Lady Macbeth's Daughter

by Lisa Klein

  “You are of no help in getting me to Dunsinane. In fact, you seem determined to prevent my progress!”

  Luoch looks abashed. “The king’s men are converging on Dunsinane from all directions. If we ride in plain sight they will see us.”

  I am impatient to be at the site of this stronghold, but I see the wisdom of being cautious.

  “Then let us hide in the woods here until it is dark, when we can advance unseen,” I suggest.

  We find a secluded copse of linden trees and dismount, tethering our horses. Luoch lies down with a weary sigh, holding his short dagger folded in his hands. Moments later he is dozing. For a guard, I decide, he lacks vigilance. I consider going on by myself, but remembering that Angus is holding Colum, I sit down under a tree to keep watch instead. Whoever this Luoch is, he does not seem to have the ruthless nature of a warrior. His arms are thrown over his face as he sleeps. I watch his long limbs twitch, as if they are still growing. When he wakes up, I will rebuke him for being so careless.

  The woods are silent for a summer day. I hear only the persistent notes of a bird, a rapid twitter that rises, then ends on a long, plaintive note. Is the bird calling for its mate? Or is it lamenting the lack of food for its young and the sun that no longer shines to green its nesting place?

  Where are you, where are you … FLEE … ance?

  As I listen the bird seems to sing my sorrows, too. Then from another tree comes a reply on the same mournful note.

  Roaming in suffering … SCOT … land.

  The two lone birds sing the sadness of this land, crushed under the heel of the tyrant Macbeth, and to their tune, I fall asleep.

  Again I have my recurrent dream about the parade of kings, the last of whom holds a looking glass. Their faces, blank before, now are filled in with Banquo’s features. No, that is Macbeth’s vision, not mine. I try to shake my dreaming mind clear, but the vision grows even sharper. The last king’s face is unmistakably Banquo’s, his form as lifelike as Banquo himself. But he wears no crown; he is not a king after all. I seem to smell his sweat and ale as I lean over his shoulder to look into the glass. Then the dream-Banquo shifts the mirror so that its light glances from my eyes. He is holding it out toward me and nodding. I take the mirror and gaze upon its glassiness.

  Like a pond where the ripples spread out and vanish until the surface is smooth, the mirror gradually reveals a face. It is not my own, but one I know almost as well, with its sardonic smile and determined blue eyes, the face of Fleance that I love and miss.

  Then in my dream Fleance holds the girdle with its bright braided pattern. He wraps one end around me. I see and even feel his arms touching mine. Then he wraps the other end around himself and knots the ends together. There is no need to ponder the dream with my waking mind. I already know its meaning: that my fate is bound to Fleance’s and has been since the day he gave me back the braid I broke, woven into the wondrous girdle.

  The urgency of this knowledge awakens me. I feel in me Fleance’s desire to destroy Macbeth and revenge Banquo’s death. This we share. But Fleance yearns for more. That I also know, for in his dream-face shone the desire for greatness, that same ambition that drove Macbeth to his cursed crimes. No! My Fleance must not follow the king’s way. I will find him now, before this day ends.

  I leap to my feet, only to fall down with a startled cry. For a moment I think my weak leg has somehow betrayed me, until I feel the pulling on my ankles, and I realize that my feet are tied to the tree, and Luoch is nowhere in sight.

  Damn him! The fellow has tricked me, made me the fool.

  He pretended to be asleep, and once I fell asleep, he tied me up. I, not Luoch, am the careless one. And my blue girdle is gone from my waist! A wail of dismay escapes me at the loss of Fleance’s gift. I fumble with the knots on the rope around my ankles. I will find Luoch and stun him senseless for stealing it. Then I realize that he is not so clever after all. Why would he tie my legs but not my arms? I wonder, rubbing my sore ankles.

  Then I see the band of blue lying on the ground. My girdle. Relief floods me. I pick it up and a tingling sensation courses from my fingertips to my shoulders. And I know that while I dreamt of Fleance’s touch, Luoch was removing my girdle and tying my hands with it.

  “So much for my fateful dream!” I groan.

