Chapter 25
I sat back on the tower’s stones. So both my brother and Hamlet loved me? Ha! If they loved me so much, they should have wept, not fought each other. Even Laertes had seemed to care more about punching Hamlet’s nose than remembering me. I had thought my brother a sensible man, like our father.
But Hamlet had killed our father. And Laertes believed Hamlet had been the cause of my death too. Laertes had cause for anger. But Hamlet? Screaming and making a scene because my brother gave way to his grief. Offering to eat a crocodile!
Suddenly I grinned. It was ridiculous. Crocodile probably tasted quite good if cooked well, with a cream sauce and chives. Was Hamlet still pretending to be mad? Or were his ravings a sign of guilt, a whisper of true insanity? Both mixed together, I decided. Perhaps pretending to be a madman had loosened Hamlet’s own behaviour and now it could not be put back.
At least both my brother and Hamlet were alive and free, not cast into a dungeon.
My time in my tower had come to an end too. I must go to our house to see my brother before he got into worse trouble. King Claudius would be all too happy if my brother killed Hamlet. Then Laertes could be tried for treason and executed, and both challengers to the king’s throne would be gone.
I ran down the stairs. I fumbled for the key as a cry came from outside.
‘A duel! A duel! Prince Hamlet fights Lord Laertes!’
I muttered an oath at the stupidity of men, and a curse on all rapiers. I ran back up to the battlements and peered over the edge. I didn’t care if the guards saw me now. But the men on the other towers were all staring down too.
The court had gathered in the royal garden. Two chairs had been carried out for the king and queen, and stools for the ladies, and a table with wine and goblets laid on it. Laertes and Hamlet faced each other, rapiers in their hands. They were going to fight a duel! What would Father have said?
That young men must have their folly, I thought. And a duel, fought according to proper rules, might cool their tempers. The presence of the king and queen showed this was a formal duel, not a fight to the death. Each would try to land a point upon the other, with buttons covering the sharp ends of their rapiers. There would be no blood. A winner would be declared, and it would be done.
I could not think of a more foolish way to quarrel, nor pass the time — except, perhaps, torturing some poor bear to make it dance. At least when men hunted, they brought back food. But playing at fighting? Ridiculous.
I hugged the nearest stone. I would watch till the game was over, then seek out Laertes. I would tell him he was a fool to let himself be caught in the king’s net, playing games with rapiers. I would convince him we should leave the court with its plots, and go to our estates to tend our lands and people. I would tell him it was time to think about what mattered, instead of frittering his life away with mistresses and duels.
The king settled in his seat. ‘Cousin Hamlet,’ he called, ‘you know the wager?’
They were betting on a duel not an hour after my funeral? If I’d had a crocodile to hand, I would have shoved it in Hamlet’s mouth. Without cream sauce. As for my supposedly grief-stricken brother …
‘Very well, my lord,’ answered Hamlet. He almost seemed happy, nursing his rapier confidently, a man who thought he would win. ‘Your Grace has laid the odds on the weaker side.’
So the king had bet on my brother. He would probably win his bet, I thought. Just as his brother had won a bet in this very garden so many years ago.
Laertes lifted his rapier. ‘This is too heavy. Let me see another.’
Hamlet weighed his in his hand. ‘I like this one. Are all the blades the same length?’
The king’s servant handed Laertes a different sword.
Queen Gertrude sat back, the most relaxed I had seen her since before her husband’s death. Her smile reassured me. Had she been the one to suggest this duel? Duels were stupid, but men took them seriously. Perhaps it might mend the rift between Hamlet and Laertes. The queen knew what she was doing. Hamlet and Laertes would probably be toasting each other, the best of friends, by nightfall.
And if my brother’s grief for me hadn’t lasted very long, then hopefully it wouldn’t shock him too much to find me alive.
And annoyed. If Laertes thought he could tell me what to do after this, he’d have to think again. To think I had believed him wise! I’d get him away from court and back to our estates if I had to drag him by the stockings. Or put poppy juice in his ale, and have him carted off, asleep.
But no matter what happened in the garden this morning, King Claudius was still a murderer. And Hamlet would still seek revenge.
