Then I hear a noise outside the shed.
I slide to my feet and pull out my dagger. The wafers slip to the ground, and I regret their departure. I place an upside down bowl over my lamp to cut the light and wait, my body tense. No one should be creeping around the courtyard this late at night.
A small shape appears in the door to the shed.
Fleance.
“Gilly,” he whispers. “Are you indeed here?”
“I am,” I whisper back and then wonder why we need to whisper.
He hobbles in. Even in the darkness I can see that one foot is bandaged with a leg splint on its shin. I lift the bowl off the lamp, and in the flickers of light I see his face and arm are bruised on the same side.
“You’ve come back! You’ve come back!” I am startled by his obviousjoy. “One of the older boys spotted you crossing the courtyard, and I asked the Master of Arms, and he said he thought ’twas you! I’m so glad you’ve come back.”
Before I can speak, he says, “Come with me to the ramparts. I need to fill in this night’s information on my charts about the tides. You can help me.”
He hobbles away and I am hard-pressed to keep up with the small fellow.
Perhaps Fleance is the very person to help bring me near Him so I can try Nettle’s mixture of herbs.
He limps up the stairs so quickly that I am panting and wheezingby the time we reach the top.
“How long does the king stay here?” I gasp out.
He shrugs, indifferent to the doings of the people in the castle. From his belt he takes out a rolled piece of parchment.
“Find some stones to hold it down,” he commands me.
I find a handful of pebbles at the base of the wall, and we anchor down the paper.
“What is this?” I ask.
He draws himself up tall and looks at me, seeming amazed. “ ’Tis my chart,” he says. When I say nothing, he adds, “My chart of the tides.”
“Chart of the tides?”
“Do you not recall?” He sounds outraged, his squeaky-growling voice more comical than ever. “I told you about it. I said that I liked being near the sea because I can note the state of the moon— whether ’tis waxing or waning, full or dark, and then I can note the state of the tides. Thus we see whether indeed the moon draws the tides or not.”
He makes a little clucking sound. “ ’Tis a pity that the sea just over the wall is only a bay and not the sea full strength, but there is movement in the water, so—”
“Do you know Prince Malcolm?” I ask, making my voice careless.
“The king’s son?” His voice does not hold much interest. “Malcolm’s the one he named Prince of Cumberland, is he not?” He cranes his head back and looks at the sky. “A pox upon it! I know ’tis a cloudy night, but I had hoped that by coming up here to a higher place perhaps there would not be so many clouds. I cannot make out the moon, can you, Gilly?”
I look up, but the moon seems well shrouded against our peering eyes.
“Fleance, what does that mean, Prince of Cumberland?”
“Oh, Malcolm is to become king when his father dies, or some such nonsense. Gilly, do you think if we were to light a torch, the moon might be drawn to the light and so show herself?”
Now I am the one to lose interest. “I do not know.” Then I ask, “What happened to your foot and leg?”
His gruff little voice is impatient. “The sword-stick lessons did not go well after you left.” He chuckles. “But ’tis for the best. The Master of Arms says that I may not come to the lessons until I am healed. I do hope that I will be a good long time in the healing.” He chuckles again. “If I had known ’twas so simple to get out of the lessons in soldiering, I would have bribed those bigger boys to beat me up many weeks since.”
Suddenly he waves his arms about rapidly, then stops. “Do you think ’twill get rid of the mist if we wave our arms around?”
“No.”
He gives an exasperated groan. “I hate this northern country with its eternal fogs. How will I ever figure out the patterns of moon and tide if so many nights the moon is hidden in the mist?”
“Tell me, Fleance, why does it matter, these patterns in sea and sky?”
He sounds shocked. “There are patterns in everything, Gilly. If we are to know life and understand it, we must find out the patterns beneath everything.”
“But what are they good for, these patterns of yours?”
“Good for?”
“Yes, what use are they?”