  And yet I awoke with my hands free. Had Luoch bound me so poorly? Did I work the knots loose while I slept? I finger the girdle, remembering how I had wrapped it around the wound from the boar, which had healed overnight. Before that, it had prevented the king’s hands from abusing me after the banquet at Dunbeag.

  The truth dawns on me like sunlight. Luoch was unable to tie me up with my girdle. The knots fell away of their own accord. Only Fleance could bind me with it; only I could tie it in a knot that would hold fast, a knot whose purpose was to protect me.

  I take the sash and pass it around my waist securely and tie the ends, feeling courage and strength fill me again. I whistle and Nocklavey whinnies and comes to me, his head lowered so that his nose nudges my arm. I leap onto his back.

  “Luoch, you will soon know who I am!” I shout into the trees.

  I barely touch Nocklavey with my heels, and he leaps in pursuit of the trickster, his mighty hoofs striking the earth like hammers, his nostrils steaming like a furnace.

  The black-haired carl cannot hide his surprise when we overtake him in the woods. I cut off his path, giving him nowhere to run, and his gray charger cowers before Nocklavey.

  “How dare you betray me?” I shout at him. “I came with you in good faith.”

  Luoch’s eyes widen with amazement. “How did you get free?”

  “Magic,” I snap. “Why did you tie me up?”

  “I wished you no harm. It was Angus who bade me restrain you.”

  “You are a villain to leave me like that, and a coward, to blame another!” I slide from Nocklavey’s back, quickly unfix my shield, and stand with my hand upon my sword hilt. “Get down now and you will learn who it is you deal with.”

  Without hesitating, Luoch jumps down and draws his sword.

  “Nay, girl, you shall know who I am!” he shouts back, his blue eyes blazing.

  I swallow hard. I have no wish to match swords with this boy, who is taller and stronger than I am.

  “I already know you,” I say, taking a chance. I try to recall everything Geillis and her sisters told me about my brother. “You are Grelach’s son. Your mother is ambitious for you, but the king will not call you his son. Is that why you seek his overthrow?”

  I see that I have hit my mark. Luoch’s face pales beneath his black hair.

  “How do you know this?” His eyes narrow. “Who are you, a witch?”

  I pull off my helmet and shake out my red hair.

  “Do I look familiar?” I step closer, keeping an eye on his sword hand. “Look in my eyes. Do you know them?”

  I see in his eyes a glimmer of recognition, but then he looks away and shakes his head in denial.

  “Luoch, I am your sister, Albia, the daughter of your mother and the king.”

  “I had a sister.” His voice comes out as a croak. “But she died. I hardly remember her.”

  “I was left for dead but Rhuven saved me. Here is proof, a gem that Macbeth gave to the queen—my mother.” I raise my sleeve to show him the armlet, though I see that it means nothing to him. “Can you look at me and deny that I am Macbeth’s daughter, that I have Grelach’s eyes?”

  Luoch stares at my face and my hair for a long moment.

  “What do you want? Why have you come here?” he asks, sounding more confused than suspicious. “Are you ambitious for the throne, too?”

  “Me—ambitious?” The thought makes me laugh. “No, I want only to see the end of Macbeth’s reign. And … the safety of … someone I love.” My voice falters despite my efforts to control it.

  “Fleance,” he says knowingly. “You spoke his name in your sleep. He is not your brother, if I am.”

  I bl
ush, but cover it up with stern words. “And you are going to help me find him now, or be forced to fight your own sister.”

  “I will help you,” Luoch agrees. “And I’m sorry for tying you up.” He looks ashamed. “Angus can be cautious. He didn’t even trust me at first, though he has known for years how much I hate Macbeth.”

  For a moment I almost feel sorry for Luoch. Clearly Angus sent him with me to keep him out of the way, and Luoch left me behind out of his own determination to join the battle.

  “We’ll show him,” I say. “Let us make for Dunsinane double quick, lest we miss the battle. Fleance must be there by now.”

  But Luoch doesn’t move. “Albia? Are you really my sister?” He tilts his head to the side boyishly.

  Until now I have not let myself think about having a brother. I feel no kinship toward Luoch. He is someone with a different life from mine. We have nothing in common but the womb that bore us before we were aware of anything. But could we, over time, come to care for each other?

