I didn’t stay to hear more. I slipped back up the stairs, then along the empty corridor, and opened the door of the queen’s chamber.
Chapter 18
My lady kneeled by the bed, her hands raised in prayer. I waited till she had finished, whispering a brief prayer too, for her, for me, for Lady Ruth and Lady Margaret, for Murdoch and for Scotland. Then I helped her up. Her face was calm although her body seemed to have lost its strength.
‘How goes my lord?’ she asked.
‘As a great warrior should be, full of sound and fury.’
‘Signifying nothing. He believes that he must win all from those promises we gave him.’
‘Surely it is better that he is full of courage now?’
She shrugged. I realised that while I had seen men shattered by battle, she knew more of wars and who might win them.
‘Ten thousand soldiers with catapults and battering rams are at our gate,’ she said. ‘And we have at most four hundred men. No way to get a message to the thanes to call their armies here. Nor time, even if we could. We are lost before we have begun, but my husband does not know it.’
The castle shook again. Another boulder must have crushed more of the palace walls. A roar of triumph rose outside, followed by screams and shouting.
‘The enemy has breached the walls,’ the queen said quietly. ‘I know how this must end. I ordered you to leave me.’
I lifted my chin. ‘If Malcolm wins, you are no longer queen but still my friend. I do not leave my friends.’
She almost smiled. ‘Then, friend, I need your help. The queen of yesterday will be a plaything for the troops. I will not see it. Can you grant me your sweet potion?’
‘My lady . . .’
She reached under her pillow and pulled out a dagger. ‘Must I use this? Your potion would be kinder.’
I hesitated, then curtseyed one last time, deeply, to the floor. ‘I hear Your Majesty and I obey.’
I stepped over to the chest and brought out the flask. Two drops for sleep. Ten drops and you would not wake. I reached for a cup.
‘No. Give me all.’ She flinched back as another arrow sped through the window, landing on the floor. ‘Come swiftly over here.’
I hurried towards her, out of arrow range. She reached for my hand. ‘A friend at the last breath, not a servant. I . . . I am glad I do not die alone.’
‘I will not leave you.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know.’
She tipped up the flask and drank, her mouth puckering a little at the bitterness. I wondered if she thought of her babe, who would die this morning with her. But better it should die safe with its mother than have its brains bashed out against a wall.
She put down the flask. ‘And now I sleep. Sleep that unravels all the threads of care.’
I took her hand again, sitting by her side.
‘When they speak of me,’ she whispered, ‘do not defend my name. Say not “She did it because Duncan was a feeble king”, nor “She would have a realm of peace”. Let my name live for good, as I did not; a lesson in how ambition can nibble away virtue, till all that is left is death and trickery.’
‘My lady, you were so much more than that.’
She smiled. ‘I know. But this is what I wish. One good deed to leave this earthly world. Grant me that wish, at least.’
‘Ma’am, I will.’
She smiled again. Her eyes closed. I thought she slept, but then she said, ‘Promise me you will seek safety?’
‘Sleep,’ I said softly. I began to sing a lullaby that Mam had sung to me.
‘Sleep then my little lamb, sleep,
Soft flows the river so deep . . .’
I watched as her breath faded, as her pink cheeks turned to ash. She slept the sleep of death. Even then I kept her hand in mine.
I would not leave her.
Noise rose up, as if a thousand drums beat at our walls. I knew Murdoch would be below, rallying the king’s men. I whispered another short prayer for his safety. Loyal Murdoch would not scamper like a puppy from a wolf, but if he survived today he might be captured, ransomed.
Could any person in this castle survive today?
The door crashed open. I thought it would be soldiers. I rose, ready to flee or fight, I knew not which. But the king stood there, his sword dripping with blood. Blood dripped from his arms as well. I looked again and saw it was not his.
He stared at the limp figure on the bed. ‘The queen?’
‘The queen, my lord, is dead.’
