Ophelia

by Lisa Klein

  “Hamlet and my brother, who used to spar as playfellows! They traded mortal blows over my lifeless body?” Disbelief and anger waned within me. “They should have been as brothers, both fatherless and sharing their sorrows. Why must they rage, both of them, like madmen? There is no sense in it!”

  “I do have this comfort to offer, my lady,” said Horatio. “Hamlet cried out to the ears of everyone present that he loved you.”

  “But did he claim me as his wife?” I demanded.

  “No, not in those words. But he said his love was more than that of forty thousand brothers.”

  “That is no comfort to me!” I said bitterly. “Let him measure his affection in numbers. What he calls love deserves not the name!” Thus I raged, but inwardly I hoped that Hamlet meant his words of love, and I wished that I had heard him speak them. My anger spent, I asked, “Does Hamlet know that I live?”

  “No, he does not,” Horatio admitted. “Seeing him so intemperate, I knew you would not wish it. And I would not break my promise to you.”

  “So you deceived your life’s friend, for my sake?”

  “It weighs upon me,” he said simply.

  “You have not done wrong,” I said. “Hamlet does not want a wife, for I only hinder his revenge.”

  This truth hung in the air, and Horatio did not contradict it.

  “I once hoped for Hamlet’s return, but it comes too late,” I said sadly. “I have already exited the stage. Now you must bear this news to him. Tell him that I had knowledge that could have aided his revenge, had he come sooner on the scene.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Horatio, bewildered.

  “Fortune has been my fickle friend, Horatio. On the night Hamlet killed my father, she showed me proof of Claudius’s guilt���”

  “What was it?” He leaped to his feet. “Where is it?”

  “���but she would not let me keep it.” I held up my hand to stay Horatio. “Mechtild, was a vial of poison not stolen from you this April, before King Hamlet’s death?”

  Mechtild, who was following our conversation with keen interest, nodded.

  “What substance was it?” I asked.

  “Juice of henbane, black and deadly,” she said. “Makes the blood thicken in the veins.”

  Horatio’s eyes grew wide in wonder as he remarked, “Henbane! Hamlet told me his father’s ghost did name that killing poison poured into his ear!”

  “Indeed, Mechtild’s word confirms that of the ghost,” I said with certainty. “Now listen, Horatio. After Hamlet’s play I followed my father to Claudius’s bedchamber, where I found a hidden vial of poison. I held it in my hand and saw the drops of black juice that remained. Surely it was the poison that murdered the king! We contended for it, and the vial was dashed from my hand. Hours later, my father was dead, his secrets sealed forever. It was no benevolent divinity who oversaw that night’s black deeds,” I said bitterly.

  “And you could not tell Hamlet of your discovery, for he was immediately sent away,” said Horatio, grasping the situation at once. “Yet had he known of it, he could have wrought a just and swift revenge. Alas, Fortune truly is a false dame!” He thought for a moment, then added, “But why was your father in Claudius’s chamber?”

  “He said that Claudius had sent him there. He must have known that Claudius poisoned King Hamlet. So to prevent my father from betraying him, Claudius set him up for his death at Hamlet’s hand. This I cannot prove, though I am certain of it, for my father’s death gave the king reason to send Hamlet away���to his own death.”

  Horatio seized his head in his hands, making his red curls wild and unruly.

  “Oh, what a dense and knotty path evil treads, full of twists and turns! Yet what you say is most likely. Your father played a dangerous game and diced away his very life. And Claudius is a tyrant, whose each crime compels the next one, until he bathes and feeds himself with others’ blood.”

  “You agree, then, that all these events are linked to one another?” I said, relieved that Horatio did not think me mad.

  “Like pieces of an iron chain,” he said grimly. “If only we could bind Claudius with it! Meanwhile, Ophelia, you are in greater danger than I imagined.”

  “Yes, and being powerless to bring him to justice, I had no choice but to flee Elsinore myself.”

  “Take heart, brave Ophelia, for you and Hamlet alike can boast that you have cheated Claudius of your deaths,” said Horatio with spirit.

  “Ah, but the game is far from decided in our favor,” I said. “And my brother still plays, unwary of his foe. Laertes is vengeful and rebellious. You saw him threaten the king. I fear he may be the next victim.”

  I had dwelt so long upon Claudius’s evil that I believed I knew what his next step would be. I took Horatio by the shoulders and spoke in a low and intense voice.

  “Listen, Horatio! Hamlet slipped the first trap laid by Claudius, who even now lays another. I saw the king trying to win my brother to his side and persuade him that he was guiltless in our father’s death. You saw Hamlet and Laertes fight in my grave.” My voice rose with growing agitation. “Claudius is stirring my brother against Hamlet, to provoke him in turn. He stokes the fires of their rivalry, these two who threaten his rule and his life. To keep his own hands unsullied, he will have Hamlet and Laertes destroy each other! Only you, Horatio, can stop them.”

  Horatio’s eyes grew wide with understanding and his brow creased with firm intent.

  “I will make it my duty to preserve Hamlet and your brother,” he pledged. “But tell me, Ophelia, how is it that you, a lady of great virtue, understand Claudius’s wicked heart?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps by reading so much of greed and passion,” I said, thinking of all the stories and tales I had savored while disbelieving the wickedness in them.

  At that moment, the old woman’s mastiff rose from its sleep and growled, a sound like the rumble of thunder. The door to the cottage swung inward with a creak of its hinges. A shaft of sunlight spilled into the dim room, and the cool morning breeze stirred the dust motes into life.

