Third Witch

by Jackie French

  What if an urgent messenger had come, and she’d had no time alone with him? What if he had not believed her, had laughed, and said it was no more than a woman’s fancy?

  No. When the queen spoke these days, the king obeyed. But what if he said, ‘It must be tomorrow. I have already agreed to drink with the ambassador from Denmark tonight’? What if instead of coming alone, he brought guards? The actors could fool one man, or several. But a troop of guards? And some guards, at least, would gossip. A king who conspired with witches was worse than one who was mad.

  The moments flickered by. I wished a kirk was near, so that we could hear the hour struck, and know the time. Time seemed to have vanished in this cave, or rather, each tiny part seemed stretched into a day. But doings such as these seemed too wrong to play out below the kind glance of a kirk.

  Master Burbage glanced at me, though it was hard to recognise him, dressed in black rags, his face thick with white lead and stuck about with pustules of squashed raspberry. A long nose, a wig of horsehair plaited with straw. No one would ever have taken this crone for Richard Burbage, actor. He had received his second purse of gold. He had trusted me, as he trusted his company to do this right. But I no longer knew if it was right or not.

  ‘I think we must begin,’ he whispered.

  ‘But the . . . our audience is not here yet.’

  Burbage shook his head. ‘A play begins when the audience arrives. But if . . . our audience . . . is to believe that this is no play tonight, but real, it must seem as if he arrives while we go about our business.’

  My head felt full of wool from weariness. ‘But he might miss the most important part!’ We had laboured so long to make every word and scene count.

  ‘Trust me,’ said Burbage quietly. ‘We have put in another scene. If the . . . audience . . . sees it, it will build his awe. If he does not, it helps to build our own.’ He smiled slightly. I saw two of his strong white teeth had been blackened.

  He clicked his fingers. It must have been a signal, for a single light flickered. It seemed to float just below his chin, illuminating only his face.

  ‘Why, how now, Hecate!’ the crone who had been Richard Burbage screeched.

  Another flash of light. Even though I knew it was black powder and a tinder, I almost screamed. A younger, powerful woman appeared, her face with a masculine beauty. William Kempe, I thought.

  ‘Have I not reason, beldams as you are,’ ‘Hecate’ cried, ‘saucy and overbold? How did you dare to trade and traffic with Macbeth in riddles and affairs of death; and I, the mistress of your charms, the close contriver of all harms, was never called to bear my part, or show the glory of our art?’

  This looked like witchcraft. None could call it else. I had not agreed to this!

  But the play was begun now. Had begun when I had said those words upon the moor. To stop it now would mean disaster, my queen’s fury; dismissal from her service at best.

  But I would not listen. I tried instead to remember one of the songs Murdoch had sung to me. How did it go? A rose will bloom among the snow, and I the only one to know . . .

  I started as different music swept across the cave, a strange wailing of the pipes, played out of tune. Hecate vanished; or at least the light that showed her was covered by a sack. Only three figures danced now: the hag; a girl who had the look of young Rob, despite her greasy locks and blackened teeth and lips as red as blood; and a woman, white-faced as Burbage’s hag but with blood that dripped down from her eyes. I knew the red was wine lees, but felt chilled even so. There was evil in this cave tonight, but not wrought by the actors. Evil had spread across the land ever since I’d unleashed Macbeth’s ambition.

  The music stopped. Light gleamed on a cauldron to one side. Round about it the three figures circled.

  ‘Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed,’ cackled Burbage’s hag.

  ‘Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined,’ muttered Heminges’s white-faced woman.

  Young Rob screamed, ‘Harper cries, “’Tis time, ’tis time!”’

  But it isn’t time yet, I thought despairingly. Where was Macbeth? Must the actors sing and dance all night, in case he came? How long could they keep up their play? The queen and I should have worked out a signal, to show that he was near — but that would have meant trusting someone else.

  The hag sang, her voice cracked and terrible:

  ‘Round about the cauldron go;

  In the poisoned entrails throw.

  Toad, that under cold stone

  Days and nights has thirty-one

  Sweltered venom sleeping got,

  Boil thou first in the charmed pot.’

