Macbeth

by David Hewson

  He reached the horse and casually dragged his heavy sword free, as if it was to be no more than a tool they might use to free the wheel. As he did so, he spoke softly into the beast’s flank.

  “Stay on your horse, Fleance. Be ready to ride. Don’t wait for me.” He hesitated, sensing the way the three men had left the cart and were coming closer. He looked up into his son’s wide-eyed face and grinned wryly. “I love you, boy. Trust that. Trust no one else alive.”

  Then he turned with a roar, the sword scything out in a broad, vicious arc. The giant had a rough-hewn cleaver in his great fist, the porter a short stabbing sword. Both gave ground immediately, but the third lunged with the pitchfork and Banquo stepped first right, then forward. The long tines of the fork jabbed into the air where his head had been and Banquo closed fast, piercing the man’s belly with a single thrust.

  He grinned at the other two wolfishly as the man slumped bleeding in the snow.

  Then there was a snap like a broken tree branch up in the rock wall to his left. Banquo didn’t see the crossbowman till the dart found his side. It went in hard and cold between his ribs, and the flare of pain nearly knocked him down. Then they moved, one coming from the other side, a skulking, spindly fellow with a leather cap and a long knife, making for Fleance.

  Banquo roared his defiance and slapped at the mare’s hindquarters. The horse started and skittered so much the villain hesitated.

  “Fly, Fleance! Fly!” Banquo bellowed.

  The animal reared and retreated a yard, no more. Standing unsteadily on his own two feet, he found the stabbing wound turned hot, and the breath seemed to leak from out his lungs. He gasped, fell back, slapped at the mare again, and this time it took a few faltering steps. The boy looked back at him. Banquo yelled at him this one last time, “Go!”

  Then Fleance spurred the mare. The animal bolted, slipping as it leapt forward, Banquo stepping into the space it left, swinging his sword, roaring like a beast. His ribs cried out with the effort of his reach; his heart beat the rhythm of a battle drum. Then the blade caught the knifeman at the elbow, severing his forearm.

  The assassin shrank away screaming, clutching his wound, his eyes wide with fear and astonishment. Banquo turned from him to face the other two, and the crossbowman who was sliding casually down to the track, now with an ax in one hand.

  “Get after the boy,” shouted Fergus to the one with the crossbow.

  Banquo managed three lumbering strides toward him, clutching the spot where the shaft stuck in his side. Turning his back on the others, he slashed wildly at the ax man who feinted and danced away, grinning, stalling.

  One more lunge, his great strength failing. He swung a last time, stumbled, sinking to one knee.

  “Fleance,” he sighed, casting around him, seeing nothing, only a clear path, satisfied the boy was in the hills.

  When he looked up he saw the giant with no tongue leering grimly at him, the pitchfork in his hands. One hard stabbing blow and the long iron prongs went straight through Banquo’s chest.

  He knelt now, breathless, bleeding. Two huge hands came down and snatched the wolf skin from his shoulders.

  A memory flashed through his mind: taking that great fur trophy from a slaughtered Viking after a long and vicious fight.

  “I killed that man in battle,” he murmured, feeling the warm, salty liquid rise quickly in his throat. “I...”

  But the air would not reach his lungs, nor the words his lips. The bright flashing edge of the ax blade was flying toward him, and in that brief moment, Banquo felt a final new emotion, one he dimly recognized as fear.

  Night fell, owls screeched, men whispered in the dark. Skena wandered the palace like a lost soul, surrounded by faces she scarcely recognized, searching for her husband for hours on end. Finally, not long before the feast was due to start, she found Ross, quiet in a corner, seated on a bench, alone and broody.

  “My husband...?” she said. “Where is he? And Banquo?”

  The man eyed her awkwardly and waved to the door of the chamber by his side.

  “Banquo has gone riding with his son,” he answered, though he seemed embarrassed. “Your husband and him had words, I hear. Now Macbeth is within, alone and...truculent.”

  “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “What should be wrong?” Ross replied with a shrug.

