Hamlet was surprised. “I thought it was I who was too quick to take offense, and that my opponents were all unskilled, so that it did me no honor to fight them.”

  The professor only laughed again. “There was even talk of the wealthier students paying for a mercenary to come and teach you manners. But then you put your sword away, and they ceased to fear for their lives. It was widely rumored that you had killed half of Denmark, and that’s why you were sent here.”

  “I’ve never killed a man, sir,” said Hamlet.

  “And never will, God willing,” said the professor.

  Hamlet gave the messenger and his men a day to rest, while he settled all of his accounts; there were few debts to pay, since he had lived simply, having sent home all but one of his servants after the first year. His amusements had not been of the expensive kind, and the books he bought and gave away were paid for in advance.

  It was an uneventful journey, and more than once he wished he could have gone by sea, which could scarcely have been slower, since it would have been a voyage down, not up, the Rhine, and then over sea. But the ship that came for him would not have made such good time with the news of his father’s death; haste in the sending had been chosen over haste in the return. And so he rode, using the evenings and mornings to exercise and bring himself back into fighting trim. By the time they neared the borders of Denmark, he felt like he was nearly back to being himself with the sword, and he had made friends of all the soldiers in his guard. He even wondered, though he said nothing of it, whether some of these men might not be worthy of elevation to the King’s Guard, should he be chosen King.

  Then came word from another messenger, sent to intercept him on the way, that even though Hamlet’s father had not yet been buried—they awaited Hamlet’s arrival to seal the body in its tomb—the earls had met and, without awaiting Hamlet’s return, had chosen the new King.

  Claudius. Uncle Claudius was King now.

  It was the worst possible news. Hamlet had assumed that if the earls chose someone else, it would be an old man, who would function more as regent until Hamlet came fully of age, ready in the eyes of all to assume the throne. But Claudius was not that much older than Hamlet himself, and if he lived his three score and ten, Hamlet would be sixty years old before the throne would be available, and by then Claudius would surely have children of his own.

  The blow was devastating, but not for the reason that others might have supposed. Indeed, it surprised Hamlet himself how very little he cared about the fact that he would not be King. Though he had spent his life preparing for the crown, he realized that in Heidelberg he had gained something that he loved more than the honor or power of rule. If Claudius wore the crown, then perhaps he would allow Hamlet to remain at court to advise him; or perhaps he would send Hamlet abroad as ambassador; or perhaps he would gift him with lands of his own. With any of these Hamlet would be content. But another possibility entered his mind: If he were neither King nor heir, perhaps he could take holy orders and live his life among books and professors. So even though it was wrenching to turn his mind to many possible futures once unthought-of, it did not bring him any unhappiness, not really.

  No, what devastated him was the other news: that even as the funeral preparations were under way, Claudius had asked his brother’s widow, Hamlet’s mother, to marry him.

  It had not crossed his mind that his mother would wish to remarry But now he had to think of who she really was: a young woman, not yet thirty-five years of age, young enough to bear children. Claudius was younger than she was by eight years at least, but what of that? He was King. What woman wouldn’t want to be married to the King?

  But Mother? Hamlet had never thought of her as ambitious. She had endured Father’s slighting treatment of her for all of Hamlet’s life. He always thought that it was for his sake that she lived; it had never occurred to him that she might have loved being Queen so much that she cared little who sat on the throne, as long as she sat beside him.

  Unworthy thoughts—he tried to drive them from his mind. And to the men who were with him, he betrayed no doubt or disappointment. Indeed, he knew they would remark upon it to all, that when he heard of Uncle Claudius’s elevation to the throne, Prince Hamlet’s response was immediately to smile and say, “He’s the best man in Denmark; the earls have chosen well.” None would hear him utter a word of complaint. And if some thought that his cheerfulness was hiding the bitterness of broken hopes, let them.

