Lady Macbeth's Daughter

by Lisa Klein

  I glance at Breda. Will she reveal that Banquo sometimes ignores the king’s laws and poaches his game?

  “Discontent grows, like a weed spreading along bare ground,” she says. “Many thanes want war. And we—women and children—will be the victims.” Bitterness fills her words.

  “Nay, we must trust our men to keep us safe. Before he left, Macduff promised to do nothing that would endanger us here, and I believe him.” Fiona stands up and shakes out her skirt. “Let us no longer speak of men’s affairs. Come and see my garden. You too, Albia. Children, let her be!”

  I smile with relief as Wee Duff puts down his wooden sword and the twins untangle their fingers from my hair. Following Breda and Fiona into the garden, I draw in my breath with delight. Defying the blight that afflicts all of Scotland, colorful flowers bloom, green ivy twines up trellises, and trees bear globes of ripening fruit.

  Fiona touches the fruit with loving fingers and reaches down to pluck a stray weed.

  “My children like you, Albia. Tell me about your kin,” she says.

  I don’t want to think about my mother and Helwain stooped before the fire in the smoky roundhouse. I inhale the scents of lavender, rosemary, and lemon balm, wanting only to lose myself in this garden. But Fiona is waiting for an answer, and I must not be rude.

  “My mother is a sister of the queen’s lady, Rhuven.”

  She nods. “And your father?”

  A memory comes over me. I don’t have a father, I once told Colum. No one needs a father.

  I look at Fiona and shake my head.

  “He is dead?” Fiona says softly. “I am sorry.”

  I don’t correct her. I cannot explain it.

  You are nobody. Fleance’s voice now. You don’t even have a father.

  “Banquo is as good as a father to me.” I glance at Breda to see if this offends her. Her eyes are moist.

  Now I feel the lack of a father like a hole inside me. Until Banquo treated me like a daughter, I didn’t know what it was like to have a father. Until I met Fiona and her brood, I didn’t think that one needed a father to be happy. I recall Murdo’s kindness to me when I was a child, the touch of his hands as he fitted the ashwood to my leg. How lucky Colum is, to have a father to care for him!

  All the way back to Dunbeag, the thoughts will not leave me. I must have had a father. Who was he? Why does Mother never speak of him? Did he die or did he leave us? And why? I will ask Rhuven the next time she visits. Or I will go home and demand the truth from Mother.

  One way or another, I will find my father out.

  Chapter 11

  Dun Forres

  Grelach

  I was born for this. Descended from a king, I am at last a queen! The crown of beaten gold and the fur-trimmed robes become me. My proud lord looks lofty; none dare meet his eyes. I stood behind him as he was crowned, not beside him, so that no one could call me ambitious. Now I am at fortune’s blessed height with Macbeth. Our secret is as safe as a jewel locked in a hidden kist. The deed binds us to each other more firmly than any marriage vow.

  I admit that in the aftermath of that terrible night a year ago, I feared my husband. I thought he would murder me, the only witness to his crime. So I flattered him, praising his manly courage. I promised that the worst torment man could devise would never work our secret from me. Why would I put our greatness at risk? But I did not lie down at night unless Rhuven was awake beside me, keeping watch.

  Rhuven, my most trusted servant! She soothes me when I am afraid to close my eyes because of the nightmares. She quiets me when I awaken screaming from the horrid visions, my heart fluttering in my throat like a bird against the bars of its cage. Of course Rhuven fears the consequences if Macbeth discovers that she knows our secret. I promise her that I will protect her as long as I am queen, and I make her swear to guard me as well.

  “If my husband kills me, Rhuven, you must trumpet his crimes to the world.”

  “Indeed, and who would believe me?” she replies with a doubtful look. “My tongue—or my throat—would be cut. No, I can best serve you with my silence.”

  “Still, keep a dagger about you, as I keep this one.” And I show her my weapon, small enough to fit in my sleeve.

  She recoils and will not touch it. Thus I know that neither Macbeth nor I have anything to fear from harmless Rhuven. But have I made her afraid of me? I put the knife away, smile, and speak lightly.

