Dating Hamlet

  My name thunders circles upon itself as his bold and unabashed declaration rolls o’er the hillside. I am undone by his suffering.

  “Forty thousand brothers could not, with all their quantity of love, make up my sum.”

  And twice that do I love thee, sweet Prince! I say in silence.

  A moment more does Hamlet bait Laertes, then, surrendering to his sadness, makes a thrashing exit. The King directs Horatio to follow him.

  I am aware of Claudius murmuring something to my brother and then of Anne feigning hysteria as she throws herself upon my corpse, demanding a space of absolute solitude to bid me a good-bye. The mourners do not argue.

  Before leaving, Laertes bestows a kiss, which becomes a whisper.

  “’Twill never be said your funeral was dull, sister. I pray you not be angry, and bid you remember one important fact … .” He pauses, chuckling. “’Twas Hamlet who started it.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  WITH GREAT CARE DOES MY FATHER BEAR ME HOME.

  I am laid upon a feathery pallet, anxious to regain use of myself. Hands, eyes, legs, lips … longing to rebel against this imposed placidity.

  My father removes the crucifix, revealing Hamlet’s pendant beneath. Deftly, he unlocks the charm and withdraws the vial.

  “Patience, daughter,” he says gently. “The potion need be well shaken. Shall I tell thee of my meeting with your Prince? ’Twas great sport! I recalled you told me he had a fondness for wordplay, so I was most selective in my phrasing. I roused from the poor fellow several good belly laughs before he took in the heart-wrenching sight of your funeral. I played the dunce, a smiling simpleton shoveling skulls at him—in a nice way, of course—and he was most ponderous of them. One formerly belonging to a man called Yorick especially caught his attention. Wise is Prince Hamlet, and thoughtful, to be sure, but I must say, the lad can carry himself off now, can’t he? Once he gets talking!”

  Gently, he lifts my head and feeds me the elixir.

  It is nothing like the one that came before it. This one carries the flavor of fire! ’Tis as if I’ve brought lightning to my lips! A liquid blaze, searing my tongue.

  “Swallow,” my father commands. “It burns, I know, but you must!”

  There is a tingling in my fingertips now, a strong prickling through my legs and arms. I would writhe if I could.

  Panic spikes in my father’s voice. “Ophelia?”

  I fear the antidote fails me! Might true death from false death derive?

  There begins a warming in my blood, which suddenly goes hot. And the prickling of pins turns at once to knives, stabbing. I make to cry out in pain, but my voice has been burned off.

  My hands tremble but will not move.

  A swirling blackness swells behind my eyes. I fight to force through it, but it rages like a tempest. It bursts forth from me, swallows me, surrounds me like smoke. I spiral skyward, propelled by flames. Mayhap I have misjudged the safe boundaries of the antidote and slept too long; or perhaps this potion was poison greater than that which it was meant to undo.

  Wake! I pray … wake!

  “Daughter!” My father’s tone is taut with alarm. He shakes me; it only causes the stabbing to grow worse. “Ophelia!”

  The fire blazes; the prickling increases until ’tis no feeling at all. Less than none, only the memory of feeling. O God! Surely I am closer to dying than living. In silence, I demand my life return but fear that it escapes me in the smoke of the black storm.

  I hear my father leaving. Fleet footsteps, the door … then hours, days, a lifetime. God’s blood, does he abandon me to this merciless passing?

  No! He is back, beside me, with water from the brook, of which he administers a great cool quantity.

  “Drink!” my father orders.

  ’Tis not choice but instinct allows the liquid in. I am still too dead to swallow, but I feel it streaming down the charred passage of my throat, diluting the devilish draft that burns me.

  “More,” he commands, tilting the cup again. This time, I manage small gulps; the water sputters from my lips, dribbles down my chin.

  And slowly … the blackness lifts.

  Slowly, spinning away as I push through it. And now the fire subsides. My blood is once again temperate in my veins, coursing through me, willing me to wake. A breath; another, as I note the quickening of my pulse, the pure and patient pattern of my heart. I open my eyes.

  My father hovers over me, white with fear, and whispers, “Child.”

  In a voice like clouds I whisper, “Strong stuff.”