  They all joined in:

  ‘Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn and cauldron bubble.’

  ‘Fillet of a fenny snake!’ shrieked the white-faced woman.

  ‘In the cauldron boil and bake;

  Eye of newt and toe of frog . . .’

  I thought of Agnes’s snail broth, and the snakes she sometimes added, and yes, frogs too. Could she be made to seem like a witch to those who did not know her? Every fibre of me wished to call out, ‘Stop! This isn’t right! Let all men be moved by good, not evil, including kings.’ But I was a thread in the tapestry of state, just like Da had been, marching to another’s orders to another’s war, both of us carried where the king and queen decided we must be stitched.

  ‘. . . Wool of bat and tongue of dog,’ the player screeched.

  ‘Adder’s fork and blind-worm’s sting,

  Lizard’s leg and owlet’s wing,

  For a charm of powerful trouble,

  Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.’

  The three joined hands about the cauldron and sang together:

  ‘Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn and cauldron bubble.’

  ‘Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,’ sang young Robert, in a whisper that echoed through the cave.

  A true actor, I thought, admiring despite my fear and horror. Where was the king? I almost hoped he would not come. None could blame the actors then, nor blame me . . .

  ‘Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf

  Of the ravined salt-sea shark,’ continued Robert.

  ‘Root of hemlock digged in the dark,

  Liver of blaspheming Jew,

  Gall of goat, and slips of yew

  Slivered in the moon’s eclipse,

  Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,

  Finger of birth-strangled babe

  Ditch-delivered by a drab,

  Make the gruel thick and slab.

  Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,

  For the ingredients of our cauldron.’

  The three witches joined hands again, and sang together:

  ‘Double, double toil and trouble;

  Fire burn and cauldron bubble.’

  A horse whinnied outside the cave. The white-faced woman held up her hands. ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,’ she cried. The sound echoed weirdly. ‘Open, locks, whoever knocks!’

  For a moment I thought I would faint. I leaned back against the slimy cave wall. Lights flashed as one of the actors swiftly pulled the sacks off the lanterns. The thunder drum rumbled again — and there stood the king, alone and amazed. How much had he heard?

  ‘How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags?’ His voice trembled. He had thought to see kings here, not witches. ‘What is it you do?’

  The actors stared at him, then chorused in one hiss: ‘A deed without a name.’

  Macbeth straightened. Suddenly I saw the warrior again. His voice rang as hard as steel. ‘I conjure you, by that which you profess — however you come to know it — answer me. Though you untie the winds and let them fight, though castles topple on their warders’ heads, even till destruction sicken, answer me to what I ask you.’

  Burbage’s hag peered at him through the gloom. ‘Speak!’ she hissed.

  ‘Demand!’ sang the white-faced woman with her bleeding ey
es.

  ‘We’ll answer,’ announced young Robert, leering at the king.

  ‘Would you rather hear it from our mouths, or from our masters?’ demanded the hag.

  Macbeth put his hands upon his hips, defiant. ‘Call them. Let me see them.’

  The hag nodded as if she had expected that answer, which of course Burbage had.

  ‘Pour in sow’s blood that hath eaten her nine farrow,’ he muttered over the cauldron. ‘Grease that’s sweaten from the murderer’s gibbet throw into the flame.’

  ‘Come, high or low,’ they all chanted. ‘Thyself and office deftly show!’

  The lights vanished. For three heartbeats the dark sat heavy as a grinding stone, then a single light flashed deep inside the cave. A bodiless head with a bloody neck appeared to float there. I almost screamed, even though I knew it was Richard in a dark cloak, the light shining only on his head and neck.

  Macbeth stepped forward. ‘Tell me, thou unknown power —’

  Burbage’s hag wagged a grimy finger at him. ‘He knows thy thought. Hear his speech, but say thou nought.’

  The bloodied head spoke: ‘Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth! Beware Macduff. Beware the Thane of Fife. Dismiss me. Enough.’

  The light was covered and the head vanished.

