Gertrude and Ophelia

Chapter One

It was cool in the chapel, cool and silent. There was little light and candles burned on the altar below a large gold crucifix. There was the sweet smell of decay in the air, masked by the scent of late blooming flowers. Below the altar, laid out on a marble slab was the body of the king - dressed in ceremonial robes, a gold crown on his head. The pale grey of his face merged imperceptibly with the pale grey of his beard. He was imposing in death, as he had been in life. At his head and feet candles burned dully, washing the body in flickering yellow light.

The chapel was empty save for a solitary woman, dressed in black. She knelt, her hands clasped together, her head bowed. This was Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, and widow of the king. She was a woman no longer young, the lines around her eyes and mouth suggested a woman in her forties. But she was still beautiful, her long fair hair showing only a hint of grey, her body still firm and thin. There were shadows around her grey eyes, shadows from loss of sleep, from tears, from crying in the night. But now her eyes were dry, as she watched over the body of her husband.

She could not pray. She was exhausted from praying. As she knelt she remembered the past and her life with King Hamlet. In her mind she went over the years they had spent together - thirty two in all. There were good times and bad, happy times and sad. When they had married she barely knew him, it had been a state wedding, an alliance of noble houses. He had been a man in his prime, whereas she had been little more than a girl. And he was a gruff man, hard to get to know. At heart he had been a warrior rather than a statesman, with a warrior's faults. He had a temper, and it had taken some years before she had learned to avoid it. But there had been great highlights in their lives - the birth of their son Hamlet, state visits to Norway and England, victory celebrations after more than one successful military campaign. And the last few years, as the king had aged, he had mellowed, and the hard edges of his character had rubbed themselves smooth, as the hard edges of his physique had been softened and rounded. She had loved him dearly, for all his faults. And now death had come upon him suddenly, unexpectedly. He had had no time to confess, no time to unburden himself of his sins.

Her mind turned to the circumstances of his death. The king had taken an afternoon nap in the orchard just outside the castle gate. This was a summer time habit that he had developed in the last few years. Gertrude would leave him there alone, taking this time as her own quiet time in her chamber. Late in the afternoon, as the heat of the day dissipated, she was aroused by anxious knocking on her door. She opened the door to see Polonius, her brother-in-law's closest friend. She had never before been visited in her chambers by Polonius, so that the instant she laid eyes on him she sensed that something was wrong. He was a small man with a hang-dog look, and at that moment he appeared even more hang-dog than usual. He looked at the floor at her feet. He shuffled and moved listlessly from one foot to the other.

"May I come in? I have news" he said, "Perhaps you should sit down."

She could feel a knot developing in her throat. She knew the news would be bad. She closed her eyes and made a quick mental prayer that it would not be bad news about her son. He was in the habit of sword fighting with friends for sport and with enemies to settle a score. She moved over to her window and sat down, looking out into the fields beyond the castle. If it was to be bad news she would not give Polonius the satisfaction of seeing the hurt in her eyes, in her soul. She had never liked the man, had always distrusted him. He was sneaky and devious, and she had more than once doubted his loyalty to the king. Why had this man, of all men, been sent as the bearer of bad news? Her husband would never have asked Polonius to be the bearer of bad tidings, as he knew of her dislike of him. By the time Polonius spoke, she had already realised that something had happened to the king.

"King Hamlet has been bitten by a snake in the garden while taking his afternoon nap". There was a long pause. Gertrude neither moved nor spoke. "Your husband, the king, is dead." Polonius did not wait for a response, but turned and hurried from the room. There was almost a sense of relief that nothing had happened to her son, coupled with slow realisation of the import of Polonius' words. Her husband had been still a strong and vigorous man, even though he had grown old. It was difficult to comprehend that he was gone, that he had indeed died. Perhaps Polonius was up to some mischief, maybe it was not true. Gertrude got up and made her way to her door, out along the corridor, down the stairs across the courtyard and out into the garden. Servants stood around in small groups, silent, motionless. They turned away from her as she approached, hiding their eyes from her questions, hiding their hearts from her grief.