“Truth does not need to be useful!” he says indignantly. “It only need be truth to matter.” He lifts his head up to study the sky. “Do you think ’tis clearing up?”
Fleance has not asked where I was or what I was doing. It hits me that he is interested in the big truths, but he cares little for the small truths of individual lives. Now I do not give a peeled twig for the big truths, but the small ones interest me greatly. My present small truth is that I am damp and tired and long to go to bed.
“Give it over, lad. ’Tis impossible to spot any of your patterns in this fog that has blown up. Even the stars have been blown out. And even if there were no fog, ’tis so late that I fear the moon is down. Let’s to sleep.”
“Do you know, Gilly,” he says, as if he is settling in for a great chat, “the Venerable Bede writes that the earth is surrounded with seven heavens? There is our world, the world of matter, surrounded by water that separates us from the heavens which is the world of spirit—”
“Right now all I care about is the world of sleep, Fleance, and that is a realm I must soon visit, else—”
“Is it not amazing, Gilly, that the seven heavens and our world are all composed out of four elements, just as you mix up foods down in the kitchen—”
“I also sleep down in the kitchen. Fleance, ’tis late and—”
“When I am a man, I shall become an alchemist and study how to put these elements together to cook up matter—how much of each element is needed, for example, to make a tree or to make gold. Then I shall write it down for all to know. I shall write the cookery book of God himself.”
“Hush!” I say. “These words are dangerous. They smack of blasphemy. You could be burned as a heretic.”
He hunches smaller. “ ’Tis true,” he says in a tiny voice. “The Church of Rome does not like for us to explore such things. I have heard tell that some alchemists have been burned as witches.” Hesits up a little straighter. “But I do not understand why God gave us a mind if he did not—”
Heavy footfalls on the stairs make us both jump. Fleance rapidly rolls up his chart and stuffs it under his shirt.
I see the shape of a man at the top of the stairs.
“Fleance?” he calls out.
It is Lord Banquo. The pale stripes of his cloak stand out like a faint light against the darkness. I am amused by this mark of vanity in such a plain man. I drop to one knee and lower my head, praying he will not recognize me as one of the seers, the one who predicted he will father kings. I roll my eyes to the top of their sockets so I can peek out at him and Fleance.
“Not yet abed, son?”
“No, sir.”
“Does your leg trouble you, boy?”
Fleance’s head jerks up as if he is astonished by his father asking after him. “No, sir.”
Fleance’s father moves around restlessly, as if he is troubled. I do not think it is worry about his son that preys on his mind. He sighs, and then he looks all around the ramparts.
“How goes the night, boy?”
“The moon is down.” I can tell he does not want his father to know about his charting and his science. Fleance continues, “I have not heard the clock.”
Lord Banquo says, “The moon goes down at twelve.”
“I take it ’tis later, sir,” says Fleance. I can hardly believe they are father and son—they are so very different from each other.
Fleance’s father pulls his sword from its sheath and tosses it to his son. “Take my sw
ord.” Fleance buckles from the weight of the great sword, and his father seems to wince. Fleance’s father looks up at the sky and sighs again. “Heaven is a frugal houseman tonight, son. He has blown out all his candles.” He pulls out his dagger. “Take that, too.” He tosses it to Fleance, who looks lost and awkward trying to balance the two weapons. “I know your leg troublesyou, but show me some of the passes the Master of Arms has taught you.”
Fleance makes a few weak passes with the sword. I long to reach out and straighten his arm, but I keep my place.
Then we hear more footsteps.
“Give me my sword!”
Fleance’s father moves in front of Fleance and me, his sword held out in a menacing manner. Fleance looks down at his father’s dagger which is still in his hands and tosses it to the floor as if he is afraid that if he is caught with it, he will have to fight.
“Who’s there?” calls out Fleance’s father.
“A friend,” says a heavy voice.
And then He appears at the top of the stairs.
