by Lisa Klein
“I don’t have anything to say. I have been in no battles. They ignore me as if I am not here.”
“That is because you make yourself invisible. At least use your ears and listen,” I order him. “Go, and don’t be such a lackwit!”
“Aye, Mother,” he says with a sigh. Obediently he shambles off and greets the thane of Lennox and offers to fill his cup. Then he glances up at me and I nod.
He knows he must please me, and he will yet do so.
Macbeth calls for his men to be seated. I take my place at the table. There is a movement in the doorway. At last, I think, Banquo has arrived, and Fleance with him.
But the man in the doorway is Eadulf. He wears a hood but I recognize the blotch on his cheek. My lord gets up, almost knocking over his chair. He strides over to Eadulf and they whisper in the doorway. My lord’s back is to me, but I see him clap Eadulf ’s shoulders in approval. The next moment he shoves Eadulf, sending him sprawling, and brings his arms back as if to strike him again. Instead he grabs his own head and growls. Eadulf scrambles away. Does this mean Banquo and Fleance are yet alive?
I hurry to my husband’s side. The mandragora makes my head spin and it is a struggle to stay upright. Now the thanes have taken notice and they stand up to see better. I have no time to ask Macbeth what Eadulf has done—or not done.
“My lord, you must come to the table now and welcome the men to eat,” I say in a low voice, gripping his arm and leading him toward his seat.
After a few steps he halts. “Good appetite and health to all!” he announces in a forced and hearty tone. “All that our feast lacks is the presence of Banquo. I hope that no mischance keeps him away.”
Does he speak in a double sense? I cannot tell.
“Sit, my liege. I may not eat until you do,” says Ross, gesturing toward my lord’s chair.
But still my lord stands there. He looks at his chair.
“The table is full,” he says as a fearful look contorts his face.
The thanes begin to murmur and look doubtful.
“Which of you has done this?” asks Macbeth, shifting his glance from face to face, his body still rigid. “You may not say that I did it.”
My pulse quickens in alarm. I dash to my lord’s chair and grip its back, urging him to come and sit.
“Don’t shake your gory locks at me!” he shouts, pointing to the chair.
The chair is empty. Can he not see that? Who does he see there? Is it Duncan’s ghost?
“Dear friends, sit down,” I call, my voice rising over theirs. “My lord is not well. These fits sometimes come upon him. He will recover in a moment. Do not regard him, or he will become more disturbed.”
I rush back to Macbeth’s side and drag him with difficulty into a nook.
“What folly is this? Come to your senses. Be still, and say nothing more,” I beg, terrified that he is on the brink of confessing our crime to all the thanes.
He stares beyond me. “If you can nod, then speak, too!” he demands. He grips my arm, saying, “Look, he goes now.”
“What you see is no more real than a painting. An image of your fears.”
I glance behind me at the table. The thanes are seated. They are quiet. No one is eating.
“In the olden times, when the brains were out, a man would die,” Macbeth whispers, amazed. “But now they rise again, which is a greater wonder.”
Then as suddenly as it came, the fit is over. He walks to the table like himself, a king. I follow and take my seat, my legs and hands still trembling. Macbeth raises a cup, and drinks—to Banquo’s health! A chill constricts my chest. It is just like my lord to toast Banquo while plotting his death, as he professed his loyalty for Duncan after he had killed him. It is my lord’s way: to hide his guilt by feigning love.
The men lift their cups and drink. “Where is Banquo?” they murmur.
My lord jumps from his chair and sends it crashing to the floor.
“Away and quit my sight!” he shouts. His face is as white as a linen sheet.
My hands fly up, knocking over my cup, and the wine pours into my lap. My lord is raving again.
“How can you behold such sights without blanching?” he demands of his thanes.
Only Ross dares respond. “What sights, my lord?”
“I pray you, don’t speak!” I cry out before my lord can reply. “My husband grows worse and worse. Good night, all. Go at once.”
The men get up and quietly leave. Luoch is the last to go. He glances over his shoulder at Macbeth, his nostrils flared with disgust. I wave him away.
