Ophelia

by Jackie French

  He stood at the door again as if he could not leave, his voice low and bitter, each word striking me in the face. It was as if a chain kept pulling him back, to hit me with yet more words. ‘I have heard of your paintings too. God has given you one face and you make yourselves another.’

  I shook my head. I had never painted my face. My only lie to him had been what I had not said.

  ‘You jig, you amble, you lisp; you nickname God’s creatures and make your wantonness your ignorance.’ He spoke to me, but I wasn’t sure he even saw me. ‘Go to, I’ll no more of it!’

  I tried not to sob. Father and the king would hear if I cried now. I tried to think of something — anything — that might soften Hamlet’s fury. But what did I have to say? For I had betrayed him, this man who had given me his love. I had taken his love to feed my dream of being queen, but hadn’t had the strength to give him fair return.

  He stared at me, his voice quiet now. ‘It has made me mad. I say we will have no more marriages. Those who are married already — all but one — shall live. The rest shall stay as they are. To a nunnery, go.’

  He turned on his heel. The door slammed behind him.

  I clutched my book. He wanted me to go to a nunnery? No. I had betrayed Hamlet to be a dutiful daughter. That must be my punishment: to stay a daughter, till I died.

  And what of Hamlet? If I had lost, he had lost much more. A noble mind so lost to madness. He had been scholar, courtier, the hope of Denmark. All now gone.

  And I, dejected and wretched, had drunk the honey of his music vows. Now I must see this — a prince’s reason — like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

  ‘Woe is me,’ I whispered, ‘to have seen what I have seen, to see what I see.’

  The tapestry was flung aside in a small shower of dust. I caught the scent of mouse droppings.

  ‘His affections do not tend towards love,’ the king said. ‘And what he said, though it lacked form, was not madness. He is brooding on something else. Plotting, perhaps.’

  I did not like King Claudius, but no one could say he was a fool.

  He looked at Father. ‘I have decided to send the prince to England, to present its king with a tribute from our country. It is my hope that the voyage, the change of country, will make him forget whatever he is planning. What do you think?’

  ‘It shall do well,’ said Father obediently. When had Father ever said no to a king? He looked at me, then back to the king. ‘Yet do I believe his grief comes only from neglected love.’

  Was Father trying to keep Hamlet in Denmark? Or keep him safe from suspicion of treason? Father couldn’t know the depth of Hamlet’s bitterness, how deeply he had drunk of the ghost’s poison. I wiped away those stubborn tears as he turned to me again.

  ‘How now, Ophelia?’ Father asked gently. ‘You need not tell us what Lord Hamlet said as we heard it all.’

  I nodded. You care for me, I thought, but all your care has done is bring me to this, and Prince Hamlet too.

  Father turned back to the king. ‘My lord, let the prince’s queen mother talk to him alone, after the play. If she cannot find out what is the matter, then, yes, send him to England.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Or confine him here.’

  King Claudius nodded. ‘It shall be so. Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.’

  Chapter 14

  The queen met us as we walked back to the great hall. Her ladies trailed behind her, like elderly sparrows behind a cart of grain.

  ‘Well?’ she asked abruptly.

  King Claudius shook his head.

  ‘Your Majesty, I am sorry,’ I said. ‘I tried to … to reassure Prince Hamlet, but …’ The courtly words that should flow so easily from my tongue refused to come.

  Fortunately, my father had them. ‘Your Majesty, your son still grieves — over what, we cannot say, though I think it still of love. Perhaps the play tonight will cheer him.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ The queen gave me her hand again, making it clear I was still in her favour. ‘Ophelia, we hope you will join our pleasures.’

  ‘I … I thank you, madam. I am so sorry I have offended your royal son … he is so angry …’ With all women, I thought. He has passed his anguish about your marriage onto me.

  ‘Then you must abate his anger,’ she said firmly. She smiled with calculated charm at her husband and my father. ‘For a woman leads in love, if not in state. Is that not true, my lords?’

  King Claudius smiled. He lifted her hand and kissed it. ‘Most true, most wise, most beautiful of women.’

