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a_t_rainWherein I get tired of wrestling with a story that has grown far more serious and more complicated than it has any actual right to be, and post it anyway. The rest of the saga is here.
Act Two: Helena de Narbonne
“Have you no idea why your brother went to France?” Hamlet demanded for the two- or three-hundredth time. It had been nearly a month since Laertes vanished.
Ophelia shook her head. “I have told you. No.”
“Might Fortinbras have said something to offend him?”
“He did not say so.”
Severus coughed. “Do we have any reason to think he is in France?”
Ophelia fidgeted, feeling deeply unhappy. Severus’s theory was that Laertes had gone to Norway with Fortinbras, and was most likely helping him plan an invasion of Denmark even now. The king refused to believe a word of it, but some of the courtiers looked as if they thought there was something in it, and with each passing day, Ophelia thought more of them were starting to incline toward Severus. She wanted to be angry at him, but he was her friend, and the only other wizard she knew – and she could not help being a little angry at Laertes, too.
“As it happens,” said Hamlet, taking a letter from his pocket “I have an excellent reason to think he is not in France. This arrived from Horatio this morning.”
My dear lord,
I have arrived in Paris and, at your instruction, sought out Laertes’ closest friends at the university. They report that he was with them one night only; he left for Roussillon on the morrow and, immediately afterward, sent them word that he was going to Florence, where the king hath lately sent many young men to the wars. They had the impression that he was following some one of his acquaintance, but they know not who. This is all that I can learn in Paris, so rather than waiting for further instructions, I have taken the liberty of guessing at your wishes. By the time you read this, I will be on the road to Florence, where I hope to hear more. I remain,
Your servant and affectionate friend,
Horatio
“So he has run off to join a foreign army!” said Severus triumphantly. “When are you going to see what’s right in front of you?”
“My brother is no traitor,” Ophelia protested, bitterly conscious that the last time she had said this, she had been proven wrong.
“Enough, Severus!” snapped the king. “Florence is not in Norway, unless it has moved since the last time I looked at the atlas! Besides, I have it on reliable intelligence that King Fortinbras is, at this moment, preparing to march into Russia.”
There was a brief, bewildered silence. “Russia?” asked Marcellus at last. “At this time of year? Surely, that is sheer folly.”
“I said as much to him before he left,” said Hamlet.
“He – er, confided his plans to you, your majesty?”
The king looked at the ceiling and whistled. “Why, no, Marcellus; I rather think he had never thought of invading Russia until I cautioned him against it. Well, so much for him.”
There was another silence, as nobody ventured to observe that this was a stratagem worthy of Claudius. Ophelia stifled a mad urge to giggle.
The king turned to her and asked in a gentler tone, “Did your brother say nothing else to you on the night he left? Anything that might shed some light on what he is doing in Florence?”
“We spoke of a private matter,” she said, only too aware that she was blushing. “Nothing of importance, my lord.”
Hamlet looked around at the Danish lords. “Give me some space to speak with her alone.”
Everyone filed out of the room, leaving Ophelia more wretched than before.
“Tell me,” Hamlet said quietly.
“He asked why you had sent for me, and I told him of the potion I had brewed for you. I am sorry, but he insisted on an answer.”
Hamlet searched her face. She had forgotten how penetrating his gaze could be. “That is not all. What else did he say, and how looked he when he said it?”
“He seemed to think that you sought my ... my love, and I told him I was very sure you did not, and then he frowned and looked angry. And I said that you had behaved very properly to me, and there was no reason for him to be angry with you. That is all.” Ophelia looked at the floor, wishing it would swallow her up.
Hamlet took her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Ophelia, I –”
There was a sudden, loud knocking at the door. “Hell,” said Hamlet, taking a step back. “What is it?”
The voice that answered was Osric’s. “Your esteemed and bounteous majesty must forgive your majesty’s humble servant for this intrusion, but a certain person whose whereabouts have been of some interest to your majesty seeketh an audience with your majesty at your majesty’s earliest convenience!”
Another voice cut in, and Ophelia felt faint with relief when she recognized it as her brother’s. “Enough pleasantries, Osric! Let me speak with the king.”
Laertes wrenched the door open, and half fell at the king’s feet. “Forgive me my absence, my lord. I will explain.” He motioned to a woman standing just outside the door. “This is Helena de Narbonne.”
Helena curtsied. “At your service, your majesty.” She spoke with a French accent.
Ophelia’s first impression of Helena was that she was an unattractive woman, although she began to change her mind as she took stock of the stranger’s features. It was true that her mouth was too large for beauty and her chin too determined, but she had dark, glossy curls and a good complexion; she was not so very plain, either. She was merely very unhappy, and it was misery that made her face repellent. She was dressed soberly but not poorly, and wore a small necklace with the scallop shell of St. James.
“Sister, go and prepare a chamber for Helena. She has had a long journey.”
Ophelia nodded and offered to take one of the boxes that Helena carried, but Helena shook her head and said that she could manage.
“‘Twere best for you to have my father’s room. It has not been used since he died.”
“I am sorry,” said Helena. “Has it been long?”
“Not quite four months, madam.”
