4

Quintessence of dust

No games, Fortinbras promised the Scots. Yet that, for a difficult while, was all they got. A march south to the encampment outside Copenhagen. A tetchy standoff with the Danish locals. No word from Oslo about when the army should move on Poland.

The Norwegian prince knew what was happening. Magnus, a sick, scared old man, was keeping him away from home, organising his own succession. Buttering up the nobles who would choose the next man to wear the crown.

Blood meant nothing in the Nordic states. Unless it was spilled for glory.

And so the Scots grew restless, moaning all the time as only they could. Gregor and his men were the heart of his forces. Tough, ruthless mercenaries, ready to do anything he wished. So long as it seemed in their interest and there was treasure at the close.

In the cold, muddy fields outside Copenhagen, having to buy or barter for every bite and beer and woman, they had no such prospects. This miserable campaign appeared to be stuttering to a close without so much as a battle let alone a victory.

And in Copenhagen there stood a busy harbour. Gregor might take his men anywhere from there. Across the Baltic to Lübeck. North to Helsinki or St Petersburg. Or out of the inner sea altogether, into the open ocean, sail for home or Europe.

They were a small but mighty force, much appreciated, expensive too. Florence, Milan, Venice… any number of troubled states would employ them without a second thought, in a land that was warm and full of plenty, rich for robbing.

Fortinbras, prince of Norway, a man who could feel the ultimate prize, the thrones of two kingdoms, slipping from him day by day, sat at the table in his campaign tent staring at a map of Europe. So many opportunities there, yet none that seemed headed his way.

Words at the door. A gruff, sarcastic voice.

“Allow Sir Gregor in,” he told the guards. “. He needs no permission of you.”

The Scot took the chair opposite, stared at the map.

“There,” he said and planted a finger on Seville. “There.” This time Florence. “There.” Venice now.

“What?” Fortinbras asked.

“I have missives from all these states, my young Norwegian friend. Pleading for our presence. Offering more than a handful marks, bad beer and salt herring. We Scots bore easily. It’s not good for our tempers sitting around on our arses in mud.”

“Elsinore’s the richest treasure in Denmark. One day’s march from here. It’ll take you months to reach Spain or Italy. Why not go with full purses instead of empty ones?”

Gregor laughed and scratched his grey locks.

“Because we’ve hung around here a week and not moved an inch towards old Claudius. Or showed any sign of it.”

“Patience wins wars.”

The Scot frowned.

“I told you. We’re mercenaries. We fight battles. Not wars.”

The Norwegian got up and went to his money chest, threw it open. The gold and silver were fast diminishing. Another week and he’d be out of funds with no easy way to replenish them.

“You want more money”?”

“We want activity, sir. I tire of saying this.”

“Then…”

So few options. Fortinbras could smell Elsinore. The treasures inside it. The blood of his father leaking into the Øresund.

Another sound at the door. A messenger there, breathless, anxious.

“From Magnus?” he asked.

“Aye, sir,” the man replied. “And another missive I received upon the road. From one…”

He glanced at the Scot.

“From a private source, my lord.”

Gregor chuckled.

“You have spies, Fortinbras! That news cheers me up. I thought you were above such things.”

The messenger deposited two letters on the table.

The first, from Magnus, was curt and to the point. The excursion to Poland was to be abandoned. Diplomacy had brought about a peaceful resolution to the dispute over taxation and borders. Fortinbras was ordered to return his forces to Norway immediately, by boat from Copenhagen. Forbidden to set foot further in Denmark. Summoned home, his troops to be disbanded, his warrant to lead armed forces withdrawn.

“How is the king?” he asked.

The messenger glanced nervously at the Scot.

“They say he fades a little more each day.”

Fortinbras stabbed a finger on the parchment.

“This is not his hand.”

“No, sir. I believe it was dictated by one of the nobles. They run the court since Magnus lacks the fortitude to rule.”

Gregor came over, grabbed the letter, looked at Fortinbras.

“They’ve picked your uncle’s successor already, haven’t they? And once they’ve got your army off you…”

Fortinbras shrugged.

“Then they’ll probably try and take my head. That’s the way it’s done in Oslo. The strongest rules.”

The Scot put a hand to his arm.

“I’ll have room in my boat for another. The pay’s not bad so long as we find a good employer who’s up for a fight. And the women in Venice…”

He cooed and made an obscene gesture with his arm.

“Don’t insult me, Scot.”

“I’m offering you a way out. A little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss.”

The second letter bore Fortinbras’s name on the envelope and was unsigned. No seal. But the handwriting he knew of old.

“I’ll go talk to the harbour captains,” the Scot said getting to his feet. “Draw up a list of possible destinations.”

“You’ll stay where you are.”

Gregor stopped. Fortinbras spread out the new letter across the table.

“Who sent you this?” the Scot asked.

“A well-paid turncoat in their camp.”

The big man read it, nodded then shrugged.

“You reckon you can you trust him?”

“He’s vain, ambitious, greedy and fearful. What do you think?”

The despatch was short, perhaps written in haste. It read, “Hamlet has gone to England and will die there. Claudius has lost his grip on the throne. Polonius, the Lord Chamberlain, is dead by Hamlet’s own hand. Elsinore stands in chaos, sir. It needs a strong hand and the people themselves would welcome that. Here is an invitation, Fortinbras. Will you take it? Your friend who awaits you.”

Fortinbras stared at the Scot and smiled.

“One day to prepare. One day to march. One day to win the richest prize in Denmark. After that then you can go to your whores in Venice, and afford the finest the city has to offer. Well?”

Gregor nodded.

“Well let’s get started,” the Scot replied.

The jester took a big bite of the apple in his fist, pulled an ugly face then spat out the pieces.

“Rotten to the core. Yuk. I must say I found those pirates deeply disappointing. Where was the romance? The sense of theatre? Not a single parrot or earring among them. Had I not known better I would have called them out for nothing more than common criminals.”

“While we’re uncommon ones?”

They were lodged in an inn in a small port somewhere south of the city. Thugs on the door under the command of a surly landlord, once a pirate himself from what he said. There was no chance of escape. Only the opportunity for ransom.

“Speak for yourself, matey,” Yorick said and jumped down from the chest by the window. “I’m just an innocent bystander in this tale.”

“How did you get here?” He’d been too busy during the encounter on the seas to think of Yorick and had regretted that a little later. “I thought you were still with Rosencrantz and Guildenstern.”

The jester tapped his nose.

“Low cunning and sly talent. I don’t wish to go into details. You’ve no need to know.”

Hamlet shook his head.

“You get on the boat from Elsinore without my knowledge. You do the same when these cut-throats come at us on the high seas. For a clown you’re more resourceful than I imagined.”

The unexpected praise seemed to embarrass the little man.

“This isn’t about me, is it? Haven’t you noticed?”

Hamlet laughed.

“It’s about your life too, Yorick. They’ll hang you as readily as they’ll hang me when we get back to Elsinore. Unless I can raise a rebellion. With Ophelia’s help.”

That seemed to discomfort him more.

“Let’s get out of this hole first, shall we? One step at a time.”

“Why me? Why all this attention? I don’t…”

“Because my father loved you!” the jester said with obvious anger. “From the day you were born, to the day he died. He felt sorry for an intelligent and sensitive child, trapped in that grim castle with a father who didn’t care for anything but conflict and blood.”

“I had my mother.”

“You had Claudius, too. More of a father to you than your own. Don’t you recall that?”

He did. Clearly. And it made a difference, too. That was the real reason he hadn’t killed his uncle at prayer. It wasn’t some trumped-up religious quibble about whether the man would go to heaven or hell. It was nothing more than affection, a bond built up over the years.

“And he killed my father,” Hamlet murmured.

“To save himself and Gertrude from the old king’s cruel and violent wrath. You sit in judgement on so many others, Prince. Do you ever turn your searching gaze upon yourself?”

“Frequently.”

“And what do you see?”

“A bigger, sadder fool than you. Why ask this? What business is it of yours?”

