Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

by A. J. Hartley

  She folded her arms, hugged herself through the heavy velvet dress.

  “I never realised Old Hamlet had discovered. Or that he intended to deal with us. Or that Claudius, egged on by that ambitious old fool Polonius, intended to act first.”

  Her voice drifted off.

  “And if you had?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “I must act,” he whispered.

  “Ah,” said Yorick from the shadows. “More acting. Great. That’s what we need.”

  “Quiet, fool,” said Hamlet.

  “Don’t speak to me that way,” she told him.

  “Not you, mother.”

  “Then…?” Gertrude looked puzzled and uneasy. “You’re still not well, Hamlet. It would be best if you left Elsinore.”

  He laughed.

  “With a foreign army outside the gates? My love in a coffin?” He stared at her. “My mother torn between her conscience and her duty?”

  “That burden is mine to bear, not yours.” She did touch his hands briefly then. “Try and sleep. Stay in your quarters. I’ll make inquiries of the harbour. Perhaps there’s a ship sailing south tomorrow. A warmer land, a sunnier climate would suit you. And when matters here are clearer…”

  “Mother…”

  She got up and kissed him, once on the cheek, once on the lips. Then Gertrude said goodnight and left.

  Yorick emerged from the corner.

  “A fine and decent woman, your mother. You should listen to her.”

  “What? Go to Italy and learn to play the lute?”

  “I could come,” he said hopefully. “That statue of my father in the Great Hall? The one where he’s naked on the tortoise? I told you. A Florentine made it. The original’s there in the Boboli gardens of the Medici. They’re a bunch of horrors but you’re royal. I’m sure they’d let us take a look.”

  “I’m sure they would,” the prince agreed, then walked to his bed and lay on the sheets.

  “Shall I start packing?” the jester asked hopefully. Then he started to scamper manically round the room. “We’ll need clothes for a warmer climate. And hats. New hats. Oh, summer. Remember summer? It’s glorious. Down there even more so I hear. And…”

  “Not now,” Hamlet interrupted, worried by his sudden speed and energy. “Yorick?”

  The little man stopped and looked at him. There was something lost and heart-rending in his expression. He had some clothes in his hand. The prince’s. Not his own. All he ever wore was that blue and yellow harlequin suit.

  “I’d have to buy you more suitable dress,” the prince said. “That clown outfit’s an insult. You’re one of the wisest, most decent men I know.”

  There was an awkward moment then. It seemed the little man was crying.

  “I don’t need new clothes, sir. Honestly. But you… in sunnier climes. With those pretty Italian gals. Oh…” He clutched a billowing white brocade shirt to his chest. “I can see you there now. Cutting the finest figure…”

  “Me, too…”

  The jester went quiet. This was the first lie that had passed between them and both knew it. A bridge had been crossed. No going back.

  “What now, lord?” the jester asked softly.

  The prince laughed.

  “Lord? Not… Your Royal Slothfulness? Prince Do-Nothing? Procrastinator General? Your Travesty? Or any of the other insults you’ve thrown my…”

  “No,” Yorick interrupted and placed a gentle hand on his forehead. “That time’s past, Hamlet. You are the man you always wanted to be. Your father’s son. But the better, truer part of him which the darker half managed to suppress.”

  His fingers came away. The prince heard his familiar footsteps patter back towards his corner.

  “That’s what you want to hear?” the little man asked from the shadows.

  “I suppose.”

  “In that case my work’s done.”

  The weather was worsening. A gale. Sporadic hail and rain. Claudius stood by the window in his study, watching the storm gather over the Øresund. Lightning flashes and distant rolls of thunder. Beyond the walls he could see the camp fires of the Norwegian army. Not so large. Not so brave he imagined, apart from the inevitable mercenaries. Elsinore had never been stormed. Never would be. But if the crown fell it would do so with as little blood as possible. As Elias indicated, a concordat would be reached, with Fortinbras or others. One that saved the queen, his own hide, and his citizens from the violent depredations of ravaging soldiers.

