by Lisa Klein
Finally it is the feast of Beltane and I can go to the shieling again. I am fourteen and I can build a small bothy and kindle a fire almost as well as Colum. He has taught me to tan hides and to make strong cords from the stems of stinging nettles. I know every sheep in Colum’s flock as well as mine, and they follow me as ducklings follow their mother. I can even find my way at night using the stars.
Caora finds us again, and from time to time we join up with other shepherds. The summer is full of singing, wrestling, and games. The sheep grow fat and woolly. All too quickly, however, the eve of August arrives, the flowers fall from the heather, and the green begins to fade from the grasses. That night we build a bonfire to honor the god Lug. Caora and I are dancing with the shepherds when I feel a stabbing pain at the center of my belly. It spreads to my thighs, then down to my left foot. Leaving the others dancing in the firelit circle, I limp away until the sound of their merriment fades.
Then, out of the gray murk steps a deer as white as the moon. She gazes at me with glistening black eyes that seem almost human and inclines her head as if beckoning me. My desire to follow her is like a hunger for sweetness and rest and drink all at once. I wonder if I am dreaming, but the pain stabs my belly again. I feel something wet between my legs, and looking down I see blood on my thigh.
“Will I die out here?” My words seem to waver on my lips and fall into the thick mist. I sink to my hands and knees.
The next thing I know, Caora is at my side.
“You’re not dying, my friend. The goddess Banrigh has visited you,” she says. She takes moss, wraps it in a strip of cloth, and ties it around my loins to catch the blood.
“Banrigh?” I look around in confusion for the white doe. She seems to have vanished.
“She rules the four aspects of the moon and lights the four worlds: the future, the past, the visible now, and the invisible,” explains Caora.
“The four worlds—you know about them!”
Caora nods. “There are many of us who follow the old ways. Now you are a votaress of Banrigh, as I am. With our help she controls Blagdarc, the god who strives to bring darkness to all four worlds. But she cannot destroy him, for she relies upon him to conceal the new moon, keeping the Asyetworld hidden,” Caora explains. “We are not meant to see the future.”
“Except for those who have the Sight,” I say, beginning to understand.
“They walk a dangerous path,” says Caora, slowly shaking her head, “for they are Blagdarc’s sworn enemies.”
I swallow hard. The pain still pulses in my belly. The moon overhead is shaped like an egg. While I wonder if she is waxing or waning, a cloud drifts across her face, and it is as black as night can possibly be on the shieling at the end of summer.
Chapter 7
Dun Inverness
Grelach
I have been patient for so long it wears hard on me. Waiting has not made the foolish and ignoble Duncan a good king. Waiting has not brought my husband the renown he deserves. We are still rulers of this northern kingdom only. And I have all but given up hope of bearing a son.
It has been three years since the day my lord arrived with news of how he defeated the traitor Macdonwald and earned Duncan’s praise. He hailed me as his dearest partner of greatness, and I was relieved that he meant to keep me as his wife, not spurn me for my fruitless womb. He spoke of meeting three fateful women on the moor who addressed him as thane of Glamis, thane of Cawdor, and—most exalted of all—king of Scotland! Surely those Wyrd sisters had more than mortal knowledge, for the lands and titles of Glamis and Cawdor soon fell to us. Like the passion of young lovers, our ambitions were aroused and we dreamt of ruling Scotland.
Duncan came to our castle to celebrate the victory. I prayed that some mishap would befall him and my lord would that night become all that was promised him. But the visit passed without incident. The next year, when Duncan visited again, I looked in vain for signs of poor health. I questioned Macbeth but found him unwilling to consider what might happen if the king should die suddenly.
“Duncan has honored me, and I have golden opinions from everyone,” he said to me then. “Let us not entertain these dark thoughts.”
By his very denial I knew his thoughts, and thus I could not keep silent.
“That crown sits on Duncan’s head like a bright confection. It may fall into your lap as easily as Glamis and Cawdor did—if you still wish to be king.”