“I already said. I owe it my father. And there are… worse duties, my young friend.”

“I’m your owner, aren’t I? And you my slave. What friendship’s there?”

Yorick walked to the little window and opened it. The smell of the open sea filled the room. Hamlet could just make out the shoreline and a distant horizon.

“Plenty,” the jester told him. “I think. There’s a world out there. If these thugs set you free why not explore it? Avoid Elsinore. Walk away from courts and kings, crowns and conspiracies. Find a life for yourself somewhere.”

Hamlet looked around the little room.

“In a dump like this?”

The jester shrugged. His harlequin costume seemed scarcely dulled or dirtied by the ordeal on the sea. Nothing appeared to damage this odd little man.

“Perhaps. Life’s wherever you are. Provided you’re still breathing, of course.”

“I promised Ophelia…”

“But you killed her father. And I doubt Laertes will be as forgiving as she.”

“No.” Yorick had a way of reading his thoughts. Of helping him clarify the confusion in his head. “I’m not fleeing any more. I ran from my father’s ghost. From Claudius on his knees. I sought satisfaction in books and knowledge and a rational, civilised mind. But I mistook the world. It’s cruel and bloody and unjust. As shifting as quicksand and it cares not a jot for the likes of us. I must face that down. Confront what’s there. Hurt it as it hurts me.”

Yorick came away from the window and sat on a stool in front of him.

“Don’t be a silly billy. Turn round now, old chap. Back away from this mad venture. Go herd sheep somewhere. Or become a poet.”

“And leave Ophelia in that hellhole? I made a vow…”

“What if she’s past help? What then?”

He laughed.

“You mean promised to a minor noble. Then I’ll seize the crown on my own account and take her anyway.”

He bent down, touched Yorick’s shoulder.

“You are my friend. No slave, little man. But I won’t run away any more. Or turn back. It’s Elsinore for me…”

“Even if that way lies grief and blood and pain.”

The prince shrugged.

“So what’s new?”

“What’s new is you wish it on yourself, as much as all the others. If you could kill them all… every last man who’s wronged you… Claudius even… would you do it?”

“In a heartbeat. And drag down every last damned stone of Elsinore into the bargain.”

There was an expression in the jester’s face he couldn’t read.

“You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Up to a point,” the jester agreed. “But no further.”

Then he clapped his hands and waddled to his feet.

“Well, I do believe it’s lunch time. What’ll it be? Beer and herring for a change?”

Thirty miles north in the mariners’ quarter by Elsinore’s harbour Horatio scanned the alley ahead, hugging his cloak about him. It was too cold to be standing around outside and the docks had become more dangerous with each passing day. Laertes had managed to rouse the town into something dangerously close to rebellion.

Elsinore felt as if it were on the edge of a dangerous precipice. Hamlet’s curious absence, Polonius’s bizarre death, rumours of ghosts and a Norwegian army gathering in the field in the south all made for a nervous country, and nervous people were dangerous people.

Then a page came to his room asking him to visit one of the lowlier dockside taverns after sunset to receive a private message from Hamlet. He’d pressed the boy for more but he knew nothing. And so Horatio had come reluctantly, rapier at his side, knife in his boot, and a primed pistol in his belt.

The inn was a place he would never have willingly entered, a sailor’s tavern, rowdy, full of the noise and stink of the port. The harbour wasn’t under lockdown yet, but the local merchants were too tense to risk much in the way of traffic with war possible every day. So the sailors, porters, shipbuilders and fitters did what they always did at times like this: they drank, argued and fought. Sometimes there were pitched battles between rival crews. Pickpockets and worse roamed everywhere. Times were hard, and so were the people enduring them.

Horatio may as well have had a sign around his neck saying, ‘Rob me.’ Every head turned as he took his seat at the corner of the bar. When he asked for Canary wine one of the nearest men guffawed, then took a little mincing step, arms bent at the elbows like chicken wings. Quickly he changed his order to beer but it was too late.

The man’s shoulders were at least a yard across. He staggered around, dribbles of beer in his beard and the stains on his jerkin. It had been a long day’s drinking.

“You from the castle?” he demanded, poking a thick finger into Horatio’s chest so hard it almost knocked him off his stool.

“Just visiting,” said Horatio trying to make eye contact with the landlord.

“From where?” asked the bearded man, his eyes narrowing. His two friends had turned to watch, grinning like dogs smelling a rabbit.

“Out of town,” said Horatio.

“Where?” the other pressed.

“Wittenberg,” said Horatio, knowing this was a mistake but unable to think of anything better. “I go to school there.”

“Oooh,” said one the bearded man’s friends, his leer spreading. “Student. Thought as much.”

“And staying in the castle as well,” added the bearded man, grimly pleased with the discovery. “A friend of those stuck-up buggers keeping me and my lads from earning an honest day’s pay, are you? Brought some books for your little holiday too, I dare say. Don’t care for books myself.”

“Or those who read ‘em,” added his mate.

“Which puts you in a bit of a pickle,” the bearded man concluded. “So I think we’ll go for a little walk outside, the four of us. A… tootorial. Ain’t that what you call it? The subject being… what you got about you that might make the likes of us feel a bit more warmly towards your skinny little person?”

Before he could answer they dragged him off his stool and shoved him towards the door.

There was an appreciative roar from some of the bystanders. They were all stinking drunk. Horatio was wondering whether he could make a run for it. He reached under his cloak with one hand, grasped the butt of his pistol. But the bearded thug was too quick for that. He kicked his feet from under him, sent him flying down to the floor. The gun skittered under a table where someone grabbed it.

“Inside, outside… makes no difference to me,” the man said, looming over him.

He pulled back a massive fist. But before he could launch the punch someone stepped in close and jammed the barrel of a long snaplock against his head. For a moment, the tavern was silent. One of the bearded man’s accomplices reached for the knife in his belt but was struck hard with the pommel of a cutlass before he even saw his assailant and crumpled on the spot.

“Your name Horatio?” asked the newcomer with the pistol, not taking his eyes off the bearded man.

“I am grateful to you, sir,” he answered, scrambling to his feet. “That’s me.”

“Message for you.”

Someone thrust a letter into his hands: good parchment with a familiar wax seal.

“Read,” ordered the gunman. “Then we’ll talk.”

Horatio staggered to the back of the room, aware of the standoff behind him, quiet, threatening words being said. Then his assailant backed off, muttering apologies to the man with the gun. And that, at least, was over.

The letter was in Hamlet’s familiar handwriting and made clear that the men who’d just saved his life were none other than pirates. The one who seemed to be in charge met his gaze and grinned: one front tooth silver, the other absent entirely.

At that moment the bearded thug snatched up a stool and launched himself at him with a drunken bellow. The pirate stepped sideways, caught him with an elbow to his flank, then brought the butt of the pistol down hard on the back of his head. The man went down like an ox, unconscious before he hit the stone floor.

“Now we have a little quiet,” the pirate said cheerily, turning to Horatio as if nothing had happened, “tell me, lad. Do you think we’ve got room for discussion here? Business to be transacted?”

The cheeky grin again.

“I do hope so. Cos if not you’ll have to make your way out of here all on your own.”

Horatio eyed the motionless man on the ground.

“I’ll need to access to some funds, sir. But yes. We can deal.”

Laertes was back, with the same company he had the previous day. The doors of the Great Hall creaked open. Seated on the throne Claudius watched as the young man strode in, rag tag band at his heels, crude weapons in their fists. They had spent the night in the castle grounds after their master had returned from the river with news of his sister’s death, and their fury – which had cooled in his absence – was rekindled.

Whatever grief had dulled the edge of Laertes’s outrage seemed to have already passed. He wanted answers and justice.

The guards let him through, as they had been ordered. But Claudius stopped him before the throne with a single raised hand.

“This is an outrage. Your father would never have stood for this. He’ll be turning in his grave.”

“The dead do not move, lord. Besides he’s not here. I am and I want explanations. “

“And you’re owed them,” Claudius admitted.