  There was another part of him, though, something deep inside that had a different reason for concealing his thoughts from all men. It was a recognition that he did not know Claudius all that well—hadn’t he learned from his studies that only God could truly know the hearts of men? What if Claudius thought that Hamlet was, not his beloved nephew, but a bitter rival? Wouldn’t Hamlet then have reason to fear his uncle? And wouldn’t a pretense of loyalty and happiness be his best protection? For if he showed even the slightest trace of sullenness, if he even allowed himself to seem ill . . .

  In the few days of riding after they crossed the borders into Denmark, though, Hamlet learned that feigning cheerfulness was a hard duty to perform. It wore him down. It wore him out. And besides, the men knew him too well: They had seen him quiet, thoughtful, even stern of face as he thought his thoughts. Now to have him full of nothing but smiles would look so false and unconvincing that King Claudius, hearing report of it, would quickly decide that it was insincere, meant to conceal something dark and bitter.

  No, the protective mask Hamlet wore would need to be something closer to his natural disposition: solitary, thoughtful, even brooding. He had been sharp of wit at school, a good comrade, but he had also been earnest and serious, and often quiet, seeking the company of books or his own thoughts. Like when he was a child and lingered in the graveyard, seeking to be alone for hours at a time. His own natural temper would be his best disguise.

  “I can’t pretend,” he said to the men around him. “I’ve tried this whole journey to show my faith in God, not to grieve for my father’s passing. A good Christian must be cheerful in the face of death, having a certainty of a glorious resurrection for himself and all those he loves best. But I can’t lie to God, so why should I lie to you? My faith is too weak. I grieve for my father’s death, and I won’t pretend otherwise.”

  The men listened, nodding, sympathetic. The messenger even dared to commiserate. “May not a good Christian mourn for the loss of company, even if the dead have gone to heaven?”

  “He may,” Hamlet answered solemnly, and took the conversation no farther. For he had no wish to lie to these men any more than he had to. He did not love his father. Hamlet’s only grief was that now he would never have a chance to earn his father’s love and respect. And since it was unlikely he would ever have achieved such an apotheosis, it wasn’t cause for that much grieving. Denmark was better off without Father as King. And better off, no doubt, without his brooding, scholarly son as King after him. God had ordained that Claudius be King; Mother that Claudius be her new husband; Hamlet would be content with all, so long as he could be allowed to return to his books and his philosophy as soon as possible after the funeral and the wedding.

  He would not even begrudge Mother and Uncle Claudius their happiness. There was no blood relation between Claudius and Mother, after all. And didn’t the Bible command that a man take his brother’s widow to wife, to raise up progeny to his brother? Of course, that was only if the dead brother had no sons.

  It was not a matter of legalisms. God had taken Father away from Denmark, away from Mother, away from them all. Whatever dark and brooding spirit had kept Father from showing genuine love to him or Mother, he was gone now, and with him the shadows he had cast in their lives. They were all free, and Hamlet most of all, for instead of having to bear the royal burden Father had borne so badly for all these years, he could live his life as he saw fit.

  Of all Hamlet’s companions, only Horatio sought him out when he returned. This was hardly surprising—while Hamlet was in Heidelberg, Guildenstern had inherited his father’s estates, and Rosencrantz had gone to live with him and help spend his money while waiting for his own father to die. Laertes was in France; he had been sent for, but not with the same urgency as Hamlet, since the dead King had not been his father. The others were sons of lesser barons, whose fathers could not afford to keep them at court once the King stopped paying for their upkeep as Companions.

  But if Horatio was his only friend left in Elsinore, he was enough, at least for now. In some ways Horatio was still a boy, for to Hamlet all the practicing for war and death was a child’s game, now that he had become a man of thoughts and words. In other ways, though, Hamlet was in awe of him, for Horatio had grown to be a strong man, looking older than his nineteen years, with an easy manner and a confidence born of strength—Horatio had nothing to fear.

  It was Horatio who told him that the kingdom was secretly arming for war. In Norway, Fortinbras had recently succeeded to his father’s throne, and anyone who was not a fool knew that he would, at the first opportunity, attempt to avenge his father’s defeat at Denmark’s hands fifteen years ago. There were lost lands that Fortinbras would want to reclaim, and the death of his old enemy, Hamlet’s father, would be taken as an opportunity.