  “I only mean that we must protect ourselves, for no one else will.”

  These days I am always thinking ahead. If my lord were to be found slain, who would be surprised? Every king has enemies. And in the event of his death, who would become king but my own son? With my father’s men behind him, Luoch would rise to the throne. I would be twice crowned—the widow of a king and the mother of a king!

  Macbeth abhors the thought of my son on the throne. He knows he could secure his own legacy by declaring the boy his heir. But he will not. The blood-pride that fills him to the fingertips and stains every lock of his hair yearns to pour itself into a mold of his own making. Surely I will yet give him a son! Perhaps a new potion will help quicken my womb? Oh, a queen with many sons is the most powerful of women! Sons are her protectors, her hedge against all worldly misfortune.

  But on this tip-top peak where we stand, nothing touches us; everything serves us. My lord rules Scotland with a strong arm, and what grew weak under Duncan’s lax reign has been shored up: the armies enlarged and newly outfitted, the fleets repaired, castles restored. The people must be brought to heel and made to work for the good of the country. But instead they grumble out of ignorance and laziness, and foolishly fear that one unseasonable year means starvation and ruin forever. Shall we let England overrun us or the Norsemen sweep down from the seas? Not while Macbeth is king and I am queen!

  But my lord is not well lately. He meets with his thanes and generals far into the night, then paces the chamber like a fox in his lair, fretting and scheming until dawn. He charges one thane with insubordination and another with plotting against him. He refuses the posset I bring to calm him, sniffing the cup and eyeing me with suspicion.

  Tonight Macduff, the thane of Fife, has riled him with some demands. My lord has also learned that Duncan’s sons, who fled to England and to Ireland, are spreading rumors about my lord.

  “Don’t worry about Macduff,” I reassure him. “And the princes? Their self-exile condemns them. Let them return to Scotland, then dare to speak against you.”

  “That is exactly what I fear—that Malcolm will return, with England’s army behind him. The boy would sell Scotland to King Edward just to call himself a king and rule as England’s lackey.”

  “Malcolm has a big head but no brain,” I say with scorn, “and should he come back with an army, your thanes will fight for you.”

  “Will they?” he muses darkly. “We were not loyal to Duncan. Why shouldn’t my men betray me?”

  “Duncan was weak. He was not worthy to be king. You are both strong and worthy. And you were acclaimed by all to succeed Duncan.” I remind him, as always, of the truth of our greatness. “All that the soothsayer foretold has come to pass.”

  Instead of being comforted, he grinds his teeth and clutches his head.

  “What is it, my lord?” I demand, startled by his reaction. “Who among your thanes would conspire against you?”

  “Banquo,” my lord whispers.

  “Banquo? Is your brain fevered? He is your most trusted general, the companion of your youth—as dear to you as Rhuven is to me!”

  “Nay, Grelach, he must betray me. You don’t know—”

  “I know you torment yourself without reason. Our fortunes have been fulfilled. Content yourself!”

  “I have not told you all that the Wyrd sisters foretold.”

  “What have you withheld from me? Tell me now,” I demand coldly.

  “That night on the moor, when they promised me the throne, they also prophesied—” He hesitates, and though he looks in my
direction, his gaze goes through me. “They prophesied that Banquo would be greater than me.”

  “No one is greater than the king of Scotland,” I say. “What could they have meant?”

  Macbeth shakes his head. “At the time, I hardly gave a thought to what they said to Banquo. I only cared about my own future.”

  “Did they say more? Did they explain?”

  “They said that he would beget kings, though he would be none.”

  The thought of Fleance as a king makes me laugh. “Fleance is nobody. The offspring of a minor thane. A boastful, strutting cock, nothing but noise. No one minds him.”

  Macbeth only grows more riled.

  “Nay, they hailed Banquo as father to a line of kings. Upon my head they put a fruitless crown and in my hand a barren scepter. If the fatal hags do not lie, it will be wrenched away, no son of mine succeeding!”