T W E N T Y - N I N E
HEIS CARRYING a huge silver goblet in his hand. He moves like someone who has traveled a great distance and still has many miles to go before he can take his rest.
Fleance’s father says, “What, sir, not yet abed?”
Sighing, He sets his wine goblet on the stone wall of the ramparts, not half a body length from where I kneel. Then He steps away, over toward Fleance’s father. My heart leaps up! God has given me this opportunity—I must not waste it. Stealthily I edge my fingers to the packet of herbs in my girdle. Let me sprinkle this mixture into His goblet. While these herbs will not kill Him, it will warm my heart to know I have caused Him discomfort.
The two men continue to talk. I edge myself forward ever so slowly, my eyes focused on His cup. I work the packet of herbs free, and with one hand I unwind their wrapping. I pray that night will serve as my cover and cloak my actions from view. I maneuver my body into place, right below the goblet, and let my body shield my right hand, which begins to inch up the stone wall, when the words of Fleance’s father cause me to freeze. “I dreamed last night of the three weird sisters. To you they have shown some truth.”
Goose bumps pop out on my arms. They talk of me and the women. Perhaps the tide has indeed begun to turn my way. Please, I pray, please let there be some long-lasting effect. Please let our spell unfold, trickery though it be. Please, please—
But when He responds, His words dash all my hopes.
“I think not of them,” He says.
Then, to my horror, He reaches an arm out for his goblet although He continues to talk to Fleance’s father. I dart my arm out quickly and shake it over His goblet, but the herb packet goes tumbling over the wall. I cannot be sure even the smallest pinch of my herbs has fallen into His drink. I fold my fingers around the goblet and offer it to Him, bending on one knee like a good serving lad. He takes it without even looking at me.
Please let some of the herb mixture have fallen in His goblet. Please let one of my schemes bear fruit. I grind my teeth together in my impatience. Am I God’s fool or plaything? Does he make sport with our hopes and lives, just for a laugh?
Then I hear Him wish Fleance and his father good repose. They clatter down the stairs, and I am left alone with Him.
To my amazement, I feel as calm as a nun at communion. It has been so long since I first knew Him, and yet He is still as familiar as if it has been less than seven days and not more than seven years since He was last part of my life. He looks just the same—tall and strong with a loose-limbed warrior grace. He smells just the same way He used to smell on banquet days in the time before. I remember liking His smell with its hints of civet and cinnamon. If I am honest, I must admit that He has a pleasing shape, but well I know that the devil is partial to assuming attractive forms. This man beside me is worse than the devil, for the devil has no choice but to do evil, and what He did was a matter of cold-hearted choice. I study Him silently. I have no fear that He will recognize me as one of the three prophets upon the heath. He does not look at underlings. So I wait for Him to drink the doctored potion. Please, please, let a few flakes of Nettle’s herbs be floating on His wine. Oh, it will be abanquet to my soul to see Him mad. It will be paradise indeed when I behold Him dead.
To my dismay, He sets the goblet down again on the stone battlements, not taking so much as a sip.
Then He turns to me. He says, “Go bid your mistress—when my drink is ready—she strike upon the bell.”
How fate toys with me! All the trouble I took to doctor the goblet He holds in His fingers, and now He wants a different drink instead. It is not fair! I will not let this come to pass!
I pick up the goblet again and again go down on one knee, offering it to Him. I school my face not to show the disgust and hatred I feel, offering Him the face of spring when there is a devil in the undergrowth in my heart. “My lord, there is yet drink here. Should you not finish this one before you require another?”
He accepts the goblet and looks at it in surprise, as if He had forgotten He had brought it up with Him.
For a moment all is still. He stares at me without moving. Then He tilts His goblet to His mouth, drinking it all the way down.
My heart is a bird that takes flight—all the way through Fleance’s seven heavens.
“Get to bed!” He commands me.
And I can think of no excuse to stay.