  He holds me close, crying, laughing. “Methinks ’twas too much of a good thing.”

  “Aye, but it performs, and that is what counts.” I pick up the vial; the thick dregs of the antidote cling to the inside. “It wants a small correction, which I will note in Mother’s journal, in large, bold characters.”

  “What instruction wilt thou include?”

  Tapping the vial with my finger, I answer, “Just add water.”

  My father’s apprentice is smitten with Anne. His name is Tuck; he is young—perhaps twelve—and gangly. He has loved her from the moment he came upon her shoveling dirt into my idle grave.

  Anne returned from her task with her linen dress dusty, her face enchantingly smudged, and Tuck trailing after her. At supper, the boy rests his chin upon his fist and stares at her.

  It has been hours since my awakening. Father has prepared a stew of venison, turnips, and onions, on which we four dine in the candlelight.

  Anne, who does much of the cooking at Elsinore, compliments my father on the meal. “The secret is in the seasoning,” he says.

  Recipes?! Am I to listen to talk of ginger and raisins when I can barely sit still, knowing Hamlet is so close, and mourning me at that? “I must see him!” I shout; ’tis at least the tenth time.

  And also for the tenth time, my father reminds me that I can hardly stroll into the castle alive after the entire population of it has just seen me buried.

  “He is correct,” says Anne.

  At the sound of her voice, Tuck jumps, toppling his cup of cider, which spills into his lap. He springs from his seat, knocking Anne’s cup in the bargain and soaking his sleeve.

  My father sighs. “Hang the clothes near the fire, Tuck. They will be dry by morning. Meantime, you’ll find my spare breeches on a peg behind the door.”

  Anne and I excuse ourselves and wait out of doors while Tuck changes clothes.

  Indeed, I am thinking, Tuck’s pants will be dry by morning.

  And by morning, I’ll be gone.

  Tuck’s tattered garb is a good fit. Anne says the way the breeches hug the curve of my hips is scandalous.

  “Scandalous, aye, but comfortable! No wonder men keep them for themselves.”

  In truth, I can recall no other feeling so liberating as this! I may run, jump, kick high as an unbroken stallion. I would ne’er have believed such power could come of wearing pants!

  “’Tis yet another injustice against our sex.” I sigh.

  Anne shrugs. “If they are that wondrous, perhaps one day women shall be permitted to don them.”

  “’Twill never happen!” I assure her. “The male of the species could not abide such a threat to his authority. A female in braies? No man would allow it”

  “Mayhap not” Anne smirks, her eyes twinkling. “But should one ever happen to catch a glimpse of thy backside in a pair of them, he might be persuaded to change his mind.”

  We have just reached the outer wall of the bailey. The east unfurls ribbons of golden daylight. Elsinore is quiet.

  I’ve taken an old hood of my father’s, which I now place o’er my hair, tucking the long waves up beneath it. Tuck’s jupon blouses sufficiently in front to obscure any sign of my femininity.

  “I shall enter through the kitchen,” I tell Anne. “No doubt you were missed last night, but I think ’twould be best you remain out of sight until the fencing contest. It would not do for you to be questioned.”
br />   She nods. “There is a toolshed beyond the kitchen garden. The old hayward keeps a Bible there; I shall be pleased to spend this day secluded, reading scripture.”

  “Excellent. For my part, I will find an inconspicuous spot to await the fencing contest, though I would much prefer making directly to Hamlet’s chamber, to throw myself into his arms.”

  “Better not to.” Anne giggles. “Such an act would surely frighten him to death!”

  I smile. “You mean because he would think ’twas the embrace of a ghost.”

  “No, I mean because he would think ’twas the embrace of a boy!”

  “Ah,” I say, waggling my eyebrows. “I’ve no fear of that. For, while I am confident my costume will fool the majority of this castle, I know one thing for certain.”

  “And that is … ?”

  I pat my bottom, wiggle it inside the braies. “That Hamlet would recognize my backside anywhere!”

  At that, Anne gasps. “See?” she mutters. “Sick.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  IT HAS BEEN A MOST HUMILIATING DAY. IN MY BOY’S attire I’ve stirred no suspicion as to my true identity; however, the costume has placed me in a rather outrageous position.

