Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (6 page)

‘I can’t go in there,’ Rosie croaked. ‘I don’t want anyone to s
ee me.’

‘’Tis all right, love. I will get your father to bring the food out to the wagon. Though perhaps you may like to refresh yourself?’

Rosie considered this. Perhaps a splash of cold water would take the sting out of her eyes. ‘Yes, Ma. Perhaps if I wear my hood up . . . ?’

Her mother patted her hand. ‘You’re a brave lass.’ She climbed out of the wagon and Rosie followed. They stood there a moment waiting for Dougal to come back to tend to the horses. It wasn’t long before he was out, tucking his purse into his coat.

‘You can go in. I’ll just take the horses around the back.’ He climbed back up onto the wagon and flicked the reins. The horses pulled forward, leaving Rosie and her mother standing in front of the inn.

Rosie pulled the hood of her cloak over her head and followed her mother inside. They made their way to the hearth and the innkeeper brought them over some refreshments. Despite the roaring fire, Rosie was chilled to the bone. ‘Will we rest here the night or go on?’ she asked.

‘I think your father is keen to get home. He has gathered a lot of orders this trip.’ Her mother sipped on her ale. ‘An’ he’s keen to plant some vines.’

Rosie looked at her mother. ‘He’s a cooper, not a farmer.’

‘Aye but he has that notion in his head that he can make the barrels
and
fill them.’ She smiled. ‘I don’t know how it will go but he’s already spoken to someone who’s had his first successful crop.’

Just then, Dougal came through the door, taking off his hat and scratching his head vigorously. He spoke quietly to the innkeeper and then joined them at the table by the hearth. ‘The back wheel of the wagon is nae looking well. I’m to be hard pressed finding a wheelwright before the thing breaks. I will have to try to mend it myself.’ He looked at his wife. ‘Could you stand a night here, lovey, because it will take me some time?’

Rosie understood the meaning behind her father’s question. He was asking if
she
would be fine. She turned to her father. ‘I am looking forward to my own bed, Da, but I would rather get home one day late than be stranded in the forest fending off wolves an
d thieves.’

‘I will speak with the innkeeper,’ Dougal said and returned to the bar. Rosie watched him hand over some coins to the owner before rejoining them. ‘’Tis settled then. I’ll have some supper and get to work on them repairs. He says the room is small but comfortable. I’ll sleep in the wagon.’

Rosie carried her belongings through the small door of the lodging and laid them on one of two small beds. In the corner, on a table, sat a large bowl and a jug filled with lavender water. Beside them was a rough but clean cloth. Rosie poured some water into the bowl, dipped the cloth and pressed the cool material to her still burning face. Her eyes stung and the tip of her nose was sore. She stared down at her reflection in the water. Despite the distortion, it was enough show her how distraught she looked. Her face was puffy, especially around the eyes, and her lips were bloodless and cracked where, just yesterday, she had enjoyed Flea’s kisses.

She unclipped the brooch which fastened her cloak and removed the girdle around her waist so that the top of her dress opened enough for her to rub the cool flannel around the back of her neck and shoulders. The silver cross Flea had given her on her eighteenth birthday just two months before lay against her throat – another cruel reminder of what she had lost. She touched it and then closed her eyes, trying to hold on to the happiness of that moment when Flea had given it to her.

But it was short-lived. At the thought of Flea, hot tears sprang to her eyes and the pain of loss returned so keenly, her legs gave way beneath her and she dropped to the floor and lay there, sobbing into the coarse mat, praying for darkness to engulf her so that she would not have to face this grief.

Chapter Seven
Towards Lochaber

T
he damp soaked through everything: his hair, his boots, even his cloak. He could hardly see ten feet in front. The only hope was that Willow still knew the way home.

Home.
It had been over ten long years since he had been to his place of birth – that place where his boyhood toys had sat along the casement: the slingshot his father had shown him how to make; the chessboard an aging uncle had gifted as a present; his mother’s cradle blanket that she refused to relinquish to anyone else; that place where his clothes and boots had sat ready for the servants to dress him.

Servants
. A word like ‘home’, so unfamiliar to the life he’d been living. Fleance didn’t know what he would find when he got to Lochaber castle. Had it been taken over by the renegades who had destroyed so many dwellings, or did it now sit forlorn, nestled in the Scottish hillside?

Man and beast plodded on through the mist and the cold.

