‘Lady Anne.’ I turned back. ‘I bid you stay.’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
The door closed and the queen sank onto a cushion. She gestured to me to sit too. I did, glancing hopefully at a dish of chicken and raisins before looking at her. I felt like a puppy asking to be fed.
‘Eat,’ she said.
‘Thank you, ma’am.’ I cut a slice of goose and noticed her staring fixedly at the knife. ‘May I carve a slice for Your Majesty?’
‘No. No, I am quite well with this.’ She took a piece of chicken and laid it on her bread, though she didn’t lift it to her mouth.
I took it for permission and starting munching. She would talk when she chose.
I tried not to stare at her as I ate. Had this girl really helped to murder a king? Cared so little about the grooms that they could be disposed of as if they were chickens to be plucked? Had it really been cut-throats on the road who had killed Prince Donalbain? And where was Lord Banquo? I realised with growing shock that I had always known what my lady was capable of; had shut my thoughts away as carefully as a fur coat to keep it from the moths.
Food seemed to still my thoughts a little. I had eaten a good helping of goose, a slice of apple pie, and dipped my bread in walnut sauce before the queen spoke again.
‘My husband says he saw Lord Banquo’s ghost.’
‘Is Lord Banquo dead?’ I asked carefully.
‘If his ghost walks, why then he must be.’
It was a better explanation than ‘the king is mad’. Or was it? With growing horror I remembered my words up on the heath. Thou shalt get kings, I had promised Banquo. Had my words killed him too?
My hand trembled and I put down my bread. I wondered if I could ever eat again. Or sleep.
‘There will be muttering in the corridors tonight,’ the queen said. ‘It is the worst time for it with half the thanes not yet pledged. Something must be done.’ She held my gaze. ‘Scotland needs a steady king. There will be disaster otherwise. Civil war, the Danes attacking, perhaps the English too.’
I nodded dumbly. It would be worse than any of King Duncan’s wars. And my fault as much as hers.
‘We must try the remedy that had such good effect upon the heath at Glamis.’ She said the words as casually as if she wanted another loaf of bread.
Another charm? I shuddered. That ‘charm’ had already caused too much evil. And Agnes was back at Glamis and Mam too.
‘Ma’am,’ I began.
She cut me off with a stare: a snake mesmerising a mouse to stillness. ‘This meat is too large for your village hag. You must hire the actors from England who did perform for us last week. They must pretend to be the witches this time. But now they must reassure the king, not urge him to more action.’ She has been thinking of this for days, at least, I thought. One did not plot such an enterprise in an hour, not while trying to soothe the king as well. How long had she suspected he was mad?
And yet I could not do it. Would not do it. But it was as if she held me in a hundred skeins of wool. I could not look away.
‘You will tell the actors that the play is a simple jest,’ she said calmly, as if telling me what petticoats she would wear. ‘A play to play with, to frighten your brother-in-law who has not yet pledged to the king. I will make sure the king arrives to see it, in a simple cloak, no crown upon his head. The actors will not realise they are playing for the king himself.’
But the players would recognise him. No, I realised, he hadn’t attended the play last week. And this wasn’t like at Glamis where all the village knew their thane by sight. Most in the city had never seen the king up close. And these actors were strangers to our city. They would be gone soon too.
‘They must add cunning tricks of theatre to make themselves seem truly witch-like. If actors can make us believe they are Caesar and Cleopatra, they can convince a king that they are a tribe of witches, especially as he believes that he met witches before. But the actors must say this.’ The queen met my eyes. ‘All will be well. The king is not to worry, not to fret. The kingdom is his, and safe. Let them assure him that no man of woman born can ever kill him. The house of Macbeth shall reign in Scotland,’ she smiled, ‘till Birnam Wood doth come to Dunsinane.’
I caught my breath. It might work. It must work! Something had to be done, or the whole of Scotland would suffer from a mad and trembling king.
If Macbeth, strong in mind after his victory in battle, had trusted what Mam and Agnes and I had told him on the heath, surely now, in his fear and madness, he would believe men whose craft was crafting stories? And he would want to believe this, just as he had wanted to believe in our charm.
