I grab the reins. “My lord, you must think. Who would wish harm to you and your family?” Fleance would be proud of me could he hear how I press the prince to think. “Probe deep, sire. Who gains benefit from the death of the king—besides you and your brother?”
Prince Malcolm’s face looks bruised and blank.
“If you are gone to England,” I press him, “who will be king?”
“Surely there will be no king until I return.”
We hear a sound in the nearby underbrush. We stiffen, and then a deer bolts out of the undergrowth. We relax.
“I must be gone.” He draws a ragged breath. “This very night you have saved the life of your king, lad. When I am—”
“Reward me later. Go now, your highness. But as you ride, think. Think hard. The answer stares you in the eyes. ’Tis not a safe time for willful blindness. My prince, in these dark days, ’tis not enough to be innocent. Innocence can be the same thing as stupidity. And in this dangerous time, if you choose to be stupid, then you are choosing to die. Ride hard, my lord, and ponder hard as you ride.” I step back. “And may God walk with you, Prince Malcolm, all the days of your life.”
I give the horse a hard pat on its rump. It gives a little jump. Then the prince is off through the undergrowth, holding his branch to hide him from his pursuers.
I trudge back to the castle.
T H I R T Y - O N E
IT IS LONG PAST MID-DAY when I slink into the kitchen, dirty and disheveled. I pass no one in the courtyards, but as I walked back from the wood from time to time I caught glimpses of the men searching for the murderers, some riding wildly and others—in packs—dashing about on foot. All seemed to be making far too much noise—they were sure to give warning to their prey. Who are they searching for? They had said that the guards had killed the king, and the prince told me the guards were dead. How would they know the murderers if they found them? It seems to me that they are more caught up in the chase than in the results of the chase.
In the kitchen Lisette is brewing a fragrant drink over the fire. Pod is seated on a stool beside her, sipping from a cup. As I pass him, I give his shoulders a little squeeze. I am glad he is safe in the castle. He leans against me and I wrap my arms around him. Things are moving so rapidly. I do not know what to do.
As if she can read my mind, Lisette says, “Things have gone mad, have they not?”
I blink at Lisette, bewildered. I cannot put the pieces together to complete the puzzle of sense. I feel off balance, fearful, dizzy. It is as if mybrain has dried to sawdust. Lisette’s face softens like cheese in the sun.
“Here, my little one.” She pours some of the hot drink into another cup. “Take a cup of something to warm your soul. You look done to a shadow.”
“Gilly,” Pod says, bouncing up and down. “Gilly, did you hear? The king has been killed.”
I take a sip. The drink is spicy, sweet, and good. “I know, lad.”
Lisette folds her arms across her chest. “Though why every jackanapes and rogue in this castle had to take off after the scent of the murderer, it passes understanding. Not a lick of work is getting done today. The poor cows have been bawling their heads off to be milked till finally Eda from the laundry went out and milked them.”
“We had milk and bread for dinner!” Pod says. “All the milk we could drink!”
Lisette says, “Even most of the laundry maids have taken off on this wild hen hunt.”
I say, “They have the blood scent in their noses.”
Toward dusk the folk straggle back to the castle after a splendid day of hunting, their outrage providing that extra bit of spice to make the dish savory. One man killed a peasant who looked at him crosseyed, claiming that he had the sneaky look of a man who might know aught about the murder of a king. Afterward he found out that the peasant’s eyes had been crossed from birth. Three of the swordsmen, traveling together, killed two travelers, arguing that since they weren’t from these parts, that made them suspicious in times like these. The castle stable lads used the excuse of the king’s death to beat up their sworn enemies, the swineherd’s sons in the nearby village.
But no one truly seems to believe that these digressions have done aught toward punishing the killers of the king.
As the sun slips down toward the horizon, the hunters begin to fill the Great Hall.
Lisette sends Pod and me up with tray after tray piled high with red herrings, dried apples, and wheels of cheese. Since Master Baker joined the chase, there is no bread. We just heap the food on a couple of tableswe hastily set up and let the weary hunters help themselves. The Master Bottler, limping from the hunt, commands us to help three of the youngest stable lads carry up jugs of honey wine from the cellar. But Lisette stops us and whispers, “Water it first. They’ll all be too tired to know the difference. There have been ugly doings aplenty today. The good Lord knows that we have no need of drunkards this night.”
Lisette herself has been brewing a thick stew in the biggest cauldron, one near as tall as Pod. “After blood work, men crave strong tastes—meat and onions and strong spices.” When Brude drifts in, she puts him in charge of transporting the huge cauldron to the Great Hall. He is too weary to protest.
As the evening unspools itself toward the emptiness of night, the men in the hall trade tales of great derring-do. In his own mind, each one triumphed over great challenges in his quest to apprehend the murderers. At the far end of the Great Hall, He sits watching the company from His carved chair on the dais. His eyes are cautious, His body tense. Only when it is quite dark does He order torches in the Great Hall lit.