“I will not tarnish my good name!” he shouted in a fury. Then he left with his warriors to slay more foes, loyally serving the undeserving Duncan.
Months went by, and when Macbeth returned he poured into my lap the spoils of battles. Gold and jewels! Silks! I slept with him, prayed to all the saints, and waited for my womb to fill, but it remained empty.
I am only twenty-eight, young enough to bear many sons. But not since my daughter have I brought a child to life. Am I now cursed for letting her perish?
Alas, to dwell in the past is to sink like a stone dropped into the sea. I must think of the future instead. What wife worthy of greatness would stand by, year after year, and let opportunity pass through her husband’s open hands? The promise of the fateful sisters must be fulfilled! Will it happen tonight, when Duncan visits our castle again?
The king has brought his sons, the big-headed Malcolm and his younger brother, Donalbain. Macduff, the thane of Fife, arrives with his son, and Banquo with his son, Fleance. The young men wrestle with staves and throw stones to see who is the strongest. Luoch joins in their contests. He is fifteen now, and his face is becoming square and manly, his shoulders wide. Watching him, I am struck by his silent determination to win. Deep-voiced shouts fill the air. Duncan rubs his hands in pleasure.
“Your son has the makings of a warrior,” he says to me.
I nod, hiding my scowl. A warrior? My son has the makings of a king!
Often I remind Luoch of his royal descent, in order to feed his self-regard. Today I see that he is no longer a skulking, fearful boy, but one who strikes with a strong arm. My father has toughened him.
Now Luoch faces Fleance in a match with swords. Fleance is a fine-looking boy, blue-eyed, sturdy and quick.
“Banquo, your son carries himself with the pride of greatness. I will keep my eye on him,” the king says in an approving tone.
I see my husband glance at Banquo, mistrustful.
“We are Your Grace’s loyal servants,” says Banquo to the king. “But the worthiest on the field are the princes, your own sons.”
Anyone can see that Prince Malcolm is a puny boy, despite his huge head, and no match for Fleance or even Luoch. But the self-satisfied Duncan smiles. He demands flattery as his due, like taxes and tribute, and we all must pay.
Now Duncan calls out, “Macbeth! How do you judge these worthy princes?”
My lord stands with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the young men fight. I see the muscles of his jaw tense and I know that he is filled with envy. He does not reply to the king. Is he thinking as I am, that we have waited long enough?
The feast that night is fit for a better king than Duncan. Platters piled high with every kind of fish, fowl, and game crowd the tables. Mead-horns overflow, spilling onto the floor. Rhuven hurries about, overseeing the servants. That would be my task, but I have been ordered to sit on Duncan’s left hand, while my lord sits on his right. The king has given me a diamond that glitters against my red gown, a jewel hard enough to cut stone. But he cannot soften me with gifts and pretended honor.
Pipers play and a bard weaves a lay of Duncan’s latest victories—battles he would have lost were it not for my Macbeth and his general, Banquo. The king is drunk. He splashes wine into my lord’s cup. He praises him and Banquo in equal measure. The young men, their bellies full and their faces ruddy with mead, fall asleep on the ground, not even bothering to go to their chambers. Duncan turns to me, squinting, his eyes barely able to focus.
“My dear Grelach, you must waste no more time!”
Startled, I drop my knife. Can he read my thoughts? “What do you mean, Your Majesty?” I ask guardedly.
“You must give your husband a fine, strong son of his own, for that is your duty as my subject and servant.”
I feel anger flood my veins like fire. I will have no such obligation to this paltry king! How dare he tell me what is my duty! How dare he call me his servant!
Duncan lurches from his seat and gestures toward his prone and snoring sons.
“There, my loyal war-leaders,” he proclaims in a loud but slurred voice, “asleep with his warband is your future king. To succeed me I have chosen—Prince Malcolm!”
I let out a gasp. My eyes seek out my lord’s, who looks to me as if an invisible cord between us were suddenly pulled taut. He, too, looks stunned.
