Macbeth

by David Hewson

  She held onto his arm.

  “I thought I was supposed to go,” he said uncertainly.

  “There’s one more favor, Ewan,” she said, and whispered in his ear.

  The boy went white and shook his head. “I’m not the one for thieving, lady. Not for nobody. I seen what they do with the light-fingered round here.”

  “It’s a game, Ewan,” she said, smiling, holding onto him. “A jape, a jest. No harm in it and none will come to you.” She stroked his cheek. “I swear.” Skena smiled at him. “But you’re just a child. If you’re afeared—”

  “I’m afeared of nothing!” the child declared. “If you say—”

  “I do,” she interrupted. “Now on your way, young man.” She bent and kissed his hair one last time. “And be discreet about your business. As silent as a mouse.”

  The two of them left the bedroom together, downstairs first, to the place she showed him. Then, when that small deed was done, he returned above, along the stone staircase that led to the guest quarters at the summit of the keep.

  Visitors here were few, distinguished ones even rarer. Ewan couldn’t remember the last time any lord of repute had stayed long enough for a banquet. Inverness castle was, his sister said, a cold and foul-smelling hovel, built for nothing but to lure the Vikings away from the king’s rich palaces along the Moray Firth at Forres, a place as beautiful as Inverness was hideous.

  The guards were two gruff foot soldiers in breeches and leather jerkins, swords in their belts, caps perched on their massive heads, seated beneath a burning brand. The first had the reddest hair he’d ever seen, the second the reddest cheeks.

  “Sirs?” he said, meekly offering them the flask and the mugs.

  They were by the curtain at the door into the bedroom, one holding the fabric aside, both peering slyly through. They had a certain demeanor he’d come to recognize among men in the castle at times, anxious and expectant, as if there were a fight or something equally pleasant about to be had.

  “Sirs?” he repeated.

  “Shush,” whispered the redheaded one, placing a large, stinking hand over his face. “Can’t you see the king’s at prayer?”

  The other sniggered and said, in a low, wicked tone, “Let the boy have a look for himself, brother. It’s best he gets to know his monarch, don’t you think?”

  They chuckled at that and the hand moved from his face, gripped his shirt, and propelled him into the doorway.

  It took a moment for his eyes to focus, and even then, he wasn’t sure what he saw ahead in the half-light of the candle by the bed. In the center of the room, close by a tall four-poster bed, stood the man he knew to be King Duncan, tall and erect in a nightshirt, silver hair falling down his back, face up to the roof. A girl in the pretty flowered costume of the dancers from the west knelt in front of him, his hands on the back of her head.

  She was bobbing up and down from the neck, in a constant rhythm that made her blonde hair sway and fall in front of her, raising and lowering Duncan’s nightshirt with each measured motion.

  The king crooned and sighed as if singing a strange, wordless melody, one that seemed to be approaching a kind of climax. Then it was done and a faint, sad cry emerged from his throat, a noise that made the two guards titter and punch each other on the arm.

  “What’s she doing?” the boy asked the redheaded one.

  “It’s called giving homage,” the soldier said, and slapped the second when his laughter grew so loud it seemed impossible the king wouldn’t hear.

  The boy watched as the girl stayed there, kneeling. Sobbing, he thought. When finally she turned to look away, he saw her face and it was as miserable as any he’d ever seen. She wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Then the old man above her snapped something, rapped her once around her pretty head, and clambered onto the bed without so much as another word.

  She got up and his heart stopped, remembering how she’d danced and sung in the hall. She was the youngest of the girls. No more than twelve or thirteen, he thought. Slim and as beautiful as an angel. Her eyes were glassy with tears; her shoulders racked with sobs. She half walked, half ran to the door where they stood, dashed past them without a word, and disappeared into the darkness. He heard her weeping and the sound of her spitting or spewing, he wasn’t sure which, or whether it was both. It seemed an odd noise for an angel to make.

  “The older he gets,” the ruddy-faced soldier said, “the younger he likes them.”

  He patted the boy on the shoulder.

  “You want to go in and say hello to his majesty yourself, boy?”

  “No, thank you,” he whispered, suddenly afraid.