  “So that’s why the barons gave the throne to my uncle so quickly,” said Hamlet.

  “We’re bound to have war this summer,” said Horatio, “though no one speaks of it openly. In case Fortinbras wavers, there’s no reason to provoke him by making known our own preparations for war. Better to keep the peace for another season.

  “But we do prepare.”

  “Well, we do now. Your late father, God rest his soul, insisted that he had nothing to fear from Norway. ‘I beat the father; the son won’t dare attack while I’m alive.’ ” His imitation of Hamlet’s father was nearly perfect—Horatio had the deep voice to bring it off.

  “And now he’s not alive,” said Hamlet.

  “He may have thought that he could easily defeat an untried boy who studied with the clerics in Heidelberg,” said Horatio, winking. “You and I know that you’re as skilled at the arts of war as any man, but Fortinbras had no idea.”

  “A war is not a duel,” said Hamlet. “The barons were right to give the throne to my uncle, at a time like this.”

  “I’ll not quarrel with their choice of a King,” said Horatio. “Nor even with their haste in choosing. But you would have been a fine King, up to the challenge, and you may be yet.”

  “No talk of that,” said Hamlet. “Even between the two of us, my friend. I have no ambition that should make my uncle mistrust me, but any speculation about my future will make him find disloyalty where there is none.”

  “You don’t fear good Uncle Claudius, do you?” asked Horatio.

  “The throne changes a man. I haven’t seen him privately since I came back, and only twice at public ceremonies. He’s busy—I attribute his ignoring me to that. But it might as easily be a dread of what he’ll find in me. I’m the son of his new wife—that makes me the most dangerous man in the kingdom, if I choose to be, because it would be all the harder to strike me down if I undertook some sort of treason. No, Horatio, the best place for me is far from Denmark, and in circumstances where I’m not seen as a threat. I think there’s a monastery in my future.” And then he added, for no particular reason, “Perhaps in Rome.”

  “I don’t see you becoming a priest,” said Horatio.

  “Not a good one,” said Hamlet. “Taking orders and being a good father confessor are two different matters. A son of a King can hardly be a parish priest. But there might be a bishopric for me somewhere.”

  “And someday a red cap,” said Horatio. “And someday pope!”

  “There’s no place for ambition in the Church,” said Hamlet.

  “Oh ho,” said Horatio, “so you are still a child.”

  “I have no ambition, anyway,” said Hamlet. “I love my books as I once loved the sword.”

  “Have you slain any opponents in bookish duels?”

  “I’ve slain no one with the sword, either, so both scores are even, at zero.”

  “When scholars duel, do they pitch the books like stones? Or bring them down on their opponent’s head like a battleaxe?”

  “Neither,” said Hamlet, laughing. “We drive them into the other man’s ear like a dagger, piercing his brain, which must find an argument to thrust it out again, before he bleeds to death.”

  “So books draw blood?”

  “Scholars don’t have blood flowing in their veins,” said Hamlet. “When they’re wounded, they bleed logic, and when all of it is gone, their brains die, and they become . . . soldiers.”

  Horatio pantomimed being pierced by an arrow through the heart. “Look! I’m pierced through, but I have no logic to bleed with!”

  The joke had gone far enough, though, and Hamlet spoke earnestly: “You’ve always been my wisest friend.”

  “A deadly insult to Laertes, then. He was always proud of being the smartest one.”

  “No one is prouder of his wisdom than a fool,” said Hamlet, holding up one finger in a parody of Polonius reciting a maxim.

  “Are you quoting someone? Is that a translation from Latin?”

  “I was imitating Laertes’s father,” said Hamlet.

  “I’m glad you told me,” said Horatio. “Because otherwise I wouldn’t have known it.”

  “Speaking of Laertes . . .”

  “Ophelia is still unmarried. Waiting for you, they say.”

