Macbeth

by David Hewson

  “If I were a lady in a fortress, I might covet that head of yours for myself,” the girl went on. “Such a majestic face might cast the whole world in shadow.” She grinned. “Had it the ambition to meet the opportunity, of course.”

  “Do you have something to tell me?” Macbeth asked, exasperated.

  “And where’s the magic word, sire?”

  “I am tired. I beg you, child—”

  “He begs, he begs,” she cried, falling to her knees; the others, wailing, did the same. “This one last time before his too-hesitant elevation Macbeth begs...”

  Banquo sighed, cast him an irritated glance, and said, “We’ve better things to occupy our time than these loons. My lady of Loch Knockie...”

  “True,” he agreed and lifted his reins to leave.

  Her voice broke the night, so clear and loud and certain he could feel its force through the armor. “All hail Macbeth, thou shalt be king hereafter!” the naked thing shouted at him, grinning from the earth.

  Macbeth became cold and still, remembering MacDonwald’s words on the tower: “Your duty’s to Scotland and to yourself. Not to Duncan. When he’s gone, by rights, any of us might wear that crown, if his peers so wish it. Even you.”

  “All hail Banquo, lesser than Macbeth and greater,” cried the crone.

  “All hail Banquo, not so happy, yet much happier,” said the giant.

  The big man on the horse was silent at that, watching the third, who leered at him, her hands behind her skinny body, that tattooed bony chest sticking out like a dockside harlot seeking custom.

  “Well?” he demanded.

  “Oh, Banquo, Banquo,” she in a lilting, laughing tone. “Tragic in the present, yet glorious in the future. You shall beget kings, though never reign yourself. So all hail lords. Both of you. Masters of this modest world. After a fashion. For a little while.”

  A sudden crash of lightning broke from beyond the nearest crag, its jagged fork of unearthly light stabbing down from the heavens to the earth. The white fire wrapped itself around a tree behind them, splitting the trunk in two, sending burning shards and embers down to the ground, sparking all around them. The horses cried and whinnied, the two riders fighting to still their terror.

  The three women were on their feet. The crone and the giant shook with mirth at their fear.

  The youngest glared at them. They turned quiet in an instant and, at her bidding, made to go.

  “Wait,” Macbeth ordered. “You will not say such things, then flee our presence. How can this be? I am thane of Glamis, by the king’s kindness. But Cawdor...Cawdor lives, a good and prosperous lord with a fine estate, if”—his voice fell, remembering the gap in the ranks that day and MacDonwald’s dark hints—“tardy to the battle. To wear the crown is so far from anything I could imagine. Tell me.”

  He watched, unable to believe his eyes. It had to be the night, the strange light of the livid moon. They were vanishing before him, fading and flittering through the air like will-o’-the-wisps and jack-o’-lanterns that flickered over lowland marshes, dead souls, the credulous country people said, as elusive as the creatures of dreams.

  “Tell me, child!”

  Another fork of bright white light cracked above the hills. The searing light it brought seemed to swamp them, its fire so bright both men were forced to shield their eyes. When their vision returned, they found themselves alone, listening to nothing but the panting of their terrified mounts, struggling to control the beasts.

  It was Banquo who broke the silence with one word. “Lunatics,” he said. His voice shook a little and seemed to lack conviction.

  “You think?”

  “Yes! Lunatics! What else might they be?”

  “Samhain was three nights ago,” Macbeth said, remembering the ceremonies by the cairns. “The old priests say sometimes on that night the earth may cough up spirits from a place beyond our knowledge. That they may see—”

  “Spirits? Spirits?” Banquo cried, leaping the burning tree with his horse, sweeping his blade through the gorse and rowan groves around him, finding nothing. “You saw them. You smelled them. Just as I. Foul hags, man. Nothing more.”

  He spat out a vile curse and made one last futile sweep with his sword, finding nothing but branches and leaves.

  “They said—” Macbeth began.

  “These gypsy bitches wander the glens and pounce on the innocent, feeding them mad ideas to turn their heads. Then run away and cackle at the consequences, waiting for the seed they plant to grow and bloom and belch its poison into the air. Let’s hold onto what we can see and touch and comprehend, not the devilish tales these weird sisters offer.”

