Lady Macbeth's Daughter

by Lisa Klein

  Still my unease grows. It is more than fear for myself. Banquo. My foster father—my true father. Do I tell him of the king’s attempt on my virtue? Fleance. I see rage and grief on his face, too. My heart begins thudding as if some threat is near. Into my mind springs Banquo’s face, ghostly pale, his bloodless lips intoning Avenge me, daughter of evil. How could I have forgotten that vision? The daughter of evil—why that is me, Macbeth’s daughter! But what is there to avenge? I start up from my mossy bed. While I have been lying here, has evil befallen Banquo? If it has, I am responsible, for I should have warned him. I should not have riled the king. Has my foster father paid for my carelessness with his life?

  As fast as I can, I run up the hill to Dunbeag and dash through the doorway.

  A furious Breda grabs my arm. “Where have you been all the night? With some vile soldier? O shame me not so,” she hisses.

  I shake her off and stumble from room to room on weak legs shouting for Banquo. Without even knocking I burst into his chamber. Fleance is lying on the bed with an arm over his face. Banquo sits in a chair, his eyes bloodshot and his face puffy with drink. My body slumps with relief to see them.

  “Forgive this intrusion, my lord,” I say, panting. “I must talk to you at once.”

  Fleance springs up from the bed. His eyes are wide with unasked questions.

  “The king departed in a great hurry,” Banquo says in a grave voice. “We did not please him.”

  “It was my fault. I … I did not show him enough respect,” I stammer. “I am sorry to bring you trouble.”

  “I saw how he looked at you. How dare he!” Fleance clenches his fists. “Did he—?”

  Despite myself, I begin to sob.

  Banquo drops his head to his chest. “I am to blame. I should not have let you serve him at supper. All the king’s desires are foul! What kind of a father am I?”

  “He did not harm me,” I finally manage to say. “But you are in terrible danger. You must listen to me.”

  Banquo looks up, raising one bushy eyebrow.

  I close my eyes for a moment, struggling to put my thoughts in order.

  “The night when you visited Wanluck Mhor with Macbeth, before he was king, and you met the three women who spoke strangely—”

  Both of Banquo’s eyebrows shoot upward.

  “One of the women was my … mother, Geillis. I was there also. I heard the women foretell that Macbeth would become king. And so he did, but by a means most foul. Listen.” I pause to regain my breath. “It was Macbeth who slew Duncan. Do not ask how I know this, but believe me when I swear that it is true. The king is a murderer, and the queen his accomplice.”

  “Stop!” Banquo interrupts me. He is shaking visibly. “How do you know such things?”

  I cannot admit to Banquo that I dreamt about the dagger in Macbeth’s hand. He would hardly be convinced by such evidence.

  “Ask Rhuven, if you do not believe me. The queen confessed to her,” I whisper, conscious that I am again spilling the secret. But Rhuven is already in danger, if Macbeth should question her and discover that she disobeyed and deceived him.

  “Father, there have been such rumors about the king,” says Fleance. “What if they are true?”

  “Silence! He cannot be so wicked. I will not believe it,” growls Banquo.

  “My lord, believe it or not, you must understand the danger you are in. Do you remember how the old woman hailed you as lesser than Macbeth, but greater, and said that you would beget kings, though not become one?”

  “Double-talk and nonsense,” Banquo murmurs, clawing his beard with agitation. “I forgot it.”

  “Be sure the king remembers. He has no sons, but you have Fleance.”

  “What do you mean, Albia? Did they predict that I would be king?” asks Fleance in amazement.

  “Are you in league with those fate-speaking sisters?” Banquo asks me, sounding suspicious.

  “Nay, but I know the king’s mind in this, truly I do,” I say, growing impatient. “Macbeth killed Duncan to make their words come true. He will as readily kill you to prevent their prophecies. He must be destroyed. Only then will Scotland find peace.”

  “Albia, my child,” says Banquo with a weary shake of his head. “Your thoughts are but fantasies, your fears imagined. It is yesterday’s excitement—and the grief over your dear mother—that has made you so distraught. Go and rest.”