  The king was the king. It was beneath great people to close doors on servants. They would eat and sleep and shit, do anything in front of them, just as easily as they would with a dog in the room. Duncan now seemed to be asleep on the coverlet, snoring like a common drunk.

  “Your gift,” he said. “From Lord Macbeth. To thank you for your work.”

  The red-faced one took the flask, poured two mugs, and passed one to the other.

  “Slàinte,” he said, then, eyeing the boy, added, “Fancy a sip, young’un?”

  “Lady Macbeth said it was for you, sir, not a child like me,” he answered.

  They didn’t argue, but pulled up two stools by the door and gulped at the wine.

  “Bah,” said the redhead. “It’s watered.”

  “Better than nothing,” the other retorted. “Shut your moaning.”

  He could hear sobbing from below the stairs, a young, hurt voice.

  “I can tell you like a fine joke, sirs,” he murmured, slipping the thing she’d told him to steal beneath the grubby pile of bags they carried with them.

  He left them and wandered back along the corridor, then down the stone staircase to the floor below.

  The girl dancer sat curled in a heap beneath a solitary burning brand by the wall, head in her knees, shaking, weeping. He tried to think of something to say but could think of no words.

  Sleep, the lady said. Go to bed. That was what children did. But the boy called Ewan couldn’t think of closing his eyes, not after what he’d seen and done. Not for a while, anyway.

  There was someone in the courtyard, a tall, slim figure, awake, with a brand in his hand. It has to be dark, Macbeth thought. Everywhere.

  He walked down the keep stairs, back into the cold night, pulling his cloak around him, falling close to the exterior wall, determined to see who was still awake.

  When he was closer, hand on his blade, feeling more trepidation in his own castle than he’d ever known facing MacDonwald or Sueno in the field, another shape moved out of the gloom ahead of him and a familiar voice boomed through the night, directed at the figure with the torch.

  “How goes the night, boy?” Banquo demanded, his bearded face suddenly caught by the moon, the wolf pelt about his shoulders.

  “I haven’t heard the bell,” said a young, yet certain voice.

  “That means it’s not yet midnight,” his father said patiently.

  “It feels later,” Fleance answered.

  “Feels, feels, feels...” Banquo snarled. “You cannot spend your time in endless dreaming.”

  Macbeth walked out into the center of the yard, making heavy, audible steps.

  “Sword!” Banquo ordered.

  “No need of a sword in my castle,” Macbeth said as he joined them. Father and son in the moonlight—one old and grizzled and battle worn, the other a handsome, fresh-faced youth of fifteen. “What game is this, Banquo? Playing soldiers in the home of a friend?”

  The big man laughed a little too heartily. “Fleance is still a child in many ways,” he replied, throwing his arm around his son, gripping him in a brief bear hug. “He needs to learn the art of being a humble guard. No man goes straight from bottom to top.” He scratched his beard. “We didn’t, did we? I remember some scrapes back when we were his age...”

  His son looked none too pleased by the attention.
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  Macbeth smiled at him fondly. “Your father’s right, Fleance. This is a dangerous, difficult world.”

  “I know that,” he answered. “I see things sometimes. Things you don’t—”

  “Not now,” Banquo snapped. “Not here.”

  “It’s late,” Macbeth added. “I beg of you. This was a long and eventful night. For pity’s sake, go to bed. The king has—”

  “He seemed unusually pleased with himself, I might say,” Banquo observed. “And very generous to you and Skena in one way, at least. That diamond he gave her...”

  “Was unnecessary. The king owes us nothing. I, on the other hand, owe him everything. And you, too.” He put a hand to Banquo’s arm, then Fleance’s. “To bed, friends.”

  The bearlike figure glanced toward the vast towering keep. “Never seen this place so dark,” he muttered. “Give me the light any day.”

  “Morning will soon be on us. The sun always rises. Your boy looks exhausted.”

  Banquo leaned and whispered in his ear, “He’s not the only one who dreams. I had those three weird sisters in my head last night, and all that strange nonsense they spouted. Did you?”

  Macbeth thought for a moment and said, “The witches? No. You were right. Lunatics on the heath. And see how wrong they were?”

