Gertrude: An Origin Story

To marry a king, a girl would be thrilled, or she should be. Security, wealth, admiration of millions of citizens, a girl would have to be touched in the head not to jump at the chance. There are so few joys of maidenhood, we must cling to what passes us by. Raise our brows, bat our lashes, and let fate and sexual bureaucracy sweep us off our one-size-too-small heels. Church bells ringing, strutting down the pews, a million eyes watching my pinned and buckled up attire, which could shatter like a porcelain doll with one quick breath, one misplaced step . 

My mother used to tell me every night as she combed my hair. In leu of more fantastical bedtime stories, ones she knew I much preferred, she filled my head to the brim with love letters and dashing young princes until I cried rose petals. From a young age, I knew that my body, my devout soul, was betrothed to a boy I’d never met, living in a city I’d never been, studying and exploring places and people I’d only ever dreamt of. To marry a king was my lot in life, my sole objective, and now that it was here, I was at a loss, frozen.

Now this man, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, heir to his father’s kingdom, knelt before me like a vulnerable rabbit, done up in his evening best, Elsinore’s garden soil staining the knee of his satin trousers. He had rehearsed this, no doubt, the evening written on every calendar in the royal castle. No matter where he would turn, he’d be sure to know that tonight, the winter ball, was the backdrop, the grand lead-up to this one moment. We’d both known it was coming, this charade was more for our parents overlooking the balcony above us than our own interests. Sure, we had corresponded through letters from time to time, like a business arrangement that we both kept trying to postpone. This moment was to present the illusion of choice, of freedom; as if waving it in front of our noses, pretending my word was not preordained. I chanced a look up to the audience, as if there was a possibility in my mother’s eyes that I could’ve declined his proposal, that I could’ve said no to someone for the fun of it. She didn’t return a gaze at all, as if acknowledging my plea would be breaking the fourth wall. 

They wanted this to be public knowledge. A grand event, it would be. The daughter of Denmark’s most promising Captain of the First Regiment to become Queen beside the young King Hamlet. Hence, even though the garden was, I’ll admit, a romantic setting, we were placed nowhere other than beside the grand ballroom windows. This wasn’t for me or him, but the spectacle in which we made for the onlookers. The party inside, still exuberant, was hushed as guests pretended not to watch. 

The stage was set, the spotlight trained on me, as he awaited my answer. I wanted to hesitate, to stumble. Not that it was truly his fault. He’d done everything perfectly, remembered his lines, his choreography was clean, execution on par. But in our brief encounters, what I had gathered from him was nothing of interest to me. He was pious, first and foremost; the word of the church was the true governing body in his mind. He was all high brow, chest out, a popinjay of a prince. Any attempts I had made at humor were immediately dispelled, for how could anyone, let alone a woman, make joy out of our current world? “One should not think too lightly of the economic state,” he’d correct me. “The sin of one is the burden of all.” Where was the amusement in him? Where’s the laughter? Sure, he would make a noble leader, but an emotionless husband. 

Maybe I wasn’t giving him enough credit. He may not have wanted this at all, may have tried to put up a front for the father that’s always peaking over his shoulder. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing I was: “If I can’t have a say in what I do, then I’ll at least do it my own way.” Maybe once the fanfare was over, once the crowd dispersed and we were finally alone, there would be a glimmer of a human heartbeat in that chest of his. After all, what else did I have to hope for? 

Finally, I recited my line, “It would be my greatest honor, your majesty.” 

He flashed a calculated, critical smile. In his eyes, he was searching, but found I did not falter. I may have been reluctant, but I’d mastered the art of concealment - a woman’s most powerful weapon. He stood, gently kissed the back of my hand, and declared, “Then it is settled. Let us return to my father the good news.” We both were aware of the irony in this statement, but the show had not yet ended. 

The smile faded quickly back to business. Turning on his heel, he stalked back inside quickly, and I followed closely behind. 

~

“Oh dear, congratulations!” my mother addressed me as soon as I crossed the threshold to the ballroom. Prince Hamlet had moved ten paces ahead of me, already having met his father. I tried not to pout so ostensibly. “You did well,” she beamed, squeezing me around my shoulders. 

“Thank you,” I muttered, more so in response to the praise than the congratulations. Unless she was ever in very high spirits, her tone was usually curt, detached, and displeased. She pressed my hand between her own and walked me toward my new fiance and the King. 

“Straighten up, child,” she scolded, “When you meet the King, you will smile brightly, understand? But not with your teeth, smile politely. ” Buzzing in my ear like a fly, she fussed with my hair until we’re in front of the royal family. 

“What spectacular news for such an evening, Madam Freja,” the King addressed my mother, “The Lord himself could not have chosen a better pair.” He held a cup in one hand and his son’s shoulder in the other. A long, dark beard and rotund red and gold tunic and overcoat sliced through the space like the sword on his belt. It was a challenge not to stare.

“I couldn’t agree more, your highness,” she bowed, with a firm hand on the small of my back pressing me down with her. “And what better a crowd to announce to than this court.” She grandly gestured to the guests sprawled out among the room. As if any of them are clueless, I added to myself. 

