Lady Macbeth's Daughter (13 page)

“Tell me everything,” I say in a small, tight voice. “Tell me who I am and how I came here.”

Throughout the remaining hours of that long night, Geillis, Rhuven, and Helwain unfold the long and complicated tale. From hand to hand they pass the thread of my life, until I am dizzied by the whirling, falling spindle and vexed by the tangled strands they weave. I hear how the lady Grelach bore me and tried to hide my lame foot from her husband; how Macbeth, believing me cursed, seized me from her arms and put me out as food for the wolves; how Rhuven saved me and brought me to Geillis, who raised me as the child of her own, never-filled womb.

“Do they even know I am alive?” I ask, my voice rising as if it would leave my throat altogether.

“No, and they must never find out,” says Rhuven.

“You are not to seek out Macbeth and his lady,” Helwain orders.

“Why not?” I ask, lifting my chin. The time when I let Helwain tell me what to do is long past.

Rhuven shakes her head at Helwain. There is something else she does not want spoken. But Helwain says that I must know, despite the risk.

So I hear the dark and terrible secret that Rhuven has shared with no one but her sisters: that Macbeth and his wife, whetting their ambition until it was sharper than a steel blade, slew King Duncan as he slept under their very roof, innocent and unsuspecting.

Thus I learn that I am the daughter of a murderer and his wife, Macbeth and Grelach—my father and mother? No, monsters who did not scruple to kill their very own flesh and blood, and hardened by that first crime, boldly took the life of a king and his harmless servants. How can I live with this terrible truth? It shakes me to the marrow of my bones. I no longer know myself. Why did I not leave the past buried?

I hurl bitter words at the sisters, charging them with malice against Macbeth for slaying Gillam and making them homeless. I accuse them of raising me in hopes of restoring me to the queen for reward. But my ranting subsides when I see the grief in Geillis’s eyes, Rhuven’s fear, and Helwain’s pain. They have done me no wrong. They are also victims. Now I understand that it is because of Macbeth and his wife that all of Scotland suffers.

“I hate them! Not you,” I cry. “And I am their fruit. I fell from that rotten tree.” My voice rises to a wail. “Oh, I hate myself, too!”

“Nay, Albia, their crimes cannot stain you,” says Geillis with earnest feeling in her failing voice. “You have none of their wickedness in you.”

I think of my quick temper with Colum, my hatred of Helwain, the times I struck Fleance, and my sudden passion for him.

“Aye, I do have a violent nature,” I whisper.

The peat fire has died down to embers. A few birds begin to twitter. Soon it will be the morning of another sunless day. Geillis’s breath grows ragged.

“Come here, Albia,” says Helwain.

I get up and obey her. She puts my hand through the armlet with the red stones. The chill of the metal goes through me like a knife blade.

“I don’t want it, if it was hers.”

“You cannot refuse it. Wear it,” she orders. “Your mother is descended of a just king. Macbeth has corrupted her. But you can remedy their evil.” Her eyes are shining with conviction. “Albia, you have been chosen!”

A harsh laugh escapes me. “What shall I do? Ride up to Dun Forres and kill Macbeth for you?”

“This is no matter for jesting,” Helwain says sharply.

Rhuven adds her own rebuke. “Albia, never speak of what you have learned. It is dangerous—for all of us.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” I say, shaking my head.

“Leave her be, sisters,” Geillis pleads. “It is too much for her. Dearest Albia, give me your hand.”

I kneel down and put my fingers in her dry palm. The red gem in the armlet gleams like an eye between us.

“Forgive me, daughter. Forgive us. All that we did, was done to save your life.”

I fall asleep from exhaustion and wake up to the sound of Rhuven and Helwain weeping. Geillis no longer breathes. I am holding her lifeless hand and lying beside her like a newborn. She is my mother in the truest sense. As are Rhuven and Helwain, for all three of them gave me life again after Macbeth and Grelach took it away.

