Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (8 page)

It was at that time Duncan began to feel the true weight of royalty.

Chapter Ten
Glamis Castle

T
here was a knock on the door. ‘Enter,’ Duncan called. Firth, Donalbain’s manservant, entered with a tray and another servant carried in jugs of wine. At the sight of the lone Duncan, Firth paled. ‘It’s all right, man. Father has left but I don’t think he’s wanting food just now. Perhaps if you could have some at the ready.’ The servants came further into the chamber and Duncan deliberated over having his meal here alone, in case his father came back, or to go and join the others in the dining hall.

Because he didn’t know where his father had gone, nor how long he would be, he decided it prudent to stay put.

As it turned out, it was a wise decision, for not fifteen minutes after the servants had left, Donalbain returned with two of his advisors. Preston had overseen his father’s affairs since Duncan was Bree’s age; he was a scrawny, bad-tempered man loathed by all the children of the castle. There was always something distasteful about the way he looked at the girls, especially Rachel of late, and the fawning way he addressed Donalbain made Duncan’s skin crawl. They did not even enjoy a reprieve when the family fled to Ireland after King Duncan’s murder, for Preston had travelled with them.

The other advisor had only joined the castle last spring. His name was Calum and he had a strange way of speaking so that Duncan had difficulty placing where he was from: the Highlands? Lowlands? Further south? That he was educated was obvious and he spoke a number of languages – Latin, French, German and English as well as Gaelic. He didn’t say very much, but Donalbain trusted him implicitly.

‘Calum,’ Donalbain said. ‘Duncan here has given some good counsel.’ Duncan saw Preston twitch with displeasure, his top lip lifting in a sneer. ‘He says to ignore that fool brother of mine and get down to the business of preparations.’

Duncan knew better than to correct his father’s loose translation of his advice.

‘Indeed, your lordship,’ Calum replied, his attentions
completely
on Donalbain. ‘I think Duncan is very wise for his age.’

‘Just like his father then,’ Preston whined. ‘He is a mirror image of you, Sire.’

Donalbain ignored him. ‘We need to get the household ready to mourn my brother’s imminent death, but we also need to show the people of Scotland that they are to gain a king who has the good of the country and its peoples in his heart.’ He spun around to
Preston
. ‘That was good – mark it down!’

And he was off again. For three more hours, Duncan endured his father’s exuberance over what would happen in the coming weeks, while Preston fawned over Donalbain and Calum remained the calm amidst the raging storm.

Finally, after the moon was high in the night sky, Donalbain dismissed them and Duncan wearily made his way to his sleeping chamber. When he opened the door, he was surprised to see Rachel sitting on the chair beside his bed, bending her head over some embroidery.

‘Rachel?’

She looked up. ‘I have been waiting for you, Duncan. I have some things I want to talk to you about.’

He was so tired but it was difficult to refuse Rachel – she rarely asked anything from anyone. He sat down on his bed. ‘What things?’

‘I’m worried about you.’

This was not what he was expecting. ‘You’re worried about me?’ He frowned. ‘Why?’

‘You’ve been pacing these halls for the past months, your face getting grimmer and grimmer. Is it Father that’s worrying you? Or Uncle Malcolm?’

Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t help but smile at his sister. ‘It’s so like you, Rachel, to be concerned about how everybody else is and not see the things likely to bother you.’

‘What things?’ she asked, echoing his earlier question. ‘Nothing is bothering me.’

But he knew that was not true. Rachel, one of the most beautiful creatures in the country, had not long passed her nineteenth summer and as yet no suitor had been found for her. Perhaps if their mother had still been alive, she may have been able to exert some pressure on their father to turn some of his energies towards family matters.

‘Well,’ Duncan said, trying to deflect the painful unsaid conversations, ‘we shall be busy enough with a funeral and a
coronation
. Father says we are to move to Forres.’

‘Why? This castle is much better – it is bigger for one and the lands far richer.’

‘Donalbain has his reasons and he does not need to tell us what his plans are. Though, whether they will be best for Scotland is another matter.’

Rachel rested her hands and tilted her head to one side. ‘He will be the king, God willing, Duncan. And that means that one day you will be king. There is time enough then for you to be worrying about the state of the nation. Leave matters be and still enjoy your youth before it runs out.’

‘Have you been gossiping with Morag?’ he smiled. ‘She gave me similar advice before supper.’

‘Morag is a good, dear soul,’ Rachel said standing up, her blue eyes sparkling. ‘We do what we have to, to ensure you keep on the straight and narrow.’

Duncan laughed out loud. ‘Next, you’ll have me spending the rest of my bachelorhood in a monastery.’

‘That isn’t a foolish idea what with the invitations which come to the castle one atop the other, calling for your company at some lady’s banquet.’

