by David Hewson
By way of thanks, Fleance had winced at his embrace, and when Banquo had finally persuaded him to speak, the boy had merely looked up at the black walls and said, “I don’t like this place. It stinks of death.”
His father laughed heartily, but that was for the benefit of those around. The boy’s manner and his preoccupied, credulous nature were ever more alarming.
Father to a line of kings? Best not think on that. Or what else the sisters said. Besides, from the gathering whispers, Duncan had ideas about that already.
Macbeth, he guessed, felt much the same wariness. This man was his friend, none closer. The love between them was old but forged mostly of late in battle. It was one thing to stand back-to-back hacking at the legs of an enemy in the field, another entirely to stand by the banquet table making idle conversation with revelers who had never wielded a blade. Banquo was a man of combat, uncomfortable away from conflict. Macbeth fought like a lion, but preferred quiet amity to war.
Skena was entirely more sociable when a smile and small talk were needed. She swept among her guests, gracious and welcoming. Her smile was open, guileless, and Banquo found himself envying his friend a little, and not only because he would have someone to keep him warm in what was bound to be a long and bitter night. She ensured that everyone’s cup was full from the moment of their arrival and was constantly flitting among the throng, ordering the sour old porter to haul up more beer from the cellar, pointing kitchen maids with pitchers of steaming mulled wine in the direction of anyone who set down an empty cup.
Duncan, it was said, had stopped in sight of the castle an hour before, taking time to prepare the order of his triumphal entry. At three o’clock, the sentries announced his trumpet had been heard, and everyone—thanes, wives, dignitaries, soldiers, and servants—flocked to the walls to cheer the king’s approach. He wore a golden crown and sat astride a massive white stallion, barded with leather and mail, his own armor burnished till it flashed like lightning in the pale sun, the absence of scratches and sword marks all the more obvious. His sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, rode on either side. At the head of the column was a priest with a tall cross. Duncan never went anywhere without one, something that pleased his people, though a few of the thanes thought this mere superstition, while others, the ones who knew him best, dismissed it as political theatre. Behind the crossbearer came a massive man dressed in a vast bearskin, his face and hands painted with blood. He bore a golden mace before him, and on its spike was the blackened head of MacDonwald.
The rest of the honor guard rode with bright swords drawn. None of them had seen combat.
Still, Banquo thought, this was a show, a spectacle, and for that, impressive enough. As they neared the walls, the fanfare rang out again. Macbeth appeared on the turret by the gatehouse, Skena at his side.
“Glamis and the people of Scotland welcome Duncan,” he called, his breath smoking in the cold. “King and savior of the nation.”
The crowd shouted their welcome and applauded. If any felt Banquo’s own wry amusement at the words, they did not show it.
Duncan’s warhorse did not like the castle’s cobbled courtyard and almost tipped the king from the saddle as he attempted to dismount. Macbeth rushed to steady the beast and offer his shoulder for support as the old man clambered awkwardly down. Banquo thought he caught Malcolm smirking, but the son lowered his eyes too quickly for anyone to be sure.
Then, a little breathless, Duncan made a brief and well-turned speech about victory and national pride and friendship, half smiled to himself, and concluded with a remark that set the thanes glancing among themselves with nervous excitement.
“There is no fitter time,” he said, “with the rebel threat vanquished, the foreign invader repulsed, and the nation whole again, to think on the future, and that I will address this evening.”
What the hell did that mean? Banquo wondered, his heart sinking. Some food, some drink, a little tumble with a willing maid. That was all these men about him wanted mostly, himself among them. Not more politics, with all the dangers that could bring.
With what small diplomatic skill he possessed, Banquo determined to press for opinions, quietly, subtly. An hour later, he found himself with a huddle of his peers, drinking and talking in an anteroom off the banquet hall, the walls hung with heavy tapestries depicting a stag hunt. These men had gathered informally, drifting together without apparent purpose as the rest of the castle bustled in the activity that surrounded such a bountiful feast. They had spoken of trivial matters: where they could get their boots resoled, the state of the garderobe privies, and how far they would be traveling once the festivities here were done. But there was a watchfulness about them as they skirted the subject at the forefront of their minds, and all knew it.
