Ophelia (35 page)

"Must I confess that I have been proud and vain and given to false judgments? God knows this, and so do you," she says.

"No, I am not a priest who wants to hear your sins. It is your story I long to know. Won't you tell it to me?"

Marguerite shakes her head. "My purpose is to write the life of Therese, and you are distracting me from it," she says, sounding officious.

"I will help you with that task. But first, I must have a story, for I am in the mood to hear one," I say with a smile, meaning to coax her tale from her.

"I see your plot," she says with a wary, sideways look. "But I am not accustomed to speak of myself to anyone. Like you, I would conceal my past. Even Mother Ermentrude does not know it all."

"Let us be fair. You know my secrets, now let me know yours. It will lighten the burden to share it." I feel the wall of her self-defense begin to crumble. "You may trust me, I assure you."

Marguerite sighs deeply, and then begins to speak.

"One reason for my pride is that I was born to a prince of Sweden," she says, laying down her pen. "I was called Margrethe. In the king's court I was raised to the brink of womanhood. Then my father died and my mother grew sick with sorrow. It fell to my uncle, the king, to contract a marriage for me. His aim was to enhance Sweden's fortunes, but he also sought a worthy man, for he said he washed me to be happy as well."

The only sound in the room is that of baby Hamlet sucking his fist. The chapel bells ring, calling us to evensong, but neither Marguerite nor I move.

"I had many suitors, all chosen by my uncle. Some did not speak my language. Others were grizzled with age, and I cried to think of myself bound in marriage to an old man. One day there came to our court a prince whose youth and vigor made him a most fair suitor. He was handsome and ambitious, a worthy match for Sweden. I favored him, for he was fair of tongue, and by praising my beauty he persuaded me to grant him certain favors. Having conquered me in part, he pressed for full possession. When I denied him, he grew angry, saying that all my body would soon be his. He said he would not marry me, if I prized my virginity above his lordship. Still I refused him."

Tears spring to Marguerite's eyes at the recollection. She wipes them with a napkin produced from her sleeve. "I believed I loved him, but I began to doubt that he would be a worthy husband. And then—I cannot bear to speak of this," she whispers. "I am afraid."

"Go on. Be bold." I remove her writing box from her lap and take her hand in mine.

"One day he assaulted me as if I were a land to be invaded and seized. I fought to repel him and was nearly overcome, when by fortune a servant heard my cries and discovered us. I denounced this suitor to the king, but the prince denied his crime and instead impugned my virtue. He called me whore and spurned me."

"Fie upon him, wherever he is now!" I cry, remembering Hamlet's similar words. "Why do these proud men cast their sins upon us? Go on." But Marguerite needs no urging, for now she is caught up in telling her story.

"When the prince refused to marry me, the king was angry at the loss of this alliance that he desired. My reputation rained, I was unfit for marriage with any man of rank. Forgetting his care for my happiness, my uncle sent me to St. Emilion, which he chose for its obscurity. He did not even send word of my mother's death until months had passed." She sighs, but she is no longer weeping.

Marguerite's is a story well suited for a book of sad romance, I think, remembering how I used to relish such tales.

"When did these events occur?" I ask.

"Some five years ago I came to this place, pretending to be a devout and willing postulant. And here I have held my maidenly purity to be the greatest virtue, for I preserved it from the wicked, and it is all I have left." She spreads her empty hands and regards them.

I have one more question to ask, to know the final piece of her life's puzzle.

"Marguerite, who was this vile prince, and what became of him?"

Marguerite looks me in the eye. Her face is open and guileless, her beauty plain. Unblinking, she replies, "He is Fortinbras, Prince of Norway."

My hands fly to my face and a cry escapes me.

"Yes, the same who now rules your Denmark," she says grimly. "When you arrived, I saw the Danish coins in your purse, and I heard in your speech the accents of the Northern tongues. I raised my guard against you, for I did not know your purpose in coming or your allegiance in those kingdoms."

"And why did you tell me the tale of Agnes? Was it to frighten me?"

"I did suspect you earned this babe, for it was rumored among us. And I was jealous, for the sisters embraced you, while I have been friendless here."

I only shake my head, still overwhelmed by her revelations.

"Please, Ophelia, will you forgive me for being unjust and cruel?" she asks, not pleading but with a noble dignity. "For I see now that virginity is not the highest virtue of a woman."

"Please say no more, for I have forgiven you." I hold up my hand to silence her. I am pondering these strange coincidences: that Marguerite's abuser and the invader of Denmark are the same Fortinbras of Norway, and that she and I should discover each other. Perhaps it is not chance, but the work of some divinity that guides our unknowing steps to their ordained destination.

Baby Hamlet now begins to fuss, and I pick him up and rock him back and forth. The movement soothes my roiled spirits, too. Marguerite smiles and reaches out her hand to grasp his tiny fingers. Her face softens with a kindness that enhances her beauty.

"Now I have cause to hope that Fortinbras may someday face justice," she says. "For the Psalmist writes:
Like arrows in the hand of a warrior, are the children of one's youth.
Perhaps it will be your son who brings about his downfall."

"I will never return to Denmark, to live under the yoke of another tyrant who would not hesitate to kill my Hamlet." I lean over my baby, kissing his fat cheek. "You are not ambitious for a crown, are you, my sweet love?" I murmur to him. "No, Marguerite, I embrace this exile, for I wish to live in peace. But will you ever return home?"

"Home? This is my home now. Here I will stay and write of Therese."

Laying Hamlet down again, I pick up her writing box, set it on her lap, and hand her the pen.

"You must also tell your own story, Marguerite; write it, by all means."

