XV. Paramour

If I waited, I could have avoided my inner guilt at revealing Gertrude's secret to her son. Not long after my revelation, King Claudius announces that on the same day he will be crowned king, he will marry the queen.

"Let us not be overshadowed by death and grief," he says near the end of his address. "There shall be joy in the land."

Joy indeed. A state funeral, a coronation, and now a wedding… all within the same short timeframe, and now Yuletide approaches and celebrations of Christ's birth will join the other festivities. With an endless stream of merrymaking, it is as though most of us have forgotten that King Hamlet has died.

This announcement has made the court is ecstatic. It erupts into a chorus of heightened whispers, gossip travelling like wildfire in the summertime. When did the King begin to court the queen? So soon after the old king's death? How did they keep this romance secret? What of the prince? How does he view this unusual union?

I know exactly how the prince views his mother's union, and it is not with contentment and happiness. This opposes the court, which fully ignores the bizarreness of the king and queen's to-be marriage, even though in many eyes it could be viewed as nearly incestuous. They prefer to rejoice, as any excuse for revelry will catch their eye. Hamlet, meanwhile, broods, viewing this impending marriage with disdain. He refuses to cast off his sombre attire, as his mother has done, and frequently enlightens me on his oppositions to his mother's wedding. It makes my head hurt.

There comes a time when even I cannot accept such an attitude. I long to see him content again, but he insists on dwelling in the darkness places a human mind can go. This mourning phase threatens to take him over, and I cannot let that come to pass.

It is early in the mid-morning when I demand to be let into his apartments. He is, at first, confused as to why I am here, and initially demands that I leave.

"Sit and listen, my lord," I say severely, invoking a voice of authority I never knew I had. "I have a proposition to make."

"What?" He is still bleary-eyed.

"Let us take our horses and ride – far out from this dreary castle that clearly only breeds melancholy for you."

"Ophelia, what—"

I glare at him, adamant that I will have my way, for our sakes. "I have had enough of your brooding, my lord. I think a change is in order."

He looks at me guiltily. "There is snow outside," he begins in a feeble protest, but I interrupt him.

"And we are Danes," I say. "Snow is our birthright."

It takes some time, but we eventually make it out of the castle. I can almost feel the eyes of the court boring into my back and hear the chorus of gossiping whispers as we depart, but I no longer care. I wish not be distracted by the pettiness of the court today.

We ride down the familiar beaten paths in silence, our breath rising in the cold air. It is not snowing today, and thought the ground is blanketed by a fine layer of white, the sky is clear, ice blue and the sun streams down unguarded by cloud. In certain areas where its rays are the warmest, patches of deadened grass have begun to show through.

When we come across the willow I am so fond of, I quietly reign in my horse. The tree is dormant, having lost its leaves during autumn, and its branches are stiff and stone-like. It is like a statue of a willow, frozen in time. I dismount and lead my mare off the path and down the craggy way to the tree. Hamlet follows, not questioning my strange inspiration.

I draw a deep breath, the cold air stinging my eyes. Despite its frozen state, this is still one of my most beloved places in the world. The brook, usually loud and fast in the spring, is iced over, but in places it is cracked and trickles of water flow through. It is a shadow of its former self.

I reach up to examine one of the sleeping branches of my willow tree. How I hate winter – to have nature frozen in one state discourages me greatly.

"It is so lovely in the spring," I say.

"Do you come here often?"

"Yes," I answer. "Its frozen form saddens me, but like all beautiful things, nature has only put it to sleep. Come spring, its beauty will be renewed." I step toward him and take his hand. "Nothing stays dead forever. Your sadness and anger… It pains me to see you in such a way. Let go – there is happiness that comes from everything, even if it happens to be in disguise." I eye the frozen branches of the willow as I speak.

He laughs, but it is a hollow laugh. "Dear Ophelia, how you try to understand."

My eyes narrow. "What do I not understand?"

"The feeling of betrayal," he says sharply. "My mother to be married so soon after my father's death, and to my uncle no less—"

"My lord," I begin.

"Do not call me that," he interrupts immediately.

I ignore his comment. I will call him what I will, when I will. "Perhaps I should not raise this question, but do you not love your uncle? He is family to you—"

"Ophelia," he says abruptly, "I may have loved my uncle once in my childhood, but in past years I have seen nothing in him but his ambition. Guiltless ambition. He takes what he wants, when he pleases." He pauses, an unsatisfied look on his face. "Perhaps that is why he married my mother – yet another possession to be had."

I frown. I do not like this description, even though it is apt of many marriages of which I know. But to think of the queen of Denmark as a possession to the king – surely the royal family is above such nonsense of the nobles?

No… the world is often a cruel place for women of my kind. It is my luck that I have encountered little of its sting so far.

"Perhaps he does love her," I say. "And love her truly, as I know your mother loves him."

Hamlet's expression darkens. "Love…" He shakes his head. "That man knows nothing of love."

I purse my lips. "You told me once that you believed your uncle to make a better king than you," I say. "Does that still hold true? Even for a man that you claim knows nothing about love?"

He looks at me sharply. "Power and politics are my uncle's interests," he says. "I have no doubt that a good king he will make – but good does not always equal right. I had hoped that I…" He closes his eyes. "No."