  Banquo was unsettled by what he’d heard, Macbeth thought. Just as much as he. Yet feared to show it.

  “Your children shall be kings, Banquo! You heard them. Do you find this of no consequence at all?”

  “You shall be king yourself. They said that, too. Does that interest you?”

  “The throne lies in the hands of greater men than me,” Macbeth replied. “But if they chose...I’d take it and be as good a monarch as Heaven allowed. Not fear any man or shirk a fight...”

  Like Duncan, he so nearly said.

  Banquo’s eyes burned with something. Fury? Dismay?

  The warrior muttered a curse and said, “Oh God, Macbeth. Were the throne open tomorrow, you’d have my hand and fist propelling you toward it before all others. But it’s not.”

  There was a side to his voice Macbeth did not recognize. They never spoke of property, of betterment, of what gains might come to them in the future. Only service to the crown and the Council of Thanes. At home, in the dark chambers of Inverness, brooding with his wife, things were different with Macbeth. Inverness was a low prize. She thought he deserved better. He knew she merited a finer, richer life. But even these low, formless dreams were discreet fantasies, shared with no one. Was it possible they were visible on a man’s face, clear as day to all but the bearer himself? Had the weird sisters seen this somehow?

  Had Banquo?

  That last thought unnerved him. He stilled the steed and looked the man next to him square in the eye. “The blood of these last few days has turned my head. I’m sorry, friend. To think I might gain a rich domain like Cawdor is so far beyond my ambitions. A crown...?” He laughed. “Ridiculous. I’m grateful for your hand, but it would be a solitary effort. There are other greater lords who stand in line before me.”

  “There’s Malcolm, too,” Banquo muttered grimly.

  Macbeth wondered if he’d heard his friend correctly. Malcolm? The king’s son was young and fey and lascivious. No council would choose him.

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “It does you credit you avoid the drunken banter of your peers,” said Banquo. “I wish I’d done the same. There’s gossip that Duncan wishes to change the throne. To make the crown hereditary, as it is England. Which would, they say, give us a sacred king, chosen by a single lord.” He nodded at the sky. “The one above, though how divinity squares with the issue of Duncan’s fecund loins is, I must confess, beyond my simple brain. Still, there’s your path to glory for Malcolm.”

  The words chilled Macbeth’s blood. MacDonwald’s cryptic warning finally made some sense. This was the source of the rebellion. Such a change would alter the nature of power in Scotland—the country itself—irrevocably and remove all chance of the ultimate ambition from every thane in the land.

  “Is this true?” Macbeth asked when he’d found his voice.

  “They say MacDonwald intercepted letters. Whether it’s true...How would I know? We’ve been fighting for the best part of a month. The nation’s been divided by sedition. Even if Duncan wanted such a thing, could he force it through the council?”

  At just such a time as this, he might, Macbeth thought. When the thanes were exhausted and weakened from fighting and he remained strong from doing nothing more than watching them bleed.

  Banquo puffed himself up in the saddle and
said, “Let’s bury this nonsense forever. We’re what we are and all we are. And damned fine at that, too.”

  Macbeth smiled and said, “Aye. The only crown this world will offer me came from a naked Viking fresh out of the tub. Some prize that was!”

  Banquo laughed, that deep, guttural sound that Macbeth felt he’d known and loved since birth. The brief mad moment of discord between them was over. Or perhaps they had both agreed in silence to keep it hidden from their faces.

  “A man gets foolish in the night,” Macbeth added. “Those mischievous bitches saw their chance. My hand...”

  Two gauntlets met briefly between their mounts, metal and mail in friendship.

  Then Banquo cried abruptly, “Holla! Who’s there?” His hand flew to his sword, his eyes fixed on a point up the path.

  Two men were approaching on horseback, their forms and faces shadows in the gloom.

  No more fights, Macbeth thought, bracing himself. No more bloodshed. He wanted to be home, in his wife’s sweet arms, to hold her, to comfort her.

  “Who comes, I say!” Banquo roared, drawing his sword. “Name yourself!”