Epilogue

St. Emilion, France
May 1605

Little Hamlet is a sprightly child with his father's dark hair and Gertrude's gray eyes. He loves to dig in the dirt and pick wildflowers, and I help his chubby fingers weave them together. At three years of age, he prattles like my father did, but I attend to every lisping word he speaks. I search his face for some hint of my own, but he has none of my features. Instead I have given him all of my affection, which springs like water from a deep fountain within me.

My Hamlet is a tiny prince in this realm of women. The old nuns laugh and their eyes dance when they bend down to receive a garland of daisies or cowslips from his hand. Isabel loves the boy almost as much as I do, and he binds us like sisters. As he has no children to play with, he befriends the wild rabbits, offering them food and stroking their fur until he can touch their twitching noses.

Since Hamlet's birth we have lived in a stone cottage near the convent gate. I have taken over the duties of the steward, who was dismissed upon the death of Count Durufle. The puritanical count had been long afflicted with syphilis, it was discovered. With his death, Mother Ermentrude's brother, a virtuous nobleman, found favor with Bishop Garamond. St. Emilion is now secure under his patronage, and the convent prospers as a result of my commerce with the local merchants and farmers, so Mother Ermentrude and the bishop are pleased. When Mother tried to return Gertrude's money to me, I made her keep it as payment for my salvation, for it was she who kept my body and my soul together. In turn, she set up the apothecary I now use and fitted it with every tool of science known in France today. I draw some profit from my work, storing this new wealth toward the day when I might leave St. Emilion to seek out a different course.

The memory of Therese keeps me from too much pride in my abilities, even as my reputation for healing grows. Not only do I tend to the complaints of the nuns, but country people and villagers pay for my services, and the poorest are granted them. Soon I will need an apprentice and a gardener, too, for my garden flourishes like the first Eden. Replete with common herbs and exotic plants, it is a garden worthy of Mechtild, and every year its dimensions increase.

I often visit Therese's plot in the chapel cemetery. The villagers have made it a shrine, and it is always fragrant with their offerings. I add bouquets of columbine, fennel, and daisies from my garden. On her grave I planted a rosemary bush, and it proves as enduring as an evergreen tree.

Despite three years of study in philosophy and medicine, I have not discovered a cause in Nature why Therese's hands bled at her death. It is one of the body's many mysteries, which the study of anatomy seeks to unlock. One day I hope to write a compendium of all my cures, including those Elnora taught me. It will include an essay on how the mind can assist—or resist—the body's health. Like a generous patron, Mother Ermentrude has made every book in the convent's great library open to me. Some days I share a desk with Marguerite, who labors with great devotion on a book she calls
True Lives of Godly Women.
I tell her that if she will not include the story of her own life, then I will write it for her. As I check the progress of her book, Marguerite in turn checks the progress of my infant faith. I tell her that I profess God's goodness and mercy, but what I love most truly is his marvelous creature, my son. She has made peace with her past, as I have with mine.

When Hamlet was born and I revealed his father's name, Bishop Garamond believed my claim that I had fled Denmark for my safety and that of my child. Shortly after the tragedy at Elsinore, news of it had reached France, along with a rumor of a royal heir in hiding. The bishop disbelieved it, for such stones always attend the fall of a kingdom. But Marguerite did vouch for me, Isabel offered witness, and I produced Horatio's letter. The bishop acknowledged me to be a widow and allowed me to remain at the convent. Now he has become the young Hamlet's protector, promising to educate him well. Marguerite warns me that he will one day use my son to fulfill his own political designs, for even churchmen long for empire. I tell her I will trust in his kindness now, for I must dwell in the house of today, where little Hamlet plays in all the innocence of childhood. Someday in that far future, my son must hear of the foul crimes of Denmark, the revenge unleashed there, and its tragic ending. When I tell him of his father's madness, his mother's grief and their unfortunate love, what will he make of this true but unbelievable tale?

I am content for my story to end here. But there are no endings, while we live.

Now is the month of May, which marks the end of spring and promises a full and fruitful summer. I am toiling in my garden after a ram, moving tender seedlings. I am grateful for the clouds that prevent the sun from wilting their leaves before they take root again and resume their growing. My skirts are gathered between my legs and tied like pantaloons so they do not drag in the dirt. I relish the feel of soft, wet earth beneath my bare feet. My hair, long again, is wrapped carelessly in a wimple.

Hamlet is napping within the cottage. I pause and lean on my shovel, calling to mind his sleep-composed face, the eyelashes that brush his fat cheeks, his red mouth that curves like the bow of Cupid. Then a sudden movement catches my eye, breaking my reverie. I see Isabel retreating with quick steps from the far edge of my garden. How unusual that she does not stop to greet me and pass the time in talk. It is not like her to be furtive. I will question her later and tease out her purpose.

Then I see, leaning against a tree near where the poppies display their bright faces, a figure that is somehow familiar. It is not a sister clad in convent linen. What is a man doing within these walls? Tall and somewhat stooped, he steps from the shadows into the light. I glimpse red hair, and I cry out, dropping my shovel.

"Horatio?"

Never was the sight of a man or woman more welcome to me. Forgetting all decorum, I leap through the soft wet soil, careless of the seedlings underfoot, and rise on my toes to embrace him. I feel his arms around me and relish their strength for a moment before I pull away.

I see tears in his eyes, but when he speaks his words are light.

"When I bade you farewell, Ophelia, you were also dressed in a boyish way," he says, gesturing to my makeshift pants.

Abashed at my appearance, I quickly unbind my skirts so they fold about my legs, hiding my muddy feet. I pull off my dirt-streaked coif, letting my hair fall down my back.

"Now you look like an angel in white, yet by my soul I am glad to behold you alive." His earnest manner has not changed, I see. It makes me smile.