by Lisa Fiedler
“That is a good question,” I answer with a shrug. “I do not think so. I do love him. And I must allow that I have faith in Laertes, despite his silly speeches, for he does hold my best interests in his heart. But know you this, Anne, whatever I do not do with Hamlet I do not not do because I am ordered against doing it; but because I do choose not to do it!”
Anne takes a moment to translate. “Will Hamlet choose the same?”
“My choice will leave him none. But I sense that he will be most generously patient.”
Anne smiles. “The moon’s told you?”
“Aye.”
“You amaze me, Lia, God’s truth, you do.”
I examine the plantings. “Did you know that lore links the fragrant fennel to flattery and deceit?”
“Aye, you’ve told me.”
I pull a lifeless leaf from the stalk, then, crumbling it between my fingers, I sigh and move from the ledge to my worktable. It holds several cuttings, a scattering of roots, herbs, and a small book—my lady mother’s journal—containing notes on how to combine them. My father was unaware that she possessed the remarkable ability to read and write, or that she taught me to do the same. I turn to a page marked with a silk ribbon. “See here, Anne. ’Tis the recipe for a fragrance beloved by my dear mother—a scented oil she mixed for herself, one I well recall.”
“As do I,” says Anne wistfully. “Your mama always smelled so lovely.”
“Aye.” I run my finger down the list of ingredients, and remember how, as a child, I was allowed to tip the silver flask that held the perfume and use my tiny forefinger to apply it to her pulse. Following her death, the flask came to me—alas, empty but for a single drop, which I saved until the night of Hamlet’s first kiss.
“I have oft wondered,” says Anne gently, “why you have never mixed the fragrance for thyself.”
“I have thought to, many times,” I confess. “But scent is a powerful reminder; I fear ’twould only remind me how very much I miss her. In addition, I would tell you that on the one occasion when I did wear the scent in Hamlet’s company he found it most sultry and irresistible.” I slant a grin at her. “I see no reason to tempt the poor boy more than he already is!”
Anne laughs.
“There is another reason,” I confess. “Along with the recipe came a warning. My mother, in her graceful hand, did pen as well a caveat, cautioning that, but for one ingredient, through the magic of alchemy, her benign fragrance would become a poison. A poison that is not entirely a poison but a miraculous concoction, approaching poison, which only may become a poison when he who’s consumed it is left untreated by its antidote for a certain span of time.”
Anne gasps. “Honest?”
“According to my mother’s records, the root of one flower, the stalk of a second, and the petal of yet another—crushed and added to the oil derived of a fourth—brings about the perfume. However, this perfume is the beginning of a venom that wants only a fifth flower to complete its evil. When properly administered, it shall induce a sleep so full, so genuine, that even the coroner himself would believe it death.”
“But sleep looks naught like death,” Anne reasons.
“This medicine is cunning,” I assure her, “for it brings with its counterfeit sleep a tightening of the lung, a chilling of the flesh, and an ashen tint to the skin. Even the heart slows to a mere whisper of its own beat, but beat, good friend, it does. The condition is not immediately fatal. The sleep grows slowly deeper toward doom. If the cure comes in time, death does not take hold.”
“Thank heaven there is an antidote,” remarks Anne.
I neglect to mention that, since my mother, to the best of my knowledge, never actually brewed the antidote (or, for that matter, the poison), the exactitude of its proficiency is not entirely guaranteed, the information being gleaned from legend, not practice. I am also grateful that she does not question the indistinctness of the directive “a certain span of time.” I know only that there is a span during which the poison remains benign. I know not precisely what that span may be.
“Intriguing,” breathes Anne.
“Most intriguing,” I agree. But, as I see no immediate use for such a worthy potion, I have not tried it yet.
I stir a calming physic until it bubbles, then drink it down. That done, I lie down upon my pallet so Anne can comb my hair. My thoughts return to my brother’s admonition.
“Laertes thinks the Prince a danger, but for me, Lord Hamlet is the least fearful presence in this castle.”