It is not until I am clattering down the stairs that I realize I will never know if the herbs have an effect, but even the thought that they may cause Him discomfort kindles a warming fire of hope in my breast. I float down the stairs to the kitchen. All the good sleeping places are taken, but I do not care. There is a stool by the door and I sink down beside it, folding my arms across the seat to make me a pillow. And quicker than thought, I am asleep.
I AWAKE when the stool is kicked out from under me. I fall to the floor. Master Cook towers over me.
I blink in the darkness. It is not yet dawn—it is the hour of the wolf and the other beasts that roam the night, their final hour tohunt the earth for prey. My body is stiff and sore from hunching over the stool.
“ ’Tis night still,” I protest.
“Get you up,” Master Cook says, “or you will do naught but scullery duty for the next ten years.”
“ ’Tis not yet day.”
“Our king is leaving at first light. Last night, Master Steward commanded that the king and his two chamber guards are to have tankards of ale and some cold fish upon rising.” He gestures with his thumb toward the barrel of white herring. “Take it up to them.”
As I puzzle out whether it is an honor or a punishment to be sent on this errand, Master Cook gives me a push toward the fish barrel. “You will do what I say, insect! Take up the food or you will be out the castle gates at first light, looking for another station in life.”
I make a face but pull out a tray. Master Cook yawns loudly and settles back onto the table on which he sleeps. In the flicker of an eyelash, his snores join the chorus of snores and night noises that rumble through the kitchen. I fill three tankards with ale and plunk them down on the tray. From the barrel of white herring, I scoop out three plump fish. I pass to the bake kitchen where the loaves of bread are rising for this day’s meals. I find a round loaf from last night’s feast and hack off three fat slices. I plop a pickled herring on the top of each slice of bread and, balancing the tray against my hip, I light a taper from the fire. I cross the dark courtyard and climb the stairs to the Great Hall. I wind my way among the sleeping men at arms and upper servants.
As I travel, I amuse myself by imagining what might have happened when He drank the wine with the herbs that cause dark fantasies. By my reckoning, nothing much happened or else the men at arms would not be sleeping so peacefully. As far as I can tell, it has been a calm night at the castle. But perhaps there were small madnesses of which I know naught. Perhaps He tore off all his clothing and ran round and round the ra
mparts, howling at the moon. At the very least, perhaps He tossed all night, tangled in knotty dreams of demons and trolls come to gnaw on His soul.
I climb the stairs. Should I continue in a straight path, I would come to Fleance’s chamber, but I veer to the side to a small bedchamber on the left. It is an antechamber beyond which lies the largest of the guest chambers. I am sure that this is where the king sleeps.
I confess I am curious to see the king. I chuckle to think that our king takes breakfast. The noblemen and men at arms at our castle scorn breakfast, calling it a custom fit only for babes and servants. But if the king chooses to break his fast—
At the door of the antechamber, I step on an arm.
I jump back. Ale sloshes out of the tankards and onto my tray. I am worried it will soften the bread. I must deliver my food quickly or the bread will be too soggy to eat.
Now I can make out in the dim light that one of the guards lies across the doorway to the antechamber. I am surprised that he is taking his duty as guard so seriously that he feels he must sleep crossways across the threshold. I smile in spite of myself. The fool! He takes all the trouble to sleep across the door, and then he falls so deeply asleep that anyone could sneak past him.
I clear my throat, but the guard does not move.
With my toe I nudge his arm.
He does not move.
I toe him again and say in a soft voice, “Get you up, slugabed. I have food and drink for the king.”
He does not move. I kick him with more force. “Rise, I say!”
He mutters something I cannot make out, and he rolls to the side. I smell the stale reek of old spiced wine. He is drunk. I know better than to try to rouse a sot. I step over him and go into the antechamber. The other guard is slumped against the far wall, his legs splayed out at odd angles. He too is soundly asleep.
The Third Witch Page 16