Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (7 page)

BOOK: Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1)
3.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Chapter Eight
Glamis Castle, Scotland

D
uncan lifted his little sister from the stairwell and swung her across the dampened floor. ‘Here you go, wee one. Rachel will be pleased you dinna get your slippers wet.’

‘Ta then, Duncan. Least Father won’t have cause to moan.’

Inside his heart, Duncan ached; that the younger of his sisters should be so aware, so young, of their father’s temper. ‘Nay worry ’bout it, Bree. ’Tis not our fault and ’tis such a small matter.’ But they both knew that wasn’t true. They both knew that their father, Donalbain, first in line to the throne of Scotland, was an unpredictable, violent, unstable presence in their household.

Giggling now, Bree skipped towards the kitchen where she knew there would be tasty bites before dinner. This was the
custom
.
Duncan
had learnt early on that this younger sister needed
nourishment
little and often despite the protocols of castle di
ning.

Morag, their cook, was well into preparations for the evening meal. Her face was blood red and shiny with sweat. Still, at the sight of Bree, she grinned. ‘Got it right here, bairn. You’ll love this.’ She nodded towards the side bench. There sat a large plate of cheese and breads and fruit.

Bree rushed over but, mindful of her heritage, mimicked her older sister’s slow and polite manner of selecting her food.

‘So, Master Duncan, how is it now?’

Duncan smiled. ‘’Tis all good, Morag.’

‘What hearts have you captured this week?’

Duncan laughed this time. ‘You ask this every moment I bring wee Bree down here.’

‘Och aye, a lad’s got to have an outlet. What with your golden locks and your blue eyes, you could catch any filly you set your mind to.’

‘Morag, you know that I am in line to the throne. I canna be throwing about my seed.’

Morag roared with laughter. ‘You are so blunt there, Duncan.’

‘Not blunt, dear one. Just honest.’

Morag tipped the dough onto the table. ‘Good. That’s the sort o’ king Scotland needs.’

Duncan grinned. ‘Well, while Uncle Malcolm is still breathing, I’m content to hunt them stag and spear those boars . . .’

Morag threw a ball of dough at him, ‘And bed them beauties.’

He shot her a look. ‘Not in front of the child, Morag.’

Immediately, Morag’s expression changed, reminded, no doubt, by his comment that she was speaking to someone who was destined to be the Scottish king one day. ‘Sorry, Sire,’ she said, her face reddening further.

Duncan regretted his rebuke. ‘My dear Morag. This family is, and will always be, indebted to you. Never feel sorry for anything you say or do.’

Bree spoke up. ‘Morag, Rachel’s got a new story for me. She started it last night.’

‘An’ what’s this one about?’

‘A handsome prince who’s lost his way over the moor.’

Duncan grinned, thinking of Bree’s older sister. ‘Rachel’s stories always have a handsome prince in them.’

‘I know, Duncan,’ Bree said, nibbling on a slice of apple. ‘But this one’s even more handsome than all the others.’ Duncan’s and Morag’s eyes met and they both smiled. ‘This prince is going to get hurt, Rachel said, and a beautiful princess makes him better.’

‘You’ll be looking forward to bedtime then,’ Morag suggested. ‘So as you can hear the next part of the tale.’

Bree stopped chewing and by the look on her face, Duncan could tell she wasn’t certain whether she should admit to it, especially as she never volunteered to go to bed.

Duncan came to her rescue. ‘Are you finished, lass? I have some errands to do before supper.’ Bree nodded, jumped off her stool and began to skip out of the kitchen. ‘Bree. Aren’t you forgetting something?’

Remembering her manners, she stopped and stood facing Morag. ‘Thank you, Morag, for a delicious meal.’ When Duncan nodded, she scooted out the door.

‘Sire, you don’t have to make her do that. ’Tis my duty and honour to serve your family.’

‘And, because of that, it’s important she learns how to maintain that duty and honour,’ Duncan smiled. ‘Having a thankful heart lightens any weight on the soul. Now, I shall leave you to your tasks otherwise supper will be late and it will be my fault.’ What he didn’t add but which they both knew would be true, was that his father would take out such tardiness on the kitchen staff.