  There was a roar of anger from beyond the door, a cry from a familiar voice. Skena’s eyes flashed to Ross, who got hurriedly to his feet, avoiding her eyes.

  “I need to get ready for the feast,” he muttered as he made his exit.

  Skena took a breath, then entered and found Macbeth there, wild-eyed and furious, a bottle in his hand, hair more awry than the wildest of Highland warriors, berating the world and himself.

  The smell of strong spirits hung on the air. He rarely touched the whisky the Irish called poteen. But now he stank of the stuff, as did the small, cold chamber.

  “What is this?” she asked. “I thought my husband was in here, the king of Scotland, about to greet his subjects. Instead, I find a crazed beast, half a man...”

  “We scotched the snake and didn’t kill it,” he muttered, then swigged at the glass neck, found it empty, and staggered to the table to grab some more.

  With her right arm, she swept the bottles there to the stone floor and heard them shatter. The noisome smell of strong drink rose from the ground in a fetid cloud.

  “Why are you alone and in this state?” she asked. “This is a time to stifle what rumor and gossip remain. Bury it once and for all with certainty and confidence. Not fire more loose talk through this strange fury.”

  “Why strange?” he asked.

  She put her hands on his chest and came close, ignoring the fumes of drink. “What’s done is done, Macbeth.”

  “That’s true,” he muttered.

  “Then let’s leave Duncan in the grave. What we cannot change should not concern us. You’re king now, with a court and subjects, both looking to you to hold the throne with dignity. Not”—she took the empty bottle from his hands—“this...”

  He stood there, silent, distraught over something she could not begin to fathom. There was a water jug and basin in the corner. She went for them, poured a little freezing liquid, found a rag, began to wipe his troubled face.

  “Come on,” she pleaded. “Be gentle. Shrug off these fiery looks. There’s a feast out there and guests who want you to be bright and jovial.”

  “Duncan sleeps and I cannot,” he muttered.

  “Forget him!”

  His eyes were dark and mad. “Can you forget that boy?”

  The tears started in her eyes and she opened her mouth in shock as if he had slapped her.

  “The dead should think themselves fortunate,” he ranted. “Nothing, no treason, no steel or poison or domestic malice may touch them further. Yet we eat and drink in terror, fearing to sleep for dreadful dreams...”

  “Husband!” she cried, her hands upon his tangled, damp beard, cupping his face. “Hush now! Be calm. Be brave and noble, as you truly are. Let me wash you, dress you. Let me make you whole again.”

  “The vessel’s broken,” he murmured. “Not a million hands may put it back together.”

  “Do not say such things! We’ve come so far and taken so much blood upon our souls. Let us put the black past behind us and beg forgiveness on our knees, of God, of the pope, of anyone. In the summer. Not now. You are king for a day only and must cement your reign. Act the monarch tonight and stifle all these murmurs of disquiet. Be friendly with Banquo, too. They say you argued with him, the man you’ve loved since you were boys...”

  His eyes flashed with suspicion. “Who said that?”

  This hard, inquiring look of his was new. Her husband had always been so open and so trusting. Now he seemed to see dangers lurking in every shadowy corner.

  “It’s of no consequence,” she told him. “Come to our apartment now and let me dress you.”

  “Banquo’s li
ne will rule this land through Fleance. We slaughtered Duncan more for them than for ourselves,” he croaked. “And in return—”

  “What does it matter once we’re dead! Live now, Macbeth. Enjoy your kingdom and your fame. Think of me, husband.”

  Of me, she thought. Just as guilty.

  “Be kind and loving to Banquo this evening. He’s been like a brother to you all these years. You need your friends around you...”

  “Friends? Friends? A king has none. Subjects only.” His voice was frantic, broken. His demeanor unfit to be seen.

  “The feast shall start a little late,” she said, and stroked his face with a fond concern. “I’ve work to do on you.”

  “There’s other labor being done,” he mumbled darkly. “Before this night is out...”

  “What, husband?” she asked, suddenly tense.

  He stiffened, looked a little more sober. Sly and regretful, too, as if he’d said or done something unworthy. “The business of the state,” he said.

