Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

  Whatever grief had dulled the edge of Laertes’s outrage seemed to have already passed. He wanted answers and justice.

  The guards let him through, as they had been ordered. But Claudius stopped him before the throne with a single raised hand.

  “This is an outrage. Your father would never have stood for this. He’ll be turning in his grave.”

  “The dead do not move, lord. Besides he’s not here. I am and I want explanations. “

  “And you’re owed them,” Claudius admitted.

  He looked pointedly at the servants with their clubs, the farmhands and fishermen with the tools they brandished like weapons.

  “But they’re not.”

  “These are your citizens and they stand by me! They understand loyalty and the honour of my house.”

  Claudius turned and stared hard at them, noting how they shrank a little at that.

  “It’s unusual to lead a rebellion and speak of loyalty. Get rid of your… troops and we can talk.”

  He smiled again then, as a show of faith, turned to his own guard, and gestured with his hands, a slow downward movement, palms open. The soldiers cautiously, watchfully, lowered their weapons.

  Laertes looked about him, unsure what to do. For all his defiant swagger and noble outrage he was young, out of his depth. And malleable.

  Claudius waited. He felt sorry for the boy. His moment had gone. With hesitation the real danger had already passed.

  “You’ve been wronged, Laertes. There’s no denying that. Nor that I’m determined to make amends. But…” He leaned forward to emphasise the point. “This is a matter between the two of us, King and noble. Not…” He gestured at the mob. “Them.”

  Uneasily, knowing this was a kind of defeat, Laertes turned to his men.

  “Leave now friends. With my thanks. And know – as the king does – that I may call on you again.”

  They went then, gratefully and without hesitation. Claudius dismissed his guards. Then took the young man into his study and poured him some wine.

  “You calm down easily. When you wish it.”

  “I’m no fool, Claudius. I want what’s mine. And I will get it.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Your nephew’s head. He murdered my father. He bedded my sister and abandoned her. And now she’s dead, too.”

  Claudius felt a stab of remorse, of guilt.

  “Revenge eats everyone who seeks it. Go that way and it may devour you too. I speak as one who knows.”

  The young man laughed.

  “You? Your brother maybe. He had enough blood on his hands. I know what you are. A quiet, civilised king. Too gentle for this present climate in my opinion and that of others.” He gestured to the door. “I entered your private quarters with rough, armed men from the street. And here you are. Offering me your wine.”

  “Perhaps I have my reasons.”

  “Are they better than mine?”

  “Possibly the same. You think you have good reason to kill my nephew?”

  The laugh again.

  “Would anyone argue with that?”

  Claudius refilled his goblet, thinking about the rumours Voltemand had relayed that morning. Some sailors who’d met the vessel on the North Sea claimed it had been attacked by pirates. That Hamlet had been seized and later put ashore for ransom, perhaps intent on returning home.

  “I sent Hamlet to England. He’s supposed to be there for… quite a while.”

  “I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

  The throne had come to Claudius through boldness, but also planning. It was in his diplomatic nature to weigh options, create several plans for possible futures to be sought. As king he’d barely need that. But perhaps it was a skill to be revived.

  “It’s possible he’s dead already,” the king said. “His ship was attacked. We don’t know what happened to him.”

  “Then I’ve been denied my right to justice.”

  Claudius shrugged.

  “Possibly. It’s all rumour and gossip transmitted to me…” This thought had just occurred to him, and he knew he ought to take heed of it. “…through channels on which I may or may not rely.”

  “What do you want of me, sir?”

  “Say Hamlet does return. He’s still Prince of Denmark. You can’t stab him in the night like a Roman assassin. There’s…” A sudden pain afflicted the king. A headache. Nothing more than that. “There’s an etiquette for royals. We must perish with more spectacle. On a deathbed surrounded by courtiers. In battle, raging against our foes.”

  “Hamlet and I are foes.”

  “But not at war. An honourable man may not murder a prince after the normal fashion. It requires forethought. Cunning. A certain theatrical skill.”

  Laertes nodded.

  “This is beyond me. But not, it seems, you.”

  “I’m the king, aren’t I? If Hamlet comes back will you fight him? In the open? A fair duel? By court rules?”

  He snorted.

  “Court rules? You mean for play? For sport? Fencing with a tipped rapier that won’t so much as pierce his skin?”

  “That would be the idea,” Claudius agreed.

  “And I surrender a loving father and my sister’s lives for a game in the Great Hall?”

  “Games go wrong. What seems innocuous may turn fatal. Death’s a sly and cunning creature. He lies in wait in all the shadows of our lives.” Claudius tried to smile, to stem the sadness. “Especially if a man puts him there.”

  “Tell me,” Laertes said.

  “I will. But first…” He nodded at the doors and the mob beyond. “After this show of force against my person I require proof of loyalty renewed.”

  The young man eyed him suspiciously.

  “Such as?”

  “Your anger’s up. You want blood and don’t care how you find it.”

  “I am the most wronged man in Elsinore! What else do you expect?”

  “There may be a viper in our midst already. If so would you stamp on it with all your might? And ask me no questions?”

  “Why?”

  “Are you listening, boy? That’s not for you to know. Will you do it?”

