by Lisa Klein
“You are traveling with Banquo’s murderer. Why did you not slay the wicked carl, unless you are are in league with him?”
My mouth is dry. I don’t know what to say. I am truly in a bind, until Colum steps to my side and speaks for me.
“She almost killed him, but I bade her let him live. We trusted him and were not betrayed. Eadulf is no spy and neither are we. I am a humble shepherd, with no understanding of war and politics.”
“And she?” asks Angus, regarding me with some scorn.
“You underestimate this lady at your risk, my lord. Albia has more than mortal knowledge of the king. Don’t ask how she comes by it, but listen and heed her wisdom, for her very life is charmed.”
I am surprised—and touched—by Colum’s eloquence, but his tone of defiance worries me. Angus, however, seems merely amused. He walks around me, looking me up and down.
“What is it that you know, charmed lady?” he asks mockingly.
“I know that Macbeth believes Dunsinane Hill to be invincible—”
Angus interrupts me. “The king is already at Dunsinane with his men. We know the fort cannot be taken. Tell us something that we don’t know.”
Sweat prickles on my skin as I ponder my choices. Shall I tell them that Macbeth killed Duncan? The thanes already suspect as much. Shall I reveal that I am the king’s daughter? That I have the Sight? That the king is doomed? I realize that I have not actually seen the king’s end, how it will happen or when. Or who will deal the fateful blow. Could I be mistaken about my mission? Is Macbeth’s end merely my earnest but vain wish?
Angus and Ross frown at me, awaiting my words. They want an excuse to clap me in irons. I must speak with care.
“The king is full of superstitions, as you know. Of late a woman—a soothsayer—told him that he would not be vanquished until great Birnam Wood came to high Dunsinane Hill. This woman … is known to me,” I add, seeing their doubtful looks.
Angus snorts. “How can such a thing happen?”
“If we cut every tree in Birnam Wood and with a thousand horses haul them to the foot of the hill, then build a great pyre surrounding it, we could smoke him out of his tower,” says Ross. I think he is jesting. He looks at me with eyes that are no more than slits. “The woman is a liar.”
My chest constricts so that I can barely breathe. I close my eyes and look deep inside for the old dream in which the forest moves. I remember pine branches upright and swaying, not being dragging on the ground or burnt. They are carried aloft, like standards. I hear the sound of marching feet and see warbands swathed in greenery advancing up a hillside.
“You must cut the trees and cover yourselves in the greenery,” I say, my breath coming easier now. “Use the branches to hide yourselves, your horses, and your arms. Carry the saplings upright as you advance upon Dunsinane Hill, and you will bring yourselves unseen to the very foot of the hill from which you can surprise the king and take his tower.”
“And when he sees the forest move, will he not suspect our ploy?” Angus demands. His feet are wide apart, his arms folded across his chest.
“He will not see it move, because he does not believe it to be possible,” I say.
Ross shakes his head. “But his men will show him.”
“And he will deny it.”
“Deny his own senses?” Angus bursts out. “Rather, he will attack and slay us.”
Even as they press me with their doubts, I grow more certain of my plan.
“If his own reason forces him to see the forest move, he will know that his downfall is at hand,” I argue. “Then he will see the soothsayer’s words fulfilled and be unable to fight against his fate.”
“If she is right, we cannot lose,” murmurs Ross. “We know how fitful the king’s mind is. At the feast we both saw him gaze upon the air and swear it was a man seated at the table. Not even the queen could calm his madness then.”
I can see that Angus is still not convinced. He looks at me hard, as if trying to force me to confess myself an agent of the king.
“Who is she, really, and how does she know this about Macbeth?” he asks Ross through clenched teeth.
Under Angus’s suspicious gaze I grow more uneasy. I am afraid he will notice how red my hair is and guess that I am Macbeth’s daughter. But everyone believes the king to be childless. What if Angus decides I am a sorceress instead?