“What do you mean?”
“There is something dangerous here of late, and the very earth shifts beneath me. I am afraid that, to be honest to myself, as my own father advised his male child be, I must be false to others.” I smile up at Anne. “But never to you, dear friend.”
“Nor I to you. Never.”
My storm subsides, and I close my eyes, to drift, to dream.
CHAPTER THREE
I AWAKE, HOURS LATER, TO A GENTLE KNOCK UPON my chamber door. The moon, swollen with secrets, is at my window. It is the hour of ten.
I open the door to Hamlet. “How now, my lord?”
He shrugs. “I am nervous.”
“That is to be expected.”
He steps within. “Shall we share an hour, then, during which I may forget the strange event that is to come?”
“Aye.”
“Then let’s begin with this.” From his neck he removes a glistening chain on which swings a bejeweled pendant; he lowers it over my head. The heavy charm rests beneath the hollow of my throat. “For thee, love. A token of my most genuine affection.”
“It is lovely.”
“It was,” he says in a voice like silk, “though in this new location its wearer does surely outshine it.” He leans down to place a chaste kiss on the bridge of my nose.
“I thank you, my lord.”
“Now …” He motions to the plants along my window. “Tell me of your flowers. Do you find among them any new remedy, or property, or potion? Since my last visit—remember, when you bid me close my eyes, then challenged me to name each blossom by its scent?—what earthy secrets have they told you? What powdered petals have you mixed, and, pray, did they ignite, or smolder, or simply yield a more divine fragrance, similiar perhaps to the sweetness I oft taste in your breath before we kiss?”
I fold my arms and frown at him. “You tease me!”
“Ah! Then we are even!” Laughing, he catches me and spins me round. “The very sight of you teases me, Ophelia, and you well know it.”
“I know it, but cannot help it, my Lord.” He tickles me now and I cry out in delight. “’Tis not my fault you are but a weak, weak man!”
“I am not weak, Ophelia,” says Hamlet, with a playful growl, “I am in love!”
“Oh, I do surely prefer that to weakness.”
Here, he lowers me to the bed and fixes his eyes to mine. “Strange, how love that makes us weak does make us strong.”
The bedclothes rustle beneath me, and there is only the sound of Hamlet’s breathing as we embrace.
I should stop him … . Soft, not yet … some more. Not all, but more.
“I am less anxious than before … ,” he begins, through a kiss.
“I disagree, my lord, to me you seem as anxious as ever, mayhap more.”
He nips at my chin. “You do not let me finish.”
“You may count on that, sir.”
“Nymph!” Soundless laughter ripples in his belly against my own. “You are quick with words, you snap them at me like a whip.”
“You taught me well.”
“Would that I hadn’t, else now I might succeed at getting one in edgewise.”
“I shall leave that one alone,” I whisper, nuzzling his cheek. “It is far too easy!”
“I mean only that tonight I suffer no anxiety over the chance your brother will discover us. He would murderously defend your honor.”
“Must I remind you, Lord Hamlet, that to date my honor rem
ains intact?”
“I need no reminder,” he snarls, eyes dancing. “’Tis a fact well known to me!”
We stop speaking and continue our delicate exploration. Hamlet is everywhere warm and strong, and my palms seek, recalling every chiseled muscle of his arms and chest and back. His hands remember my curves as well, and move as though they long for what’s familiar. And more for what is not.
When I bid him stop, he does not argue. Instead, he sits up and leans upon the wall. I snuggle close, my back against his chest, his arm about my waist.
“Tell me what you are thinking,” I say, in but a dusting of my voice.
“Someday man will harvest lightning from the heavens!”
“Steal it from the gods, you mean?”
“Nay, he will bargain for it. He will dazzle the immortals with some knowledge of which you and I cannot yet even dream. He will earn the lightning, and the gods will give it gladly.”
Oh, ’tis marvelous that my Hamlet thinks in such colors.
“What will man do with it?”