  Two voices cried in return.

  “It’s Angus!”

  “And Ross!”

  Banquo’s joyous roar broke the reverie, and Macbeth was aware for a moment that, had this been an enemy, his fight would have been absent, his body soon a corpse on the damp peat where the strange naked child, with her writhing tattoos, had taunted him only moments before.

  “Rogues,” Banquo boomed at them. “Buffoons. Identify yourself in the dark, or I’ll spear you through the bowels next time. These are dangerous times, you fools. Don’t make me blunt my blade on friends.”

  They were two good men, loyal and loving to Duncan always. No minds of their own in all truth. The kind the king liked to keep around him among his priests and servants.

  “Oh, sirs,” Ross declared in his fluting lowland voice as they came close. “Your fame shines so brightly we assumed you saw us miles off reflected in its brilliance.”

  “On a night like this? Flatterer,” Banquo said, and slapped him so hard on the shoulder the man nearly fell off his horse.

  “No,” Ross replied. “It’s true. Tell him, Angus.”

  “Every word. The king knows everything and sent scores of heralds out to track you in the night. It’s our good fortune to be the first. To congratulate you on his behalf for your courage against the rebels and the Norsemen. Your cunning with the poison. How you fought for him without a thought for your own skins.”

  “For Scotland, too,” Macbeth added.

  “The same thing,” Banquo said.

  “Every report speaks of your valor, lords. The king’s gratitude is boundless. The nation is in peace again, no small thanks to you.”

  “Tell Duncan we did our duty,” Banquo said. He eyed Macbeth. “Home, then. To a warm, soft bed. I’ll find my own way.”

  Angus and Ross smiled at each other as if sharing a secret.

  “There is one more matter,” Ross said. “Macbeth, the king decrees you are no longer thane of Glamis.”

  There was thunder again, more distant this time, all the more strange since no lights in the sky preceded it.

  “Meaning?” he asked, and found his right hand had fallen naturally to the weapon at his waist. “I’ve fought hard for his majesty. There’s no more loyal subject in the land...”

  “Do not be so suspicious, sir!” Ross cried, laughing. “We joked. Nothing more. When you next meet—which he demands will be tomorrow evening in Inverness—he shall address you as thane of Cawdor, too. With Glamis. Two shires of the crown you tenant now...”

  Banquo turned to stare at him, his face more deathly stiff and pale than ever it was upon the field.

  “Cawdor? Cawdor?” Macbeth asked. “Why do you dress me in borrowed clothes? Cawdor lives, a man I’d like to ask some questions, true...”

  “Cawdor lies in bloody pieces feeding salmon in the loch,” Angus said brightly. “He was with Sueno and MacDonwald all along and thought he might usurp our rightful king through such treachery. Prince Malcolm has”—he scratched his beard and broke into a wry smile—“dealt with him in ways that might appear unseemly in other circumstances. That young fellow surprises us all at times.”

  Angus watched Macbeth carefully.

  “Scotland rises like the phoenix from the ashes of duplicity and the covetous attentions of the Norsemen,” he said. “The king marks his gratitude for your part in this, Macbeth. Cawdor’s yours. A property of no small value. It strikes me you do not seem grateful.”

  “No, no...This was a long, hard day, friends, and there’s too much news for my weak mind to comprehend. Bear with me.” Macbeth leaned across to Banquo and whispered, “We must speak. Alone.”

  “Stay clear of this,” grunted the man by his side.

  Macbeth stilled a sudden fury inside and forced a smile at the bringers of this strange news. “Give us a moment, please,” he said.

  Ross shrugged, though his smile was uncertain, and Angus gave him a look. Ignoring them, Macbeth reached over, dragged Banquo’s vast frame so close to his he could smell the staleness of his clothes, then guided their horses several uneasy paces down the path.

  “They called Cawdor right and could know nothing of it,” he whispered, feeling the coarse, dark beard rub against his cheeks. “They said you would beget a line of kings.”

  Banquo pulled back and caught his eye. “And that you would one day wear the crown. Yet we have a king, a strong and healthy one. Who succeeds him only the council shall decide. This is madness, Macbeth. I should have cut off those viper heads the moment we first saw them.”

