Ophelia (21 page)

"He came to beg my mercy only? Or my love as well?" I asked, hope battling with fear.

"Would you have granted both?" Horatio's gaze was direct. I owed him the truth, though I did not wish to face it myself.

"I could forgive a man who killed my father by mistake, but love him as a husband? By God, Horatio, I do not know!" I cried, flinging up my hands. "I will go and live a solitary life; disappear and be Hamlet's wife—no more!" The final words broke from me like a sob and I rose to my feet, meaning to exit the scene.

Horatio blocked my way and would not let me leave.

"Ophelia, such a course would be vain and dangerous. Claudius is more canny that you know. For proof, I have important news from Hamlet."

News! This would stay me. Horatio reached into his doublet and produced a letter. He spoke with great urgency.

"Read here how Claudius sent Hamlet to England, not for his safety, but to his death! Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were dispatched as well, carrying letters to seal his doom. But he has escaped and foiled their foul plans. He writes that I should join him with as much speed as I would flee death."

Here indeed was a new twist. I scanned the letter, written in Hamlet's familiar hand. It brought me awake like cold water splashed on my face. Claudius's purpose was darker than I had imagined; he had ordered the death of Hamlet, his nephew and son. I knew he had poisoned a king. He may have had my father killed. Why should he spare me? A foolish beast I was, to think that madness would shelter me. I was only making myself easier prey for the wolf.

"We were right, Ophelia, to fear the consequences of Hamlet's play. You and I are in danger if we stay at Elsinore. Escape with me and we will join Hamlet," Horatio pleaded.

"How will you reach him? He sails with a crew of pirates somewhere on the wide sea," I said, pointing to the letter.

"The messenger who delivered the letter will take us to him."

"Hamlet has spurned my love and hates me," I said. "That is the plain truth." I held up my hand to stop Horatio from denying this while I read the letter again. "He does not ask you to help me escape. Why would you take the risk?"

Horatio appeared to be struggling with himself.

"My loyalty to Hamlet binds me to protect you, his wife. Come with me, and I will take you to him," he urged.

Because Hamlet's letter made no mention of me, I would not consider this offer. I felt, like a stabbing in my bones, the pain of deciding to break from my husband.

"I cannot be such a dutiful wife as you are a friend. I will not go to Hamlet."

Horatio looked stunned. A long and burdened moment passed before he spoke again.

"You cannot stay here," he insisted. "You have dangerous knowledge. It is only a matter of time before Claudius takes aim at your life."

"You are right, Horatio. But how can I leave? How can you leave? Claudius's spies would pursue us."

Horatio sighed and ran his hands through his reddish curls.

"I have cast my lot with my friend, and I will contrive some way to go to him. But your safety is the matter now at hand." His eyes were dark beads almost hidden beneath his furrowed brow.

My fingers played among the herbs in my basket: rosemary, rue, the root of wild ginger, and creeping thyme. Their mingled scents drifted in the air, rousing all my senses and sharpening my mind. Reason told me I could not keep up my ruse of madness for long. I resolved upon a different course.

"I will leave Elsinore, Horatio."

He sighed, relieved.

"But I will take my own way, alone."

"How?" he asked, looking doubtful.

"By a seeming death. A careful poison, my means—"

Horatio interrupted me.

"No, Ophelia! You must not despair and harm yourself!"

"Good Horatio, hear me out. I mean to escape with my life, though all will think me dead. I have a plan, but it needs your help."

"I do not understand, but I put myself at your service. I pledge my life to preserve you from harm," he said with the fervor of a new-made knight being sent upon a quest.

"I thank you, kind Horatio. I will trust you. For if I do not, I will surely die."

Chapter 27

In the dusty wardrobe where I plotted my escape, the shaft of light admitted by the narrow window shone like the bright beam of reason in a chaotic world. I bade Horatio memorize every detail of my plan, silencing his doubts and urging his faith instead. Soon he knew his role, my cues, and the place of our meeting at the end. There was no need to swear secrecy, for our trust was already deep. When we parted, he gave me his dagger and made me promise to keep it always on my person.

Though I trusted Horatio with my life, I did not tell him that I might be with child. I wanted to bleed, that my body might disprove this suspicion. Alone in my chamber, I slid Horatio's dagger from its sheath and fingered the sharp point. A crimson bead of my blood swelled suddenly and flowed onto the blade. I blotted the drops with a feeling of panic. With one stroke of such a knife my life would stream away—an undoing worse than the mere loss of maidenhood. And if I were with child, it would also be lost.

I had no inkling of what it meant to bear a child. I knew only that I would grow heavy with the burden, and one day deathlike pains would grip me until the creature sprang from my loins and cried to be cared for. What would I do then? I had not even the instincts of a mother cat. I wanted to flee both Elsinore and the unknown fate of motherhood, though such escape seemed impossible, except by my death.

The fear of death constantly tempted me to turn aside from my course that day. With each new hour I started up to find Horatio and tell him I would go to Hamlet. Then questions stalled my steps. Even if I were to regain Hamlet's love, what safety would I find with him, as long as he sought Claudius's life, and Claudius his? It would be better for me to stand on a hilltop while lightning bolts contended in the sky.