  Macbeth nodded. ‘Whatever thou art, for thy good caution, thanks. Thou hast harped my fear aright. But one word more —’

  The hag cackled again. ‘He will not be commanded. Here’s another more potent than the first.’

  The thunder boomed beside me, so loudly I put my hands to my ears.

  Darkness swept the cave once more. Something fluttered past my head. I thought it another illusion, then realised it was a bat, startled by our noise.

  A light flickered and a baby girl appeared, her blonde hair matted with blood, blood smeared upon her face and clothes. I had to blink to see her, and knew Macbeth would too, for clear sight would have shown she was just a doll.

  ‘Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!’ the girl whispered.

  The king stepped forward. ‘Had I three ears, I’d hear thee.’

  ‘Be bloody, bold, and resolute.’ Her words seemed to flicker with her image. ‘Laugh to scorn the power of man, for none of woman born shall harm Macbeth.’

  The girl doll vanished and I gripped my hands together so hard my fingers hurt. Two prophecies done. Now for the last . . .

  The king smiled. I shrank to see it. This was not just a warrior, but the man who had slain Duncan. Yes, Duncan had been a poor king, but that did not make it right. And then death upon death to cover up that first shame.

  ‘Then live, Macduff,’ Macbeth muttered. ‘What need I fear of thee? But yet I’ll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate. Thou shalt not live, that I may sleep in spite of thunder.’

  My skin turned colder than the cave. Now he planned to kill Macduff too. How many must be sacrificed before the king felt he was safe?

  The thunder boomed again. Another light flickered to my right. Another doll, this time a boy, with a silver paper crown upon his head and a branch propped up in his hand.

  Macbeth peered into the darkness, trying to make the figure out. ‘What is this that rises like the issue of a king, and wears upon his baby-brow the round and top of sovereignty?’

  The actors hissed together from the darkness: ‘Listen, but speak not to it.’

  The boy spoke. His voice made me shudder, though I knew it was but William further back in the darkness. ‘Be lion-mettled, proud; and take no care who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are. Macbeth shall never vanquished be until Great Birnam Wood to high Dunsinane Hill shall come against him.’

  The flickering light was covered and I heard Macbeth’s voice in the shadows, gloating and confident now.

  ‘That will never be! Who can impress the forest, bid the tree unfix his earth-bound root? Good! Yet my heart throbs to know one thing.’ His voice rose as he yelled into the cave’s darkness, ‘Tell me, if your art can tell so much: shall Banquo’s issue ever reign in this kingdom?’

  I held my breath. We hadn’t rehearsed an answer for this question. I hadn’t even told the actors about Banquo. What could they say?

  ‘Seek to know no more!’ their voices chorused in the gloom.

  Macbeth strode forward. ‘I will be satisfied!’ he yelled. ‘Deny me this, and an eternal curse fall on you! Let me know.’

  Another few steps and he’d find the lamps and the drum. And me.

  He halted suddenly as a light gleamed dimly to one side. I tried to breathe again.

  ‘Why sinks that cauldron?’ he demanded. ‘And what noise is this?’

  ‘Show!’ yelled Burbage in the blackness. I supposed he was giving himself time to work out an answer.

  ‘Show!’ screamed the white-faced woman.

  ‘Show!’ shrieked young Robert.

  ‘Show his eyes, and grieve his heart,’ they chorused. ‘Come like shadows, so depart!’

  Another light flared. Suddenly a shadow appeared on the cave wall, a crown upon its head. Two heartbeats and it was gone. Another shadow of a crown followed it, and then another.

  I felt as if my heart must stop. Were these truly kingly visions?

  Then I caught a hint of movement: Robert, walking past the lantern to cast a shadow on the wall behind. Yes, these actors knew their craft.

  Or did they? For, as the eighth shadow passed, the king cried out, ‘Thou art too like the spirit of Banquo. Down! Thy crown does sear mine eyeballs. Filthy hags! Why do you show me this? The blood-boltered Banquo smiles upon me!’

