The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  Some in the crowd begin to shout “Macbeth!” and others shout “Banquo!”

  The lady holds up her hands. Again the crowd grows silent, but now they seem to be a wolfhound straining at the leash, barely under her control. “ ’Tis true,” she says, “the man most honored by Duncan in this last war was my husband. Duncan gave my lord the title abandoned by the treacherous Thane of Cawdor. Duncan honored my lord above all other lords of Scotland by choosing to spend his first night off the battlefield in our humble castle. My lord has indeed been showered above all others with favors from the dead king.”

  “Macbeth!” the crowd shouts. “Let Macbeth be king!”

  “He was Duncan’s favorite!” someone shouts out. I think the voice belongs to the Master Cook. Indeed, it would fluff his pinfeathers if he should be Master Cook to the king himself.

  The lady cries out, “You would have my husband as king?”

  “Aye!” roars the crowd.

  “ ’Tis true,” she cries, “no man loves Scotland more than my lord. He has given all he has to the service of this land. Would you in truth ask him to shoulder one more responsibility?”

  “Yes!” shouts the crowd.

  Lord Macduff ’s voice rises above the din. “Listen to me. Listen to me.”

  The crowd quiets.

  He says, “My lady, you speak truth. Your husband has given much to Scotland already. Therefore ’twould not be fair to ask him to do more.”

  A few people cheer and then stop, seemingly confused by what they are cheering.

  Lord Macduff continues, “Banquo would make a goodly king.”

  I cannot spot Lord Banquo in the crowd, but voices begin to chant, “Banquo, Banquo, Banquo!”

  I am amazed to hear the lady cry out, “Yes, Banquo would make a fine king!”

  The crowd cheers.

  “Yes,” she says, “our noble Banquo also has given much in this late war. And for the length of this war he has not been home to see his wife or his small children. Indeed, he has been so occupied with this war, he has not even found the time to journey home to see his newest son. Good Banquo has lands that were ravaged by war, and there has been no leisure for him to set his own lands in order. Thus we must ask ourselves, are we being fair to this good man? Is it possible to ask too much of him?”

  The crowd again seems confused.

  “I know what you are thinking—your thoughts shine forth in your face. You are right. Lord Banquo has earned the privilege of attending to his own family.”

  A few listeners cheer.

  She sighs. “I can see you thinking that my lord and I have no children.”

  Thank God that there are no offspring to this union of monsters, that this mother from hell has whelped no brats of His.

  “I see you thinking also that if my husband were king, unlike Duncan, my lord has no children to betray him and bring about his downfall, no children to put our beloved country into peril. Were I a man, no doubt I could think of a clever answer to your assertion, but as a weak woman, all I can do is agree with you.”

  How must Fleance feel to hear her suggest that one day he might be a traitor? At the same time, I know that if he were son to the king, his dreams of traveling south to study would become even harder to bring to pass.

  The lady’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “So is it your desire that my husband become your next king?”

  “Yes!” thunders the crowd. “Yes!”

  She stretches both arms up as if she is receiving heavenly blessing.“Will nothing persuade you to change your mind?”

  “No!” they cry. “No!”

  She kneels to her husband. “My lord, you hear the people. They would have you for their king, to lead them through this perilous time. What is your will?”

  “Say yes!” cries the Master of Arms.

  The crowd repeats, “Say yes!”

  The lady stretches out her hand to her lord. He stares at her for a moment, His face as empty as a clean slate. Then He steps to her, takes her hand, and raises her to her feet. He looks hard at her, then turns to the crowd.

  “You have asked me to be your king,” He cries out, His voice as slick as a blade, “and I will say yes!”

  The crowd goes mad with excitement, crying out “Hurrah!” and “Long live King Macbeth!” Lord Macduff silently shoulders his way to the door and departs. I cannot believe my ears and eyes. Is this the spell? I wish to destroy Him, and He ends up king? How could things go so horribly wrong?

  I see the lady cover her mouth as if she is surprised, but beneath her hand I see her satisfied smile.