He looked pointedly at the servants with their clubs, the farmhands and fishermen with the tools they brandished like weapons.

“But they’re not.”

“These are your citizens and they stand by me! They understand loyalty and the honour of my house.”

Claudius turned and stared hard at them, noting how they shrank a little at that.

“It’s unusual to lead a rebellion and speak of loyalty. Get rid of your… troops and we can talk.”

He smiled again then, as a show of faith, turned to his own guard, and gestured with his hands, a slow downward movement, palms open. The soldiers cautiously, watchfully, lowered their weapons.

Laertes looked about him, unsure what to do. For all his defiant swagger and noble outrage he was young, out of his depth. And malleable.

Claudius waited. He felt sorry for the boy. His moment had gone. With hesitation the real danger had already passed.

“You’ve been wronged, Laertes. There’s no denying that. Nor that I’m determined to make amends. But…” He leaned forward to emphasise the point. “This is a matter between the two of us, King and noble. Not…” He gestured at the mob. “Them.”

Uneasily, knowing this was a kind of defeat, Laertes turned to his men.

“Leave now friends. With my thanks. And know – as the king does – that I may call on you again.”

They went then, gratefully and without hesitation. Claudius dismissed his guards. Then took the young man into his study and poured him some wine.

“You calm down easily. When you wish it.”

“I’m no fool, Claudius. I want what’s mine. And I will get it.”

“What’s that?”

“Your nephew’s head. He murdered my father. He bedded my sister and abandoned her. And now she’s dead, too.”

Claudius felt a stab of remorse, of guilt.

“Revenge eats everyone who seeks it. Go that way and it may devour you too. I speak as one who knows.”

The young man laughed.

“You? Your brother maybe. He had enough blood on his hands. I know what you are. A quiet, civilised king. Too gentle for this present climate in my opinion and that of others.” He gestured to the door. “I entered your private quarters with rough, armed men from the street. And here you are. Offering me your wine.”

“Perhaps I have my reasons.”

“Are they better than mine?”

“Possibly the same. You think you have good reason to kill my nephew?”

The laugh again.

“Would anyone argue with that?”

Claudius refilled his goblet, thinking about the rumours Voltemand had relayed that morning. Some sailors who’d met the vessel on the North Sea claimed it had been attacked by pirates. That Hamlet had been seized and later put ashore for ransom, perhaps intent on returning home.

“I sent Hamlet to England. He’s supposed to be there for… quite a while.”

“I’ll wait. However long it takes.”

The throne had come to Claudius through boldness, but also planning. It was in his diplomatic nature to weigh options, create several plans for possible futures to be sought. As king he’d barely need that. But perhaps it was a skill to be revived.

“It’s possible he’s dead already,” the king said. “His ship was attacked. We don’t know what happened to him.”

“Then I’ve been denied my right to justice.”

Claudius shrugged.

“Possibly. It’s all rumour and gossip transmitted to me…” This thought had just occurred to him, and he knew he ought to take heed of it. “…through channels on which I may or may not rely.”

“What do you want of me, sir?”

“Say Hamlet does return. He’s still Prince of Denmark. You can’t stab him in the night like a Roman assassin. There’s…” A sudden pain afflicted the king. A headache. Nothing more than that. “There’s an etiquette for royals. We must perish with more spectacle. On a deathbed surrounded by courtiers. In battle, raging against our foes.”

“Hamlet and I are foes.”

“But not at war. An honourable man may not murder a prince after the normal fashion. It requires forethought. Cunning. A certain theatrical skill.”

Laertes nodded.

“This is beyond me. But not, it seems, you.”

“I’m the king, aren’t I? If Hamlet comes back will you fight him? In the open? A fair duel? By court rules?”

He snorted.

“Court rules? You mean for play? For sport? Fencing with a tipped rapier that won’t so much as pierce his skin?”

“That would be the idea,” Claudius agreed.

“And I surrender a loving father and my sister’s lives for a game in the Great Hall?”

“Games go wrong. What seems innocuous may turn fatal. Death’s a sly and cunning creature. He lies in wait in all the shadows of our lives.” Claudius tried to smile, to stem the sadness. “Especially if a man puts him there.”

“Tell me,” Laertes said.

“I will. But first…” He nodded at the doors and the mob beyond. “After this show of force against my person I require proof of loyalty renewed.”

The young man eyed him suspiciously.

“Such as?”

“Your anger’s up. You want blood and don’t care how you find it.”

“I am the most wronged man in Elsinore! What else do you expect?”

“There may be a viper in our midst already. If so would you stamp on it with all your might? And ask me no questions?”

“Why?”

“Are you listening, boy? That’s not for you to know. Will you do it?”

A moment’s hesitation.

“And you will give me Hamlet when he comes?”

“The chance to take him. No head on a plate.”

The young man put down the goblet and extended his hand.

“A chance is all I need. I dare damnation itself. What do you want?”

They shook. Claudius raised his goblet in a toast.

“Come to me when I demand it. And then I’ll give you further instruction. As for Hamlet should he return…”

The plan had come unbidden. He had no Polonius to lean on, no man from Copenhagen to provide poison. Though there was some of that venom left, and with it possibilities.

“When you’ve earned my confidence we will speak more.”

Horatio was back at Elsinore dockside, well clear of the taverns, watching a slender row boat emerge out of the dusk. Three men. One at the oars, another cloaked and muffled, the third in the stern probably covering them with a pistol under his oilskin.

When the craft reached the wall he walked from the shadows, clutching the money pouch tied to his belt.

Two men he had neither seen nor heard stepped around the corner behind him and gave him a curt nod. One was the pirate who’d saved his life in the inn. He carried the same long-barrelled pistol with which he’d laid out the bearded man, one casual finger hooked through the trigger guard.

“It’s time, young lord,” the pirate said. “I’m pleased to see you’re a man of your word.”

The boat docked. The three men in it came up the steps from the water and joined them in silence, their breath fogging the chill air, waiting. Then the cloaked figure slowly, deliberately unwound a heavy scarf and pushed back the hood of his cloak.

It was Hamlet.

Horatio’s relief was so great he stepped forward and clasped the prince in a tight embrace.

In an instant the pirates’ hands were on their weapons. He let go quickly.

“This is my dearest friend, sirs,” Hamlet declared. “Don’t be offended.”

Then the prince gave him a knowing, slanted grin, and plucked the money pouch from Horatio’s belt, shaking it so the coins inside shifted and clinked.

“More than I’m worth to myself, friend. But if you find value in it…”

He tossed it to the man with the gun who handed the pouch to his friend without looking at it, as if counting money was beneath him.

The pirate gave a crooked smile not unlike Hamlet’s, then touched two fingers to his temple in mock salute and backed toward the ladder, the others trailing after him.

They didn’t wait to watch the pirates row away.

“What now?” Hamlet asked. “Do I walk back into Elsinore and give my uncle and mother the shock of their lives?”

Horatio frowned.

“It occurred to me you might want to think things through, sir. I’ve been out of Elsinore these past few days organising your ransom. I’m no more familiar with recent events than you.”

Hamlet took his arm.

“Well then let’s ask…”

“I’ve secured two rooms at a coach house along the road. We can spend the night there…”

“Not you, Horatio. I want eyes and ears in the castle. Perhaps you’re right and I should stay out of sight for now. But I still need to hear what’s going on.”

“They may know you’re on your way already. Denmark’s rife with all manner of gossip. There have been rumours you’re hiding here, fearful to return.”

“You can tell my mother then. So long as she keeps it to herself.”

“How much?”

“Everything,” he said, making the decision on the spot. “It’s time. And let me know how she takes it. I’ll stay in your tavern for now. Thinking…”

Horatio nodded.

“Like we did in Wittenberg?”

“Wittenberg was a lifetime ago. Those days are gone.”

Horatio tipped his head and looked at him.

“I see that, lord. You seem.... different.”

“How?”

“Calmer. More determined, maybe?”

Hamlet shrugged.

