‘Doubt that the sun doth move,’ I whispered. That was all I had now — words. Memories. And a brother, I told myself. A good brother, who will protect you. Find you a husband … My body shivered, despite my cloak and the sun. When I last pushed under these branches, I had thought I had everything I’d ever dreamed of. A lover, a family, a future where I would be queen. Now …
I ducked under the last big branch. There it was — the glade. The ice had melted. The stream was a river now, running fast with melted snow. A few late spring flowers still dotted the grass — anemones and bluebells. I will pick a bunch for Father’s desk, I thought. And remembered.
‘Ophelia.’
I turned. He stood beneath the pine tree in a travelling cloak like mine, though his was black. Black for mourning, I thought. I must put on black now too.
‘I … I thought you had left for England last night,’ I said stupidly.
I waited for my heart to beat drum-like on seeing him. Waited for my skin to yearn for his. But I felt empty, and as alone as he was.
‘Even my uncle cannot order a ship to set off at night, without a moon to guide her. We sail with the next tide.’ Hamlet added simply, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to kill him.’
He didn’t step closer. I did not go to him.
‘You thought my poor father a rat?’
‘I thought your poor father the king, scuttling rat-like behind my mother’s tapestries. Ophelia, I am not mad. I put on the robe of madness to hide my purpose from my uncle, till I could see if what my father’s ghost claimed was truth.’
He stepped towards me then, but I stepped back, beyond his reach.
‘You tried to kill a king, yet you did kill my father.’
‘I thought I had killed my father’s murderer! I had been … arguing with my mother.’ Hamlet’s face twisted. ‘If it is arguing to tell your mother she is a whore, who married the man who killed her husband to satisfy the lustful pleadings of her aged flesh.’ He shut his eyes, last night’s pain a slash across his face. ‘I did my father’s bidding!’ he whispered. ‘My father’s ghost appeared there in my mother’s chamber, urging revenge. So I unsheathed my rapier and stabbed!’ His voice rose, pleading, desperate. ‘What else must a son do when his father’s ghost cries for his killer’s blood?’
He glanced back towards Elsinore. I could see the effort he made to calm himself. ‘Perhaps I was mad,’ he whispered, ‘when my father’s ghost urged me on. Would you forgive me if it were true madness that brought me to slay your father?’
Forgive him? I did not know. But I remembered the wisdom of another ghost. Do not cling to anger and revenge, King Fortinbras had told me. For if I did, I would become what Hamlet was now, less of a man, because the greater part was bitterness and hatred.
I said, ‘I know only this, my lord, that I am yours.’
His face relaxed. He hears only what he wants to hear, I thought. He does not hear that I have not forgiven him; nor that I have not said the words ‘I love you still’. But when he took my hand, I did not draw away.
He said abruptly, ‘My uncle plans to have me killed in England.’
I stared. Of all things, I had not imagined that. ‘What? How do you know?’
‘He gave me a letter to take to the king of England, asking him to execute the bearer.’ His smile darkened in contempt. ‘Did he think a prince of Denmark would hesitate to break the king’s seal? I am the true king of Denmark, not he! My kind uncle cannot execute me here at Elsinore. My mother has made herself believe he is innocent of one murder, but even she will not let him kill me.’
He said it so flatly that I knew there was no madness in him now.
‘What did you do with the letter?’ I asked.
He gave the warped smile again. ‘I sealed it anew. My uncle forgets that I have a royal seal, much like the one he uses now. I warrant the king of England will see no difference.’
‘What will you do?’ I whispered.
‘Sail to England, as I am supposed to do. But my so-called friends, who do my uncle’s bidding, shall give the king the letter. Let them lose their lives. I will tell the English king all that has happened, and return with an English army. If young Fortinbras can lead an army, so can I.’
Could he? Even if he could, was that what our country needed — a foreign army to give us a king? Brother killing brother, crops burned or never sown?
He bent and kissed me. This time his lips were cold.
‘I must go, before they find me. Go to your estates,’ he said quickly. ‘Stay safe and wait for me.’