  T H I R T Y - T H R E E

  SO BEGINS the worst time of all.

  It is as if we are at war again, only this time the enemy is our king Himself. Hired kerns, savage mercenary warriors, are brought from Ireland to be the king’s special guards. Spies are placed throughout the land as thick as nuts in a ladycake, set to keep an eye on all that goes on. Anyone suspected of being the king’s enemy is thrown into a dungeon with no trial and no hope of ever leaving. Even neighbors begin to spy on one another. It is as if all joy and laughter were buried along with the old king.

  We move south, to the castle of Dunsinane. Most local lads are left at His northern castle, but Lisette demands that Pod and I be taken with the court, so we travel south with her, Master Cook, and Master Baker.

  The night before we leave, I find Pod sitting out in the dark with his back to the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees.

  “What ails you?” I ask.

  “Momma,” he whispers. “When Momma comes to look for me, she will not know where to find me.”

  “Yes, she will. She will come to this castle, and the porter at the gates will tell her where we have gone.”

  “She will not know how to find her way to our new place in the south.”

  I sit down next to him and put my arms awkwardly around his shoulders. “Yes, she will. She will ask people, and they will tell her how to find us.” He looks away. “Pod, ’tis not hard to find your way to the king.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes, and then he says, “Momma is not going to come for me, is she?” I tighten my arm around him. I do not know what to say.

  He lowers his head onto his knees.

  We sit for a long time without speaking.

  IT IS ODD to be at Dunsinane Castle. Here I am no more than half a day’s journey from Nettle and Mad Helga, but I am still angry with them for betraying me. Their spell and all that business in the wood near Forres did not bring doom upon Him. On the contrary, it seems our meeting there has done naught but advance His cause. I hate Nettle and Mad Helga. They gave me hope, and then they, too, betrayed me. I know that only a fool will trust someone else, but it is a lonely way to live. Sometimes I forget that I hate Nettle and Mad Helga and wish they were near to talk to. But then I lash my armor back around my heart. I have made my life an arrow. . . .

  Even in these bad times, there are some good things. Dunsinane is a much larger castle than Inverness. The Great Hall is large enough for the kitchen folk to sleep on pallets near the rest of the household servants.

  Since Mungo, Ban, Alpen, and the other Inverness kitchen lads do not come south with us, there are fewer folk to torment me. In fact, my position improves among the new southern lads who are hired to work in the kitchen. I am seen as someone of importance, someone who has served the king awhile.

  Master Cook finally begins to dictate his recipes to me. We spend time together each afternoon, he talking and I writing. I do not find his recipes clear, but I write them just as he tells them to me. At least, sometimes I write them just as he tells them. At othertimes I take delight in changing what he says. When I read them back, I give back the words he says, but inside I chuckle because when other folk try to follow his cooking, they will say, “What dreadful food this is.”

  “For roasted quail,” he says, “pound one handful of juniper berries until they are soft as stewed pears.”

  I write, “Peel
a whole pail of juniper berries until they are raw as an eyeball.”

  This will teach him to treat me badly.

  Fleance’s lame foot heals, and we resume our lessons with the Master of Arms. I learn to fight with short swords and double sticks. Fleance continues to dream of going to Rome to learn about science. Many days Pod watches us, his face moony and sad. I think he would like to be learning to fight, too, but he is awkward and would not be able to master it. He never speaks of Fleance, but I suspect he is jealous of the time I spend with the young nobleman. I am a little annoyed by this, but if I say truth, I must also admit it is a little heady to have someone—even a small boy like Pod—care enough for me to be jealous of my other . . . friend. It is passing strange. Never before have I used that word about myself. Yet in this dark time, I seem to have two friends.

  One day in early summer, we castle folk travel to the Stone of Destiny to see Him named king. We are all given new clothes to wear to the ceremony. I receive a blue tunic and yellow trews. The cloth of the tunic is so finely woven that I think I could fold it and pass it through the eye of a needle. The tunic is as soft as a cloud on my skin. It is the most elegant thing I have worn in many years.