As Duncan followed his sister up the steps to the main
quarters
, his thoughts went back again to the state of his family. Uncle
Malcolm
, loved and respected by most, would not see out the year. Preparations, though not obviously, were being made in both
castles
, Malcolm’s in Forres, and Donalbain’s in Glamis: for the death of one king and the crowning of another.

Donalbain’s advisors, aware of the people’s distrust of him, had warned him of the need to be extra careful; that an assassination attempt could be possible. This news had only served to fuel his father’s irrational moods and send him back to the black sisters who had a stranglehold on his father’s mind.

Duncan picked up the bronze water jug, poured some water into a goblet and sat on the wide seat under the narrow window. The afternoon sun, when it showed its face, would squeeze itself through the glass, making this position in the castle favoured by Rachel’s cat and Donalbain’s two hounds.

This afternoon, however, the day was gloomy as if matching the mood of the nation and especially matching the mood of the family. The corner was deserted so Duncan had only himself and his thoughts for company.

As he sipped on his drink, his mind went over the things that needed to be done to ensure peace would be maintained. Since their mother’s death, and his father’s descent into madness, the parenting of Bree had fallen upon the shoulders of Duncan and Rachel.

Rachel didn’t seem to mind. Her stories and songs and the games she made up were a pleasant contrast to the dealings he had with his father – often fuelled by too much wine and not enough sleep.

A rustle of skirts brought Duncan back to the present. It was Rachel coming down from her chamber. Her thick, blonde hair w
as p
inned in a pretty mass on top of her head. A conversation he’d overheard from the servants flicked into his mind: ‘’
Tis a pity the master is so jealous else the girl would hae been married off years before. Such a waste to be lingering in this unhappy place when she could be warming the bed of a prince and producing sons.’

‘Have you seen Zeus?’ Rachel asked, as she passed by.

‘Not since this morning.’ Rachel continued down the stairs. Duncan called after her. ‘Rachel, are you well?’ His affection for his sister added another stone of concern to the ever-increasing pile.

She turned and smiled. Yes, Duncan thought, she’s as beautiful as Mother was. ‘I am, Duncan.’ She came back up the stairs and sat beside him. She laid a hand on his arm. ‘You worry too much.’

‘There are things to be done.’

‘Yes, but you’re not always the one who has to do them.’

Duncan turned to his sister. ‘Things are getting worse wi
th him.’

‘Then keep out of his way. It’s not a surprise that his mind is filled with fear: his brother is dying and he’s to be king.’

Duncan picked up her small hand and enclosed it in his larger fist. ‘You always seem to understand what goes on in another’s heart. The man who chooses you will be blessed indeed.’

Rachel pulled her hand from his and stood up. ‘Must go find that dratted cat. He’s got some mousing to do.’ She went quickly down the stairs leaving her brother alone again, feeling more upset than before. Though Rachel had moved away quickly, he still saw the tears which had sprung to her eyes.

Perhaps things would have been better had they stayed in
Ireland
. When they had fled there from the false accusations of patricide, they still had their mother. Donalbain, though grieving the murder of his father, was not yet affected by witchcraft and spells and Duncan had been able to live relatively happily under the
careful
watch of Morag and the other servants.

Coming back to Scotland nine years ago was the beginning of the change. Within a few months, Mother had died giving birth to Bree; Rachel took on the role of lady of the house, even though she was only ten; and Duncan began to feel the weight of the impending kingship even though he had barely turned twelve. They could not go back to their own place in the north because it had been ransacked by either Macbeth’s men or the dispossessed and angry men who’d suffered under Macbeth’s reign.

Uncle Malcolm gave them Glamis castle as compensation – it was far larger and more impressive than the one they had left. However, Father spent a lot of time away from the castle either
raiding
the borders of northern England for booty or consorting with those who would tell him what he wanted to hear. The relationship between Donalbain and Malcolm had deteriorated as well, for Uncle Malcolm disapproved of his brother’s obsession with the dark arts and had distanced himself from the family not long after they arrived back at the castle.

Outside, the sound of horses galloping through the castle gates roused Duncan from his thoughts. He sighed deeply and stood up. That would be his father come back from Forres, the king’s
palace
. He knew by the way his father rode his horse that the meeting h
ad n
ot gone well. As he walked down the large staircase, he
wondered
, not for the first time, what he could do to soften the blow of his father’s temper.