  The hag’s face appeared. ‘Ay, sir, all this is so. But why stands Macbeth thus amazedly?’ Burbage’s tone turned reassuring:

  ‘Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites,

  And show the best of our delights:

  I’ll charm the air to give a sound,

  While you perform your antic round.

  That this great king may kindly say,

  Our duties did his welcome pay.’

  More lights flashed. The pipes played, in tune now. The three danced, hand in hand. And then the lamps went out. No light. No sound, except another bat speeding for the cleaner and quieter air outside.

  The king strode forward. ‘Where are they? Gone? Let this pernicious hour stand aye accursed in the calendar!’ He turned towards a movement at the mouth of the cave. ‘Come in, without there!’

  ‘Your Majesty?’ said a male voice. I recognised it as the Earl of Lennox’s. He must have just arrived. ‘I saw your horse outside. What is Your Grace’s will?’

  ‘Saw you the weird sisters?’ the king demanded.

  ‘No, my lord.’ Lennox seemed puzzled, not just at the question, but at finding his king inside a dark and dripping cave.

  ‘Came they not by you?’ Macbeth’s voice was almost a shriek.

  ‘No, indeed, my lord,’ said Lennox, startled.

  ‘Infected be the air whereon they ride,’ Macbeth snarled. ‘And damned all those that trust them! I did hear the galloping of horse. Who was it came by?’

  ‘’Tis two or three messengers, my lord, to bring you word. Macduff is fled to England.’

  The queen was right, I thought. Macduff must have sniffed out Macbeth’s treachery and gone to join Malcolm.

  I stood there shivering, from fright as much as cold. The actors knew now that they’d played not just for the king, but for a man who’d as good as admitted to murder, and would murder Macduff if he could. They were good men, despite the play of witchcraft here. Could they escape the queen’s reach? Or would their bodies be added to the pyre of King Duncan, Prince Donalbain, and the grooms? If they escaped, would they keep the secret?

  Something dripped on my neck. I bit off a cry. Just water from the roof. If I screamed once, I knew I would not stop.

  At last I heard footfalls as the king and Lord Lennox left the cave. I listened still, unmoving, until there came the sound of horses speeding away into the night.

  ‘Master Burbage?’ I
whispered.

  No answer.

  I spoke louder. ‘Master Kempe? Robert?’

  Another drip fell into the silence.

  I pulled off the cloak that had blanketed my own lamp, and held it up. The cave walls gleamed damp and empty.

  The actors had gone.

  Chapter 15

  The porter winked at me as I slipped through the palace gate. He took me for a servant in my plain cloth cloak, gone to meet a lover.

  ‘A good night, lass?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’ I let my voice drift back to the accent of the village and handed him a penny.

  He smirked and tapped his breeches. ‘I have a good knight here if ye be lonely.’

  ‘Cook will be looking for me to light the fires soon, sir.’

  ‘Well, if you feel like a stronger broth than any in the kitchen, you come to me.’ He winked again.

  I nodded as if I hadn’t understood, and ran across the courtyard then up the servants’ stairs. No torches in the sconces here that might show who I was; nor were there any guards in the corridor outside the queen’s chamber.

  I scratched on her door and entered, then halted. The king lay in the bed, naked and asleep.

  The queen lifted her finger to her lips, then slipped silently from the covers. I followed her into the robing room.

  ‘It went well,’ she murmured. ‘He is come back resolute as a tiger. He laughed for the first time since the crown weighted so his brow. Even his steps conquered the stones of Dunsinane. And no one else saw?’

  I shook my head. ‘The Earl of Lennox and his men arrived after the . . . hags had vanished, Your Majesty.’

  ‘The actors suspected nothing?’

  I shook my head. ‘No, ma’am.’ It was the first time I had lied to her. Would she see it?

  She smiled.

  If a tiger smiled, it would be like that, I thought. She was well matched with her husband. Macbeth had been a good man once: loyal to his kin, content with Glamis. She had made him king; perhaps now she could make him a good one. Good for the land; confident enough to stare down rebellion before it came to arms, not pitching battles like apprentices pitched horseshoes.

  The queen watched me. I hoped my thoughts did not show on my face.