Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia
Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia
Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia
Ebook267 pages3 hours

Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

()

Read preview

About this ebook

We all think we know Ophelia’s story. Hers is a tragedy peripheral to the greater tragedy of Hamlet. But what if she were the centre? Imagine an Elsinore where identity and meaning are as fluid as water, where love and loss, life and death, past and present flow together and one woman’s imagination might have the power to transform the hell of madness itself into a kind of beauty.

LanguageEnglish
PublisherFrances Mason
Release dateNov 13, 2016
ISBN9781370102167
Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia
Author

Frances Mason

Alright, before my usual paragraph I have to say something current and coviddy. Today is Sunday 5 April 2020. Coronavirus is sweeping its scythe across the world. More than a million infections worldwide, and that's only the ones we know about. I'm hiding in my home as much as I can (the more things change the more they stay the same - don't you love cliches?). When I have to go out I'm holding my breath whenever I walk past other people, walking in wide loops around them, looking suspiciously whenever I hear a cough and glaring when someone wanders too close to me. Phrase of the year, 2020: social distancing. Learn it. Do it. Live (or at very least don't kill me - you see how altruistic I am?). When I come home I'm taking my shoes off at the door, and washing my hands more than I ever have in my life. Am I nuts? Probably. But at least I won't get COVID-19. Cough.Now follows my usual paragraph (mostly).Frances Mason is a resident of sunny Australia (consequently is too much i' the sun - ok, we're heading towards winter now, so not so much sun), loves great literature, especially Chaucer, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, Dawn Powell, Iris Murdoch, Anthony Burgess, James Joyce and Joyce Cary, and is currently writing a fictional life of Shakespeare, fictional lives of a number of other Elizabethan playwrights, a collection of Elizabethan picaresque tales, a fictional memoir (based very loosely on a much loved brother, who's recently deceased and therefore can't sue for libel), and too many short stories to list. Recent hobbies include, avoiding quality time with relatives (successfully), solving the Rubik's cube (slowly), juggling (poorly), and being paranoid about COVID-19 (without stocking up on toilet paper - don't you miss the days of the daily newspaper, when you always had a steady supply with which to print the day's headlines on your bum?).

Read more from Frances Mason

Related to Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia

Related ebooks

Literary Fiction For You

View More

Related articles

Reviews for Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia

Rating: 0 out of 5 stars
0 ratings

0 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Rosemary for Remembrance:The Tragedy of Ophelia - Frances Mason

    Chapter 1

    Flying in a sapphire sky, at the moment of death all moments of life captured in a rapture of crystalline time. All that is lost returns in eternity, all that I loved, all that I was, but in life the dead cannot return. To some death comes quickly, by poison or sword or the gallows. To me it came slowly. The losses accumulated, like grains of sand in an hourglass. This one is trust. That one hope. This one reason. That one love. Here is my mother, unknown. There is my sister, banished. My father unhonoured. My lover sails over the seas, his love with doubt to be doubted. Does any part of myself remain?

    The water fills my lungs, the flowers float above me, and I remember running through a garden. Who am I running from? To? Breathless. I remember love avowed, and disavowed. I remember Father warning me about Hamlet. I cannot remember my mother’s face. Why? Instead I see the face of a princess, of dukes and kings and a queen, of ambassadors and suitors, mingling. The queen is with her ladies. The faces form, float by, dissolve. Petals break away from the flowers above me, and rays of sunlight, fractured by the water, form a greater bloom in which the others float, radiant, iridescent, a confusion of colours with the intense beauty of madness: white rue; delicate columbines; the tiny yellow anthers of fennel; purple pansies, their angry petal-faces, so clear in the bloom, torn into expressionless shreds of purple, white and orange by the turbulence around us. The lilac threads of rosemary stitch together all the other colours for a moment, which floats, containing all other moments of my life.

    That moment lingers. There is no movement here; the past never changing and unchangeable. The beginning must be here as surely as the end. But I cannot see it. I do not remember my mother. I was born. I lived. I am dying. Perhaps I am already dead.

    I search through time, bend it to my will, and it flows again, but backwards. I am dead. I am dying. I am living. I am mad. I am in love. I am not in love. I am young. I am born. My mother must be here.