  Yet such agreements had to be based on strength as much as possible. A last show of force and violence. A recognition of their mutual positions.

  He’d summoned Voltemand almost an hour before. That the man was late did not surprise him. The new Lord Chamberlain scarcely sought to hide his ambition any more. He was positioning himself for the fall of the Danish crown, and the opportunities that might follow.

  Halfway through the second goblet of Frankish red wine the door opened. No knocks any more. No pause before entry.

  “King,” Voltemand said and sat down at the desk. “You asked for me. These are hectic times…”

  Claudius joined him.

  “Busy indeed. News?”

  A shrug.

  “Laertes is furious. Hamlet’s mad. The queen… I’ve no idea. Do you? And we have an enemy army on the doorstep.”

  In the distance there was the low bellow of thunder, then a flash of lightning at the window.

  “These walls are thick,” Claudius said. “We ride out our storms. Elsinore lasts forever. One simply has to wait.”

  “Elsinore is brick and stone. Kings are made of flesh and blood. There are threats here…”

  Claudius stifled a yawn.

  “The armoury’s full. The provisions plenty. Fortinbras must feed his troops from a meagre winter countryside. And his masters in Norway don’t want him here at all. I’ve sent couriers to Oslo asking for their assistance. They help me and I give them Jutland in return. Three days and there’ll be a friendly fleet in the harbour. And this rebellious prince will hang. I’m content to wait.”

  Voltemand drew himself up and eyed the king.

  “I was aware of no messengers. As your Lord Chamberlain…”

  “You’re a servant of the crown.”

  “All diplomatic correspondence must go through me!”

  Claudius smiled.

  “You were absent from your offices. No one knew where. Does a king wait on his retainers? Am I supposed to sit around like a lonely wife praying for her husband’s return?”

  “This post has many responsibilities. Some that a monarch never sees or appreciates.”

  Claudius laughed.

  “You forget. I was a diplomat before I wore the crown. I know how the world works.” A pause, a deliberate one. “I know that one must talk to… all sides… if a full picture of proceedings is to be had.”

  Voltemand’s sly face fell.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning… I understand you’re an industrious man. I’m sure there are tasks yet to be done even at this hour.” The king beckoned to the door. “I shouldn’t keep you. The situation’s simple anyway. Laertes and Hamlet will make up their differences tomorrow with a harmless fencing match before us. Court rules. No blood. Only a resolution of their difficulties. After which… we wait.”

  Another roll of thunder. The burst of lightning that followed seemed much closer.

  “Storms pass,” Claudius added. “If the ships from Norway are a day late it matters not a whit. We hold our fire. We watch the Øresund. Two days. Three. Four at the most. Then the ships from the court of Magnus are here and his nephew’s head is in a noose.”

  He raised his glass.

  “I’d offer you a drink by way of celebration. But I’m sure you’ve better things to do.”

  “True,” the man grunted then got up and without another word was gone.

  Claudius finished his wine. There would be more before he could sleep. A sound behind him. He did
n’t stir or turn. The old man, Polonius, was fond of hiding, listening, spying. It seemed a gift passed down through blood.

  Laertes emerged from the vast tapestry next to the fire: Mars, the god of war, in bed with a naked Venus. In the background the shadow of her sad and cuckolded husband Vulcan, impotent in the face of lust and violence. Old Hamlet had commissioned the work from Italy and never understood the irony. Until, perhaps, the last.

  “Now I know what treason sounds like,” the young man said coming to the desk. “He belongs to Fortinbras, surely.”

  Claudius scowled at him.

  “Don’t be stupid! The man’s a go-between. He serves no one save himself until someone wins the game.” He looked Laertes up and down. Brave, strong. But he hadn’t inherited Polonius’s talent for espionage or cunning. “As did your father. If it were otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

  Laertes shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable, gripping his dagger.

  “What do you want of me?”

  The King had thought this through.

  “Offer Fortinbras a gift. Sure and bloody knowledge that we’ve recognised his strength. And met it. Make sure that should it come to negotiation he deals with me directly, not through self-serving intermediaries I cannot trust.”

