Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (13 page)

‘I thought you might be thirsty, Da,’ she said and poured him some water.

‘Thank you, Rosie, my dear.’ He took the tankard from h
er hand.

‘I have been thinking,’ she began. ‘I know you and Ma desire the best for me and, even though none of us spoke the words aloud, we believed Flea to be the best match.’ Dougal went to answer her but she stopped him. ‘We were right. He is a good man and I know he loves me as I love him.’ She lowered her voice. What she was about to say could enrage her father and she did not want to make matters worse.
I will have to tread carefully
, she thought. ‘Da, I think you were somewhat misguided in your love for me to challenge him. He was not ready.’

Dougal spluttered and coughed, water from his mouth and nose going over his workmanship. ‘You what?’

‘I want to go to Scotland and I want you to take me. I cannot go alone but I need to see him, to face him.’ If she could, now after so many weeks, speak to him and find out what his pilgrimage was about, she might be able to understand why he could not marry her.

She watched as her mother laid a hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Perhaps this would be a good thing.’

Dougal, his face red from coughing and frustration, looked at the two of them. ‘You would have me go back on my word?’

Again, Rebecca quietly and calmly chided her husband. ‘And you, dear man, would deny your only child the chance of a good husband.’ Thank goodness Ma was the foil to Da’s emotional
decisions
. Yet her gentle words only inflamed him.

‘Good husband!’ he shouted. ‘What in the name of Beelzebub is good about a lad who leads a girl on only to abandon her?’ He turned away from them.

She understood his frustrations and he was right that Flea should have played things differently. Still, Rosie began to see with a little more clarity what had happened back there in the clearing. ‘Da, he said he made a promise and you didn’t give him a chance.’

‘Remember what Miri told us, Dougal?’ Rebecca said. ‘Flea has been plagued by ghosts and stories since they found him.’ She poured him another tankard of water. ‘We all have our demons and he’s a good lad. How many times have you said to me that he would make a great addition to your ventures?’

Dougal frowned, his plump face wrinkling. ‘That was before . . .’ His voice trailed off. He looked at Rebecca. ‘Can you so easily forget how heartbroken she was?’ he asked, nodding in Rosie’s
direction
. ‘It broke my heart to see you so bereft, lass,’ he told her, his eyes glistening so that she thought he too might cry. ‘A father’s duty is to protect his family and I could do nothing to protect you from the pain he caused you.’

‘I know, Da,’ she said quietly. ‘You and Ma have given me a good life.’ Though she now only had vague memories of that time, Rosie remembered other children in the cottage; older children but, by the time she was truly conscious of things, her memories consisted of only herself, Ma and her father. And, for a time in those early years, a sense that loss and grief were a permanent fixture in their home.

Later, she learnt that her two older sisters and one older brother died when the family came to England. Rosie had been five or six at the time and it was before the troubles in Scotland which affected so many of the people. They had been well out of it for Dougal believed greater riches were to be had in England. However, a strange and vicious sickness swept through the village where they lived. All children in the family save Rosie perished.

There was much history between her parents and, even though her own heart’s desire was so strong, Rosie knew she must tread carefully. ‘I have enjoyed a happy and contented life thanks to you, Da. But,’ she added, standing tall, ‘I know there is unfinished business here and I cannot rest until I see him again.’ Rosie looked at her father. ‘I need to go soon.’

Dougal sat heavily on one of his barrels. ‘We can’t leave here just yet – look at all the work I have.’

Rosie leant forward, her eyes shining. ‘How many times have Ma and I listened to you saying how much you want to go back to Scotland?’ Rosie said, catching her mother’s eye. Rebecca nodded. ‘Here’s your chance, Da. We could go together. I will take care of you and you will take care of me.’

Her father shook his head. ‘I do not want to leave your mother,’ he said.

‘If you won’t take me, I shall go myself.’ She knew she was being difficult but such was her desire to shake up the world and find Flea at the bottom ready to take her, she risked her father’s temper.

Dougal stood up. ‘You can’t do that. ’Tis not safe. Not with the reivers, the skirmishes. What will happen to you?’ He shook his head. ‘I forbid it. Find yourself another man who will love you
as much.’

Rosie’s temper flared. ‘I
don’t
want another man. I want Flea, and you – alone – are what is standing in the way of my happiness.’ Her eyes were teary but she would not acknowledge them.

‘Tell her,’ Rebecca said quietly.