He kissed me again, hard and long. I don’t think he realised that my lips did not move under his, nor my body press to his.
At last he stepped back. He stroked my cheek. ‘Fair Ophelia, how I love thee. Guard yourself, for you belong to me.’
He turned, and almost ran back through the trees.
I touched my cheek where his glove had stroked me. My father’s murderer had kissed me. Yesterday I had thought him mad. Today? I did not know. Could a madman have planned that play that made the king cry out in guilt? Pretending madness may have saved his life too. Yet last night I had seen Hamlet swing from sorrow to wild glee, capering and jumping about the stage. That had not been pretence; nor were the words spoken to himself in the library, as he wondered if he should live with all his burdens or free himself and die.
No, not mad. But not entirely sane.
I was lucky with my ghost, I thought. My ghost had loved his son. He did not shriek and seek revenge. If Hamlet was mad, his father had led him to it.
I sat on a lichen-covered log and gazed at the river. Had Hamlet never wondered why the court and people had accepted his uncle, had shown so little grief when their former king was dead? Old King Hamlet was the man who had cheated the rightful king of his throne. A man his wife had loved so little she had married within weeks of his death, and not just to keep the country stable. Claudius and his brother were like two raw peas in a pod, both cruel and hard.
And Hamlet? I had told him I belonged to him. I did not lie, but I belonged to him only because I belonged to no one else now. My father was dead, my brother was far away, the queen I had almost loved had been taken in by a murderer. I was Hamlet’s or I was no one’s. And he was prince of Denmark, mad or sane. I was enough my father’s daughter to know that mattered.
The breeze freshened through the leaves, sending them shivering. I could smell cold water, new grass, and hear the far-off tinkle of bells as the cows wandered to pasture after their morning milking. Some farm girl would be making cheese.
The thought steadied me. Kings came and went, and so did passion. But cheese continued for as long as women had the sense to milk the cows, drain the whey, and store the cheeses properly. Women like me. I had no father to belong to now; but I had myself.
‘I belong to me,’ I whispered.
It was as if a sack of rocks had fallen from my back. I heard the flicker of swallows as they snapped at gnats above me, heard the song of leaves and trees, all that I had missed in my sorrow. Suddenly I could think clearly again.
I picked a jonquil, breathed in its scent, then sat on the log again, drawing my cloak around me. Would the English king give Hamlet an army? Perhaps. But only if Denmark became a vassal state of England, our king forever owing his throne to a foreign power.
If the king of England granted Hamlet an army, King Claudius would hear of it. And he would not hesitate to get rid of a girl who might persuade Queen Gertrude that her son was right and his own actions were wrong. A girl who had seen him start with guilt at the play. A girl known to be sensible, whose word would carry weight. The daughter of the late lord chancellor, the second most important man in all the land, respected, even loved, where neither this king nor his brother had been.
A robin danced among the flowers as I accepted the inevitable. My life was in danger. If I seemed even to breathe out of turn, Claudius would kill me too.
I had nowhere to run; no one to ask for help, u
ntil my brother came. I didn’t even have a sword to defend myself. I must seem meek, glad of Their Majesties’ comfort. I must smile and smile.
The thought reminded me of something Hamlet had said: ‘A man can smile and smile and still be a villain.’ I looked at the flower in my hand. The only weapons a girl had were smiles and blossoms.
Chapter 18
We buried my father three days later, in the graveyard I had watched over so often from the tower. He wore his newly embroidered cuffs, which I had finished the night before.
The king led the procession, and I walked at the queen’s side, but neither spoke to me. Behind us came Lady Annika, Lady Anna and Lady Hilda, and a small party of the king’s men. The queen’s ladies had each kissed me upon the cheek and pressed my hand and whispered words of condolence. I hardly heard them. How could old women’s sympathy help me now?
A small procession seemed a poor farewell for the man who had given so much to Denmark.