‘He believed that he would be king,’ the queen said softly, echoing my thoughts again, ‘and so he grasped the throne when it was near. If he believes this, he shall be invincible. And Scotland shall be safe.’
And my guilt would be lessened, just a little.
‘They must add one more thing,’ said the queen casually. ‘The king is not to trust Macduff. That man sees far too much. Can you remember all this?’
‘Of course,’ I said quietly. ‘No man of woman born can ever kill Macbeth. His house is safe till Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane. And do not trust Macduff. But will the actors do it?’
‘Will actors turn down a bag of gold? Of course they will do it. And if the purse is big enough, they will ask no questions.’
The queen stood, and I rose as well. She bent to a chest in the corner, drew out a purse and handed it to me. It was heavy enough to buy our village ten times over.
I was about to ask if Murdoch could come with me, then closed my mouth. No one must know of this. Especially the man to be my husband. But what would happen if the actors gossiped here, or back in England? Or would the queen make sure they did not?
She saw the moment that I understood.
‘You must be a shadow dressed in shadows,’ she said.
I felt my breath shiver. ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’
Chapter 13
I dressed in a black wool gown, put by for mourning, with a black cloth cloak and hood. I didn’t have a mask, but fashioned one with a scarf, leaving a slit for my eyes. I pulled it up after I crossed the castle drawbridge and slipped down the track to town, following the lantern lights below me, the pale sweep of roadway. The sea wind moaned softly. A stray cloud slapped fingers of sleet against my eyes. I was glad of the scarf.
I’d never been as cold as this, even in the weeks before Agnes took us starved and freezing to her cottage. My bones, my heart, were cold. I tried to mouth a prayer. It would not come. One wrong had led to other wrongs. Now I was doing wrong again, even if it was to try to make the first wrong right. This was sin, and I was part of it.
And yet the king was still the king and my mistress still the queen. A loyal subject does the bidding of Their Majesties. Surely it was better that Scotland had a strong king, confident to rule, and not one shivering at shadows?
And if Macbeth had killed Duncan? Well, Duncan had killed men too; not by his own hand perhaps, but by his years of senseless battles, sending others to kill in his name. Men like my da, who’d been killed in turn. Did all kings have so much blood upon their hands?
But to kill the grooms! Men like me, who only did their duty.
I had done far more than my duty, and it had led to this.
Had Macbeth killed Prince Donalbain too, and Lord Banquo? Had he truly seen Banquo’s ghost at the banquet, or was it his own conscience that had terrified him?
The first cottages belonged to those who worked for the castle: neat and well thatched, with gardens of cabbages, turnips and sea kale. Merchants’ homes next, on the heights where they could watch to see their ships sail in or out, above the stink of the town proper. Candle and lamp light flickered in halls or kitchens. The streets were as deserted as the village tracks in a blizzard.
Houses dwindled into shacks, then huddled to become a town. I lifted my skirts above a cobbled mess of rotting cabbage leaves
mixed with the mess of chamber pots and horses. Respectable houses had their lights out by now. But this was the haunt of tavern folk and actors; lanterns swung dread shadows across the road in the wind from the sea.
I peered up at the tavern signs: a pair of cockerels; an ape and horse; a dragon and thistle. None were the ones I was hunting.
A pair of apprentices appeared out of a nearby inn. ‘What ho, a bawd!’ one called. ‘Pretty lady, I’ll give to thee a penny.’
His companion reached into his breeches. ‘Nay, I have something more for you than copper.’
‘Pray, good men,’ I said hurriedly, ‘I am looking for The Two Roosters, the actors’ tavern.’
‘Ha! She wants roosters! We’ll give you more rollicking than four and twenty actors!’
‘Sirs, I am their wife,’ I said desperately, then realised I’d implied I was married to the whole company.