“My own father is also lately dead. Some six months, or a little more. His name was Gerard de Narbonne; perhaps you have heard of him here in Denmark?”
“Why, he wrote one of my grandfather’s books!” Ophelia tried vainly to remember what the book had been about; she hoped Helena would not ask her.
Helena, however, did not seem inclined to ask any questions at all. She followed Ophelia up the stairs, looking a little dazed, and agreed gratefully when Ophelia offered to leave her alone to rest before dinner.
By the time Ophelia returned to the great hall, news of the new arrival had spread through Elsinore.
The queen pulled Ophelia aside. “Are you sure, my dear, that Helena is a fit person for you to know?”
“She is not my brother’s mistress, if that’s what you mean,” said Ophelia. “I am sure of that. He would hardly bring her here if she were!”
“That is true,” said Gertrude. “And she has the manners of a gentlewoman. But who is she, and why has he brought her?”
“I know no more than you do, madam. She would say little of herself, only that her father’s name was Gerard de Narbonne, and he died not long ago. She seemed too oppressed with grief to speak much.”
“Poor girl!” said Gertrude, instantly touched. “I cannot think any harm of her.”
* * *
At dinner, Laertes explained the guest’s presence to Hamlet. “Helena is a physician, my lord.”
“What!” said Osric. “A woman physician? Ha, ha! A very good jest, sir!”
Unable to resist the temptation to score a point off of Osric, Severus spoke before he thought. “Women are often physicians in my country.”
“In England?” Marcellus asked. in surprise. “I have been there, and met King Henry; he struck me as the last man to allow such a thing.”
Severus resolved to hold his tongue in the future. He had not explained to anyone in Denmark that his real country was the twentieth century, as this seemed altogether too fantastic to be believed.
“She is the daughter of the late Gerard de Narbonne,” Laertes continued, “a doctor of great fame in France, and he bequeathed to her his book of receipts and the greater part of his knowledge. She is the one who cured the King of France of his illness, as your majesty may have heard. I have asked her if she would examine the injury I gave you at the fencing-match. She demurred at first, but at last she consented. I hope you will consent as well.”
There was a slight murmur among the courtiers. Severus gathered that it was not normal for a mere physician to have to be persuaded to treat a king.
“I do consent,” said Hamlet. “Thank you, Laertes.”
“Are you off your head?” Severus demanded, forgetting courtly protocol. Ophelia kicked him, hard, under the table. “Er – your majesty.” He refrained from voicing his suspicions of Laertes, as that would just earn him another kick from Ophelia, but he looked pointedly at the king.
“If she thinks she can do aught for me, I will undertake no treatment, except in your presence,” said Hamlet, with an equally pointed look. “Will this content you, Severus?”
“I suppose it must,” muttered Severus.
* * *
The king of Denmark was a young man about Laertes’ age, dark-haired and sharp-featured. He looked Helena over with keen, alert eyes, but she had stood in the presence of kings before, and she was not intimidated. Her father had always said there were two kinds of royalty in the world, those who were born to rule nations and those born to a greater power altogether. The de Narbonnes were of the second kind.
“I have heard of your majesty’s injury. Will you tell me how it happened?”
King Hamlet hesitated a moment before he spoke. “A fencing accident. My opponent wounded me in the arm; it would have been little more than a trifle, except that by an unlucky chance, the foil had been – er, contaminated – with the juice of an herb called Danesbane.”
“That sounds like a very unusual accident, my lord.”
“It was.”
“You need not shield Laertes. He has told me all.”
King Hamlet stiffened visibly, and she perceived that he was a man who disliked being played with. “If he has already told you all, what need have you to ask me?” he asked, with rather less courtesy than before.
“My father taught me it was always best to hear the story from the patient himself, sir. They often remember things that others do not.”
Hamlet relaxed a little, evidently satisfied with this answer, and Helena proceeded.
“Roll back your sleeve, my lord.” She saw that he had a faint scar just above the elbow, like the one Laertes had shown her, but Hamlet’s was redder and a little swollen. “This is not healed well.”
“No.”
Helena prodded the king’s arm, starting a little above the wound. “Does this hurt?”
“No. Not much. Yes. Ow!”
“What is the pain like, my lord?”
“‘Tis like being burned and stabbed at once. Must you do it again?”
“No. I am nearly finished.” Helena was almost sure she knew what was the matter, but she had a few more questions. “Are you quite well otherwise, my lord?”
“Why – yes. I suppose so.”
“Are you sure? Have you been very tired in the evenings, by any chance, with perhaps a touch of fever that is gone by morning?”
The king drew in his breath sharply. “You are a witch,” he said.
Involuntarily, Helena started.
“I meant only,” said Hamlet blandly, “that you have hit it precisely, and guessed something that did not trouble me enough to mention.”
But he was watching her even more closely than before, and Helena guessed that he had inferred more than he was choosing to say. Inwardly, she cursed herself for ignoring another of her father’s precepts: Muggles were not necessarily stupid, and one underestimated their ability to reason at one’s own peril.
“One last question, your majesty. Do you know what became of the rapier after you were wounded with it?”
“I stabbed Laertes with it. Well. I suppose he’s told you that, too.”
“I meant, after that.”