Suddenly Willow stopped, his ears flicking left and right. ‘What is it, boy?’ Fleance asked, peering into the fog. Willow shook his head up and down, snorting, his eyes wide. When Fleance urged him to go forward, the horse took two twitchy steps and then jumped back, almost unseating Fleance.

It was then he heard the noise. Gravelly and nasal; a loud humming more than singing but it was a sound made by a human not a bird or beast. As he looked hard down the road, he began to see a dark, moving shape coming forward. Willow was now pacing and clearly anxious. ‘Whoa, boy. Calm down.’

The humming grew louder and what looked like a large, slow-moving beast, now emerged as three beings. ‘Greetings,’ Fleance called even though a cold shiver went down his spine.

The women, for that was what he now could see they were, stopped walking and were silent. One of them came forward. Fleance put his hand to the hilt of his sword but she looked unarmed. Her face was deeply lined and her hair hung over her face like greasy rope. She wore boots and men’s britches which emphasised her rake-thin body. Her coat was matted and filthy and over this was a cloak of sorts made by the pelt of several animals.

‘Greetings,’ Fleance repeated.

She looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed and lashes crusted. ‘Hail, son of Banquo.’

‘What?’ Fleance exclaimed, feeling as if all the air had left him. ‘How do you know . . . ?’ But she put her dark stained finger to her lips and shook her head.

The second woman came forward and grabbed at the reins. Willow squealed but immediately stilled. Fleance’s mouth was dry and he felt ill. ‘Who are you?’ he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

‘Beware the seeds of Duncan,’ she sang, childlike and sweet. She stroked Willow’s neck. Fleance was mesmerised by the fluid movement of her hands. The nails were very pale, as was the rest of her. He could see thick veins over the surface of her skin. When he was able to pull his eyes away from this sight he saw that she, like the other old woman, was covered in grime. Her hair, though braided, had twigs and grass and some earthy mixture spread throughout. And, like the other, there were hairs sticking out from her
chin an
d above her thin lips. And, even from his position atop Willow, Fleance could smell a rancid stench coming from her.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, but now, neither was paying any attention to him. He looked over them to the last woman. She was tall but her hair had been cropped so that just a dark fuzz lay on her skull. Her eyes were large in her gaunt face. ‘Answer me,’
he called.

She smiled at him and revealed a mouth full of black and rotting teeth. ‘Hail to you who will gain the prize amidst bloodshed and sorrow.’ She stared at him and grinned. Fleance’s stomach heaved. He wanted to ride on.

The first woman turned her back on him saying, ‘Hail.’

‘Hail,’ said the braided one.

‘Hail,’ echoed the tall one and then together they said, ‘Hail to thee and beware.’ They took up their strange humming and shuffled on, past Fleance and Willow, disappearing into the gloom.

‘Wait,’ Fleance cried. ‘Come back. Tell me what this means.’ But the three odd women moved on as if nothing had happened; as if they had not met him on the heath and named him or warned him or promised strange events. As if they had not passed on to
him
riddles and confusion.

He turned Willow to follow them but the horse refused to budge. ‘Come on, Willow. They’re harmless.’ The horse did not agree with Fleance and even gave a warning buck. By the time Fleance righted himself, the women had vanished, melting into t
he air.

Fleance sat staring into the mist then shook himself. He remembered a forgotten warning of his father’s about the dangers of
trading
and trafficking with agents of darkness – for he recognised now that that was what they were – conjurers, those who have knowledge of the other world. Witches. Black-hearted and deceitful.

Nothing good could be gained by taking notice of such wickedness. Yet, what they said held some truth.

Fleance, always remember this: sometimes, to win us to our harm, the elements of darkness do tell us truths. Win us with honest trifles just to betray us with the worse possible outcome.

The voice of his father came through the fog of his confusion to drown out the fading sounds of the women. It was a warning but also something else. It was a reminder to be careful, to follow through with his appointed mission. Not to stray from the path that his father had set before him.

But as he and Willow plodded on, he turned the words of the witches over and over. They knew who he was – but how? Proof then that they had power.
Beware the seeds of Duncan.
The only Duncan he knew of was the king who had been murdered, it was rumoured, by a relative – he remembered hearing talk of it that
terrible
night over ten years ago.

His father had come home from battle, sore, weary but jubilant. The king had bestowed great praise and honour on Banquo for his efforts and skill on the battlefield. Though Fleance knew little of what had happened between the Scottish soldiers and the invaders from Norway, his father’s usual quiet ways had been peppered with quick laughter and outright joy.