But they missed my slip. One bowed, his cap sweeping the ground. ‘Apologies, gentle lady.’ He indicated the tavern they’d just left. ‘This is The Two Roosters.’ The sign swung above us, too faded to make out in the erratic light. ‘You will find your actors on the second floor, discussing their small parts.’
‘Small parts,’ giggled the other youth.
His friend nudged him. ‘Sirrah, she is respectable.’
The first youth shrugged. ‘She married an actor — she must be used to worse. Ma’am, I kiss your dirty shoe.’
One good punch for each, I thought, in the place where Agnes said men were vulnerable. But it would only make a fuss. I scurried past them instead, and they bowed, their own small parts still safe.
The Two Roosters smelled of sour ale and sourer feet. The stairs creaked as I stepped up them. There was but one room above, the floor made of mouse droppings as much as wood. It held a battered table lit by tallow candles, with three men and a boy in tattered finery sitting around it on the floor. They stared at me, and came to the same conclusion as the youths outside.
‘An angel come to pleasure us!’ One of the men stood and bowed, as courtly as a thane. He had silver hair and was clean-shaven, although his hose were patched. ‘Richard Burbage of Lord Knudson’s Men at your service, gentle lady. And this be William Kempe, and John Heminges, and this brat be Robert Goughe. Our purses are sadly light, for the good fellows of this town are niggardly in coin as well as praise and understanding. And yet you are most welcome to share our cheese and,’ he squinted at the table, ‘and what might, by some, be called bread.’
‘I haven’t come for bread,’ I said. I pulled out the pouch, half full now of what the queen had given me. They gaped at it; gaped more when I said, ‘Gold.’
‘In truth an angel,’ said young Robert. ‘That purse would buy each of us a small estate —’
Master Burbage kicked him. ‘Quiet.’ His faded but keen eyes stared at me, all mockery gone. ‘What is my lady’s pleasure?’
I took a breath, then wished I hadn’t as my nose filled with the stink of aged tallow and even older cheese. ‘My . . . husband wishes to trick his brother, a thane who has not yet pledged allegiance to the king.’
‘They say the king is mad,’ said William Kempe.
‘And those that say it may be hanged for treason.’ Burbage’s voice had an edge. ‘Lady, we are not of this land, but while we are, we are loyal to its king. What trick is this?’
He didn’t believe me. He would, however, believe in the pouch. I opened it, and heard their breaths draw in at the sight of all that gold.
‘And another, equal to this, when you have played your parts,’ I said.
‘And what is the play?’ asked Master Burbage quietly.
‘No play, or only part of one. You must be hags and prophesy to convince my husband’s brother that no man of woman born can kill the king, and that Macbeth’s house shall stand till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane.’
‘You want us to play witches!’ cried young Robert excitedly.
‘For a small time only, and for an audience of one, or maybe two. Can . . . can you make my brother-in-law believe that you are magic?’
‘Of course!’ Robert turned to the others eagerly. ‘We can use the trick with flour to make fog, and William can do the lanterns —’
‘Silence.’ Burbage quelled him with another glance. He looked at me. ‘Lady, I have no liking to play witchcraft. I have even less wish to meddle in loyalties to kings.’
I held up the pouch of gold.
He looked at it, then around the room, taking in the tallow candles and the cheese rind on the table. He sighed. ‘Judas played his part for thirty pieces of silver. At least we do this for gold. It shall be done, exactly as you wish.’ No flourishes now and, for the first time, sincerity.
‘You think he will believe it?’
Burbage gave a grim smile. ‘For that much gold, and at this time, I would convince the rolling sea that it was a bowl of soup. The skills we have are yours, lady. And they are enough.’
I believed him, far more than if he’d boasted. ‘Good. Where should it be done?’
They knew a cave. How, I did not know. I supposed men who travelled for their living must have ways of knowing such things. I did not ask them, and they did not ask any more questions of me — not my name, nor even the name of my brother-in-law. Gold bought discretion.
I sat and listened while they discussed the words, the tricks to make them real. I knew little of the theatre, but they knew their craft. They called for new candles twice before the play was set.