"Where is the king?" she demanded.

They gestured toward the chapel. She hurried on. As she went tears filled her eyes and began to run down her cheeks. She stumbled as she ran into the chapel, and could barely make out the form of her husband in the semi-darkness. He lay on his back at the foot of the altar. His eyes were closed as though he was still asleep, but his face had a wry look of pain. The mouth was curled down and partly open, the eyebrows were furrowed. He had the look of a man who had not died at peace, who had died in pain, had suffered and fought off death to the end. Gertrude paused inside the door to steady herself, to catch her breath. "I must remember that I am the queen, I must act like a queen", she thought as she walked slowly toward the front of the chapel, her head held high. She knelt before her dead husband and began a prayer for his soul. She stayed, her head bowed and her hands clasped together, praying. Finally, her composure regained, she raised her head and looked at him. His face, set in pain, reduced her once more to tears. She prayed again, prayed that he should rest in peace, prayed that having died without the last rights, he might be forgiven for his innumerable sins. They were, after all, the sins of a warrior, of a man of action, not those of the cunningly wicked or the mean spirited. Surely God would know the generosity of his heart and forgive him.

She stayed in the chapel until night fell, alternatively praying and sitting quietly as reality took hold. She was alone. No-one ventured into the chapel. Finally a priest entered, lit the candles and left.

She heard the sounds of people arriving outside. Her son Hamlet was back from his hunting expedition in the woods. The chapel door opened, and Hamlet rushed in, ran to the body and threw himself upon it. He was crying. Gertrude left him, weeping and clutching his father, then finally went to him and put her arms around his shoulders. He turned to her, and they cried in each other arms. Hamlet wanted to talk to her about his father, about his death, but she gestured to him for silence. She was not yet ready to talk, even to her son. In fact she was not sure that she would ever be able to talk to him about it. Hamlet was a considerate and devoted son, but he had a tendency towards dominating their conversations, towards putting his own interpretations onto what she might be thinking or feeling, without actually ever listening to what they might be, from her, herself. She did not blame him for this as it was commensurate with the times that men assumed that women were not as capable as themselves of thought or feeling, and in that way her son was a man of his time. So she found it difficult to communicate with him on any meaningful level, but this did not mean that she loved him less. Perhaps she loved him more, tolerating his failings as she had his father's. He had the weaknesses of his father, the man of action, but he was more thoughtful, had more of the rational intelligence and gentler nature that were the mainstays of her character. He had been wild in his youth, but now at thirty he was beginning to settle down, and she had hoped that he would soon marry and begin a family of his own.

They stayed together in the chapel, sitting silent, until finally the candles burned down and went out. Then in the semi-darkness of the moonlight Gertrude arose, and kissing her son gently on the cheek, and her dead husband on the forehead, she made her way out of the chapel and back up to her rooms. Hamlet remained behind, alone in the dark with the body of his father.

That night Gertrude slept fitfully, her head filled with memories of the past and worries for the future. At first light she got up, and calling for her maid, she washed and dressed quickly, then made her way back to the chapel. Everything was as she had left it. Hamlet still sat by his father, his head drooping with sorrow and fatigue. Without speaking she held out both her hands to him. He stood, walked to her, and she lead him away, back to his own rooms. She gently put him to bed and tucked him in as she had done when he was a small child. She brushed the hair from his forehead, and bent over him.

"Sleep now. Rest. Life must go on," she whispered. He closed his eyes, weary and darkly shadowed from grief and exhaustion. When he slept she left and hurried back to the chapel.

The priest was already organising for the body to be taken away for cleansing in preparation for the lying in state and subsequent state funeral. She walked over to him.

