Authors: Lisa Fiedler

Dating Hamlet (2 page)

BOOK: Dating Hamlet

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Horatio and Marcellus remark on't; Barnardo, fiddling with his dagger, has nothing to offer.

'Tis my opinion that the ghost simply tired of them and their inappropriate behavior. I listen unseen as they plan to report the happening to Hamlet. But I shall beat them to it. God save me, I shall go directly to Hamlet.

“My lady â¦ a word.”

I turn to find Horatio, separate from his companions now, standing behind me.

Anne is aglaze and speechless. I am mostly angered with myself for being caught.

“Horatio! Why, welcome once again to Elsinore, my lord.”

“I thank you, m'lady. But I would know, wherefore thou art about at this late hour?” His demand is softened by the warmth in his eyes.

“It is not late, sir,” I tell him. “It is early.”

“The world is dark.”

“It grows lighter as we watch,” I tell him, with a lift of my chin toward the east, where the night holds hands with morning. “Unless it is to its disposition you refer, then, yea, sir, the world is surely dark.”

Horatio lowers one eyebrow at me. “How much have you heard?”

“Enough.”

“Enough?”

“Enough to draw the same baffling conclusions as thee.”

“Nothing, my lady, of this world or any other, does
baffle me so much as you.” A smile twitches at the corners of his mouth, and he leans close to me. “How go things with Hamlet? He was most despondent when last I saw him. I expect he is not overly attentive to thee in such a cloudy condition. I, on the other and â¦”

Men! Can they not think on anything but conquest, of one sort or another? I interrupt him.

“Some ladies find a melancholy beau appealing.”

“Some ladies?”

“Aye.”

“Pray tell, is the fair Ophelia one of those ladies?”

“We have at length discussed this, Horatio, and my decision is as ever.”

Horatio shrugs and smiles. “One cannot blame a man for trying.”

“Hear me, Horatio. I love Hamlet. And I know you, like a brother, love him too. You would not dream to lure me from him.”

Horatio sighs. “Would that I could â¦ .” ('Tis muttered.)

I ignore it. Anne, at last, sees fit to remove herself from the floor. I assist her in dusting the filth from her skirts, then turn back to Horatio.

“Now â¦ what shall we?”

“We?”

“Yes, we. You've devised to tell Hamlet of this ghostly encounter, and I would play a part in it.”

“Oh, no â¦” Now his hand is firm upon my shoulder.
“I shall speak to Hamlet. You will hold thy tongue. Speak not of what you've witnessed.”

“To none but Hamlet.”

“Nay, to Hamlet least of all.” He grins again. “For to do that, thou wouldst need admit to being here.”

He doth have a point. I frown. “Think you that Hamlet would be angered to know I was here?”

“Angered?” Horatio laughs gustily. “At you? No, dear lady, I doubt he would even know how to be angered with thee. My worry is for my own skin, should the Prince learn that his love hath been about at daybreak, unchaperoned, in my company. He would go mad!”

With that, my erstwhile suitor guides Anne and myself down the stairs. I pay no attention to his laughter, for I am thinking too intently on his words. Hamlet has never seemed to me the jealous sort. Has he communicated otherwise to Horatio? 'Tis possible.

There is also the half-chance that my lord will find the boldness of my actions cause for concern.

But, oh, to be the one to reveal that his father's spirit wakes â¦ .

Confusion boils in me. To tell. Or not to tell?

Hah! Confusion is short-lived.

For I, Ophelia, am not one to suffer the plague of indecison.

I will act! And tell my love of this night's most ghostly vision
.

CHAPTER TWO

HAMLET DOES NOT SLEEP. HE SITS AND STARES AS A chill invades his chamber through the open window. He sits close by it, breathing deep of the cold, coming day.

“My lord?”

I expect him to whirl, astounded, and yet he makes only a slow turn of his head to face me.

“My lord, you are awake.”

“I am.”

Oh, how his voice does trouble me. What would I give to abandon this grim mission and instead spend sunrise in his arms?

“My lord, I have news. I have been â¦ out”

“I have been out myself, my lady. Out of sorts, surely. Out of â¦”

“Soft, my lord â¦ forgive me, but I must say what I must say. I have been out â¦ on the guard's platform.”

“The guard's platform, lady? Did you seek to be of some assistance to the soldiers?”

(Little does he know how desperately they required it!)

“No, my lord. I went on an inkling. I believed something was to be seen there.”

Hamlet rises now, makes his way toward me, and stands close. I feel his breath; his chest comes even with my forehead.

“And were you correct?” He whispers this, his thumb beneath my chin, lifting.

“I was, sir.”

There is a kiss waiting. I reach for it, eyes closed, and rise on tiptoe. My Hamlet meets me, lips to lips, tenderly and possessed of a calm satisfaction I've not felt from him in weeks. It nearly does me in. The kiss lasts moments, hours, days. It is a second at most, but enough.