How dare Duncan—whose grandfather shut my kin out of the succession—now try to extend his rule to the next generation! The injustice of it brings my blood to the boiling point.
I stand up, almost knocking over my chair. The wine I have drunk makes my head spin. Without asking the king’s permission, I leave the dining hall. Rhuven follows me to my chamber to undress me, but I dismiss her.
“Do not come to me until tomorrow. I would be alone. Send my lord to me.”
With an anxious glance backward, she leaves. I pace the room like a tethered lion. How dare Duncan allude to my barrenness! As if I am good for nothing but to bring forth sons. If I were a man my brawn and my brains—not my womb—would grant me power. O that this false king would fall, that a more worthy one might rise! It must happen now.
Craving more wine, the feel of its heat in my veins, I empty the flask on my table, drinking every drop. From under my bed I draw out the bag of herbs Rhuven brought me from her sister and take out a leafy sprig of rowan, also called witchwood. I sweep my cross and beads to the floor. This is no business for God’s mother and the saints. I pass the witchwood over the flame of my lamp. Small red berries sizzle in the flame and a sweet smell stings my nose.
“Come to me, you ancient spirits. Come Neoni, who brought everything from her vast empty womb. Thicken my blood that no womanly remorse may flow in my veins.”
Angrily I press my breasts beneath my shift. I know how tender it is to love the babe that milks me. But my body has betrayed me, refusing to bring forth any more life. Now it is time to use death as my means.
“Come thick night and hell-smoke, hide the wound this knife will make,” I murmur through clenched teeth. My mind swims from the wine. What knife? I have no knife. Must I slay Duncan? I hear my lord’s footsteps approaching upon the stairs. No, it must be his deed.
Macbeth enters my room with clenched fists. “Duncan has gone to bed,” he says, slamming the door shut. “Damn him and both his sons, for he spares no opportunity to insult my manhood! Did you hear him praise Fleance? Does he mean to advance Banquo over me?”
I seize his shoulders. The fumes of burning witchwood envelop us. “This night is our opportunity to act. Duncan insults us simply by living.”
He does not mistake my meaning. Yet all he says is “Are you drunk?”
“Are you drunk, my lord, with fear? Or do you dare to act on your desires?”
“I dare not do more than a man should,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
“Think of what the Wyrd sisters promised you, and what you promised me,” I remind him. “If you love me, keep your word.”
“But what if we should fail?”
“We’ll not fail, if you screw your courage to the sticking place!” I put my hand on the hilt of the dagger at his waist.
“With your mettle you should bring forth only male children!” Macbeth says with a groan that hints of lust.
“And I will yet, if you show me you are a man,” I say in his ear. “Now, is the king alone?”
“Two grooms guard his chamber door.”
“Stay here while I drug the wine so the grooms will sleep. Then use their daggers, so that it will look like their deed.”
He nods, and I go with the poisoned cups. The grateful grooms drink—unwary fools!—and fall sleep. They look dead. I take out their daggers. Then I open the door to Duncan’s bedroom and step inside. The light from the torch in the hall slants across his body. His chest rises and falls. My hand twitches as I imagine putting a dagger to the king’s chest, above his heart. No, perhaps the neck would be easier, the unguarded skin where the pulse beats.
The king lets out a long, rasping breath.
When I was a child, after my mother died, I used to creep into my father’s room at night. I would listen for his breath to reassure myself that he still lived. Banish tender thoughts! This is not my father but the unworthy sot Duncan. My hands tighten on the daggers until my arms tremble. Yet he is only a man, sleeping. I cannot do it! I back out of the room, lay the daggers down beside the unconscious grooms, and hurry back to my chamber.
In the hall I pass my husband. His eyes are wide and glittering. He gazes at something beyond me, like one who sleepwalks.
“I see it still … a fatal vision. It leads me the way that I was going,” he murmurs confusedly. The midnight bell rings. “I go, and it is done!” he says as if awakened by its clanging.
In my chamber, I wait. The night is blacker and longer than any night I can remember. My husband does not return. Has he lost his will? An owl shrieks, waking me from a half sleep.