Chapter Nine

D
uncan watched his father pull hard on the horse’s mouth and swear at the page who had run forward to help his master. Donalbain dismounted and rearranged his cloak before striding up the wide steps and through the door which n
ow st
ood open for his entrance. Duncan waited for him in the entrance hall.

‘Chambers. Now,’ he barked at Duncan. ‘Firth,’ he shouted to his manservant. ‘Drinks! Food! We have work to do.’ He strode past Duncan without looking at his son and continued on through the cavernous halls to the battle room. ‘Duncan! Keep up.’

All hopes of a quiet evening fled as Duncan followed his agitated father to the heart of the castle – a room he had come to despise. The only good would be that Bree and Rachel would get a reprieve from their father’s erratic and violent temper and enjoy the meal Morag had prepared.

‘Sit!’ Donalbain ordered. He paced the room. ‘That damn fool of a brother, even in his dying days, thinks it best to dictate to the next in line how things should run.’

Duncan saw the sweat beading on his father’s forehead so poured him a drink. ‘Here, Father.’

Donalbain scooped up the chalice without acknowledging his son’s thoughtful action. ‘He says, fool that he is, he says, I must agree to comply with our dead father’s wishes. Our father, who was stupid enough to trust in men who sought to destroy him.’ He took a gulp of wine. ‘Think about it, Duncan. Your grandfather was twice betrayed because he did not know that men will only do that which pleases and promotes their own cause. The king,’ he added, taking another swallow, ‘should have been alert to the possibility o
f treason.’

‘Yes, Father,’ Duncan replied, the same reply he gave every time Donalbain was in this frame of mind. He’d learnt very early on that trying to placate his father or to offer solutions often invoked more intensive moments of rage and paranoia.

‘I am to be king,’ Donalbain shouted. ‘Why should I be dictated to by my brother who has not proven himself to produce an heir whereas your mother, may God bless her soul, your mother and I have been productive in the furthering of the royal blood?’ He drank some more and Duncan’s heart pained some. ‘It was
not
h
e
who slew that bloody tyrant Macbeth but the faithful Macduff; it was not
he
who rallied against those who would bring Scotland down. Your uncle waited. He fled to our cousins in
England
to secure
support
and then used them and our faithful thanes
to overthrow
the one who murdered your grandfather.

‘Do not be deceived, Duncan. Malcolm appears virtuous t
o th
e people because of the pain and suffering they endured under
the reign
of Macbeth. What they don’t know is that I will bring prosperity and invention. I have been given word from the
prophets
that I will acquire knowledge of the world which can thrust
Scotland
ahead of all the other nations.’

‘Father,’ Duncan interrupted. ‘Uncle Malcolm is dying – the doctors say it is so. What preparations are there for his funeral and your coronation?’

Donalbain ceased pacing and stared at his son. ‘You are
right. Yes.
Malcolm will die and it will be soon. And I will be king.
Margaret
, his doting wife, wants him buried with the kings at Iona. I think this is a fair and worthy request that Malcolm be buried with our father. She has also asked that she remain at Forres but I have said that is impossible. We shall find some place for the
barren
wench to reside.’

His father’s word stung. Margaret, Uncle Malcolm’s wife, was a kindly creature. That she had produced no children who lived past infancy was grievous to all.

‘Yes, Father,’ was Duncan’s pained reply. ‘I am sure there is some lovely abode where she can live out her days.’

Donalbain stared at his son. ‘Yes. Indeed. You are right.’ He stood up. ‘As to this notion that I must follow my father’s
exhortations
. It is foolish to have such ideas at this time. I need better counsel.’

That meant another trip to the weird sisters. What were their motives in encouraging his father? What were they wanting for Scotland? Or, for themselves? It seemed that last trip (only five days ago) had spurred their father into further agitation.

Duncan became practical. He stood up and, though Donalbain was tall, Duncan matched him well and was therefore able to look directly into his father’s eyes. ‘Father, Uncle Malcolm is like to die soon. We must be prepared. The threat to Scotland is not so bad that you need to care at this time. Better that you are seen to mourn the loss of your kin.’