He stretched out his length on the bed and rested his arms under his head. ‘I have no idea why they persist – I give them no encouragement.’

‘That is precisely why they do – you are like forbidden fruit. The more you deny them, the greater the fire of their desire.’

‘Ah, that’s you and your stories again of princes and princesses. I’m not Bree, you know.’

Rachel clutched the embroidery to her chest as she stood beside him. ‘You’ve always been a sweet boy and now you’ve grown into a handsome young man. When the time is right, I know you will choose wisely for, in doing so, you will also be choosing the next Scottish queen.’

The idea sent a cold shiver through him. ‘Unless, of course, Donalbain finds himself another wife first.’

‘How was Father when you left him?’

‘Deep in conversation with himself and his wine. I was glad to be dismissed.’

‘I’m to bed then and best you not stay up much later. If Father is in one of his states, it will be an unquiet house tomorrow. Good repose, Duncan.’

‘And you, Rachel.’ He watched her pull the chamber door closed and then turned on his side. He stared, unseeing, at the flickering candle, wishing the fluttering under his ribs would abate. Change was coming and coming rapidly. It was a terrible thing to dread that one’s own father would take the crown. Malcolm was ineffectual but Donalbain, with his lust for fortune-telling and his reliance on the three strange women out on the heath, would be unpredictable – possibly even dangerous.

Chapter Eleven
Lochaber District

I
t was only the shepherd’s command of the moment that saved both his wife and Fleance from breaking into pieces.

Agnes had dropped the ladle and fallen back against her husband. ‘Him,’ she cried. ‘’Tis him.’

Fleance’s stomach lurched. Did she know him? Was she part of the plot? How was it that he had stumbled upon a dwelling where his safety was challenged?

‘Madam,’ Fleance cried. ‘I’m no danger to you.’

‘A ghost. A ghost,’ she cried. ‘Michael, ’tis the master come back.’

‘What are you talking about woman?’ Michael said, but
looking
at Fleance with new concern. ‘’Tis just a lad I found on the road.’

Agnes collapsed onto a stool but did not take her eyes from Fleance. ‘You look just like him,’ she whispered. ‘Just like my wee man.’

Fleance swallowed and cleared his throat. ‘Who are you talking of, madam?’

‘Banquo, the Thane of Lochaber. General of the king’s army. Most brave and honourable soldier.’

His heart froze. She was talking about his father. ‘I am not he, I assure you.’

‘An’ he’s no ghost, love. He’s flesh and blood. Here,’ Michael pulled his wife up and brought her before Fleance. ‘Touch the
lad –
he’s as real as you and I.’

The old woman reached out a shaking hand and poked
at Flean
ce which might have been humorous at another time. But at this moment, the cottage was charged with fear and high emotion.

‘Michael,’ Agnes said, as if Fleance was not in front of her, ‘He’s the spitting image of wee Banquo. I swear he’s him or he’s kin.’ She clutched her hand to her breasts. ‘I need to sit again.’

Fleance was horrified to see tears coursing down her cheeks. ‘My poor Banquo. Slain, ’twas said, by his son. My brave master whom I taught to sing and tell stories. My charge that drank in the stories of old that my mam had told me.’

Michael shifted a stool and put his hand on hers which trembled in her lap. ‘Agnes, dear. That is long past. You’re dreaming now. ’Tis not him.’ He stood up. ‘I think we should take her to her cot,’ he said to Fleance.

Agnes waved him away. ‘I’m not stupid, man. My bones may be old but my mind is as sharp as yours.’ She looked at Fleance. ‘If you’re not Banquo then, are you kin to him?’

What to do? Fleance had no memory of this woman in his home. He did know that his father spoke fondly of his nursing maid and the stories she told him. Could this be her? If so, on whose side had she stood – and what about her husband? Were they for the house of Lochaber or against?

Not wanting to be rude and dishonour the offered hospitality, Fleance decided he needed more information. ‘Mother, how did the news of Banquo’s murder come to you?’

‘How?’ she squeaked. ‘We received posts after the crowning of that most fiendish tyrant Macbeth, our Banquo was murdered and his son, Fleance, escaped – the boy the culprit.’ She paused, took in a deep breath. ‘I can say that I didn’t believe a word of it. Sure, the boy was hot blooded and Banquo spent many an hour schooling his son on keeping his temper, but to murder his father? Never. Though I was past nursing duties and removed to the kitchen, I had seen him with his boy.’

Michael nodded. ‘Aye, that is a memory I have as well. The master with his only son spending long days hunting and playing. They shared a most amicable relationship.’

It was clear that the couple had had a connection with his father but, for Fleance, it was not enough to assure him he was safe. ‘How stands it with you and the state of Scotland?’

The couple shared a look between them. ‘We could ask the same of you,’ Michael said.

