by Lisa Klein
“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.
Chapter 35
My journey from Denmark to the convent of St. Emilion in France should have been the stuff of an adventurous tale such as Gertrude and I had often relished. It featured a heroine in disguise, a perilous sea voyage, rogues and brigands, and deep forests in which to become lost, perhaps forever. Living such dangers, however, proved quite different than reading about them. In truth, the journey was not romantic but filled with misery. The Seahawk was a creaky, leaky vessel that I feared would sink beneath the waves at any moment. The brazen rats that ran throughout the ship would often wake me with their scrabbling and squealing. Being a cargo vessel, the Seahawk carried few passengers. Fearing to be recognized, I kept apart from them and from the ship’s crew. Day and night, the wind whistling through the rigging and the mournful cries of gulls gave voice to my loneliness.
Most unbearable was the constant tossing of the ship, for it made me green with sickness. I chewed the leaves Mechtild gave me to soothe my stomach, but they were soon gone. Day after day, the sea battered the ship
and my frail-ribbed body with a force that seemed intent on our destruction. Then she would relent for a time and push us with the gentle hand of a mother rocking a cradle, and, exhausted, I would sleep.
When the sea was calm I would venture above deck to consider the blue expanse of sky and the distant horizon, beyond which lay my future. It seemed on such a ship that I could go anywhere in the world. With Gertrude’s money, I could marry a nobleman or buy a merchant’s wares and set up my own shop. But I was already married and my husband yet lived, though he had abandoned me and I him. And I was with child, if Mechtild’s eyes did not deceive her. I would continue my course for St. Emilion as I had planned, a convent being the only refuge for a woman in my condition.
Upon landing in Calais, I walked like a drunken man on weakened legs unused to land. My mouth fell open and my eyes grew wide to see so many unfamiliar sights at once. Nothing in all my books about foreign places had described a scene like this before me. The noise of rumbling carts laden with creaking cages and barrels of goods, the smells of raw fish and flesh, and the cries of sailors and merchants overwhelmed me. I would not have been any more amazed to see many-headed animals, tall Ethiops as black as night, or mermaids thrown upon the sands by the tides.
I felt safe among the jostling crowds, but soon my fears returned. Claudius would surely learn of my escape and take it as proof of some guilt. Was the dock hand, whom I had paid to return the mare to Laertes before I sailed, a spy of Claudius? What if Horatio had been seen with me and forced to reveal my whereabouts? Or, refusing to do so, had been imprisoned at Elsinore, or worse, killed? What if Claudius discovered the missing gold? If Elnora found my belongings to be missing, or Laertes reported that our father’s goods had been taken, would my death be doubted and my plot discovered? I feared that every Danish ship that entered port carried the minions who would seize me. My worries tormented me like bad dreams, making life on land more perilous than on the sea.
So I determined to waste no time in leaving the city. But again I discovered that travelers’ preparations are more easily accomplished in books than in life itself. Wandering through winding streets, I rued my lack of experience and the customs that kept women from the byways of commerce and public life. I did not know how to conduct any business at all. My courage failed me at the sight of a countinghouse or shop crowded with men, bartering and contending loudly with one another, finally I came upon a nearly deserted shop where, despite being tongue-tied at first, I succeeded in pawning a cup that belonged to my father. The owner knew me for a Dane, but as I spoke French, I believe his attempt to cheat me failed somewhat. This merchant directed me to a dealer who sold me a serviceable horse. I paid his price too readily, but I was anxious to be on my way.
Leaving Calais, I kept to the well-trodden roads. Merchants and tradesmen with business in Pans passed me, galloping on much finer mounts. I often found myself among pilgrims, men and women both rich and humble, speaking many languages like the builders of Babel. In this company no one marked my own strange speech. My plain, mannish appearance also let me pass unnoticed. It gave me the liberty of looking at everyone about me, a freedom not allowed to courtly women. On the road and at the inns, I marveled at the diversity of mankind, the people with their strange manners and outlandish clothing more varied than the bright array of flowers in all of Denmark’s fields. I felt myself a small creature in a vast tapestry of nature. Soon I began to lose my fear of being apprehended.
I went on my way unmolested, even in the inns and alehouses, where, thanks to my disguise, I escaped the lewd attentions of men. Like all who travel, though, I watched for thieves. At an inn one night, I suspected a skulking, one-eyed man of having designs upon my purse. I did not relish using my dagger, so I befriended a jolly friar large enough to be of some protection. It was customary for several travelers to crowd under a single cover, but when the friar offered to share his bed with me, I let out a horrified cry that almost unmasked me. So I passed a sleepless night on the floor, thinking that the evening had provided good matter for the kind of ribald tale that delighted Gertrude.
I had not considered that travel would have so many discomforts. My legs and back ached, for I was unused to riding for hours. The days and nights were growing colder and in the mornings my clothes were touched with frost and my feet were numb. I did not know how to start a blaze without glowing coals, so I relied on kindly pilgrims to let me warm myself at their fires. I was soaked by rain and shivered until my clothes dried. Mud spattered my horse and stiffened my shoes. I could not undress to swim in a river or even wash my shirt without fearing that my true sex would be discovered. Once I paid dearly for a basin of water and a tiny solitary room in an inn so that I could wipe the dust from the road off my body.