  A chambermaid has taken a shine to me! I believe her name to be Sigrid. She is plump and blonde and pretty, but, God’s truth, a more brazen girl hath never been!

  She caught sight of me loitering in the arcade, and apparently set her cap for the lad she thought I was. I have been forced to spend the better part of the morning ducking round corners to avoid her. And I have been skillful at it. Until now.

  “There thou art!”

  “O God …” Quickly, I remember what I am about and deepen my voice. “Have I not told you …”

  “Yes, yes, you have told me. Thou art spoken for. But you’ve yet to tell me your lover’s name.”

  I nearly blurt out Hamlet.

  Giggling, Sigrid approaches me as a hungry lioness might approach a wounded gazelle; I am cornered. “Calm thyself, boy. ’Tis not anything permanent I be wanting.”

  “Say you?”

  “You may scurry back to your peasant love, once I’ve had what I am after.”

  “And that would be … ?”

  “Only a tumble with such a bonny lad as thee.”

  A tumble? My mouth drops open in shock and disgust. Hell’s blood, first Barnardo, now this! I am not safe in this castle no matter what my gender!

  “You cannot make me,” I sputter in my low voice.

  “Watch me.”

  ’Tis true, the trollop has me by at least twenty pounds. Even if I were a boy, ’twould be difficult for me to overtake her. She advances again, her chubby chin raised in pursuit of my lips.

  It is now that the guards Marcellus and Barnardo happen by. The sight of Barnardo makes my heart slam inside my chest: for if he discovers me I am lost for certain.

  “What, ho!” cries Marcellus. “Sigrid! Be thou at it again?”

  Barnardo frowns, struggling to make sense of the scene. Once he does, he laughs.

  “He’s but a mere slip of a boy!” Marcellus says. “Why, your charms will spoil him for sure.”

  “If he lives through it,” Barnardo adds.

  Sigrid turns and winks at him. “You did.”

  (I am close to retching at the thought of that.)

  “Leave the lad alone,” Marcellus scolds. “Look at him. His teeth chatter at the very idea of a romp with you.”

  Sigrid gives me a long, considering look, then shrugs and turns away as though I’d evaporated into thin air. She smiles at the guards. “Well, then, what of your teeth, Barnardo?”

  “Come this way, wench, and I will show you!”

  When they have gone, I breathe deeply, relieved. Marcellus watches them go, then turns a kind look to me.

  “Are you all right, lad?” he asks, grinning. “Siggy did not harm thee?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Shook you up, though.”

  “Aye, a little.” His manner is so friendly that I accidentally smile at him.

  His eyes round first, then narrow. “Do … do I know thee, boy?”

  I lower my face abruptly. “No, sir.”

  “Hmm. For a moment …” He shakes his head, then chuckles. “Ah, well … just remember that you are now beholden to Barnardo, for ’twas his ready appetite that saved thee!” At his own jest he laughs ringingly.

  I turn to go, and mutter, “Good day, sir.”

  Marcellus claps me on the back; it nearly sends me flying. “God keep you, lad. If you hurry, you may catch what action remains of the fencing contest”

  “Fencing?” My head snaps upward again. “Then it has begun?”

  “’Twas from whence we came, Barnardo and I. At the time of our departure, Prince Hamlet held a small advantage, having delivered Laertes one hit … . Lad?”

  I am already halfway down the long corridor which leads to the great hall.

  Anne awaits me at the entrance. She reports that there are enough spectators in the hall so that we may hide easily among them, but something in her tone troubles me.

  “What is wrong, Anne?”

  “Oh, Lia! Indulge me a moment that I may tell my horrid news of Horatio!”

  “Horrid news?” I peer through a gap in the crowd, and frown. “It cannot be anything too awful, Anne. He is standing right over there in Hamlet’s camp, and looks the picture of health.”

  “Mayhap, but inside he is aching! ’Twas all told to me by one of the pages when I emerged from the shed not half an hour ago. Horatio had posted him on lookout for me in the garden.”

  “Lookout?”

  “Horatio had every servant in residence on alert! He believes me gone.”

  “Gone?”