Hamlet shook his head. “I know not. Osric might be able to tell you, if you can translate what he says out of courtier into human speech.”
“It does not matter. I have seen enough to know what troubles you, my lord: the point of the rapier has broken off and lodged itself in your flesh, and a little of the poison is still seeping into your blood.”
Hamlet nodded and began buttoning his doublet. He did not seem surprised by this diagnosis. “Well,” he said with an air of excessive carelessness, “forecast the health of Denmark. How long is the kingdom like to be troubled with a pernicious ruler?”
“No more than fifty or sixty years, I should say.” It was difficult to predict, especially with Muggles; but he was a very healthy young man apart from his injury, and Helena had noted at dinner that he was not prone to gluttony or drunkenness.
The king looked up abruptly. This time he was surprised. Helena could not tell from his expression whether he was relieved or otherwise.
“Is there any remedy for the pain?” he asked. Helena guessed, from the urgency of the question, that he was in more discomfort than he was willing to acknowledge.
“Yes, my lord, I think so. I must cut the sword-point out of your flesh. That is, if I have your permission.”
“You do,” said Hamlet promptly. Then, abruptly, he seemed to remember something. “But it cannot be now. I have made a promise.”
* * *
In another room of the palace, Severus and Ophelia were having a fierce argument about the French physician.
“I don’t trust her, that’s all.”
“Queen Gertrude said she could not see any harm in her.”
Severus snorted. “Queen Gertrude is the stupidest woman I’ve ever met.”
“She’s not stupid,” Ophelia protested, “only very kind, and she does not like to think ill of people.”
“In my country, we call that being stupid.”
“If you cannot see the difference, I do not know why I bother to talk with you!”
“The difference ‘twixt what and what?”
Severus and Ophelia turned to see who had interrupted. Hamlet stood in the doorway, looking mildly amused.
“Nothing, my lord,” said Ophelia hastily.
“We were discussing the so-called difference between stupidity and kindness,” said Severus.
“Ah. Was this an abstract dispute, such as we used to have at the university, or was it in reference to any particular person?”
Abashed, Severus muttered something unintelligible.
“I see, I see. A particular person, whom you do not wish to name. Well, enough about my mother. Severus, I am going to place myself in the French doctor’s hands, but you may be present, as I promised.”
Severus scowled. “Must I speak plainly? In my opinion, she’s a hired assassin and it was Laertes who paid her.”
“My lord!” said Ophelia desperately. “My brother would not –”
“I know,” said Hamlet. He turned to Severus. “Give me leave to use my own judgment, if you will! I have known Laertes since we were children, and you do not know him at all.”
“Fine. I wash my hands clean of you. It won’t be a great loss if you’re murdered anyway,” said Severus – but he followed Hamlet into the room where Helena had set up her surgery, all the same.
* * *
“My lord,” said Helena, “I suggest you take some aquavitae first. It will dull the pain.”
Hamlet’s eyes met Severus’s. Severus shook his head; the detection spell he had cast informed him that the bottle had been adulterated with a potion of some sort, but he could not analyze the liquid any further without attracting Helena’s attention.
Hamlet swallowed. “Thank you, madam, but I do not need it. Proceed.”
Helena rolled back the king’s sleeve and swabbed the scar with a bit of cloth. Severus observed that she was wearing a gown with loose, tapering sleeves that buttoned tightly at the wrist; they would be ideal for concealing a weapon or a wand.
“This will cause your majesty some pain, I am afraid, but I will be quick. Keep as still as you can.” Helena took up a small, silver knife and slashed the scar open. Hamlet bit his lip but did not flinch or cry out.
Severus noted a quick flick of Helena’s left wrist as she searched the wound; she murmured something unintelligible, and a moment later she dropped a blood-soaked splinter of metal on the table.
“Is that all?” asked Hamlet, in some surprise.
“Yes,” said Helena, mopping up the blood and binding the wound. “I suggest you go to your chamber and rest, my lord. Take a little wine if you wish. Let me know at once if you have any fever or swelling about the wound; otherwise, I will change the dressing tomorrow and it should heal in good time.”
Hamlet nodded and left the room, looking relieved that it had not been worse.
Severus turned to Helena. “What in hell did you think you were doing?”
A strange, closed expression came over Helena’s face, but she spoke calmly. “Sir, my father was a very great physician, and he taught me something of his art before he died. It may seem, to one uninitiated, like some forbidden art, but I assure you that all I have done is natural and lawful.”
“I’m not uninitiated, you silly woman, I know a Summoning Charm when I see it. What I want to know is, what possessed you to stab him with a knife like some Muggle butcher, and why didn’t you heal him afterwards?”
Helena looked at him in surprise. “You are King Hamlet’s court wizard? I had heard that he had appointed one, but I was not sure that the rumors were true.”
“They are true. I am the Court Wizard. And I’m the one asking the questions, thank you very much.”
“You must know, sir, that you are happy beyond most of our people in being able to practice your art openly at the court. King Hamlet is an unusual man, and the Danes are fortunate to have him as their ruler. It is not so in most countries, and it is particularly dangerous for women –” A sudden thought seemed to strike Helena. “But are you not English? Surely you must know that your own Queen Anne was beheaded for the like cause not many years ago, the king having taken it into his head that she was a witch.”
