Well, Horatio thought, she’ll get a lot more experience than she bargained for.
Seeing her mistress’s distress, the maid hurried to her side. “Madam,” she said, “what is wrong?”
Ophelia turned away. Horatio, taking his opportunity, escaped, closing the door behind him and running through the other two reception rooms, desperate for space and open air.
That morning rumors flowed along the corridors of the castle like blood. Everyone whispered, yet no one could be seen whispering, and so the pantries and anterooms and storerooms and cellars were full of servants and nobles, tradespeople and courtiers, children and pensioners, feeding one another with the food that cannot nourish. The king’s sisters and cousins and aunts gathered in the banquet hall, too excited to eat, exchanging morsels and scraps of gossip instead. In the king’s apartments, Hamlet’s uncle strode the carpet as the queen stood watching.
“Killed him?”
“Ran him through.”
“No excuse?”
“Not a jot.”
“It could have been me.”
“I fear so.”
“Why, Gertrude, why?”
“He is mad.”
“And that’s all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“This is terrible.”
“It is, my lord.”
“They’ll say it’s us.”
The room was furnished simply, after the taste of Hamlet’s father. Claudius and Gertrude had not yet indulged themselves as they had in her suite, with sumptuous carpets and lavish furnishings. Here, the floor of polished timber, two austere thrones made of a light white wood, and a dull red, padded sofa were lit by bright natural light through a row of large windows. Claudius always seemed ill at ease in the room, but never more so than now. He walked faster and faster, groaning and pulling at his beard, the sounds of his boots echoing like stones rattling on thick ice.
“They’ll say we’ve been negligent. Or that we’re part of a plot. They’ll say we’re responsible. We should have seen it coming. They’ll say we should have sent him to a doctor, a hospital. That we used Hamlet to get rid of Polonius. They’ll have us for bacon on their morning toast, Gertrude, unless we find a way to deal with this.”
“Yes.”
“Hamlet’s too popular; that’s the trouble. The people love him. He could get away with murder. Or so he thinks. To be loved by the mob, that’s not a fate I’d wish on anyone. But it means we must be bloody careful.”
“They do love him,” the queen said pensively.
“Get the guard. I want Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in here.”
When the two courtiers arrived, the king barked at them. “Are your bags packed?”
“Why, no, Majesty, we had not realized . . . But it will take us no time to prepare . . .”
“Well, do it!” Then he had another idea. “Wait! First,” he added, “find the body and have it brought here. No, to the chapel.”
“Hamlet, Your Majesty?”
“No, no, you fool, not Hamlet. Polonius.” Claudius threw himself down on his throne and sat chewing a loose fingernail. “Stop bowing!” he barked. “Just go. Do what I told you!”
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern withdrew and began their melancholy search. Polonius was not in the queen’s apartments, nor could they find a trail of blood or clue that might lead them to the old man’s corpse. They did, however, find another body, of a sort. Hamlet was sitting on a bench looking out over the turrets at the distant forest. A bowl of coffee was at his feet. It looked untouched. The two men approached him cautiously. As usual, Rosencrantz did the talking.
“Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, might we have a word?”
“Certainly, certainly,” Hamlet said affably. “What can I do for you?”
“Highness, we are charged by the king to find Polonius.”
“Ah, now there’s a problem, right away.”
“There is?”
“Why, yes. You see the problem is that Polonius no longer exists. It therefore follows that your quest is doomed from the start. A shame, as I know how much you seek to gratify the
Seeing her mistress’s distress, the maid hurried to her side. “Madam,” she said, “what is wrong?”
Ophelia turned away. Horatio, taking his opportunity, escaped, closing the door behind him and running through the other two reception rooms, desperate for space and open air.
That morning rumors flowed along the corridors of the castle like blood. Everyone whispered, yet no one could be seen whispering, and so the pantries and anterooms and storerooms and cellars were full of servants and nobles, tradespeople and courtiers, children and pensioners, feeding one another with the food that cannot nourish. The king’s sisters and cousins and aunts gathered in the banquet hall, too excited to eat, exchanging morsels and scraps of gossip instead. In the king’s apartments, Hamlet’s uncle strode the carpet as the queen stood watching.
“Killed him?”
“Ran him through.”
“No excuse?”
“Not a jot.”
“It could have been me.”
“I fear so.”
“Why, Gertrude, why?”
“He is mad.”
“And that’s all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“This is terrible.”
“It is, my lord.”
“They’ll say it’s us.”
The room was furnished simply, after the taste of Hamlet’s father. Claudius and Gertrude had not yet indulged themselves as they had in her suite, with sumptuous carpets and lavish furnishings. Here, the floor of polished timber, two austere thrones made of a light white wood, and a dull red, padded sofa were lit by bright natural light through a row of large windows. Claudius always seemed ill at ease in the room, but never more so than now. He walked faster and faster, groaning and pulling at his beard, the sounds of his boots echoing like stones rattling on thick ice.
“They’ll say we’ve been negligent. Or that we’re part of a plot. They’ll say we’re responsible. We should have seen it coming. They’ll say we should have sent him to a doctor, a hospital. That we used Hamlet to get rid of Polonius. They’ll have us for bacon on their morning toast, Gertrude, unless we find a way to deal with this.”
“Yes.”
“Hamlet’s too popular; that’s the trouble. The people love him. He could get away with murder. Or so he thinks. To be loved by the mob, that’s not a fate I’d wish on anyone. But it means we must be bloody careful.”
“They do love him,” the queen said pensively.
“Get the guard. I want Rosencrantz and Guildenstern in here.”
When the two courtiers arrived, the king barked at them. “Are your bags packed?”
“Why, no, Majesty, we had not realized . . . But it will take us no time to prepare . . .”
“Well, do it!” Then he had another idea. “Wait! First,” he added, “find the body and have it brought here. No, to the chapel.”
“Hamlet, Your Majesty?”
“No, no, you fool, not Hamlet. Polonius.” Claudius threw himself down on his throne and sat chewing a loose fingernail. “Stop bowing!” he barked. “Just go. Do what I told you!”
Rosencrantz and Guildenstern withdrew and began their melancholy search. Polonius was not in the queen’s apartments, nor could they find a trail of blood or clue that might lead them to the old man’s corpse. They did, however, find another body, of a sort. Hamlet was sitting on a bench looking out over the turrets at the distant forest. A bowl of coffee was at his feet. It looked untouched. The two men approached him cautiously. As usual, Rosencrantz did the talking.
“Excuse me, Your Royal Highness, might we have a word?”
“Certainly, certainly,” Hamlet said affably. “What can I do for you?”
“Highness, we are charged by the king to find Polonius.”
“Ah, now there’s a problem, right away.”
“There is?”
“Why, yes. You see the problem is that Polonius no longer exists. It therefore follows that your quest is doomed from the start. A shame, as I know how much you seek to gratify the
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