My lord and I are alone in the hall. The untouched food grows cold on the platters. The torchlights flicker and shadows on the wall dance as if to mock us. I can barely speak for the anger in me.
“Did you invite all your thanes here in order to witness your madness? You have no doubt roused their worst suspicions, and they will plot to overthrow you.”
“The small serpent has fled,” he says, not attending to my words at all.
“What do you mean? Don’t speak in riddles,” I demand, my patience gone.
“Fleance escaped, but his father lies dead in a ditch.”
I sink down onto a bench, dropping my head into my hands.
“And you think that after tonight’s display, none here will suspect that you had a hand in the deed?” I ask, dismayed. “How will you justify it?”
“He was caught poaching game on my land. The wardens shot him.”
“Even so! To kill a thane without a trial? This is a sure way to turn the others against you.”
My lord is not listening. He holds out his hands and examines them. They are powerful and long-fingered, the bloodstains hidden beneath the skin.
“There is still more to be done,” he says.
“Fleance? The youth is no threat to us. You are king, as promised. Let the rest be.” I am begging him now. “You tempt fate, and I fear it will destroy you.”
But I might as well be talking to a stone, for still my lord does not heed me.
“I will go to the Wyrd sisters again. They will tell me what is to come.”
I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Hear me, and do not go!”
He slaps my hand away, angry now.
“I will do what I must for my own good. Do not try to stop me.” His voice is threatening and his black eyes without feeling.
I let him go. It would be dangerous to rile him further.
I know that my lord is now beyond my reach. While I stand at the shore of a sea of blood, he has waded up to his neck in the gore. And he will go deeper yet. There will be more killing. But I cannot follow, not even to bring him back. I am about to lose him.
Suddenly I do not want to be alone, for without him, I will be nothing.
Chapter 15
Dunbeag
Albia
When I wake up in my tiny room, Breda is holding a cup of warm broth to my lips. The air smells of mustard and wormwood poultices. I feel dull and sleepy and all my limbs ache as if I have been fighting with swords and running with stones around my ankles. Breda tells me that I have been out of my senses for many days.
The last thing I remember is trying to warn Banquo about Macbeth. The fact that Breda calmly tends to me now persuades me that he is unharmed. Perhaps my fears were groundless after all, and grief for Geillis disturbed my mind, then made me ill. I wonder if any warning dreams came to me while I was sick, but I can remember only a few strange images. Trees in a forest stirring from their places and moving as if they had feet. A procession of kings passing me, one holding a looking glass. Mere figments of a feverish mind. And Fleance’s face, which brings a feeling of sorrow.
Banquo and Fleance have gone out hunting, Breda says. She brings me oatcakes soaked in milk, urging me to eat. Her eyes, which once made me think of ice, now recall the cool waters of a loch. When she wipes my forehead, it is like an apology for calling me a whore. I submit to her care, too weak to help myself. It occurs to me that I ha
ve mistaken our relationship, trying to please Breda as a companion, when she only wanted a daughter to care for.
But I am not her daughter. I was not Geillis’s daughter. Generous, loving Geillis! No, my mother is the queen. I feel no speck of pride in this, for the woman came by that title by foul deeds. Still less can she be called a mother, for she did not even protect me from my cruel father. I deny her. Should we ever meet, I will be as indifferent to her as she was to me. She left me to die!
Yet I did not die, for Rhuven saved me. And I did not succumb to this fever, for Breda nursed me. Macbeth my blood father is a murderer, full of foul lust, but my foster father, Banquo, is upright and kindhearted. He has accepted me as his daughter. Colum is my dear friend. And I think I love Fleance.
I start to cry, not out of grief, but with gratitude for my good fortune.
Breda’s screams make me bolt from my bed. My first thought is that bandits have invaded Dunbeag to rob and rape us.
I reach under my mattress for my sword—Fleance’s old sword. It feels heavier in my hand than before I fell sick. I stumble down the stairs on weakened legs.