Not for the first time since his arrival in Elsinore, Severus cursed himself for not paying more attention in History of Magic. He hadn’t the foggiest idea which queen she was talking about. “In my family we did not pay much attention to the affairs of Muggles,” he said shortly.
Luckily, Helena accepted this. “Know, then, that it would be fatal for me to show myself to be anything other than a skilled physician. I use magic when I can do so discreetly. Summoning a splinter of metal is discreet; healing a wound at a touch is not. I would have given him a potion to kill the pain, but you were the one who would not let him drink the aquavitae.”
Severus had to admit that Helena had a point. Discoveries like that always made him cross. “Why would you spend your life healing people who are so ignorant they want to kill you?”
“God has given us a great power; do we not owe a great responsibility as well?” Helena looked at Severus speculatively. “Speaking of healing, did you treat him when he was first wounded? I would have thought that any competent Healer would have searched the wound for contamination.”
This, as far as Severus was concerned, was the last straw. “I would have thought anyone who was not a complete idiot would have thought twice before turning up at court in the company of a confessed assassin, refusing to answer questions, and deceiving people about her background!”
Helena looked as if she was about to speak, but Severus wrenched the door open, feeling that he had made enough of a fool of himself already. “I have done! Goodbye!”
* * *
Some hours later – and against the advice of his physician, who had recommended a quiet evening – the king summoned Laertes to his chamber.
“How do you, my liege?” asked Laertes, hovering on the threshold.
“I thank you, very well,” said Hamlet, “save for this arm. Come and open this bottle for me, if you would.”
“Did you send for me to open a bottle of wine?”
“No, I sent for you to help me drink it. Come, Laertes, wilt thou try one of the chairs? They are for sitting on. For God’s sake, man, if I wanted a fellow who could do naught but bow and scrape, I would have sent for Osric.”
“Pardon me,” said Laertes, hoping that the king would understand that he was apologizing for rather more than not taking a seat. He handed Hamlet a glass of wine and sat down gingerly, as if afraid of committing a grave breach of etiquette.
“Thanks. That’s better. Were we not brought up almost as brothers?”
“Did Helena say...”
“She thinks it will heal completely in good time.”
“Thank God,” said Laertes, feeling a little of the guilt that had been with him these three months dissipate. He raised his glass. “To your majesty’s health.”
“To returned prodigals. Tell me, Laertes, who is Helena and how do you know her?”
“I knew her father, my lord, when I was a student at Paris. He was then reputed the greatest physician in Europe. It was him I went to seek, only to learn that he had died.”
“And, fortunately, left a daughter to whom he bequeathed his skill. Hm-mm. Was the late Gerard de Narbonne – as I understand the man’s name to be – an acquaintance of your grandfather’s, by any chance?”
Laertes stiffened a little, understanding what Hamlet was asking. “He was. Does it matter? He was a friend of the king of France, who thought highly of him. And thinks even more highly of the daughter.”
“Not at all, not at all. I was only wondering. If I may speak frankly, Laertes, your family’s connections do not seem to me to be any cause for shame, whatever you may think of them.”
Laertes sipped at his wine in silence. This time, he wasn’t sure what the king was trying to say, but if it had anything to do with his sister, he didn’t like it. (His family had served the kings of Denmark for time out of mind; they were not ambitious of becoming kings, and if Hamlet didn’t know that, Ophelia certainly should.) If it pertained to him, he liked it still less. (Laertes was not ashamed of being a Squib, or the son of a Squib; he regarded it as rather a blessing, knowing what he did of both worlds. That was not to say that he was ashamed of his ancestors, either. No; he had no greater cause for shame than his own deed, but the memory of it was enough to stay him from contradicting his king, now or ever.)
“More wine?” Hamlet asked.
“A little more.”
“May we drown all unkindness in this.”
“There is none to drown, my lord.”
“I am glad of it.”
* * *
Severus was hoping very much that he had seen the last of Helena de Narbonne, but he had not. On the following day, King Hamlet (who was evidently in good health and spirits, and suffering no ill effects from the operation) summoned Severus for a private audience.
“I have spoken with Helena. I offered to make her court physician; she would not accept. I could scarcely even persuade her to take any payment for her pains. She said that the only thing she desired was that I give her leave to travel to Florence and ask no questions. I could hardly refuse her request; she is no subject of mine, and the debt is all on my side. But it troubles me, Severus, and I have come to ask you to escort her there.”
“Why Florence?” Severus asked, none too happy about this turn of events. “And why me?”
“I would not ask this of you if I were not persuaded that the girl is in grave trouble. She will not speak of it, but I am very sure.”
“Well, what if she is? What, exactly, do you expect me to do about it?”
“I know not. Protect her. Or, if the trouble is of her own making – as I suspect it is – persuade her away from the course she is bent on.”
“What course are you talking about?”
“I do not know that either. She will say little of herself, and some of what she does say is untrue.”
“How do you know?”
“Severus, she says she is a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James. She is a Frenchwoman. The shrine of St. James is in Spain. Why on earth should she go by way of Florence?”
“How should I know? Maybe she isn’t very good at geography.”
“Find out. Go with her to Florence. I am the king and I order it.”