“Oh indeed,” he followed her hand, taking another sip of wine. “In due time, of course. Let them mingle with curiosity. Besides, the engagement is as young as the night. Let the new couple get familiar with each other before the news becomes public.” 

“Of course, your lordship.” She let go of my side and crossed to his, inquiring of this and that gossip. If the face of Denmark’s Queen had not belonged to the woman chatting with her other son, Claudius, my mother would have been mistaken for that title next to this man. She placed herself close to his hip, her head just inches from his shoulder, and the King did not bristle. He accepted her into his space, as if she were of his blood. I would come to learn later that my mother unceremoniously shared a bed with the King many years prior, perhaps even later that night, in secret. She lured him in with tantalizing curves and promises of fulfillment, keeping him close for the moment to strike. Tonight, this engagement, this betrothal to her daughter, was her checkmate. But in amongst the shark tank, I was blind, holding onto the idea that perhaps this was chance, fate. 

I was not the only one to find their close configuration odd, as I met eyes with the Prince for once during this exchange. However, despite their obvious infidelity, he didn’t choose to notice. 

“Madam Freja,” Hamlet inquired, “I wish you to know that your daughter will be in good hands in my company. I prepare no ill-will or ungodly mistreatment for Gertrude, rest assured.” I could not help but smile, naive enough to think this was coming from a genuine heart.

It did not truly matter to Mother, but she nodded and thanked him, “She is the pride of my heart. I am grateful to know your marriage bed will be no place for tainted love.” Although she was speaking to him, she stared icily at me, as if translating some further, hidden instruction which I could not fully read. “I trust you, your majesty. Now, let the union of our families be a prosperous one!” The King raised his glass and sipped. A servant offers Hamlet one too, so he raised and took a long, slow swig from the glass. 

Myself as well, I thought, his eyes loomed to the floor, grey and distant, I hope you truly mean what you have said. With what little I had to offer, I stepped forward and joined his side, mirroring as my mother had done. He froze, but did not move away. Perhaps I had grown on him, or from him, like Adam’s rib. Maybe this union will be easier on us both than we imagine. 

~ Twenty Years Later ~

To marry a king, how quaint to imagine my hesitation then. My young, selfish fears. How naive. The prospect of being a widowed mother and Queen is not nearly as pleasant. More so for what it means moving forward. With my son still too young and inexperienced to take the throne, the council voted my husband’s brother, Claudius, for it instead. My second marriage, much to the dismay of my son, is tomorrow.

I have always liked him. When the late king became irate with me, as so often happened when other areas of his life were in ruin, he was never hesitant to let his hands become his talking points. Some bruises still have not healed, not to mention how violently and unflatteringly he deflowered me on our wedding night, and every night since. Sometimes, I see that same grey look in my son’s eyes, harsh and unfeeling. I pray that his heart has not turned so cold. Now that he’s home, I’ve smothered him with love, hoping to warm him up, to save him from his father’s shadow. 

On the bad days, Claudius would keep close to my side, talking my ear off until I smiled. It’s his habit, our arrangement. Even now, the prospect of our wedding growing closer, his unwavering tone of pure friendship is a hopeful constant, a beautiful evergreen amidst the bleak winter. 

“You know, I saw a man the other day, begging for change on the side of the road,” Claudius starts as we walk through the garden, “He was blind as a bat, you see. He heard me coming and asked if I had anything to spare. Now, he may have been the purest soul in the world, but that doesn’t mean I’ll toss any old bloke a coin. So I asked him where he’s from and the lot.” He puts on a rugged, scruffy voice and juts out his lip, “‘Oh I was ‘n the war when tha’ bastard of a king sent me an’ my section to the frontlines. Lost my eyes there, yes sir, and that bloated ass had the gall to discharge me on accoun’ a his shitty plannin’.’” 

I suppress a giggle, “Did you tell him not to speak so ill of your brother?” While we amble around the overgrown path, I have one hand on my locket, and the other around my side. 

“Oh no,” he continues, “I told the man I was thankful for his service. He then proceeded to ask again if I’d give him any change, and he goes ‘You could give me the button on your coat, how am I to know? I’m just lookin’ for a clank in the bowl.’”

I smile at the purity. 

“So, I gave him twenty krones and said, ‘Go make some sweet music then, son’” 

“Did you assure him it wasn’t all buttons and pebbles?” I ask. 

“Oh that’ll be a surprise for another day.” He nudges my arm, the one holding onto my locket, and watches as I grin with my teeth. My mother would be beside herself if she were still alive. A fly buzzes in my ear and I swat it off. 

We go around the loop countless more times, just whiling away the few free hours we have. He talks of his travels and inane council members and noblemen “with their heads so far up their asses, they can see out their mouths!” He makes me laugh until I tear up, until I forget the past. Even though the sun droops and taints the sky purple, time is irrelevant here. Tomorrow is a foreign land, a fairytale set aside. To marry a king, no... to marry a friend, that’s a true fairytale. 

