by Lisa Klein
“Valiant words,” says Malcolm in a wry voice. “Yet for all I know you fought beside him, then when he fell you switched your allegiance.”
“I did not,” I protest.
Malcolm only shrugs. “It is what they all do,” he says. “But I will not be fooled.”
“My words and faith are true. This man will vouch for me.” I turn to Fleance, my lover, feeling triumph at hand.
But Fleance is staring at me, a look of shock and disbelief on his face. His mouth opens as if to speak, but he can only shake his head.
“Fleance, you know me. Tell them who I am,” I plead, growing alarmed.
Then I realize that I never told Fleance who I truly am. Until this moment he did not know that his mortal enemy, Scotland’s king, was my father. I kept the truth from him, and now it emerges too late to help me.
Fleance says not a word as Malcolm’s soldiers lead me away.
They take Luoch and me to the fort on Dunsinane Hill. It is a steep climb and I stumble frequently, for my hands are tied together. Macbeth’s men have all fled and Dunsinane is deserted. There is no sign of Grelach there.
Luoch’s spirits are sunken, for Ross and Angus would not vouch for him. They conferred with Malcolm and agreed that we both should be imprisoned because of the danger we pose as kin to Macbeth and the queen. I reminded them all that my Birnam Wood strategy led to their victory, but they only shook their heads and murmured something about sorcery. In words as dire as I’ve ever spoken, I warned them that if anything happened to Colum and Eadulf, they would see what sorcery can do. They did not laugh at this. Only I knew that the threat was an empty one.
And now that they have left us here, my spirits fall as low as Luoch’s. I am afraid of the harm that must come to Colum because of today’s events. At least my loyal friend will never believe anyone who claims that I betrayed him. Not so Fleance. To discover that I am the daughter of the king who killed Banquo and Breda! To see me come to Dunsinane in the company of Eadulf, his father’s murderer! How can he ever trust me again? No, I have lost his friendship and all hope of his love.
I wonder dismally how my search for truth, my desire to see justice restored in Scotland could have ended like this: with me imprisoned in a windowless cell in the dead king’s stronghold. Why did I think that I could fix the ruin Macbeth and Grelach made? I am a fool indeed. In all of Scotland, there is no one to help me now.
The sound of voices awakens me. Malcolm and his guards are in the next room where Luoch is being held. It must be morning now, for light streams in at a door or window somewhere. Perhaps they have come to free us.
Then I hear Luoch’s voice, a high, keening wail. “Oh you gods, pity her soul!” Then it sharpens with anger. “She would not take her own life. She was killed. Murderer!”
There are sounds of a scuffle. I hold my breath, stunned. The queen is dead? Was she stabbed? My mother is dead. Now I will never know her. Regret mingles with horror at the thought of her dying within these very walls. But I feel no sorrow, except for Luoch’s sake.
Outside my door, I hear Malcolm dismiss his guards. Then he comes into my cell and locks the door behind him. With my eyes I measure him, Duncan’s elder son. He is not tall or muscular, but his head is very large. He tilts his chin upward as if to seem taller. It only makes him look proud.
Malcolm also studies me. Though my hair is tangled and my clothes torn, I will not look away and let him think I have anything to be ashamed of.
“The queen is dead,” he says. “We found the poisoned cup.”
Through the wall I can hear Luoch weeping.
“I did not know her,” I say evenly.
“She and my father were cousins. So you and I are also kin.”
“But you are less than kind, after what I did to aid your cause.”
Malcolm smiles but without warmth. “I will have some water brought, that you might clean yourself up,” he offers.
“That would be a start. Better still, tell me that my companion Colum is safe.”
“And the rogue Eadulf, too? That henchman of the tyrant?” Malcolm frowns.
“He has done wrong, I grant you,” I say, trying to remain patient. “But he turned against Macbeth, suffering greatly because of it. And I did not choose his companionship.”
But Malcolm is no longer listening. His eyes are wandering over me.
