Dating Hamlet by Lisa Fiedler

the condemnation finishes off the stricken King, but at Horatio’s insistence I am swept away from the commotion roughly by the guard Barnardo.
    â€œRemove her,” shouts Horatio. “She will be harmed.”
    â€œI am harmed!” I respond, for Barnardo’s callused hand grips my arm as though I am his prisoner.
    â€œTake her to her closet,” Horatio instructs.
    There is a cruel glint in Barnardo’s eyes as he drags me hard across the stones from the great hall toward the stairs. His dirty nails dig into my flesh, and a sickening heat doth radiate from his body near mine.
    â€œUnhand me, sirrah,” I snarl.
    But he ignores it, yanking me off my feet to carry me to my room. Inside, he drops me in a heap upon my pallet.

    â€œBarnardo! You forget yourself.”
    â€œI forget nothing,” says he, his eyes at once vacant and menacing as they slide o’er me. “I forget not how you have cast your randy gaze at me … .”
    â€œGod’s blood!” My eyes go round with scandalized disgust. “You will be punished for speaking to me so. I am a lady of this court!”
    â€œAye, and more enticing for it.” His lips glisten as his tongue strokes them, then from those lips comes a most guttural sound I can only guess is meant to be a laugh. “I know you do desire me, Ophelia. For I have seen thee sigh and blush whene’er I pass.”
    Horror rises in me like bile. “Near blasphemy is that, Barnardo! If I’ve sighed in your presence, ’tis only out of pity that one could be so dull as thee.”
    He takes a rough hold of my chin and glares at me unkindly. “I will show you how dull I am,” he growls.
    A chill creeps upon my flesh, for his bawdy undertone is clear. I make to slap his face, but he catches my hand and twists my arm behind me, jerking me to his chest.
    â€œDo not attempt a struggle, wench, for I would snap thy bone in two as soon as I would kiss thee.” His foul breath is hot beside my ear. “Rank and privilege be damned; beneath, we are man and woman. This night, in this chamber, I will prove that to you.”
    Awareness whirls, and anger boils! The fiend’s grip does not falter as his free hand presses ’gainst my hip. I pray to the saints above, and to my mother, for assistance.

    Barnardo pulls me round to face him; his hand slithers upward to cup my breast. I near convulse at his touch, giving forth a shudder of true disgust. He laughs, mistaking my repugnance for passion.
    â€œAh, the lady likes this! You see, how like a whore a lady is when Barnardo handles her? You want this, Ophelia, do not make to disclaim it.”
    Through a haze of rage, I glimpse the row of pots along my window ledge.
    Inspiration!
    At once, I effect an expression of utter coyness, and will the fury from my voice to speak. “A drink, sir?”
    â€œWhat?” Waylaid, Barnardo flinches, drawing back to study my eyes.
    I lower my lashes. “You are true, good Barnardo. I confess, I have oft looked hungrily upon thee, thinking thoughts most intimate. You have discovered me, and now we are free to bring those thoughts to action.”
    He blinks, as beads of perspiration glisten on his brow. “What?”
    â€œA drink,” I whisper. “A toast to us, together at last.” I go up on tiptoe to place a small kiss upon his throat, ignoring the odious taste of his skin. His grip upon me falters; he clings lightly now, as I lead him to the ledge.
    Barnardo gulps. “Wine. Aye.”
    â€œWine and then some,” I say in a husky giggle, seductive and contrived, as I run my fingers gracefully up a slim stem of dogbane, an herb sometimes called bitterroot.

    â€œThis night calls for something mystical, a secret nectar. Now, pour the wine, sir, whilst I prepare the potion.”
    â€œPotion?” His eyes narrow, not with distrust but with interest. “Pray tell, vixen, what manner of manly