I make my voice as threatening as possible. “Do you wish to give me a different answer?”
“Lord Banquo’s gone riding. He and his son.”
I brandish my pitchfork in a menacing manner. “Where do they ride to?”
“I don’t know.” He keeps his eye on the pitchfork. “They are to return at nightfall in time for supper.”
I see several of the other stable lads start over to us. They look eager to avenge the wrong done to the lad in front of me, and I doubt I will be a match for the whole group. With regret, I let go of my idea about filching a horse. I will have to go on foot.
As I run across the courtyard toward the gates, I bump into someone and sit down with an oof !
“Careful, lad,” says a low growly voice. Above me stands one ofthe coarse men who were talking with Him just now in the Great Hall. A thick bearlike hand lifts me to my feet. “Look where you are going, lad.” The weasely ginger-headed man stands next to him.
“My good sirs,” I stammer, “who . . . I have not seen you about the castle before.”
The men exchange looks.
The weasel-faced one says, “Take care who you run down. If we had more time, we would give you a lesson.” His voice gives a little whistle on the final word.
I must keep them from leaving. I blurt out, “This castle, my good men, prides itself on its hospitality. Surely you are hungry. If you will come with me to the kitchen—we have some good venison on the spit and—”
The eyes of the weasel-man light up. “Surely our business can wait a few moments more—”
“Nay!” says the other. “Would you sell your birthright as a man for a mouthful of roasted meat? Come along—”
“There is a dish of stewed pigeons and a table of jellies,” I say desperately, “and sugared almonds and—”
“Come along!” says the bear-man, pushing past me.
The men stride toward the gates. I hesitate for a moment, biting my lip and considering what to do. Then I dart back to the kitchen, looking about wildly. The place is a flurry of activity. I see a cloak hanging on a peg by the door. It apparently belongs to a beefy soldier who is sitting by the fire, beguiling the kitchen boys with tales of his travels up to the Orkney Islands.
Lisette beckons to me. “Gilly, my lad. If you are finished with the hall, come lend a hand and stir the batter. We are behindhand preparing the feast for Lord Banquo—”
I snatch the cloak and am out the door.
It is up to me to save Fleance and his father.
T H I R T Y - F I V E
I FOLLOW THE TWO ASSASSINS out the gates and across the fields to the edge of the wood, the soldier’s cloak wrapped well around me so my shape is smudged. I keep well behind so that in the fading light I am but a shadow. The raspy crush of the drying grasses under my feet sounds loud in my ears, but the two men do not notice. I feel safer when we reach the wood. Of course it is easier to hide from view there, but more than that, the wood is my home even though it has been a long time since I have been in it. Above my head the trees loom like twisted ghosts. The wind rises and the dead autumn leaves twitter dryly like hoarse gossips. In the cracks between the branches, I can see gray, swag-bellied clouds begin to clot the sky, and the air smells heavy and thick. I hope I will not be drenched in the coming storm.
For a short while the men follow the road, but at the first bend, they step into the trees.
The bear-shouldered man grunts, “We will wait for them here, for they surely must pass through this glade to return to the castle.”
I must slip past them. If I go past them, out of their sight, and then run as fast as I can, perhaps I can stop Fleance and his father before they ride into this ambush. I move from tree to tree, holding my breath,but I concentrate too hard upon what I want to do and not enough on what I am doing. A twig snaps under my feet. The two men leap across the ground till they stand on each side of me, their swords drawn. I fling up my hands to show I am harmless, but I keep my head bent so my hood hangs low over my face.
With the point of his sword, the bearlike man jabs against my chest. “Who be you?”
“Why be you here?” demands his weasel-faced companion.
I pitch my voice low. “The king sent me.”
I wait. My heart pounds almost painfully, but I do not let myself move. Look confident. Show no fear. I wait to see if they will take my bait. Come to my trap, you fools. You fell for His lies. Now listen to mine.
The men exchange looks through the dusk. Then the bearlike man says, “He needs not mistrust us.”
“You know the plan?” asks the other.
I nod. The hood of the cloak sloshes back and forth, but I do not let it fall away from my face.
“Then stand over close by me,” says the first.