  “I swear that I am your sister.” I force a smile as I say this.

  “Then I am glad to know you, Albia.” Luoch’s smile is genuine.

  The words come out of my mouth before I can think. “Luoch, tell me about my mother. What is she like? Is she beautiful?”

  At once his smile fades.

  “I cannot bear to think of her, even less to speak of her,” he says. “Aye, she was beautiful, once. But Macbeth destroyed her beauty and her goodness.” His dark eyebrows almost meet as he scowls. “Together they have done unspeakable wrong. Now there is no hope for her.”

  “You also know … about Duncan?” I whisper, stunned.

  Luoch glances away. When his gaze returns to me, I see his eyes are moist. But when he speaks, his tone is rough.

  “Grelach has nothing to offer you. Forget her, as I have.”

  Chapter 24

  Dunsinane

  Grelach

  Cries and clashes rise from the plain, resound off the rocks. Breathless messengers run in and out of Dunsinane, bringing reports of battle and bearing Macbeth’s orders back to the field.

  With oaths and curses, my lord rages against the rebellious thanes. His mighty arms are painted blue-black from the shoulders to the wrist. He strides back and forth in this room that is too small even for what remains of his ambition. And yet it will take more than mortal strength to escape from the noose that now tightens around Dunsinane.

  A whey-faced lackey runs in, breathless. “Malcolm’s soldiers number in the thousands,” he reports. “Siward, Earl of Northumberland, is among his allies.”

  So Duncan’s son has arrived to seek his revenge, joined by his uncle, England’s most powerful earl. This is grave news indeed.

  My lord merely scoffs and says, “Who is Malcolm but a man born of woman and therefore damned?”

  The lackey backs out of the room, fear and confusion on his face.

  Two more messengers arrive with the news that the thane of Caithness and Atholl, my lord’s newest general, have deserted. I hold my breath as they speak.

  “Cowards! Let them fly all, till Birnam Wood come to Dunsinane,” Macbeth snarls, wolflike.

  The messengers stare at him as at a madman. I push them out of the room, afraid of what they will say next. It cannot be long before Macbeth learns that Luoch is among the rebels, and my father, too. He will accuse me of treason and no doubt slay me on the spot. And though I do not love my life, I—not he—will determine its end.

  My son—how proud he makes me by standing against Macbeth! It is a risk to gamble on the king’s fall, but it is the the only way for him to rise. And rise he will, my son, descendant of a king, once Macbeth falls. We will be reconciled, and I will forgive him the pain he has caused me, for it is only natural that a son leave his mother in order to become a man.

  My thoughts are interrupted by Seyton, my lord’s officer.

  “I looked toward Birnam, and … saw the trees begin to … to move,” he announces, stammering in surprise.

  My heart pulsing in my throat, I run to the window, but the high, sharp palings block my view of the woods.

  “That is impossible! You are a liar and a slave,” cries my lord, beating Seyton about the head. “Go, bring me my armor. I will meet them on the plain below.”

  The frightened Seyton leaves. My lord begins talking to himself as if I am not even in the room.

  “I have lived long enough. My course of life is dry and withered,” he laments, rubbing his head with his great, thick hands. I see silver hairs glinting among the red ones. “I know no honor, love, or loyal friends, but only curses and false speaking.”

  There was a time when the anguish in his voice would have moved me to comfort him. That time is gone. He deserves every stab of self-torment and more. I will not reassure him. I cannot even bear to touch him anymore.

  Seyton returns with my lord’s hauberk, helmet, and greaves and dresses him in silence, placing his crown in a groove over his helmet. Then without so much as a word to me, his wife of seventeen years, Macbeth strides off to fight his fiercest foes, the men of Scotland who once served him.

  “My lord—” I start to say.

  He turns around. His eyes are invisible, shadowed by his helmet.

  “Nothing,” I whisper, shaking my head. I don’t know why I called, what I thought I would say to him.

  “I go now, Grelach. I will fight till my flesh is hacked from my bones. Seyton, give me my sword.”

  Their footsteps retreat, and the jingling of the mailed hauberk grows faint.

  The end is almost come.

  “Rhuven!” I cry. “To the tower!”