  His words leave me swaying on my feet with the sad memory of Geillis, and I begin to doubt myself. I have scarcely slept in three days. I have lost my mother, learned the unbelievable story of my past, and come face-to-face with that intemperate beast, my father. I have been spilling secrets like blood, bringing danger to myself and everyone I love. I should stop, turn back, and be silent.

  But there is no going back. There is no way to undo the past, to unknow the truth, or to unsee what I dreamt. I close my eyes and there, still, is Banquo’s hoary, ghostlike visage, admonishing me.

  “My lord, you are in danger. I can see it. I pray you, believe me and be wary—” I stop to wipe my eyes. Begging and tears will only hinder my purpose.

  Banquo shakes his head from side to side like a tired bear unwilling to be stirred.

  My head and shoulders sagging with defeat, I turn away from him and Fleance.

  But no sooner have I left the room than Fleance is beside me. He pulls me into an empty chamber.

  “They said that my father would beget kings, did they? Am I not then the rival to Macbeth?” he asks, his eyes bright with excitement.

  “Fleance, you believe me!” My hopes stir again. “Then you see the danger to both of you?”

  “I would be foolish not to consider … what may come to pass,” he replies evasively.

  “Fleance, I don’t care if I speak treason. But for the good of Scotland, you must persuade your father to take action before it is too late.”

  “Don’t worry. My father has little love remaining for the king. It has dried up like a well in a drought. Last night he said to me that the king no longer trusted him.”

  “That is true,” I say, remembering the conversation I overheard. “Neither should you trust him, for he is full of deceit.”

  “Tell me, Albia,” says Fleance, touching my wrists gently. “Did the king … force you? Because if he did, I will kill him myself.”

  “No, Fleance, he did not hurt me. He tried, but your girdle protected me.” I manage a weak smile.

  Fleance sighs, and I can see by his longing look that he wants to kiss me.

  Now would be the time to confess to him that I am Macbeth’s daughter. But what if he should react with horror and disgust? Nothing would be gained—and much could be lost—by telling this truth.

  “Nay,” I say, shrinking away as Fleance puts his arms around me. Even his familiar hands remind me of the king’s unwelcome touch. “Let me be, please.”

  He draws back, offended. “I think you did enjoy the king’s attentions,” he says coolly. “What woman would not be flattered?”

  His words set me aflame like a spark on dry grass.

  “If you only knew how much I despise the king—and why—you would unsay those cruel words and regret them a thousand times over!”

  “My father is right,” Fleance says, angry now. “You are plainly overwrought, a creature without reason. Go away.”

  “I leave of my own will. And lest there be any doubt, I despise you, too!”

  I whirl around and run to my little room, where all my grief spills out in uncontrollable sobs. I do not care how loudly I wail. I want my cries to reach Geillis in the Under-world and awaken her pity. I want to scream in the ears of Macbeth and his wife until they cringe at their crimes. I want my weeping to stir the Other-world to revenge and the Asyetworld to fill the emptiness of my loss.

  But not even Dunbeag’s inhabitants hear me, or if they do, they make no attempt to console me.

  Chapter 14

  Dun Forres

  Grelach

  I confess
that when my lord is away at Dunbeag or Inverness or besieging his enemies, I hope that he will not return. With time I might forget the deeds of that awful night and be able to sleep again. The desperate efforts to force a child into my womb would end. I used to look forward to the night, relishing my husband’s strength and the intensity of his desiring. Then I realized it was not me he desired, but a son of his own. As I, perhaps, never desired him, but only his ability to make me a queen. Once ambition bound us together. Now what need have we of each other? With a barren womb, I am of no use to him. I fear for my life at his hands and imagine his death at mine. Would I use a dagger? Poison? I do not think I am capable of either. Thus I am left hoping for a mortal wound on the battlefield or an act of betrayal by one of his thanes. Such an end would leave me guiltless. It would set me free.