Act Two: Helena de Narbonne
“Have you no idea why your brother went to France?” Hamlet demanded for the two- or three-hundredth time. It had been nearly a month since Laertes vanished.
Ophelia shook her head. “I have told you. No.”
“Might Fortinbras have said something to offend him?”
“He did not say so.”
Severus coughed. “Do we have any reason to think he is in France?”
Ophelia fidgeted, feeling deeply unhappy. Severus’s theory was that Laertes had gone to Norway with Fortinbras, and was most likely helping him plan an invasion of Denmark even now. The king refused to believe a word of it, but some of the courtiers looked as if they thought there was something in it, and with each passing day, Ophelia thought more of them were starting to incline toward Severus. She wanted to be angry at him, but he was her friend, and the only other wizard she knew – and she could not help being a little angry at Laertes, too.
“As it happens,” said Hamlet, taking a letter from his pocket “I have an excellent reason to think he is not in France. This arrived from Horatio this morning.”
My dear lord,
I have arrived in Paris and, at your instruction, sought out Laertes’ closest friends at the university. They report that he was with them one night only; he left for Roussillon on the morrow and, immediately afterward, sent them word that he was going to Florence, where the king hath lately sent many young men to the wars. They had the impression that he was following some one of his acquaintance, but they know not who. This is all that I can learn in Paris, so rather than waiting for further instructions, I have taken the liberty of guessing at your wishes. By the time you read this, I will be on the road to Florence, where I hope to hear more. I remain,
Your servant and affectionate friend,
Horatio
“So he has run off to join a foreign army!” said Severus triumphantly. “When are you going to see what’s right in front of you?”
“My brother is no traitor,” Ophelia protested, bitterly conscious that the last time she had said this, she had been proven wrong.
“Enough, Severus!” snapped the king. “Florence is not in Norway, unless it has moved since the last time I looked at the atlas! Besides, I have it on reliable intelligence that King Fortinbras is, at this moment, preparing to march into Russia.”
There was a brief, bewildered silence. “Russia?” asked Marcellus at last. “At this time of year? Surely, that is sheer folly.”
“I said as much to him before he left,” said Hamlet.
“He – er, confided his plans to you, your majesty?”
The king looked at the ceiling and whistled. “Why, no, Marcellus; I rather think he had never thought of invading Russia until I cautioned him against it. Well, so much for him.”
There was another silence, as nobody ventured to observe that this was a stratagem worthy of Claudius. Ophelia stifled a mad urge to giggle.
The king turned to her and asked in a gentler tone, “Did your brother say nothing else to you on the night he left? Anything that might shed some light on what he is doing in Florence?”
“We spoke of a private matter,” she said, only too aware that she was blushing. “Nothing of importance, my lord.”
Hamlet looked around at the Danish lords. “Give me some space to speak with her alone.”
Everyone filed out of the room, leaving Ophelia more wretched than before.
“Tell me,” Hamlet said quietly.
“He asked why you had sent for me, and I told him of the potion I had brewed for you. I am sorry, but he insisted on an answer.”
Hamlet searched her face. She had forgotten how penetrating his gaze could be. “That is not all. What else did he say, and how looked he when he said it?”
“He seemed to think that you sought my ... my love, and I told him I was very sure you did not, and then he frowned and looked angry. And I said that you had behaved very properly to me, and there was no reason for him to be angry with you. That is all.” Ophelia looked at the floor, wishing it would swallow her up.
Hamlet took her by the chin, forcing her to look up at him. “Ophelia, I –”
There was a sudden, loud knocking at the door. “Hell,” said Hamlet, taking a step back. “What is it?”
The voice that answered was Osric’s. “Your esteemed and bounteous majesty must forgive your majesty’s humble servant for this intrusion, but a certain person whose whereabouts have been of some interest to your majesty seeketh an audience with your majesty at your majesty’s earliest convenience!”
Another voice cut in, and Ophelia felt faint with relief when she recognized it as her brother’s. “Enough pleasantries, Osric! Let me speak with the king.”
Laertes wrenched the door open, and half fell at the king’s feet. “Forgive me my absence, my lord. I will explain.” He motioned to a woman standing just outside the door. “This is Helena de Narbonne.”
Helena curtsied. “At your service, your majesty.” She spoke with a French accent.
Ophelia’s first impression of Helena was that she was an unattractive woman, although she began to change her mind as she took stock of the stranger’s features. It was true that her mouth was too large for beauty and her chin too determined, but she had dark, glossy curls and a good complexion; she was not so very plain, either. She was merely very unhappy, and it was misery that made her face repellent. She was dressed soberly but not poorly, and wore a small necklace with the scallop shell of St. James.
“Sister, go and prepare a chamber for Helena. She has had a long journey.”
Ophelia nodded and offered to take one of the boxes that Helena carried, but Helena shook her head and said that she could manage.
“‘Twere best for you to have my father’s room. It has not been used since he died.”
“I am sorry,” said Helena. “Has it been long?”
“Not quite four months, madam.”
“My own father is also lately dead. Some six months, or a little more. His name was Gerard de Narbonne; perhaps you have heard of him here in Denmark?”
