Free Dating Hamlet by Lisa Fiedler Page B

Polonius. I was, at that time, a traveling player, a minstrel, come to Elsinore with my troupe to entertain the good King Hamlet’s court.” He draws a quivering breath. “She was mayhap the age you are today. I loved her of an instant, and she swore the same feeling for me. But she could not disgrace her family by forsaking her betrothed. She despised him but could not bring dishonor to her family by running off with a mere player.”
    â€œAnd so?”
    â€œAnd so … when my fellows departed, I stayed behind, took up a pickax, and commenced digging graves, only to be near her.”

    â€œAnd you were?”
    â€œOf that,” he says, with a playful pinch to my cheek, “you and your brother are the proof.”
    I smile. “I would know where you reside.”
    He jerks his thumb toward the far slope of the rise. “I’ve a small stone house at the end of the croft there. You will find it by the smoke that comes from its chimney.”
    â€œAnd the song that comes through its windows?”
    He smiles. “Aye, daughter.”
    At this, I fling myself into his arms, and he holds me as though he’s dreamed of doing it. “Daughter,” he whispers against my hair.
    From out of a dream, I feel another’s arms surround me and know my mother’s angelic spirit has witnessed this healing.
    Together, we spend the afternoon. I tell him of Hamlet, and the strife alive at Elsinore.
    He listens and offers his assistance, if e’er I require it.
    Later, I depart with a plump bouquet of sweet purpureum; my father’s ballad follows me with the sound of the stream.
    And I prepare to see the play.
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    I am excited and frightened to the depths of my soul.
    The play is about to begin.
    We sit together, I and Hamlet, and for the case of his
madness, he speaks to me so lewdly that it brings to his cheeks a faint blush that only I behold. At times I need urge him continue his sordid seduction. All who hear are o’erwhelmed and mortified that one formerly so gallant would speak such vulgar propositions.
    The King watches Hamlet, and Hamlet watches the King.
    And we all watch the play, unfolding in an argument familiar to the one murderer among us. I turn ever so slightly in my seat, just the breadth of breath, to bend mine eye on him.
    Now the player upon the stage creeps silently toward his victim. Claudius, in robes of richest silk, goes pasty gray. I feel Hamlet tense beside me, and my heart aches, for I imagine he imagines this deed delivered upon his sire.
    The player sweeps his arm in a silent circle round the head of his fellow who reclines upon a bench as though asleep amidst the garden. Claudius trembles, his eyes widen, water, bulge, and blink. Aye, ’tis a mirror in which he gapes. ’Tis art which imitates life, and also death.
    The player-King produces, as though by magic, a jeweled cruet, which he holds aloft, then lowers, slow, so sinister and so slow, toward his fellow thespian’s ear. He tips it so that the candlelight catches the trembling drop which falls from the spout like a tear. I shiver, lean near to Hamlet’s warmth, but there is little. He’s gone cold with the thought of what’s to come. Wretched Claudius sees clearly his deed of evil in the enactment. At the moment
the glittering trickle enters the actor’s ear, Claudius leaps to his feet, wailing.
    The audience gapes, and Gertrude holds her heart. “How fares my lord?”
    A silly question! Ashen is he, and trembling, clutching his middle as though demons threaten to birth themselves from within him. He makes for the door. Hamlet squeezes my hand, then springs from his own seat in pursuit.
    Shrieking, Claudius goes, calling for light. Hamlet is close upon his heels, gathering this victory. Around us, players turn up their palms in confusion, and the audience runs hither and yon with worry for their counterfeit lord.
    I would go after Hamlet, to see how