  Then Luoch would rise, and I would see my son rule Scotland as his great-grandfather did. But what if the thanes acclaim someone else as king? Would they choose Banquo? Nay, he is far from the greatest among them. I will not believe the Wyrd sisters. They did not bring us to this height; it was my lord’s ambition and courage that made him king! I will not fear Banquo or his offspring. Ranold my father builds his strength in the west, drawing the support of the thanes from north to south along the Great Glen, all on behalf of Luoch. When darkest night comes for Macbeth, my star will still be in the sky.

  A storm has broken upon Dun Forres with bellowing thunder, cracking lightning, and a cold wind that rattles the very stones in the foundation. A flood pours from the sky, uprooting grass and drowning small creatures. The midday sky is black. Torches flicker in their sconces. Rhuven keeps them lit, day and night. Poor Rhuven. Her sister has died—though thankfully not the one who provides my medicine—and she returned from burying her with a deep sadness. But she has a new sleeping potion for me. I will need it tonight. The wind howls like a banshee tearing through the castle. A timber from the roof flies off into the storm, and the banshee dips into Dun Forres and puts out the torches, leaving Rhuven and me in the dark.

  My lord has returned from Dunbeag in a great frenzy. Surely a rebellion is brewing somewhere. Has Banquo persuaded the other thanes to turn their warbands against our throne? Does he nurse royal ambitions of his own? I wish I had not begged my lord to spare his life.

  But when Macbeth comes into my chamber, I see that he is shaken by something deeper than war. Doubt and suspicion are written on his face, as if he has discovered my disloyal thoughts and knows that I wish him dead.

  “What is the matter, my lord?” I ask. “I did not expect you back from Dunbeag so soon.”

  “How long have you kept it from me?” he demands, his black eyes prying into my very soul.

  “I do not know what you mean.”

  “Are you alone?”

  “Aye,” I lie, knowing that Rhuven is in the next chamber, listening, and that she will raise the alarm if he tries to harm me.

  “She lives. I have seen her with these very eyes.” He stabs the air in front of his face with both forefingers.

  “Who lives?” I ask, growing impatient.

  “Don’t pretend ignorance! How did she come by the gold and ruby armlet?”

  “My lord, you are speaking madness. Explain yourself.” I watch his hands lest they reach for his dagger.

  Instead Macbeth grabs my wrist. “The gem I gave you. I put it on this arm when we were married.”

  I do remember that jewel. It softened me toward my new and strange husband.

  “I have not seen it for many years. I thought you took it away from me until I bore you a son.”

  “I did not. You lie. You deceived me. Like the fateful sisters, you have played foul with me. She lives! Our daughter lives!”

  My knees give way and I sink to the floor, slipping from his grasp. The image of a pink-cheeked baby suckling my breast flickers through my mind. Desire tears at me from inside and old grief rises to choke me.

  “How can … she be … alive?”

  “I saw her on the heath last night at Dunbeag.” My husband’s voice is barely above a whisper as he falls to his knees beside me. “She had your jewel. Her eyes are like yours.”

  “What about her foot?” I ask, testing him.

  “She walks like any woman,” he says, his black eyes glistening like one who has a fever and sees what is not there.

  “How dare you lift my hopes like this?” I cry, striking him with all my strength. “It cannot be her. My daughter was crippled. She has been dead almost sixteen years, and it was you who killed her!”

  “Nay, she is Banquo’s daughter now. Beautiful. I know her. It was the jewel. She got it from you.”

  The jumble of words makes no sense. Has my husband been bewitched by some woman—or phantom of a woman? Jealousy pricks me. And fear of what he might let slip in his growing madness.

  “Rhuven!” I cry. “Come quickly.”

  In a moment she is at my side. Macbeth jumps to his feet and grabs her by the shoulders, lifting her right off the ground.

  “What do you know of my daughter?” he growls. “Tell me how it is that she lives.”

  The color drains from Rhuven’s face. Only her eyes are bright with terror. She kicks her feet to find the floor again. I pull at my husband’s arms until he releases her.

  She looks from Macbeth to me, then boldly fixes her eyes on his. “You are mistaken. Eadulf left her to the wolves. I … I saw her body and … put it in the ground.” A dry sob comes from her throat. It sounds forced. Has she, too, buried her grief so deep it cannot be found?