“He will turn night to day! And, of even greater import, he will have the means to keep himself warm when his lady says, ‘Enough.’”
I roll my eyes and pinch him. “It is a magical thought.”
“It is only magical at this time, in this place. In future, I believe, ’twill happen.”
“Then speak to me of something sooner, something nearer to this realm.”
“Oh, well, that is simple.” He places his lips to linger at my ear. “I shall have you.”
“Aye, when we are wed.”
“Nay, before that.”
I turn to him, biting back a smile, and raise my brows in warning. “careful …”
“Oh, I will be, when the time comes.”
I return his saucy grin. “You are bold, sir, and incorrect.”
He chuckles in reply. “I am bold, lady, but as to incorrect, well, only time will tell of that. For I fear, if I do not have you soon, I surely will go mad!”
And now another knock. Marcellus, come to bid him take his leave. I remove myself from his arms, and Hamlet is to the door in three broad steps.
“Return here,” I tell him, “as soon as ’tis done.”
“I will be late.”
“I will not mind.”
“Done, then.” He waves me a kiss. “God give you a good night.”
“He already has, my lord.”
I listen until the hollow sound of his footsteps no longer can be heard. Then I rise and make to my pots of herbs and flowers, where I collect several blooms, some leaves, a stem or two, then petals again.
Mayhap Hamlet’s jest was not so far off the mark. Alchemy, after all, is close akin to love—it is all in the blending! Until we learn to tempt the lightning from the sky, we shall have to rely on what magic springs from earth.
So I begin, by rubbing one satiny petal between my fingers. Sooner or later, I am certain, something is bound to ignite!
“There is much to be told!”
These are the words that awaken me. Hamlet’s words, uttered in a whisper which carries the urgency of a shout. It is close to dawn; the cold has come in with him, clinging to his face and hands and hair.
“What, my lord?” I sit up, arranging the flannel sleeping gown closely about me against the chill he brings. “Hast thou seen thy father’s spirit?”
“Aye, lady, and we have spoken.”
“Tell me! Tell all.”
“I shall.” He draws a low stool near to the fire and sits upon it.
Backlit there in dancing golden hues, his shadow shuddering on the hearth before him, my Hamlet looks himself a ghost. I rise from the bed and approach him, dragging a small bench for my seat.
Hamlet opens his mouth to speak, but words spring first to my own lips. “Was he well? Spoke he of angels on high, or of fiends in fiery depths? Oh, and does he continue to feel, to taste, to hunger and thirst? For I have always wondered that. And what of purgatory? God’s eyes, I have so long worried if there is, in fact, such a place. Does he miss you, Hamlet? Does he pine for Gertrude? And what of—”
“Ophelia …”
“My lord?”
“Hush.”
His eyes dance upon me, shining with kind, impatient humor.
“Oh! I am sorry, my lord. It is only that I ache to know!”
“That is apparent, love. But if you would stop aching aloud, I may enlighten you.”
“Yes, yes, my lord. Please, do.”
“He came. I was nearly paralyzed at first, though with fear or with wonderment, I know not. My heart, Ophelia, at the sight of him, did pound as though I had swallowed thunder. He was armed.”
“I remember.”
“He beckoned me, and, naturally, I followed.”
“Naturally, my lord? I would think, given his present circumstance, it was a most unnatural occurrence.”
“All right, then. Unnaturally, I followed … .”
“But, then, he is your father, and so …”
“Ophelia …”
“Aye?”
A frown is his reply.
“I am sorry.”
“So you have said.”
“Go on.”
He rises from the stool and goes to the window. “He did not have long to speak, for the hour of his banishment drew nigh.” He slides a look my way. “Most fortunately for him, his audience did not interrupt.”
I roll my eyes and press my lips together firmly.
“Such a wretched truth did he impart, love. The King was murdered.”
“Nay!”
“Murdered! Poison, administered while the good King slept.”
“Then he made no confession?”
“He did not. He took with him the imperfections of his humanity, and now he does pay dearly for them. But there is more, there is worse … .”