“Have you weapons?” asks weasel-face.
I shake my head. All the while, I strain my ears to hear the approach of horse hooves. What shall I do when the time comes? What can I do?
I have a sudden vision of Fleance’s small, thin, earnest face and my knees grow weak with worry.
Bear-man is talking. “Then grab the leads of the horses. Hold the horses while we do the deed.”
There must be a way I can stop them. But although they are stupid, they are much larger than I. And they have weapons while I have none. I try to think of a way to outwit them, but my brains feel as if they have turned to watered porridge. Think, girl, think!
The bear-man says, “There’s a fallen log over here. Help move it across the road. ’Twill slow them down.”
I can think of no way to avoid this, so I help the men lug the heavy log across the path. Surely their horses can leap over the log. Surely the log will alert them that something is amiss.
I clear my throat. “Perhaps ’twould be good if I go forward to scout out if—”
The weasel-faced man gives a twist, and suddenly his blade is pressed against my throat. The metal feels cold and hard. “We will do the plan my way!”
Then I hear horses.
The weasel-faced man pushes me to the ground. I see two horses pull up short at the fallen log. Fleance and his father.
“Have a care, son,” Fleance’s father says.
The fingers of the weasel-faced man dig into my shoulder. He squats beside me, shadowed by the trees. I see his knife in his other hand. Can I make a lunge for it and get it away from him? I calculate the distance and what I need to do.
I glance at Fleance and his father, trying to guess how much time I have.
Lord Banquo cranes his head to see the patch of sky between the trees. “ ’Twill be rain tonight.”
“Then let the rain fall!” shouts the bear-man.
In a blur of activity, the two men dash out with swords flashing. Fleance’s father tries to pull his sword out, but the bear-man pins it against the flank of the horse.
I sprint to Fleance’s horse, which rears, startled by all our motion. Weasel-face snatches the reins and thrusts them into my hand.
“Hold the sprat here!”
Fleance tugs to free the reins. “Stop! Let me go!”
“Get away from him!” Fleance’s father shouts. “Leave my son alone!”
I toss the reins to Fleance. Then I slap the rump of his horse.
“Fly!” I whisper. “Go as fast as you can.”
“But my father needs—” Fleance begins.
His father cries, “Fly, Fleance! Fly! Live and avenge—”
The two assassins pull Lord Banquo to the ground. I snatch a branch off the ground and, with all my strength, whack it against the side of Fleance’s horse. It rears up, knocking my hood off my head. Islap it again, and it gives a scream. “Fly!” I shout so loudly that my throat hurts.
I see Fleance’s frightened face. His eyes seem to widen, but then his horse takes off, leaping over the fallen log and racing down the road.
I turn. The two men are standing over Lord Banquo’s body. Lord Banquo is not moving. Even in the dusk I can see their hands and faces are smeared wi
th blood.
“The son got away,” I say.
Weasel-face utters a string of curses, but the bear-man says calmly, “But the father is dead.”
Weasel-face stops in mid-curse. He thinks a moment, then nods. “True. Let’s back to the king and tell him what we’ve done.”
Taking no notice of me, they hurry off. I am left standing there, staring at Lord Banquo’s body.
“Don’t be dead,” I whisper. “Please, let this be a trick. Please move. Please, let this be your ruse to fool those stupid murderers.”
But Lord Banquo does not move.
I kneel down and pull his cloak back. He looks as if he has been dipped in blood. There are more wounds than I can count. His eyes are frozen open. I hesitate, and then I gently close his eyelids. My throat is tight, and, to my shame, my eyes fill with tears. I would love to lie down on a bed of leaves and howl like a silly babe. I want to turn back time. I want to be stronger and wiser. I want to be a witch indeed so I can mumble a spell and bring him back to life.
“I tried,” I whisper. “I tried to save you.” I bite my lip. I hear a night bird give a mournful cry over in a thicket. The rest of the wood is very still. “I didn’t know what else to do.” I want to take his hand, but I can’t stand to touch the body again. So I rest my fingers on a fold of his cloak. “I saved your son, sir. I saved your son.”