  “And for that you’ll give me Hamlet?”

  The words stuck in the king’s craw.

  “That piece of theatre’s in train already. Do you doubt my word?”

  A nod and then, “I’ll do it. But if the men from Norway are here in a few days we won’t have to dicker with Fortinbras anyway. Will we?”

  “A cautious officer of the crown plans for all eventualities.” Claudius nodded at the door. “On with it. Make sure our friend out there knows he deals with men willing to be as cruel and ruthless as any he’s ever met.”

  “Aye…”

  Then he was gone.

  More drink. More thunder and stark, searing flashes at the window.

  For all the practice over the years Claudius had never liked lying. It seemed unworthy. Too often a way of storing up grief and trouble for the future. But sometimes…

  He went through the papers on the desk. The message he’d written for the couriers to Oslo was still there. Well written. Carefully put. In it a bargain that would bring Magnus’s court to his doorstep and settle Fortinbras for good. He knew that. And yet he’d never sent it.

  The crown had proved too heavy. He’d only won it for Gertrude’s sake. And now that murderous act had torn her from him.

  If Fortinbras proved amenable under pressure…

  If the two of them could escape with what remained of their lives…

  The Norwegian prince was a minor obstacle along the way. One a diplomat could handle through cunning, tact and mediation.

  The bigger challenge was Hamlet, his own wronged, damaged nephew.

  Claudius took too greedy a swig of the wine, spilled the strong red liquid down his shirt like a tavern drunk.

  Lightning lit up the window and the troubled world beyond.

  “I killed your father for good reason,” he murmured, still seeing the young boy only he and the jester, of all the men in the castle, had loved. “I never wanted your life too.”

  Yet foul deeds begat others, unseen, unimagined at the outset of the game.

  He removed the slender, golden, jewel-studded crown and placed it on the desk.

  A small thing: of no moment next to Gertrude.

  Drink, the king thought, and yelled for his servants.

  Perhaps an ocean of wine, as deep as the Øresund, might drown his sins.

  Hamlet was roused by the polite cough of a young courtier standing in the doorway, an outlandish, feathered hat in his hand as he executed an elaborate bow.

  With him was an embarrassed Horatio.

  “Is the circus in town?” the Prince asked.

  “This is Oswald,” Horatio said, visibly unimpressed. “An aide in the entourage of Polonius. Laertes, now, I suppose.”

  “You woke me for this?”

  “I bear a message from His Majesty the king,” Oswald declared with another flourish of his stupid hat.

  Hamlet rolled his eyes.

  “Keep that bloody thing on your head. If Claudius wants to talk he knows where to find me.”

  The young lad looked embarrassed.

  “But sir… it would be the greatest discourtesy to be behatted in the presence of the prince. A good knight’s etiquette…”

  The ostrich feathers twitched again.

  “One more time,” said Hamlet, “and I’ll pluck your feathers I swear. What message?”

  “The King has made an arrangement with my master, Laertes. There’s to be a fencing match between you two. To clear the air. Court rules. No blood. He’s bet some... swords and horses,”

  “What weapon?” asked Horatio.

  “Rapier and dagger. My master Laertes is rather good I must say. My money’s on him.”

  Hamlet stood up. Oswald clutched his hat in both hands and trembled.

  “Have you seen me fight then?”

  “No… no…”

  The Prince fished in his purse and produced a coin.

  “Not much of a gambler, are you? Tell my uncle I accept the challenge. And appreciate the courtesy with which it was delivered. Horatio. Get some odds on me and put this on it.”

  Horatio took the money off him and said, “Done.”

  Oswald gave one last hurried bow and fled.

  “Keep an eye on that one,” Hamlet ordered.

  “Of course,” Horatio agreed. “Is this wise? I mean…”

  “Very! I need some exercise. It clears the mind. Now…” He pointed at the door. “You too. Early night. Big day tomorrow.”