Then I lay on my bed and thought it would be more prudent to delay my plan, and meanwhile hold off danger with my dagger. After all, it was I who had counseled Hamlet against rash action. But this passive course held other dangers. If I were carrying a child, it would soon become evident, and Claudius might suspect Hamlet to be the father. Like the wicked King Herod, he would seek the innocent babe's destruction. For the child, if a boy, would be Hamlet's heir and a threat to Claudius as long as he lived. I could not wait and hope, praying that my grief-stricken body would resume its natural courses. I determined to waste no more time pursuing vain paths of possibility. I would act at once.

That night, I only pretended to sleep. Near the midnight hour, I arose, piled all my clothing on my bed, and covered it with a blanket. If Elnora should look in, she would believe that I slept. Wearing my father's cloak and carrying my basket, I crept from my room with silent and wary steps. In less guarded times, the darkened halls and galleries of Elsinore had stared with furtive lovers and winking sentinels who let them pass. Now no one dared leave their quarters at night, and King Claudius's men watched like hawks, when they were not drinking or sleeping. I descended the tower stairs to the kitchen, where I put two half-eaten venison shanks in my basket. Unbolting a door near the pantry, I slipped out of the castle.

I emerged into the garden, where the dying stalks of vegetable plants leaned against one another and rustled like thin, dry bones. Scudding clouds raced across the moon and threw shadows in unpredictable patterns. I circled the castle mews and followed the hedgerows past the fields and beyond the village. From time to time I paused and crouched in the shadow of a wall or a tree to be certain that I was not being followed. Through the dark woods, I made my way by a little-used path until I came to the cottage of the wise woman Mechtild. I prayed she would be asleep, for I had no wish to confront her.

There was no light in the cottage. Even the moon had disappeared. Then from out of the darkness, I heard the deep growling of some beast. A ghostly white mastiff lunged at me, its huge jaws wet with foam. With a swift motion, I threw the venison to the ground and the dog fell upon the meat. As I expected, Mechtild now kept a vicious dog to guard against robbers.

In the garden, by the moon's light, I soon found the plant I sought. Its fetid dark green leaves spread like a canopy over the ground and its fruit, like a small apple newly ripened, lurked beneath. Wasting not a minute, I broke apart the earth with Horatio's dagger. I uncovered the thick, whitish root, forked like a man's legs. It was the mandrake, which fools say expels demons and makes women fruitful, but screams when pulled from the earth. I knew this to be an old wives' tale, a myth. The truth was that mandragora, made from the juice of the mandrake, brought a profound sleep. And I knew where Elnora kept the key to the castle apothecary, which held the other ingredients and tools I would need to make the deathlike potion.

Still, as I scraped the earth, I recalled the legends. I feared to hear a cry from the ground that would strike me dead. A cry that might awaken Mechtild. But I dared not delay, lest the mastiff finish eating the venison bones and start to bark. So I jerked the fearsome root from the earth. The only sound was that of a screech owl, near enough to startle me. In haste I covered the hole with dirt and put the root, leaves, and fruit of the plant all in my basket. I hurried back to the castle, thankful that the black curtain of night concealed me.

The darkness covered fouler intentions than my own. When I opened the door to my chamber, I saw that my blanket was slashed and torn, and the clothes I had mounded beneath it were thrown about the room. My trunk was broken open and the contents scattered. I was certain that my visitor had been the villainous Edmund, and I shuddered to think of his fury when he found me absent.

What I stole that night was my very life.

Chapter 28

The certainty that Edmund meant to kill me and the fear that Claudius was behind it made me constantly watchful. I did not stay in my room but begged Elnora to let me sleep with her, saying that I was troubled by dark dreams. Kind woman that she was, she agreed to let me share her bed. That night, I saw how labored her every movement had grown, and I asked about her pains.

"All the woes at Elsinore of late have left their marks upon my weary bones. I feel as old as the mountains," she groaned, lowering herself onto the bed. "And you, Ophelia, have caused me naught but worry," she scolded, though gently. "I pray this grief of yours will soon abate and that you will return to your usual self."

I wanted to reassure her, but dared not reveal my plan. So I said, "Do not worry about me, good Elnora. My troubles here will soon end." She regarded me grimly, and I feared my words only increased her worries.

"Tomorrow I will tend to your aching bones. I have a notion for a new medicine, made from mallow roots that grow in the marshes," I said.

Thus satisfied, with a sigh Elnora gave herself up to sleep. While she snored like a giant, I sorted through her keys until I found the one that unlocked the apothecary. Covering my lamp, I made my way in darkness to the closet near the kitchen where medicines were prepared. I secured the door behind me and closed the gap beneath it with my cloak so that no glimmer of light would give me away.

With equal measures of excitement and fear, I turned to my work. I cut the mandrake root to pieces and put them in a flask of sweet wine to steep. How much juice did I need to procure a deathlike sleep? Too much poison would be deadly, but too little would also undo my plan. Uncertainty tormented me. I scanned the
Herball
and my other books, but their instructions being general, I was forced to guess. I worked in silence but for the crying of owls, the scrabbling of mice, and the knocking of my heart against my ribs. Sitting with my back against the door, I seized some moments of sleep while the mandrake oozed its essence into the wane.

When I judged that several hours had passed, I fished the mandrake pieces from the flask. With shaking fingers, I pressed the last drop of liquid from the root and poured it back into the wane. I added some crushed berries for good measure, and then I heated the mixture over a candle flame, reducing it to a thick, heavy syrup. By the first light of dawn, I poured the stream of black liquid into a small bottle and stopped it with a ball of wax. When I returned Elnora's key, she stirred but did not awaken.