Ross, a gullible acolyte at the best of times, was vocal in his opinion. The king, he predicted, meant to embark on a new chain of fortifications—once a pet project when he had been a younger man. The broader consensus was more troubling. Many had heard the constant gossip that Duncan meant to announce an heir as he had sometimes threatened, bypassing the traditional voice of the Council of Thanes.
MacDuff, in particular, a hard and stubborn lord even in more peaceful times, scowled at that thought.
“So,” said Banquo, resolved to break the tension, “I’m guessing we’ll have a new prince of Cumberland among us before bed. It’s like a game for children, isn’t it? I wonder who will pluck the prize from Duncan’s sack.”
MacDuff shifted, brows creased, uncomfortable.
“This is idle talk,” he said. “Duncan can choose who he likes. Any prince will need our voice if he is to become king.”
“That’s true enough,” said Banquo, “and there’s no reason to think Duncan will not hold the throne for many a long year yet. He seems well in body and clear in mind as ever.”
“Why shouldn’t he be?” muttered MacDuff, with a hint of bitterness. “The long arm of battle never reaches him.”
Ross gave him a sharp look.
“And nor should it,” MacDuff added quickly. “His majesty is the head of the nation. We are nothing more than the weapons of his purpose.”
“Exactly,” said Angus. “Perhaps one of us will be rewarded.”
“You mean Macbeth?” asked Banquo.
“I don’t think it an accident that we are gathered here,” Angus replied. “And saving your good self, there is no man who has risked and won more for Duncan than our host.”
“A brave and valiant patriot,” said Banquo, nodding, raising his tankard. “And a worthy man. If he’s named prince of Cumberland, I for one would be proud to see him wear the crown when Duncan’s days are done.”
An awkward mood had fallen on the conversation. It was in exchanges such as this that rebellions and the bloody nightmare of civil war found their roots.
“All this may be true,” said MacDuff, “but I would rather such matters were left to the council when the need arise. Naming heirs in advance forces our hand. Now you must excuse me.” His dark eyebrows rose at each of them. “I believe I am alone in having wife and family in tow.”
“Bad timing,” Angus said, and winked boldly. “There are more than a few pretty faces in these parts.”
“At times like this,” the thane of Fife said, staring at him balefully in return, “I prefer my family around me. Look after your own, friends. That’s my advice. A wife and bairns are worth more than any strumpet.”
They fell silent and gazed into their drinks.
When MacDuff had left, Banquo shook his head and said, “A stern and moral man. It’s growing up by the sea that does it.”
“That wife of his...” Angus grumbled.
“Happens to be my cousin!” Ross objected.
An awkward silence, red faces, men coughing into their hands.
“But you’re right,” Ross added, mock seriously. “She’s a shrew and scares the life out of me. My friend MacDuff might make a king, but it would be a cold and tedious nation if those
two should clamber onto the throne. Give me brave Macbeth and that pretty wife of his any day. At least you could have a smiling face on what few coins you own.”
Banquo roared with laughter and, though not a sensitive man, was aware his voice was a little too loud, a little too enthusiastic.
They were in their bedroom, a brief respite from the crowds below, the only place they felt safe together.
“Banquo says I may be king-to-be before the night is out,” Macbeth remarked, watching her as she changed into a formal gown.
“Duncan has given me a gift already, husband,” Skena replied. “Direct from his fond and roaming hands.”
In her delicate fingers was a diamond brooch, an ornate foreign design, not Celtic. Silver, with a bright diamond at its center.
“Duncan passed it to me in private when he arrived. With a twinkle in his eye. We may not know what plans he has for you. But I recognize that look. I understand what he desires of me...”