  I feel a surge of excitement at this revelation. Perhaps it does not matter that my lord and I will remain sonless. Luoch, my son, will succeed my husband!

  “The hags were mistaken. Banquo is no threat to us,” I say, trying to soothe him.

  “My time has come, and it will pass.” Macbeth’s tone is dire. “And then Banquo’s time will come—unless I stop it!” He leaps to his feet.

  I see murder in his eyes. No doubt or hesitation, as on the night he slew Duncan and the grooms.

  “No, you must not! Don’t kill again,” I plead, breathless. “At least not until you are certain he is disloyal. What if you are found out?”

  My lord laughs sharply. “When it is done, not a drop of their blood will touch my hand.”

  I am too afraid to ask who will do the deed for him. I do not want to know.

  That night I dream that I am standing at the edge of a loch. My hands are covered with blood. I dip them into the water, but they will not come clean, though I rub them together, then wipe them with great swaths of linen. The stain is set in my skin. I immerse them again, and the entire loch turns red. I cry out in my sleep and wake up trembling. My lord, not Rhuven, is beside me in the bed.

  “Quiet!” he growls in a threatening voice. His hand covers my mouth.

  Chapter 12

  Dunbeag and Wychelm Wood

  Albia

  When we return to Dunbeag, Breda treats me no differently than before. Perhaps it does not matter to her whether I have a father or not. Nothing more is said about him. She is being kind, in her own way. Then Banquo and Fleance return from Dun Forres, Fleance swaggering and swearing like a soldier. No wonder Breda envies Fiona her sweet-faced bairns.

  The second winter of King Macbeth’s reign roars in like a hoary beast, colder and more cruel than the last one. Neither rebels nor loyal warriors leave their hearths to fight. The only battle is the one for survival. I worry about Mother and Helwain but have no way of knowing how they are faring. Rhuven does not even visit. The roads are deserted, even by the bandits. But at the king’s behest, Banquo and Fleance leave Dunbeag, wrapped up like bears against the cold, and do not return for weeks. Banquo is grim-faced and silent about their business, but he has brought rewards from the king: marten-lined cloaks for themselves and yards of madder-colored silk for Breda. Rhuven has sent me a new gown, and Banquo gives me a pair of shoes, soft and sturdy, made from a cow’s hide. I kiss his hairy cheek and thank him, but this time the word “Father” sticks on my tongue and will not come out.

  “I have something for you, too,” Fleance announces. “I will give it to you later.”

  I wonder what new trick he has devised to trap me. This time I will be ready for him.

  “I hope it is a shield,” I say, eyeing him with suspicion. “Meet me on the path to the village. I will bring the sword and you can give me another lesson.”

  I arrive there ahead of Fleance and wait, jumpy as a rabbit. Finally he comes, wearing a fine yellow tunic and carrying his sword and two shields.

  “You brought me what I asked for. Well done!” I say as someone might praise a hound, but I smile to show my goodwill.

  “And I brought something you left undone, some time ago,” he says, holding one hand behind his back.

  “What did I leave undone? Is this a riddle?”

  In reply, he holds out a folded piece of cloth. Frowning but curious, I take it in my hands and unfold it, revealing a bright girdle made of silk. It is as smooth and blue as the surface of a loch and trimmed with a woven braid in a pattern I recognize.

  “Why, it is the braid I broke last year—when you—” I stammer, remembering how he tried to corner me while I was weaving and I struck him. “Why did you even save it?”

  He shrugs. “It was too fine a piece of work to leave in the dirt.”

  “But how did it come to be finished?”

  “I took it to the weaver woman in the village.”

  I examine the braid and cannot tell where it was broken, so well did she complete the design.

  “It is so lovely, I cannot accept it,” I say with a shake of my head. “I have nothing to give in return.”

  “Only grant me leave to put it on you,” he says, his blue eyes on mine.

  I hesitate. Still, I long to wear something so beautiful. Where is the harm?

  I hold up my arms and Fleance passes the blue silk around my waist once, twice, and a third time. He has to lean close to me, but his hands do not stray. He ties the girdle and lets the ends fall. I feel the cloth snug against me yet not binding, a light thing of beauty.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “I want to kiss you.” His words come out in a single rapid breath.