"What is it?"

"It is nothing," he says quietly. He opens his eyes, stroking my hair with his fingers. "My uncle knows nothing of love. He has utmost power and position, now. Perhaps my mother was fearful of losing hers... I do not see why she could love him." His hand falls to his side.

"Grief affects us all in strange ways," I say, echoing words that have been said to me many times. "And we find love where we least expect it. Maybe that is the answer."

I frown. Hamlet is forever preoccupied on the reasons behind his mother's decisions. Power, politics, greed, ambition… a refusal to step down from her position as queen. Yet as far as I can see, Gertrude's reasoning is the simplest and purest of all. Hamlet is complicating the situation further than it needs to, and by doing so is causing a rift between himself and his mother. Gertrude is hurt, he is hurt – is there no way to breach this gap?

"Can you not grant your mother one moment of happiness?" I blurt out, my irritation getting the better of me.

"Do you still defend my mother's decision?"

"I merely try to see it from her perspective," I say flatly, "out of respect for her and the friendship we have."

"And what of respect for my father? My mother – she is to be married to my uncle, his brother. Did she love my father not?"

We are standing close together; I can feel his hot, angry breath on my face.

"Greatly, I believe," I say.

"Then why does she behave thus?"

"I do not know! I cannot attempt to explain a woman's heart—"

"Women!" he snaps. "Indeed! If woman cannot explain her heart, what can man do to understand it? Women make little sense! Is woman's love so fickle that she would pass her heart to any man who catches her eye—?"

"Do you mock me, sir?" The words are past my lips before I have even considered them.

"What?"

There is a strange, cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Do you doubt me, sir?"

"I…"

"Or are your words merely talk without thought?"

He passes a hand across his face as he realizes my interpretation of his words.

"Ophelia—"

"No!" I cry. "You say woman's love is fickle, and so I am included in your affront! Who answered every letter you wrote? Who waited, month after month, for you to return? Who remained faithful to an absent lover, even though the summer festivals this year could have provided a potential husband? Is fickle woman's love responsible for actions such as that?" My voice breaks, echoing strangely around us in this empty, open place by the frozen brook. "If your mother has one fraction of the love I feel, then I can say that she could not rightly control her actions. She loves your uncle, Hamlet. He fills the void in her heart left by your father. Can you not let her have that happiness?"

We fall to silence. The air is still around us, with nothing but the sound of our breaths and the trickle of water escaping from its frozen prison behind us. He cannot meet my eyes for what seems to be a very long time.

"Could she not have waited?" he finally says. "Staved off such an affection until my father has at least been entered in his tomb?"

I bite my lower lip, uncertain of how to answer. This is something that the court whispers about fervently behind the new king's back. I believe that Gertrude should have waited, but I do know that love is very impatient.

Heavens, how I know that love is impatient.

"You know as well as I that love cannot always wait," I say quietly. I catch his eye. "I will always remember."

"Yes."

My fingers gently brush his cheek. "Oh, my love… I gave myself to you that night long ago because my heart could not be contained. Impatient, young love. I am yours forever now."

He catches my hand. "One's perception of forever does not always last an eternity."

"What do you mean?"

"I know what you expect of me, Ophelia—"

"Expect?"

"We have never truly discussed it, but yet the expectation is there. I see it in your eyes whenever we are together. The expectation that one day, lovers must marry."

My heart flutters, but the uncertainty in his voice stops it from flying away. I draw back. "What do you mean?"

His eyes flicker across my face with concern. "You want me to marry you. It is not just a want, it is a necessity for you. If I do not, you would be shamed forever."

I can already feel the colour leaving my face. I do not know where he is going with this. "My lord—"

"When you gave yourself to me, perhaps it was out of the passionate impatience of love, but it comes tied with an expectation."

"Hamlet." I seize his hand, bring his focus from his words to me. "I love you. Everything I have done has been because I love you. What more can I do?"

He looks at me, puzzled. "I do not need to ask you for anything."

"Then why this talk of expectations? You frighten me, talking as though you wish our relationship to end—"

"What?" He is truly astounded by this. "I never meant…! I never implied…!" He groans, frustrated with what has been said. "Ophelia, I speak of this now because I know it must weigh on your mind. We have been careful not to let anyone know of the extent of our relationship, but were it discovered…" He stops, pausing and shaking his head. He turns to me, clasping my hands between his, his eyes intently locked on mine. "Ophelia, perhaps one day a wedding will occur at Elsinore that will unite us. But I cannot promise you when that day will come – marriage is not my most loved event as of right now—"

My heart feels as though it has leaped into my throat. "Is that some kind of proposal?"

He smile cautiously. "A promise?" he suggests.

"A promise for a proposal?"

He laughs. "If you so deeply desire to see it as such, yes –"

I nearly knock him off balance as I throw myself at him, clasping my hands around his neck and kissing him fervently. He draws back and strokes my hair with his fingers.

"I had to give you such," he says, "out of respect for your most impatient –" he kisses my cheek – "wonderful—" he kisses my other cheek – "faithful –" he kisses my lips – "love." There are signs of a mischievous smile in his eyes now. "I do not wish you to worry more than you have to."

I embrace him and gaze upward at the dormant branches of the willow tree.

"It seems spring will come again if you know where to look."