  Chapter 25

  Between Birnam Wood and Dunsinane

  Albia

  In the woods of Birnam, chopped saplings and branches leave a trail like the wake of a warship at sea. Luoch and I follow it, knowing it will lead us to the plain before Dunsinane Hill. The battle is already engaged. I hear shouts and curses, animal cries of pain, the clash of steel on steel, the neighing and stamping of horses, all growing louder as we come to the edge of the forest. My mouth is dry and my pulse is beating fast, but I urge Nocklavey forward. If I once stop, I may lose all courage, turn, and run the other way.

  “Albia, wait!” Luoch calls to me. “We cannot just blunder out there. We might fall directly into the king’s hands.”

  “Yes, but how else can we find out where our allies are? We can’t see the field because of the trees.”

  Even as the wood thins near its edges, the rise of land prevents us from glimpsing more than the tower atop Dunsinane Hill. I consider venturing out, using branches for cover. Then my eye falls upon a lone elm with high, spreading branches. I draw Nocklavey close to its trunk. It takes me only a moment to shed my plated tunic and helmet. Standing on Nocklavey’s wide back, I can just reach the lowest branch. Using all my strength, I pull myself up while walking my feet along the trunk until I have gained the branch. A squirrel clinging to the bark flicks its bushy tail at me. I right myself and stand up, holding the trunk for balance. My legs are not even shaking. Exhilarated, I reach for the next limb and find a foothold on a knot in the trunk. Soon I have gained two more limbs and the ground is far below me.

  “Luoch, follow me!” I shout.

  Confident now, I climb upward. A sparrow hops from branch to branch, as if guiding me. Soon I can see over the trees and down the slope to the wide field of battle. Luoch joins me on the branch, breathing hard. Together we study the scene below.

  Thousands crowd the plain, so that the ground itself seems to undulate with horses and footsoldiers brandishing weapons and waving banners. Men battle one on one, two on one, three on two, swinging swords and axes and knives. They grunt and scream as their bodies and shields thud dully against one another. Men stumble over their fallen fellows and are soon trampled in the mire. Their swords fly from their hands; disabled shields, shot full of arrows, drop to the ground; bright standards fall in the dirt, and men raise their a
rms in desperate surrender.

  From the south a triple line of horsemen, their lances thrusting out from a wall of shields, advances against a ragged row of men on foot with spears and cudgels. The footmen scatter and fall back upon themselves like a wave, crushing one another. Then archers behind a palisade on Dunsinane Hill unleash a volley of arrows that sing through the air and clatter like hail on the horsemen’s shields. The barbs find soft flesh, and wounded soldiers slide from their horses’ backs, while the beasts themselves fall with lances stuck in their throats, screaming like demons from the Under-world.

  Who can tell one thane from another under their helmets and hauberks? Who fights for Macbeth, and who fights against him? And where is Fleance in all this confusion?

  But Luoch has assessed the situation. He points out the Englishmen commanded by Malcolm, the archers and the infantry that belong to Macbeth. Then I recognize Macduff ’s red and gold standard at the foot of Dunsinane Hill, where soldiers assault the defenses that, once breached, will open the way to the fort above.

  “Fleance must be there, and Macbeth as well. We will join the battle at the foot of the hill,” I decide, and Luoch nods in agreement.

  Descending the tree proves trickier than climbing it. When my left foot touches Nocklavey’s back again, I feel an ache there, a reminder of my old weakness. I seem to see my infant self, lying on my back beneath a tree, filled with wordless longing.

  “Luoch, do you know, I have never climbed a tree before,” I announce with a wide smile, forgetting for the moment the dangers before us.

  “Sister, everything about you surprises me,” Luoch replies with grudging admiration.

  Once armed again, we skirt the field, then fly into the fray so swiftly that none can stop us. A great din assaults my ears; the smells of muck and blood and sweat sting my nose; lances, stones, and arrows fly all around me. But Nocklavey, like the prow of a great ship, divides the sea of foes. I see the startled faces of men who stop their fighting to stare at me, and I realize that my red hair, stirred up by the wind, rises like flames from my head. Doubtless they have never seen a woman in battle before.