‘The actors left?’ she asked.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Did they say where they were bound?’
Her voice was casual, but my body froze.
I forced a smile. ‘Only that it would be far and fast, and that they would not speak.’
She stood silent in her bare feet and her shift. At last she nodded. ‘If they do speak, they condemn themselves for practising at witchcraft. Yes, they will be silent.’
Was that threat a sword point for me too? A warning that if I whispered any of this, even to Murdoch or the queen’s other women, I would condemn myself?
I met her eyes and for the second time that night spoke in my real voice, the accent of my village. ‘I am loyal.’
Another smile, a true one now. At least I thought it true.
‘I know.’ She looked at me consideringly. ‘I will suggest to the king tomorrow that Lord Murdoch should be made commander of our guard, to replace the traitor Banquo. Should you care to be married on Midsummer’s Eve?’
I understood. My reward for this night’s work was the highest estate possible for my husband. But I must also be sent to Greymouth, far from court, where most of the year my husband would be far from me and any tales I might tell.
‘I thank Your Majesty,’ I said formally.
‘I will miss you,’ she said, her voice soft. ‘When your children are old enough to learn to wield a sword, you must come to court again. We shall be old women together, sharing whispers before the fire.’
She put out her hand and took mine, then leaned and kissed my cheek. It was the first time she had ever touched me; always until now I had been the servant, tending her.
‘Live well and happily, Annie,’ she whispered.
‘I . . . I hope I will, Your Majesty.’
The king himself announced at dinner the next day that Murdoch and I would be wed. The king stood straight today, his voice firm, his eyes clear as if he saw no ghosts lingering in the hall — or as if the ones he saw were kind. I almost forgave myself the part I had played to give him strength again, though my conscience nibbled, rat-like, through the feast.
It should have been the proudest moment of my life, the whole court cheering Annie Grasseyes, and with affection too. I had made friends here. Friends who did not know the trickery below my smile, my secret service to the queen. Probably, used to court intrigues, they would think there was nothing to forgive. But I could not forgive myself. For all my brocade dress and jewels, this was not who I wished to be.
Lord Murdoch gave me a golden ring: made by the goldsmith just for me, and showing two seals joined, the emblem of his house. It gleamed upon my finger as I tended my mistress, or sewed the tapestry chair covers I would take to Greymouth Manor as part of my dowry. I wore the ring always, not keeping it in the box where I stored my other precious things: the ruby necklace, the silver brooch, a thick gold chain like woven wheat to wear about my waist, given me by the queen, a lock of Mam’s hair, Rab’s cloak pin and his letters. They still came each week, and each week I kept the slip of paper in my bodice, next to my body, until the scent of home was gone.
But I would have a new home soon. I had gripped my courage in both hands and asked Murdoch if Mam could come with me as nurse.
He’d looked surprised, then bowed and kissed my hand, and then my wrist. ‘Of course, my lady. I am your servant in this, as in all matters.’
I couldn’t tell if the surprise came from my obvious fear he might say no; or if he’d forgotten I came from humble stock, my estate newly granted by the lady wife of Cawdor, and made larger when she had become queen. I noted he did not add, ‘Your mother must come here for our wedding.’
I still hadn’t written to tell Mam of my marriage. I would not have the minister of the kirk read it to her, nor Rab. It would be best, I decided, to send a messenger when it was done, along with some grand gifts that would show my new estate to all the village before Mam left it to be with me at Greymouth. A fur cloak and cobbled shoes, and what would seem part of the wedding feast — pies and candied fruits and a roast goose. Let Mam think the wedding had been so quickly done that I couldn’t send word to her.
Could I ever confess the scene in the cave to Mam? Tell her that I’d served a king and queen who murdered enemies? Mam had raised me to do good. So had Agnes, in her way.