But in the end I am spared more explanation, and we are allowed to stay at Angus House. We are even permitted to keep our weapons. Eadulf is put under guard, Angus promising that he will not be mistreated. Nocklavey is the object of many greedy-eyed warriors but will let none but Colum and I touch him. We take turns caring for him and that night I sleep in his stall, the only place I feel secure.
No one seems to have any news of Fleance, nor do they appear concerned by his absence. Someone supposes he is with the thane of Sutherland or the thane of Lennox. Perhaps he has met with Macduff returning from England. One thing is clear from the messengers galloping from camp to camp: the rebel thanes are closing in on Dunsinane like a knot in a rope.
Angus’s fort bustles with battle preparations. Hammers clang upon anvils as smiths forge sword-blades, mail, and spear-points. Sweating slaves feed the fires and haul burdens on their bent backs. Rows of lathes scrape in rhythm as woodworkers carve shields, axe handles, and cart wheels. Leather crafters make harnesses and belts. I pause before a waist-high heap of leather strips and turn to Colum with a questioning look.
“Don’t you see?” he says excitedly, picking up one of the long strips. “These are to bind the greenery to the warrior’s bodies. The thanes have taken your advice.”
“Yes!” I clench my fists and smile secretly. How I long to see the sight of Birnam Wood marching to Dunsinane! Yet so much is at stake, I should be terrified. For if the strategy fails, the defeat—and all the ensuing deaths—will be laid at my feet.
That night I dream of Fleance. His hands on mine, teaching me to hold a sword. His thick brown hair blowing across his face, my hands reaching up to push it back, touching his cheek. Fleance wrapping the blue braided sash around me, again and again. His mouth covering mine. A sob escapes me. I see my hand slapping his face, the hurt look in his eyes, my instant remorse. His bloodied body slumped in the hall at Dunbeag, weeping for his father. I reach out to kiss him, but my hands grasp only dark, empty air. I wake up and find that my eyes are wet.
I pore over the dream as if it is a Latin text, looking for meaning—for a clue to Fleance’s whereabouts, a warning image, a message about the future. Nothing comes to me. It was merely an ordinary dream built on memories and wishes, foretelling nothing. I press the sides of my head in frustration. What good is having the Sight if it doesn’t show me what I need to see?
In the wake of the dream, restlessness comes over me. Within the walls of Angus’s fort, I suddenly feel trapped. Every time I turn around, I see the same fellow nearby, a young man with straight black hair and serious dark eyes.
“See that carl over there? About your age? He watches us wherever we go,” I whisper to Colum.
“The men all wonder at you, Albia,” he says. “Can you blame them for staring?”
“This one does not smile. He is not admiring me. I think Angus has told him to watch me.”
Colum shrugs. “Let him. You have nothing to hide.”
“Why do the thanes still not trust me?” I grumble.
“They have to be careful, Albia. What they are doing is treason, and the price of it is death.” Colum meets my eyes, and I see that he is aware of his complicity, of the price he, too, will pay if the rebellion fails or if we are taken for spies. I regret drawing him into this danger, which deepens every day.
“Colum, does it seem to you that we are being held here like captives of war?”
“Nay, for if that were the case, Angus would have taken our weapons away.” He sighs. “You are too suspicious, Albia.”
“Think about it, Colum,” I insist. “We have been given no
duties, no role in the preparations for battle. I am certain they mean to keep us here when they leave for Dunsinane. I can’t let that happen.”
“What will you do about it?” he asks, frowning.
It takes me a while, but I come up with a plan. “I will go to Angus now and tell him that I am leaving to find Fleance. If he refuses to let me go, then I know my suspicions are true.”
“Why don’t we just leave without telling him?” Colum suggests.
“No, that would alarm them. And we cannot leave Eadulf here alone. You must stay with him.”
Colum looks hurt. “I have not come all this way to be parted from you at such a dangerous time.”
“And I have not come all this way to be kept from my revenge by anyone!” I try to control my mounting frustration. “Whatever Angus says, I am leaving here tonight.”