“Older. Wearier. More resigned, perhaps. It was...” He hunted for the words and opted for understatement. “A difficult though instructive voyage.”

“I’ll report back to you in the tavern tomorrow. If…”

“No,” the prince cut in. “Not the tavern. I’ll need fresh air.”

“Then where?”

Hamlet thought for a moment.

“Somewhere more appropriate, Horatio. Let’s say… the graveyard. The old one. Where they bury ordinary folk. Yes.” He nodded. “Make it there.”

The next day, twenty miles north of Copenhagen, Fortinbras brought his ragtag army to a halt. The weather was vile, rain turning to snow, a bitter wind in their faces. The Norwegian men were growing ever more timid as the prospect of battle neared. Most were conscripts, forced to fight by their local lords, with little or no experience of war. They viewed the battle-hardened mercenaries with suspicion. With good reason since they knew Gregor’s men would turn on them without a second thought if someone offered enough gold.

Such a short distance and still Fortinbras lacked a plan in his head. Elsinore was a formidable castle. He’d eyed that grey bastion many times as he sailed the narrow strait between Elsinore and Helsingborg. Rumour had it the place had never been taken by siege or attack. The walls were too high. The castle interior so well supplied with animals and grain it could withstand a siege for months without starvation.

He didn’t have that kind of time. If they weren’t inside Elsinore within a week the Scots would grow bored one last time and either depart or, more likely, cut a deal with Claudius to turn on him instead.

As he sat on his steed at the head of the column, looking at the long, bedraggled line of foot soldiers tramping in his wake, a small party came back from the advance guard. A stranger in their midst.

Fortinbras watched them bring the man. There was something familiar about him.

“Elias. I remember you from Oslo. You were an ambassador for Old Hamlet.”

One of the advance guard had his sword out, aiming it towards the elderly Dane.

“Put that away,” Fortinbras ordered. “We don’t threaten diplomats.”

The Dane laughed.

“Magnus told you to venture no further, sir. I see you are in truth embarked upon an adventure that goes against his wishes.”

“My uncle’s feeble and dying. Any wishes you may have heard come from the crows who peck at his corpse, not from him. I have a mind to bring some… stability to this region. A lord such as you would welcome that, surely.”

The Dane nodded.

“Oh, indeed. I’m here on behalf of the new chamberlain. I think you know him, sir. You have his correspondence I believe.”

“Voltemand sent you?”

The Dane drew his horse close to him. Looked serious in an instant. The guards tried to intervene, grasping his arms but not stopping his approach.

“Do you think he’d come himself? These are dangerous times, Fortinbras. Claudius trembles on the throne. His nephew’s rumoured to be back in the kingdom, perhaps plotting to seize the realm for himself. The populace in Elsinore are restless and close to rebellion. No games. I lay my life on the line by being here. Get your minions’ hands off me. I require words in private.”

The Norwegian told them to stand down then took Elias to the edge of the line where no one else might hear.

“I must ask you again,” Elias demanded. “You received the correspondence?”

“Why do you think we’re here? Without it I’d be on a barque to Italy…”

“Good. Then know this. The position inside the castle grows more feverish with each passing day. Polonius’s son, Laertes, has returned seeking vengeance for his father. And his sister now. Hamlet was supposed to be in England. But if it’s true he’s returned… The people…”

“What of them?”

“They’re sheep. One moment Laertes can rouse them to near-rebellion. The next they plead for Hamlet’s return, as if their incorruptible prince can set Denmark back on an honest and noble course.”

“And me?”

A moment’s hesitation then Elias said, “They fear you. But that’s what we’re taught these days, isn’t it? A lord is better feared than loved. So long as they don’t hate you too.” He glanced around the fields. “Give them no reason for that. Leave the local populace alone. Their animals and their women.”

“In that order?”

The Dane glared at him.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that. We’re not a race for grim humour.”

“So I gathered. And when we get to Elsinore? How do we take it?”

“You don’t. We let you in. Camp outside the east gate. Make no threats. Pillage no houses or taverns. Camp as if you were a monastery on the move.”

“These men are soldiers! Ask for something I can deliver.”

“If they’re soldiers they’ll do your bidding. Or pay the price. Wait outside the east gate until it opens. When it does treat those inside with consideration and mercy. Unless they offer resistance.”

One question remained.

“And Claudius? His queen?”

“They’re old and weak and tired. Gertrude still carries some popular love. To kill them would be viewed as rash and mean-spirited. If you will allow me at this stage… I will negotiate an abdication. Exile. Perhaps to one of the lesser islands.”

He stared at Fortinbras.

“Is that agreed?”

“It is. And you?”

Elias took up the reins of his mount.

“Whatever reward you think fit. I must return to Elsinore now and pray no one sees me. Make your way slowly, arrive tonight and wait as I advise. Portray yourself as liberators not oppressors.” He scowled. “To start with anyway. Are we clear on this?”

Fortinbras laughed.

“Elsinore must overflow with traitors. Such a quantity of messages I receive.”

“The state of Denmark’s changing, lord. I do what any sane man does in the circumstances. Change with it.”

He gathered the reins, brought up his steed’s head.

“Tomorrow. I’ll see you on the throne.”

And then, with a brusque word to the horse, was gone.

Horatio lurked around the royal quarters the next morning, trying to catch the eye of a lady in waiting. It took a while but finally a woman he half-knew appeared and he told her he needed to speak to her mistress in private about her son.

An hour later, finally, he was admitted.

Gertrude closed the door herself, stood with her back to him for a silent moment, then turned briskly and motioned him into a chair.

“You’ve word of my son?”

No polite pleasantries about his kindness in coming, no inquiries about his schooling. Straight to it, and that was a relief.

“He’s here.”

“In Denmark?”

“Just outside the city.”

She stood up, hands clasped to her breast, her face awash with feeling: surprise, pleasure, apprehension, but also relief.

“I thought this gossip we heard was wishful thinking. What happened in England?”

“He never reached those shores, my lady. Fortunately.”

He told her about the pirate assault, Hamlet’s capture, the ransom and his subsequent return to Denmark.

“Is he well?”

“Unharmed. His old self.” He hesitated. “Somewhat older in his outlook I’d say.”

“And this ransom…?”

“Raised within my family, madam. It’s an honour…”

“An honour that will be repaid fourfold from my own coffers. But why isn’t my son here to break this good news himself?”

Horatio took a deep breath. This was the part he’d been dreading. The moment where the conversation might turn on its head and see him banished from the Queen’s company, or worse. If Hamlet was right, and she confided in her husband, things could go very badly indeed.

“Hamlet believes he’s not safe in the castle.”

“What? That’s absurd. Why would he think that?”

The words of a dutiful wife, he supposed. But they came too easily and there was something beneath them, a shadow of doubt and anxiety. Even dread.

“Rosencrantz and Guildenstern carried a document which bore the king’s seal. Forgive me, madam, but there’s no easy way to say this. The letter demanded Hamlet’s immediate execution by the English king.”

She laughed, a single gasp, cut off by a hand to her mouth. Then she rose. For a moment Horatio thought she would command him to leave, and not long after he’d be dead himself. Instead she began to pace and when she spoke it was as much to herself as to him.

“That’s not possible. Why would the king do such a thing? Because of Polonius? It makes no sense. Why…?” She stopped and directed the question directly at Horatio. “What reason would my husband have for wanting his nephew – my son – dead?”

“Because,” said Horatio, gripping the arms of the chair, “ Hamlet believes – swears – the king poisoned his father.”

No laugh this time. She stared, eyes wide. This was not outrage or horror. It wasn’t even doubt. She knew.

Horatio sat very still, his eyes fixed on the rush-strewn floor.

“My son shouldn’t believe cruel gossip. Does he think he has... evidence? Proof?”

It wasn’t a refutation or a challenge. Just a question.

“In his own mind he has no need of it.”

The change which came over her was profound and instantaneous. On the bench seat she slid down into a crouch, hugging her knees to her chest like a child, tears running down her cheeks. For a long while, she stayed there, saying nothing.