“Tell me.”

“I saw â¦ the King.”

His muscles go taut, rigid with hatred. “Claudius was on the guard's watch?”

“No.”

“But Claudius is King.”

“Aye, my lord, and Denmark be the worse for it”

This earns a smile, a sweeter kiss. “I do love thee, Ophelia.”

“And I thee, my lord.”

“But â¦”

Nay, not but! I brace myself “My lord?”

“I am sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“For I am torn, my lady, at the very seams of my being. On the one side, I am teeming with such indescribable happiness, the total cause of which is that I lay mine eyes on you!”

“This sounds not like something for which one should apologize.”

“Nay, love, but it is not the happiness in my heart for which I beg pardon. It is the other side, the side which harbors a sadness so sharp it slices me to the core. I despise life, even as I adore it. I am split, you see, catapulted to heaven by my love for you, and dashed to hell with the thought of enduring life in such a world as this.”

“I am content with the half that loves me,” I assure him.

“Grateful am I that you say so, lady, but, God, O God, can it be fair?” His torment sends him pacing, wide, weary strides as heavy as his thoughts. “Is it fair I ask you love me when I love nothing in my sight save you?”

“You never asked, Hamlet. I love you of my own accord.”

And now, of a sudden, I find myself wrapped in his arms, pulled fast against him. He smells manly, of clean linen, and new leather, and fireâholding me tight for long, long minutes, while his chest heaves with great sobs.

When again he speaks, his voice is gently gruff “You will not feel abandoned, then? You will understand that the
part of myself where I keep your love is safe and separate from the part so riddled with despair?”

“I understand, dear Hamlet.”

He laughs at this, then steadies himself with a breath. “Now, then, love. Pray, what did you see on the platform?”

“A ghost.”

Hamlet steps backward and regards me with narrow eyes. “Seek you to make me laugh some more?”

“No. There is nothing humorous in this, sir. I saw a ghost. The ghost of our late King. Your father's spirit, Hamlet! I swear by Saint James' sandal, it is so. I saw it.”

There is something in his eyes nowâsome stony hesitation that is not quite disbelief He studies me, and I meet his gaze. “I grant it is difficult to take for truth, but you must, good Hamlet. Do not doubt it.”

“You do not doubt it, lady, I shall.” He is already three strides toward the door, but I call him back.

“Not now. 'Tis nearly full light, and he has gone. But he will return. The same instinct that sent me out this night tells me so. Something is sorely unsettled if such a noble spirit as your father's cannot rest”

Hamlet drops to a seat, one hand rakes his lovely hair, and his face is filled with hope and horror. “What could be so wicked that could drag a man from death?”

“I believe he will tell you.”

He thinks on this, his eyes shining. “Who else saw?”

“The guard Barnardo. Marcellus. And Horatio.”

“Horatio. My trusted friend. He is here? And saw the spirit. Yet he has not come to tell me.”

“He plans to, my lord. I suspect he delays only so as not to disturb your sleep.”

“Sleep â¦ ,”says Hamlet. “I barely remember the state.”

“Aye, sir. I understand.”

“Did Horatio or the others speak to the ghost?”

“Horatio attempted but failed miserably. I thought to try but feared the men would disapprove. I wanted to tell the spirit of your enduring devotion, your deep sadness, and your love. Horatio discovered me and advised that I keep silent, as it is unseemly for me to be roaming the castle at dawn.”

“I am sure you had good reason for your wandering.”

“I did, my lord. The moon beckoned me.”

Hamlet sighs. “I am familiar with that call.”

“Horatio was concerned that you might be troubled by even my accidental nearness to him.” I pause, then venture boldly: “Are you, my lord?”

“Do you ask if I am jealous, love?”

I lift one shoulder in a shrug. “Yes, I suppose I do.”

Again, he gives me the gift of his laughter. “You are as honest as you are lovely,” he tells me. “And so I will be honest with thee. Aye, I am desperately jealous of Horatio. And Marcellus, and Barnardo, and the groom who tends to your mare, and the servant who sets your plate before you, and the one who clears it away. In short, my lady, I am
jealous of any man who has even the briefest opportunity to look upon you!”

I cannot suppress a scowl. “I thought you trusted me!”

“I do trust you, sweet Ophelia. It is the entire male gender which I mistrust. My greatest fear is that one day a better man than I will come along and steal you away.”

“There is no better man than you,” I assure him, tingling at the flattery. “But as I do not wish to be scolded by Horatio when he brings this news, please do not let on that I have beat him to it.”

“I swear it.” He kisses me once more, and there is starlight in it. “You must go.”

“I wish you sleep, sweet Hamlet.”

“And I wish you the same. Good night, Ophelia.”

“Good night.”

Another kiss, and I am gone.

I dress.

