A quick preface:
As you will soon see, this novella, Monarchy and Mayhem, is based on the play Hamlet by William Shakespeare. This is my attempt to put my own spin on the tale, take it from a fresh point of view, and shake things up a bit.
In case you have not read Hamlet yet or do not know the plot, Monarchy and Mayhem shouldn’t be too hard to understand the context of, but please let me know in the comments if there’s something I should clear up.
(Also the image credit goes to Hotpot AI Image Generator.)
Enjoy!
Chapter One
I never believed in ghosts, not really. That is, until my cousin Marcellus dragged me out onto the palace rampart in the middle of the night to see my best friend’s dead father.
Everyone who’s anyone is aware that Hamlet the Elder, former king of Denmark, died of “natural causes” a few months ago, so I’ll skip the explanation for my sake and get right to the ramparts.
Marcellus gripped my arm like a possessive nanny as he dragged me up the narrow steps to the rampart. The cold nipped me on the nose and chapped my lips, as reluctant to find me outside at this time of night as I was to be outside at this time of night.
“I don’t have any time for your ghost stories.” I yanked my arm out of Marcellus’s grip and rubbed the marks he had left. “I’m going to a play tomorrow. I need my sleep.”
“Shush, you fancy noble.” Marcellus took the lead across the rampart, holding his lantern before him like a shield from the shadows. “This is important.”
I yawned and squinted into the dim light of the lamp. The low fence on my left seemed less likely to catch me if I tumbled off the rampart and more likely to trip me up and cause the fall. On the right, only air and the stone spires of Castle Elsinore, piercing the starry sky, met my eyes. At least the ramparts were wide enough that it was unlikely to slip and plummet off the edge.
Unless, of course, someone was unusually clumsy. Like me. I walked faster, keeping right on Marcellus’s tail. Maybe if I pitched over the edge, he would intercept my fall. Well. I paused. Most likely, he would laugh at my incompetency while I tumbled to my death, but it was better than nothing.
Marcellus’s boot clanged against something. The noise echoed across the night as the something—a discarded helmet, from the shape of it—fell from the rampart and tumbled down, down, down. Marcellus and I both cringed at the distant clank.
“Who goes there?” yelped a thick voice rather similar to molasses. A spear waved at us from ahead.
Marcellus pushed the spear aside with a gloved hand. “Calm yourself, my friend.”
“Marcellus?” A bearish face jutted into the lantern’s circle of light. I startled, then realized that the face actually belonged to a man. A very hairy man.
“That’s me.” Marcellus bowed mockingly.
The man turned his squinty eyes to me. “Is this Horatio?”
“A piece of him,” I yawned. “I ought to be asleep by now, you know.”
“More like whispering with your new girlfriend.” Marcellus rolled his eyes.
I blushed and snapped my mouth shut. Carlotta wasn’t my girlfriend. Not officially, anyway. Besides, a noble couldn’t court a maid. And that was that.
“What’s this business about ghosts again?” I asked, definitely not attempting to distract Marcellus from thoughts of Carlotta.
“Well, we seen him twice before and—seeing as you’re Hamlet’s friend—we thought we ought to show you, see what you think an’ all.” Bernado talked slowly. Painfully so.
“Seen who?” I glanced from Marcellus to Bernado, but neither answered. They had turned as pale as the bedsheets I was meant to be asleep in right now. Bernado slowly raised one thick, wobbly hand and pointed over my shoulder.
I swallowed and wheeled around.
There he was. The dead king of Denmark, in full armor. He was just as I remembered, except for two things. The first was that he was glowing and transparent. The second? His eyes were two flames, burning into my soul.
“Hello, Your Highness,” I said pleasantly. “You’re looking as lovely as ever.”
Then I did the only reasonable thing someone could do in this situation. I fainted.
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