  “Banquo—”

  “Home!” the big man bellowed, breaking from him and turning his horse.

  Hearing the din, Angus and Ross shouted back, rattling their swords against their armor, a soldier’s cheer.

  “I’ve a warm wife in a warm bed,” said Banquo. “Enough of these black and bloody glens for one day. Farewell, friends.” Then, in a lower voice, “Farewell, thane of Glamis and Cawdor. A worthy reward for your boldness and your loyalty.”

  That familiar, vast gauntlet stretched out again. Macbeth snatched Banquo to him and whispered, half choking, “You are my truest friend, my conscience, my compass in the tempest.”

  “Bah!” One final hard slap on the shoulder. “And you’re the sentimental fool you always were. Go home and make yourself a son.”

  That last remark, both an unintended foray into his private torments and a reminder they were common knowledge, pained him, though he fought hard to hide it.

  “Well,” said Banquo quietly, seeing his unintended gaffe for what it was. “That’s it, then.”

  He turned his horse around and retreated into the hills. To his castle in the north, Macbeth guessed, not his pliant mistress in Loch Knockie.

  Angus and Ross waited for his orders.

  “Tell the king my lady and I are honored by his kindness,” he said, riding back as he watched the towering figure of Banquo disappear into the darkness. “I will see my wife tonight and make arrangements...”

  “Do that tomorrow, Macbeth,” Angus said. “The king wishes you first to sit in judgment on Cawdor’s household, those men who came with him on this treacherous adventure. They’re captive back near Inverlochy, freezing in the snows that now fall down from Nevis. These are your men now, so you must judge their fates. After that, return to Inverness.”

  His heart sank. The order meant long hours retracing the winding track they had just taken. He wanted to shout, to refuse and ride quickly home, but knew this was impossible.

  “And will you join me?” Macbeth asked them.

  They looked a little guilty. “We are to go to Inverness. On personal matters.”

  “Then wait a while, sirs. I would write my wife a letter and have you carry it to her.”

  Angus nodded.

  “A personal note,” Macbeth added. “Fond tidings and the king�
��s kind news, nothing more.”

  “Sweet words never go amiss,” Ross replied. “Write them, sir. We promise we won’t peek.”

  A few low cottages and a ragtag line of shacks and taverns and brothels for sailors apart, the castle was all there was to Inverness. It stood on a low, rocky bluff overlooking the winding dark line of the River Ness, now full with the floodwaters of the recent tempests, banks bursting to bring the water’s chill presence into the paupers’ hovels built by the shore. Skena Macbeth was a lowlander, born far away in Glamis in the southern valley of Strathmore, a warm and fertile sweep of land caught between the Sidlaw Hills and the Grampians, half a day’s ride from the coast at Dundee. The castle there was modest, set on a low hill amid green fields, English in style—foursquare pale stone with towers at each corner of the tall curtain wall, one main keep that was living quarters for the thane. But Duncan was king, and they his subjects. He liked to keep his men close and so instructed Macbeth to spend his time mostly in the north, at Inverness, thirty miles inland from the royal palaces at Forres, where the monarch lived for most of the year in luxuriant splendor. Her husband was a native Highlander, a creature of the Great Glen. But he loved green Glamis almost as much as she did and felt her frequent pangs for that gentle, rich land, most of all during the desolate months of winter.

  The property Duncan had forced upon them could scarcely be more different from the castle that came with Macbeth’s title. It was a vast, brooding monster, a relic of years of constant civil war, with ten times more arrow slits than windows and twice the dungeons it had bedrooms. Warrens of dark and secret passages ran behind its grim, black walls, cold and damp and sinister places that allowed the incumbent thane to hide from assassination and his enemies to whisper and plot behind his back. From the ramparts, she could see the swollen mass of water that led to the Moray Firth and the cold North Sea beyond, an open invitation to avaricious foreigners like the Vikings, and one they’d seize at random, bent on rape and plunder and the capture of oar slaves for their longboats. Within, she felt a stranger, unwanted, a foreigner almost to a household that had served numerous thanes before this one, and hoped to outlive many more in the years to come.