“You might be a beauty, with that hair. If you wore a dress.” He looks with distaste on my sheepskin leggings. “I’ll have one brought to you from the late queen’s closet.”
The idea of wearing my mother’s clothing makes me shudder.
“I do not want a dress,” I say firmly. “I want my friend Colum released. He is only a shepherd with no desire to become entangled in your wars.”
Malcolm waves his hand. “He may go. He is nothing to me. But Eadulf must stay, for Fleance deserves revenge for his father.”
I am relieved at least for Colum’s sake. But what comes next in this broken realm? Will Fleance be permitted to kill Eadulf ? Will more murders follow?
“Who will be Scotland’s king now?” I ask Malcolm.
“I will,” he answers without hesitation. “It was I who brought England to the battle. I have the most warriors and the best claim, being Duncan’s appointed heir. Not Luoch, that puling son of the tyrant’s wife. Not Macduff. Brave though he is, his royal blood is scant.”
Malcolm does not even mention Fleance. Perhaps Macbeth’s fear—that Banquo’s line would rule Scotland—has died with him, and what I thought was the Sight will prove only an illusion.
“It is a pity that the two who could vouch for you are dead,” Malcolm is saying, staring at me sharply. “How do I know you are who you claim to be? Many women have red hair like Macbeth’s and gray-blue eyes like the queen’s.”
“Nothing I say will convince you,” I reply, giving him no answer.
Malcolm fingers his large head thoughtfully. “Both Seyton and Macduff swear they heard the king lately speak of a daughter who had returned from the dead. They thought he was going mad. But perhaps he spoke a measure of truth.” Suddenly he smiles. “Riding into the battle, you shone like a fiery lodestar in the sky.”
I am growing impatient with this man’s musings. He reminds me of a cat deciding whether or not to pounce on the mouse he has cornered.
“You have no quarrel with me, and I have none with you,” I say briskly. “Let me go.”
Malcolm shakes his head. “I must know whether Macbeth’s daughter can be trusted. You were at Dunduff, where all Macduff ’s family were slain.”
“How dare you suggest that I was of the murderers’ party!” I stand only inches from the nose on Malcolm’s big face. “I loved Fiona and her children. It was Colum and I who buried them. Tell Macduff that we saved his son, who is now in the care of the wise woman Caora and old Helwain in the Wychelm Wood. Send him there to learn the truth from Wee Duff himself!”
Malcolm takes a step back and regards me with something like respect. “They were not all killed, as it was reported?”
“Nay, the son survived—as I told Angus and Ross. Banquo’s son also lives. You, Duncan’s son, and I, Macbeth’s daughter, live. It is up to us to restore justice and peace to Scotland now.”
“I see that you understand the situation.” A smile spreads across Malcolm’s round face. “Albia, with you as my queen, my claim will be firm. No one will dare to come against the kin of Kenneth and Duncan united.”
“Nay, you mistake my meaning. I have no desire to be a queen,” I say, holding up my hands.
Malcolm reaches out and grasps them. “Our eldest son will rule after me. And our daughters will marry thanes and princes, bringing us allies, and Scotland shall prosper.”
“I am not the spoils of war. You may not claim me,” I say, indignant. “I am the daughter of Scotland’s king and queen. As they are now dead, I will marry whom I choose—or not at all.”
Malcolm’s smile fades. His grip on me tightens. “You are h
ardly in a position to choose your future. Kiss me now and seal the pact,” he demands, leaning forward.
My forearms ache from the tension of trying to pull away from him. “I do not love you, and I will not marry you!”
Malcolm’s lips draw back from his teeth in a wolflike snarl.
“Without food or drink, you will change your mind soon enough. Then I will wed you before the thanes and England’s earls, and you will put on a show of willingness or live to regret it.”
With that, Malcolm releases my hands and I stumble backward. He storms from the cell, letting the bolt fall loudly into place behind him.