“I should go,” said Horatio.

“You should. Tell him something from me. Say this.” Her tears had stopped, her voice was steady and low. “I knew nothing of my husband’s death. Though I imagine he believes I was in some way partly responsible through my love for his uncle.”

He nodded.

“Will he believe me?”

“Why shouldn’t he, madam?”

“Ophelia…” Her hand to her mouth. The tears started again. “Oh my God… Ophelia…”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been away from Elsinore for three days arranging Hamlet’s ransom. What of the lady? How…?”

“Leave me now. Leave me I beg you.”

“What should I tell Hamlet about Elsinore? He aches to come here…”

“Then bring him,” she cried furiously. “What’s done is done. What follows no man can halt.”

“And do I tell him it’s safe?”

Tears streaming down her cheeks she laughed at him.

“Safe, child? Safe? We’re human, boy. Frail and fallible. This word means… what, precisely?”

He had no answer.

“I can promise him nothing,” she said. “What help I can give, he will have. For whatever that is worth. Now go.” She looked at her regal dress of purple velvet. “I’ve a funeral to attend. And black to wear again.”

Gertrude screwed her eyes tights shut.

“Black. My son’s colour. He wore it before all of us. He saw the need.” She glared at him, eyes ablaze. “Black, black, black… Go, Horatio! You bring news both foul and welcome. Be gone from my presence. Before I lose my reason.”

The cemetery was deserted except for a pair of workmen digging a grave on the western side. A thick ground mist clung to the grass. Hamlet moved slowly through the fog, black cloak billowing behind him, trying to avoid headstones rising through mist.

The sextons were always here, constantly unearthing the old bones for the charnel house or the fire, making space for the new.

“All very symbolic,” Yorick declared, loping in an ungainly waddle at his heels.

“Have a little respect,” said Hamlet.

“For what? Dust and clay? That’s what man comes to in the end, isn’t it? Returns to, if you believe your Bible. The stuff you might mould into a pot, or the putty for a crack in the window sill. All the great men of the past, Caesar and Alexander the Great – your sainted father too – all no more than dirt for growing plants and filling holes. Gives you a little perspective, doesn’t it?”

Hamlet drifted closer to where the grave diggers were at work. One had a barrow and was dragging buckets of earth out of the pit on a rope. Another was shovelling dirt, singing nonsense songs as he laboured.

“Going to tell them to show some respect too?” asked Yorick, plucking an apple from his pocket and taking a bite.

Hamlet drew closer, kept quiet, watched. Then something like a dirty, misshapen melon was tossed up out of the grave. It bounced on the turf and rolled crazily, stopping at Hamlet’s feet.

It was a skull. Could be nothing else.

Hamlet stooped and picked it up. Stained and filthy, the lower jaw had fallen away entirely and there was clay in the eye sockets.

“Quite a thing, isn’t it?” Yorick said brightly. “Gazing at your own destiny. I hope you don’t find it depressing. I mean… the inevitable. What’s the point of going all gloomy about it?”

Hamlet’s frown deepened, but he nodded.

“You think I’ll look like this one day?”

“Is that a serious question?”

Hamlet sniffed the skull cautiously then thrust it away, his nose wrinkling. Yorick laughed.

“You’ll need some of that fancy perfume you bought in Paris. And a lady’s make up. She might need to spread it on thicker than usual...”

“Whose grave is this?” Hamlet called.

The man in the hole stopped shovelling and straightened up, flexing his back.

“Mine,” he announced as if the question was idiotic.

“I meant… who is it for?”

The gravedigger still wore a bemused look.

“Dead person. At least I hope they’re dead. Bit of a cock-up otherwise.”

Hamlet gave him a filthy look. It didn’t seem to have much effect.

“I guessed as much. What’s his name?”

“It’s not for a man.”

“What’s her name then?”

“Not for a woman neither,” the gravedigger added, a twinkle in his eye.

“It must be one or the other.”

“It’s for someone who was a woman but is now dead.”

“I knew we’d get there eventually.” He retrieved the skull and held it aloft. “And whose grave was it before?”

The sexton’s smile widened.

“A mad bugger, he was. Tickled me with a peacock feather once. Take a guess. Bit of a clue. He came to a sticky end.”

“I’ve really no idea. Or time for these games.”

“No? He was the king’s jester. His name was...”

“Yorick,” Hamlet whispered. “I remember him. Of course I do.”

He gave the dwarf beside him a look which was close to anguish.

“Your father.”

“My father?” the gravedigger asked. “Are you soft in the head or something? My dad was a digger of holes like me. He’s safe over the other side. No sod’s moving him while I’m alive. And when I’m gone…”

“No,” Hamlet said wearily. “I meant... Never mind.”

He turned the skull to face him and gazed into the ravaged, brown face, trying to see some vestige of the man he’d once loved. The court fool who’d carried him on his back, played with him when his father wouldn’t, told jokes and shown him magic tricks. But there was nothing of Old Yorick there and no memory, however fond, could make the object any less repulsive. He offered it to the little man by his side but the dwarf just shook his head and for once was silent.

“You’d better get a move on,” said the other sexton. “The funeral party’s here and they got posh folk with them.”

He nodded towards the cemetery gates where a group in black were escorting a coffin borne by six young men in the livery of the royal court, guards with pikes by their side.

Hamlet stood up, bewildered, scanning the faces, the women veiled in black. Horatio was there. Laertes too and, at the back, weeping, Hamlet’s own mother, the king holding her arm as they picked their way across the grass.

“What’s this?” Hamlet hissed. “Who is it?”

“I suggest you make yourself scarce, dear boy,” urged the jester. “I doubt you’re welcome here.”

The prince dropped back behind a heavy yew tree, trusting the fog to cover his withdrawal.

The party assembled at the grave side and the priest finally spoke a name.

Ophelia.

He doubled up. It felt like a kick to the gut.

For one numb minute he crouched where he was, unable to think or feel anything. He’d no idea how she had died but his heart told him: this was fault, his responsibility. The bleak graveyard her future now, the dank, wormy earth of eternity in a pit that once held the mangled bones of an old jester.

He almost laughed at that, bitter and hollow though it was. Yorick dead at his father’s hand for doing his duty, telling the truth. Perhaps that moment was the moment when this farcical tragedy began. And now it returned to its source, new bones for old, an assassin’s secrets buried with them.

He fought to push down the sorrow, replace it with simple rage. It wasn’t far to cross the cemetery yard. Once there he could draw his sword and plunge it into Claudius where he stood. Was that justice for her? Or brute murder? He didn’t know, couldn’t guess. And it was pointless to in any case. The King was surrounded by his honour guard and they’d slaughter him before he landed a single blow.

Not that he cared. About anything much any more.

He watched, hearing the dull familiar murmur of the funeral service. The coffin was lowered into the ground where old Yorick had mouldered away to fragments.

The Queen stepped forward and started scattering flowers after the casket.

Even then he might have been able to hold his peace, to keep the acid grief inside. But her brother Laertes was up and shouting, finally leaping into the grave itself.

And Hamlet could stand no more.

Out of the shadows he came, marching on, pushing through the mourners.

His mother’s eyes flashed at him, an expression he couldn’t read. Then Claudius, a look on the king’s face of surprise and horror mingled.

The coffin had no lid as was the custom.

Laertes had his sister’s body half out of the casket, a shape as stiff as a board in a white shroud. Blonde hair too clean, face so pale. A mark on her nose. Blood and bruising.

“Hamlet,” Gertrude cried.

“Surprised mother?” he asked then reached the coffin, Laertes weeping over the corpse, lost to everything.

The wind was starting to howl. The mist blowing away. A new man wore the Lord Chamberlain’s chain of office and stared at him, curious and aghast.

“Prince,” he said. “You are welcome home.”

“For a funeral, sir? Another? Elsinore seems to treat them like parties.”

Laertes leapt from the grave flew at him. Two of the guards intervened, kept him back, arms held tightly.