  His reply was too pat. What were the king and queen truly thinking under their charm? I wondered. How much love was there, and how much statecraft? I had learned more doubt in the past few months than in all my years of Father’s tuition and the library’s books.

  ‘The petitioners are waiting, Your Majesty,’ murmured Lady Annika, waking from her standing doze.

  ‘Of course.’ The queen seemed to have forgotten the crowd waiting in the throne room.

  She is worried, I thought, and not just because of Hamlet’s possible rebellion. For the first time I saw that she loved him as her son, the child she had carried and cradled, not just as her heir.

  ‘We shall see you tonight, my child,’ she told me, then turned, her arm on the king’s.

  The courtiers followed them along the corridor, my father with them. I waited till they had left, then slowly walked the corridor too, not to the throne room, but to home.

  Waiting for the night to come seemed to take a year. I could not read nor sew nor even eat. I left my bread and herring and baked farm cheese, the kind that is stained green with spring nettle juice, for Gerda to eat, and climbed the stairs again into the attic, as if looking out at the world might help me understand it. I longed for the fresh air of my tower. Perhaps the ghost could give me counsel, where mortal advice had failed. But I could not risk being seen creeping about the palace unchaperoned, especially now.

  I opened the shutters. I could smell fish being unloaded on the quay. A carter in the courtyard yelled at some boys to get out of the way as his oxen pulled their load of new-cut summer hay. An alewife shouted a greeting to a friend. Beyond the palace gates, the cows had vanished to their summer pasture. A few sheep, newly shorn, blazed fresh white against the summer grass. Geese stepped neatly in a line, herded by a barefoot girl, her hair wrapped in a bright scarf.

  A good summer, I thought automatically. I was my father’s daughter, after all. No late blizzards to freeze the calves; no storms to sink the fishing boats. Blue skies, no mist to rot the rye. Another winter rich in cheeses and pickled herring, good bread and ale.

  If only I could keep an alehouse. Brew barrels, serve customers. Our house was too small a kingdom.

  Poor kingdom, I thought, looking out at it. Prosperous now, but did its people suspect the blight ahead? Denmark’s harvest was a single prince, and he was mad.

  I chewed on my finger. Who could inherit the throne if not Hamlet? I doubted the king or queen would make young Fortinbras their heir. That would be admitting that neither brother had the right to rule. But there was no cousin or nephew of their name; and Denmark’s chief lord was my own father. I could not see Father as king; nor the lord of the exchequer, and his only son had died of the flux.

  My brother? Laertes could look like a king, but if he had a taste for politics he would be here, at court, where Father could train him to be chancellor in his turn, not playing with the skirts of Paris.

  Could Hamlet still become king if he recovered? King Claudius must think so or he’d not send him to England as a cure. Or maybe he hoped that Hamlet might recover enough to marry and have a son, a sensible child who might become king instead. Was that what the queen hoped too? Was Hamlet being sent to England to wed an English princess? I had forgotten how many there were, but England always had them — sisters and daughters and aunts of kings. The English court would not know of his madness, not if he recovered on the voyage.

  Perhaps the k
ing was wiser than I’d given him credit for. Elsinore and all its dealings had sent Hamlet mad. If Hamlet were away, no longer angered by the sight of his mother and his uncle, my father and — I bit my finger again — me, he might smile again, grow calm. Be happy. I wanted him to be happy. Even the thought of him married to an English princess didn’t hurt me. Much.

  It was time to dress. My clothes must fit my state tonight. That would take time.

  Silk petticoat, in pale blue. Brocade overdress … I shook my head as Gerda brought out the red one. Red was a harlot’s colour. Hamlet’s words this afternoon still stung. We settled on darker blue, trimmed with silver lace. My mother’s pearls at my throat.

  I hesitated, my fingers on the locket. I had fastened it about my throat again when Hamlet hadn’t taken it, for fear I would drop it. It seemed wrong now to take it off. Doubt truth to be a liar … I kept it on.

  Pearl earrings, silk slippers embroidered with pearls, my hair in a silver net touched with pearls too. My clothes would say to the court: the Lady Ophelia has nothing to be ashamed of. Look at her — modesty and wealth combined.