Dougal sighed wearily and looked at Rosie. She sensed his heart ached for her pain and that he himself seemed powerless to make it all better. He coughed and wiped his hand across his mouth. ‘Well, ’tis true that I have been thinking of travelling back to Scotland.’ Rosie rolled her eyes and went to speak but he held up his hand to silence her. ‘A winemaker I met last week said that there was a tavern for sale in Perth. With my trade, I would make a tidy profit.’ He looked nervously at his wife. ‘I did nae want to broach this for fear of upsetting you further. But now, it seems, it is time to discuss such ideas.’ He came towards her and put his chubby hand on her cheek. ‘If we did this, how would the news greet you?’

Scotland. Where Flea was. There she could find him. Rosie looked to her father, that kernel of resolve growing. ‘I think that would be a fine thing to do, Da. With Ma’s cooking and help, we could do well.’

Dougal, clearly relieved, nodded. ‘That we could, lass. It would be a good change. We’ve given England service enough these pa
st years.’

‘But, about Flea,’ she began, but stopped when Dougal’s face clouded over.

‘Aye?’ he said, his lips tight.

‘If our paths do cross, what will be your behaviour tow
ards him?’

Dougal scratched his belly and pursed his lips. ‘Well, first I’d want to knock his block off and then I’d challenge him to see if he had come to his senses.’

Relief flooded through Rosie and for the first time in a long while, she smiled. ‘I have a feeling I would do the same,’ she
said an
d she returned to the cottage with a measure of hope in her heart
and some
thing now tangible on her horizon. Being in a tavern was the perfect place to learn about the comings and goings of people. She could get word out that she was looking for him.

Of this she was certain: she would see him again and it would be soon.

Chapter Seventeen
Forres Castle, Scotland

’T
is quite a small castle,’ Fleance remarked. ‘I would have thought the king to have chosen a bigger one.’ They had reined in their horses and now stood atop a rise which gave a magnificent view of the lands below and the castle before th
em
.

‘Uncle Malcolm had fond memories of this place. When he was a child, he used to go hunting with his father.’ Duncan loosened the reins and Phoenix walked on. ‘When we all came back from exile, this is where he chose to live. His English wife liked the sea better than the mountains.’

Fleance listened as Duncan talked of his family, of his childhood, just as he had for the whole of their journey – sharing little of his own history in return, save that he was an orphan and an explanation as to his riding and weaponry skills. Duncan, with true courtesy, did not press him.

They rode the horses through the open gates of Forres, Fleance following Duncan. As Duncan dismounted, grooms rushed up and took their horses. A tall, white-haired man approached and bowed. ‘Sire. Your father is not with you?’

Duncan straightened his cloak. Fleance thought his new friend looked uncomfortable with the question. He watched as Duncan drew himself taller and spoke with a formal tone. ‘My father is very ill and my sister is tending him. I have come as a representative of the family. This man here,’ he said, nodding to Fleance, ‘is my companion, Flea. I trust you will accommodate him.’

The old man turned his eyes to Fleance and regarded him for a moment before he bowed to him as well, ‘You are welcome.’

‘How is the king?’ Duncan asked as he followed the servant into the castle.

‘He is in good spirits though his body is weakening daily. He will be most pleased to see you.’ They walked through the cavernous halls of the castle. Though small in comparison to some he’d seen, Fleance was still impressed with the grandeur and beauty of the place. The old man walked tall and straight backed. ‘Would you prefer some refreshments before I bring you to the king?’ he asked.

‘Perhaps while I am visiting Uncle Malcolm, you could show Flea to accommodation and see to his needs.’

The old servant bowed his head and paused at a door. ‘I shall announce your arrival. Please wait here.’ He opened the door and went inside.

Fleance looked up at the tapestries. ‘These are beautiful,’ he said.

‘Aye, the queen was gifted them from Normandy many years ago. Some she brought with her from England.’ Duncan reached out and stroked the fabric. ‘This one tells the story of King
Kenneth
, my great-great-great-grandfather when he insulted Edgar, the king of England. They say that Edgar was puny of stature and form, yet God and nature had blessed him with an amazing strength. He often challenged those whom he knew to be presumptuous to combat with the intention of putting them in their place. This,’ he said, pointing to woven detail of men at a feast, ‘shows when
Kenneth
made a jest about how strange it was that so many provinces of England were subject to such an insignificant being – meaning Edgar. The court’s jester took up his insult and from then on retold Kenneth’s comments and even had a likeness of Edgar’s face cast so that he wore it during subsequent feasts.’ Fleance noted the distorted face of one of the figures, prancing in front of the table.