He took the brooch, turned it in his hands, passed it back to her.
“Wear it on your gown tonight, smile, and avoid his gaze. He’s king, not God. This is my castle and you’re my wife. If you were willing, he’d accept it. If not, he knows better than to press his case too strongly.”
“He’s a gracious monarch, you mean?”
“He’s a politician above all else. A man like Duncan doesn’t keep the throne through making foes easily. Not over such a small matter as a bedmate...”
“Thank you,” she replied, and cast her head to one side as if in thought.
“I meant...” He came forward, pressed the brooch to her breast, kissed her tenderly on the cheek, ignoring the small pressure of uncertain resistance there. “Small to a fool like him.”
“Some fool,” she muttered. “Safe on the throne, without risking a hair of himself or his own. Now leeching off us once again and giving nothing in return, save this...”
She held the brooch before him. He watched it sparkle in her fingers, then took the thing once more and carefully pinned it to her dark velvet gown, above her heart.
“Patience...” he began.
“Is a virtue for the dead alone. We are trapped in the mechanisms of a device made and run by others, Macbeth. Do you not feel it?”
“I feel...” He shook his head, without an answer.
“If Duncan names you Cumberland tonight, he does so for one reason only. To gain time, to halt you at the foot of his throne with an empty promise that will surely be dashed aside the moment one of his own garners sufficient support to usurp you.”
“Malcolm and Donalbain are little liked...”
“They’re vicious, striving, younger versions of their father and will happily murder one another to snatch the crown themselves. Listen to me!”
There was truth in her words and he knew it.
“If I am next in line...” Macbeth began.
“You’re a corpse-in-waiting. And if not, the same. Listen to the gossip out there. You are the boldest, strongest, best-loved man in Scotland. If Duncan died this night, they’d crown you before the cock crows...”
“Wife,” he sighed.
“If Duncan’s gone, there’s none in the land who’d seek to place another on the throne. Wait...” She took his hands now, held them tightly. “Wait and he will scheme to cast doubt in their minds, weaken your forces, and find the chance to bring you down. Then your head will sit on his berserker’s pike, as MacDonwald’s does today, and I’ll be counted lucky to be one more harlot in his whorehouses. Those weird sisters you met...”
“Witches,” he spat. “Had I never seen them...”
“Nothing would be different at all! They told you the truth, husband. We rise or fall on our own courage, nothing else. This cozy heaven you seek at home is no more than an illusion. The world moves on, and either we travel with it or lie trampled beneath the feet of others.”
“I will listen to what the king says, then make up my mind.”
Her subtle fingers fell to his cheek. “And in the meantime I shall manage the household. As the lady of the castle should. Your trick with Sueno...Nightshade is a powerful weed. A common one, too.”
The memory of that amused him, though its relevance was lost. “So?” he asked.
“Nothing, lord. This is churlish on our part. We have guests below. Whispering in the shadows.”
He held her slender body to his. “I’d stay here forever, if only that were...”
Skena dragged herself from him. “Possible?” she asked. “It isn’t. Come, Macbeth.” She linked her arm through his. “There’s a king to heed and work to do.”
Duncan carved the boar himself. Not just the first ceremonial slice, but the entire first round of servings.
“See,” Banquo whispered to Macbeth, “I told you he could wield a blade.”
Fleance overheard and Macbeth caught the boy’s shocked look.
“Your father’s just joking,” he said. “Duncan is a great man. A father to us all.”
Banquo picked up his cup and toasted the idea, then drank down the ale, spilling it into his beard and belching so loudly that the nearest lady, MacDuff’s wife, covered her mouth and looked askance.
The king’s priest said the blessing and Duncan paused, eyes closed and face upturned, an attitude of pious devotion. The hall responded with an “Amen” and the feast began.
