Ophelia (25 page)

She spoke as if she knew of our love. So I dared to admit it.

"I did love your son, most dearly."

"And he loved you. Like me, he found you witty as well as beautiful." She raised her eyebrows at me. "And ambitious, to set your sights on a prince."

"I have lacked humility, that is true. But it was you who taught me to reach so high," I said in my defense.

Gertrude only smiled slightly and shook her head.

"I do not have your courage, Ophelia, though I am a queen." She looked with moist eyes into the fire, which burned feebly.

"No, I only have it from you," I whispered. I knew I should not contradict the queen, but how else should she know I was grateful for the virtues she had taught me?

After a moment, Gertrude reached into the folds of her skirt and drew forth a leather purse, which she placed in my lap. It weighted my skirt like a heavy rock. Confusion rendered me speechless.

"I have loved you, Ophelia, though I treated you badly by deserting you in your time of need. Forgive me."

"I do. But you owe me nothing," I protested.

"I had hoped to spend this upon your wedding gown and feast. Take the gold now and begin a new life."

"But how can I ever find safety, if Claudius knows I am alive?"

Gertrude's gray eyes were wide with surprise and hurt.

"I promise that the king does not know that you live, nor will he ever learn it from my lips," she said, pausing to give weight to her vow. "To my regret, I have overlooked his crimes. But I will abet his evil no more. I will not be accountable for your destruction, Ophelia. Perhaps that will atone ..."

Her voice trailed away. For what wrong would she atone? I would never know.

"Go, but do not tell me your destination," she said. "I must remain ignorant of your whereabouts."

Filled with gratitude and relief, I seized the hem of her skirt, dusty though it was, and buried my face in its folds, crying like a sorry child that I had ever mistrusted her. She rose from her stool and lifted me to my feet, embracing me with a surprising strength. I inhaled deeply the scent of rosewater and lavender hyssop that for years hence would bring her image to my mind.

"I commend you to Horatio. He will be faithful and care for you," she whispered.

I did not try to explain that I would depart alone. I longed to speak, but could summon only words of paltry thanks and pale affection, so I left them unsaid.

"I find that my feelings . . . he too deep for words, only . . . God be with you," I stammered, weeping now for the loss of a second mother.

"May God go with you, too, my would-be daughter, and may you soon have cause again for laughter," murmured Gertrude, while her tears fell upon my head.

Then, with the same regal bearing with which she entered Mechtild's cottage, she departed, closing the door behind her and leaving in the gloom her lingering scent and the echo of her rustling gown.

Chapter 34

Horatio found me in a daze, weighing Gertrude's purse in my hand. I told him of the queen's vow to keep my escape a secret. Together we counted the gold, which amounted to little less than a princess's dowry. I would have preferred a mother's love and a queen's protection, but since Gertrude could give me neither, her gold must suffice.

"Truly, she is a worthy queen," Horatio said, admiration in his voice.

"Yes," I agreed, tying up the purse firmly. "This heavy sum will ease my travel. Now I must make haste, for to delay any longer is to invite discovery."

"Everything is ready, stowed here since last night," said Horatio, dragging several bundles from Mechtild's cupboard and wood-box. "Though I wondered at some of your instructions."

Inside the bundles I found Gertrude's prayer book and the likeness of my mother, both wrapped in my father's cloak. I fingered Hamlet's token, his first gift to me, which I had sewn into an inner pocket. Horatio had also obtained some small valuables of my father's. I had planned to sell these to fund my journey.

"I thank you, kind Horatio. Let me repay your troubles," I said, reaching for my purse, but he stopped my hand.

"It was nothing. Your chamber was unattended, and your father's goods were unsecured, for Laertes was expected to return and claim them. Only your brother's mare, tethered nearby, may soon be missed. I shall attend to her now," he said with a polite bow and departed.

Digging further, I found what I needed first, the dagger and a looking glass. I set the glass on a bench and knelt so that the sunlight entering the small window shone on my head. Then without hesitating, I cut off my hair, watching with regret the long flaxen curls fall to the ground. At least the dagger was sharp and easy to use. Soon the hair on my head was no more than a finger's length all over. Next I slipped out of my damask gown and wrapped my shorn hair and my clothes in a tight bundle for Horatio to destroy. I tore a strip of my winding sheet and wrapped it around my bosom to flatten my breasts. From the sack of clothing Horatio brought, I pulled on an embroidered shirt that belonged to my father and a pair of worn breeches whose loose fit would hide the roundness of my hips. I donned a leather jerkin and laced it up. I fastened the stockings and admired the fine, double-soled shoes and their good fit. There was also a short taffeta cloak, somewhat shabby, and a simple, flat-crowned hat.

As I fitted the hat over my short hair, Mechtild entered the cottage again. She bade me join her at her cupboard, where her busy fingers darted through small drawers, poured powders into folded papers, and filled several small jars with essences and extracts. I watched, wondering what her purpose was. Finally, she spoke, summing up her work.

"Chamomile and ginger tea for sickness in the stomach. A tea of raspberry leaf and motherwort to tone and strengthen the womb. And for when your time comes to be delivered—"

"Wait. How do you know I need these things?" I asked, amazed. "For I am not certain myself." I smoothed the cloth of my breeches over my belly, which was still as flat as any boy's.

"There are signs on the body long before the belly grows. Trust me." She put the herbs into a small cloth bag, one by one. "Fenugreek, with the cloverlike leaves, and tansy and goldenseal promote easy labor. Parsley and false unicorn root will bring away the afterbirth. And fennel or dill with chamomile will increase the milk."