“Why, he wrote one of my grandfather’s books!” Ophelia tried vainly to remember what the book had been about; she hoped Helena would not ask her.
Helena, however, did not seem inclined to ask any questions at all. She followed Ophelia up the stairs, looking a little dazed, and agreed gratefully when Ophelia offered to leave her alone to rest before dinner.
By the time Ophelia returned to the great hall, news of the new arrival had spread through Elsinore.
The queen pulled Ophelia aside. “Are you sure, my dear, that Helena is a fit person for you to know?”
“She is not my brother’s mistress, if that’s what you mean,” said Ophelia. “I am sure of that. He would hardly bring her here if she were!”
“That is true,” said Gertrude. “And she has the manners of a gentlewoman. But who is she, and why has he brought her?”
“I know no more than you do, madam. She would say little of herself, only that her father’s name was Gerard de Narbonne, and he died not long ago. She seemed too oppressed with grief to speak much.”
“Poor girl!” said Gertrude, instantly touched. “I cannot think any harm of her.”
* * *
At dinner, Laertes explained the guest’s presence to Hamlet. “Helena is a physician, my lord.”
“What!” said Osric. “A woman physician? Ha, ha! A very good jest, sir!”
Unable to resist the temptation to score a point off of Osric, Severus spoke before he thought. “Women are often physicians in my country.”
“In England?” Marcellus asked. in surprise. “I have been there, and met King Henry; he struck me as the last man to allow such a thing.”
Severus resolved to hold his tongue in the future. He had not explained to anyone in Denmark that his real country was the twentieth century, as this seemed altogether too fantastic to be believed.
“She is the daughter of the late Gerard de Narbonne,” Laertes continued, “a doctor of great fame in France, and he bequeathed to her his book of receipts and the greater part of his knowledge. She is the one who cured the King of France of his illness, as your majesty may have heard. I have asked her if she would examine the injury I gave you at the fencing-match. She demurred at first, but at last she consented. I hope you will consent as well.”
There was a slight murmur among the courtiers. Severus gathered that it was not normal for a mere physician to have to be persuaded to treat a king.
“I do consent,” said Hamlet. “Thank you, Laertes.”
“Are you off your head?” Severus demanded, forgetting courtly protocol. Ophelia kicked him, hard, under the table. “Er – your majesty.” He refrained from voicing his suspicions of Laertes, as that would just earn him another kick from Ophelia, but he looked pointedly at the king.
“If she thinks she can do aught for me, I will undertake no treatment, except in your presence,” said Hamlet, with an equally pointed look. “Will this content you, Severus?”
“I suppose it must,” muttered Severus.
* * *
The king of Denmark was a young man about Laertes’ age, dark-haired and sharp-featured. He looked Helena over with keen, alert eyes, but she had stood in the presence of kings before, and she was not intimidated. Her father had always said there were two kinds of royalty in the world, those who were born to rule nations and those born to a greater power altogether. The de Narbonnes were of the second kind.
“I have heard of your majesty’s injury. Will you tell me how it happened?”
King Hamlet hesitated a moment before he spoke. “A fencing accident. My opponent wounded me in the arm; it would have been little more than a trifle, except that by an unlucky chance, the foil had been – er, contaminated – with the juice of an herb called Danesbane.”
“That sounds like a very unusual accident, my lord.”
“It was.”
“You need not shield Laertes. He has told me all.”
King Hamlet stiffened visibly, and she perceived that he was a man who disliked being played with. “If he has already told you all, what need have you to ask me?” he asked, with rather less courtesy than before.
“My father taught me it was always best to hear the story from the patient himself, sir. They often remember things that others do not.”
Hamlet relaxed a little, evidently satisfied with this answer, and Helena proceeded.
“Roll back your sleeve, my lord.” She saw that he had a faint scar just above the elbow, like the one Laertes had shown her, but Hamlet’s was redder and a little swollen. “This is not healed well.”
“No.”
Helena prodded the king’s arm, starting a little above the wound. “Does this hurt?”
“No. Not much. Yes. Ow!”
“What is the pain like, my lord?”
“‘Tis like being burned and stabbed at once. Must you do it again?”
“No. I am nearly finished.” Helena was almost sure she knew what was the matter, but she had a few more questions. “Are you quite well otherwise, my lord?”
“Why – yes. I suppose so.”
“Are you sure? Have you been very tired in the evenings, by any chance, with perhaps a touch of fever that is gone by morning?”
The king drew in his breath sharply. “You are a witch,” he said.
Involuntarily, Helena started.
“I meant only,” said Hamlet blandly, “that you have hit it precisely, and guessed something that did not trouble me enough to mention.”
But he was watching her even more closely than before, and Helena guessed that he had inferred more than he was choosing to say. Inwardly, she cursed herself for ignoring another of her father’s precepts: Muggles were not necessarily stupid, and one underestimated their ability to reason at one’s own peril.
“One last question, your majesty. Do you know what became of the rapier after you were wounded with it?”
“I stabbed Laertes with it. Well. I suppose he’s told you that, too.”
“I meant, after that.”
Hamlet shook his head. “I know not. Osric might be able to tell you, if you can translate what he says out of courtier into human speech.”