  “Aye. No one has seen me since your funeral, and Horatio fears the worst. By the page’s account, he rode out last night to search for me and did not return till noon today, exhausted and distressed. He immediately dispatched several foot soldiers to continue the quest and spent the hours that followed on his knees in the chapel.”

  “I do not understand the problem, Anne. Why do you not simply go to him and demonstrate your presence?”

  “At the moment, he is otherwise involved.”

  She is right, of course. Loyal Horatio supports Hamlet in this contest. A more careful look at him tells me that Anne does not exaggerate; clearly, he is miserable.

  “As soon as this ends—with Hamlet poisoned and left for dead—you can explain all to Horatio. Unfortunately, friend, we can do nothing now but wait this out.”

  Anne sighs, nods. I take her hand. We make our way into the hall to find a place amid the onlookers.

  “How goes it?” I ask a nobleman standing near.

  “A fair amount of perspiration,” he says, laughing. “And grunting.”

  I roll my eyes. “What else?”

  “The King hath offered Hamlet the prize of a pearl.”

  I watch as Claudius drinks from a chalice, then drops the pearl into it. “No doubt the pearl carries the poison,” I whisper to Anne.

  Claudius extends the cup to Hamlet. “Here’s to thy health,” he booms.

  Although I know that he is to be poisoned ultimately, and, furthermore, that I carry in my pocket the means to reverse it, I cannot help but sigh with relief when my love declines the cup.

  “I’ll play this bout first,” he tells Claudius.

  Laertes’ eyes dart from the cup to his own weapon; mayhap he is thinking the same as I.

  Frowning slightly, the King returns the cup to the small table that stands between his throne and Gertrude’s.

  “Come!” Hamlet dares.

  Again, the swords whistle, slicing the very air to ribbons. Hamlet thrusts to earn a second point.

  “Another hit!” he boasts, nodding to his opponent. “What say you?”

  “A touch, a touch,” Laertes admits. “I do confess.”

  The suspense brings an itch to my fingertips, and I find myself bouncing from o
ne boot to the other. I know how ’twill end—with Hamlet scraped and sleeping—but, still, ’tis sheer excitement to observe. They are expert, graceful, determined. For all their preposterous ways, boys are glorious to watch at sport.

  And now the Queen calls out to Hamlet. “Here, Hamlet, take my napkin; rub thy brows.”

  Her doting causes a ripple of laughter through the assembly. The nobleman beside me shakes his head and elbows me hard; of a sudden, I find myself shoved to the front of the crowd, just as Hamlet approaches his mother. His path will bring him mere inches from where I stand. Quickly, I bow my head and keep it down.

  I do not see what the Queen does next; it is only because Claudius speaks that I realize what she is about.

  “The Queen carouses to thy fortune, Hamlet!” she calls.

  “Good madam,” replies Hamlet, but o’er his words comes Claudius’s troubled voice:

  “Gertrude, do not drink.”

  “I will, my lord,” she replies blithely. “I pray you, pardon me.”

  I snap my head up, but before the scream can form itself, she has already swallowed a fine mouthful! I whip around to regard Claudius. He is looking suddenly quite pale, and well he should, for he does not know the full of it. Indeed, he believes the poison fatal! And the beast did not attempt to snatch away the cup!

  The Queen places the cup on the table; her lips glisten from the wine.

  Anne recognizes the problem immediately. “Exactly how much of that antidote didst thou brew?” she asks.

  “Enough,” I answer.

  As Hamlet allows his mother to wipe his face, I notice that Laertes is engaged in a whispered conversation with the King. I hope he is suggesting they move swiftly with their dark scheme; time, as he knows, is against us.

  “Come for the third, Laertes!” taunts Hamlet. “You do but dally!”

  Grinning, Laertes returns his barbs; for a moment, I am reminded of the way they played together as children. ’Tis almost easy to forget the corruption that surrounds us now I force myself to look at Gertrude. Her skin has turned a sickly gray; I see her eyes flutter, then close.

  Eager to be done, Laertes charges the Prince; a flick of the blade tears Hamlet’s sleeve as the tainted point of the weapon presses into his shoulder. The room falls silent.