He looked taller, stronger, older than Hamlet remembered. And his face was full of fury.

“It’s true we have matters to resolve, Laertes. But not now. How did she come to this end?”

“You murdered her!” the brother cried. “As you murdered our father.”

“The one but not the other. I loved Ophelia…”

“And sent her mad,” this new Lord Chamberlain interrupted. “She lost her senses, sir, and threw herself in the river. It’s a tragedy. But this is a sad and personal occasion. It shouldn’t be damaged by discord and violence. If there’s anything here to be resolved…”

“Voltemand,” Hamlet said, looking at him. “I remember you now. A collector of tithes.” He glanced at the chain of office. “Newly elevated I see.”

He strode to the coffin. She’d fallen back onto the plain wood. Dead eyes half open. The blue he remembered had faded. There was a smell, of incense perhaps, or something more familiar.

“I’ll embrace you lady one last time,” he whispered and bent down, took her in his arms.

A commotion behind. Laertes was struggling to get free.

Cold clammy skin greeted Hamlet’s cheek. His grip grew tighter. As he squeezed something bubbled up from her dead mouth. Liquid, water mixed with another substance. The smell again and with it a memory that seared through him like a blade.

“Bergamot?” Hamlet roared rising, letting the husk of her fall back into the casket. “Since when did the river smell of bergamot? What mischief is this…?”

A rush of bodies. Laertes came flying at him, fists pummelling, reaching for his sword.

Men intervened. Soldiers cursed and held them back with strong and certain arms.

Hamlet stared into the face raging at him. Ophelia was there somewhere. But so was Polonius.

“There’s a debt to be rendered, Prince,” Laertes yelled at him.

“Many,” Hamlet agreed. “And for those that stand to my account I’ll be responsible.” He glanced at the coffin. At the silent Claudius and the weeping Gertrude. “But not your sister, sir. I never drowned her in bergamot. Any more than she did so herself.”

It was dark by the time the funeral party returned to the castle. Claudius and Gertrude retired to the royal quarters, Hamlet to his own. Laertes back to his sister’s rooms.

When the king got to his study Elias, the old ambassador, was waiting for him. Claudius closed the door, told him to sit down and said, “Your safe return is a happy sight on this grim day, dear friend. I’m grateful for your courage and assistance. Well?”

“His army will be outside the eastern gate tonight. Tomorrow he expects entry.”

“Should I allow it?”

“He says he’ll let you and Gertrude enter exile. On one of the islands.”

“And you believe him?”

The old man thought for a moment.

“I do. He’s a decent enough man for a Norwegian. All he wants is Elsinore and the crown.”

“All?”

Elias scowled.

“I’m sorry, my lord. I spend my working life trying to bring together two conflicting sides. To marry black to white. Right to wrong. To find a middle way…”

“And Gertrude will live?”

“You both will,” the man said, a little puzzled. “I was adamant on that. The queen in particular carries much affection among the people. Fortinbras has no reason to enrage them. It would only make his task more difficult. Alternatively…”

He shrugged.

“The castle is well provisioned. If we hold out for a little while perhaps his Scottish mercenaries will abandon him. Should that happen our men are more than a match for the peasants he’s brought from Norway. We could fight…”

“Like Old Hamlet did?”

“That was single combat, sir,” Elias said carefully. “I would not advise it in these circumstances. Fortinbras is young and a warrior. You…” A wan smile. “You’re older, a man more attuned to negotiation than warfare.”

Claudius scowled.

“Isn’t that what kings are for? To sacrifice themselves for their people?”

“Sometimes. But if we can achieve the same result without bloodshed…”

“I hear your advice, Elias. I’m grateful for it. I could have made you Lord Chamberlain. Perhaps should have.” He shook his head. “Yet Polonius didn’t recommend it and I always listened to him.”

The old man got up.

“I bear no grudges. I serve the realm. After this I’ll retire to my country estate to raise ducks and chickens. Both of which seem grateful for my attention. Until I eat them, that is. Such is life.”

“And did you ask him?”

Claudius left the most important question till last.

“About intelligence?”

“Has he been receiving reports from Elsinore?” the king asked tetchily. “I made it clear…”

“Yes. Correspondence. I said I was from the new chamberlain. He volunteered the man’s name himself.”

Claudius sighed.

“Is there anyone in this castle I can trust save you?”

“Diplomacy takes place in no man’s land, lord. It’s a way of making peace with men who hate you. One must always talk to the enemy. How else may we find the middle ground?”

“Fortinbras turned round in Copenhagen and came here for a reason. He was invited. That’s not diplomacy. It’s treason.”

Elias nodded.

“This is a delicate time. There should be room for safe passage out of Elsinore should you wish to take it. If not we stay and fight. Either way… we’ve enough discord in this place already. I would advise you not to add to it.”

Silence then.

“Sir?” the old man added.

“I’ve heard you, Elias. And thank you for your counsel. Go home now. You’ve served Elsinore well.”

“Mother,” Hamlet said. “You are pleased to see me, aren’t you?”

She’d come to his old room, sat with him at the table. Yorick had vanished into the shadows cast by the candles near the window as he always did with visitors.

“You’re my son. I feared you dead. Of course I’m pleased.”

Still she didn’t reach out for his hands.

“What happened to Ophelia?” he asked.

“She feared for you. She tried to send Laertes a letter telling him what the two of you believed had happened. About Claudius and your father. This new man… Voltemand… I think he got hold of it. So Laertes still hates you. And probably blames you for Ophelia…”

“This man Voltemand murdered her?”

She closed her eyes, looked ready to weep, but didn’t.

“How would I know? The king and I are estranged. I don’t know what his intentions are. Even if he does himself. Claudius is a gentle man by nature, trapped by circumstances. They think Elsinore could fall to Fortinbras soon. Tomorrow even. If that happens our private battles will seem irrelevant. Won’t they?”

“You knew…”

“I knew none of this! What must I say to make you believe me? My sin was one of love. For a man who was kind to me. To you, too. When your father ignored us. Or bellowed in my direction.” Her eyes darkened. “Or worse.”

She folded her arms, hugged herself through the heavy velvet dress.

“I never realised Old Hamlet had discovered. Or that he intended to deal with us. Or that Claudius, egged on by that ambitious old fool Polonius, intended to act first.”

Her voice drifted off.

“And if you had?”

She didn’t answer.

“I must act,” he whispered.

“Ah,” said Yorick from the shadows. “More acting. Great. That’s what we need.”

“Quiet, fool,” said Hamlet.

“Don’t speak to me that way,” she told him.

“Not you, mother.”

“Then…?” Gertrude looked puzzled and uneasy. “You’re still not well, Hamlet. It would be best if you left Elsinore.”

He laughed.

“With a foreign army outside the gates? My love in a coffin?” He stared at her. “My mother torn between her conscience and her duty?”

“That burden is mine to bear, not yours.” She did touch his hands briefly then. “Try and sleep. Stay in your quarters. I’ll make inquiries of the harbour. Perhaps there’s a ship sailing south tomorrow. A warmer land, a sunnier climate would suit you. And when matters here are clearer…”

“Mother…”

She got up and kissed him, once on the cheek, once on the lips. Then Gertrude said goodnight and left.

Yorick emerged from the corner.

“A fine and decent woman, your mother. You should listen to her.”

“What? Go to Italy and learn to play the lute?”

“I could come,” he said hopefully. “That statue of my father in the Great Hall? The one where he’s naked on the tortoise? I told you. A Florentine made it. The original’s there in the Boboli gardens of the Medici. They’re a bunch of horrors but you’re royal. I’m sure they’d let us take a look.”

“I’m sure they would,” the prince agreed, then walked to his bed and lay on the sheets.

“Shall I start packing?” the jester asked hopefully. Then he started to scamper manically round the room. “We’ll need clothes for a warmer climate. And hats. New hats. Oh, summer. Remember summer? It’s glorious. Down there even more so I hear. And…”

“Not now,” Hamlet interrupted, worried by his sudden speed and energy. “Yorick?”

