the crown for himself.
Growing up she’d found Elsinore tedious. The most exciting moments were the illicit ones spent in Hamlet’s arms. Now the home she’d known forever seemed more a prison than a castle. A perilous one at that.
This night was like all the recent ones, all those to come until he returned. Spent alone in her bedroom with a plate of food from the kitchen. Reading. Thinking. Planning.
Then, finally, she would ask one of the maids to bring in hot water, fill the copper bath. And Ophelia would lie in the fragrant water, remembering his presence from the scent of his gift, staying there under the wan candlelight until the water turned cold and there was nothing to do but go to bed. Then wake to another cold day, hiding from sight, staying by the window to watch the grey Øresund, praying that a mast would appear from England or Lübeck, and with it good news.
She finished the stew and the bread. Knew she should be in bed before the next bell tolled the hour. Called the maid, got rid of the plates, watched as the young woman returned with buckets of hot water for the bath. Closed the bedroom door and locked it.
Two bottles of bath oil he’d left her. Rose from Paris, bergamot from Italy. The first she preferred. It was sweet and familiar. The bergamot had a strange, exotic fragrance, like perfumed citrus. It seemed… illicit somehow. Which was doubtless why he chose it.
Ophelia picked up the flask. A thing of beauty itself. Venetian glass from Murano he said, with a twisted surface of orange, tiny coloured beads within it. Too dainty and fine an object for the monochrome northern world of Elsinore.
But there was more to life than this. Had to be.
She went to the copper tub. The water was still too hot to touch. Another time she might have scolded the girl. But for that she would have had to wander outside her own small quarters, and might run into the man from Copenhagen with his staring, greedy eyes.
So she opened the bergamot and poured a measure into the steaming water, swirled it with the bottle, inhaled the scent. Wondered what Italy was like. Warm and full of colour, she imagined. One day…
Dreams.
That was all she had. Perhaps all there would ever be. Ophelia took off her velvet dress and then the long soft silk shirt beneath. Her undergarments. Stood naked on the cold flagstones in her bare feet then bent forward and put a finger in the water.
“Too hot,” she muttered and looked up idly at the mirror by the window, not wanting to see herself because that made her think of him too. And the child they’d lost.
“You should whip the girl who fetched it,” said a voice behind her.
Her head swam in the steamy perfume. For a moment she thought she might faint.
He’d slipped into the room while she was out with the maid. She knew it in an instant. And Voltemand was not a man who did anything without a firm intent.
&
nbsp; Ophelia turned and faced him, didn’t hide herself or blush.
“Leave my room now and I may forget this intrusion. Stay and I will scream until these walls fall in on themselves. I promise…”
He laughed and moved towards her. She retreated, back to the cold stone wall. His knuckles rapped the masonry beside her face. His mouth was close to hers.
“No one will hear you, Ophelia. And even if they did…”
He had very white, very even teeth. Too perfect for any man.
“They would never dare come. These are my quarters, girl. Not yours. A naked bitch inside them…” He shrugged. “Who should she belong to but me?”
Her hand flew at his crotch, caught him there, squeezed hard. He cried. Drew back his hand and whipped it across her face.
Strength in the man. She found herself flying towards the copper bath, knees grazing the floor.
Breath gone. Mind struggling for reason.
Voltemand was on her then, fingers to her throat, left hand yanking back her long blonde hair.
“I will fight you,” she spat at him. “And when Gertrude hears of this…”
“Of what?”
His fingers tightened on her throat like a claw.
“Of…”
There was something in his eyes and it wasn’t the lust she’d seen before.
“You flatter yourself, lady. I’m not a man for wooing. I take what I want when I desire it. And if she refuses…”
Pinned against the tub she flailed round, trying to find a weapon.
The Venetian bottle was just out of reach. There was nothing else.
“Here’s my invitation,” Voltemand said.
His hand came away from her hair, reached inside his jacket. Took out something that made her heart sink.
The letter to Laertes.
“Treason from a beautiful woman’s still treason.”
She snatched for the sheets. He threw them out of reach.
“You killed the old king. Murdered Hamlet’s father.”
“You shock me, girl. I did no such thing. I followed the orders of your father. And he the wishes of the man who now wears the crown. Good servants, both of us. Not criminals. Not like your lover, Hamlet…”
“Hamlet will slaughter you when he returns.”
The laugh again. His sparkling eyes watched her.
“Hamlet’s dead. Your father wrote out the orders himself, put the seal of Claudius on them with the king too afraid to stop him. Those fools Rosencrantz and Guildenstern carry his death warrant to the English court. As soon as your lover lands…”
He swept one finger across his throat and grinned.
“Liar!” she shrieked, and tried to catch him with her nails.
Voltemand was quick to dodge, quicker still to catch her with an elbow to the face.
It hurt. Not as much as his words.
“If your brother catches wind of these words I’ll kill him, too. Perhaps I’ll do it anyway. As a precaution.”
“Why do you hate me, sir?” she asked, slyly reaching for the bottle.
His handsome face creased with irritation.
“Why? Because you and yours deny me what I want. So I must act for my own security. For my purse. My future. A man’s what he makes of himself. Not what others give him.”
He looked around the room, seemed distant for a moment. Her fingers brushed the orange glass.
“I grew up in a Copenhagen brothel. My mother was one of the bitches. I fetched beer for the stinking sailors who filled her bed – ten a day sometimes – while they screwed her. And you ask… why?”
“Just wondered,” she said and got hold of the flask, brought it up, a wild blow at his head.
The glass shattered. Voltemand screamed. Blood, she saw that. And the smell of bergamot, like fragrant lemons.