Helwain and Rhuven wash Geillis’s body with fragrant herbs and wrap it in a cloth. They place her on the sledge and hitch it to the horse. I follow them, my limbs heavy as iron, to a grassy verge near the ancient oak tree, Pitdarroch. Murdo is there, digging a hole. It is late spring and Colum must be on the shieling already. I want him to be here! We place my mother gently in the earth, then use the sledge and Murdo’s cart to gather rocks. Wordlessly we pile them on the grave, making a cairn. Each stone seems to weigh as much as the world. Helwain and Rhuven are weeping still. I wonder dully where my tears have gone. Have I, the daughter of evil, no tender feeling left for this good woman who mothered me?

When Rhuven and Helwain leave, I do not go with them. I stay at the cairn, fighting off sleep. The nightingale sings and the owl sends out its quavering cry. Beneath my sleeve, the gold and ruby armlet holds me in its cold grip. My mind turns over and over the history of Macbeth and Grelach and dwells on the awful image of a red-haired man, his dagger poised over the king’s breast. Though I try to banish the image, my mind’s eye gazes fixedly at the hand and the dagger. Slowly a memory surfaces of a long-forgotten dream that came to me on Wanluck Mhor when the thorn drew blood from my palm. Did I not see a bloody dagger in a man’s hand then? Could it have been the very hand and the very dagger that would slay Duncan?

A cry escapes me at the sudden awareness that I do have the Sight, as Helwain suspected. I can deny it no longer. On the moor, I glimpsed the Asyet-world where Macbeth would murder the king and his servants. What other bloody deeds have I foreseen? Just now I cannot bear remembering. I realize I have not slept in two days or more. But I am afraid to sleep, afraid of what I might unwittingly dream.

“O Mother, what shall I do with this unwelcome knowledge?” I call out in the darkness.

The moon has risen, wrapped in clouds. A sudden silvery gleam, like light glancing off the water, makes me blink. It illumines the mist before me and I rise to follow it, stumbling on the rough ground. The feathers of an owl’s wing whisper through the air, a flash of white.

Come back! Don’t leave me!

The moon shrugs aside its clouds and shines upon the tangled branches of the ancient oak. The owl settles among its leaves and becomes invisible. I kneel down at the base of the tree, where the thick trunk casts a deep black shadow as if the earth gaped open there. And like a cloak snatched from my body, I feel Geillis leave me and know that she has entered the Other-world.

Finally my tears come, and afterward a sleep so profound that nothing can be dreamt there.

When I open my eyes, Colum’s face is before me with its nimbus of curly hair. His hands cradle my head in his lap.

“I’m sorry for you,” he says. His thumbs brush the corners of my eyes, where the tears have started up again. I close my eyes and open them and he is still there. This is no dream.

“How did you know . . . I wanted you to come?” I say, still half-asleep. His arms around me are a comfort. “You know about my mother. But how?”

“I didn’t know. Caora only said that you needed me,” he admits. “So we came at once. And when I saw the cairn, I knew why.”

Caora’s face appears beside Colum’s. Her gold eyes sparkle, and her long, fine hair blows across her cheeks. She puts her hands on Colum’s shoulders, and he stops moving his thumbs against my temples.

So Colum is in love with Caora! I sit up and slide away from him.

“How did you know about Geillis?” I ask Caora.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says. “Let me get you some water.”

Caora leaves and I gaze at Colum, his familiar face a welcome sight.

“Why didn’t you visit me at Dunbeag? I hoped you would.” I take his hand to soften the reproach.

“I thought about it. Then I decided that in a new place you would forget me and make new friends.”

I feel myself redden, thinking of Fleance. “Why would I forget you?”

Colum searches my face and sighs. “Have you found a fellow, then?”

I ignore the question. “I missed going to the shieling this year.”

Colum frowns. “Be glad you were not there. The thane’s warband torched my bothy and stole half the flock. Caora and I were lucky to escape unharmed.”

Anger stirs in me. “It is King Macbeth’s fault!” How strange to speak his name now, knowing that he is my father. “He claims the land that should be free to everyone.”

“He is the king, so all of Scotland belongs to him,” Colum says with a shrug. “We will find a more remote pasture next year.”

“The king is a tyrant!” I cry. “You have no idea how terrible he is. He doesn’t deserve to live.”