"I want to take care of that," she said. "As his wife it is my duty and responsibility, and I will wash and prepare the body. Please arrange for him to be brought to my chambers, and have hot water and cloths sent as well." She could not bear the idea of strangers, of servants, doing such an intimate thing as washing and dressing the body of her beloved husband. "I will return to my rooms shortly. Please see that it is done". She moved away, walking until she was in the orchard where the king had died. She wondered about the snake. It was a strange place for a snake to be - so close to civilisation. There had never been a snake found in the area, and no-one seemed to have been beating around in the tall grass to find this one. In fact there were very few snakes ever found in the whole of Denmark!

She made her way back to her rooms. The king's body was laid out now in its centre, on a wooden table. Large jugs of warm water were lined up to one side. Her maid was there, with a pile of washing cloths on a small table taken from her bedside. Gertrude walked slowly over to the king's body. She picked up a knife and slowly and deliberately began to cut the clothes away from his body. The body was stiff now, and she needed the help of her maid to complete the undressing. Once the king was naked she dipped a cloth into a jug of warm water and gently began to wash and wipe. As she went she remarked on all the little marks, all the scars of battle, all the little things that she had known so intimately and for so long. This was the last time she would ever see them, and she committed them to memory, so that they would be hers forever. These things would be for her, to bring back the memories of love in the years to come. But as she washed there was nowhere to be seen the distinctive marks of a snake's bite. Where were those two puncture marks that she had expected to see? She searched until she was absolutely sure that there were none. The king had not been bitten by a snake.

As she washed his face she noticed the hair around one of his ears was slightly matted. A small amount of dark sticky liquid had oozed out from within his ear. She put her face down close to his ear and smelled the substance. It had a strange herbal aroma, slightly astringent. There were no puncture marks in or around his ear. She searched for them in vain. She got the knife and scraped some of the substance onto it, then set it aside. She would perhaps be able to have it sent to the nearest monastery for identification at some later stage. It would have to be done secretly, later. No-one must know of her suspicions. If she was right about them, then King Hamlet had been murdered. Knowledge of that murder could place her and her son in danger of a similar fate. She resolved to say nothing of what she had discovered. She would need to be alert to ascertain who was responsible before any action could be taken. In the meantime she would need to cover her tracks, the killer must not be alerted to her knowledge. And Hamlet? Well she must not tell him what she had discovered. The man of action would take over and he would do something rash, something he might later regret. There was yet no firm evidence of who might be responsible. She resolved to watch and wait patiently to see who would benefit from the king's death. Let the killer play his hand. He would reveal himself through a bid to assume power. The kingdom had not anticipated the king's untimely death, and it would be comparatively easy in the circumstances to hurry through the election of a new king, before various candidates had time to rally their support. She must be careful. And she must not arouse Hamlet's suspicions.

Carefully she cleaned away the evidence from her husband's ear. She sent her maid to fetch his state regalia, and dressed him carefully in it. Lastly she placed the crown on his head. Then she called for the guard to carry him back to the chapel, where he would lie in state for the next few days. Finally she went to sit at her window, where she sat for many hours, dry eyed and weary, thinking of nothing, thinking of anything except what was troubling her the most. Then she arose and ordered food. She realised that she was hungry, and that she had not eaten since lunch the previous day. When the food arrived she had no sooner begun to eat than Hamlet arrived at her door.

"How can you eat when your husband is lying dead in the chapel, his body hardly yet cold?" Hamlet demanded of her.

"Even though your heart may be dying of grief, your body still must live," she replied.

Hamlet turned on his heel and left without another word. Why did he always put her on the defensive? Surely they should be sharing their grief, surely it would be easier to bear, if they bore it together!

After her meal Gertrude made her way back to the chapel. She would spend much of her time there for the next few days, praying for the soul of her husband. Hamlet came and sat at his fathers feet, day and night, leaving from time to time to walk restlessly about the castle. He did not eat, and drank only water.

The third day after his death the king was to be moved from the chapel to the city cathedral, where he would lie for a further two days while the citizenry filed past him to pay homage and give their last respects. Then he would be buried in a state funeral, as befitted a popular king.