Fleance stands in the hallway, covered with blood. Breda’s frantic hands flutter over his chest and his arms. She gasps helplessly. Dropping the sword, I run for a bucket of water and a sponge and by the time I get back, Fleance has slid to the ground. Breathless, I crouch beside him. Breda clutches her hair and rocks back and forth on her knees. Before Fleance utters a word, I know the truth: that Banquo has been killed.
“Father … tried to fight them. He told me to run … save myself.”
Fleance’s face contorts in agony and tears spill from his eyes.
“Who did it?” I ask, trying to hold in my anger. “Was it the king?”
“Two men. I think … one was Eadulf. Macbeth’s man. He had a stain like wine on his cheek. He is the one who … stabbed my father.”
“I was afraid this would happen!” I wail. “I tried to warn him!”
“It was my fault. We should not have been … hunting in the king’s woods. I should have protected him. Not run like … a coward.” Fleance’s face crumples in shame.
I cannot trust myself to speak. Instead I start to wash the blood away. I open his tunic and feel my face redden as I check for wounds. Fortunately he has only a few cuts.
“You should try and comfort her,” I say, glancing over at the keening Breda.
“I don’t know how,” he says, looking miserable.
“Like this.” I wrap my arms around him, drawing his head to my shoulder. My cheek rests against his matted, dirty hair. The words leap out of my mouth like a sob. “Fleance, I loved your father!”
He clutches my arm and for a long moment we hold each other. Then he pulls away from me. His eyes are damp, his chin thrust out in determination.
“I won’t be a coward anymore. Ross, Lennox, and Angus are turning against Macbeth. I will join them.”
“Where are they now?”
Fleance lifts his shoulders. “I don’t know, but I will travel the rivers and glens southward until I find them.”
“I am coming with you,” I say, having decided just that moment. “I want to help defeat Macbeth.”
“Albia, you are brave,” says Fleance with a sigh. “But I cannot let you come to harm for my sake.”
But I am determined, and I do not like to be denied.
“I can defend myself. Isn’t that why you taught me to fight? I only need a better sword and shield.”
“No.” Fleance holds up his hands, palms toward me. “He was my father. This revenge is mine.” More firmly than those hands, his words push me away.
Then he crawls over to his mother and lays his head in her lap like a child. She leans over him and they weep together.
The sight of them fills me with longing. But I suppress it, for the matter at hand is revenge. What Fleance does not know is that it was my father who killed his, even if Macbeth did not wield the knife. The revenge belongs to me as well. I dreamt it, and it will come.
No, I will make it happen, for I am Macbeth’s daughter.
In the morning, Fleance is gone. No one saw him leave. I am angry that he went away before I could persuade him to take me along, but I am still too weak from my fever to follow him. But I decide to waste not a day before building up my strength again. I go to retrieve my sword, but it is not in the hall where I dropped it yesterday. Instead, leaning against the wall is a round shield with a brass boss in the center. Next to it lies an unfamiliar scabbard tooled with twining ivy and birds. I am surprised to see it attached to my own belt, the one with the brass buckle Banquo gave me. I reach for the sword, and it slides from the scabbard with a sharp and satisfying zzzzt. It is lighter than I expect and balances perfectly in my palm. The shining blade is exactly the right length for me.
I am excited—and confused. Fleance said he did not want me to go with him, but he left me this sword. Should I seek him anyway, and the thanes who oppose Macbeth? Seeing me with a sword, they would laugh me out of Scotland. I may be stronger than most women, but it is still a disadvantage to be one. Maybe I should go to Dun Forres instead, and by some deception get the king alone, then kill him. But how? I’ve only ever killed a fish or a fowl, and that in order to eat. How could I possibly kill a man? But I must act somehow. What shall I do?
The answer comes to me, more silent than a whisper.
Rely upon the Sight. It is your gift. Use it now.
I try focusing my mind, then emptying it, but the images that come and go are of my own making. I wander around Dunbeag at night, but no white deer or black dog appears to show the path to my revenge. In my dreams, no ghost speaks to me, like Banquo’s gory head. I have only that same impossible dream of the trees moving out of the forest, as if animated by a wood-sprite. And I see the parade of kings, the last one holding a looking glass. How can trees walk? Why would a king look in a glass and see nothing? It makes no sense.