What a delight it had been then, when his father had agreed to his pleading that Fleance accompany him to Macbeth’s castle at Inverness where the king was visiting. Proudly, he had sat behind his father who was just three horses back from the king. Twice, King Duncan had addressed him directly: once about whether he had noticed the falcon which was hovering over the fields and the other to enquire if he was tired.

Fleance had basked in the glory of the moment.

In the evening, they had had a late supper with much laughter and food and drink. Fleance had even sung for His Majesty – quite an honour, Banquo later told him.

So, early the next morning, when the alarm bells had sounded around the castle, Fleance could not understand what could have been the problem – the enemy had been soundly defeated. There was no danger. And, though Banquo had ordered him to stay in their room, Fleance had crept down the long passageway to where grown men were howling and women wailing.

He remembered feeling terrified and fleeing back to the sanctuary of the apartment.

When his father eventually came back to the room, his face had been drained of all colour. ‘Pack up your things, boy. We’re leaving.’

‘What has happened?’ Fleance had asked.

‘The king has been murdered.’

Fleance had been stunned. Never before had he known
someone
who had died violently. When his mother died, it had been sudden and a shock but from no other’s hand, save fate. Her illness lasted a short time but she died in her own bed, Fleance and
Banquo
by her side. And, she died with a smile on her face.

Yes, when Donnach, their gardener, had toppled over in the cabbages, that was surprising. But he had been very old. King
Duncan
was strong and healthy and kind. How could someone think of doing such a thing?

He had grabbed his clothes and dressed quickly, stuffing his bedding into a tight roll. Banquo had been stonily silent as he did the same and they left the room, went down the hall and out to the stable to tack up Willow.

Fleance could still hear the sound of the wailing. It was a sound he could not shake for a long while – until it had been replaced by the awful cries of his own father just a few short weeks later.

Willow was tired. The road was uneven and treacherous. Fleance dismounted and man and horse walked on in the cold – a miserable sight. He was lost in his thoughts when a voice called through the fog, ‘Ahoy there.’ Fleance and Willow stopped dead. ‘Where are you heading?’

It was an old shepherd. He held a long shepherd’s crook in one hand and, unusual for this time of year, a newborn lamb, yellow and bloody, in the other.

‘I’m heading to Lochaber, father.’

The shepherd appraised him. ‘You’ve got a good few days’ ride still to go. Why don’t you put your feet under our table for a night.’ The relief must have shown on Fleance’s face for the old man grinned. ‘Give that bottom of yours a wee rest.’ He continued walking across the moor. ‘Follow me if you wish to sample the wife’s tasty stew.’

Obediently, Fleance followed the man and was surprised to happen upon a small cottage nestled against the hill. The fog had obscured his vision so it wasn’t surprising he’d not seen it on his way up the mountain.

‘It’s not much to look at but it’s comfortable. We were sent here some years back after the troubles. The wife and I worked at a manor but then the master died and the new earl didn’t seem to want to keep the old staff. We sometimes miss the fellowship of the folks but this is an all right life for an old couple to live out their days.’ The shepherd chattered on which suited Fleance fine – he was too exhausted to offer much towards the conversation.

The old man led Fleance to a stable of sorts – a walled area with a thatch roof but no front wall. Though the ground was bare, it was sheltered from the weather. The shepherd hung up the crook but kept the lamb tucked under his arm. He watched silently as Fleance untacked Willow and rubbed him down.

‘I’m most grateful for your hospitality,’ Fleance said.

The shepherd snorted. ‘I thought you looked well bred an’ I was right. Don’t worry about thanking us; ’tis our duty to the Lord. After all, you could be a saint or even an angel sent by God to test our obedience.’

Fleance smiled. ‘I’m neither, father, but I shall offer my thanks to God then.’

‘Aye and over supper would be a right fine time. Come on. The wife will be waiting.’ He turned on his heel and headed towards t
he cotta
ge with Fleance close behind.

The inside of the cottage was warm and light flickered from an open fire and the two candles attached to the wall. A wo
man wa
s
stirring
something in a kettle over the fire. By the smell of it, it
was th
e stew the shepherd spoke of.

The old man placed the lamb in a basket beside the fire and touched his wife’s arm. ‘Agnes,’ he said. ‘We have company.’

The woman straightened and smiled as she turned. However, at the sight of Fleance, the smile vanished and she let out a piercing scream.