The little man stopped and looked at him. There was something lost and heart-rending in his expression. He had some clothes in his hand. The prince’s. Not his own. All he ever wore was that blue and yellow harlequin suit.

“I’d have to buy you more suitable dress,” the prince said. “That clown outfit’s an insult. You’re one of the wisest, most decent men I know.”

There was an awkward moment then. It seemed the little man was crying.

“I don’t need new clothes, sir. Honestly. But you… in sunnier climes. With those pretty Italian gals. Oh…” He clutched a billowing white brocade shirt to his chest. “I can see you there now. Cutting the finest figure…”

“Me, too…”

The jester went quiet. This was the first lie that had passed between them and both knew it. A bridge had been crossed. No going back.

“What now, lord?” the jester asked softly.

The prince laughed.

“Lord? Not… Your Royal Slothfulness? Prince Do-Nothing? Procrastinator General? Your Travesty? Or any of the other insults you’ve thrown my…”

“No,” Yorick interrupted and placed a gentle hand on his forehead. “That time’s past, Hamlet. You are the man you always wanted to be. Your father’s son. But the better, truer part of him which the darker half managed to suppress.”

His fingers came away. The prince heard his familiar footsteps patter back towards his corner.

“That’s what you want to hear?” the little man asked from the shadows.

“I suppose.”

“In that case my work’s done.”

The weather was worsening. A gale. Sporadic hail and rain. Claudius stood by the window in his study, watching the storm gather over the Øresund. Lightning flashes and distant rolls of thunder. Beyond the walls he could see the camp fires of the Norwegian army. Not so large. Not so brave he imagined, apart from the inevitable mercenaries. Elsinore had never been stormed. Never would be. But if the crown fell it would do so with as little blood as possible. As Elias indicated, a concordat would be reached, with Fortinbras or others. One that saved the queen, his own hide, and his citizens from the violent depredations of ravaging soldiers.

Yet such agreements had to be based on strength as much as possible. A last show of force and violence. A recognition of their mutual positions.

He’d summoned Voltemand almost an hour before. That the man was late did not surprise him. The new Lord Chamberlain scarcely sought to hide his ambition any more. He was positioning himself for the fall of the Danish crown, and the opportunities that might follow.

Halfway through the second goblet of Frankish red wine the door opened. No knocks any more. No pause before entry.

“King,” Voltemand said and sat down at the desk. “You asked for me. These are hectic times…”

Claudius joined him.

“Busy indeed. News?”

A shrug.

“Laertes is furious. Hamlet’s mad. The queen… I’ve no idea. Do you? And we have an enemy army on the doorstep.”

In the distance there was the low bellow of thunder, then a flash of lightning at the window.

“These walls are thick,” Claudius said. “We ride out our storms. Elsinore lasts forever. One simply has to wait.”

“Elsinore is brick and stone. Kings are made of flesh and blood. There are threats here…”

Claudius stifled a yawn.

“The armoury’s full. The provisions plenty. Fortinbras must feed his troops from a meagre winter countryside. And his masters in Norway don’t want him here at all. I’ve sent couriers to Oslo asking for their assistance. They help me and I give them Jutland in return. Three days and there’ll be a friendly fleet in the harbour. And this rebellious prince will hang. I’m content to wait.”

Voltemand drew himself up and eyed the king.

“I was aware of no messengers. As your Lord Chamberlain…”

“You’re a servant of the crown.”

“All diplomatic correspondence must go through me!”

Claudius smiled.

“You were absent from your offices. No one knew where. Does a king wait on his retainers? Am I supposed to sit around like a lonely wife praying for her husband’s return?”

“This post has many responsibilities. Some that a monarch never sees or appreciates.”

Claudius laughed.

“You forget. I was a diplomat before I wore the crown. I know how the world works.” A pause, a deliberate one. “I know that one must talk to… all sides… if a full picture of proceedings is to be had.”

Voltemand’s sly face fell.

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning… I understand you’re an industrious man. I’m sure there are tasks yet to be done even at this hour.” The king beckoned to the door. “I shouldn’t keep you. The situation’s simple anyway. Laertes and Hamlet will make up their differences tomorrow with a harmless fencing match before us. Court rules. No blood. Only a resolution of their difficulties. After which… we wait.”

Another roll of thunder. The burst of lightning that followed seemed much closer.

“Storms pass,” Claudius added. “If the ships from Norway are a day late it matters not a whit. We hold our fire. We watch the Øresund. Two days. Three. Four at the most. Then the ships from the court of Magnus are here and his nephew’s head is in a noose.”

He raised his glass.

“I’d offer you a drink by way of celebration. But I’m sure you’ve better things to do.”

“True,” the man grunted then got up and without another word was gone.

Claudius finished his wine. There would be more before he could sleep. A sound behind him. He didn’t stir or turn. The old man, Polonius, was fond of hiding, listening, spying. It seemed a gift passed down through blood.

Laertes emerged from the vast tapestry next to the fire: Mars, the god of war, in bed with a naked Venus. In the background the shadow of her sad and cuckolded husband Vulcan, impotent in the face of lust and violence. Old Hamlet had commissioned the work from Italy and never understood the irony. Until, perhaps, the last.

“Now I know what treason sounds like,” the young man said coming to the desk. “He belongs to Fortinbras, surely.”

Claudius scowled at him.

“Don’t be stupid! The man’s a go-between. He serves no one save himself until someone wins the game.” He looked Laertes up and down. Brave, strong. But he hadn’t inherited Polonius’s talent for espionage or cunning. “As did your father. If it were otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

Laertes shifted from foot to foot, uncomfortable, gripping his dagger.

“What do you want of me?”

The King had thought this through.

“Offer Fortinbras a gift. Sure and bloody knowledge that we’ve recognised his strength. And met it. Make sure that should it come to negotiation he deals with me directly, not through self-serving intermediaries I cannot trust.”

“And for that you’ll give me Hamlet?”

The words stuck in the king’s craw.

“That piece of theatre’s in train already. Do you doubt my word?”

A nod and then, “I’ll do it. But if the men from Norway are here in a few days we won’t have to dicker with Fortinbras anyway. Will we?”

“A cautious officer of the crown plans for all eventualities.” Claudius nodded at the door. “On with it. Make sure our friend out there knows he deals with men willing to be as cruel and ruthless as any he’s ever met.”

“Aye…”

Then he was gone.

More drink. More thunder and stark, searing flashes at the window.

For all the practice over the years Claudius had never liked lying. It seemed unworthy. Too often a way of storing up grief and trouble for the future. But sometimes…

He went through the papers on the desk. The message he’d written for the couriers to Oslo was still there. Well written. Carefully put. In it a bargain that would bring Magnus’s court to his doorstep and settle Fortinbras for good. He knew that. And yet he’d never sent it.

The crown had proved too heavy. He’d only won it for Gertrude’s sake. And now that murderous act had torn her from him.

If Fortinbras proved amenable under pressure…

If the two of them could escape with what remained of their lives…

The Norwegian prince was a minor obstacle along the way. One a diplomat could handle through cunning, tact and mediation.

The bigger challenge was Hamlet, his own wronged, damaged nephew.

Claudius took too greedy a swig of the wine, spilled the strong red liquid down his shirt like a tavern drunk.

Lightning lit up the window and the troubled world beyond.

“I killed your father for good reason,” he murmured, still seeing the young boy only he and the jester, of all the men in the castle, had loved. “I never wanted your life too.”

Yet foul deeds begat others, unseen, unimagined at the outset of the game.

He removed the slender, golden, jewel-studded crown and placed it on the desk.

A small thing: of no moment next to Gertrude.

Drink, the king thought, and yelled for his servants.

Perhaps an ocean of wine, as deep as the Øresund, might drown his sins.

Hamlet was roused by the polite cough of a young courtier standing in the doorway, an outlandish, feathered hat in his hand as he executed an elaborate bow.

With him was an embarrassed Horatio.

“Is the circus in town?” the Prince asked.