Hamlet might not be mad as he had pretended. But nor was he … sensible. I thought of the fury of his speech in the library, when he thought I had betrayed him; his frantic glee at the play; even the too-fervent grief just now, over what he thought was my dead body, attacking my brother simply for showing his love for me.
No matter how I tried to twist it, I could never think of Hamlet as a good king for Denmark. He was a child, playing at plots, like he played with his sword below, his grief for me vanishing with the prospect of some sport.
Were any in Hamlet’s father’s family truly sane? I thought of the old king shrieking for revenge; King Claudius pouring poison in his brother’s ear instead of discreetly slipping it into his wine. Hamlet was indeed his father’s son. No matter what was going on between him and his uncle, Laertes and I and our household were best away from Elsinore.
‘Come, sir!’ cried Hamlet. He saluted Laertes with his rapier.
Laertes saluted him back. And lunged.
Hamlet laughed, parrying with his own weapon.
A few of the lords clapped. Ladies giggled, like trilling birds.
I didn’t want to watch. Who cared who won or lost the bet? But I needed to see how King Claudius dealt with the duellists when their match was over. Would Hamlet be accepted as the king’s heir again? Did the king trust Laertes enough to let us leave the court without wondering if Laertes did so to gather an army on our estates?
My brother lunged again, and then twice more. Hamlet parried them all.
More applause. Hamlet grinned, and bowed to the audience. He fenced better than I’d thought he would. Better than my brother and the king had thought too. This scholar had been practising.
All at once Hamlet’s arm flashed forward. The tip of his foil touched Laertes’s shirt.
‘A hit! A very palpable hit!’ cried someone. The audience cheered.
A woman plucked a flower from her hair and threw it towards Hamlet. He saw it, nodded to her and smiled.
The king grinned a reluctant acknowledgment. He lifted his goblet. ‘To Hamlet! This drink is yours.’
He nodded to his servant to give Hamlet a goblet of wine too.
The queen smiled.
Yes, I thought, it was you who organised this. If Laertes and Hamlet settle their quarrel, my father’s murder can be forgotten. Poor, careful Father. But I knew he would not call for revenge. If forgetting him meant peace in Denmark, Father would lie in his grave content.
Hamlet waved the wine away. ‘I’ll play this bout first,’ he called to the king. ‘Come,’ he said to Laertes, ‘another hit. What do you say?’
Had the court watched Hamlet’s father fight King Fortinbras all those years ago? They must have. A kingdom’s fate had rested on two thin swords. Goose-girls, wood-cutters, a kingdom’s crops and cheeses, all dependent on who could prick the other with a sword.
The rapiers clashed again.
‘A hit, I do confess!’ called Laertes.
The king leaned over to the queen. ‘Our son shall win,’ he said loudly.
So he’s your son now, I thought.
The queen smiled. ‘Our son is fat and out of breath. Here, Hamlet, take my napkin and wipe your brow.’ She lifted his goblet of wine to toast him. ‘The queen drinks to your good luck, Hamlet.’
‘Gertrude, do not drink!’ The ki
ng grabbed at her arm, too late. The queen drank down the wine.
I frowned. Why shouldn’t the queen drink?
She was already smiling an apology at the king. She said something to him, too low for me to hear. She blew him a kiss, then held the goblet of wine out to Hamlet again.
He shook his head. ‘I will not drink it yet, madam.’
‘Come, let me wipe your face,’ she insisted.
He hesitated, then walked to her and kneeled by her chair. She smiled down at him as Lady Annika passed her a silk handkerchief, then she wiped his forehead tenderly, as if he were a baby. Hamlet met her eyes. Slowly, he smiled back. A cooing whisper ran around the watching court.
She has done it, I thought. Oh, clever queen. Hamlet has forgiven her. This duel would settle his enmity with Laertes. And even King Claudius seemed on good enough terms with Hamlet now. Maybe life would return to normal.
I should leave now, while everyone was watching the duel, and climb back into my skirts. I could be waiting for Laertes when he returned, and share with him a little of the truth: that I had been scared and had hidden till he returned.
Perhaps, instead of fleeing, I would find myself a lady-in-waiting again. Queen Gertrude had declared publicly that she had hoped I would be her daughter. It would be a cruel trick of fate if she announced me as Hamlet’s bride just when I no longer wanted to be. I did not love him any more. Did not respect him.