It is the custom after a funeral for guests to take a cup to toast the family’s loss. But the members of the royal party were the only mourners here, and I couldn’t invite the king and queen to come to our house. They alone could grant the honour of visiting their subjects. I’d had the servants prepare wine and cakes in case they suggested it, but they didn’t. When the funeral words were said, when we had walked the short way from the graveyard to the palace, I received a pat on the cheek from the queen, another kiss from her ladies, and a sentence of warning rather than comfort from the king, though it was lightly said. ‘We are glad to see you stay here, Lady Ophelia.’
I sank into a curtsey, my black silk skirts rustling. ‘As Your Majesty directs, so do I obey.’ By the time I had risen, they had gone.
Gerda waited for me at the palace steps. She followed me back home; helped me change from black silk to black bombazine. It seemed there would be no callers today, nor could I go out for the next three months of mourning. A good daughter hid her face and mourned. It was all I wished to do.
You do not know your loss until you feel it. I had laughed at Father’s long-winded speeches, thought little of his wisdom because he so enjoyed dispensing it. Yet it was wisdom. And if he had not always acted wisely, who in this kingdom had? Father had done better than most, and with a better heart.
A good epitaph for any man, I thought, as I sat dressed in black, the house’s curtains drawn, the doors shut to the summer breeze, as was proper for a house of mourning.
No one came. Not the queen, to tell me of her sorrow. Not Ladies Anna, Annika or Hilda. No visits of condolence. Usually, friends send food to a house of mourning, to feed the family in their grief and the mourners at the funeral. But no haunches of venison were delivered to our kitchen, no hare pies, no flasks of pickled herring or loaves of fresh rye bread.
During those long weeks I learned how truly alone I was.
All my life, the dining table had been spread for each meal with cheeses, breads, ale, meat and fish, dishes of fresh or dried fruits, olives, nuts; the silver salt cellar, the silver butter platters, the silver centrepieces, all well-polished. There seemed little point in all that work just for me. I ate barley bread and cheese, sitting on the cushions in my sewing room. Only the cheeses changed as the weeks went by. Green cheese gave way to Wette Willie; then the small oval cheeses soaked in whey that we call ‘cheeses of the Moon’.
Gerda sat with me, mending a petticoat, while I read one of Father’s books: the play he had told Hamlet he had acted in all those years before. I almost smiled to think of my portly father as Caesar. Better to smile than cry.
Gerda sliced another hunk of cheese for me: a plain Summer Round today. ‘There are strawberries in the market,’ she said, trying to tempt me. ‘Would you like me to buy you some, my lady?’
I shook my head. I did not want to send Gerda or the footmen out to the market, in case seeing my servants reminded King Claudius of me. All I can do, I thought, is wait for Laertes.
‘Laertes! Laertes!’ The yells came from outside, as if my imagining had conjured up a crowd to call his name.
‘Has Lord Laertes come?’ cried Gerda.
I ran to the front window and peered out. There was no sign of my brother’s horse or carriage. Instead, a rabble yelled at the palace walls, men waving hoes and picks and rakes. ‘Laertes!’ they shouted. ‘Laertes must be king! We want Laertes!’
The butter-sellers took up the chant. ‘We want Laertes! We want Laertes!’
I looked towards the palace. The doors were closed and bolted. Up on the battlements, men in armour held their bows at the ready to speed their arrows down.
I let the curtain fall.
‘Why does the crowd call your brother’s name?’ asked Gerda uncertainly.
‘They want him to be king,’ I said.
‘King!’ Gerda almost glowed. ‘That would be wonderful.’
‘No. It may mean our deaths. It is treason to even say the words! Stop the other servants talking about it too. No one must leave the house. No one! You understand?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
I had been stupid, sitting here in my grief without thinking of what else might be happening in the kingdom. Others had seen the signs of the king’s guilt that night, servants as well as lords and ladies. Word had spread. Treason was a dish best served in private. It seemed the men yelling my brother’s name had eaten of it too.
The people of Denmark didn’t want a poisoner for a king, nor his mad nephew Hamlet. They wanted Laertes, son of their good lord chancellor.