  “Not about everything. Those lunatics knew you were about to become thane of Cawdor.”

  Macbeth nodded and said, “I thought of that. They heard about it before we met them. Mischievous bitches playing tricks. What other explanation can there be? This didn’t concern you last night. Why does it matter now?”

  Banquo shook his head. “I can’t get it out of my mind. Cawdor. The king and that foul son of his, handed the throne as if it were some present.” He glanced at Fleance. “The idea that in that meek boy of mine might lie a dynasty—”

  “Friend, friend!” Macbeth cut in. “I commanded you by rank in the field. Here, in my courtyard, we are equals. But be sensible. Put these fanciful ideas to one side, as have I. The king is asleep. He’s spoken his mind about the succession. I heard no voices rising in argument.”

  “As if they’d say it to his face...” A brief, wry smile broke on his face. “I wonder what kind of monarch a man like Malcolm will make. They say he almost flayed Cawdor alive. Duncan would never have done that himself. Just asked someone else while he watched and smirked.” He paused, seemed hesitant. “A brooch instead of the promise of a nation. No man would blame you if you felt a little cheated, friend. There’s plenty inside who’d rather the prize had gone to you.”

  Macbeth guided him to the steps. “I’m fortunate with what I have. Tomorrow we will talk of this if it still concerns you. But now...forget about hags on the heath. Take your son and get some sleep. In a few hours the king will be on his way and we may all return to our business.”

  “Sound advice!” Banquo declared, and took Fleance with him up the stairs.

  It was a naked lie, the first Macbeth had ever told his childhood friend. There had been a dream, though whether it was a waking one or the product of a brief slumber that evening, he’d no idea. He had found himself in darkness, in a winding corridor of the keep, following a light that chased and beckoned before him, the source never quite visible until that last moment when he stood outside the room where Duncan would sleep soundly in the grand wooden bed.

  A dagger, a stabbing weapon made for soft targets, lay ahead of him every step of the way, hovering in the dark, its hilt toward him, radiant and shining with a strange unearthly light. A familiar blade, though he couldn’t place it at that moment. Jewels ran down the handle to the guard. Blood and gore stained the sharp edge and dripped in gouts and gobs down into the dark below.

  He’d woken not long after, but somehow that image would not leave him; the weapon, hilt outstretched, blade stained, seemed to beckon. When he glanced at the disturbed sky, clouds fast scattering across the dark expanse of stars, the constellations seemed to reform before him, their familiar patterns shifting until each resembled a pointed weapon, ready to stab and hack at each other as if the universe were at war with itself, filled with some deadly, malevolent hate.

  “Must I do this?” he murmured to himself. “Murder an old man sleeping in his bed? Steal the throne of Scotland like a cutthroat bandit robbing an innocent upon the road?”

  From beyond the curtain wall came the long, slow howl of a wolf hunting in the hills, and it seemed a kind of answer. This was the world he was destined to inhabit, the only one. What horror it contained existed before him and would endure long past his transformation to dust. The brief flickering flame of existence was defined, made real by a man’s courage and willingness to seize the opportune moment and make the best of it, a best that would be more just, more decent than any Duncan and his ilk might deliver. It was either that or ignominy, defeat, disgrace, and death once Malcolm’s skinny fingers tightened their grip upon the crown. And that could happen anytime—tomorrow, even. There was no space for prevarication or delay.

  The low, metallic voice of the watch bell boomed from the tower by the gate.

  Midnight.

  Sleep tight, Duncan, he thought. For this is a knell that summons you to heaven or to hell.

  Macbeth closed his eyes, and once again, the dagger rose gleaming in his imagination. When he looked again it was there once more, real this time, outstretched on a slender arm that emerged from the gloom.

  He realized now why he recognized it, why—there could be no other reason—his feverish mind had invented this image for the blade in that waking dream. The thing was a gift, him to her, not long after their wedding. A lady’s knife taken from a dead Viking, who’d doubtless stolen it himself somewhere along the way. Skena’s now, and it was her hand that raised it before him.

  She came out of the shadows and stood by his side, face hard and resolute, but pale as a specter in the darkness.