Chapter 28
Dunsinane
Albia
The walls of Dunsinane close in upon me, windowless, the locked door unbreakable. It must be night again; it seems an entire day has passed. Sick despair fills me at the prospect of being Malcolm’s wife, forced to serve him and bear his children. Did my mother feel this way when she was made to marry Gillam, and then the man who slew him, Macbeth? Will I also end up abetting violence all my life?
I am determined not to replay that same dark role in the drama of Scotland’s future. But who in all the land will save me from this prison, Dunsinane, or the bondage of being married to its king? The face of Fleance drifts into my mind, and with it finally come my tears, blurring the sight of my love. No, I must not give in to self-pity. I wipe my eyes with the ends of my blue girdle, still firm about my waist, wishing its magic could help me escape. Perhaps if I sleep, the Sight will come to me, revealing a way out of my prison. Or will it show me what I most fear, a life of miserable captivity to Malcolm?
“Albia, are you all right?”
The man’s voice is low-pitched and muffled. I assume it is Luoch, trying not to be heard by the guards.
“No, I’m not.” I lean against the wall between us. “I want to be freed.”
“Are you hurt?”
Hearing the concern in his voice, I can’t hold back my sadness.
“Only my heart is broken. It wasn’t supposed to end like this! I wish I could talk to you.”
“Keep your voice down,” the man whispers. “I am coming in.”
Then I realize it is not Luoch after all. A key scrapes against the door lock. Has the odious Malcolm returned so soon? I wish I had something to defend myself with, but the room is bare except for the bedding and mats on the floor. So I hide behind the door with the idea of slipping out in the moment before my visitor sees me, then running.
But my heart leaps up in my chest and my feet refuse to budge, for the man who enters my cell is Fleance. But my joy soon gives way to confusion.
“Why are you here, Fleance? How did you get past the guards?”
“I bribed them with wine.” He looks at me uncertainly. “I wanted to see you.”
“And I you—” I can say no more; “dear Fleance” catches in my throat. I think of how he looked at me yesterday and condemned me with his silence, and bitterness fills me.
“Why did you not vouch for me to Malcolm? I might be free, if you had spoken.”
“I was stunned to see you—and to hear you speak. I thought I knew you, Albia, and then I learned you were someone else.” His voice pleads for my understanding.
“I am who I always was,” I say, unmoved. “I have not changed since you last saw me.”
“But all the while, I did not know—that you are kin to that monster and his wife.” The disgust in his voice rouses my anger.
“I am not pleased to be Macbeth’s daughter!” The words burst from me. “I did not ask for Grelach to bear me!”
“You hid the truth from me, and from my father,” Fleance accuses me. His brow is contracted with grief and hurt.
“I myself did not know who I was until the night Geillis died,” I explain in my defense. “And when I tried to warn your father of the danger from Macbeth, he dismissed it. If I had sworn then that the king was my father, you would have hated me and sent me away. I could not have borne that.”
“How did I fall in love with the daughter of such a wicked man, and not know it?” Fleance tightens his hands into fists, as if to squeeze all feeling from them.
“You are most unjust to blacken me with his crimes.” My chest is heaving as I speak. “I abhorred the evil my father did. Fleance, I begged to come with you and help avenge your father’s death. I almost killed Eadulf but instead let him lead us to the bigger prize, Macbeth himself. I wept to see your mother dead, and buried her with my own hands. Dear Fleance, dear, I have thought of nothing these past weeks but finding you.”
Fleance loosens his fists and runs his hands through his hair.
“I am sorry,” he says. His shoulders sag. “It is I who should be ashamed. You have shown more courage than the stoutest of men.”
“If I was strong, it was due to your gifts, this girdle and the sword you left me at Dunbeag. They kept me safe.”
Fleance looks confused. “That old sword? It was a mere toy.”
I want to tell him about our journey through the mountains and my fight with the boar, but there is too little time.
“Is Colum still here or did Malcolm free him?”
“The rustic bowman? Malcolm sent him on his way.”
Still I am worried, for Colum would not willingly leave while I was still being held captive.
“Where did he go?”