He leaned against the door and shook his head. ‘Dead? She should have died hereafter; there would have been a time for such a word.’ He shut his eyes, as if the murder of all his hopes was not amidst the screams and yells below. His voice was so soft I could hardly hear it above the clash of armour, the thuds of boulders from the battering rams. ‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death.’ He opened his eyes and gazed upon his wife. He had loved her once, I thought. Loved her deeply. Did he grieve for her now, or for his hopes? ‘Out, out, brief candle!’ he muttered, still staring at the figure on the bed.
‘My lord,’ I said, then stopped. I had no words.
He did. Even in battle, gentlefolk had their words.
He met my eyes for the first time. ‘Life’s but a walking shadow,’ he said, almost conversationally, ‘a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more.’ He smiled at me. Or at least I thought the grimace was probably a smile. ‘It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’
‘Then why fight if it means nothing?’ I demanded, above the tumult, growing closer now. ‘Why kill if all here are already doomed?’
But he had lurched upright again and was out the door, his sword raised. I heard his boots pound along the corridor, his voice rising once more in challenge. Birnam Wood had come to Dunsinane but no man of woman born could slay Macbeth. So he believed. And when it was proved wrong — then, as Agnes had said, he would not know.
Shouts turned to screams down in the kitchens. The soldiers must have found the servants. I hoped Lady Margaret and Lady Ruth were locked inside the small chamber, safely guarded by its walls. I hoped Malcolm would show them mercy when at last they must emerge.
I waited, the queen’s dagger in my hand. A girl cowering in her lady’s chamber.
I would not cower! I was my father’s daughter, and Mam’s. Mam, whose feet had bled with frostbite as she trapped rabbits in the snow to feed her daughter — till Agnes came and saved us.
Macbeth was wrong. Life mattered. Life and love and friendship. And there was life for me. All I must do was fight my way out of the castle towards it.
I gripped the dagger harder and I charged.
Along the corridor, and down the stairs . . . and suddenly the battle found me, was all around me — men with swords clashing, jabbing, lurching.
A rough arm knocked me down. Legs. Enemy legs, hairy ones in kilts, ones in leather trousers. I stabbed upward with my dagger, felt it bite into flesh. The flesh moved, carrying my dagger with it. The cut hadn’t even slowed him down. What was a girl and a dagger to warriors like these?
The stones were slick with blood. Fresh blood that smelled like tin, was slippery too. A foot stamped on me, and then another. I clutched an ankle and bit hard. Tasted blood and hairy sweat, and then was thrown back, hard.
I rolled into a corner of the room. Looked up. Easy to tell our men from the enemy: the enemy still wore their leaves. The porter lay on the stones, his head cleaved in half. Murdoch clashed swords along the stairs with a man with twigs still poking from his armour. Another thrust and his enemy went down. He turned, saw me, forgot me, and clashed with yet another of the enemy. His life was all the king’s now. No part of him was mine.
Words floated down from high above me. Macbeth’s voice.
‘I will not
yield, to kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet. Though Birnam Wood be come to Dunsinane, being of no woman born, yet I will try the last. Lay on, Macduff, and damned be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’
The clamour grew. No shouting now. Men’s breaths heaved like their swords. The air was smudged with crimson. Sparks fluttered as blades smashed together. It looked almost like a dance. My wedding dance.
I waited for someone to notice me, for the final blow that would take me from this life. And I deserved it. For my stupid words had led to this. Yet I didn’t shut my eyes. Whatever life I had left to live, I would live it.
The sword music changed: a discordant note of hammering underneath the clashes.
I looked towards the outer door and saw Rab McPherson stride into the room, patched with armour from a dozen different suits, a head taller than any man inside the castle, his blacksmith’s hammer flashing back and forth.
Almost casually he batted three men away to reach me, yet his hands felt gentle as they hauled me up, balanced me against his armoured side and half dragged me to the door. The air rang with the noise of battle. And still Rab held me as he crossed the drawbridge, ran across bare ground, then found the safety of the forest — the true forest, not the false one carried by Malcolm’s men. Out here there was no smell of blood, except on Rab’s hammer. A strong stallion, tied to a tree, whinnied at us. He was a warhorse, but wore no armour, only saddlebags.