  A moment’s hesitation.

  “And you will give me Hamlet when he comes?”

  “The chance to take him. No head on a plate.”

  The young man put down the goblet and extended his hand.

  “A chance is all I need. I dare damnation itself. What do you want?”

  They shook. Claudius raised his goblet in a toast.

  “Come to me when I demand it. And then I’ll give you further instruction. As for Hamlet should he return…”

  The plan had come unbidden. He had no Polonius to lean on, no man from Copenhagen to provide poison. Though there was some of that venom left, and with it possibilities.

  “When you’ve earned my confidence we will speak more.”

  Horatio was back at Elsinore dockside, well clear of the taverns, watching a slender row boat emerge out of the dusk. Three men. One at the oars, another cloaked and muffled, the third in the stern probably covering them with a pistol under his oilskin.

  When the craft reached the wall he walked from the shadows, clutching the money pouch tied to his belt.

  Two men he had neither seen nor heard stepped around the corner behind him and gave him a curt nod. One was the pirate who’d saved his life in the inn. He carried the same long-barrelled pistol with which he’d laid out the bearded man, one casual finger hooked through the trigger guard.

  “It’s time, young lord,” the pirate said. “I’m pleased to see you’re a man of your word.”

  The boat docked. The three men in it came up the steps from the water and joined them in silence, their breath fogging the chill air, waiting. Then the cloaked figure slowly, deliberately unwound a heavy scarf and pushed back the hood of his cloak.

  It was Hamlet.

  Horatio’s relief was so great he stepped forward and clasped the prince in a tight embrace
.

  In an instant the pirates’ hands were on their weapons. He let go quickly.

  “This is my dearest friend, sirs,” Hamlet declared. “Don’t be offended.”

  Then the prince gave him a knowing, slanted grin, and plucked the money pouch from Horatio’s belt, shaking it so the coins inside shifted and clinked.

  “More than I’m worth to myself, friend. But if you find value in it…”

  He tossed it to the man with the gun who handed the pouch to his friend without looking at it, as if counting money was beneath him.

  The pirate gave a crooked smile not unlike Hamlet’s, then touched two fingers to his temple in mock salute and backed toward the ladder, the others trailing after him.

  They didn’t wait to watch the pirates row away.

  “What now?” Hamlet asked. “Do I walk back into Elsinore and give my uncle and mother the shock of their lives?”

  Horatio frowned.

  “It occurred to me you might want to think things through, sir. I’ve been out of Elsinore these past few days organising your ransom. I’m no more familiar with recent events than you.”

  Hamlet took his arm.

  “Well then let’s ask…”

  “I’ve secured two rooms at a coach house along the road. We can spend the night there…”

  “Not you, Horatio. I want eyes and ears in the castle. Perhaps you’re right and I should stay out of sight for now. But I still need to hear what’s going on.”

  “They may know you’re on your way already. Denmark’s rife with all manner of gossip. There have been rumours you’re hiding here, fearful to return.”

  “You can tell my mother then. So long as she keeps it to herself.”

  “How much?”

  “Everything,” he said, making the decision on the spot. “It’s time. And let me know how she takes it. I’ll stay in your tavern for now. Thinking…”

  Horatio nodded.

  “Like we did in Wittenberg?”

  “Wittenberg was a lifetime ago. Those days are gone.”

  Horatio tipped his head and looked at him.

  “I see that, lord. You seem.... different.”

  “How?”

  “Calmer. More determined, maybe?”

  Hamlet shrugged.

  “Older. Wearier. More resigned, perhaps. It was...” He hunted for the words and opted for understatement. “A difficult though instructive voyage.”

  “I’ll report back to you in the tavern tomorrow. If…”

  “No,” the prince cut in. “Not the tavern. I’ll need fresh air.”

  “Then where?”

  Hamlet thought for a moment.

  “Somewhere more appropriate, Horatio. Let’s say… the graveyard. The old one. Where they bury ordinary folk. Yes.” He nodded. “Make it there.”

  The next day, twenty miles north of Copenhagen, Fortinbras brought his ragtag army to a halt. The weather was vile, rain turning to snow, a bitter wind in their faces. The Norwegian men were growing ever more timid as the prospect of battle neared. Most were conscripts, forced to fight by their local lords, with little or no experience of war. They viewed the battle-hardened mercenaries with suspicion. With good reason since they knew Gregor’s men would turn on them without a second thought if someone offered enough gold.

  Such a short distance and still Fortinbras lacked a plan in his head. Elsinore was a formidable castle. He’d eyed that grey bastion many times as he sailed the narrow strait between Elsinore and Helsingborg. Rumour had it the place had never been taken by siege or attack. The walls were too high. The castle interior so well supplied with animals and grain it could withstand a siege for months without starvation.

  He didn’t have that kind of time. If they weren’t inside Elsinore within a week the Scots would grow bored one last time and either depart or, more likely, cut a deal with Claudius to turn on him instead.

  As he sat on his steed at the head of the column, looking at the long, bedraggled line of foot soldiers tramping in his wake, a small party came back from the advance guard. A stranger in their midst.