“He was ordered to lead Macduff north to where his son was taken.” Fleance smiles to himself. “I have never seen a man so drowned by despair and raised with hope as this great Macduff when he learned his son was alive.”
Silently I thank the gods that Colum is safe and feel a twinge of homesickness at the thought of him at Murdo’s cottage and in the familiar bowers of the Wychelm Wood.
“Now Macduff is determined to punish every one of the king’s men responsible for destroying his family,” Fleance says. His brow furrows with grief for Banquo and Breda. “How I wanted to be the one to deal the king his death blow!”
I put my hands on his shoulders.
“Be glad that neither of us bloodied our hands by killing a king, however wicked he was.”
Fleance clasps my hands. “O brave Albia, you held your furious sword still when with one stroke, you could have wrought all our revenge. Was it not hard?”
The awe in his voice embarrasses me. I don’t want to revisit those moments of my rage, how it flowed and ebbed, and my father’s strange repentance, his submission to me. Not now.
“I regret only one thing, Fleance,” I say, touching his cheek. “That I did not let you kiss me when we last parted,” I whisper. “You may do it now, if you still wish.”
He looks at me. His eyes are full of grief and hunger. “I do, and I will, but I might not be able to stop kissing you once I start.”
At once we lean together, and our arms find their natural fit around each other’s bodies. Our lips meet like an arrow and its target, holding fast until I almost faint for lack of breath. He whispers what sounds like “I love you” into my mouth, and that gives me air enough to keep on kissing him.
Then I feel his hands at my waist, untying my girdle. I trust his fingers and do not try to stop them. He takes the ends of the girdle and wraps them around himself. We are tied together so nearly that I blush to feel the heat from his body.
“Albia, my fate is bound with yours,” he whispers.
The words of my own dream startle me, coming from Fleance’s mouth.
“I know,” I breathe back. “You and I share a single future.”
Then I think of Malcolm’s determination to make me his wife. I pull away from Fleance, whose hands caress my neck.
“You must help me get out of here. Malcolm is threatening me.”
“He will not hurt you. Don’t worry. I will come to you as often as I can.”
“You don’t understand. Malcolm wants to marry me. He will force me if I refuse.”
Fleance reels back. “How dare he, the unworthy sot! He cannot have you.” His face
looks grim as his mind works behind his dark blue eyes. “I see where Malcolm’s ambitions tend. With you as his wife, he thinks he can win over the warriors who are loyal to Kenneth’s blood, sapping your brother’s support. Then, while Macduff is still away—whose voice would carry great weight because he slew Macbeth—Malcolm will have himself crowned. And when the far-flung parts of Scotland, who never loved Duncan, learn that his son has seized power, new wars will break out, tearing the country asunder.”
“So to foil Malcolm’s plan, I must escape now, Fleance.” My mind reels with my own plotting. “The guards are asleep. Bring me my sword, and tell me where they are keeping Nocklavey, and I will ride away tonight. You must break Luoch out of his cell, too.”
“I don’t want to lose you again, Albia. Stay, and we will find another way,” Fleance pleads.
“I will not stay and be forced into marriage with Malcolm. That way you will lose me—forever.”
“I will not let you marry Malcolm. Stay, and marry me instead,” Fleance says, his voice firm and sure.
At any other time, I would melt into wax at these words. Now I only wonder how Fleance can be so thickheaded.
“And then watch Malcolm kill you? No, you must come away with me and Luoch.” Once I say this, it seems the perfect and inevitable solution. “That way we can be together.”
But there is a long silence before Fleance replies, in a careful tone, “As my father’s son, I have a duty to see justice and order brought to Scotland and a new king seated.”
I stare at Fleance, stung that he does not even consider leaving with me. I think of him in his bright livery at Malcolm’s side.
“Would you then let Malcolm declare himself king?” I ask.
Looking pensive, Fleance shakes his head.
“Why not, when you could become his general? Whom would you choose to rule Scotland?” My tone is icy.
“I might support Luoch,” he says slowly.