Rab cleaned his hammer without speaking, both of us still locked in the bloody horror of the castle, then he stripped away his armour and short cloak. Still neither of us had said a word. Actions spoke deeper than words now. Rab hid the armour under a bush. He handed his cloak to me to cover my silk dress and wedding jewels. Suddenly we were simply man and maid.
Voices yelled in triumph.
I looked up at the palace battlements. Macduff stood there, holding up Macbeth’s severed head by its hair. Even from here I could make out the king’s expression. It almost seemed a smile. Macbeth had peace at last. No more ambition or indecision, or horror at what he’d become.
Rab looked at me, not at the gory trophy. ‘Annie, can you walk?’
I found my voice. ‘I think so.’
‘Ride, if I hold on to you?’
I nodded.
He put his hands about my waist, and lifted me as if I were a feather onto his horse, then swung up behind me. His breath was warm upon my neck. ‘Then let’s go home,’ he said.
The horse ambled across the mountain pass. Slowly I began to understand I was alive, and free, and was myself again. Green shadows and silver light flickered around us. Rab talked to me now, softly, calmly, as he might to a frightened colt: how Malcolm’s army had come to Glamis, seeking Macbeth; how Rab kept back their best horse, claiming it was lame, then followed the army to Inverness.
Rab had smoked mutton and stale bannock in the saddlebags that we nibbled as we rode. We drank from streams. Rab put my jewelled necklace and the queen’s gold chains in his sporran so we wouldn’t tempt thieves, though it would be a careless thief who tried it on with Rab McPherson. He had brought me a dress too, one of Mam’s, to put on over my silk dress. He had to cut the seams for me, to make it fit.
‘I left your brooch behind,’ I said as we skirted a brown loch.
‘I’ll make another.’
‘Rab —’
‘No.’ His arms tightened about me. ‘Whatever you are going to say, I do not need to hear. I am yours, and you are mine. That is enough.’
I found a smile. I didn’t know I had one left. ‘Yes. That is enough.’ Annie Grasseyes and Rab McPherson, as it had always been, if I’d let my ambition fall long enough to see.
‘Can you ride all night? There’s a moon.’
‘I can. But what about the horse?’
‘My apprentice, Andrew, is a smith now, halfway along our path. I’ll trade horses with him; he’ll be glad of this one. Your mam is waiting at my hearth,’ he added softly. ‘I told her I’d bring you home.’
I nodded, saying nothing. I felt I’d used up most of my life’s words in the palace, among folk who were never really mine, in a place that wasn’t home.
Chapter 19
Mam waited for me at Rab’s house. Her arms around me were even warmer than the fresh bannocks steaming on the hearth. Maggie Two-Teeth was calling me ‘mistress’ even before Mam had stripped off my bloodied silk dress. I slept that night in Rab’s best feather bed, while he slept with the apprentices, Mam’s arms about me still. The next day, Sunday, the marriage banns were read at kirk.
Mam and Maggie and I made rabbit stew together, bannocks, leek and rooster soup. We boiled turnips and stirred the porridge pot, while Rab worked with his hammer back in the forge. This was peace, but I didn’t deserve it. No one except Mam and Agnes knew what I’d done, and they knew only part of it.
Peace descended on the land too, as suddenly as war. Only the name of our thane changed. Few villagers even cared. No one queried where Rab had been for three days and nights. A blacksmith was too valuable to cross. No one in Malcolm’s army would remember the patchwork-armoured giant who’d stormed the palace looking for a girl. No one would care.
When finally the victors rode down to the village, it wasn’t to loot or kill, but to visit Big Rab’s forge. They had swords and armour that needed mending. Perhaps also they saw the glint in Rab’s eye and knew he would defend his own.
Rab and I married quietly. For decency I should have gone back to Agnes’s cottage in the weeks before we wed, but Rab bid me and Mam stay, and so we did.