When I find Angus, I notice the black-haired fellow among his men. He seems to be the son of a thane, for his garments are fine and he carries a sword, but no one pays him much mind as they polish their weapons and play at dice. Surely he is a spy.
Angus laughs at my request. “It is the eve of a great battle, and she wants to go find her brother!” He looks from side to side, trying to draw Ross and others into his amusement.
Ross regards me warily. “I understand you are worried for Fleance, but what can you do for him? You are only a lass, and likely to come to harm yourself.”
The thane of Ross may mean well, but his words anger me. It is all I can do to remain calm and wait for Angus’s judgment.
“A lass or not, consider the harm she can do,” says Angus. He jabs a finger at me. “With what you know of our preparations, you could go to the king and betray us.”
“Who would believe me, a mere lass?” I ask, glaring at Ross. “But though I am not a man”—I raise my voice and meet Angus’s eyes—“you may believe me when I say that I will give up my own life rather than Macbeth should rule Scotland any longer.”
At this, several of the men glance up with sudden interest.
“Brave words,” says Angus, clapping his thighs. “Go, then. But your companions … will stay … here.” By the way that he draws out the sentence, his meaning is clear. If anything goes wrong, or if anyone gives the king information, I will be blamed and Colum and Eadulf will suffer.
I had not expected this. How can I put them at risk? And just why is Angus allowing me to leave? The thane and I lock eyes. Who will call the other’s bluff ?
It is my turn to speak. I take a deep breath. “I will do nothing to bring harm upon them. So, I go.”
I turn to leave, but Angus calls my name sharply. He makes me wait while he and Ross confer. So he thought I would back down! I can barely hide my smile of triumph.
“We would not have you go alone, lady,” says Angus finally.
“For your own safety,” adds Ross, with a tone of apology.
Angus turns and scans his ranks. His gaze falls upon the young man with the black hair.
“Luoch. You will accompany her.”
Luoch? Isn’t that my brother’s name?
Chapter 22
Dunsinane Hill in Perthshire
Grelach
My lord and I have taken refuge atop Dunsinane Hill, which rises far above the plain, its steep flanks strewn with scree, impossible to scale. The only path to the summit is defended with high stockades set in grooves of stone. The walls of the fort are many feet thick and made from oak logs and planks filled with earth and rocks, and the tower is built of dry stone and oaken beams. No king has ever been defeated at Dunsinane.
Warbands loyal to Macbeth approach Dunsinane from the north and south, camping on the plain below because the fort is too small to shelter them all. Day and night the sounds of their carousing drift up to me. My lord joins them, raising their mettle with his confidence. At night he retires to the fort for safety, bringing his officer Seyton and several thanes, including his new general, the aged Atholl. They fight each other, drink ale, and prick their bodies with needles dipped in woad, marking themselves for war.
It is noisy and crowded on this hill, but I may as well be alone.
From where I look, wooded hills stretch in every direction like a rolling brown sea. But instead of the churning surf and the shrieks of gulls, I hear the ghostlike cooing of the doves fluttering in the eaves. Where have the songbirds gone, with their merry notes? Perhaps they are all nesting in the great, thick Birnam Wood. Oh, breathe easy, Grelach! How should those trees move, unless the ground itself gape open and release their roots?
Is that how the end will come? Will Dunsinane Hill quake and crumble to the plain, burying us under rock and earth? I would prefer to die in my sleep. But such a quiet death comes only to those who deserve it—those who are innocent. Duncan. Did the old king die in his sleep or did he wake to feel the blade in his throat? Did he see his lifeblood spilling forth? Oh, the blood! The redness seeps from my own chafed hands, a stain that will only be cleansed when a second flood purges the wicked earth.
But Duncan’s death is old guilt, old grief. Something fresher tears at me, strong enough to pitch me from this tower to the ground below. It is the sorrow that never leaves a mother who has lost her children.
For now my son—my only hope and comfort—has left me. He has abandoned his mother, and gone—I know not where. I should have seen the signs. When Macbeth was taken with the fit and thought he saw Banquo’s ghost, Luoch could not hide his disgust.