Finally Macbeth comes, soaked in blood but with a face as pale as a ghost from hell. The deed is done! He speaks without sense, saying that he has murdered sleep, that he cannot pronounce “Amen” even while saying the word over and over. Carrying not one, but three daggers. His own and those of the grooms. My heart knocks against my ribs. Has he ruined everything?
“Take these daggers back!” I hiss. “They must lie next to the grooms.”
He shakes his red locks violently. “Nay, I cannot look upon what I have done.”
“Then go and wash yourself. Put on your nightgown and get into your bed,” I say as if I am talking to a child. I grab the daggers and tiptoe down the hall, cursing Macbeth’s cowardice. The blood on them is drying, making my hands sticky.
The scene outside Duncan’s bedroom makes the wine in my stomach rise up into my mouth. The throats of the grooms gape open. Bone and sinews show. Their faces are dead white. Blood, enough to fill several bowls, pools on the floor around them. It is all I can do to place the daggers near their hands without fainting into the gory mess myself. Not one, but three dreadful deeds have been done here, never to be undone.
What possessed Macbeth to kill the innocent grooms?
I am afraid of my husband.
I wash my hands. The water in my basin turns pink, then red. But the blood clots beneath my fingernails and seeps into my palms and will not be rubbed away. I toss the guilty water out the window. It splashes against the rocks below.
The cock crows. I hear the servants rise to begin their work. Soon come the screams and shouts.
“Murder! Help! The king is slain!”
I follow the tumult to the door of Duncan’s chamber. I close my eyes, but the metallic smell of the blood brings the whole scene to my mind. I begin to sway, but Rhuven is there, holding me up. I see Banquo on his knees, Macduff standing with a horrified look on his face, and my husband pacing and tearing his hair.
“Who among you, if you loved the king, could have refrained from killing these murderers?” he cries, his face a mask of grief.
Lennox rushes up the stairs. “The princes are gone!” he cries.
“Let suspicion fall upon them!” Macbeth declares. “They must have bribed the guards to do the deed.”
“Why would they want to kill their father? It is most unnatural,” says Lennox, shaking his head. “Yet they are fled, which proves their guilt.”
“Nay, they are afraid for their own lives, and wisely so,” murmurs Banquo.
I see him glance at my lord, distrust in his eyes. Then faintness overwhelms me and I lean on Rhuven again.
“What did you have to do with it?” she asks, her voice urgent.
“I did not touch any of them. Don’t look at me so.” I close my eyes and turn my head away from her.
“Grelach, you must tell me, or I cannot protect you.” She grasps my shoulders and shakes me gently.
I rub my hands together, unable to stop myself. “Rhuven, bring me some water to wash with.”
“Not until you tell me the entire truth.” She takes my face between her hands, forcing me to look in her eyes.
I trust Rhuven. She is my constant companion, my other self.
“I only put the drops of mandrake in their wine to make them sleep. It was not part of the plan to slay them,” I whisper. “Only Duncan.”
I do not need to say more. I have as much as confessed my husband’s crimes—and my part in them—to Rhuven. Now she, too, has reason to fear Macbeth.
Chapter 8
The Shieling
Albia
When I come home from the shieling at the end of the summer, I notice at once my mother’s gaunt shape and the shadowy circles beneath her eyes. I ask her if she is ill.
“All of Scotland is sick,” she replies.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“King Duncan is dead, his sons have fled, and Macbeth rules in his stead,” replies Helwain in a flat voice, like someone who has tasted of a plant that numbs the brain.
So the painted warrior of Wanluck Mhor is now the king! Helwain should be exulting that her words have proven true. Then again, what does it matter which bloodthirsty thane sits on the throne? Nothing in Scotland changes but the seasons, and they follow one another as predictably as night follows day.
But I am wrong about that. First, my body changes. With Banrigh’s monthly visitation, my breasts grow round, my hips flare out, and my emotions reel from one extreme to another. That winter I turn fifteen.