This was the last night that the king would spend in Elsinore Castle. Gertrude knelt, alone with her husband for the last time. Hamlet had at last returned to his chambers. He had finally agreed to eat and sleep, to prepare himself for the public displays of grief and solicitudes which were about to come.

It was very late, and she had not expected to see anyone again that night. But she slowly became aware that she was not alone. Standing in the semi-darkness was her brother-in-law Claudius. She had not seen him since before the death of her husband; had not even paused to wonder about his absence. She had so little time or respect for him that she had simply forgotten about him altogether, had not even noticed he was not there.

Claudius was smaller than his brother, with sharper features. He did not have the same weather-beaten warrior's body, nor the same straightforward warrior's heart. He had lived all his life in the shadow of his older brother, and it had darkened his very soul. He had watched as a young boy how his parents doted on his brother's athletic feats. He had watched as a man how the Danish people had doted on his brother's military success. And envy had withered his heart. With time he had learned to melt into the background of his surroundings so that now he seemed to be a man of the shadows. Claudius stepped forward now out of the darkness into the yellow candlelight. His face took on a waxen look. His eyes were still sunken in the darkness of the shadows.

He moved slowly to the body, acknowledging it. He made a short perfunctory prayer, barely enough even for a semblance of propriety. Then he sat down next to Gertrude. He avoided looking at her face; spoke to her while looking at the body of his dead brother.

"I have come to you to make an offer," he said softly. She raised her head in acknowledgement that she had heard him, turned to look him directly in the eyes. He continued to stare at his dead brother and went on. "Since my brother's death I have had Polonius going about in the city seeing all the people of influence, feeling out my chances to be elected the new king. I know that you had expected Hamlet, your son, to be elected my brother's successor, but at the moment he appears to have lost some of his popularity. That business with the old noble Fortinbras, the quarrel, the duel, Fortinbras death and the subsequent taking of his lands, has not been highly regarded by the nobility. It has made them uneasy. Although my brother was primarily responsible for this, it is generally known that Hamlet supported him. So although Hamlet remains popular with the general population, there is some opposition among the nobility to his being elected king. Polonius has been working this opposition on my behalf. I believe I have a good chance to be elected. But marriage to you would greatly increase my chances. It would give an air of legitimacy to my ambitions. I would more easily be seen to step into my brother's shoes if my brother's wife supports me. So I am now offering you a marriage contract. In exchange for your marriage and support, I will ask nothing more of you. It will be a marriage in name only, provided that you give all outward appearance that it is a real marriage. I will favour my nephew as my successor, and promote him among the nobility so that when I die he will succeed me. I am not a young man, and expect that this will not be too long a wait for your impatient son. Whether or not you agree, I intend to be elected. And once elected, if you oppose me, I could make things very difficult for both you and your son. And I could chose young Fortinbras as my successor. He is a popular young man of a military persuasion, and would have little trouble succeeding me once he had my blessing. He has, of course, little love for your son. You can see, then, the benefits of my proposal." Claudius lapsed into silence. Gertrude looked and looked at him, but made no reply. "I do not expect an immediate answer. Let me know tomorrow." He turned around and moved away back into the shadows from which he had come.

