“I have fish and bread for the king,” I say in a loud whisper.
This second guard does not move. It is strange these sleeping guards show so little concern for their king. I nudge him with my foot. Then I kick harder.
I chuckle to myself. Nettle must have felt this way those mornings when she could not get me out of bed in a timely fashion.
The upper body of the second guard slides the rest of the way down the wall.
How odd these guards are so sound asleep, even if they are drunk. Odder still for both guards to be drunk on duty, even if the war is over. I feel the little hairs rise up on my arms. Could this be a prank that Master Cook is playing on me? As soon as I think this, I throw away the notion. Master Cook is not a man to enjoy a jest.
I step over the second guard into the main chamber. I can make out nothing but a man’s shape on the bed.
“Sire?” I call out. “I am from the kitchens. I have the fish and bread you requested.”
There is no answer.
I see the king lying in his bed, turned on his side. I take the liberty of moving closer. Do not let him grow angry with me. Do not let him order me to be beaten for daring to approach too near. The king, too, sleeps so soundly that I wonder if I should slip away without waking him. The company feasted and drank till late into the night. It is no marvel that he plays the slugabed this morn.
But should I slip away without delivering the breakfast, perhaps he would order me beaten for not following his commands. I wish there were someone else here to tell me what to do.
“Sire? My lord? Your majesty?”
I wrinkle my brow, considering what best to do. Then I balance the tray in one hand. With my other hand, I touch his arm.
“Your majesty?”
He still does not wake, so I give his arm a little shake.
The body of the king rolls over toward me.
The front of his nightshirt is soaked with wet blood.
T H I R T Y
MY HAND IS NOW STICKY with blood.
My tray goes clattering to the ground. I hear the hollow ring of the tankards against the floor. My hand flies up to cover my mouth, and I feel the sticky blood on my mouth. I smell its rusty metallic odor. I jerk my hand away, and blood drips from my fingers onto the bed.
Just then I hear the sound of distant knocking.
I jerk, stumble over one of the dropped tankards, and slip on a puddle of blood, skidding to the floor. I grab the bed cover and pull myself up, making little whimpering sounds. This cannot be happening. This is not real. Of a certainty, this is a dream and this knocking will awaken me. But I do not wake up, and the knocking continues. I scramble out of the room, stumbling over the unconscious body of the guard at the doorway, and again falling, this time banging my knee.
I run down the stairs, through the Great Hall, dodging the sleepers there. A few of them mutter and roll over, disturbed either by the endless knocking or my running, but no one seems to wake. Then I am clattering down the stairs from the Great Hall and dashing through the courtyard to the kitchen well.
I draw up a bucket of water. I splash it onto my face, down my chest. I keep splashing my face with water until the pail is empty. Then I draw up another. This time I plunge my hands into the clean water and begin scrubbing one hand against the other, rubbing, rubbing so hard it hurts. I scrub and scrub, determined to get my hands clean of every bit of blood.
The king is dead. Someone murdered the king as he slept. And I am stained with his blood. I feel frantic with fear so I scrub harder. Why did his guards not wake? I empty the bucket of water. In the darkness I cannot see its color, but I am sure that the water has turned dark red with blood. I draw a third bucket. But this is the safest castle in all Scotland. The lord of the castle is the most skillful warrior in all the country, and—
I turn white with horror.
The king was well guarded. Who could have come so close as to stab him? My head aches, but I push my thoughts hard to squeeze sense out of them. Few could have come here—but the lord of the castle could have. It is clear—plainer than the shine on a bald priest’s pate. I know that He longs to be king. What way could bring it to pass more quickly than to kill the king when he comes visiting? But what would have made Him choose last night for His murder?