Desperate and dirty though I was, the faint promise of happiness glimmered before me like sunlight through the ceiling of the forest. There on the road, I felt the babe within me move for the first time. Mechtild had not been mistaken. Hope stored in me, and I believed that Horatio would succeed in calming Hamlet’s madness and reconcile him and my brother. Hamlet would bring Claudius to justice in a court of the lords. Then he would restore virtuous rule in Denmark as its legitimate and well-loved king. Gertrude would be released from her fear of Claudius and reconciled to her son.
So while I trod the dirty road, alone among strangers, my thoughts pursued a primrose-strewn path. I imagined that Hamlet, restored to himself, would learn from Horatio that I lived. He would seek me out and woo me again, begging for my love. Would I forgive him? What task would I set for him to perform? Once he had proven his worthiness, I would present the child to him and behold his joy. I would return to Denmark as its queen, beloved of Hamlet and the people. Despite my misery and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, the hope in my breast fashioned a life as heroic and happy as the tales I had read in books.
Passing through Amiens, I turned from the highway and traveled alone for two days. Or was it longer? A fever possessed me suddenly, and I felt cold and hot at the same time. My mind grew dazed and my senses dimmed; my thoughts scattered like dry leaves. My horse wandered from the road, and I could not lead him back. Then, searching for my map, I discovered that I had lost it. I cried out in despair, but the sound fell upon the mossy earth, unheard. Making a bed of dry leaves, I buried myself and slept there until unquiet dreams roused me again. I mounted my horse, determined to seek the path again. How had Laertes even found the convent? It seemed to have disappeared into the woods like an enchantment. I rode downhill, hoping to come upon a river that would lead me to a village where I could ask the way. But delirium came over me again. My hopes and my health both failing, I tore a page from my prayer book and wrote in French, with a trembling hand: As you are a Christian, please help this burdened traveler to his intended refuge, the convent at St. Emilion, and let the contents herein be pledged in return for sanctuary. I signed the note “Philippe L’oeil” and thrust it into my purse, praying that it would be discovered and sting the conscience of my would-be robbers.
Though I had lost the path to St. Emilion and was barely conscious, still I clung to my horse until he found the convent and stopped at its brass gates like an obedient beast led by an invisible master.
Chapter 36
When I awoke from my fever, I found myself wearing a clean linen shift and lying on a hard, narrow bed. It took up most of the tiny cell, far smaller than my chamber at Elsinore. At the foot of the bed, beneath a crucifix, was a rough kneeler, and by it I knew that I had reached my destination. On the kneeler rested my Book of Hours, the gift from Gertrude. I knew that I should rise and pray in thanksgiving for my deliverance, but I felt too weak to move.
My door creaked open to reveal a young nun with a round and honest face.
“Philippe L’oeil, indeed!” she said, seeing that I was awake. Her smile was playful, like a young girl’s. She commenced talking at once, not waiting for an invitation.
“Your coming has caused a stir such as we have never kn
own! A young man, looking like death, slumped over his starving horse! At first Sister Marguerite would not open the gate. But Mother Ermentrude, our prioress, insisted that we must aid the poor fellow. Sister Angelina, who once had a husband, was charged with undressing and cleaning him. Her. You, that is.” She laughed. “Angelina cried out and nearly fainted upon discovering your true sex. We were all most astonished.” She put her hand to her face and raised her eyebrows, delighting in her tale.
“Your purse and the note within aroused still greater interest. We all talk of it in chapter, where we meet and study, and everyone has a different explanation,” she said. She sat on the edge of my bed and leaned close, her brown eyes bright with curiosity. “Who are you, and why have you come here?”
I decided to say little until I knew for certain that I was safe.
“I do not understand everything. I am still unwell,” I said, hearing the contrast between my rough, foreign accent and her lilting, native one. I closed my eyes to make my point.
She sprang away and began to apologize.
“I am sorry! I was so pleased to find you awake at last. I will go now, but you must drink this water and eat some bread. Shall I bring meat?” She gestured to the tray.
I nodded, for my hunger had returned. She smiled and turned to go, but just before she disappeared, she gave a little laugh, pointed to herself, and said she was called Sister Isabel.
Every day, Isabel came, bright with expectation. Though I smiled to see her and ate the food she brought, I did not satisfy her desire for conversation, so she soon left again. I spent days lost in my thoughts. It had been barely three months since Hamlet and I exchanged our vows in the wood, but it felt like years had passed. Outside the narrow window of my convent cell, leaves of linden and oak turned gold and brown and red and fell to the ground with every gust of wind. Soon the trees would be left naked, their branches like skeletons revealed against the sky.
I felt a oneness with the trees that changed their leafy vestments with the seasons. I asked myself Isabel’s constant question: Who are you? I had been my father’s rowdy daughter, then the queen’s favored lady-in-waiting. Later, a shepherd girl in a homespun frock, weaving garlands for her lover. Then a secret wife. Too soon a grieving one, wearing rags like a madwoman. For a time, a free young man striding in breeches and traveling alone. These were but roles I acted. Who was the true Ophelia?