Skena—at Macbeth’s insistence—had stopped ministering like a serving girl and taken her place at the opposite end of the table, facing him. Duncan sat in the middle, smiling and chewing, spitting gobbets of gristle and fat onto the rush-strewn floor. He knew they were waiting and was amusing himself by drawing out the evening. At the start of the feast he had said a few short words, then spoken of his gift to Skena, the diamond brooch from the English court. She had avoided the king’s gaze when he came and admired the gem on her gown, took one step back as his prying fingers reached out to touch the jewel on her breast.
A modest smile, a blush. The king had shrugged, a gesture not lost on those around him. Duncan was used to taking favors from the ladies of his lords from time to time, but only with their assent. Nobility conferred a little privilege.
After this brief, tense moment, Macbeth sat with the rest of the men, but still he could scarcely take his eyes off her. She seemed so beautiful, so serene, and gathered those around her in polite conversation, listening to each with the patient skill of a diplomat, finding interest in the tedious and mundane. The ladies seemed agog at her composure, the grace with which she behaved as if nothing could be more normal than the presence of the royal court. They knew what such visitations cost, how crippling it could be if a king decided to bless you with his presence, not for a day or a week, but for a month, even an entire season. Yet Skena showed only a sublime and placid contentment. She was made for this, he thought. No, something better.
There were jugglers and jesters, dancers and musicians, and food enough for several armies, not that the average soldier would recognize what overflowed the best pewter plates Skena Macbeth could find. After the boar came pies; capons, grouse, and ptarmigan; larks and woodcock; salmon, herring, and lampreys—all accompanied by potage, breads, salt pork, bacon, and cheese. How she had managed to arrange it all at such short notice, and with the roads unsafe, Macbeth had no idea.
It was long after dark when the king rose to his feet. The man had been drinking steadily since he arrived, except for the half hour they had spent crammed into the tiny family chapel, giving thanks for their victory. Still, he looked poised and in control, like an actor who had played the same part so often he became the mask he wore. Duncan placed both hands on the table and waited for silence to fall. The harpist stalled, the clatter of utensils stopped, and only the crackle of the massive hearth served to distract the assembly from the king’s words. However dulled with food and drink they had been, they were keen as knives now and all eyes were turned toward him.
“We begin,” he said, smiling, “with gratitude. First, to God, th
e father of justice, peace, and victory. Lord of the world and of our humble, but beauteous corner of it—Scotland. Second, to the founder of the feast—MacDonwald!”
He nodded to where the berserker, a Viking mercenary lured by Duncan’s gold, stood ramrod straight by the fire with the head of the traitor impaled on the royal mace.
There was a shout of laughter from the room as Duncan toasted the dead rebel.
Macbeth stared at the bloody prize he’d brought to the king. Two days before, MacDonwald had nearly taken his life. Now the man whose name had made their blood run cold was no more than a sideshow prop for mockery and laughter. The mighty had a long way to fall.
“Next, and most sincerely,” continued Duncan, with the same easy and expansive smile, “to our kind hostess, whose beauty is rivaled only by her kindness.”
Another toast, and Skena rose, inclined her head graciously to the applause, stroked the brooch on her breast, and sat down again without ever meeting Duncan’s eyes.
“Lastly, to our most worthy captains, the architects of our victory.”
Duncan turned, his smile widening still further.
“Banquo! And Macbeth!”
Both men stood to acknowledge the cheering with solemn bows.
“These have been troubled times,” said Duncan, in his element now. He gazed around the lamplit chamber, taking them all in, confident and composed. Macbeth felt a reluctant rush of admiration for the man. There was a profound and well-honed talent here. “Dark times,” the king went on. “And it is only through great courage and sacrifice that we have moved beyond them into the light of a clear, new day. We have given thanks to God, and to those men among us who were His instruments, but still the serpent of treason lurks within our midst. We must head it off before this vile and bloody snake rears its venomous head again.”
Here it comes, thought Macbeth.
Duncan paused, and the spitting of the logs on the fire seemed unnaturally loud in the stillness.