Lisette, Pod, and I stay close to the fire, ladling out the fragrant stew. Pod keeps dipping his fingers into it to pull out raisins, and I keep slapping his fingers. Fleance nods to me when he comes to fill his bowl, his little face looking tired and wan. His father is with him, so he does not talk to me, but he jerks his chin upward several times. I take it that we are to meet up on the ramparts later to chart the moon and tides. As the night unwinds toward midnight, talk grows rougher and voices rise in anger.
Then His lady enters. Amid this travel-stained company, she looks as cool, elegant, and removed as the Virgin in a church. Like the Virgin, she is robed in spotless blue and white. Beneath her veil, her hair hangs long and shining. She looks as beautiful as ever. What the parson preaches is true—evil can look as fair as an angel. I catch myself fingering the dirty stubble on my own head.
The company falls silent as she moves to stand next to Him. Then one horseman calls out, “What news, my lord?”
“Has aught been learned of the identity of the murderers?” LordMacduff, the curly-headed lord who gave me shelter by the sea and rode with me to the castle, stands, his dark ringlets reflecting the torchlight in tiny halos on his head. He looks ill at ease.
The crowd rumbles in support of his question.
Immediately He glances toward His lady.
She pitches her voice so that even though it seems soft, it seeps into every corner of the Great Hall. “I know I have but a woman’s understanding, but I thought ’twas the king’s guards that did this bloody deed.”
“But they did not work on their own!” Fleance’s father leaps to his feet, his bearlike body quivering with outrage. “They were bribed!”
The company shouts in agreement.
She continues smoothly, “We must find those behind the guards. They are the more guilty!”
The company shouts again in agreement. I think I see a small smile lapping like a cat at the corners of the lady’s mouth. She turns toward Him and inclines her chin, signaling Him to speak.
At His lady’s urging, He steps to the edge of the dais and raises His hands over the company like a parson giving a blessing. “Although you have searched faithfully and well, we have naught to report.”
The company grumbles.
Again He looks toward His elegant lady. She nods, then tilts her chin toward those of us out in the Great Hall. It is clear tha
t she wants Him to speak some more. But He shakes His head. He looks weary, lost, and confused. She studies Him for a moment, and then she steps forward. She raises her small white hands and the company grows silent.
“And—in a sense, my lords and all—this is good news indeed.”
Every face turns toward her, questions in every eye.
A man calls out, “What means your ladyship?”
Lord Macduff calls, “How can this be good news, lady?”
From the corner of her eye, the lady glances at Him, but He stands still as a rock. She continues, “Not good for our hearts heavy with sorrow for our great loss, that much is true. But this unnatural murder is good for our heads, for ’tis clear that ’twas no enemy whocame by stealth and robbed us of our saintly leader, the good King Duncan. No, I have heard you talk among yourselves, and I know that many of you have come now to agree that he was killed by an enemy from within his own household.”
I am shocked by the boldness of her lie. She has not been near any of these men today. She cannot have heard a thing they said. More than that, I have been in the hall among all the men, and I have heard no one say any such thing. But the company in the hall does not seem to realize this. Their faces are puzzled but trusting.
“Like many of you,” she says in a voice as sweet and clear as honey, “I have resisted the thought, but your wisdom has persuaded me that it must have been the king’s own sons who masterminded this murder.”
Her audacity stuns me. The company, too, is shocked. They leap to their feet and burst into speech, some low mutterings, some gasps, and many people call out, their words overlapping each other and blurring the words. Then I hear Lord Macduff call out, “This cannot be right.”
“True, true, true,” she says over and over like a mother soothing a fretful child until the company grows silent again. “Yes, that is what I said when you first argued your case to me. This cannot be true. Prince Malcolm—to look at him is to see such an innocent flower of young manhood. But you have convinced me that underneath the bloom of that fair young man is coiled the most treacherous serpent ever to be found in Scotland.”
She lies! She has stitched this fantasy out of whole cloth!
Lord Macduff calls out again, “This cannot be.”
A few people nod, but their nods now seem uncertain.
She goes on as if he had not spoken. “Like all of you, I would fain be persuaded otherwise. Let us invite Prince Malcolm and Prince Danelbain to step forth. ’Twould be unfair not to allow them to defend themselves.”
Someone cries out, “Bring Malcolm forth.” A few voices echo that, and then most of the company begins to call out for Malcolm.
T H I R T Y - T W O
YOU WITCH! You Saw Malcolm depart. You know he cannot step forward. I remember how the prince and I looked back to see her outlined against the sky. At the time I failed to realize that if we could see her, she could see us. She watched us as we crept out of the castle gates. I long to scream out my accusation, but I fear to bring attention to myself. Doubtless she would brand me as one of the king’s killers, and the mood of this crowd would certainly bring about my instant death.
She gestures the crowd to be still. “Perhaps there is some reason why Malcolm and his brother are not here with their father’s loyal subjects.”
“Yes!” shouts the Master of Arms. “The reason is that they killed their father! And fearing the wrath of us honest men, they have taken themselves off!”
The company cheers. I glance to Lord Macduff. His jaw tightens.
The voice of the lady rises about the noise like a banner above a field of battle. “That gives us another reason to mourn. We have lost not just our king, but we have lost the hopes of the future which were planted in these two poisonous young princes.”