‘Then,’ Duncan continued, ‘there came a summons from Edgar to Kenneth as if to consult with him about a great secret. King Edgar took Kenneth into the woods and gave him one of the two swords he carried with him. “And now,” said Edgar, “you may try your strength since we are alone.”

‘Foolish Kenneth knew immediately what was happening, that he was being challenged to a duel, but he could do nothing, knowing that his skill did not match Edgar’s.’ Fleance looked to the far left of the tapestry and saw two men detailed – one large but downcast; the other small but a look of triumph on his face. ‘Seems that despite being presumptuous he was not always blessed with brute strength and Edgar saw the measure of my great-great-great-grandfather to take him down a peg or two.’

‘What did he do?’ Fleance asked, intrigued for, in his history and the telling of his family’s story, there was a Kenneth, King of Scotland. Duncan was talking also of
his
kin.

‘Nothing yet because Edgar hadn’t finished chastising him. See here,’ he pointed to a place in the lower middle section. ‘This is where he puts Kenneth in his place for being so quick to judge and criticise.’ The tall king of Scotland was on his knees in front of Edgar.

‘What happened?’ Fleance was fascinated.

‘Edgar told him that there was no one around to witness their combat so he hoped Kenneth was on guard for it was dishonourable to be ready and witty at a feast but unready in conflict. In other words, he’d caught Kenneth off guard which just showed who was greater. Kenneth, as it shows here,’ he pointed to the last cluster of illustrations, ‘threw down his sword and fell at Edgar’s feet begging for mercy – which he got.’

‘What a fool,’ said Fleance. ‘’Tis always a bad thing to publicly and negatively comment on another.’

‘Indeed,’ agreed Duncan. ‘But all of us make errors of judgement. Let us hope that when we do, we have humility enough to admit our wrongs and strength enough to forgive those who wrong us.’ He turned away from the tapestry and continued walking the halls. ‘I suppose this is why those who are skilled with this talent make such things. They see the error of men’s ways and seek to warn the future people. To help them avoid the same mistakes.’

Fleance shook his head. ‘I have seen little evidence thus far of men learning from those who have gone before. Again and again, we make the same mistakes, whether it is love, war, family or
politics
.’

‘A wise pronouncement, my friend.’ Duncan dropped his head and breathed deeply for a few moments. When he raised his head, his face was flushed and his eyes bright. ‘Much is expected of me, Flea, and to that end, I know what I must do to fulfil those
expectations
.’

He said it without bitterness or pride. It was just as it had to be. What might it mean to have in your future the certainty of your place in society as Duncan had? Would he have been similarly placed if his father had lived? He wondered if it was a worry for Duncan, this burden of the state of Scotland. ‘Do you think much about what is going to happen?’

Duncan looked at him and smiled sadly. ‘Too many times, if Rachel is to be believed. There is nothing I can do to change what will happen. I can only ensure that whatever I do, it is right and honourable and for the best for those in my care.’

‘That is a heavy pronouncement for a young man.’

He nodded. ‘Though you have not said so in words, I sense in you as much a weighted story as mine.’

Just then King Malcolm’s servant came back, another servant with him. ‘The king is ready to receive you, Sire. This man will take you to him.’ He stood aside to let them pass.

‘I will find you anon, my friend,’ Duncan said as he squeezed his shoulder.

The old man waited until Duncan was gone and the door to the chambers was closed. ‘I will take you, myself, to the guest quarters, if it pleases you.’

‘Thank you,’ Fleance said, suddenly aware of how tired he was of travelling. ‘I would be most grateful.’ As they walked further into the castle, he thought about Duncan’s last words to him:
my friend
. Apart from Blair, Fleance had never had anyone he could call friend. Rosie was not his friend – she was his soulmate. How strange that Duncan gave of his heart so readily to him. Was it because he felt an obligation as Fleance had saved him? True, the days together had not been unpleasant and, if he was honest with himself, he would say that Duncan’s stories were as well told and entertaining as Rosie’s and had helped to keep his mind from the sorrow and the fear which was with him always.

Fleance undressed and used the water provided to wash. It was good to scrub clean the grime collected over many days’ travelling and, though his collection of garments was small, he’d kept a set clean and free for such a time as this. The dirty pile which sat on the floor could be seen to by the servants.

