Dating Hamlet (10 page)

Authors: Lisa Fiedler

BOOK: Dating Hamlet

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NO ONE THINKS TO DRY A DEAD GIRL.

For this reason, I wait in my wet gown, shivering in a room I've only visited once beforeâ'tis the morgue, far below stairs, beside the dungeon. Most fortunate 'tis that no one else has died of late. I've the place to myself

The slab upon which I lie is cold and hard against my spine, the room is shadowy and dim, but my eyes have adjusted; I can make out a shelf which holds a collection of jars, no doubt containing the liquids and powders necessary to the practices and rites of burial. The alchemist in me longs to examine them.

At last there comes the rusty squeal of old hinges, then Anne's voice, whispering, “Lia! We have come!”

I sit up quickly on the slab, noting with an irreverent giggle that I am surely the only tenant of these chambers ever to have done so. “Here!” I announce.

They shuffle through the darkness. Finding me soaked, Laertes unfastens his jupon and removes it; I take it thankfully, slipping my arms into the sleeves.

“Ophelia,” he cries, “I have most miraculous news!”

“I've spent an hour in this morbid cell,” I inform him, “and have yet to see a single rat! No miracle may surpass that!”

“No? Would you feel thus were I to tell you that your Hamlet lives?”

His words reverberate in the darkness.

I shake my head, afraid even to half-believe. For half belief is hope, and I have worn out what little hope I had.

Laertes takes my face in his hands. “He is alive, sister!”

“Alive?”

“Alive!”

Upon my soul, it is as though I can feel the stars halt their expeditions! The universe stills, awaits a word from me, but no word comes. Perhaps I have ceased to think, to breathe, to be.

Laertes shakes me. “Hear, Ophelia, let belief take hold. I have seen the proof. A letter, written in the Prince's character. England, it seems, has failed. Or else not tried. It matters not, except for thisâyour Hamlet lives! He comes! I cannot say for certain when, but he is bound for thee.”

Oh, by the sweet breath of Saint Valentine, I am saved! Jubilant and prodigious truth! Suffering eludes me, now and forever, his life spared is mine regained. “Hamlet is alive!”

“Aye, sister!” Laertes hugs me. “And I would give the world to know your thoughts this moment!”

“This moment â¦” I begin, “this moment, I am thinking â¦”

“Yes?”

“Thinking that I shall need to wash my hair!”

At that, Anne lets out a snort of agreement.

“There is more to tell,” Laertes says. “Even as he approaches, the King makes plans to kill him.”

“Again?” I spring to my feet, throwing my arms wide in frustration. “Can that ass think of nothing other than murdering the Prince?”

“He has requested my assistance.” Laertes smiles. “Which is a good thing.”

I blink in amazement. “How so, pray tell?”

“The King hath schemed to arrange, upon the Prince's return, a game of swordplay between Hamlet and myself, citing the Prince's envy of my excellence at the sport as the bait to lure him to the match. Claudius will place a wager on the outcome, to increase the temptation.”

“But such contests are conducted with blunted weaponry,” I remind him. “How wouldst thou kill him with a bated blade?”

“Claudius depends upon the fact that Hamlet believes me a gentleman of honor, and will trust me to engage in sport according to the rules.”

I frown a moment; then understanding dawns. “Hamlet will therefore neglect to inspect the foils, freeing you to choose a keen one. Or so imagines Claudius.”

Laertes leans against the wall with a smug look. “Surely
the King will not quit his treachery till he sees with his own eyes Hamlet good and dead. It occurred to me that we could show him that very thing!”

My eyes brighten. “The poison!”

“Aye! I remembered the remarkable abilities you described of it, and the notion availed itself to me, even as Claudius did make his cruel proposal. I told him it would be unnecessary for me to run Hamlet through, for I'd purchased in my travels an unction so lethal that, should I anoint my rapier with it, I need only deliver Hamlet the scantest nick in order to take his life!”

“Did the King agree to it?”

“He did. But the fiend is cunning, and thought to support my plan with a contingency. On the chance I am unable to glance Hamlet with my blade, the King will have added the same poison to a chalice full with wine from which Hamlet will be invited to drink.”

“'Tis perfect,” I cry, clapping my hands. “Whether he be lanced or liquored, the aspect of death will come upon him just the same!” I turn to Anne. “And here is where Horatio may re-enter the campaign. After Hamlet's body has been deposited here, you will disclose all to Horatio, who shall then steal into this place and remove Hamlet to my father's cottage, where I will await him with the antidote.”

“You forget,” says Anne. “Hamlet's purpose remains to kill the King!”

“And he shall. For the King will think him dead, and
what better camouflage can there be than that? He can attack at will; the King will be defenseless. 'Tis a perfect strategy!”

But in some righteous place inside my heart, I know there is no perfection in murder.

Now my friend and brother take their leave.

I am alone, but for the echoes of a thousand final breaths drawn in this same darkness. Sinking to my knees, silent beside the slab, I offer a solemn prayer for the absolution of sins to be committed.

And I wait.

One full day has passed since my drowning; this morning, a procession shall see me to my grave. Anne has come to ready me for my final journey; the coroner did argue heatedly at the outset, but Anne put forth such a fit of crying and pleading that at last he consented.

Round my neck hangs a heavy wooden cross, Hamlet's necklace and pendant hidden beneath. We have stowed a vial containing the antidote, which my father prepared using purpureum gathered from my mother's grave, inside the charm. The flask which holds the poison sits ready beside me on the slab. My father has surmised (though shakily at best) that the potion allows less than a quarter-day's sleep before giving over to pure death. Four hours
only in which to conduct my fraudulent funeral, bear me off to his cottage near the croft, and administer the draft which shallâwe most fervently hopeâawaken life within me.