    I hear a voice, distorted. It is at once pregnant with meaning and beyond understanding, like the logic of madness. Do I hear my mother calling? She must have been there, in the beginning. Is she the first part of me to have died? The beginning containing the ending? I can imagine almost anything in this place which contains all places, in this moment containing all time, but I cannot see her face.

    An image struggles to be conceived. The sun breaks through the ring of floating flowers and a memory forms beneath ripples between petals. I did not forget my mother. I killed her. Her death was in my birth. I carry death like life within me. I will not give birth and yet, like her, I die.

    But my life and death have more than one cause, and each has many sources. My tears mingle with the stream into which I sink, into which many others flow, and all forms transform here in the moment of their dying birth. I sing down here, a melodious lay, and water fills my lungs.

    Chapter 2

    The only sound was of my voice. The queen and her ladies in waiting listened intently as I played the harp and accompanied its notes with my own. The grand duke, Claudius, brother to the king, hovered between the queen and the king’s empty throne. I sang of love, of tragedy and transformation.

    Henry was the greatest knight in Christendom. He scaled majestic mountains and forded rushing rivers and crossed sucking swamps in his quest to find a maid more beautiful than any other. In the mountain passes he battled with bloody bandits. At the river crossings he dared the rushing currents. When mired in murk and mud in the sucking swamps, where monsters with murderous teeth gnawed the bones of men, he swung his sword in arcs of steel, and severed the heads of so many slavering beasts that their bodies cobbled his way to the welcome light. He travelled to great cities, seeing the soaring spires of famed cathedrals, wherein scenes in glittering glass illustrated naves with numinous doubles, and the columns, also coloured with the lead lined sunlight, reached so high that the arches above might have buttressed heaven itself. He travelled across vast deserts, where the days burned the dunes, and the whirling sands flung the hot sand into blinded eyes and, when their howl sank to an all-embracing hush, seemed to leave the glowing grains suspended in the night sky as sparkling stars. From the icy north to the burning south he searched. He rode from where the sun rises in the east to where it sets in the west. He viewed the plains from the eagle’s eyrie, and ventured into the deepest darkest caverns. He wandered the world, following every tale of unsurpassed beauty, but always the tales of the maids outshone their beauty, always reputation was greater than truth.

    One evening after yet another disappointment Henry came to a cape bound cove. The moon loomed full and the waves washed the sand and the foam bubbles burst like liquid pearls on the curving shore. Above the crash and hiss of waves the sound of flutes and melodious singing floated, more pleasing than the tones of any mortal voice. He was so enchanted that he rode straight into the sea. There the mermaids waited, ready to invite unwary men to their coral walled halls, curtained with dark green seaweed, there to die by drowning, their bare bones to fashion flutes, their flesh to be served as a feast for the fish. And there his tale would have ended. But the light of the moon fell on Henry’s face and lit his sapphire eyes, making a sky of day amid the silver softened night. The most beautiful of the mermaids, named Melusine, whose song was as the sound of the swelling sea, saw him in that moment, and love surged in her heart. Her smooth skin was like precious pearls, her hair like silver slivers of moonlight, her eyes emerald green and deep as the sea. To save him from her sisters’ seductions she became a woman. Her fin split in two and formed two feet. Her scales lost their lustre, their edges blurring and merging to form smooth skin. Her fish tail became knotted half way down, the knot doubled, and knees emerged from the water as she walked towards him. She took his horse’s rein and led him back to the shore. He stared in amazement at her. He had never heard of her, but the truth of her beauty outshone all the false reputations that had disappointed him. And so he fell in love with her.

    He took her to his castle and they wed in the chapel. The night of the wedding Henry’s lord arrived. He had been travelling to battle his enemies across the narrow straits when he had heard of his greatest vassal’s wedding. Already the household was feasting, and the garrison drank deeply, finding courage in their cups to fight each other, or slept at their posts on the high walls. Jugglers drew loops of fire in the air of the hall where basted boars were baking on spits turned by sweating servants with fire reddened faces. Acrobats tumbled and minstrels strummed lutes and sang tales of ancient heroes. Henry’s lord was shown to the place of honour beside the newlywed couple. When he saw Melusine’s beauty he wanted her, and when he heard her melodious voice he knew he must possess her, and hear her sing in his bed the song of love. So he whispered to his squire to arrange a false messenger and Henry was called away.