And what of Agnes, after I was wed? I would offer her a home at Greymouth, but I was sure she would not come. If I couldn’t see her in an earl’s household, I doubted she would either. But I would arrange with Glamis’s steward for a young man to be sent regularly to keep the cottage sound and the peat piled up, and a haunch of mutton every week, cheese and bags of oats and flour. I — no, my steward, for I’d soon have one too — could hire a village girl to tend her each day and in the night too as she grew frail, to make her pots of soup. Though no one’s soup was as good as Agnes’s own.
‘Lady Anne?’ Lady Margaret peered at me from the doorway to the queen’s chamber. ‘You seem far away.’
‘What?’ I remembered myself — ladies did not say ‘what’ — and added, ‘My apologies. My mind wandered.’ I sought a suitable place for it to wander to. ‘I was thinking of the king as he visits the Highland thanes.’
The king had ridden off, as he should have months before, with just a small retinue of men, partly for speed, but more importantly because a small party on horseback said, ‘I need no army at my back to ensure Scotland’s loyalty.’
Lady Margaret smiled approvingly. ‘The queen has asked for you. She would to bed.’
‘Of course. I come.’ I put down my tapestry.
The queen hadn’t called for me to dress her since the night I’d reported on the actors’ performance in the cave. She had, smiling, made the excuse that I would have much to occupy me before my wedding, but in truth there’d been little to do beyond agreeing with the steward about the foods for the wedding banquet, and embroidering the chair covers, a task Lady Margaret had informed me that every bride should do. If there was any other preparation needed to please a husband, she did not tell me of it.
I tried to imagine myself at the head of the table as my guests sat on the new chair covers. I would wear the keys of the manor house at my waist; give orders to the steward and my servants. A fine vision, but I couldn’t see it, no matter how hard I tried.
The queen was already in her shift, leaning back against the cushions of her bed. An apple-wood fire snickered in the hearth.
She held out her hands to me. ‘Lady Anne, I have missed you.’
I took her hands and curtseyed at the same time, then leaned forward as she showed that she would kiss my cheek.
She nodded to Lady Margaret and Lady Ruth. ‘Thank you, good ladies.’ As their skirts whispered through the doorway, the queen gestured to the truckle bed. ‘Stay. Talk to me.’
‘What of, Your Majesty?’
‘Happy things. I . . . I have had dreams again since the king left to make his progress round the land. Harsh dreams. Perchance if you talk of sweetness, my dreams will turn sweet too.’
‘Agnes, the old woman I lived with before I came to the castle, said that eating quince before bed gives a person nightmares.’ I didn’t add that she recommended snail broth instead.
The queen attempted a smile. ‘I have eaten no quince.’
She looked tired, as if the sleep she had managed did not refresh her. I tried to think of happy things. Babies gave joy, but she had lost hers and there was no sign of another yet. Weddings, perhaps? But in truth, the road to mine was not the unclouded journey that I’d hoped.
‘I could tell you about Mistress Farthing’s gander, ma’am.’
Her smile was almost genuine now. ‘What about the gander?’
‘Oh, it was a fine one, the biggest in the village. Mistress Farthing was as proud of that gander as a captain of his ship. One day her husband sold a mob of sheep to the castle and got a gold coin for them. None in the village had ever seen such a thing, nor was he backward in showing it around.
He showed that gold coin at the smithy, and after kirk, and to his friends upon the green as they sat drinking their ale. And that was where he dropped it, onto the grass. Quicker than lightning, the gander swallowed it.
‘“Give me my coin, ye feathered fool!” old Farthing cried. “Wife, get my axe!”
‘“You’ll not be chopping up my gander!” she yelled back.
‘“But, wife, my coin!”
‘“A gander’s not a goose,” she said. “It lays no golden eggs. The coin will be safe inside its gizzard. Safer, perhaps, for my gander isn’t fool enough to show it off.”’
The queen laughed. ‘What happened then?’
‘Old Farthing did his wife’s bidding of course. What man wants a cold bed and cold porridge? But he didn’t let that gander out of his sight. He followed it around everywhere, like a puppy after its mam.’
‘I think I know what happened,’ she said. ‘A dog ate the gander? A wolf?’