“He is not fit to be king,” he said to me the following day. “I spit upon his crown.”
“You owe Macbeth the duty of a stepson and a subject,” I rebuked him, pressing my hand over his mouth.
Luoch pushed my hand away.
“He has never been a father to me. He has no love for anyone but himself. Mother, he doesn’t even love you.”
I could not speak. I could barely breathe. How can a son see such things? And how dare he speak of them to his mother! Did Macbeth and I not hide our hate with shows of love?
“I have heard the rumors of his crimes, Mother,” Luoch said, not sparing me with any tenderness. “I see his eyes with no spark of feeling in them.” He paused and gripped me by the arms. “Tell me. Is it true that he killed Duncan?”
For years I feared this question from my son. I held him at a distance and forced his quiet compliance in everything. When did that wayward infant pulling at my breast, that sullen boy, become this man who will not be silenced?
“You must not ask me that.” I shook my head. “I cannot speak of it.”
“But I must know. Were you a part of it? And if you cannot speak, I will take your silence for guilt.”
For a long moment we stared at each other, barely breathing.
“How could you, even for all the wealth and power in the kingdom?” His voice was thick with emotion. He glanced down at my hands. I had been rubbing them together with such force that the knuckles stood out. “They will never be clean,” he said, and walked away from me.
“Come back, son!” I cried, clutching the air behind him. “You are my only hope, my future.”
He looked over his shoulder at me.
“Mother, you are past any hope. And you are not my future. Therefore I must go.”
And he left, and I wanted to weep, but of course my eyes were as dry as these ancient stones.
So I spoke of my grief to Rhuven, lamenting that Luoch’s rejection was what I deserved for abandoning my daughter so long ago.
Rhuven said that I should not give up hope, that perhaps someday I might begin anew.
What feeble consolation. How shall I start over, when more than half of my thirty-one years has been misspent with Macbeth? Can the heart bloom again after it has long withered? I have not loved anyone since my daughter was lost to me. Not Luoch, not my husband. And Macbeth does not love me, as even my son knows. Oh, had we loved each other more than our own ambition, would there have come the son that would have satisfied Macbeth? Then there would have been no need for ev
en that first crime.
Alas, it is too, too late for such supposings. Too late for regret or repentance.
I tell Rhuven she must leave me. “I am fated to end my life alone. I no longer care what happens to Macbeth. Let him live a tyrant or be killed by his enemies. Nothing matters to me.”
“I will not leave you,” she replies, almost in tears. “You are dearer to me than my own sisters. I will do anything for you.”
Her devotion moves me. There is yet one thing she can do.
“I gave you a dagger, Rhuven, did I not?”
She nods, looking fearful at what I might ask.
“If we should be defeated here at Dunsinane, do not let Macbeth or his enemies touch me. Rather, you must take my life. Do it quickly and with a sure hand.”
Rhuven shakes her head so hard that her braid whips from shoulder to shoulder.
“Never, my lady! It will not happen.”
She wraps her arms around me and runs her hands from the top of my head to the base of my spine like she often does to calm me. This time, she is the one shaking, so I hold her and kiss her hair. We sit like this until we are both still.
I will not mention the dagger again. It was too much to ask her. No, I have enough mandragora to bring my ending, the quiet death that I desire. I am only sorry for Rhuven, my faithful gentlewoman, who will be the one to find my lifeless body and consign it to the earth.
Chapter 23
Near Dunsinane Hill
Albia
My mind is in a turmoil as I leave Angus House accompanied by the young man with the same name as my brother. We head southeast, toward Birnam and Dunsinane. Luoch rides a gray charger with a blaze of white across its muzzle. He seems as nervous as I am. But riding the proud and swift Nocklavey gives me courage, and I remind myself of how I killed the vicious boar with my steady sword, now ready at my side.
We barely speak, but from time to time eye each other warily, like foes measuring each other before an encounter. Whenever I take the lead, he goes ahead and cuts me off and alters our course, slowing us down, until finally I lose my temper.