  “We are complicit in this together, man and wife! What work?”

  “Nothing you need know about. But be happy with the consequences.”

  “Macbeth!”

  His right hand came up and his fingers wrapped around her jaw, sealing her lips together so tightly she fought for breath. His eyes were wild and monstrous and there was something in his face so close to hatred she scarcely dared witness it. “I am the king!” he said through gritted teeth. “And I demand your silence.”

  In all the years they’d known each other, sharing the same bed, the same skin it felt like sometimes, he’d never struck her, scarcely said an unkind word. She’d thought herself the only woman in Scotland who could have said such a thing about her man. And now...

  “Where are my robes and coronet?” he demanded, staring round the foreign chamber. “What is this place?”

  His hand came away. He stared at his own fingers as if they belonged to another.

  “My mind is full of scorpions,” he said more softly.

  “Oh, love,” she said, still struggling a little for both breath and composure. “Come with me, lord.” She reached out and touched his arm. He scarcely seemed to notice. “I will take you to your apartment and prepare you for the night.”

  “The night?” he laughed, bright all of a sudden. “That’s spoken for already.”

  “Come,” she said again, and finally led him from the room, finding herself fighting back the tears.

  An hour later, he lurked outside the banqueting hall, steadier in body, clearer in head, thinking, thinking. Possibilities, dangers, and fears assailed him from all sides. He was haunted by memory of his wife’s reproachful look when she had guessed he was keeping something from her. His beloved Skena, his dearest partner in greatness. But it was better she not be a part of what Macbeth knew. Her mind was already infected by their bloody deeds. He sensed her sorrow, however much she put on this show of composure and contentment. They had washed Duncan’s blood from their hands, but could not unsee what they had seen or forget what they had done. And the face of that dead servant boy still haunted her. This was pain enough. Spared the knowledge of his deeper sin, she might one day recover.

  Did a part of him not also take some cruel delight in keeping secrets from her, punishing her for this course she had—to some extent—set him on? Perhaps. There was a distance between them now, one that seemed to grow hour by hour from the moment he put on the crown.

  But this was no time for idle contemplation. He was the king. So he brushed away his thoughts and listened to the gathering throng. The noise from beyond the curtains sounded like the wordless murmur of a crowd for a contest or entertainment, a bear baiting, a hunt, an execution.

  As he stood there, hesitant, a body brushed against him in the dark. Macbeth’s fist reached out and grasped it. The porter’s face came back at him in the diagonal light of a nearby brand.

  “Do not dare enter that great hall,” Macbeth ordered. “You’ve blood on your face, fool.”

  “He was a strong, brave man. Without my companions...” His eyes were stony, unfeeling, his voice grim and bleak. The man was dead to everything but opportunity.

  “Banquo’s dealt with?” Macbeth asked.

  “No, lord. He’s here.” He extended a hand toward the raucous feast. “Go see for yourself.”

  “Do not try my patience!” Macbeth hissed at him.

  “I brought you proof. And yes, he’s dead. I cut his throat myself, ear to ear through that great beard. Not an easy task, but I did it for him. And for you.”

  Macbeth let go. “Tell me you did the same for Fleance and I’ll crown you king of the cutthroats. And give you silver enough to take you so far hence that I may never see your hideous face again.”

  Fergus shrugged. “Fleance escaped.”

  Macbeth’s hands flew to his neck. The porter retreated.

  “Banquo was a bear in battle, fighting for his cub. I thought he might kill us all. Do not be ungrateful, sire. There’s not one of us who came out of that encounter without hurt. Never have I faced down such a savage.”

  “Savage?” Macbeth echoed, and fell back against the cold stone wall. Had Fleance fallen alongside his father, then the witches’ words would have died with him. Still, the boy lived. Now Macbeth felt himself hemmed in once more, confined by constant doubts and fears. He fought for breath and, feeling the floor swim toward him, braced himself on the porter’s shoulder.

  “You’re sure that Banquo’s dead?” he whispered, finding the notion almost unimaginable.