  Outlined against the bright daylight stood the figure of Gertrude.

  Chapter 33

  The queen stepped into Mechtild’s cottage, her leather-shod feet soundless on the earthen floor, the gold strands of her gown reflecting the light. I withered in her presence, like a flower that blooms too early and is frozen by a sudden wintry blast.

  “I am undone! Horatio, we are betrayed,” I cried, sinking to the pallet.

  Mechtild fell to her knees with an agility that belied her age. Horatio stepped protectively in front of me. He bowed to the queen, but his hand touched his sword hilt as he made ready to spring at any sound or movement outside the cottage.

  Gertrude dismissed Mechtild with a nod, and the old woman and her skulking dog disappeared. Then she addressed Horatio.

  “I have come alone,” she said. Horatio’s tense body loosened, and he stepped aside, leaving me to face Gertrude.

  “I am glad to see you alive, Ophelia,” she said. I could not fathom what feeling lay behind her words.

  “How … did you know … ? Why have you come here?” I whispered, confusion and fear tying my tongue.

  Gertrude seated herself on a stool near me, erect as though she inhabited her throne, and began her tale.

  “On the day that Laertes returned, vowing mayhem and revenge, the sight of you would have moved a stone to pity. You looked the very picture of ruined Nature, so wild and desperate that I feared you might harm yourself. I toed to follow you when you left Elsinore, but Claudius restrained me. Instead he sent a guard to watch you.”

  Did Gertrude know that Edmund meant to harm me? I watched her closely for some clue in her look or speech.

  “He soon returned with Horatio, who earned you in his arms. A crowd followed, some in tears, others merely curious. The guard reported he had seen you take poison and cast yourself into the water. He testified with a certain satisfaction that you h
ad ‘done the job doubly,’ as he said.”

  “How did the king react?” I asked, unable to restrain myself from the interruption.

  “Unperturbed, with no show of grief, for so a king ought to take news of a subject’s death,” she replied with the merest hint of bitterness. “He made a show of chastising the guard for not keeping you safe. Still, the unworthy sot remains in his service.”

  “I should have dispatched the villain myself!” Horatio muttered to himself. I wondered what reward Edmund had reaped by my death. But I would not waste my thoughts on him.

  “How did you suspect that I still lived?” I asked the queen. I recalled how often she had observed me when I thought she paid me no heed. Had I underestimated her perception yet again?

  “Horatio, I bid you leave us for a time,” the queen said.

  He bowed and left the cottage. Gertrude and I were now alone.

  “Earlier, when you sang in the courtyard and would not meet my eye, I believed you were touched by madness. But when you bestowed the rosemary, fennel, and rue, I saw that your actions were intentional. I understood you,” continued Gertrude, “even if Claudius did not. I know you deem him guilty of many sins and that you accuse my failings, too.”

  Gertrude, then, had seen through my guise of madness. I was ashamed that I had charged the queen, my mistress, with so many faults. But I was also afraid. What had she told Claudius of me? I longed to know, but I could not speak.

  “When I heard that you drank poison, I suspected you had procured a potion or brewed it yourself. Of course I knew where you and Elnora obtained your medicines and rare tonics. I used to visit the wise woman myself, before Elnora grew skilled with herbs.” She paused, and I heard her skirts rustle as she adjusted her position on the stool.

  “I coaxed you into ladyhood, Ophelia. I taught you the ways of the court, and watched you grow into a clever and learned woman.” The queen turned her sharp gaze on me. “I did not believe you would destroy yourself from grief or rejected love. Thus I supposed that you only feigned your death,” she said, with the satisfaction of someone solving a puzzle.

  “It has been done in books,” I whispered, thinking of the stones we read together.

  “What was most natural and unfeigned, however,” Gertrude went on, “was Horatio’s look of desperate grief when he bore your limp, wet body, and his tears when the physician pronounced you dead. He is no actor who can dissemble his feelings.”

  She gave me a knowing, sideways look.

  Despite myself, my cheeks grew warm. “You do not understand���“I began.

  “Ah, but I do,” she interrupted. “More than you realize. How is it that you do not recognize the signs of love? I know. Now your heart is shrouded, like a valley hidden in fog, but when sun returns and your sadness lifts, you will see clearly again.”

  Gertrude’s own face clouded over and her eyes grew misty as she spoke.

  “Although many thought you unworthy, I confess that I wished for you to wed Hamlet and become my daughter,” she said, her voice barely audible.

  Her words bathed my ears like a soothing balm. Had I not longed for years to embrace Gertrude as my mother? To have her approve my love for her son? I was sorely tempted to cry out the truth, to confess that Hamlet was my husband. But prudence and mistrust held me back. A long silence grew between us that I did not dare to break. The only sound was the popping of embers that glowed in the hearth. Gertrude seemed lost in memory. Finally she looked up again.

  “So, to make my tale brief, my instinct led me here, to Mechtild’s cottage. I hoped to discover the truth but, I admit, I did not expect to find you here. Now I will behold the resolution of this plot of yours and take my role in it.”

  My mind raced. Was she toying with me like a cat does a trapped mouse? Would she now betray me to Claudius, as a loyal queen and dutiful wife must do?

  “As I came nigh to the cottage door, I heard your accusations of the king.” Gertrude paused, and I held my breath. “I admit that I am frail in my flesh. I, too, fear Claudius.” A deep, shuddering sigh escaped her. “And I can do nothing to save Hamlet. He is lost to me, as well as to you.”

  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���”