  “The guards are drugged and sleeping,” she whispered. “I sent the means, then crept to Duncan’s chamber myself to see them snoring away like pigs.” Her eyes flickered toward the moon. “I could have done the deed. I will, if need be...”

  His hand went to her cheek. “Go back to the bedroom. Stay there. This is man’s work.”

  “Is that why you linger here alone, muttering to yourself like some loon?” There was a fierceness to her tongue, and on occasion, he deserved it.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “I’ve never...”

  “What?” she snapped. “If you are to do the deed, you should be able to say it.”

  “Murder,” said Macbeth. The word hung in the air between them like a spell. “I have never murdered a sleeping man before. Let alone a king.”

  She took his coat with her two small hands and pulled him close. “You must now, Macbeth. We have no choice. Duncan’s no fool. In the morning he’ll see in your face the doubt that’s written there now. And when he does, he will put both of us to the sword as easily as he did Cawdor. Deceit does not suit you, and for that, you have my love. But once the seed of ambition is planted within your heart it shouts its presence from your features as readily as if you spoke the treacherous words yourself. For our sake, husband...”

  Beyond the walls the wolf howled again. He thought of the pelt that covered Banquo’s shoulders, the cracked jaw above the shining berserker’s helmet, the yellow fangs, the last thing many an enemy would see. Life and death were soul mates, walking hand in hand.

  The dagger gleamed before him, tight in her white and delicate hand. From the courtyard below came the screech of a barn owl, dropping victorious on its prey, and the squeals of a rabbit or rat as the bird’s sharp beak tore into its living flesh.

  He grasped the weapon, felt the warmth of the leather hilt and the soft, cold glassy surface of the precious stones set into its length. This was no dream, some fancy flitting through the head of a pensive child. This was his world, as real as real might be.

  Duncan slept in the farthest reach of the stone fortress of Inverness, a place t
hat seemed dark as a subterranean cave. Caution led Macbeth to carry nothing more than a single candle as he wound his way through the gloomy corridors. He paced slowly, watching the shadows leap and fall on the black walls.

  The king’s suite lay on the uppermost floor of the keep, atop a long and gloomy spiral staircase where water dripped perpetually. Macbeth climbed it slowly, one hand holding the meager candle aloft, the other stretched out ahead, fingers splayed. In the tight stone stairwell it seemed he could hear the throbbing echo of his racing heart.

  If someone were to enter below him now, he would have nowhere to go, caught with his dagger drawn as he skulked his murderous way to Duncan’s chamber. Twice, he paused to listen, sure he had heard movement ahead, but there was nothing. He was alone, with only his own fear as a companion.

  Close to the chamber, he paused again, listening, eyes tightly shut. Then, in the silence, he moved lightly up the final stairs, as quickly as he dared, and inched his way onto the stone landing, setting down one soundless foot after the other.

  The guards were dimly visible, asleep beneath a single sputtering torch, heavy, unconscious snoring forms on the slabs before Duncan’s chamber. He bent down gingerly and removed a cheap field knife—the kind they called a bollock dagger—from each man’s belt and tucked them into his own. Evidence would be laid—and with it, blame. After that, Macbeth would see swift justice handed out, before too many awkward questions could be asked.

  There was a fainter noise from the cold chamber ahead—the biggest bedroom in the castle, the bleakest and most remote, too, a good walk and half a landing away from the nearest, his own. He listened to the slow, weak wheezing of the old man there, then advanced, Skena’s sharp dagger in his right hand, the candle in his left, his mind awhirl with thoughts and fancies.

  How many men had he killed over the years? There was no way to count them. He was a warrior, a foot soldier once, now a great general in the field when needed. When war came, death was his job, his duty. But those savage encounters happened in the heat and madness of battle, out in the sharp, unforgiving light of day. Even the slaughter of MacDonwald had occurred without much forethought or preparation. Like every other life he’d taken, that act was filled with personal risk, one equal against the other. His corpse could as easily have lain on the gray slate of that distant castle in Ballachulish as the traitor’s. In combat there was a balance between winner and loser, an unspoken pact, a sense that something—the elusive element called chance—might smooth out the most unlikely odds from time to time. It had happened with the mekilwort and Sueno.