I grinned. ‘No, ma’am. It fell in love! Not with any of the Farthings’ flock, nor any of the geese in the village. This was a wild goose, swimming in the river while the flock was grazing on its banks. I know for I was there, watching our goat, and there was this fine white goose, floating like a swan. The gander flapped his wings and flew to join her. And that was the last we saw of them and the gold coin too — two geese a-swimming down the burn, and old Farthing running after them, yelling, “Give me my coin, ye varmint! Give me back my coin!”’
The queen laughed again and settled back on her pillows. ‘A good story. A gold coin for a goose’s dowry. We must dower you with gold as well as land. I will see to it.’ Her eyes were closing. ‘Sleep in the truckle bed tonight,’ she whispered. ‘You can guard me from my dreams again.’
‘Most willingly, ma’am.’
I slipped into the robing room and took off my gown and slippers, then crept back to the truckle bed in my shift. She was already asleep.
A cry woke me. I had been dreaming of wild geese, and for a moment thought it was their call. Then I saw the queen had vanished.
I ran to the door in time to see her, still barefoot and in her shift, drifting down the corridor. Should I call to her? But if she wished to be private . . .
I tried to think. Surely she had not taken a lover with the king away? And if she had, would it not be much safer for him to come to her? And why ask me to sleep in the truckle bed? Besides, her look was . . . strange.
I crept after her, the stones cold under my feet, even so far into summer. She floated up the stairs, so quiet in her white shift she could almost be a ghost. Up another set of stairs, and then another, till she came to the small door that led to the battlements.
I followed her to the edge of the palace wall. For a moment I was afraid she might fall, but she stood still, gazing across the sleeping city and the hills and heath beyond.
‘Blood,’ she whispered, ‘blood across the land. Blood calls to blood, whispered from shattered veins. Blood calls vengeance to the blood that shed it . . .’ She looked down at her hands, small and white in the blue starlight. ‘Will these hands never be clean?’ She wiped them against her night shift. ‘There! A spot! And there another!’
She gazed at her hands again, then began to rub them frenziedly against the stones. She would rub them raw!
I ran to her. ‘Ma’am, come. I’ll wash your hands.’
She looked, but did not see me. But at least the desperate movement ceased.
‘Once there was a wife of Cawdor, now no wife nor lady any more,’ she muttered piteously. ‘What has become of her?’
I didn’t know if the rebel thane’s wife was even still alive. What did happen to the widows of rebel lords? I knew too bitterly that few people noticed widows like my mam, or cared.
‘Ma’am, come downstairs. Come, sleep,’ I murmured, as if she were a child. Even though I knew she was asleep, I hesitated to put my hands on her. You did not touch a queen unasked.
‘Sleep,’ she whispered. ‘Macbeth hath murdered sleep. Banquo’s son, Macduff’s puppies and their dam, all slain. Their blood . . . their blood . . .’
I gazed at her in horror. Banquo’s son dead too? And Macduff’s children? No wonder her conscience screamed at night.
My own conscience whimpered like a kitten drowning in a sack. How much of this was due to me? But I must care for the queen now.
I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply. Calm your body and you calm your mind, Agnes had said the night a blizzard crouched and sucked about the village and we feared we’d lose the cottage roof before the dawn.
If Scotland was to have peace, its heads of state must be calm and rational. And if my part in that was to reassure the queen, that was what I must do.
Before I could move, the queen stared at her hands again. ‘I must wash,’ she muttered. ‘I must wash and wash.’ To my relief she drifted back towards the stairs.
I followed her to her room, and lay awake long after she had fallen asleep again. Who could I go to for help? I could not speak about the queen sleepwalking and crying out her sins, not even to Lady Ruth and Lady Margaret, loyal as they were. Not now I knew the cause.
Had she given the order for Banquo’s son and Macduff’s wife and children to be slain? Or had it been the king? I could not ask.
The next night she walked again. There was only one person in the palace who might help me now. I had to tell the doctor.