“This is Oswald,” Horatio said, visibly unimpressed. “An aide in the entourage of Polonius. Laertes, now, I suppose.”

“You woke me for this?”

“I bear a message from His Majesty the king,” Oswald declared with another flourish of his stupid hat.

Hamlet rolled his eyes.

“Keep that bloody thing on your head. If Claudius wants to talk he knows where to find me.”

The young lad looked embarrassed.

“But sir… it would be the greatest discourtesy to be behatted in the presence of the prince. A good knight’s etiquette…”

The ostrich feathers twitched again.

“One more time,” said Hamlet, “and I’ll pluck your feathers I swear. What message?”

“The King has made an arrangement with my master, Laertes. There’s to be a fencing match between you two. To clear the air. Court rules. No blood. He’s bet some... swords and horses,”

“What weapon?” asked Horatio.

“Rapier and dagger. My master Laertes is rather good I must say. My money’s on him.”

Hamlet stood up. Oswald clutched his hat in both hands and trembled.

“Have you seen me fight then?”

“No… no…”

The Prince fished in his purse and produced a coin.

“Not much of a gambler, are you? Tell my uncle I accept the challenge. And appreciate the courtesy with which it was delivered. Horatio. Get some odds on me and put this on it.”

Horatio took the money off him and said, “Done.”

Oswald gave one last hurried bow and fled.

“Keep an eye on that one,” Hamlet ordered.

“Of course,” Horatio agreed. “Is this wise? I mean…”

“Very! I need some exercise. It clears the mind. Now…” He pointed at the door. “You too. Early night. Big day tomorrow.”

When he’d gone Yorick rolled off the bed.

“Let me say from the outset I’m not enamoured of this idea, Hamlet. What kind of king goes around organising sword fights on the premises? Between nobles? One of them…” He jabbed an accusing finger. “Bearing a distinct grudge.”

“Not without cause,” Hamlet pointed out.

“Precisely. Kindly wipe that smartarse grin off your face. You’re juggling with serpents, sonny. And you should leave juggling to the likes of me.”

Hamlet took a fencing stance, waved an imaginary rapier in the air.

Yorick folded his fat arms and asked, “Florence or Rome? Milan or Venice? Which is it to be?”

“All of them, I think.”

The jester’s face fell. He could look quite malevolent when he wanted to.

“And when?”

The make-believe rapier slashed through the air.

“When I’m done here,” Hamlet declared and dashed the invisible blade through the little man’s heart.

Yorick yawned.

“Aargh. I’m dead.”

Hamlet swept the imaginary rapier across his own throat.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Me too.”

The camp was muddy, the food scarce. Fortinbras could keep his men at the foot of Elsinore’s walls for a week, no more. The Scottish mercenaries he’d count in days.

And there was no word from within. No more letters. No approach from the old diplomat Elias, a man he had perhaps trusted too easily.

Gregor came in munching a bony piece of meat.

“Danish sheep are greasy and taste of muck,” the big soldier grumbled.

“For a well-paid servant you whine a lot.”

The man laughed.

“A Scottish habit. It’s very hard to lose. Any news?”

“The eastern gate will open tomorrow.”

“Your man told you that?”

The Norwegian nodded.

“Did he say when? What we’re likely to meet on the other side? Fair ladies baring their breasts? Or ugly Danes brandishing their swords?”

“All in good time,” Fortinbras told him.

“No such thing as good time. Just time. It’s what we make of it.”

“I never knew Scotland bred philosophers.”

“We’re a talented race. Much under-appreciated.”

Fortinbras looked at him and laughed.

“I think my treasury would argue otherwise.”

“We need to know some facts before we enter. The disposition of their men. The face of their politics. Whether Claudius will capitulate easily. What we may take and what we must leave. When the blood’s up it’s too late and I won’t have you hanging my folk just because they raped some old bird when they shouldn’t. We need to know the lie of this land now.”

Fortinbras got up and said very slowly, “When… my… man… comes.”

Gregor walked to the door of the tent. The Norwegian joined him. The storm was abating. Though still constant the thunder and lightning had moved south along the Øresund towards Copenhagen. The hailstones that followed in its wake were petering into drizzle. Soon it would be fine.

“Perhaps he doesn’t like getting wet. Perhaps…”

Then he stopped. Somewhere high on the castle walls there came a cry. A shriek every soldier knew.

The man from Copenhagen checked the battlements first. He wanted to see what lay between the castle and the Norwegian camp. Little but swampy earth, churned by the hooves of horses. A few guards. It wouldn’t be easy. And he wouldn’t be able to get back either. Perhaps Claudius had been right. He wasn’t cut out for diplomacy. Voltemand wanted to find advantage, enjoy the sweet scent of victory.

Thought he had, too. He hadn’t realised the king might go behind his back to Oslo. That was an oversight, one that was now impossible to retrieve.

It was time to do what any sane diplomat never countenanced. Take sides.

Kill the guards on the gate. One short walk across the quagmire separating the castle from the Norwegian camp. Then he was there. With nothing to offer but his sword. This was a bitter outcome. What power he’d possessed depended on his place in the middle, between the two opposing parties. Forced into one or the other he was just one more soldier. A lieutenant at best, dependent on the mercy and gratitude of Fortinbras.

Voltemand checked the distance between wall and tents again. The Danish guards he could manage. Any foreigners who got in his way he’d deal with as they came. If Fortinbras didn’t know the men in Oslo were chasing him there might still be opportunity for some bargaining…

“No choice,” he muttered, and turned for the tower stairs down to the guard room, hand on his belt, thinking of how he’d silence the men at the gate.

Three steps and then something moved behind him. Voltemand tried to turn. Tried to speak. But there was something both cold and hot at his neck. His hands found their way there automatically.

Recoiled at what they met.

In the thin light of a winter moon breaking cloud the man from Copenhagen stared at his gloved fingers. Blood dripped from them. The words he wanted failed him. His throat gagged. His eyes dimmed. Whirling round he saw a black shape moving out of his vision.

A picture then. A man had waited, come out of the shadows, slashed at him with a sword.

Found his neck, his throat. His very being.

“Why…?” he thought and couldn’t say.

A face caught in the silver light then. Young, familiar. Angry and determined.

Laertes, son of Polonius, drew back his sword once more, swept it out in a fast horizontal arc that decapitated the man before him in one clean, powerful movement.

The body fell in a heap. Laertes walked over and picked up the bloody head.

Mouth agape, eyes open, trim moustache now covered in gore.

“You’re a pretty sight, traitor,” Laertes whispered. “And tomorrow you’ll give me a better one.”

Then he strode to the battlements, found a gap, leapt up onto the step.

Out into the night he bellowed, “Fortinbras, prince of Norway. I have your friend Voltemand. He wants a word.”

His fingers took a tight grip of the dead man’s hair. Laertes whirled the grisly head beneath his arm and propelled it out into the black night.

A thud somewhere. The sound of men coming. Curious at first. Then horrified.

Minutes later in the Norwegian campaign tent Gregor looked at the thing and laughed.

“Is this your spy then, Fortinbras? Our free passage into the castle?”

The Scotsman picked up the severed head, put his ear close to the gaping, dripping mouth.

“What’s that you say, pal? Everything’s just wonderful, is it?”

He threw the thing into a corner.

“Don’t talk much these Danes, do they? Anything else you’ve heard, my lord?”

“One way or another we enter Elsinore tomorrow.”

“How?” Gregor demanded. “Can’t scale those walls. Can’t starve them out. Either you find another friend inside that place, one who’s still got a mouth he can use, or we’re buggered here.”

“Tomorrow we go in.”

The Scot picked up his gloves and looked at the dark night beyond the tent flap.

“From this point on our camp’s our own, Prince. Do not enter. You or your men. If you want to speak with me you send in a minion to request it. If we’re still sitting in this shit tomorrow, eating greasy lamb and polishing our blades…” He stabbed a finger across the table. “Then we’ll settle this matter. Once and for all.”