I did not doubt Mechtild's wisdom, but I struggled to take for truth what I had hitherto only suspected. Then a sudden fear seized me.

"The mandragora—" I murmured, thinking of its deadly powers.

"You did not sleep too long. The child will be well. You are young and strong." She handed me the bag and left me alone, while surprise, relief, and dismay stirred inside me like the ingredients of some strange, unsettling elixir.

I was still standing there, clutching the bag to my breast, when Horatio returned. Seeming confused, he looked around the small cottage, where there was no place for a person to hide.

"I know I left a lady here. What have you done with her, you false Jack?"

So rarely did Horatio jest that I laughed with delight.

"Go to, Horatio. You are not fooled!"

"Ah, you
are
Ophelia!" he laughed, pretending surprise. I watched him take in my shorn head and stare at my breeched legs. "You look like a man in all points. It is an excellent disguise."

"Indeed, I feel like some strange, newly-made creature," I said, striding about the cottage with long steps, marveling at how easily I could move without a petticoat, a kirtle, and a gown clinging to my legs. "How delightful it is to be a man and free!" I said, tossing my head, which felt light without its heavy crown of hair. "But alas! I am every inch a woman, still!" I cried in a woeful voice, thinking of the life within my woman's body.

Horatio smiled uncertainly and held up a glass.

"Look at yourself," he urged me. I steadied the glass by putting my hands over his and peered closer.

"Why, I look like a brother to myself and Laertes!" I mused in wonder, turning my face from side to side. I had never realized that we resembled each other.

"Here is the final piece of your new self," said Horatio, producing a set of papers, a pen, and a map. I studied them as I would a scroll that told my future. After I made a few small alterations, my passport seemed authentic.

"Now I am no longer Ophelia. I am Philippe L'oeil, bound for France under the protection of King Claudius," I remarked wryly.

"Where in France do you go? Please tell me, as your friend," said Horatio with a gently pleading tone.

I hesitated. I would be truly safe only if no one could find me.

"You must trust me; have I not held your life most dearly of late?" Horatio's voice held a hint of rebuke.

Truly, he had. I knew Horatio to be steadfast and incorruptible, the unmoving center of a world that turned unpredictably. So I relented.

"The convent of St. Emilion is my destination," I said, "because it is convenient for a traveler disembarking at Calais, and but a short distance from Amiens. Laertes told me he once traveled nearby and thought to find some sport there, but was denied. So it will suit my purpose, for it is remote and not a worldly place."

With this admission, the wilderness that would swallow me forever became no longer impassable. I felt less alone, but little comforted, for an unknown and solitary journey lay before me still.

"I vow to hold your secret close, Ophelia."

"And do not forget your promise to keep Hamlet and my brother from destroying each other."

"I will work without rest to make them friends again."

"Remember, Horatio, that I am dead. Never speak of me as though I live." My voice began to break at the finality of my farewell.

"I promise." Horatio's voice was itself a harsh whisper.

"For if you ever break your vow, I will haunt you most terribly, being even now a ghost," I said, forcing a smile. The thought of Hamlet, made desperate by his father's ghost, passed over us as a hawk's shadow flies darkly over an open field.

"Is there no hope for Hamlet then?" asked Horatio, sounding despairing.

I pondered his question, which was edged with double meaning.

"May he hope I will rejoin him someday? May we hope he will return to himself?" I shook my head. "I tried and failed to change his bloody course. There can be no peace or good in being yoked to a husband who is intent upon revenge. Therefore I go."

I stepped into the bright sunlight and tied Gertrude's purse securely about my waist so that it was hidden beneath my jerkin. I tucked Mechtild's bag of herbs into my pack, which I fixed behind the mare's saddle. With Horatio's aid, I mounted the horse and sat astride her, not sideways like a woman. My legs gripped her flanks securely and she started briefly. A sudden impulse moved me, too, and I reached behind me and pulled my cloak from my pack. I fumbled with it until I had torn open the hidden pocket. I took out the Janus-faced token, gazed at it one final time, and handed it to Horatio.

"Return this gift to Hamlet. Tell him you found it on my body."

Horatio regarded the painted image.

"How like my lord's own changeable moods these two faces are, one that laughs and one that weeps," he mused. "How like life itself. Why do you not keep it?"

"It might tempt me to look back," I said, fighting my tears.

"Then go now .... No, stay," he pleaded.

"I must go. You, Horatio, are Hamlet's sole hope now. Go to him. He may yet heed you, whom he trusts more than anyone living."

Horatio gripped the bridle to still my restless horse.

"You know the saying, Horatio, that the friend in need is a friend indeed. Be Hamlet's friend. And always be wary of Claudius. Your good heart is but a slight shield against his great wickedness." Then I laughed at myself. "I will be silent now, for I begin to sound like my father."

A brief smile played over Horatio's features. The sleek brown mare shook her mane and snorted, stamping a hoof as if impatient to depart. Still Horatio held on.

"May I go?" I said quietly.

"What if you lose your way?" Horatio asked.

"I will find the route, for I have a map."

"Let me come with you and see you to safety." Horatio reached up to grasp my hand.

I pressed his hand in return and pulled my fingers free. With the reins I turned my horse's head toward the wooded path.

"No, dear friend; this journey belongs to me. One who dies must cross the river Lethe alone. And though I live still, from this world I must be gone."

With those heavy words, I bade farewell to Horatio, to the country of my birth, and lately the place of love and its companion, loss.