~

When he was a young boy, I had hoped my son, Hamlet, would hold onto his free spirit. Sometimes, when his father was gone on trips for this or that, I’d play with him out in the yard until our clothes were soaked with mud and deep grass stains. In the summer, I’d take him down to the brook, dip my bare toes in the water and watch him splash along with the fish. 

Or, his absolute favorite game was hide-and-seek. He would hide somewhere in the castle, and I’d have to go find him. I loved hearing his pure laugh as I wandered through the halls, pretending to be a giant looking for a snack. My ladies-in-waiting would chuckle when they saw me stalking around, saying, “Fe, Fi, Fo, Fum!” to the small shoes peeking out from under the curtains. 

When my son was a teenager, he’d spent much of his time with his father. Each afternoon he’d come back slightly more grown up, a darker glint in his eyes than before. As he got older, his spirit was stunted. Now, with his father’s death, I can’t imagine how lost he feels. My heart aches to bring him back to the brook again, to lighten that smile again. 

“Look here, upon this picture, and on this;” he exclaims, yanking my locket up where he stands over my bed. “The counterfeit presentment of two brothers. See, what a grace was seated on this brow;” he grips my chin and forces my nose to the left picture in the locket, a gracefully dark and faded portrait of his father, stoic as always. “...where every god did seem to set his seal, to give the world assurance of a man: this was your husband.” Tears stream down my face, but apart from the dampness on my cheeks, I make no sign of fear or distress. It never did me any good. I sweep in and out of listening, my ears ringing. The man he speaks so highly of has hit me plenty harder than this. 

What a man he was. His anger spoke volumes alone, like it was part of his wardrobe. I scarcely remember a day when he smiled, genuinely smiled. Perhaps it happened, it must’ve, outside of my company. However when I entered the room, conversation would hush, any potential happiness he had mustered would fade into a fog. I wonder if he ever knew the cuckold my mother made of his father. Perhaps his anger was out of fear. He always seemed to make comments on women as if they were the devil’s spawn, “How dare you, woman, to question a lord so forthwith!” I find my son’s eyes in the veil of the dim chamber, where they pierce and spew spite and pure hatred.

He continues to yell from the void, “Nay, but to live in the rank sweat of an enseamed bed. Stewed in corruption, honeying and making love over the nasty sty…” 

Oh, how he takes after his father with his piety and self-righteousness. I would wager a guess as to where he grew such a big head. I can’t imagine that university of his has done much to quell his ego. His eyes are ebony, apathetic, enraged, like hot coals. If I weren’t paralyzed with fear, stripped to the bone of strength, I’d smack that arrogant smirk off his face; fight and chisel away at his armor until his father is reduced to crumbs. He rants and raves, his voice echoing so loud it breaks my eardrum. 

When I found out I was pregnant, I hoped it would be a boy. My relationship with my mother was subpar, and all the other men in my life had either been given up to the grave or worse. I had so much hope that perhaps this boy, this beautiful child of mine, would be different. I could’ve made him different. When he was born, I held unto him so tightly, hoping proximity would imbue my love into his soft head. 

Suddenly, there’s a pull on my hair, and I’m thrown back against the bed. 

“A murderer and a villian! A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, that from a shelf that precious diadem stole, and put in his pocket!” that child screams. 

I find my voice somewhere in the bottom of my soul, “No more! Please!” But alas, my heart was not enough to give him. It truly never had been. How foolish of me to hope that he would be a kinder breed. This world was built on spite and corruption. No amount of my soul could sway the Lord to change that. The rabbit hole will always be too inviting, too tantalizing for some mother to compare. What a fool.

“A king of shreds and patches--” He stops, silence enveloping the room. I follow his alert gaze to the long mirror on the wall. At first the sight is too overwhelming to behold. The late king, my former husband. He dawns his evening wear; tired and ragged looking. My son begins to speak to him, “Oh angels in heaven, protect me with your wings!” But the late king is not looking at him. He stares right into my soul. 

There’s a moment when the sun and moon stop moving across the sky. The candles flicker to a halt, motionless. Breath is swept from my lungs. I watch this man, the boy in the garden, the prince at his father’s heels, the groom at the altar. The husband, the monster, the king, the ghost. Although he speaks no words, I feel his notion. Remorse. Guilt is heavy in the air, and for once it is not mine. After seeing what his son learned from him, his shame is coming through. Purgatory can do that to a soul as unweeded as his. For a moment, he is but a man, looking for forgiveness. 

Every part of me wants to scream, refuse his begging. How dare it take him til death to realize the monster he’d become. And for him to think he can ask me to forgive him. 

As if sensing my hesitation, he speaks to our son instead, “But look, amazement on thy mother sits. O, step between her and her fighting soul. Conceit in weakest bodies strongest works. Speak to her, Hamlet.” 

I am stunned. 

“Mother… are you all right?” 

My son. At least one of us could spark your patience. Before I reply, I look to the specter in the mirror. He’s resigned to my reluctance, and bows his head. 

“Son, I will be okay.” I will be okay.