Then my stomach flops over and I press my lips tightly together so I will not be sick. What if it was the herbs that I put in the wine? What if the herbs turned Him into a murderer? That would mean that it was I who caused the murder of the king! No! I did not do it. Nettle said that all the herbs will do is bring strange fantasies. They could not make a hero a murderer and drive him to kill the king. No, they could not. Surely there is no way that the death of this poor man was my fault. Besides, He was a murderer long before He killed the king . . . if He was indeed the man who did the killing.
I cannot bear it. All I want is to destroy Him, but the nearer I come, the farther I seem to slip away. Have I destroyed the king instead?
Then I remember that my legs slid about in the blood on thefloor, and I pour the water in the bucket over them. I rip off a corner from my tunic to use as a scrubbing cloth. I rub up and down my leg till the skin grows raw.
No, the wind blew the herbs away. The packet tumbled over the side of the ramparts. None of them fell into His cup. This is not my fault. It is not my fault. It is not . . .
A loud bell clangs somewhere in the castle, but I continue to scrub my legs like a mad thing. All about me folk go running to the Great Hall. They do not spare me a glance. I draw up a fourth bucket of water, and I scrub my hands with the torn cloth.
After a while I lose count of how many buckets of water I draw to use as my washing water. I smell burning bread. Master Baker and his apprentice and his lads must have been among the folk to run to the Great Hall. As dawn seeps in, I see that my hands and legs are still bloody, but now it is my own blood from my flesh scrubbed raw. I know it is folly, yet I continue to scrub.
I hear shouts and the clatter of feet running down the stairs. Shouts and then the thunder of many horses’ hooves. No one seems to be coming back to the kitchen. Then the noise of the crowd fades away. I begin to scrub my mouth.
“Kitchen lad!”
I look around, wet and sore and frightened. Prince Malcolm steps out of the shadows. His clothes are all jumbled as if he threw them on by guesswork, and he is pale. I am heavy with guilt that through my herb craft I may have set things in motion for the murder of his father, and I do not dare meet his eyes.
“Help me,” he says.
I do not know what to say.
“Kitchen lad,” he says, “I need your help again. Help me now. Without your aid I fear I will perish in earnest.”
I hide my hands behind my back as if I fear that he will see his father’s blood on my skin.
“The king is dead,” he says. I begin to shake. “My life depends on you.”
I gather the courage to glance up at him. He stands there, running his hands through his hair, making it stand straight up on his head. He says, “My father has been killed.”
Into my mind flashes the picture of his father’s bloody body, lying on the bed.
The prince says, “I do not know who did the murder. If anywhere in the world should be safe, this is the place. Surrounded by his most loyal nobles—and yet my father was slaughtered like a trussed goat.”
The gates of my mind split open. Other memories flood in, other deaths, and all those bodies I have not let myself picture for so many years, all those people I have not let myself mourn—and with all my inner strength, I slam the gates shut again. I dare not think of the past. I cannot afford a misstep, a slip of the tongue.
The prince is still speaking. “The war has ended. This is no time or place for my father to die.”
“What do his chamber guards say?” I ask. Behind my back my hands continue to twist around each other as if one is washing the other. It was not my fault. It was not my fault.
The prince looks at
me with a puzzled expression. “Nothing.”
“You are the king’s son. Make them talk!”
“Not even the king’s son has that power, boy.”
“You lack faith in your position, sire. You do have the power to make them talk.
The prince shakes his head. “Only God has that power now. They are dead.”
“No!” I say, alarmed. “They do but sleep. They sleep soundly, perhaps, drunk or drugged with some potion. But they were alive when—”
Malcolm’s chin jerks up. “When? You said, ‘Alive when—’”
I think of a quick lie. “When I took them a nightcup last evening.”
Does he believe what I said? From under my lashes I look at him. But I am confused. This tale outruns its sense. Something is out of joint.
“The guards were alive,” he says, “right after the murder. But the lord of the castle, in his fury and great grief over the death of my father, slaughtered them before they could tell their tale.”
I gasp in surprise. “What?”