  “Left in a ditch with his throat smiling bloodily and twenty gashes to his head. I put them there and none escapes me.”

  “None except the son.”

  “He’s a stripling,” the porter said. “He won’t hide long. I promise...”

  “The cuckoo’s dead but leaves his egg to hatch and expel me from my roost,” Macbeth sighed. He glanced at the skinny, sharp man in front of him. “These thugs of yours are trusty?”

  “As loyal and silent as a priest at confession. And one is mute, his tongue cut out by Vikings. You have no need to worry.” He smiled and stared. “About us, anyway.”

  “Then get about your business.”

  “Sir...” Fergus stood there, half frowning, half smiling, his hand extended. “Trust is bought, and those who earn it would be paid.”

  “You’ll get your money later,” Macbeth spat at him. “Go wash his blood from your vile features. I’ll see you in the morning. Then—”

  The curtain opened. Fergus scurried into the shadows to hide his face. Skena stood there, glaring at the two of them.

  “What is this?” she asked. “A king in whispered congress with his servant. Absent from his coronation feast? Your guests await you, Macbeth. Do not disappoint them.”

  “Not Banquo?” he asked uncertainly.

  “I haven’t seen him,” she said, shaking her head.

  The porter mumbled an apology and scurried off into the passageway behind, but not before he had cast one last knowing look at Macbeth, grinning as he left. His face was twisted in the torchlight, silhouetted like a gargoyle in the church.

  “I don’t like that man,” said Skena. “There is something in his eyes. I don’t know why you favor him. You’d think he was a decent servant, like Cullen. Not the drunken porter...”

  “A king needs many servants, of different kinds,” Macbeth replied.

  “Your guests,” she repeated, extending her arm toward the chamber beyond.

  He walked into the room, watching as they rose, lords and ladies, finely dressed, smiling, then clapping, some cheering.

  A pretty girl was by his side in an instant, offering drink in a fine silver goblet. There was music and a little merriment. An atmosphere he recognized, too. One of expectation. This was like a waking dream, one that only sleep might dispel.

  “Go lightly with the liquor,” Skena whispered as he reached out for the wine.

  Every eye was on him. He scanned the room, s
aw nothing there to fear.

  “You hear my wife!” he roared. “ ‘Go lightly with the liquor!’ ”

  They shrieked with mirth and raised their cups.

  “This is the day of my coronation!” Macbeth cried. “Tomorrow...”

  He grabbed Skena roughly, kissed her once on the cheek with a sudden, frank coarseness.

  “Tomorrow I listen to women.” He winked. They hooted. “Perhaps. Tonight I drink!”

  She smiled and freed herself from his strong arms, walked slowly across to the two chairs set by the head of the table, and waited.

  They sang, they danced, they listened to stories old and new, laughing as they always did. And all the while the women watched, stifling yawns, wishing they might retire and leave the men to play as some of them wished at the close of such riotous evenings.

  Macbeth, a little drunk again, was on his feet, his turn to recount a tale.

  “Show us how you killed MacDonwald!” Angus cried.

  “Behave like a king, not his jester,” Skena whispered underneath her breath. “Like the man I know and love.”

  And now am losing, she thought with the quick, painful stab of revelation.

  It was no use. The tale began.

  “Then...then! I slew him,” Macbeth bellowed, flying across the stones, spilling drink everywhere, cutting the air with an imaginary sword. He stopped and placed a thoughtful finger on his lips and said, “At least I think that was MacDonwald. So many enemies of late.”

  “And now you are with friends,” MacDuff declared with a shrewd smile.

  Skena Macbeth watched that man with care. He drank little and thought much. Few of them were fools. None, perhaps, as canny and observant as the thane of Fife.

  “Aye,” Macbeth said. “Friends. Friends...”

  His eyes drifted to the far side of the room, no focus in them, no sense. She wondered what the men and women around these tables felt. Pity? Concern? A silent inner contempt? Or the scent of ambition for themselves? Men got drunk—kings, even. But not like this.

  “My lord,” she declared, smiling, rising to her feet. “The evening is late. The day long. Tomorrow you have many meetings...”