  “Waiting for me to what?”

  “To pay attention to her. To court her. Hamlet, don’t tell me you didn’t know how Polonius always hoped she’d marry you when you came of age.”

  “That was back when I had a crown in my future,” said Hamlet.

  “That might change the father’s mind, but the daughter looks with different eyes.”

  Hamlet shook his head. “Having a wife is often taken by the Church as a discouragement to ordination.”

  “Do you really mean to live a life of celibacy?”

  “I have all the ordinary lusts of the flesh,” said Hamlet. “But to me, a woman is much like a pudding: when you’re hungry, of all things the most beautiful; but when you’ve had your fill, the dregs are disgusting to look at, and you can’t wait for someone to take the dish away.”

  “You’re describing a whore, when a man’s had too much to drink. Not a lady like Ophelia.”

  “You might be right,” said Hamlet. “I haven’t seen her since I came home.”

  “Hardly seen your uncle, little conversation with your mother, haven’t seen Ophelia—they all live here, you know. Do you walk around blindfolded?”

  “I haven’t sought company,” said Hamlet.

  “Except the company of books.”

  “I’m glad you sought me out,” said Hamlet. “I didn’t know how much I missed you till we talked again.”

  “And that’s how it’ll be with Ophelia, I promise you. Whatever love you had for her four years ago will be rekindled when you see her—I promise you, a single look will fan every spark of love into a fire.”

  “Then why haven’t you courted her, if the sight of her fans every spark?” asked Hamlet.

  Horatio laughed. “Why do you think I’m still in service here, Hamlet? My father’s lands won’t support my father’s family, let alone a son like me at court. I have nothing to offer a lady like Ophelia. I’m the poorest of your Companions.”

  “The poorest? The best.”

  “Laertes is and always was the best,” said Horatio. “And in case you’ve forgotten, the best-loved by you.”

  “Was he?” said Hamlet. “I don’t remember.”

  “It seems to me that memory must have leaked out of your brain to make room for all that logic.”

  “I never had a favorite,” said Hamlet.

  “You never showed favor to one over another,” said Horatio. “That was the good prince in you. But Laertes could challenge you like no other, and you bore it without anger.”

  “But I would have borne it from any of you,” said Hamlet. “If Laertes was the only one who dared, then that’s about him, not me.”

  “Laertes was the angriest,” said Horatio. “I suppose that’s all.”

  “Angriest?” said Hamlet. “What do you mean? At me?”

  Horatio blushed. “I meant nothing. He was choleric, that’s all. Quick to anger.”

  But Hamlet knew it was not what Horatio meant. There was some grievance, and Horatio meant not to speak of it.

  Well, Hamlet wouldn’t force the issue. Those days with his Companions were done with now.

  They soon made their way out to the practice grounds and Hamlet drew his sword for the first time in years, not because he cared whether he was still good at the art of swordplay, but for old times’ sake.

  “You have to try,” said Horatio. “It’s no fun to best you when you aren’t even trying.”

  “I am trying,” said Hamlet. “You’re a soldier now, and I’m a scholar.”

  “Yes, which has nothing to do with how you fight, only with how much or little you care about fighting.”

  “I’m not angry with you,” said Hamlet. “Nor do I mind being defeated by you. I’m duelling for company.”

  Horatio laughed. “You’ve become a lunatic! Imagine—a man so lonely that the only way he can have any companionship is to challenge someone to a duel!”

  Hamlet laughed with him. “That would be a miserable life! You’d make a friend and have him only long enough to kill him.”

  But in the next bout, Hamlet began to concentrate on what he was doing, instead of playing around. Only now, when he was actually trying to fight well, remembering some of his old moves, did he begin to see how much better Horatio was than he used to be. Tricks that would have disarmed Horatio back in the old days were now parried skillfully, and Horatio soon pressed on him in a way that Hamlet had never seen from him.

  “Now we’re playing well together,” said Horatio. “Like musicians in tune.”

  “You’ve learned a few things,” said Hamlet.