Colum looks astonished. “Albia, you must never say such things. It is as much a crime to denounce the king as it is to blaspheme against God. The priest says so.”

“The priest does not know what I know. I will tell you something, Colum, but you must keep it a secret.”

As soon as I speak, I remember Rhuven’s warning. The knowledge I have is dangerous. But Colum is my dearest friend. What harm could come of telling him?

“I can keep the greatest secret for your sake,” he says solemnly.

“I trust you, Colum, so listen. Macbeth is the worst sinner among men.” My voice comes out as a hoarse whisper. “He did much more than speak against the king. He murdered him with a dagger, then slew his two groomsmen and made it look like their deed. All so that he could become king.”

Colum draws back, shaking his head in disbelief.

“I have the Sight, Colum. Long ago I saw the murder in a waking dream.”

“Albia, you’re full of grief now, and what you say—is madness!”

“No, I am as clear-headed as you. Duncan’s murder happened just as I dreamt it. Rhuven was there and the queen confessed to her. Colum, as I am your friend, you must believe me. What I say is the truth.”

“The king—a murderer?” Colum says. “Our fair land is ruled by one so . . . so foul?”

“More foul than you know. He deserves to have his flesh flayed from his bones for what he did to—” I bite my tongue. I am not ready to reveal my still darker secret, that I am the daughter of this king killer.

Just then Caora returns with a flask of water. I avoid her eyes, trying to concentrate on the pure, cold water slipping down my throat.

“So Blagdarc, the god of night, now reigns through the evil Macbeth,” she says to me in a low voice.

Startled, I steal a sideways glance at Caora. How could she have overheard the secret I told Colum?

“All of nature will be out of order until his reign is ended.” Her golden eyes meet mine and she seems to see within me. “Nor will you find peace until then.”

I feel the armlet, cold and tight. It reminds me that I am the daughter of the tyrant king and his queen. One victim of their depthless evil, but still alive to thwart them.

I thrust the water-flask at Caora and jump to my feet so fast the world seems to spin around my head.

“I am going back to Dunbeag now, where I will tell Banquo about Macbeth’s crime. He is already unhappy with the king’s rule. Certainly he will take action.”

The sudden idea gives me confidence, shores up my broken self with a sense of purpose. Later I will consider the consequences, but now I will act.

Chapter 13

Dunbeag

Albia

Colum and Caora travel with me until Dunbeag comes into view. We say our farewells, and I almost cry as Colum embraces me and walks away with the fleecy-haired Caora at his side. I want him walking beside me. I want Geillis back.

The streets and alehouses of the village are filled with rowdy soldiers and the stables with restive horses. From every tower of Banquo’s house colorful standards fly. I quicken my steps in anticipation of a festival or a display of war-games.

Breda meets me at the door and pulls me roughly inside.

“At last you’ve come back! Can’t you see I need your help?” She spares not a word of sympathy or a glance of pity. “You must help the cook dress the fowl. Go now.”

“What is the occasion?” I ask.

“Why, the king himself is here. Banquo is with him now.”

I freeze and grasp the frame of the doorway.

“Did the queen come, too?” My voice is a hoarse whisper.

“Nay, she is said to be unwell. ’Tis our misfortune.”

I want to flee, but Breda has her hands on me. She steers me into the kitchen, and the cook sends me outside. In the yard, a fire burns under an iron spit. Fleance is cutting apart a boar’s carcass while shrieking crows fall upon the guts. A servant plucks feathers from dead fowl and tosses them into a pile. Nearby is a creel full of headless fish, their scales slippery and glistening with blood. I carry the plucked birds into the kitchen, and the cook sets me to work on the pastries. My hands shake. I break eggs and spill flour like a clumsy child.

My own father is in this house. Its walls are all that separate us.

My awareness that he is near fills me with dread and desire alike. I put down the pastry roller and walk out of the kitchen. The house is not very large, and when I see the guards in the central hallway, I know that
he
is in the nearest chamber, the one directly beneath my room. I climb the stairs on the tips of my toes and lie down with my ear pressed to the floor. I hear a demanding voice, not Banquo’s. It must be the king’s.