I spent the first week of my marriage in a daze. I didn’t deserve this: not Rab and this house; not such safety, nor such happiness. How was I to atone? My lady killed herself, but that was no repentance.
For either a village wife or queen, there is one way only to repent: by doing good. Do your duty, love your husband, and be kind to your neighbours and their children. Every widow would have broth and bannocks from my kitchen, I vowed, for as long as I could bake them. No child would go barefoot in the snow while I could stitch rabbit-skin shoes or jerkins.
Rab buried my gold chains and jewelled necklace. One day, if our village was in need, he’d dig them up — or our sons or grandsons might — and hammer the gold to different forms and sell them.
Sometime during that first year I heard that Lord Murdoch had been captured then ransomed, and was at his father’s estate once more. He never came to search for me, nor would I have gone with him if he had done so.
I asked discreetly about Lady Margaret and Lady Ruth from the soldiers who gossiped at Rab’s forge, but it seemed no one knew what had happened to them. No one remembers women, in wartime or in peace. In ten years, no one ever looked for me.
The king’s witch finder arrived in our village when our firstborn son was nine years old, his twin brothers eight, and my daughter still toddling at my skirts. I’d called her Ingrid, after my lady. No one but me, it seemed, remembered her true name. She had lost it when she married, as women do.
The witch finder rode down from the castle on a horse as small and dark and twisty as himself. Rab stood to meet him in the middle of the road outside the smithy. He had expected him. Men talked while waiting for their horses to be shod.
‘Welcome,’ Rab said, and gestured to our house, the children standing wide-eyed in the doorway. ‘Will you drink a mug of ale? It is my wife’s own brewing.’
‘Willingly.’
The witch finder dismounted and handed the reins to Tall Tim, one of Rab’s apprentices. The witch finder limped as he walked, and was so small he scarcely had to duck under our lintel. A mild-looking man, except for his eyes. They burned.
He settled in the best chair by the fire and I served him the ale and some fresh bannock. I made no castle food these days, not even fruit preserved in honey.
The witch finder gulped his ale, and handed the mug to me to be refilled. ‘Ale at the smithy is always welcome. No witch can enter where there’s iron. And
a smith’s ale is always sweet. No witch can enchant a smith’s ale and make it sour.’
I stilled. Agnes hadn’t crossed our hearth since I was married. But she entered no one’s house but her own; it wasn’t iron that stopped her. And didn’t she wear Rab’s iron thistle still on her cloak? Or did she? I rarely saw her now, even though Rab’s apprentices still attended to her peat and her thatch, and we sent her meat each time we ate it and oats from our field’s harvest.
Fool! I told myself. She’d worn the brooch at my wedding. I was letting this man twist my brain till it was as crooked as his body.
‘No witches in this village,’ said Rab pleasantly. ‘Nor ever have been.’
I smiled at him, my solid husband, so much steadier than I.
The witch finder replied as calmly as if they were discussing fleeces. ‘You take good care of this village, Master Smith?’
‘I do,’ said Rab.
‘And you truly believe there has been no witch here?’
‘No witch.’
‘And yet,’ said the witch finder, ‘there are rumours of three witches that did meet the usurper king, Macbeth, upon the heath ten years ago and laid an enchantment on him.’
Did this man know I’d served Macbeth’s lady? But all in this village had served the thane at some time, large service or small. And surely none would speak of my time at court from loyalty to Rab.
‘Three witches,’ the witch finder repeated. ‘One old, one in good years, one young. And they appeared again, inside a cave near Dunsinane.’
Who had talked? The doctor almost certainly. The actors perhaps, or any of those who’d heard Macbeth boast. Rumours sprang up about the lords and ladies of the court. I’d even heard it said that Macduff, who’d slain Macbeth, was ripped untimely from his mother’s womb and so of no woman born. A man’s story that. Every child is born of a woman’s body, even when the mother does not live.
‘Then Dunsinane is where you must search for them,’ said Rab firmly. ‘There are no witches in my village, sir.’
‘Then you will not object to my questioning the people?’
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