  I freeze. I feel hot tears begin to form and I close my eyes to keep them from falling. I have been so lonely since coming to Dunbeag.

  “Now … may I?” he asks.

  Where is the harm? I nod, and as his lips meet my forehead I feel a pleasant tingling of my skin beneath the girdle.

  Oh please, now on the lips!

  But instead Fleance draws back. Disappointed, I open my eyes.

  “Where … where did you learn that?” I whisper.

  “To kiss? Why, that was hardly anything.”

  “Nay, I mean, to ask.”

  He cocks his head to the side. “The other ways did not work with you.”

  I smile and finger the ends of the sash. “But why?”

  “Why what?”

  Why are you, with your rough manners, now being kind to me? I thought you considered me too plain for your attention. Why does your father treat me like his daughter? Why am I so confused?

  “Why did you give me this gift?” I ask.

  He smiles. “I don’t know. It wanted doing.”

  I peer into his face but cannot read his feelings. I yearn to shake him until his words and deeds fall into some pattern I might understand.

  “Fleance, what do you want of me?” I say with all the earnest longing in me.

  He steps back, dodging the question. “I want to teach you to fight!”

  “And I want to learn,” I say, letting the question drop, for I don’t think I am ready for an honest answer.

  Picking up the shield, I clumsily fasten its leather bands to my left forearm. I let Fleance show me how to protect myself while striking a blow, and how to fend off blows.

  “Use the edge. If your enemy’s sword gets stuck in the front of your shield, it will be useless.”

  We practice until I am nearly breathless.

  “Now you are ready,” he says.

  I raise the sword and it promptly slips from my sweaty hand. I groan with dismay.

  Suppressing a laugh, Fleance takes a thin piece of deerskin and wraps it around my hand. I try not to think about his hands touching my fingers and wrist.

  “This will improve your grip,” he says. Then he picks up a sword, and I see that it is made of wood.

  “Why, that is a mere toy!”

  “Don’t frown so,” he says. “It wouldn’t be a fair match otherwise.”

  Determined, I face Fleance in the small cleari
ng. With a shield in one hand and a sword in the other, I feel balanced and secure. I match his every move. My knees are bent and I lean a bit forward, waiting for the opportunity to thrust. Has Fleance noticed that my sword is now sharp?

  “Just so you know,” I say, with a hint of teasing in my tone, “if I hurt you, I don’t mean to.”

  Fleance laughs in a loud burst. “I think I can defend myself. I’ve had harder opponents.”

  At that moment his attention falters, and I bring my blade briskly down upon his wooden war-toy. With a crack it shivers into pieces and he is left holding the hilt. He lets out all his breath at once and stares at me, stunned.

  Now it is my turn to laugh.

  “By Saint Brigid!” he cries. He looks me up and down, his eyes stopping at my waist. “Could the old woman have woven some magic into that girdle?”

  “If so, I must never take it off.”

  “Let me see that sword.”

  Beaming with triumph, I hand it to him and slip the heavy shield from my forearm.

  “It is the same one, surely, but you had it sharpened,” he observes. “Did you put a charm upon it, too?”

  “I am no sorceress! But I have been building my strength. See?” I hold out my arms, letting the loose sleeves slip back, and tense them so that my sinews show, small but hard.

  Fleance grasps my wrists, then slides his hands along my forearms, cupping my elbows. He presses upward, bunching the cloth of my sleeves until he is holding me by the shoulders. There he stops and regards me, his eyebrows raised, mutely asking, May I?

  I feel the tingling start up again beneath the girdle, deeper this time. I clap my hands against Fleance’s back. It is damp with sweat, and the muscles ripple beneath the skin. I pull him to me.

  Where is the harm?

  I press my lips as hard as I can against his. My teeth bump into his. He kisses me back and we almost fight to hold each other the tighter, until he lifts me off my feet. Soon I feel my strength begin to falter and release my arms, letting him hold me in the air, with nothing to ground me.