“It does not matter. I have seen enough to know what troubles you, my lord: the point of the rapier has broken off and lodged itself in your flesh, and a little of the poison is still seeping into your blood.”
Hamlet nodded and began buttoning his doublet. He did not seem surprised by this diagnosis. “Well,” he said with an air of excessive carelessness, “forecast the health of Denmark. How long is the kingdom like to be troubled with a pernicious ruler?”
“No more than fifty or sixty years, I should say.” It was difficult to predict, especially with Muggles; but he was a very healthy young man apart from his injury, and Helena had noted at dinner that he was not prone to gluttony or drunkenness.
The king looked up abruptly. This time he was surprised. Helena could not tell from his expression whether he was relieved or otherwise.
“Is there any remedy for the pain?” he asked. Helena guessed, from the urgency of the question, that he was in more discomfort than he was willing to acknowledge.
“Yes, my lord, I think so. I must cut the sword-point out of your flesh. That is, if I have your permission.”
“You do,” said Hamlet promptly. Then, abruptly, he seemed to remember something. “But it cannot be now. I have made a promise.”
* * *
In another room of the palace, Severus and Ophelia were having a fierce argument about the French physician.
“I don’t trust her, that’s all.”
“Queen Gertrude said she could not see any harm in her.”
Severus snorted. “Queen Gertrude is the stupidest woman I’ve ever met.”
“She’s not stupid,” Ophelia protested, “only very kind, and she does not like to think ill of people.”
“In my country, we call that being stupid.”
“If you cannot see the difference, I do not know why I bother to talk with you!”
“The difference ‘twixt what and what?”
Severus and Ophelia turned to see who had interrupted. Hamlet stood in the doorway, looking mildly amused.
“Nothing, my lord,” said Ophelia hastily.
“We were discussing the so-called difference between stupidity and kindness,” said Severus.
“Ah. Was this an abstract dispute, such as we used to have at the university, or was it in reference to any particular person?”
Abashed, Severus muttered something unintelligible.
“I see, I see. A particular person, whom you do not wish to name. Well, enough about my mother. Severus, I am going to place myself in the French doctor’s hands, but you may be present, as I promised.”
Severus scowled. “Must I speak plainly? In my opinion, she’s a hired assassin and it was Laertes who paid her.”
“My lord!” said Ophelia desperately. “My brother would not –”
“I know,” said Hamlet. He turned to Severus. “Give me leave to use my own judgment, if you will! I have known Laertes since we were children, and you do not know him at all.”
“Fine. I wash my hands clean of you. It won’t be a great loss if you’re murdered anyway,” said Severus – but he followed Hamlet into the room where Helena had set up her surgery, all the same.
* * *
“My lord,” said Helena, “I suggest you take some aquavitae first. It will dull the pain.”
Hamlet’s eyes met Severus’s. Severus shook his head; the detection spell he had cast informed him that the bottle had been adulterated with a potion of some sort, but he could not analyze the liquid any further without attracting Helena’s attention.
Hamlet swallowed. “Thank you, madam, but I do not need it. Proceed.”
Helena rolled back the king’s sleeve and swabbed the scar with a bit of cloth. Severus observed that she was wearing a gown with loose, tapering sleeves that buttoned tightly at the wrist; they would be ideal for concealing a weapon or a wand.
“This will cause your majesty some pain, I am afraid, but I will be quick. Keep as still as you can.” Helena took up a small, silver knife and slashed the scar open. Hamlet bit his lip but did not flinch or cry out.
Severus noted a quick flick of Helena’s left wrist as she searched the wound; she murmured something unintelligible, and a moment later she dropped a blood-soaked splinter of metal on the table.
“Is that all?” asked Hamlet, in some surprise.
“Yes,” said Helena, mopping up the blood and binding the wound. “I suggest you go to your chamber and rest, my lord. Take a little wine if you wish. Let me know at once if you have any fever or swelling about the wound; otherwise, I will change the dressing tomorrow and it should heal in good time.”
Hamlet nodded and left the room, looking relieved that it had not been worse.
Severus turned to Helena. “What in hell did you think you were doing?”
A strange, closed expression came over Helena’s face, but she spoke calmly. “Sir, my father was a very great physician, and he taught me something of his art before he died. It may seem, to one uninitiated, like some forbidden art, but I assure you that all I have done is natural and lawful.”
“I’m not uninitiated, you silly woman, I know a Summoning Charm when I see it. What I want to know is, what possessed you to stab him with a knife like some Muggle butcher, and why didn’t you heal him afterwards?”
Helena looked at him in surprise. “You are King Hamlet’s court wizard? I had heard that he had appointed one, but I was not sure that the rumors were true.”
“They are true. I am the Court Wizard. And I’m the one asking the questions, thank you very much.”
“You must know, sir, that you are happy beyond most of our people in being able to practice your art openly at the court. King Hamlet is an unusual man, and the Danes are fortunate to have him as their ruler. It is not so in most countries, and it is particularly dangerous for women –” A sudden thought seemed to strike Helena. “But are you not English? Surely you must know that your own Queen Anne was beheaded for the like cause not many years ago, the king having taken it into his head that she was a witch.”