I decide to visit Helwain. She knows I have the Sight and will give me herbs to sharpen it. We will go to Stravenock Henge and invoke the gods with spells and potions until a vision comes, and she will help me understand its meaning. I will stand under the ancient oak tree, where the four worlds meet, and sleep on Geillis’s grave until I receive a sign. And then I will follow it until I destroy Macbeth.
Breda’s misery is boundless. The ice in her melts and flows out in tears that redden her pale cheeks. I never thought she cared much for Banquo. Or for Fleance, gone now to stir rebellion, perhaps to die as well. It would be thankless of me to leave her now. I suggest that she come with me to Helwain’s, and she agrees, following my lead like a lost child. We pack food and clothing. Everything that I value fits in one small bundle: the few gifts from Banquo, the girdle from Fleance, the armlet that was the queen’s. None of Dunbeag’s guard offers to escort us. Some even murmur that Fleance killed his father and ran away. Breda, now without a husband or son, has no protectors. I promise that I will stay with her, and her eyes grow round at the sight of the sword and shield Fleance left me.
“So that is why you met him in secret, and returned so disheveled,” she says, finally understanding.
“Aye. It was not what you suspected.” I blush, thinking of how Fleance and I kissed and clung to each other.
“You have changed my son,” she says. “He will not be the kind of man who sees a woman as his possession.”
“Nor was Banquo such a man,” I say. “He did love you.”
Breda looks away, but she nods just barely.
We leave Dunbeag on a sunless day like all the others. A cold wind whips our cloaks and makes the bushes and bracken rustle. I ride a gray palfrey named Gath, and Breda rides a brown one. The dry turf crackles under their hooves. We travel in silence until we see, in a valley between two looming hills, a small party on horseback coming in our direction.
My first thought is that the king has sent warriors to destroy what is left of Banquo’s family. A glance around the wide heath re
veals no place to hide.
“Shall we turn back and try to outrun them?” I ask.
“Nay, we will go on and meet them,” Breda decides. She has nothing left to lose.
“Let us hope they take us for travelers and pass by,” I say. “Still, cover your face.”
I take the lead and Breda lags behind me. My apprehension grows as the riders draw closer. Then I see the lead rider carrying the standard of the thane of Fife. They are Macduff ’s men! We sigh with relief and hurry to meet them.
Rather than Macduff, it is his lady, Fiona, on her way to Dunbeag to console Breda. The two women slide from their mounts and embrace in the middle of the road. In her friend’s arms, Breda succumbs to more tears.
“This latest crime is yet more proof of the king’s boundless evil,” says the indignant Fiona. “The tyrant must be stopped!”
“Fleance has gone to revenge his father’s death,” sobs Breda, “but how can a single boy bring down Scotland’s king?”
“He is not alone!” says Fiona. “My lord leads the thanes who mass against Macbeth.”
Breda stares at her with red-rimmed eyes.
“Who are the other thanes?” I ask.
Fiona glances up at me in surprise. “Ross and Caithness in the north, and Lennox and Angus in the midlands. They are my lord’s cousins, and blood ties them together. The western thanes follow the queen’s father, who has turned against Macbeth. My Macduff has gone to England to ask King Edward to lend his army.”
I feel my heart skip with excitement and fear at the thought of Scotland at war. Does Macbeth know how far the rebellion has progressed? Does he have enough loyal warriors to thwart it?
“Tell me, Breda. Will Banquo’s men join forces against Macbeth?” asks Fiona.
“Dunbeag is an uncertain place since my lord’s death. I don’t know which way his warband tends,” says Breda worriedly. “They have no love for me because I am not of Scotland born.”
Now I understand Breda’s willingness to leave Dunbeag with me.
“You must come to Dunduff. My lord left it strongly fortified, and you will be safe,” says Fiona.
“I will,” agrees Breda instantly. She mounts her palfrey again, and Fiona’s party turns around. Breda spurs her horse to join them.