But the queen had lived for a quarter-century with a man she did not love, had perhaps even hated. Could I do the same? Men gave their lives for their country. Women gave their lives for men, for their family. And for a queen, a family may be a whole kingdom wide.
I would think of it tomorrow. Tomorrow I would be a girl again, in my skirts. I would have a bed, a bath, a brother who loved me, even if not as extravagantly as he claimed … Why did I feel like crying? I wiped the tears away angrily. Time to go back to my real life.
Hamlet raised his rapier. ‘Come for a third hit, Laertes!’ he yelled. ‘You are dallying.’
Laertes slashed towards him, fast. ‘Have at you now!’
Hamlet stepped back. A small rose bloomed upon his shoulder. Blood.
Someone screamed.
I leaned over the battlements. There should be no blood in a duel like this. Someone had taken the buttons off the rapiers! This was no play fight. My brother and my lover were fighting to the death.
Men’s voices rose, angry and alarmed. Women chattered like starlings in a tree. But no one stepped in to part the duellists.
Hamlet stared at the blood spreading across his shirt. He gazed fiercely at Laertes for a second as long as winter, then grasped his rapier again. His sword crashed against Laertes’s. They struggled for a moment, neither giving way, forcing the rapiers from each other’s hands. Both their weapons clattered to the paving. They grabbed them up again. I saw that Laertes had taken Hamlet’s rapier, and Laertes Hamlet’s. I doubted either noticed.
Another rose grew red, this time on Laertes’s arm.
Someone stop them, I thought desperately, just as Claudius yelled: ‘Separate them! They are incensed!’
Hamlet and Laertes took no notice. Their world had narrowed to their swords, to each other, and to their hatred.
Horatio tried to grab Hamlet’s arm. Hamlet thrust him away, still circling Laertes.
I had to stop them! I was the only one who could. Once they saw I was alive, they’d have to stop. If I was alive, Laertes could not blame Hamlet for my death. He might even accept that our father’s death was an accident, if I told him so. And if Hamlet was willing to eat a crocodile for me, the least he could do was put down his rapier.
I clattered down the stairs, fumbled for the key. The door swung open.
I ran along the corridor, down the stairs, across the central courtyard, then into the wing near the royal garden. No one stopped me. No one even saw me. Every servant must be watching the duel from some window or tower. They would see me too, wearing boy’s clothes, revealing myself as a woman. A scandal. Well, I could survive scandal. What was a queen but a woman who knew her own mind and made men follow her? I might never wear a crown, nor even have a husband, but I could stop two men killing each other today.
The garden door was open. Servants clustered around. I elbowed my way through them, under shoulders.
Clack! Snick! Clack! The two figures lunged around the garden. Half of Hamlet’s shirt was red with blood. Red dripped from Laertes’s arm. The paving stones bloomed with red patches like spilled wine. But at least they were still alive.
‘Stop!’ I cried.
Someone screamed, but not at me. No one even looked at me. They looked at Lady Anna, who was still screaming, then at the queen. Slowly, like a ship’s sail collapsing as the wind died, the queen toppled from her chair.
Lady Hilda ran to her, and began to fan her. The queen murmured something, too soft for me to hear. Lady Annika pulled out smelling salts. For a moment I saw the queen stretched upon the ground, then she was lost in a froth of black skirts.
What was wrong? Surely she had not fainted at the sight of Hamlet’s tiny wound? Queen Gertrude had seen bloodier sport. She had seen her son kill my father. She had not fainted then.
I ran forward, still unnoticed in the crowd, and tried to get closer. The lord of the exchequer shoved me back.
‘Mind your manners, lout,’ he snapped.
He had not recognised me. And this was not the time to pull off my hat and make myself known. The queen’s face was blue. I had seen a face like that before — the dead king’s. My blood turned to ice, as if the poison had me in its clutches too. Someone had poisoned the queen. Who? Why?
King Claudius had used poison before. I could see why he might poison Hamlet, or Laertes — no need for messy executions. But why kill his queen?