  Pod has a splendid new outfit of forest green. “You are as pretty as a skylark,” I tell him, and his smile almost splits his face in two. Lisette, too, looks pretty in her new gown of red and brown. I wish Nettle and Mad Helga could see me looking so fair.

  I do not let myself think that this gift came from Him.

  “Why does He have to travel to that particular stone to be crowned?” I ask Lisette.

  “Little peaseblossom, ’tis a very special stone. Do you recall Jacob in the Good Book?”

  I nod, but Pod shakes his head.

  “One night,” Lisette says in her storytelling voice, “the good Jacob lay himself down to sleep. In the night a ladder appeared with an angel on it. Jacob grabbed hold of the angel, and he would not let the angel go—no matter how much he struggled—until the angel promised to bless Jacob.”

  Pod’s eyes were round with amazement.

  “What has this to do with aught?” I demand of her.

  “This Stone of Destiny,” she says, “is that very stone that was used as Jacob’s pillow when the angel came to his side. I’m told that every king of Scotland is crowned at this stone.”

  AT THE CEREMONY, the lords of the land each pour a shoeful of dirt onto the stone.

  “What are they doing?” I whisper to Lisette.

  She presses a chubby finger to her lips, but afterward she tells me, “Each lord of Scotland brings a shoeful of the earth of his lands and pours it in offering to the new king. Then, when our king puts his foot on top of the earth on the stone, it shows his sovereignty over all his subjects.”

  Or it shows that He intends to crush his subjects. “But ’twas not all the lords,” I say. “Lord Macduff of Fife did not come to the crowning.”

  Lisette looks worried, but she does not answer.

  In these times, He is never alone. He keeps His kerns, His specially hired Irish bodyguards, at the doors of each room He is in. They are arrogant, and they treat the servants at the castle with contempt. One night when we bring supper to them, one of them takes a bite and spits it out. “ ’Tis pig swill,” he calls out in his funny accent. Then he dumps all his food on the floor. Quick as a hiccup, the other bodyguards dump their food on the floor. We kitchen lads are sent in to clean it up, and the men at arms kick us and laugh.When they see Pod is frightened of them, they begin to throw more and more food on the floor for him to clean up, laughing at his red, troubled face.

  After that Lisette does not let Pod help in the Great Hall. “ ’Tis not safe for that little one,” she tells me one day after she has sent Pod out to gather eggs. “When I was a young bride, come with my husband to the first castle in which I worked, there was a lad like your brother. Only he was not right in his head, and the lord of the castle made him his fool. One night the drunken young warriors there decided to play kick-the-ball. Not having a ball, they used the poor lad. They kicked him to death.”

  From time to time I catch glimpses of the she-devil of the castle, her face hard and shiny with triumph at her new position as queen. She is still beautiful, but she is as cold as a dagger frozen in a block of ice.

  Then the executions begin.

  The first one takes place on a fine June day. The sky is blue and as hard as an agate. The sun is so bright that even the dark stones of the castle seem lit from within. It is strange to believe that anyone at all could die on a day of such clean beauty. But as Lisette, Pod, and I are sieving petals for rosewater to flavor sweet wafers, the bell tolls thrice, the signal for the castle folk to assemble in the courtyard.

  In the center is a new platform, and on it stands a gallows with two noosed ropes dangling from the cross-brace. At the front of the platform stands the Captain of the Guard, an ugly Irishman with a snaggletooth and a thick, muscle-broad badger’s body. Behind him, with their hands tied behind their backs, are two boys who have just turned the corner to manhood. One of them has a chin covered with the soft down of a lad who is trying to grow his first beard. They are dressed in peasant garb, and both look confused and frightened.

  “Ye are assembled here,” bellows the Captain of the Guard in his thick Irish accent, “to bear witness to the fair and just execution of two traitors to the high king. These two ruffians did try to assassinate our king, and so must pay the price of their misdeed.”