    The new lady of the castle showed him all the hospitality a noble lady should, not seeing that every dutiful consideration for his comfort and pleasure, though given for her husband’s honour, only inflamed his lust. Her face was lit from within with love for her husband, but his lord took it for himself. When the festive crowd had dispersed and the fires dwindled to glowing red embers in ash and the soldiers snored in the courtyard and the last of the servants cleared away the remains of the feast, nibbling as they worked on crusts and furtively sipping the dregs from golden cups, Melusine showed her husband’s liege lord to his room, lighting the way with a flickering candle flame. The bed was made, the air was scented with lavender, and on the flagstoned floor a bear skin rug had been laid so that his feet, once bare, would not be chilled.

    She went to fetch his squire to help him undress, but before she reached the door he stepped in her path. He said his squire had left on an important mission, to prepare his ship to cross the narrow strait, and would not return until after the rising sun. She said she would fetch a servant. He closed the door. So euphoric with love for her husband had she been she had not seen the lust in his liege’s eyes until then. He offered her gold if she would take off his boots, but she knew it was not his feet he wanted unclothed, and so she refused. He offered her power, a place by his side, but she knew that place was no throne. No matter what he offered or what he swore she now saw the evil in his eyes. She would not be seduced. And so he took by force what neither gold nor deceit could buy.

    When he had sated his lust he feared what might follow, because his vassal was the greatest knight in Christendom. So he slit her throat so that she could never tell of his crime, then murdered a handsome young servant and threw his body beside her. When Henry returned he told him he had found the two together, and had executed them to uphold his vassal’s honour.

    Henry, so brave that none could daunt him, now froze to the spot, his grief rising like a monster from the murk of the room. He gazed on his wife, then stared at the servant, and finally looked at his lord. Did duty command loyalty to his lord or his love? His blood burned with rage. He would kill his lord. His hand went to the pommel of his sword. But he was honour bound as a vassal. His sworn duty was to his lord. He did not draw his sword. But was not his heart vassal to Melusine? What of his duty as a husband? He gazed on her again. Had her adultery murdered that obligation? Her body lay beside the servant’s, her blood was mingled with his, her shame and his tangled in sheets. Was it not his shame too? Or was the infidelity his? Should he give his liege his love, or break his holy vow? He had vowed to protect her. He had sworn to fight his lord’s enemies. But his lord had murdered Melusine, to whom he had sworn his love. So was not his lord now his enemy? And so he was his lord’s enemy. And so he was his own. This way he fought himself. And so Henry, the greatest of knights, was defeated. He sank to his knees beside his wife, and took her in his arms, and wept as his lord left, returning to battle his enemies across the narrow strait.

    Henry took Melusine’s body to the cove where first he had met her, because he knew she loved the sea and her soul would not rest until she returned to it. He walked into the sea with her in his arms, and as her feet touched the water they changed. The skin of her legs became scaly. Her knees joined. Her feet came together, flattened and spread. The foam of the waves washed the blood from her breasts. His tears, falling on her face, became her own. She was crying in his arms because she had to leave him. He clung to her still and she clung to him. But her face was ashen and he had to let her go. Still she clung to him, and she would have died again with her arms about him, but her sisters sang to her, and with regret she went to them.

    When she told them the manner of her death they were enraged. Instead of melodious songs the air was filled with their screams. The sea rose in waves so high that the fish swam higher than the albatross flew. The ship of Henry’s lord capsized in the strait as he crossed to battle his enemies. No honours awaited him in that field beneath the waves. Melusine’s sisters dragged him to his death in the depths. His flesh fed the fish and from his bare bones the mermaids fashioned flutes.

    Henry would return to that cove as his strength declined and his sight grew dim and the years slipped into forgetfulness, though the memory of Melusine’s sweet singing never faded. She did not sing when he came, though, but only wept, her tears accompanied by the sound of flutes made from her murderer’s bones. And so she weeps when the moon is full, filling the cove with her salty tears, so that the tide is always highest then. She is crying now, can you hear her?

    I was crying, holding the harp against my body.

    The queen enthusiastically applauded the performance, and her ladies followed her lead. I wiped tears away.