My mouth is dry, my hands are shaking. “Naught could be worse … .”
“He was murdered at the hand of his own brother!”
“Claudius!” A shriek releases itself from my throat like a demon escaping hell.
“Aye.” Hamlet’s eyes darken and he grinds the name through his teeth. “Claudius.”
I bound to my feet, grasping the first article within my reach—a pot of daisies in poor health—which I smash to the floor. “Damn his soul to hell! Damn him!” I reach for something else—a book—and fling it against the wall. “Damn his eyes, and his vile heart, and his nose, and each one of his gnarled teeth, and damn every last follicle of hair on his body!”
“That is a most thorough damning, love,” says Hamlet calmly.
“Oh, oh … ,” I sputter. “Now you hush.”
His brows arc upward, fast. He watches as I hunt down my slippers and step into them.
“What need is there for shoes?”
“I am off to Claudius’s chamber.” I push Hamlet aside and search the shelf at my window until I find the wooden crucible used earlier this night.
“What have you?”
“Poison.”
“Did you say poison, lady?”
“Well, presently, ’tis perfume, but the addition of a single element shall turn it lethal.”
Hamlet blinks at me as I search my garden for the fatal component.
“Do not look at me so, Highness, for the fault of it is yours!”
“Mine?” Hamlet plants his hands on his hips and meets me in two great strides. “Forgive me, dear lady, but I did pass this night consorting with a ghost, with whom I discussed villainy and vengeance; I recall no discourse on venom with thee. And yet you say I bid you mix a poison.”
“Not precisely, my lord. But you did speak to me of flowery secrets, and things igniting.” I wring my hands a moment, then stop myself I stand taller and meet his gaze. “Claudius took your father’s life with poison.”
“So you wish to punish him in kind?”
“Don’t you?”
He stares at me, then mutters ’neath his breath, “Talk about things ign
iting.”
I put down the crucible, which still contains mere fragrance, and give him an impatient sigh. “I abhor the thought of it, but ’tis the only course—or so the dull-witted, war-mongering men of this earth would have thee believe. Claudius laid himself open to retaliation the moment he did take his brother’s life.”
Hamlet draws me near to him. “Forgive me, love, I am confused. You denounce revenge e’en as you hand me fresh poison. How am I to reconcile this?”
“Please do not look so amazed, my lord. I despise the custom of vengeance, aye, but am willing to support you if you seek it. ’Tis your peace of mind with which I am concerned. I know you, good sir; your noble soul shall suffer great torment if you neglect to act upon this wrong. I will not stand by and see thee suffer!”
I step away from him and take up the last ingredient, a small jar of murky oil, which I hold poised above the bowl. “Now then, let us make haste to Claudius’s chamber, to deliver this magnificent draft!”
“No.”
“No?” My wrist snaps back; the drop that would bring death trembles a moment on the jar’s lip, then slips within once more.
“Think on it, love,” he whispers. “I have only the word of a ghost. A ghost that looks as my father looked, sounds as my father sounded, but still a ghost. Horatio did advise me that it might be some evil thing which only doth assume my father’s form. I know not if I should trust it.”
I move close to him and lay my hand upon his cheek. “What does the moon tell you?”
“That my ghost is honest. That Claudius did design this evil. But still I would have proof.” He surprises me with a smile. “I do not believe the courts would accept the moon’s account as reliable.”
I bite back a grin of my own. “Most likely not” He is right, of course. Sighing, I return the jar of oil to my shelf “Have you a plan, then?”
“A piece of one,” says Hamlet, crossing to the bed and sitting. “Though I am hoping to enlist your assistance.”
“It is yours. Tell me what you’ve contrived thus far.”
“As earlier I told Horatio, I shall behave as though I am mad. I will show myself to be other than I am, appearing to suffer strange distemper. I shall put an antic disposition on. For it is possible the King will reveal his dark treachery in time—through some slip of speech, or by an unintended mention of the deed. My feigned incompetence just might facilitate such a slip.”