Chapter 16
Once more the queen had me wait on her after Lady Ruth and Lady Margaret had prepared her for bed. Once more I told her a story, this time of the kitten that hid in the cauldron and yowled when Agnes poured the water in, then stalked over to the hearth, curled up there and staked it as hers forever, and Agnes as her servant.
At last the queen slept. I slipped a dress over my shift, then pulled on stockings, slippers and a cloak. I hesitated, then hung the queen’s cloak on the doorknob.
The doctor waited outside her chamber. He would not be fond of me if I had called him out of his bed for nothing. He was a grand man who wore black velvet, and gold rings upon his fingers. But he had served three kings and whispered nothing. If there was anyone in the castle I could trust, it was him.
I waited too. The bell tolled ten, eleven, midnight. Still the queen did not stir.
And then, suddenly, she rose. Silent as the castle graveyard, she unlocked her closet and took out paper. She wrote upon it, her fingers holding a quill that wasn’t there. What was she writing? I could read far better now, but couldn’t follow the quickness of her fingers as she made the letters. She folded the paper, picked up a seal as incorporeal as the quill, stamped it and set it down.
I watched as she slipped back to bed. Was this all she would do tonight, and the doctor not here to see it? But she didn’t lie down. Instead she looked at her fingers, rubbed them hard against her shift, then almost ran towards the door. Her fingers met the cloak. As I’d hoped, she draped it around her shoulders as she drifted out.
The doctor pressed back against the wall as she passed him, bowing low. She didn’t see him. He met my eyes, nodded silently, and we hurried after her.
Up the stairs, around, around, her bare feet making no noise. The doctor’s boots clattered on the stone, but she did not hear. And then the battlements.
The moon sailed tonight, a golden ship across the night sky. The same moon that sailed across the village where Mam slept, Agnes, Rab . . .
I could not think of them. I looked to my lady, now weaving wraith-like in and out the battlements.
‘How long has she walked?’ the doctor whispered.
‘Since His Majesty went into the field, I think.’
Her voice interrupted me. ‘Yet here’s a spot.’ The queen gazed at her hands, rubbing one against the other.
The doctor fumbled in his pouch. ‘I will set down what comes from her to satisfy my remembrance the more strongly.’
‘No!’ I said, then realised who I spoke to. ‘I crave your pardon, gentle sir, but there must
be no record.’
He looked at me consideringly.
‘Out, damned spot!’ The queen’s voice rose into an anguished scream. She scrabbled feebly at her nightshift as if she would rip it to shreds. ‘Out, I say!’
‘What does she speak of?’ asked the doctor.
I shook my head dumbly. He must cure her without knowing the cause.
The queen strode along the battlements, her head high, facing an unknown foe. ‘One, two. Why, then, ’tis time to do it!’ she ordered. ‘Hell is murky! Fie, my lord, fie! A soldier, and afeard? What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?’ Her gaze drifted down to her hands again. ‘Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him,’ she whispered.
The doctor stared at her. ‘Do you mark that?’
‘The Thane of Fife had a wife,’ she cried, suddenly alert again. ‘Where is she now? What, will these hands never be clean? No more of that, my lord, no more of that. You mar all with this starting!’
The doctor looked at me with sudden understanding. ‘We know what we should not,’ he said quietly.
Yes. This couldn’t be written down. Nor remembered.
‘If you could help her,’ I whispered. ‘Heaven knows what she has known.’
The queen brought her fingers to her face. ‘Here’s the smell of the blood still,’ she mourned. ‘All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.’ Her voice rose again to a cry. ‘Oh, oh, oh!’
‘The heart is sorely charged,’ said the doctor.
If only he knew. But I just nodded. ‘I would not have such a heart for anything this world has to offer. Will you help her?’ I pleaded.
He frowned, watching as my lady prayed in silence again. ‘This disease is beyond my practice,’ he said abruptly. ‘Yet I have known those which have walked in their sleep who have died holily in their beds.’
‘Wash your hands,’ the queen cried. ‘Put on your nightgown; look not so pale. I tell you yet again, Banquo’s buried; he cannot come out on his grave.’
‘Even so?’ muttered the doctor, carefully not looking at me.
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