Anne has a second dose of the poison hidden in her reticule to be given to Laertes after the funeral. I wear a gown of lavender silk chosen by her. Presently, she is fussing with my hair.

“It need not be flawless, Anne.” I sigh. “I am going to my grave, not to the altar to be wed!”

“Hush,” she scolds. “I will not have it said that I sent thee to meet your maker with poorly done hair!”

I roll my eyes and endure the primping. “I do hope that in my falsified sleep I will retain the capacity to listen and comprehend. 'Twould be interesting to hear how I am mourned.”

“Sick,” snaps Anne, as she sets to arranging flowers in my hair. “I swear it, Lia, at times you are quite sick.”

“Do you remember what you are to do when we reach the cemetery?”

“Aye. I am to make a most emotional scene, begging a moment alone with thee, before you are laid into the earth. I shall demand the others give me privacy to bid my friend farewell.”

“Yes. And when they are gone â¦”

“Your father will carry you back to his cottage, to feed you the precious draft you carry in Hamlet's locket.”

“Excellent.” I squeeze her shoulder. “And you â¦”

She wrinkles her dainty nose. “I will remain beside your empty grave and use your father's spade to fill it up with dirt.” She folds her arms. “Why must that grim task fall to me when it is
his
profession?”

“My father will need to be near me in the cottage,” I remind her, “should anything with the antidote go awry.”

“I do not relish the thought of filling in your grave,” she grumbles.

“'Tis not as if I'll be in it!”

“Still â¦”

I interrupt her by opening the flask. It makes a small popping sound, then a hiss, as slim ribbons of silver smoke release themselves from within.

Anne bites her lip. “Strong stuff.”

“Let us hope.” I sniff the contents, then smile at her. “And now, a toast to myâwhat shall I call it?âimpending near-death experience.”

Anne shakes her head. “Thou art sick.”

Raising the flask, I give Anne a most somber look. “To justice â¦” I grin. “I would âjustice' soon not die!”

“Witty.”

“I thought so.”

Without further discourse, I lift the flask to my lips. The flavor is nothing, mixed with airânot a taste but a sensation, rather like no sensation at all.

Oh, but 'tis a most potent nothing! Of a sudden, my eyelids grow impossibly heavy, my limbs leaden. A chill creeps upon my skin.

“Lia?”

“'Tis working!” I yawn, hugely. “I feel it. Oh, Anne, my heartâit beats; surely, but softly, softly, so softly â¦ .”

“God save us!” Anne falls to her knees and makes the sign of the cross.

It is as though an invisible shroud's been wrapped around me. I recline with the weight of it, though it weighs less than light itself The rhythm of my breath, though constant, is barely to be heard. I close my eyes. Sparks of darkness and a twinkling of twilight stars. I will my eyes to open, but they will not.

For one mad second I am gripped by panic! By the soul of Saint Vitus, on what fool's quest have I embarked, summoning death to my own device? What if my father's calculations prove faulty, and 'tis not four hours but four minutes before death?

I fear as I have never feared before, and the sleep enfolds me like fire.

But, soft â¦

Now comes a peace so perfect, so calm, and so complete, I can do no other than accept it. My hands, folded at my breast, cannot move, but I've no wish to move them. I feel the blood cooling in my veins.

Anne calls out to me. I hear her plainly but can make no answer. The poison perseveres, compressing me to a mere pinprick of awareness.

Stillness engulfs me; 'tis pure and plentiful. I am aware
of Anne near me, a vibration, a warmth, an energy. 'Tis like swimming in a dream.

From somewhere close comes knocking. Anne gasps and stammers, “Who's there?” The response is muffled. She opens the door. “What news?”

'Tis my father who responds. “He's been seen! The Prince.”

Hamlet is near? And Iâdead, mostly! Seeing me thus will surely break him! Even in this unholy slumber, I shudder. But there is no help for it, the plan must remain unaltered.

“How shall we proceed?” cries Anne.

“As planned,” says my father. “There is no other.”

“Mayhap you can intercept him to explain?”

No! My brain all but explodes with the wish to express itself It is not yet time to apprise him of this plan. In truth, I fear he'd see fit to alter it, and that would be most disastrous. Hamlet must fence before the King! He must receive Laertes' thrust! So much hangs upon it!

“'Twould not be wise,” my father replies. “Ophelia's scheme is sound; it does not allow for Hamlet knowing in advance, and so he shall not. His genuine grief at learning she is gone will only add reality to this drama.” I sense a chuckle from him. “Perhaps I will revert to my old ways, draw upon my former profession, and do some playing of my own when he comes upon me at the grave.”

“What mean you?” asks Anne, confused.

“Only that I shall entertain him a spell with silliness,
detain him as I play the clown. 'Tis the least I can do.” He pauses to press a kiss to my cold forehead. “I am near to sobbing myself, seeing her so still.”

“But her hair â¦” offers Anne. “'Tis lovely, is it not?”

My father laughs warmly, and then he is gone. Mere moments pass, and there comes a second knock.

Anne gasps, then whispers, “Lia â¦ it is time!”

I feel Anne step aside to allow the pallbearers access. Nowâmotion, as they remove me from my stony berth and bear me away.

Mayhap there is sunshine. Difficult to tell, I sense only the sway of shadow and light across my eyelids. Music, a hymn, a tempo most macabre.

The procession has begun.