If only you had killed Him earlier, then Lord Banquo would be alive now. Because you did not act, because you have not stopped Him, Lord Banquo is dead. Because of you, Lord Banquo is dead.
My life is an arrow . . . but I do not feel like an arrow. I feel like a small girl who is lost in a world that is much too big.
“I have made my life a weapon,” I whisper, but I cannot remember-the rest of the phrase.
I lower my head to pray, and then I see that around his neck Lord Banquo wears more wealth than I have seen in my entire life in the wood. A thick gold cross encrusted with rubies, nearly a hand’s span from top to bottom, hangs there. The king must have given it to him. It is the twin to one I have seen hanging around His own neck. There is no one else here to claim it.
Around his neck, the dead Lord Banquo wears a happy fortune for Lisette and Pod. Around his neck he wears a small house and shop for them. Around his neck he wears their future.
“Forgive me, Fleance,” I whisper. “I know this gold necklet belongs to you, but I did give you life. Surely this jeweled cross and necklet is but a small boon. Don’t begrudge me this. With it I can buy a home and livelihood for Pod and Lisette.”
I slip it around my own neck and slide it under my shirt. I do not let myself notice whether there is blood on it.
“Forgive me,” I whisper to Lord Banquo. “I will trade you something for this fine gift.” I slide off the cloak I wear. I know it is not mine—it belongs to the soldier in the kitchen—but I have nothing else. I drape the cloak over him.
“A trade,” I say, though I know it is not a fair trade. I take a couple of steps away, and then I move back to the body. I pull my soldier’s cloak off to his side, and then unfasten his own cloak. Its gold-and-cream-colored stripes are smudged with huge puddles of damp blood. I have to roll his body from side to side to pull it away from him, but I do. It is a costly garment. I have some dim notion of sending it to Fleance. Even though I have taken the ruby cross, I will save the cloak for him. Then I smooth my soldier’s cloak back over the dead man and bundle his up in my arms. His striped cloak is heavy and smells of blood. It is awkward to carry, but I cannot bring myself to wear it.
As I step away from his body, Lord Banquo’s cross bobs against my chest.
I know what I must do now.
T H I R T Y - S I X
I SCRAMBLE UP onto the back of Lord Banquo’s horse. He shies a little. I wonder if he smells the blood on Lord Banquo’s cloak. The horse is huge. I feel as if I am straddling a house. But the poor creature has a sensitive mouth so he responds easily to my guidance.
It is full dark by the time I approach the castle. At the bottom of the small rise to the castle gates, I slide off the horse’s back and pat it.
“You poor thing. I well know ’tis hard to be adrift in the world.”
I drop the reins to the ground. I have no wish to make His stables richer by the addition of Lord Banquo’s beast. “Be free,” I tell him, but the silly creature just stands there, nuzzling grass. I decide not to slap him on his rump and send him off. “Poor horse, you have had more than your fill of excitement this evening.”
I rub my face against his neck. “Then wait here. I will be back before moonrise. For almost all my life I have been waiting to kill a man, but I will chase this vain bubble no longer. Tonight I cast this whole business aside. Tonight I throw the broken stick over my shoulder and let the world know that He has beaten me. Horse, I will be back in no time, and you will come with me as we leave thismurky castle behind. There will be two others with me. They are called Lisette and Pod. You can travel with us as we leave this place forever.”
I pull the jeweled cross out of my shirt and cradle it in my hand. “What I have in my hands, what I took from your master, this is my new life. I will fetch Pod and Lisette, and then the three of us will journey far away. Perhaps we will even leave this accursed country and . . .”
I look hard at the castle crouched in the dark like an awkward, frightened black beast, its bony spine made of the line of pikes holding cut-off heads. Their empty eye sockets stare down. They seem to reproach me, but I am done with this whole business. I am neither witch nor warrior. I am only a girl. Finally I understand—He cannot be defeated.
Time feels immense now that I will pursue my revenge no more.
Like lightning, a vision of Nettle and Mad Helga’s faces flash into my mind.
“No!” I say, talking like a mooncalf to the empty night. “I cannot take everyone with me. They are safer in their wood than they would be in a village with us.”