  I stare at my husband with new hatred, that he should burst into my chamber and remind me of my old sorrow. But already he has forgotten us both in his ranting.

  “It was Banquo’s doing. He shelters the witch. He uses her against me. Now I know he is a traitor!”

  Even as I watch, Macbeth’s murderous thoughts become manifest. His eyes narrow into slits and his right hand plays over the hilt of his dagger. My pulse quickens in warning. Then he claps his hands together and calls loudly for Eadulf, the rogue who does the deeds he is too cowardly to claim.

  I rub my fingers against my thumbs until the skin is raw and grind my palms together until the bones of my hands hurt. Rhuven gives me poppy crushed in wine to calm me, but it does not help me sleep, so she gives me even stronger mandragora. Still I cannot sleep. I rub my hands without ceasing, but I can no longer feel the pain.

  Eadulf left a week ago. My lord and I have barely spoken. I doubt that Banquo is disloyal. But his death warrant is already signed, and that of his son. Will they see the murderers coming and put up a fight, or will they be slain with their eyes closed in sleep? Why must Eadulf kill the boy? He is no threat. I think of how his mother will grieve.

  And what will happen to Banquo’s daughter, the girl Macbeth thinks is ours because she happens to have a jeweled armlet? Nothing will protect her from a mad king bent on murder. I cannot sleep. I dare not even close my eyes. Rhuven is also afraid. She asks my leave to go away again, but I will not permit it. I must have her by me. I cannot know when Macbeth will succumb to another fit.

  Nor can I stop tormenting myself, asking Rhuven, “If I had saved my daughter, might everything be different now?”

  And Rhuven replies, “It is no use saying, ‘What if this or that.’ It changes nothing.”

  “Is it because I let her die that the saints have cursed me, and the gods given me no sons?”

  “The saints don’t have such power, and the gods are not so cruel. Remember, you are the queen, and let that be your comfort,” she replies.

  I laugh bitterly. “To be queen is no comfort! My eyes do not sleep, my hands are raw with rubbing, my husband is crazed, and our love has turned to hate and fear of each other.”

  Then I begin to sob, choking and shaking for more than an hour, though not a tear falls that might relieve me.

  “Grelach, my lady, you must try to stop,” Rhuven says worriedly, plying me with wine. It smells of mandragora, sweet and stro
ng. “Tonight is the banquet and you must be fit to greet the king’s guests.”

  Rhuven helps me dress in a long tunic of red silk and links of gold about my waist. I think of a prisoner’s chains. She braids my hair, wraps the braids around my head, and sets my crown within. It is not heavy, but it weighs down my head like a rock tied to my hair. Now I am ready to play the king’s loving wife.

  A fire in the hearth fights the chilly air in the dining hall. Torches blaze, sending up curls of black smoke. The most powerful thanes—Ross and Lennox, Angus and Siward of Northumberland—are all gathered here. I take my lesser seat beside the king’s chair and permit them to kiss my hand in greeting. My lord mingles with his thanes, calling out a hearty welcome. I watch their faces and think that I see flickers of discontent when he passes by.

  Then I notice that Banquo is not among the party. As the king’s general, he should be here. From time to time I glance hopefully at the door, but he does not come. My lord is unusually animated. Is it merely the wine—or another crime—that makes him so excited? My hands begin to throb. I will not think about it.

  Luoch sits at a table staring into the fire. He should be among the thanes, listening to their conversations as I instructed him. I glare at him until he looks up. With a motion of my head, I summon him to me. Almost eighteen, he is a tall and awkward carl. He should be more of a man.

  “Why do you sit at the table like a child waiting to be fed?”

  “I’m hungry,” he says.

  I resist the impulse to reach up and strike him. What makes me think that he could ever rise to the throne? He has no more ambition than a slug.

  “See those men? Put yourself in their midst. Listen to what they say. Speak to them. Win their respect.”

  Luoch runs his hand through his wild black hair and pouts, as he always used to when he planned to defy me.