  Fortinbras watched them bring the man. There was something familiar about him.

  “Elias. I remember you from Oslo. You were an ambassador for Old Hamlet.”

  One of the advance guard had his sword out, aiming it towards the elderly Dane.

  “Put that away,” Fortinbras ordered. “We don’t threaten diplomats.”

  The Dane laughed.

  “Magnus told you to venture no further, sir. I see you are in truth embarked upon an adventure that goes against his wishes.”

  “My uncle’s feeble and dying. Any wishes you may have heard come from the crows who peck at his corpse, not from him. I have a mind to bring some… stability to this region. A lord such as you would welcome that, surely.”

  The Dane nodded.

  “Oh, indeed. I’m here on behalf of the new chamberlain. I think you know him, sir. You have his correspondence I believe.”

  “Voltemand sent you?”

  The Dane drew his horse close to him. Looked serious in an instant. The guards tried to intervene, grasping his arms but not stopping his approach.

  “Do you think he’d come himself? These are dangerous times, Fortinbras. Claudius trembles on the throne. His nephew’s rumoured to be back in the kingdom, perhaps plotting to seize the realm for himself. The populace in Elsinore are restless and close to rebellion. No games. I lay my life on the line by being here. Get your minions’ hands off me. I require words in private.”

  The Norwegian told them to stand down then took Elias to the edge of the line where no one else might hear.

  “I must ask you again,” Elias demanded. “You received the correspondence?”

  “Why do you think we’re here? Without it I’d be on a barque to Italy…”

  “Good. Then know this. The position inside the castle grows more feverish with each passing day. Polonius’s son, Laertes, has returned seeking vengeance for his father. And his sister now. Hamlet was supposed to be in England. But if it’s true he’s returned… The people…”

  “What of them?”

  “They’re sheep. One moment Laertes can rouse them to near-rebellion. The next they plead for Hamlet’s return, as if their incorruptible prince can set Denmark back on an honest and noble course.”

  “And me?”

  A moment’s hesitation then Elias said, “They fear you. But that’s what we’re taught these days, isn’t it? A lord is better feared than loved. So long as they don’t hate you too.” He glanced around the fields. “Give them no reason for that. Leave the local populace alone. Their animals and their women.”

  “In that order?”

  The Dane glared at him.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. We’re not a race for grim humour.”

  “So I gathered. And when we get to Elsinore? How do we take it?”

  “You don’t. We let you in. Camp outside the east gate. Make no threats. Pillage no houses or taverns. Camp as if you were a monastery on the move.”

  “These men are soldiers! Ask for something I can deliver.”

  “If they’re soldiers they’ll do your bidding. Or pay the price. Wait outside the east gate until it opens. When it does treat those inside with consideration and mercy. Unless they offer resistance.”

  One question remained.

  “And Claudius? His queen?”

  “They’re old and weak and tired. Gertrude still carries some popular love. To kill them would be viewed as rash and mean-spirited. If you will allow me at this stage… I will negotiate an abdication. Exile. Perhaps to one of the lesser islands.”

  He stared at Fortinbras.

  “Is that agreed?”

  “It is. And you?”

  Elias took up the reins of his mount.

  “Whatever reward you think fit. I must return to Elsinore now and pray no one sees me. Make your way slowly, arrive tonight and wait as I advise. Portray yourself as liberators not oppress
ors.” He scowled. “To start with anyway. Are we clear on this?”

  Fortinbras laughed.

  “Elsinore must overflow with traitors. Such a quantity of messages I receive.”

  “The state of Denmark’s changing, lord. I do what any sane man does in the circumstances. Change with it.”

  He gathered the reins, brought up his steed’s head.

  “Tomorrow. I’ll see you on the throne.”

  And then, with a brusque word to the horse, was gone.

  Horatio lurked around the royal quarters the next morning, trying to catch the eye of a lady in waiting. It took a while but finally a woman he half-knew appeared and he told her he needed to speak to her mistress in private about her son.

  An hour later, finally, he was admitted.

  Gertrude closed the door herself, stood with her back to him for a silent moment, then turned briskly and motioned him into a chair.

  “You’ve word of my son?”

  No polite pleasantries about his kindness in coming, no inquiries about his schooling. Straight to it, and that was a relief.

  “He’s here.”

  “In Denmark?”

  “Just outside the city.”

  She stood up, hands clasped to her breast, her face awash with feeling: surprise, pleasure, apprehension, but also relief.

  “I thought this gossip we heard was wishful thinking. What happened in England?”

  “He never reached those shores, my lady. Fortunately.”

  He told her about the pirate assault, Hamlet’s capture, the ransom and his subsequent return to Denmark.

  “Is he well?”

  “Unharmed. His old self.” He hesitated. “Somewhat older in his outlook I’d say.”

  “And this ransom…?”

  “Raised within my family, madam. It’s an honour…”

  “An honour that will be repaid fourfold from my own coffers. But why isn’t my son here to break this good news himself?”

  Horatio took a deep breath. This was the part he’d been dreading. The moment where the conversation might turn on its head and see him banished from the Queen’s company, or worse. If Hamlet was right, and she confided in her husband, things could go very badly indeed.