Finally Burbage glanced out the window, where dawn’s light was appearing. ‘It is done. Lady, hie you hence and to your bed.’
I did not tell him that my bed was usually in the queen’s chamber, or that dawn made a mockery of any sleep I’d hoped to have. But perhaps Her Majesty would give me leave to slip away to sleep after we’d dressed her. I would need it if I was to stay awake to watch the king tonight.
But would it be tonight? I realised I didn’t know.
I stood, trying not to sway. ‘I will send word when you are to perform. It will be soon. And now, good night.’
‘Good day rather,’ said Burbage kindly. ‘And good it was that sent you to us.’ He hesitated, then met my eyes. ‘This is the king we play for, is it not?’
I bit my lips, then nodded. These men deserved the truth.
‘There is only one who would have easy access to so much gold as you have given us tonight,’ said Burbage quietly. ‘Nay, you need not tell us her name. But from your speech and manner I judge you to be gentle not just of birth but also of temper. How did you get coiled in this?’
Tears stung my eyes. ‘I . . . I cannot say.’
‘Is there no home you can go to away from such trickeries and lies? Do not worry,’ Burbage added quickly, ‘we will do your bidding.’ His smile grew wry. ‘And get our second purse. But doings such as this are not fit for such as you.’
‘I must do what I must,’ I said. ‘Out of duty and loyalty.’
And guilt, my mind whispered. All this had come from those words I’d uttered on the heath. Lord Banquo was dead because I’d said his children would be kings. Macbeth had murdered him so he could not sire more. Did that mean Banquo’s son, Fleance, was killed as well? How many more were still to die because a foolish girl had ordered a charm and another foolish girl had given more than she’d been asked for, both of us drunk with a force we did not understand?
Agnes was right. Words had power. Words could wield swords, and death, and kings.
I looked at Burbage. He was a kind man, concerned for me and risking so much for the security of his players. I glanced at young Robert, chewing at the wax that had covered the cheese; and at William Kempe and John Heminges, discussing together how they might heighten the effects of the play they had so skilfully crafted for me. I liked them all.
‘Master Burbage,’ I said carefully, ‘there is one final thing. I . . . I think it best, when you have done this thing, that you should all vanish.’
‘
Why, yes, that is how we agreed it would go. The lights shall be blown out and it will seem as if the darkness swallows us.’
‘Not just in the play. In . . . in truth too.’ I swallowed. ‘After the play, can you vanish from this town as surely as you will vanish in the cave?’
Burbage met my eyes. I saw that he understood.
‘If we can vanish once, then we can do it twice.’ He smiled, an actor’s smile that did not reach his eyes. ‘Actors are well practised at vanishing. A tavern bill unpaid, a lover promised even though the actor be already wed. And with a pouch of gold to ease our way, Scotland shall not see us more.’
‘Where will you go?’ I asked.
The actor’s smile again. ‘Away.’
I nodded. It was best. As Agnes always said, closed mouths caught no flies. I could not let slip what I did not know.
He hesitated, then added, ‘Lady, you could come with us. A wig, a boy’s clothes and a youth’s beard stuck to your chin — no one would know you. We could take you safe to your family, or to my sister’s house if there are none to take you in.’
The tears threatened to come again. ‘You . . . you are most kind. But I must stay.’
‘I offer only what I hope a man in my place would do for my own daughter,’ he said gently. ‘If you change your mind, you have just to let us know.’
‘Thank you. But I won’t.’
I wished so deeply that I could.
Chapter 14
Thunder crashed and rolled. Not a real storm, but a drum, cunningly wielded by Richard Heminges in the darkness of the cave. I stood beside him, my face darkened again with soot, my body shrouded by my cloak and scarf, and peered towards the cave’s entrance.
The queen had planned to tell the king today that she’d had a dream: the long grand host of Scottish kings had waved the banner of Clan Macbeth, and shouted out his name; she had also seen this cave, and seen him striding from it, his face wreathed in deepest joy.
But they would have no private time together till after midday dinner, and by then I had to be with the actors here, ensuring all was ready.
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