Donalbain stopped drinking and pacing. ‘You are your father’s son. Good care and advice.’ He then put down his chalice and walked out of the chamber, leaving Duncan to worry about the details of the coronation which was destined to happen.

 

Duncan poured himself some of the wine. Though his father’s
rage e
xaggerated his claims, there was truth to them, nonetheless. Uncle Malcolm had not been an effectual king in later years. Yes, in the beginning, when Malcolm had called all the exiled home, there had been a sense of rejoicing among the grieving. People got to work to restore that which had been destroyed by Macbeth’s year-long tyrannical rule. Malcolm had invested the church with gold and men to find widows and orphans and help them rebuild their lives. For the first year, the young Duncan had travelled with the bishop all over the county, meeting people and keeping a record of what had been destroyed or lost and who had come back. At times, they had to travel with soldiers because skirmishes broke out over property.

Duncan had been very pleased to have helped and proudly presented his census to the king after they had completed their survey. Uncle Malcolm had barely glanced at it; he was more interested in asking the bishop how much gold was left, how many worthy fellows there were and whether they could turn their energies to serving the kingdom.

A year after that, on his own, Duncan had visited some of the outlying holdings and was dismayed to see the land overgrown and the cottages empty. When he had seen a shepherd driving a scraggly herd of sheep along the road, he had stopped him.

‘Can you tell me where the families have gone who were
working
this land yonder?’

The shepherd stared up at him and, when he realised who
Dunc
an was, bowed deeply. ‘Sire,’ he had said. ‘They, along with many folk, have gone back to England or to Ireland. Life here has been too hard for them.’

Duncan had been stunned. Where had the promised gold and goods gone? Why had the king not ensured that what he had invested was returning some fruit? It had been the same all around the county and Duncan had returned to his castle disturbed a
nd saddened.

With each following year, and with the death of each babe borne to the king and Queen Margaret, Malcolm had spent more and more time at the monastery. He would be gone for weeks on end, seeking wisdom from God and the priests. In this way, Duncan had thought a few winters ago, the two brothers were very similar–seeking counsel from the spiritual rather than relying on the corporeal life in front of them. Duncan’s thoughts turned to the past.

Donalbain and Malcolm began to quarrel. It started when there had been a banquet in honour of the winter solstice. Many thanes and their families travelled long distances to join the king so the palace was filled with the sounds of laughter, music and children playing.

As usual, Father drank too much wine before the feast was served and when Malcolm called upon the priest to give thanks for the meal, Donalbain’s snort of derision was heard throughout the great banquet hall.

An anxious hush descended and almost all the guests turned their
attentions to the beautifully decorated plates which waited eagerly for the meal, not daring to look at either the king or his brother.

‘You have a problem with asking The Almighty to bless the meal of the king?’ Malcolm asked, his voice soft but as cold as a blade.

‘No problem at all, Your Majesty. But I would have thought that the kind of blessing He has bestowed upon you would not be ones you would wish upon your guests,’ Donalbain said before taking another gulp of wine.

The silence was terrifying. What would the king do? Donalbain was his only kin. Though to be so openly rude to the monarch meant a treasonable offence, the thanes knew how tolerant his majesty was to his younger brother.

‘Would you welcome a thanksgiving prayer then, brother?’

‘As you wish, my lord,’ Donalbain said but he made it sound as if the word was as distasteful on his tongue as hemlock.

‘We ask, then, for a prayer of blessing for all, except my brother Donalbain . . .’ There was a collective intake of breath. ‘And a prayer of thanksgiving for all, especially for my brother, Donalbain.’

It was a stinging slap to Donalbain’s face and the king’s
intention
, though thinly masked behind a gracious tone and smiling face, was designed to remind everyone present how different the two were.

Once the main meal had been served and consumed, one of the king’s advisors appeared behind Donalbain. ‘The king says you are to come to his chamber.’ When his father didn’t move, Duncan put his hand on his arm. The advisor continued, his voice hard. ‘Immediately!’ Then added, ‘Sire.’