  I called the footmen to sweep in front of me so my slippers or hem didn’t get dirty as I walked across the courtyard to the palace doors.

  ‘Are you ready, daughter?’ Father looked as fine as I, in a gold doublet given to him by the late king as a symbol of his service, red hose and blue garters, his blue cap trimmed with mink. He looked me up and down, then offered me his arm. ‘I remember your mother looking much as you do now. She had hair like clouds upon a sunset. A man should not boast, of course, about that which he possesses, but as wife and daughter are made by God and by the noble union that is marriage, perhaps …’

  I let him talk, nodding at the right places. Father was happy again and proud of me, and that was all I needed to hear. He had loved my mother, and loved me.

  We crossed the courtyard slowly, the footmen sweeping the way in front of us, two more behind carrying our cloaks. The summer sun lingered on the horizon, unwilling to sleep after sleeping so long in winter. I felt the same.

  Tonight, at last, I wanted to smile. A night at court again, conversation, a play! It had been more than a year since I had seen a play. I hadn’t heard musicians play since the queen’s wedding. There would be supper after the play, and music, dancing. This had been my life, before Hamlet returned to muddle it.

  Poor Hamlet. I would be kind tonight, but not familiar. I would behave as befitted my father’s daughter and the honour of our house. I would encourage him to go to England, perhaps even tell him quietly to seek happiness there, if I had the chance. He would see truth in my eyes again, for I would mean it, even if it would hurt me to see him come back with an English wife. Surely he would recover once free of Elsinore.

  The footmen bowed as we entered the hall. Torches lit the walls, turning the great room to summer too. This was obviously where the play would be performed. Already a stage had been set up at the servants’ entrance; and thrones for the king and queen, a seat almost as grand for Hamlet next to the queen, stools for the queen’s ladies and the king’s men, cushions for the court.

  A footman bowed to my father, then spoke softly in his ear.

  Father beamed. ‘The king wishes us to enter with the royal party,’ he told me.

  I flushed. This was a sign of favour indeed.

  We slipped behind the curtains just as the king and queen came towards us. Behind them walked Lady Annika, muffling a yawn; Lady Anna, in puce that did not suit her; and Lady Hilda, with a froth of lace along her sleeves to hide where her maid had let out the seams. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern walked behind them, dressed in orange velvet and mauve brocade tonight, as fine as peacocks in a barnyard. I wondered where Hamlet was, then heard his voice from the hall. He must be speaking to the players, I thought.

  The queen nodded to me to walk beside her, just one pace behind, in front of her other ladies. My father took the other place beside the king. Yes, I thought, tonight will show the court that the House of Polonius has no shame attached to it.

  The trumpets sounded. Musicians played the royal march. The king and queen stepped forward as the curtains opened. The members of the court were already on their feet.

  I waited till the king and queen had sat, then took the furthest stool as was appropriate for the youngest of the queen’s ladies. Lady Annika lowered herself with an audible sigh, and closed her eyes. Lady Hilda and Lady Anna sat upright, as bright as elderly sparrows, excited too.

  Hamlet came out from behind the stage. He was dressed presentably tonight, in black silk and satin, with a black hat trimmed with gold. Almost, I thought, like a crown.

  The king beckoned him. ‘How fares our cousin Hamlet?’

  You called him your son four months ago, I thought.

  Hamlet smiled; an innocent smile, too merry for the evening. He did not bow. ‘Excellent!’ He waved his hands. ‘I eat the air, promise-crammed.’ He bent and whispered so loudly half the hall could hear it: ‘You cannot feed capons so.’

  My skin prickled. The speech felt wrong. It was a clever man playing at being stupid. How mad was Hamlet? His speech this afternoon before he knew he was being watched had been desperate, but not mad. The fury and insanity had come when he realised I had betrayed him with a watcher behind the tapestry.

  I suddenly suspected that Hamlet knew exactly what he was doing. Yet his eyes gleamed too bright.

  The king’s hands tightened on the armrests of the throne. He could do nothing in front of the court, no matter how much Hamlet mocked him. Hamlet knew it.