It took much courage to go into the hallway and summon
assistance
because this was the first time in ten years he’d stepped foot in a royal house and, with so many people about, he was feeling overwhelmed. Too many years in seclusion had robbed him a littl
e of
his manners in company. ‘My clothes,’ he said. ‘They are in need of laundering.’

The servant bowed. ‘Certainly, Sire,’ and he went in, picked up the pile and left. A memory stirred. A memory of a time when he would ask such a thing without another thought. Though his father had always insisted he treat their servants well, it had not come naturally to Fleance who saw himself as far better than those whose job it was to wash and clean and carry and cook. But that had been a long time ago. Now, after years living a basic life filled with hard work, Fleance had become accustomed to fending for himself.

He looked in the mirror. His face was a dark mass of coarse hair. It made him feel dirty and unkempt so he went out into the hallway again. ‘A blade, if you will, to shave,’ he said to the servant who, within moments, was back with warm water, lather and a blade.

‘Would you permit me, Sire, to shave you?’ the servant asked.

This made Fleance pause. No other man had ever shaved him. When he had the need a few years back, Magness had set him down with mirror, water and blade and, like the weaponry lessons, proceeded to teach the young Fleance how to shave. Perhaps it would be a very good learning moment to surrender his face and throat to another. Perhaps it would develop his sense of trust and faith – something Magness often said was lacking in him.

‘I am tired. I would be grateful,’ Fleance said.

‘’Tis a pleasure, Sire, to dress such a fine-looking young man as yourself.’

Fleance sat down on the chair in front of a small table where the servant had placed the water and blade. He wrapped a dry cloth around Fleance’s shoulders and put his hands into the warm water. Then he brought them to Fleance’s face and proceeded to wet all the stubble. He took a small bristle wand and rubbed it vigorously into the block of soap. The feeling of the bristles against his stiff facial hair was a relief.

He closed his eyes and allowed the experienced manservant to do his work. Many a time, as a boy, he’d stood by while his father was treated to such a thing. Banquo’s beloved aide would, with swift movement and skill, lather his father’s face and then, with the sharpest of blades, slide it over the contours of his face and neck. In the beginning, Fleance thought it was the soap which somehow dissolved his father’s bristles and that the blades were simply like the paddles he saw the stablehands use to scrape down the horses. It was only when he’d snuck into his father’s personal chamber, stolen away with the blade and presented it to Blair out on the moor, that he understood the hazard such an implement could pose.

He’d got Blair to lie down while he lathered his face. Then, he had proceeded to scrape the blade across his friend’s face. Instantly, blood had sprang forth and Blair had yelped, pulling away and holding his cheek. ‘You’re trying to kill me,’ he’d said but Fleance took no notice. He was staring at the instrument in his hand. He’d pulled a strand of wheat from the ground and gently pressed it against the blade. It had sliced the straw in two.

Fleance looked up. ‘This is really sharp,’ he had said.

Blair was crying. ‘I’m cut, Flea. You need to take me to the manor.’ He’d held his hand to his face so that Fleance did not at first understand the gravity of the situation. When Blair pulled his hand away, blood flowed easily down his face.

That was the first time Fleance understood one of the rhythms of man. Blood flows freely and to stop this, one must press down on the wound and hold fast which would break the flow. That would save a man’s life.

He had picked up his father’s personal grooming tools and lifted poor Blair to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, Blair. I did not know. Press your hand against the cut. Nurse will know what to do.’

As it turned out, it was not nurse but Banquo who was able to stem the bleeding and allow Blair to live another day.

Later, in his chambers, he was not so pleasant to Fleance. ‘What were you thinking? To take a dangerous blade as if it was a play thing? You are a bright boy but this was stupidity.’

Fleance had hung his head in shame. He did not want to tell his father that he had not understood the workings of the instruments. Instead he put up what he thought was a reasonable response. ‘Blair was afraid, Father, and would not stay still. He moved just at the wrong time and I cut him. It is good that I knew to hold a firm pressure on the wound otherwise he would have bled out.’

But Banquo understood his son, his temper and his rashness. He had ignored the excuse and instead, putting his hands on Fleance’s shoulders and looking him in the eye, said, ‘’Tis a poor craftsman who blames his tools – or another. Fleance, you could have killed Blair. Do you not see how serious this is?’

That was the moment when he understood so much: that he could no longer excuse his outbursts or his irrational behaviour; that often things were not as they seemed.

Not long after this, they had travelled to Inverness and learnt, in the hardest way, the truth of all his father had told him.