For a moment, a look of pure terror swept over Donalbain’s face and he turned to Duncan. ‘Malcolm will not let me have my aides with me but he will allow you. Duncan, lad, you must accompany your father into the king’s throne room.’ He took another long drink and then wiped his face and hands with the warm cloths the servants had been bringing around.

Duncan looked over towards his uncle who was talking a
nd laugh
ing with one of the old thanes. Macduff was his name and he was a cousin of Duncan’s grandfather, Duncan the First. There was nothing in the king’s face to suggest what he was planning to do about his brother’s inappropriate outburst. But then Duncan had recalled long ago, not long after the defeat of the Norwegians and rebels, his grandfather discussing the traitor Cawdor. The king had turned to his sons and remarked that he could not believe, after all he had given the thane, he would turn against him. ‘He was a gentleman,’ King Duncan had said, ‘on whom I built an absolute trust.’ The sadness in his voice had been clear even to the young Duncan and he had grieved even then for his grandfather’s distress.

Later, after the thane had been executed and the news had been brought to the throne room, there was no celebration of the fact. Duncan had watched his grandfather go out onto the balcony and look upon the swinging corpse of one who had been his closest friend. ‘I do not know of any way, unless through supernatural means,’ the king had mused, ‘to understand how the mind works in a man, simply by looking at his face.’

He had turned to the small group gathered in the throne room, some still nursing injuries from the battle. ‘Take heed, my friends. Even the best among us can fall to the temptation to challenge God – as Adam and Eve did in the garden of Eden.’

It was not long after that event that his father had come charging back from the celebration feast at Inverness and ordered the household – servants, livestock and family – to pack quickly, for t
he ki
ng had been murdered and it was no longer safe for his nearest of kin to stay in Scotland.

That was when they had fled to Ireland.

Duncan remembered all this, and the warning of his grand
father many years before, as he looked at his uncle and the
frighte
ned face of his father; as he, along with Donalbain, followed the king’s advisor out of the banquet hall and into the throne room. And he remembered that he was the son of a prince, the nephew of the king and second-in-line to the throne. A very dangerous position to be
in at
these times. He understood his position only too well.

They waited a long time in the throne room. Time enough for his father to finish three full chalices of wine and Duncan one. When Malcolm eventually came through the large wooden doors, his face was grim and tired.

Both Donalbain and Duncan bowed. Malcolm took his place on the throne.

‘Come before me, brother,’ Malcolm instructed. ‘And, you, my wee nephew.’

Father and son approached the throne. ‘What madness is this, Donalbain, that you should think to challenge me in my own court? Do you not know your behaviour is akin to treason?’

‘Aye.’

‘You and I, it is well-known among the family, hold
different
views about such things. But, if one day you are to be king,
Donalbain
, you will need the people’s trust – and respect.’

A look flicked over Donalbain’s face. It was a look Duncan always recognised before his father launched into one of his rants. This time, however, despite the wine and that he was unsteady on his feet, Donalbain remained silent.

‘You are all I have, brother,’ the king continued. ‘And though you are my subject, you are kin. Let us speak freely to one another for we have suffered much in these past years. But let this honest talk happen away from the ears of spies and the tongues of gossips.’

Donalbain bowed low. ‘I beg Your Majesty’s pardon.’

Malcolm rose from the throne. ‘And I grant you one.’ He turned to Duncan. ‘Lad, I believe your father is in need of a good night’s repose. Will you help him to his sleeping chamber?’

‘Certainly, Uncle.’

They watched their king sweep out of the throne room before Donalbain slumped down at the foot of the throne. ‘He could have had my head,’ Donalbain croaked. ‘What a fool! Him and I.
Malcolm’s
soft heart will be the undoing of us all.’

Duncan pretended he did not hear his father’s mutterings. Instead, he helped Donalbain to his feet, up the stairs to the upper chambers, assisted his father while he relieved himself and then helped him to bed.

BOOK: Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1)
3.39Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

Other books

The Truth About Us by Tj Hannah
Paradise Encounter by Anthony, Pepper
World After by Susan Ee
Endless Magic by Rachel Higginson
Chickamauga by Shelby Foote
The Hit List by Ryan, Chris
Green Ice: A Deadly High by Christian Fletcher
Meant To Be by Labelle, Jennifer