  “No,” shouts the taller of the two lads, the one with the start of a beard. “We did not try to do aught of the kind. We did but approach him to ask him a favor. Our old granny had her house taken away by the landlord, and we ran up to the king’s horse to ask him would he give her the house back again.”

  “Silence!” The Captain of the Guard backhands the boy and knocks him to the floor of the platform. The other lad begins to shake and cry.

  Then the Captain of the Guard signals his men to slip the nooses over the boys’ necks, and the boys are hoisted just a few feet into the air. They kick their legs about. Then we see the most awful sight of all. Some soldiers hold the boys’ legs still, while two other soldiers slit open their bellies and pull out their guts. Still the boys are not dead. We are made to stand there and watch for a long time until the two boys finally stop kicking.

  All through this, I can see Him standing with Master Steward at a window, watching the boys die. When their bellies are slit open, I turn away to stare at Him. He smiles the slow satisfied smile of a man who has just finished a good dinner.

  Someone must stop Him. It is as plain as day, these lads did not try to assassinate the king. They should not have died! I must find someone to kill Him and so prevent Him from killing more innocent folk. Think, think of a plan!

  The boys hang in the courtyard all afternoon. Toward evening they are cut down. Thank God, I need see them no more. But then their heads are cut off and stuck on long pike staffs and placed up on the ramparts of the castle. I see them every time I cross the courtyard. Even though the ravens peck out their eyes, they seem always to be watching me.

  Two days later, there is another execution. This time it is a man, his wife, and their son, who looks to be a lad of nine summers or so. The Captain of the Guard claims that they offered the king poisoned water when he stopped to drink at their well.

  After that, every week or so brings more executions. The walls ofour castle grow thick with heads. To my shame, as my heart hardens even more against Him, each time I pass the heads I think, If He catches you or even suspects what is in your heart, He will do the same to you as He did to these poor folk.

  Still, whenever I pass through the courtyard, I make a silent promise to all these dead folk. I will kill the man who killed you. I have not come up with a plan, but I will, I will, I will. I practice picturing myself going through an execution, picture my head on the pike, so that when my time comes to die, I will die bravely. I cannot forget Nettle’s prophecy
: As a result of the revenge, Gilly will cease to be. Each day I pray, Let me die well.

  Finally the summer begins its slide toward autumn. While I rack my wits to think of a way to kill Him, in the meantime I do my best to make Him suffer. When no one is looking, I spit in food that might be going to the high table. Sometimes I sprinkle dirt in the stew pots instead of pepper. Once I squeeze a blister on my finger and let the ooze drip into the white, creamy blancmange. It is a foolish revenge, I know. But, as Nettle says, the weak must use whatever splinters they can find to build their walls. At present it is the best I can do.

  At Lammastide, I think of Nettle and the herbs she would be gathering—colt’s foot, adder’s tongue, bat’s wool, and babe’s finger. I wonder if her double sight has told her that I am but half a day’s walk away.

  One hot autumn afternoon as I shuffle my way back to the kitchen after finishing my lesson at sword-fighting with Fleance, I see Pod sitting on the side of the well. He is crying.

  I am tired of his boo-hooing, and I reckon I can slip behind him without his seeing me. I start to do this, but as I do, my heart feels as heavy as a boot dropped in a lake so I go over and sit next to him.

  He takes no notice of me, so I bump my hip against his in a friendly sort of way. Again he ignores me. I bump him again, but to no avail.

  When he snuffles, I offer him the end of the sash round mywaist. He looks bewildered, so I mop his cheeks and hold it to his nose.

  “Blow!”

  He gives an enormous honker of a blow. I scrape my sash end against the rocks of the well to clean off the snot, and then I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  His voice is as shaky as a twig in a stream. “I don’t like it here. Let’s go back and find Momma.”

  Just then one of His enormous Irish guards strides up to the well. I quickly fall to my knees behind it, but Pod is slow in getting out of the way. The guard puts his huge foot against Pod’s rear end and gives him a shove. Pod sprawls across the flagstones, and the guard laughs.

  When he is gone, Pod says, “I don’t like it here.”