Dating Hamlet by Lisa Fiedler Read Free Book Online Page B

but … but that I love thee best, O most best, believe it.’” Hamlet lifts his gaze to me and repeats, “I love thee best. Believe it.”

    â€œPray, let that not be a piece of the made-up madness.”
    â€œI have never been more lucid,” he promises, “more sure, or more sound.” He sweeps me into his arms and holds me. “What would your father say, were he to know that you do see me after he’s forbidden it?”
    â€œHe would be angry,” I say calmly.
    â€œAnd angrier still if he knew … if he knew you plan to wed one who will kill a king.”
    I lean away and study Hamlet closely. “You are worried.”
    â€œAye. It began the moment my father’s ghost did will this task to me. ’Tis the burden of my birth—to set this villainy to right. And though I may loathe the custom of revenge, I loathe foul Claudius more. And yet …”
    â€œYet?”
    â€œIt is a decision that all but grinds the enamel from my teeth.”
    â€œBut there is no decision, sir, for the decision has been made for you.”
    â€œBy a ghost?”
    â€œNay, by history!” I clasp his hand. “By centuries of backward-thinking sons of murdered fathers. Their grim legacy is visited upon your soul, and for that I pity you. It is not right, but it is done, and needs be done again.”
    â€œAye.” He nods, a heavy nod. “I will kill the King. But ’tis most difficult to act swiftly when regret does slow my blood.”
    â€œTalk not to me of difficulty, good sir, until you have lived but one day as a woman.”

    At last, a smile, or part of one at least. “Which brings me to the question of my mother’s response to all of this. She herself has become a question without answer, now a monster in mine eyes, and yet, as well, an angel. Victim of Claudius, to be certain, but also of her own feminine frailty.”
    My mouth turns down at him. “I prefer we talk not on your notion of frailty and women, sir. In fact, I warn thee—go not there.”
    â€œI have never called you frail, love,” he assures me. “Indeed, I can think of no more preposterous falsehood.”
    â€œYou are wise to say so, Hamlet. And now tell me of Fortinbras.”
    He looks surprised. “You know of Fortinbras?”
    I nod.
    â€œI thought you had no appreciation for war.”
    â€œAppreciation, my lord, is other than interest, and what does with thee is ever of utmost concern to me. I know that Fortinbras does march from Norway to avenge his father’s death and to conquer Elsinore, which means he would surely take your life—and, in so doing, mine as well.”
    â€œThat, love, I could not bear. Do not trouble thyself with thoughts of Norway. I am assured by my father’s advisers that ’twill not amount to much.”
    He kisses my forehead, then looks to the clouded sun, and finds the hour growing late. He stands, brushes the dry grass from his tunic and hose, then helps me to my feet.
    â€œYou know what you are to do now?”

    â€œI do, sir,” I answer. “But I would linger here a moment to gather my thoughts and prepare for this role. You will find me in the castle anon. And ready.”
    Hamlet nods, stuffing the parchment into my palm. He places a kiss upon my mouth, then whispers in my ear:

    â€œDays hence, together we shall confess these necessary sins.
Let madness now protect this vengeful Prince. So it begins.”

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    When he is gone, I remain beside the stream for a time, enjoying the crispness of the breeze and the memories that accompany it. The stream glistens; farther down it swells to become a crystalline pool, surprisingly wide, dangerously deep, in which my mother taught me to swim when I was but four in years. We always swam in secret, as the old beliefs often cited the ability to float a characteristic of witches. My lady mother found this laughable; it had