Not for the first time since his arrival in Elsinore, Severus cursed himself for not paying more attention in History of Magic. He hadn’t the foggiest idea which queen she was talking about. “In my family we did not pay much attention to the affairs of Muggles,” he said shortly.
Luckily, Helena accepted this. “Know, then, that it would be fatal for me to show myself to be anything other than a skilled physician. I use magic when I can do so discreetly. Summoning a splinter of metal is discreet; healing a wound at a touch is not. I would have given him a potion to kill the pain, but you were the one who would not let him drink the aquavitae.”
Severus had to admit that Helena had a point. Discoveries like that always made him cross. “Why would you spend your life healing people who are so ignorant they want to kill you?”
“God has given us a great power; do we not owe a great responsibility as well?” Helena looked at Severus speculatively. “Speaking of healing, did you treat him when he was first wounded? I would have thought that any competent Healer would have searched the wound for contamination.”
This, as far as Severus was concerned, was the last straw. “I would have thought anyone who was not a complete idiot would have thought twice before turning up at court in the company of a confessed assassin, refusing to answer questions, and deceiving people about her background!”
Helena looked as if she was about to speak, but Severus wrenched the door open, feeling that he had made enough of a fool of himself already. “I have done! Goodbye!”
* * *
Some hours later – and against the advice of his physician, who had recommended a quiet evening – the king summoned Laertes to his chamber.
“How do you, my liege?” asked Laertes, hovering on the threshold.
“I thank you, very well,” said Hamlet, “save for this arm. Come and open this bottle for me, if you would.”
“Did you send for me to open a bottle of wine?”
“No, I sent for you to help me drink it. Come, Laertes, wilt thou try one of the chairs? They are for sitting on. For God’s sake, man, if I wanted a fellow who could do naught but bow and scrape, I would have sent for Osric.”
“Pardon me,” said Laertes, hoping that the king would understand that he was apologizing for rather more than not taking a seat. He handed Hamlet a glass of wine and sat down gingerly, as if afraid of committing a grave breach of etiquette.
“Thanks. That’s better. Were we not brought up almost as brothers?”
“Did Helena say...”
“She thinks it will heal completely in good time.”
“Thank God,” said Laertes, feeling a little of the guilt that had been with him these three months dissipate. He raised his glass. “To your majesty’s health.”
“To returned prodigals. Tell me, Laertes, who is Helena and how do you know her?”
“I knew her father, my lord, when I was a student at Paris. He was then reputed the greatest physician in Europe. It was him I went to seek, only to learn that he had died.”
“And, fortunately, left a daughter to whom he bequeathed his skill. Hm-mm. Was the late Gerard de Narbonne – as I understand the man’s name to be – an acquaintance of your grandfather’s, by any chance?”
Laertes stiffened a little, understanding what Hamlet was asking. “He was. Does it matter? He was a friend of the king of France, who thought highly of him. And thinks even more highly of the daughter.”
“Not at all, not at all. I was only wondering. If I may speak frankly, Laertes, your family’s connections do not seem to me to be any cause for shame, whatever you may think of them.”
Laertes sipped at his wine in silence. This time, he wasn’t sure what the king was trying to say, but if it had anything to do with his sister, he didn’t like it. (His family had served the kings of Denmark for time out of mind; they were not ambitious of becoming kings, and if Hamlet didn’t know that, Ophelia certainly should.) If it pertained to him, he liked it still less. (Laertes was not ashamed of being a Squib, or the son of a Squib; he regarded it as rather a blessing, knowing what he did of both worlds. That was not to say that he was ashamed of his ancestors, either. No; he had no greater cause for shame than his own deed, but the memory of it was enough to stay him from contradicting his king, now or ever.)
“More wine?” Hamlet asked.
“A little more.”
“May we drown all unkindness in this.”
“There is none to drown, my lord.”
“I am glad of it.”
* * *
Severus was hoping very much that he had seen the last of Helena de Narbonne, but he had not. On the following day, King Hamlet (who was evidently in good health and spirits, and suffering no ill effects from the operation) summoned Severus for a private audience.
“I have spoken with Helena. I offered to make her court physician; she would not accept. I could scarcely even persuade her to take any payment for her pains. She said that the only thing she desired was that I give her leave to travel to Florence and ask no questions. I could hardly refuse her request; she is no subject of mine, and the debt is all on my side. But it troubles me, Severus, and I have come to ask you to escort her there.”
“Why Florence?” Severus asked, none too happy about this turn of events. “And why me?”
“I would not ask this of you if I were not persuaded that the girl is in grave trouble. She will not speak of it, but I am very sure.”
“Well, what if she is? What, exactly, do you expect me to do about it?”
“I know not. Protect her. Or, if the trouble is of her own making – as I suspect it is – persuade her away from the course she is bent on.”
“What course are you talking about?”
“I do not know that either. She will say little of herself, and some of what she does say is untrue.”
“How do you know?”
“Severus, she says she is a pilgrim to the shrine of St. James. She is a Frenchwoman. The shrine of St. James is in Spain. Why on earth should she go by way of Florence?”
“How should I know? Maybe she isn’t very good at geography.”
“Find out. Go with her to Florence. I am the king and I order it.”
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Date: 2010-10-03 12:37 am (UTC)