He was being challenged. Fleance looked at the couple and made a decision. ‘I am Fleance. Banquo’s son.’ Agnes let out a wail and fell against her husband.

After that, it was a tumult of words and cries and exhortations as Fleance and the poor shepherd couple began to piece together their broken world. Even the wee lamb joined in with cries so that Michael was forced to stop attending his wife and see to the feeding of it.

Once Agnes had been comforted and restored, sitting before the hearth, gently stroking the lamb, Fleance told his story. ‘F
or the
se past ten years, I have been living in England and have no firm thoughts about the state of Scotland save that I know the king is ill and his brother is like to succeed him.’

Agnes cleared her throat. ‘So, young man. Why have you come back apart from what you say?’

‘Aye,’ Michael said as he leant forward. ‘Why are you here, lad? This is far from the usual road and only someone with a definite purpose would venture into these hills.’

Fleance looked at both of them. If he told the truth, would it appear he was mad? He sighed deeply. ‘I am plagued with dreams and visions and supernatural soliciting. I cannot rest until I fulfil my father’s wishes.’ It was quiet in the cottage. ‘And I have come back to Scotland to avenge my father’s murder.’

‘So,’ asked Agnes, ‘your father is nagging at you.’

Fleance smiled ruefully. It had taken him ten years and hundreds of miles, yet here in this humble shepherd’s hut, he had finally found someone who understood what he was going through. He replied, ‘That is true.’

Michael stirred. ‘Well, then, you have a quest. This seems reasonable.’ He got up and stirred the stew. ‘Perhaps we should eat and we can tell you what happened after your father’s murder.’

Agnes laid the plates and spoons on the wooden table. She lifted out a loaf of bread from a pot which sat above the fireplace and put that on the table as well. Michael brought the stew over to the table and she began serving. Once three bowls had been filled and Michael had removed the pot, they sat down.

‘Let us give thanks to the Lord for this food,’ Michael said, and he and Agnes closed their eyes and bowed their heads. Fleance quickly followed suit.
‘Father in heaven,’
Michael prayed.
‘We give Thee thanks this day for our daily bread and ask that Thou bless this meal to our bodies. In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost, Amen.’

Both Agnes and Fleance murmured,
‘Amen
.
’

‘Would you have some bread then, Fleance?’ Agnes asked, offering him a thick, dark slice.

‘Thank you,’ he said and took the bread and dipped it into the stew. There was an explosion of flavours in his mouth. Michael had not been exaggerating. The stew was delicious. ‘This is the best stew I’ve ever tasted,’ he exclaimed.

Michael laughed. ‘I did warn you. But I’m sure your keen appetite is adding to the quality.’ Agnes snorted. ‘No offence, my love.’

Fleance smiled. ‘It’s still the best I’ve tasted and my adoptive mother is a very fine cook. She would be most displeased, I bargain, to hear me say this about your dish, Agnes.’ They ate in silence for a while and then, when he’d finished his first bowl and Agnes got up to fill it again, he asked, ‘Could you tell me more about what happened here after my father’s murder?’

Michael waited for his own bowl to be refilled and for Agnes to return to her seat before he began. ‘It was true, what Agnes said, that word quickly spread you had killed your father, but those of us who knew the family well did not believe for a moment that was the truth.’ Agnes shook her head in agreement. ‘With you disappeared as well meant we all, at the manor, felt the loss of your family. Father and heir – gone in one swift stroke of the sword.’

‘For the next eight months, life was difficult at the fortress with strange soldiers arriving at dawn to herd out the serving staff. Great groups of faithful workers were sent away. It has now been nine winters since Agnes and I were forced to come to this valley to take care of the ragged land and make enough means to give the lord of the manor a satisfied harvest.’

‘Once my Banquo was gone,’ Agnes said, ‘there was no joy left in the place.’ Fleance remembered that, although their manor on the Lochaber boundary was a desolated and harsh place, it had been a place filled with laughter, stories and song. This was a memory that would always be with Fleance. ‘We were most glad to be rid of the place. Macbeth’s legacy still remains despite the king’s efforts to bring healing.’

‘But,’ Fleance said, ‘I remember both Macbeth and his wife being so kind.’

‘That may be, lad,’ Michael said. ‘But it seems that what we see does not necessarily show the truth of the situation.’

So, Fleance learnt the facts as the couple understood them. Banquo had been murdered and his son painted as an irredeemable murderer. Because the times were still unsettled, it was good that he had kept well hidden.

‘Do you know, lad, if all them fellows sent to destroy your father and you are gone?’

This was the nagging problem. ‘No, I don’t,’ he said. ‘I just know, to fix my future, and be free from my father’s ever-watchful presence, I need to do what he has commanded of me.’