“Yes, carried away by his sorrow—”
So He knows! It is as plain as my thumb—He did not kill His king in an herb trance. I know Him well, and He does not kill in a mindless frenzy. Some warriors kill in a blood-red heat, but He is a cold killer, a killer of ice and deliberation. No, it is as clear as a cloudless morn. He killed the guards deliberately to cover His own trail. I feel sick with relief. I did not cause the death of the king. “ ’Tis a great pity you cannot question the guards,” I tell the prince. “I doubt not but they would have quite a tale to tell. His lordship has done a foul thing to murder them before they could talk.”
“He killed them in a rage of grief,” the prince says. “He was out of his head with sorrow. He didn’t know what he was doing.”
“ ’Tis a handy excuse,” I say.
The prince rubs his forehead with the back of his hand as if he is clearing away cobwebs. “What do you mean?”
I look from side to side, making double sure that there is no one to overhear us. “Who killed your father?” I ask. My voice is tight and hard.
His voice is just as tight and hard. “They say ’twas the chamber guards. Blood dabbled their hands, and—”
I pull my hands out from behind my back and look at them. “ ’Tis easy to be blood-dabbled.” I hold out my hands, dotted with my own blood from my vigorous hand scrubbing.
The prince looks at them in confusion. Then he draws his sword and points it at me. His hand is not quite steady.
“Are you saying that you are the one who killed my—”
I snap, “Put down the sword! I had naught to do with your father’s death. All I say is that ’tis easy to spatter blood where you please.”
We hear footsteps on the stairs to the Great Hall. We both duckbehind the well. Lisette, the alewife, and the laundrywife walk past us, talking excitedly of the murder of the king.
Prince Malcolm says, “I’m not safe here. Whoever murdered my father can murder me. ’Tis my duty—I owe it to my father and family to get away safe. ’Tis the only way I can bring his assassin to justice. My brother is hardly more then a child. If I die here, there will be no men left to right his death.” He clasps his hand on my shoulder. “Help me get safe out of the castle and on the road to England.”
“England?”
“Aye. My brother goes to Ireland, but I was fostered down in England at the castle of my uncle Siward, my mother’s kinsman. He will aid me. Help me get clear of this place. My life is in your hands.”
I hesitate. Why should I risk my neck for this unknown prince, no matter how handsome he is? He is a rich man. Let him fend for himself.
Then I remember my packet of herbs.
“I will help you, sire,” I say. “Do you have a mount?”
“My horse is in the stable,” he says. “Come.”
Hunkering low, we run to the stables. His horse is the only one left in there. “ ’Tis the work of a few minutes only to saddle the beast.”
“ ’Twill be safer to lead the creature out of the gates and hold the riding until you are out of this castle,” I say. “ ’Tis hard to hide when you are on the back of the horse.”
We cross the far end of the courtyard. The gates stand wide open, and we lead the horse through it. To my relief, no one is in sight, so we hurry through the gates.
“Mount quickly,” I tell him. “And ride like the wind across the clearing. Head for the trees.”
He scrambles into his saddle, but instead of taking off, he sticks his hand down. I wonder at first if I am to kiss it or such, but then he says, “Grab hold, lad, and let me swing you up behind me.”
And in the blink of an eye, I am seated on the horse behind him. I wrap my arms around his waist, holding tight, as we gallop towardthe trees. His body is thin, but nonetheless strong and hard. Before we slip into the wood, the prince reins in and turns his horse about so he can take a final look at the castle. I see the shape of a woman standing on the battlements—His wife. My heart flops like a landed fish. She is staring across the countryside in our direction.
The going is slower once we are in the wood. I direct him which way to go, but the horse steps slowly to avoid holes and stumps and such.
I want to understand as much as possible about the king’s death. Partly, it is true, to clear my conscience. So I ask in an innocent voice, “Why would the guards murder your father?” I know that they did not do it—they were too drowned in drink to do aught, even to protect their master. But I must find a way to twist our conversation around so the prince can discover for himself the truth I know in my heart and bones.