The hall grows quiet, attentive. The lady looks to her husband, but He stands dumb. She looks back at us.
“Our grief-stricken hearts know that what has been so foully taken can never be restored.”
Next to me, one serving man—bulky as a Northman—wipes his eyes.
“So now,” she says, “we must turn to the cold comfort that is the crust offered all who mourn. Although our precious loss cannot be restored, we must find a way to replace it.”
Someone calls out, “That cannot be.”
She nods. “You speak the truth. For Duncan was a noble king, a good man, a virtuous man—more a saint than a man of flesh and blood.”
The listeners murmur agreement.
She says, “I do not agree with those among you who argue that this very virtue made him more suitable for a monastery than for a country racked by war.”
I see several people look at each other in confusion. Will no one shut her up? But even Lord Macduff seems caught in the spell of her soft voice. I have heard of wizards who can talk to snakes in such a way as to render them motionless, but in front of me now is the serpent itself casting a spell on its listeners. Oh, how I long to leap to the top of a table, shriek out the truth about her, but right now everyone in this hall would tear me apart rather than hear a word spoken against this creature who has bewitched them.
Her face grows sweet and sad. “ ’Tis true—who can deny it?—the king’s very saintliness allowed him to see only the good in others. We all praised our dear king for this. ’Tis also true, this pure and holy virtue kept him from seeing that the former Thane of Cawdor was plotting to betray him. Because good King Duncan refused to see the evil side of this lord he loved, our country was plunged into war, ransacked by northern forces, and thousands of our loyal countrymen lost their lives. I know that ’tis said that many of our loved ones would be alive had this king been less saintly and more attuned to thediscord in his country. But we do not grumble about these small misfortunes because we know that they are the inevitable result of the wonderful virtue of our king.”
She is false! Can no one see that this is all playacting? She is twisting their minds. She is twisting the facts.
Yet still she goes on. “Yes, I heartily agree with those of you who say our recent woes were largely due to the saintly Duncan’s blindness to the treachery of the former Thane of Cawdor whose title now adorns my husband, one of King Duncan’s most loyal subjects. Duncan’s virtue, like the wimple of a nun, did not let him see the Thane of Cawdor’s treachery first sprout. Duncan’s holiness, like his private cloister, shut him away and prevented him from plucking out the evil roots before this treachery grew and flowered and cost the deaths of so many fine men in this last war. Should we not say that the loss of so many men was a small price when we had such a good king?”
The crowd mutters. It is clear that they are beginning to question the virtue of King Duncan. I look at Lord Macduff. I see a muscle tighten in his jaw, but he says nothing.
“I am only a weak woman,” she says gently, “yet even I understand that kings must be chosen to fit the tune of the times. None among us would deny that when Duncan was chosen as king, our country had need of a good, meek man. But I can see in your faces what you are thinking tonight. Your faces say that our present time calls for a very different sort of king. Duncan came to the throne during a time of peace. But now we still stagger under the weight of this last war. We are crippled by the treachery of Duncan’s own sons—two more villains in whose evil natures the good Duncan could see naught but good.” She looks around the hall. The company stares at her hungrily, as if the Virgin incarnate stands on the dais. “Your faces betray your secret fear that the Norwegian king, learning of the death of our good Duncan, may see us as weak and leaderless, and come once more to smash us, steal our lands and riches, make slaves of our wives and children, and destroy all we hold dear.”
People cry out, “Never! No!”
She nods. “You are right, all of you, when you argue that our next king must be a warrior, a man of great strength and courage. We need a man who has proven his worth against the Northmen, a man of great loyalty and heart.”
The company cheers.
“Yes,” they shout. “Yes!”
Her smile fades. “Or should we scour the monasteries for a good, mild man, and leave the fate of Scotland to God?”
“We need a warrior!” someone calls out.
“Give us a warrior!” someone else calls.
The crowd picks up this cry and repeats, “Give us a warrior!”
The lady looks again at her husband. This time He meets her eye, and now He nods for her to continue. She holds up her slender white hands, and slowly the crowd quiets down. “Since I am but a weak woman, I cannot fight as you do for our beloved country. But women are sometimes given the skill to look deep into the hearts and minds of men and give word to their private thoughts. I see one more thought tonight—that to save this country from the lack of leadership that could lead to war, you would choose our next king this very night.”
“Yes!” the company in the hall cries out. They cheer her. “Yes! She speaks aright! Yes!”
“Why should we wait while we have here the very cream of Scotland? Now King Duncan himself chose to honor my husband, his captain in war, by holding his court here. Surely among this fine assembly we can find a king suitable to replace our good Duncan.”
The company cheers again.
“But who would Duncan himself have chosen?”
Silence falls. I can see by the expression on their confused faces that they are trying to work this out.
Finally one man shouts, “We need a strong leader.”
The crowd shouts assent.
Another man shouts, “A military leader!” and the crowd cheers.
The Master Steward calls out, “A captain of war!”
The crowd cheers.
The Master of Arms shouts, “Macbeth and Banquo, they were the generals most beloved by Duncan.”
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