The couple, again, shared a look. It did not fill Fleance with hope.

‘Well then, boy, you’ve got a great task ahead of you,’ Michael said, ‘and I don’t think we’re in a place to offer much more. You will have to go back to Lochaber because, though there is unlikely to be anyone from your time still there, you may happen upon some information that can show you the way forward.’

Michael was a realist. Fleance had to travel back to his home but it was unlikely there would be much joy in finding out what he was supposed to do. But, for his own heart, he desired to go back to at least have one final look at the place of his childhood.

They sat there for a long time discussing things back and forward until the topic moved to more pleasant recollections. Fleance said, ‘I do remember Da saying my temper was a beast to master.’ He smiled, the late-night air bringing soft remembrances.

Michael chuckled. ‘From all accounts, lad, you were not the easiest bairn to raise.’

He got up and stoked the fire which had burned low. One of the candles had gone out in the telling of stories so he replenished them. It was pleasing that the extra light came into the tiny cottage. ‘It is late. Tomorrow’s dawn brings fresh challenges. I suggest we retire.’

Agnes spread some hay in front of the hearth and laid a blanket on it. ‘I hope you will be comfortable here,’ she said.

‘Thank you again for your most generous hospitality,’ Fleance replied. He watched for the old couple to retire behind a curtain before taking off his boots, blowing out the candles and lying down on the makeshift bed. In the darkness he listened to the sounds of the wind buffeting the roof, the whispers of Michael and Agnes
and th
e soft snores of the lamb. Soon, exhaustion, good food and high emotion pulled him into a deep sleep.

Fleance was on the heath with his father. They were practising accuracy with the crossbow. Banquo always, every time, hit the bullseye. Fleance’s attempts were more than erratic.

After another misfire, he threw the crossbow to the ground. ‘Pox on it,’ he shouted. ‘The thing’s bewitched. I had the sight, and the bolt should have gone true.’ He turned to his father. ‘I need another weapon – this one is useless.’

Banquo quietly picked up the crossbow and handed it to Fleance. ‘Son, this bow was made by the finest craftsman you could find in Scotland. ’Tis not the instrument but the player who is lac
king.’

Fleance glared. The shame of failure burned his soul. ‘No,’ he shouted. ‘’Tis the bow. I have had better times with it before today.’

Banquo put a hand on Fleance’s shoulder. ‘True, boy. And that is because you were in a better state of mind than you are now. Tell me,’ he said quietly. ‘What is bothering you?’

Fleance couldn’t help it. Tears sprang from his eyes. ‘I miss Ma,’ he said. ‘One of the boys was laughing about how his ma always does silly tricks and I remembered, Da, I remembered Ma being so good with her stories and tricks.’ Now he was sobbing and Banquo pulled him into an embrace.

‘Aye, lad, I miss her too. She was a fine woman.’ His father held him there for a long time until Fleance’s sobs abated. Banquo pushed him in front. ‘So, aim to gain a woman as fine but now let’s turn back to the stroppy airs of this weapon which has a need of conquering.’

Viciously wiping the wet tears from his young face, Fleance picked up the weapon, loaded it and, with renewed energy, set about getting the target so that, each time, it was a bullseye.

Fleance woke to the sound of movement around the cottage. Agnes struck a flint to some kindling and Fleance watched it flare and give life and light to the lantern. He sat up. Agnes, though elderly, had good hearing and she turned.

‘Good morning. I did not mean to disturb you.’

‘It is fine. My limbs are still weary but my mind is alert.’

‘I’ll get this fire going and we’ll have breakfast soon.’ Agnes set about stoking the fire then she lifted up an iron pot. ‘Michael will be in after he has checked the flock. That wee one,’ she said, pointing to the lamb, ‘will be hungry.’ As if to confirm this, the lamb wiggled its tail and gave a plaintive bleat.

Fleance sat up and stretched his arms above his head to get rid of the stiffness in his back. ‘Let me do that for you,’ he said, pulling on his boots.

‘That’s very kind of you,’ Agnes said and passed him the pot. ‘The stream is down the path – you can’t miss it.’

He took the pot and went out into the cold morning. The sun was barely up but it made no difference because a thick mist shrouded the countryside. Fleance had to search for the rough path that meandered downhill. He was completely enveloped by the cloud and mist and could barely find his way.

Fleance hesitated. He was surrounded and he had the strongest feeling that the mist was hiding something from him.

Perhaps he should head back because he certainly couldn’t hear the stream as Agnes had suggested; perhaps he had taken the wrong path. Perhaps he was in the wrong place. He thought of turning back to the cottage to let Agnes know he was lost but could not bring himself to admit defeat.

Then, no sooner had he thought that, than the bubbling sound of water on rock reached his ears. Thank God.