Was Laertes behind this? I wondered. Was he planning rebellion? Or did the crowd shout his name because it was the only one they trusted?
I had no way of knowing. But I had to act quickly. My first duty was to keep the servants safe. How long would it be before guards came here; men with swords to take me to the palace? To imprison my servants in case they tried to warn Laertes?
‘Gerda, go to the kitchen, if you please. I would like herring pies made. A host of pies for when my brother comes. You must help the cook make them.’
‘Me, my lady? I have no hand for pastry.’
‘Then you must pick out the fishbones.’
The palace guards were good men, even if they obeyed an evil king. They would recognise the truth if Gerda and the other servants said honestly that they didn’t know where I was, and hadn’t heard from Laertes either. Servants planning rebellion didn’t have time to decorate herring pies.
I ran up to my room. Had Laertes arrived in Denmark already? Had he brought an army — men from our estates and soldiers from the other lords’ estates? Or were the people yelling his name simply because they’d had enough of the family who had won the kingdom in a bet, then plotted and murdered each other. My father had been the best of men compared to the two kings he had served. Laertes must seem a paragon compared to Hamlet, who they thought was mad, and a murderer too.
Poor Hamlet. I realised suddenly that any love I still felt for him was like that of a mother for her child. Poor lonely man, kept away from his land and his family so long, unfit and untutored to carry the burdens life had given him.
But I must watch out for myself now. If I had been in danger as Hamlet’s love, I was in worse danger as the sister of the man the people wanted as their king. King Claudius could take me hostage and tell my brother, ‘Disband your army or we will kill your sister. Come any closer to Elsinore and we will cut off her head and raise it above the battlements as a warning to all traitors.’
I had to flee. But how? This house was watched, so close to the palace. Even if I managed to sneak out, I would be found before I had put any real distance behind me. Perhaps there were watchers along the roads to our estates, to see if I disobeyed the king’s orders and tried to escape to safety.
Where could I hide? Under the bed, like a child playing hide and seek? Even if I vanished into my tower, the guards would search every corner of our house and the palace till they found me.
I looked about my room, as if t
he cushions and rugs might help me. Some flowers I had arranged in vases weeks ago were faded now, their water dried. Suddenly it came to me. I still had a girl’s weapons: smiles and flowers. If I used them properly, I might, perhaps, survive.
I chose my dress with care: a linen shift, bleached by the sun and age. It had been my mother’s, and my grandmother’s. Good linen grows softer with the years. I felt it caress my skin as Gerda dropped it over my shoulders. I hoped I had their blessing as I wore it. I needed blessings now.
Gerda fastened on the wide black silk skirt held out with whalebone. It had been my mother’s too, part of the mourning clothes every family kept.
‘No, don’t sew it on,’ I said quickly. ‘Just use a sash.’
She stared. ‘But, my lady, what if you trip on your skirt? It might fall off if it is not sewn on.’
‘Peasant girls manage not to lose their skirts,’ I said. ‘No, do not sew my sleeves on either. Just tie them up with a ribbon.’
‘You cannot wear tied-on sleeves to court!’ Gerda hesitated. ‘That is where you’re going, isn’t it?’
Where else would I wear black silk?
‘Yes. Give me a shawl to cover the ribbons. That will do. Now leave me. Go back to making the pies. I … I need to think before I leave the house.’
‘Yes, my lady,’ Gerda said doubtfully.
‘Gerda, will you do something else for me?’
‘Of course. Anything at all, my lady.’ She glanced out the window to where the rabble still called my brother’s name. ‘We all would, my lady,’ she said softly. ‘Every servant. Every man on the estates. Whatever you and Lord Laertes need.’
My heart ached at her kindness. I forced myself to smile. ‘It won’t come to that,’ I said, and pressed two gold coins into her hand.
She looked at them, as surprised as if they had been eggs. ‘I don’t understand, my lady.’
‘The queen may wish me to stay at the palace,’ I said carefully. ‘If I should not return this afternoon, that money and the food in the cellar will keep the household till my brother returns.’ And for months afterwards if he rebels, I thought.
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