‘Come again!’ cried Hamlet, his back to his dying mother. He lunged at Laertes, turning as he did so. He stepped back, staring at his mother on the ground.
‘How does the queen?’ he panted.
The king’s hands clutched the arms of his chair. He waved at Hamlet and Laertes to keep fighting. ‘She swoons to see you bleed.’
Couldn’t the king see his wife was dying? Hadn’t he too seen that poisoned blue face?
I could do nothing for the queen that Lady Annika was not doing. Nothing but save her son. I must get between Hamlet and Laertes. Grab one of their rapiers before they began to fight again.
Laertes lifted his sword to strike at Hamlet.
‘No!’ The queen struggled up, cradled in Lady Annika’s arms. ‘No!’ she cried weakly. ‘No, the drink! The drink!’ She struggled on her knees towards her son, her arms outstretched. ‘Hamlet!’
‘Mother?’ It was the first time I had heard Hamlet use the name. His rapier dropped onto the blood-splattered paving stones.
I ran to it, and grabbed it up.
‘Laertes!’ I cried.
My brother did not notice me. Did not hear me. Who listened to a servant? All his attention was on Hamlet, kneeling by the queen.
I wanted to go to her, but I was no lady-in-waiting now. I found tears in my eyes; the tears I should have shed for my wounded brother, my wounded lover. I watched as the queen laboured for breath, as her heart failed her; that valiant heart that had tried to do so much for Denmark.
‘Oh, my dear Hamlet.’ The words were as faint as a sparrow’s breath.
She slumped against Lady Annika, a strange blue line about her mouth, even darker than the colour of her face. She seemed to force her eyes to open. One weak hand gestured at the table, where the goblets of wine still sat.
‘I am poisoned!’ she whispered harshly.
I looked at the goblets. The queen had offered Hamlet a drink, then had drunk from the cup herself. A poisoned chalice King Claudius meant for Hamlet.
The queen fell back. Lady Annika bent and closed her mistress’s eyes. She stayed on the ground, her arms about the queen, while Lady Anna and Lady Hilda stood like guards on either
side.
Hamlet stared at his mother’s corpse. I waited for him to bend his head and weep. Instead, he surged to his feet.
‘Oh, villainy! Lock the gate!’ he cried, gesturing at the door to the palace. ‘Treachery! Find out who did it!’
The king stared at his dead wife, then looked back at Hamlet. For a moment I thought the king might countermand the order, and stride away into the palace. Instead, he sat back, as if waiting. But for what? Surely he did not expect the duel to continue now? A strange smile flitted about his face. Still he waited, motionless. The whole court seemed frozen about him.
What was the king waiting for? Even I did not move, staring at him, then at Laertes, still holding his rapier, and at Hamlet, who once again seemed lost.
Suddenly Laertes fell to the ground, landing hard upon his knees, his head striking the grass.
‘Laertes!’ I dropped the rapier and ran to him, kneeled on the stones, parted his shirt to look at his wound. It oozed a little, but was not severe enough to cause him to faint. The skin around the wound was a faint, shiny blue. I gazed at his face in fear. He had not drunk the wine, had he? Surely he could not be poisoned too?
‘Laertes,’ I said. ‘It is I!’
People screamed, shouted, shrieked around us. A chorus of cries, as if crows were trying to sing hymns. I did not think Laertes even heard me.
I lifted my brother. Suddenly I was shoved aside, so hard I fell against the paving stones, the wind knocked out of me. Hamlet took Laertes in his arms. I forced my body up, dragged in a breath.
‘Hamlet!’ It came out as a strangled whisper. ‘Laertes!’ I tried again. I clambered to my knees, tried to crawl to them.
Another hand pushed me aside. Horatio. He kneeled by Hamlet, who was still holding my brother.
Laertes looked at Hamlet, not at me. He heaved a breath, then nodded towards the rapier I had dropped, the rapier he had fought with at the start of the duel.
‘Treachery is here!’ he whispered. ‘Hamlet, you are dead.’ The words were as weak as chicken feathers scratching paper. ‘The treacherous rapier in your hand is poisoned.’ Laertes forced a smile, a warrior’s smile, acknowledging the ultimate defeat. ‘My own poison has turned on me.’
Ophelia Page 17