  When he’d gone Yorick rolled off the bed.

  “Let me say from the outset I’m not enamoured of this idea, Hamlet. What kind of king goes around organising sword fights on the premises? Between nobles? One of them…” He jabbed an accusing finger. “Bearing a distinct grudge.”

  “Not without cause,” Hamlet pointed out.

  “Precisely. Kindly wipe that smartarse grin off your face. You’re juggling with serpents, sonny. And you should leave juggling to the likes of me.”

  Hamlet took a fencing stance, waved an imaginary rapier in the air.

  Yorick folded his fat arms and asked, “Florence or Rome? Milan or Venice? Which is it to be?”

  “All of them, I think.”

  The jester’s face fell. He could look quite malevolent when he wanted to.

  “And when?”

  The make-believe rapier slashed through the air.

  “When I’m done here,” Hamlet declared and dashed the invisible blade through the little man’s heart.

  Yorick yawned.

  “Aargh. I’m dead.”

  Hamlet swept the imaginary rapier across his own throat.

  “Not to worry,” he said. “Me too.”

  The camp was muddy, the food scarce. Fortinbras could keep his men at the foot of Elsinore’s walls for a week, no more. The Scottish mercenaries he’d count in days.

  And there was no word from within. No more letters. No approach from the old diplomat Elias, a man he had perhaps trusted too easily.

  Gregor came in munching a bony piece of meat.

  “Danish sheep are greasy and taste of muck,” the big soldier grumbled.

  “For a well-paid servant you whine a lot.”

  The man laughed.

  “A Scottish habit. It’s very hard to lose. Any news?”

  “The eastern gate will open tomorrow.”

  “Your man told you that?”

  The Norwegian nodded.

  “Did he say when? What we’re likely to meet on the other side? Fair ladies baring their breasts? Or ugly Danes brandishing their swords?”

  “All in good time,” Fortinbras told him.

  “No such thing as good time. Just time. It’s what we make of it.”

  “I never knew Scotland bred phil
osophers.”

  “We’re a talented race. Much under-appreciated.”

  Fortinbras looked at him and laughed.

  “I think my treasury would argue otherwise.”

  “We need to know some facts before we enter. The disposition of their men. The face of their politics. Whether Claudius will capitulate easily. What we may take and what we must leave. When the blood’s up it’s too late and I won’t have you hanging my folk just because they raped some old bird when they shouldn’t. We need to know the lie of this land now.”

  Fortinbras got up and said very slowly, “When… my… man… comes.”

  Gregor walked to the door of the tent. The Norwegian joined him. The storm was abating. Though still constant the thunder and lightning had moved south along the Øresund towards Copenhagen. The hailstones that followed in its wake were petering into drizzle. Soon it would be fine.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t like getting wet. Perhaps…”

  Then he stopped. Somewhere high on the castle walls there came a cry. A shriek every soldier knew.

  The man from Copenhagen checked the battlements first. He wanted to see what lay between the castle and the Norwegian camp. Little but swampy earth, churned by the hooves of horses. A few guards. It wouldn’t be easy. And he wouldn’t be able to get back either. Perhaps Claudius had been right. He wasn’t cut out for diplomacy. Voltemand wanted to find advantage, enjoy the sweet scent of victory.

  Thought he had, too. He hadn’t realised the king might go behind his back to Oslo. That was an oversight, one that was now impossible to retrieve.

  It was time to do what any sane diplomat never countenanced. Take sides.

  Kill the guards on the gate. One short walk across the quagmire separating the castle from the Norwegian camp. Then he was there. With nothing to offer but his sword. This was a bitter outcome. What power he’d possessed depended on his place in the middle, between the two opposing parties. Forced into one or the other he was just one more soldier. A lieutenant at best, dependent on the mercy and gratitude of Fortinbras.

  Voltemand checked the distance between wall and tents again. The Danish guards he could manage. Any foreigners who got in his way he’d deal with as they came. If Fortinbras didn’t know the men in Oslo were chasing him there might still be opportunity for some bargaining…