So, she thought, the snake has already crawled out from the long grass. There was no need to beat about to find it. She wondered why she had not seen it already. The timing was too perfect for Claudius to succeed his brother. Now was the first time that her son had lost popularity among the nobility. Now was the perfect time for Claudius to make a move to become the next king ahead of her son. At first she was angry, thought how she could get back at him. Perhaps she in turn could poison Claudius? No. She rejected that alternative. She knew that she did not have it in her heart to be a killer - even of a snake. Should she go to Hamlet and tell him what she knew? The result of that course of action would probably be that Hamlet would kill his uncle. There would be more family blood spilt, and she did not know whether Hamlet really had the fortitude necessary to kill his own flesh and blood. And certainly Claudius could make trouble for Hamlet. She turned from this train of thought to the method Claudius had used to dispose of her husband. Poison was the tool of a sneaky mind, an untrustworthy nature. Should she oppose his proposition, doubtless he could turn to poison again to get rid of any apparent opposition. She and Hamlet would be in endless danger of being poisoned in their turn. Sooner or later something would turn up in their food. They would have to live like ancient Roman emperors, endlessly vigilant, looking over their shoulders as death waited for them at every meal. Or while they slept, as it had come upon King Hamlet. So what, then was the other alternative? Agree to Claudius proposition? Marry her husband's murderer? Oh God! Her mind twisted around and around. Could she think the unthinkable? Could she do the undoable? Could she marry him, even in name? Claudius did not know that she knew, did not realise that he had been discovered. Hamlet did not know that his father had died of anything besides an accident. And King Hamlet, her husband? Well, he knew nothing at all. He was dead. He was beyond caring, beyond everything. What good would it do to endanger the living on his behalf. What good could it do him now - he who was to go to his grave, what help would it be to him to seek revenge on his behalf? Her mind twisted around and around. What was the best thing for Hamlet, her son? He was young, in the prime of his life, only thirty years old. Her husband had been an old man. She did not want Hamlet to suffer, wanted him to live a long and happy life, with children of his own. Finally it came to her. The dead were dead. It served them nothing, for the living to die on their behalf. Revenge could be sweet, but not if it endangered those who sought it.

Pale early morning light began to seep through into the chapel, and she realised that she had turned her mind this way and that throughout the night. Had she reached a decision? Yes. She would choose for the living. She could let her dear husband's death go unrevenged, could remain silent, could give her support to his killer, could even marry his killer, if by so doing her son would be safe and happy in the future. She prayed that her decision was the right one. She prayed that she had in truth chosen well, and had not simply chosen the easiest road to tread.

Her last night of vigil with the dead complete, she got up from her knees and walked out into a new day. The sun shone down on her as she made her way back to her chambers. But it did not make her heart feel lighter at her decision. She wished that rain would pour down from the sky, to match her mood of despair and resignation.

Once in her rooms she called her maid.

"Take a message to my brother-in-law," she told her, "and tell him simply 'The Queen of Denmark agrees.'"

Chapter Two

The following few days were taken up with the formalities of a state funeral. Neighbouring monarchs and their entourages arrived at Elsinore, and Gertrude was kept busy organising appropriate accommodation for everyone. There was a high degree of diplomacy in this task, as each king had to be greeted and accommodated according to his relative importance. The catering demands were enormous and Gertrude many times visited the castle kitchen to be sure that Denmark's guests were not disappointed. It would have been a loss of face for Denmark, should their needs not be met at the highest standard. There was the King of Sweden, the son of the King of Norway, and several German princelings to attend to.

Gertrude hardly saw Hamlet over these few days, as he was kept busy as host to the visiting royal dignitaries. He, it was, who accepted the formal condolences of the visitors and the local nobility. And while he had his hands full, Polonius and Claudius were busy out and about, mustering support for the forthcoming royal election. Rumours abounded that Claudius was promising royal patronage to those who would support him, and had been successful in buying many votes. Gertrude had no doubt of their truth. And she knew Hamlet well enough to know that he would never do such a thing. He would consider such pandering to those below him in station to be beneath his dignity. In the circumstances Gertrude was sure that Claudius would win.

King Hamlet's funeral was a relatively grand affair, with a service at the cathedral, followed by a funeral procession through the town. He was then taken back to the cathedral and buried with further formality within a crypt in the back of the cathedral behind the altar. The funeral party then adjourned to the castle where a great feast was held in the dead king's honour.

Gertrude had no chance to really talk to her son throughout the day. He sat at the head of the table for the funeral feast, while she sat at its foot. She looked at him down the length of the huge banquet table. He was dry eyed and sober, in contrast to those around him. It made her think that maybe he thought too much in times of stress. Perhaps it would do him a lot more good if only he could let go a bit more. Rationalise a bit less, and act out a bit more. She allowed herself a few too many glasses of wine, became a little maudlin, wept for the dead king with his friends and subjects. And it made her feel better. She wished Hamlet would do likewise. But his nature was to bottle thing up and brood over them, and to erupt when he could stand no more. After a polite interval she watched him leave. She, herself stayed to the end of the evening.