    Such a heart for love, the queen said, and her ladies nodded enthusiastically, all but one. Jane observed me curiously. I had denied to her the attractions of love many times recently, including only the day before. She was my closest friend and knew my views, though she doubted whether my heart and mind were in agreement.

    I’m not interested in love, Jane, I had said to her.

    The queen says the games of love are the games of power and…

    The games of love are the games of the powerless.

    You pretend you believe that, but you know you could have any lord you liked in your power, Phi, any lord would be…

    And so be in his power, and so be doubly powerless.

    How doubly?

    Once in being loved and once in being had.

    But that’s one.

    You’re mistaken.

    Isn’t being loved being had?

    So you admit to be loved is to be possessed?

    Being possessed by love is to lose yourself, but the man loses himself also, so you possess him equally.

    Or unequally. He lies and gets, you lie and are taken.

    One day you’ll meet your match and I’ll be happy to…

    I won’t play that game.

    Wit is no armour against love. Your cleverness only makes men love you more.

    I’d better play the fool then.

    Courtiers were now milling about the queen, begging her favour. My father, the Landgrave, lord Polonius, was whispering counsel in her ear, and she inclined her head slightly towards him. She wore her still lustrous dark hair in a simple fashion – visible beneath her slight, loosely worn wimple, held in place by a light golden fillet – with side plaits curled back up in loops on either side of her face, above her throat cloth. A strand of her hair had slipped free from the plait opposite that ear in which father whispered, and seemed to tenderly caress her cheek, whose complexion was as smooth as that of a much younger woman. Her sky blue eyes wandered casually about the hall, as if out of inattentiveness, but she smiled kindly whenever they fell, as if accidentally, on a favoured courtier, and she nodded, almost imperceptibly, at father’s counsel, frequently touching her lips delicately with her moist tongue as if preparing to speak, then rolling them in on each other and pressing together as though reconsidering.

    Jane had taken the opportunity to come over and talk to me. I’m not interested in love, she said teasingly, as she reached out to wipe the remaining moisture from my cheek.

    Has any hero scaled majestic mountains or forded rushing rivers for me? I said, smiling.

    No, but many would. She slung her arms around my neck, and pressed her cheek against mine, trying to cajole me with her affection as much as with her words. I breathed in a faint scent of mint and roses. When excited Jane talked like a river flows, and besides the perfections of a certain prince no topic excited her so much as love. So many would, so many lords, I’ve heard the ladies talking and even the queen and Sophie says that she’s been asked about you a lot of times and I have been too and you know the courtiers all know I’m your best friend so I hear a lot of it and I do encourage them when I can because I want everyone to love you as much as I do and I’ve seen them trying to talk to you but you never let them which doesn’t mean they don’t want to you know or else you put them down with that clever way you have but maybe you’ll find someone as clever as you and I can think of one lord only he’s not only a lord but every man likes you just as much as every lady likes him and every lord wants to love you and be loved by you so I don’t know how you could not know how much so many lords love you, how much all…

    Sometimes I would simply let her go on like this, but I had found that if I wanted her conversation punctuated without unkindly telling her to stop I needed to quickly interject. Many years of this had taught me a verbal quickness apt for both repartee and insult. With my friend, however, it was never deliberately offensive.

    Many would swear eternal love, and every vow would be as true as the tale I told. Don’t mistake my musical feeling for real longing.

    Your feeling marred your music. Do you deny that?

    I can’t.

    Then you can’t deny the queen’s charge of a heart made for love and...

    My performance required the music’s marring, and so perfection would have been imperfect. And besides, a heart is made for beating, as a mind is made for reason; love will only injure the one and derange the other.

    If you insist on denying love, I’ll deny believing your denial because…

    Have you so little faith in your friend?

    Your friendship I’ll never doubt, she said, holding me more tightly, but your coldness is proven false by it which is just as well…

    I don’t claim to be cold, except to foolishness.

    Prepare to shiver then.

    What do you mean?

    She was looking towards the door, momentarily speechless, a besotted expression on her face. Only one man could do that to Jane. Around the queen all her other ladies wore the same expression. Nauseating!

    A herald approached the queen. Your highness, your son, the lord Hamlet, returns.

    The queen rose and rushed forward to embrace her son, with her ladies hovering as close to him as courtly etiquette would allow, two of them kneeling to either side of the queen with the ostensible intention of straightening her mantle,

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1