Then she was on her feet, slipping on the wet tiles, heading for the door and safety. Willing to run naked all the way to the queen’s quarters and throw herself on Gertrude’s mercy.
It wasn’t treason. It was justice. And the queen herself had the right to know.
One step from the door and she stumbled, caught by a stool hidden in the shadows. Went down hard onto the stone, a shriek rising in her throat.
But not for long. Voltemand’s face was in hers then. Blood on his cheek, fury in his bright eyes.
“I’d thought we’d have a little sport first, lady. But now you’ve ruined my mood.”
His fist balled, punched straight into her face. Broke something. Her nose maybe.
More blood. Hers. And pain. He was dragging her, arms hard against her breasts. The copper tub came up. He banged her skull hard against the shiny metal.
Then she was in.
The water was still hot. It hurt against her wounds. She gasped, got sight of him. Knew then this was lost.
“I will haunt your every night…”.
“No such thing as ghosts,” he said and caught her hair in his right hand, forcing her down.
The scent of bergamot filled her nose, her mouth. She gasped and when she did that the water came and raced into her lungs.
Ophelia shivered. Felt both hot and cold. Tried to breathe. Her limbs flailed against the shiny metal sides of the copper bath she’d used ever since she was small. A bright and hopeful child in the strange world of Elsinore. Following the little prince then. She’d always done that.
Her lungs screamed again and now the boiling fragrant water was everywhere. Coursing through her throat, racing greedily inside, racking her body with throes and spasms.
She thought she heard him laugh. And then, held deep below the fragrant water, she heard no more.
The last days of the voyage had been the worst. It wasn’t the weather. Guildenstern had finally got his sea legs and the crossing to England had been calmer than those first nights in the open water off the Danish coast. Nor was it a sense of imminent danger. They had, as Rosencrantz kept reminding him, survived an encounter with the most infamous pirates in the area and – apart from prince Hamlet – escaped unscathed. It was, everyone said, something of a miracle, and they celebrated all the next day, with double rations of Canary wine.
Only Guildenstern felt the weight of what had happened. He hadn’t been a friend of Hamlet’s. Not really. He and Rosencrantz liked to pretend otherwise because it made them feel important. That deceit had earned them a little of the King’s trust, but in his heart Guildenstern knew it was a lie and so, he imagined, did Claudius. They were nobodies with little money and no real talent for anything except the pursuit of fashion. In the grand scheme of things they weren’t much more than clowns, jesters like that dead dwarf whose statue straddled the laughing tortoise in Elsinore.
Had Hamlet sensed this in them? Certainly. An intelligent, educated, sensitive man would see straight to the heart of the matter where people were concerned. And under the melancholy and reflective softness there was a practical, clinical hardness about the prince, a hint of mockery about him. Oh, yes. Guildenstern was under no delusions about what Hamlet thought of him.
So he remained at a loss to explain why the capture of the prince in the battle with the pirates had depressed him so much. There was the possibility that he and Rosencrantz would feel Claudius’s wrath for losing their charge before they could deliver him to England. But no one could realistically expect two students to keep a prince safe when their ship was boarded by pirates.
Guildenstern spent much of the day after the pirate episode sitting in the prow, letting the salt water spray over his face, his fancy clothes, wondering what would happen to Hamlet next. They could have killed him on the spot without realising who he was. They might torture him to death for old political grievances and send his mangled body back to Denmark as a message. Or string him from the yard arm and throw his body to the sharks.
“It’s not our fault,” Rosencrantz insisted for the fiftieth time when they landed in Harwich and began the long, slow ride to London. “If Hamlet wants to play the warrior hero that’s up to
him. Stick to the story about what happened and lose the woe-is-me face. It doesn’t suit you. And besides. It’s the truth isn’t it?”
He had a point there. The two of them had barely spoken since they lost the prince. For years they’d been inseparable but something about this business had driven a wedge between them, pointed up all that made them different. Guildenstern doubted they would still be friends when it was over. For the first time he could remember he’d started making plans for what he would like to do next, on his own.
Maybe he would take a break from Wittenberg. Travel south to Italy, perhaps. Visit Florence, Venice, get away from the frigid climes in which he had spent his entire life. He could walk through sun-splashed piazzas, pick an orange off a tree and eat it warm…
Then come back and maybe open a tailor’s shop.
They were summoned to a grim place by the river called the Tower. It looked like a prison, not a royal palace. But maybe in England they thought a gloomy fortress like this passed for grandeur.
“The Queen will see you,” said the attendant in terrible Danish and went to the door.
“The Queen?” Guildenstern shook his head. “What’s happened to the King?”
“There is no king of England, idiot,” Rosencrantz whispered. “It’s that old bag Elizabeth. Give me the papers.,”
Guildenstern fished in the leather satchel and plucked out the wax-sealed parchment.
“Bit moot now.”
Rosencrantz brandished the envelope.
“This is our ticket to the inner court. It shows we’re on official business. Hamlet or no Hamlet.”
A pair of halberdiers escorted them to the main chamber. Rosencrantz drew himself up and plastered a serene smile on his face. Guildenstern had seen it a thousand times, but for once he wanted to slap it off him.
More regal grandeur, just like distant Elsinore. Walls hung with tapestries displaying the political and military triumphs of Elizabethan England, the ceiling a complex puzzle of gilded timber buttresses. The queen wore a long golden gown. She looked surly and a little mad, a pale, elderly figure in an obvious ginger wig over a face plastered in white makeup, hunched on an opulent throne, busy in muttered conversation with a tall, severe-looking man by his side. For a long moment she didn’t seem aware of their presence at all. Then the courtier next to her smiled expansively and delivered a speech in English. It lasted almost a minute but the attendant translated it simply as “Her majesty welcomes you to England.”
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark Page 18