A day gown, the color of the moon, embroidered at the cuffs with silver-pink roses. Customarily, 'tis Anne who dresses me, but, wanting to miss nothing, I have sent her ahead for a most significant purpose. Now I am at the mercy of the Queen's eldest attendant. I urge her to make haste, impatient with her for she is meticulous and preciseâevery fastening fixed, every wrinkle smoothed. When
Anne assists me in the burdensome task of getting dressed, we hurry so that 'tis a wonder I manage to leave my chamber with my ankles concealed.

I am wanted in the audience chamber with the rest of the courtiers. The new King Claudius, uncle to Hamlet and now stepfather as well, has summoned one and all. Anne, at this very moment, will be pressing herself against the railing of the gallery, listening for news to report to me. Were I not so interested in two of the points at issue, I would not e'en attend.

Oh, what an ugly affair it is, and yet all of them smile and smile, toasting the circumstance as if 'twere blessed. I loathe it, and fear it. This is how it goes:

Our King Hamlet died suddenly, not four months past. The Queen, his widow, my Hamlet's beloved mother, did mourn him greatly at first.

And yet, such agony did not last.

Too soon the sobbing ceased, too sudden were made the plans to marry. Queen Gertrude was to become wife to the brother of her husband. I imagined her cheeks still damp with tears of mourning whilst her newlywed King splattered his unjust kisses upon them.

In truth, it all disgusted me. Disgusts me still.

And to see the pained expression on Hamlet's face as the vows were spoken. That was the start of his melancholy moodâas if the loss of his father were not enough! It is even sickening to say itâhis uncle now his father, his
mother now his aunt. It is nothing less than evil, nothing less than sin.

It is a celebration of this sin to which I hurry now. I will take no pleasure in it, I go only because my father, Polonius, wills it so.

My father â¦ Shall I even begin?

Some find him quite entertaining, a comical sort, who revels in the sound of his own voice, regardless whether there be matter in his words. I have long ago come to understand that my father does not love me. It is not for anything I've done or not done. Love is an emotion for which he has no use. He boasts of my brother, a student, a soldier, a sonâbut I am a daughter, a useless burden; he will see to my marriage and forget me.

But my mother loved me dearly and my brother, Laertes, as well.

He is very like our mother, Laertes is. Kind and beautiful and wise. Laertes loves meâI know this to be true. He is as no brother ever wasâdevoted, concerned, sometimes a nuisance, but always a dear friend. He worries after me, which I have never quite understood but always liked.

Laertes used to fret over such things as my falling from horses and developing rashes from too close contact with my flowers (which he teasingly calls weeds). His worry has taken a new turn of lateâand Hamlet, having made his affection for me known, is at the root of it. Laertes' worry
increases with the blossoming of my womanly figure. It is funny, and he is dear.

Laertes will speak to the King today, to learn whether he be permitted to return to France. I will ache for his absence but eagerly will await his return and the magnificent tales it will bring.

Yes, Laertes will speak to the King â¦ and Horatio to the Prince. I heard him bid Marcellus join him in telling Hamlet what he hath witnessed on the watch; they will do so once the King's gathering has dispersed.

In the audience chamber, all is glad and raucous. I slip in, unnoticed by all but Hamlet, who stays to himself, at a short but purposeful distance. His gaze rests on me for a long moment, and there is the memory of our last kiss in it.

I fix my eyes upon the King, who, from his high perch upon his brother's throne, is a disquieting sight. His garments are of fine silk, his fingers are crowded with jeweled rings, heavy and glinting in the heavenly streamers of sunlight which inappropriately bathe him and his stolen Queen.

The Queen! Oh, how I once loved her. When married to King Hamlet, she was a proud and gentle presence. In truth, I thought Gertrude much like my own motherâa beauty, with playful spirit and fertile mind. But now I see she has misplaced her loveliness. She has the same bright-cobalt eyes as my Hamlet, and her smiling lips are petal-toned, also like his. But to me, today, she is cold and
colorlessâeven as she doth blush warmly beneath her husband's touch.

I arrive in time to hear the repugnant King inform good Hamlet that he shall not be permitted to return to school.

Oh, they deny him to go to Wittenberg! I all but shatter into joyful fragments of myself. Hamlet stays! But guilt swiftly trespasses upon this most selfish gladness, as my thoughts lean toward Hamlet's desires.

Would he be lighter at Wittenberg, away from the ostentatious affection of his mother for her King? Does he long to be away, to free himself from the waking nightmare of this place?

I turn to him, and I fear I will see disappointment in his eyes. But it is in this instant that Hamlet turns to me, and, in the space of a heartbeat â¦ he smiles.

He is pleased to remain! No doubt, I am beyond pleased to have him do so. And then dear Hamlet, my boyish Prince, surprises me with a sudden wink. It is flirtation, part, but something more.

A secret. A promise.

A prayer.

BOOK: Dating Hamlet

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