“They say the guards were bribed—” he begins.
“Who benefits most from the death of the king?”
I feel him stiffen beneath my hands. “I am his heir. But if you are trying to suggest that I was his killer, before God I will run you through with my sword, and—”
“You fool! ’Tis not what I’m saying.”
A branch snaps nearby, and the prince reins his horse to a stop. We sit motionless for several minutes, but we hear nothing else, so we resume our journey. We do not talk. We both know well that somewhere out there is a heartless killer who doubtless would love to murder the prince and would not balk at slaughtering a mere kitchen lad. As we pick our way through the wood, I puzzle about how to tell him all I know of this history of the lord of the castle and why He is never to be trusted, but I am not sure how to begin.
We reach a clearing that is up a little hill.
We hear voices. I slide from the horse and pull Prince Malcolm to the ground after me.
“Hide,” I whisper in his ear.
Quickly we climb behind a bramble thicket, coaxing the horseafter us. We wait. A crowd of ten or twelve castle lads crash through the clearing, chattering excitedly about what they will do with the king-killing traitor once they lay hands on him.
“They say our lord has offered a reward beyond all imaginings to anyone who captures the man who killed the king!”
“More than that! Should we find the traitor and beat him to death with our clubs, we would surely be called the saviors of all Scotland!”
“They would make us all knights!”
“We would have our pick of women!”
The lads cheer and stumble on more quickly, never realizing that all the noise they make would give even a deaf assassin ample warning to hide. The prince and I wait until all sound of them has faded away before we come out from the thicket.
He remounts his horse, but I shake my head at the sight.
“What is amiss?” he asks.
“Wait.”
I wrestle a branch from the nearest tree and hand it to him.
“Why do you give me—”
“Wait.”
I snap off several other branches. I lace them around the saddle and across the horse’s mane.
“What are you doing?” he asks. “Are you mad?” He starts to let go of the big, leafy branch I gave him, but
I push it back into his hand.
“What are you thinking of?” he asks.
“Your safety, my lord! ’Twill fool no one up close, but at a distance you will seem part of the wood and shadow your progress from any who might be watching for you. With luck these branches will hide you from view.” Without luck, they will see the tree seem to move, but we will be in the depths of the wood before any watchers can figure out what they saw. I climb up again behind him, scooting behind the cloak of branches.
By the top of the morning, we reach the road. I tell him to stop.I slide off the back of the horse and step around to its head. As I talk, I give the horse’s nose a pat. “Follow this road,” I say, “till you have passed two waterfalls. Then at the next crossroads, take the arm that leads to the south. ’Tis a road that will lead you to Perth. After that I can tell you naught, but the folk at Perth can direct you to the England road. Have you any money?”
The prince holds up a bag of gold. I nod. I am relieved to see that he has enough for his journey.
“Get you gone,” I say. “And God be with you.”
“Thank you, my lad.” He holds his hand out again. This time I understand what he wants, and I clasp his hand warmly. “When I return as king,” he says, “I shall not forget this kindness.”
His fingers go to his money pouch, but I frown. He hesitates, then lets his hand drop. He understands that I do not want money. I have noticed that he is quick to understand things. “I wish I could give you some sort of thanks now,” he says, but I interrupt him.
“Before you go, sire, think! Who would wish you harm?”
He lets fall the reins. His horse tosses its head up and down, makinga little snorting noise. Prince Malcolm pets the animal’s neck, soothing it. To me he says, “ ’Tis that very thing that puzzles me.”
“I am still surprised that your brother has deserted you.”
He shakes his head. “ ’Twas my idea. Separated, we shall be the safer. That way one assassin may not—with a single visit—eliminate the House of Duncan.” His horse twitches, and Prince Malcolm takes up the reins. “Farewell, lad. You have done me much service. Thanks to you, the heir to the throne of Scotland is not cold with death.”
The Third Witch Page 17