The following day the guests departed, and she was kept busy farewelling each party in turn. Late in the day, tired and a little hung over, she went back to her chambers and sent a message to Hamlet to come and visit her. She had put off the moment for as long as she possibly could, but now she must tell him of her agreement to marry his uncle.

He did not come immediately. She sat for hours at her window as the light faded away. Her mind raced as she thought of things to tell him, then discarded them. She knew he had a temper, could lash out when provoked. He was like his father in that way. He had been known to do violent things when in a rage, things which he later regretted. Gertrude had lived many years with King Hamlet, who had had a similar disposition. But Hamlet brooded more, and lashed out less. Mostly he kept an iron grip on his emotions, but when he let go, he could be truly frightening. How, then, could she pour oil on troubled waters, while at the same time informing him of the proposed marriage. And even more difficult, how could she reconcile him to her acceptance of the proposal.

Finally Hamlet appeared out of the gloom in front of her. He had not knocked, had simply walked in. She motioned for him to sit down, and he drew up a chair opposite her. He sat in silence, waiting for her to open the conversation. How could she tell him? How could she say that she was going to marry his uncle when her husband was hardly cold in his grave? The silence stretched out as they sat. Her mind was in a panic. How could she put it? What way would lessen his condemnation? What way would keep him calm? What way would make him accept it? Finally, there was no way, only to simply tell it, as briefly as possible.

"Your uncle, Claudius, wishes to seek election as king. He has proposed marriage to me. He believes that this endorsement from me will aid his chances. He has agreed to promote you to be his heir and successor. He is not a young man, and doubtless his continued heavy drinking will mean that he will not live long. In these circumstances I have decided to accept his..." Her voice trailed away. Hamlet had said not a word, but as she had spoken the colour had drained from his cheeks. He clutched at the arms of the chair until his knuckles went white. She could not tell if he was going to erupt in anger or remain immobilised in stunned silence. For all that she knew him well, she did not know him at all. Never knew how he would respond.

He was angry, horrified, disgusted. He got up slowly and stretched himself to his full height. "Your husband, my father, was only buried today, and you are already talking of marrying again? Surely you are not telling me, to seek my approval! Well, if you are, you are damn well not going to get it."

"I have made the decision to go ahead, whether you approve or not, and I know you find the situation distasteful. But I think that it will be in our best interests for me to marry your uncle..."

"Distasteful? Distasteful?" His voice was rising as he said it. "It is abhorrent! An abomination! Your bed isn't even cold, and you have to find someone else to fill it!"

"Don't speak to me like that", she replied. "It's not about sex, it's about politics. It has been decided, and I hope that with time you will come to accept it. You must believe me, that I loved your father very much. But he is dead now. And we are living. We must do what is best for the living, and forget the dead. Their memory will fade with time."

"Has your memory of my father faded so quickly that you have forgotten him before he could even be buried?" He was yelling now. "I will never accept this marriage!" He got up and began to march angrily out the door.

"I'm sorry, I hope you will see things differently with time" she called out after him as he disappeared down the hall.

She got up and paced the room in the semi-darkness. It had not gone very well at all! There would be a lot of work now to do to mend the bridges between her and her son. She could only hope that time would heal the rift. She resolved to double her efforts to be reconciled to Hamlet. She would talk to Claudius, make sure that he did his utmost to mend the rift with Hamlet. And with any luck Claudius would drink himself to death soon enough. Encouragement in that direction might hurry the inevitable along. She allowed herself the luxury of looking forward to that next state funeral. Then she would truly drink in celebration, for they would have survived.

This is Chapter 1 and 2 of a work which encompasses the entire play, with Hamlet's mother seeking to save him from himself.