  ‘I have nothing with this answer,’ King Claudius said stiffly. ‘These words are not mine.’

  ‘No, nor mine now,’ replied Hamlet gaily. He turned to my father. ‘My lord, you acted once at the university?’

  ‘That I did, my lord, and I was accounted a good actor.’

  ‘And what did you enact?’ Hamlet asked the question as seriously as if my father had been a master player.

  Father did not see that he was being played with. ‘I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed in the Capitol. Brutus killed me.’

  Hamlet shook his head, his expression as sad as if the tragedy had just happened. ‘It was a brute part of him to kill so capital a calf here.’

  I tried not to show my anger. These answers were foolish, but not the answers of a fool. They were also cruel. Somehow Hamlet had guessed that Father had been with the king this afternoon, spying on him. But Father did not deserve this; he had given his life for Elsinore. My love cracked a little, like an abandoned egg. What kind of man would taunt a good man like this? Had Hamlet as much talent for cruelty as his father? I had known the lonely, deserted prince, the lover. What else was he?

  ‘Are the players ready?’ Hamlet leaped onto the stage, as bright as any star.

  Doubt thou the stars are fire … I blinked away tears I hadn’t felt gathering in my eyes. Did I cry because I had lost Hamlet’s love, or because I was losing mine for him? I did not know.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Rosencrantz gave another of his bows. ‘The players stay upon your patience.’

  ‘Come hither, my dear Hamlet. Sit by me,’ called the queen.

  Hamlet peered at her from the stage as if she were an egg-seller in the market. ‘No, good mother,’ he said lightly. ‘Here’s metal more attractive.’ Before I realised what was happening, he had jumped down beside me. ‘Lady, shall I lie in your lap?’

  He sat at my feet, like a child, before I could reply. I flushed. I had never heard a man speak so crudely. Did he mean to humiliate me in front of the entire court? Was this revenge for helping the king and my father spy on him?

  ‘No, my lord,’ I said clearly.

  He smiled at me, too innocent again. ‘I mean, my head upon your lap?’

  ‘Ay, my lord,’ I said uncertainly.

  I glanced at the queen, but she gave me no hint of what to do. The court stared at us. Even Lady Annika looked at me through half-opened eyes.

&nb
sp; ‘Do you think I meant country matters?’ Hamlet’s voice was far too loud.

  ‘I think nothing, my lord,’ I said carefully.

  ‘That’s a fair thought to lie between maids’ legs.’

  My blush could have heated the castle. ‘What is, my lord?’ I said, trying to make it seem I had not understood.

  ‘Nothing.’

  Hamlet had as good as said that I had lain with him, that I would do so again. Was I supposed to pretend that I hadn’t just been insulted in front of everyone who mattered in the kingdom?

  ‘You are merry, my lord,’ I said coldly, making sure my voice carried too.

  ‘Who, I?’ He blinked up at me, all innocence again.

  ‘Ay, my lord.’

  He leaned his head against my legs. I did not dare move away.

  ‘What should a man do but be merry?’ He spoke more quietly now. ‘Look how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within these two hours.’

  I kept my hands neatly in my lap, as far from his head as I could. ‘Nay, it is twice two months, my lord.’

  ‘So long? Two months ago, and not forgotten yet? Then there’s hope a great man’s memory may outlive his life by half a year. But, by our lady, he must build churches then; or else he shall be forgotten, like the hobby-horse whose epitaph is “For oh, for oh, the hobbyhorse is forgot!”’

  I got my breath under control, and my blushes. I even felt a kind of sad relief. The more Hamlet said tonight, the madder he sounded. Everyone who watched us could see it. No one would put any weight on what a madman said to me. I must play the lady-in-waiting, kind and tolerant to her mistress’s mad son. I could do that. I could.

  But the words from his letter still whispered in my mind. Doubt truth to be a liar; but never doubt I love.

  What was the truth here? Madness, plots, or love? Or all of them?

  The sun shone its evening light across the world outside. Here in the hall, shadows circled and twisted. Footmen brought torches to light the stage.

  The play was about to begin.