I run my fingers up and down the horse’s neck. “Wait, horse. I will be right back.”
I start to put Lord Banquo’s cloak over the horse as a blanket, but he sniffs and whinnies and shies away from the scent of the blood. I can’t bring myself to put the stained drape on him. I give him a reassuring pat. “That’s all right, old fellow. I don’t blame you for not wanting your master’s blood on you.”
I hurry into the castle. For once luck is with me. The guard at the gates is one who has spent many evenings spinning war tales around the hearth in the kitchen, and he recognizes me, growling a good-natured curse as I pass. Even from the courtyard I can tell that the Great Hall is filled with light and music. The banquet is well under way.
The courtyard is deserted. Everyone except the guard at thegates must be at the revels. Then behind me I hear the guard call out, “Stop! Who comes so late to the feast?”
To my horror, I hear weasel-face’s whistling tones. “Peace. We come on the king’s business. Here is a token he has given us for admittance.”
Quickly I step aside to the shadows by a rain barrel. The two assassins tramp past me.
At the foot of the steps to the Great Hall, bear-man gestures to the other to wait. Weasel-face hesitates, and then steps back into the shadows by the gates. Bear-man twitches his clothes into place. He seems nervous. Then he heads up the stairs to the Great Hall.
I should go straight to the kitchen. I have finished with this foul business. I am settled in my mind. I am going to find Lisette and Pod, tell them I have money enough to set us up in a small house and a small business, and—
Despite my decision to have no more to do with Him, I tiptoe behind the bear-man to the Great Hall, pausing only to stuff Lord Banquo’s cloak under the seventh stair. I will take only a few moments to see what happens. Just a quick peek at what is taking place in the Great Hall, and then I will collect Lisette and Pod, and we will leave His life forever.
The hall is filled with all manner of Scottish lords and their attendants. It flames as bright as a Twelfth Nigh
t feast in paradise. All the folk are dressed in their best clothing, and I see the servers darting nervously about. Master Steward stands at the far end, rubbing his hands up and down his apron in an anxious gesture.
Then, in one corner, I see the bear-man chatting to Him. The bear-man looks afraid, and He looks angry. I edge through the crowd, hoping to get close enough to overhear their conversation, but suddenly I am seized by the back of my collar.
“Shirking your share of work, peasant!” It is Brude’s voice. He gives me a shove and I slam into a nearby table. The soldier at the table shoves me backward, and I tumble to the floor. Brude loomsover me, his pretty face flushed with anger or heat or both. He holds a heavy jug in his hands.
“By rights I should tell Master Aswald that you have been playing-truant this evening while the rest of us labor like slaves. But perhaps if you’re a good little serf and work hard tonight and give me any coins you receive in laud, perhaps—just perhaps—I will refrain from letting Master Cook know what a hop o’ revels you are.”
He aims a kick at me, but I see it coming and roll to one side, almost all the way under a bench, and he misses me, unwilling to kick the guests perched on that bench. Then he slams the jug down on the floor beside me. It is a wonder that it does not shatter.
“Pour the wine, peasant boy. Let anyone grow thirsty, and I’ll personally see you’re whipped.”
First I crane my head to see if He and the murdering bear-man are still talking, but Brude is in the way. So I hoist myself to my feet and head up and down the narrow aisles between the tables, lugging the heavy jug of wine, sloshing wine into any empty glass I spy. Whenever I have a chance to look up, I try to find Him in the crowd, but I do not see Him.
As I move from guest to guest, I hear them muttering, complaining of their hunger and griping that Lord Banquo is not yet there so the feast can begin. He is dead, I want to scream. He has been murdered, and his bloody cloak lies under the seventh stair just outside this door. How they would gawk should I tell them that!
I see no empty chairs at the high table on the dais, saving only His chair. This makes me angry. How arrogant He is—He does not even make a pretense that Lord Banquo is truly coming. He does not even bother to leave a seat at the high table for Lord Banquo, the man who is supposed to be the guest of honor. Saint Colum’s eyes, are all the guests blind or so befuddled with drink that they cannot see that He does not expect Lord Banquo to come?
The Third Witch Page 21