Lady Macbeth's Daughter (16 page)

“How long have you kept it from me?” he demands, his black eyes prying into my very soul.

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Are you alone?”

“Aye,” I lie, knowing that Rhuven is in the next chamber, listening, and that she will raise the alarm if he tries to harm me.

“She lives. I have seen her with these very eyes.” He stabs the air in front of his face with both forefingers.

“Who lives?” I ask, growing impatient.

“Don’t pretend ignorance! How did she come by the gold and ruby armlet?”

“My lord, you are speaking madness. Explain yourself.” I watch his hands lest they reach for his dagger.

Instead Macbeth grabs my wrist. “The gem I gave you. I put it on this arm when we were married.”

I do remember that jewel. It softened me toward my new and strange husband.

“I have not seen it for many years. I thought you took it away from me until I bore you a son.”

“I did not. You lie. You deceived me. Like the fateful sisters, you have played foul with me. She lives! Our daughter lives!”

My knees give way and I sink to the floor, slipping from his grasp. The image of a pink-cheeked baby suckling my breast flickers through my mind. Desire tears at me from inside and old grief rises to choke me.

“How can . . . she be . . . alive?”

“I saw her on the heath last night at Dunbeag.” My husband’s voice is barely above a whisper as he falls to his knees beside me. “She had your jewel. Her eyes are like yours.”

“What about her foot?” I ask, testing him.

“She walks like any woman,” he says, his black eyes glistening like one who has a fever and sees what is not there.

“How dare you lift my hopes like this?” I cry, striking him with all my strength. “It cannot be her. My daughter was crippled. She has been dead almost sixteen years, and it was you who killed her!”

“Nay, she is Banquo’s daughter now. Beautiful. I know her. It was the jewel. She got it from you.”

The jumble of words makes no sense. Has my husband been bewitched by some woman—or phantom of a woman? Jealousy pricks me. And fear of what he might let slip in his growing madness.

“Rhuven!” I cry. “Come quickly.”

In a moment she is at my side. Macbeth jumps to his feet and grabs her by the shoulders, lifting her right off the ground.

“What do you know of my daughter?” he growls. “Tell me how it is that she lives.”

The color drains from Rhuven’s face. Only her eyes are bright with terror. She kicks her feet to find the floor again. I pull at my husband’s arms until he releases her.

She looks from Macbeth to me, then boldly fixes her eyes on his. “You are mistaken. Eadulf left her to the wolves. I . . . I saw her body and . . . put it in the ground.” A dry sob comes from her throat. It sounds forced. Has she, too, buried her grief so deep it cannot be found?

I stare at my husband with new hatred, that he should burst into my chamber and remind me of my old sorrow. But already he has forgotten us both in his ranting.

“It was Banquo’s doing. He shelters the witch. He uses her against me. Now I know he is a traitor!”

Even as I watch, Macbeth’s murderous thoughts become manifest. His eyes narrow into slits and his right hand plays over the hilt of his dagger. My pulse quickens in warning. Then he claps his hands together and calls loudly for Eadulf, the rogue who does the deeds he is too cowardly to claim.

I rub my fingers against my thumbs until the skin is raw and grind my palms together until the bones of my hands hurt. Rhuven gives me poppy crushed in wine to calm me, but it does not help me sleep, so she gives me even stronger mandragora. Still I cannot sleep. I rub my hands without ceasing, but I can no longer feel the pain.

Eadulf left a week ago. My lord and I have barely spoken. I doubt that Banquo is disloyal. But his death warrant is already signed, and that of his son. Will they see the murderers coming and put up a fight, or will they be slain with their eyes closed in sleep? Why must Eadulf kill the boy? He is no threat. I think of how his mother will grieve.

And what will happen to Banquo’s daughter, the girl Macbeth thinks is ours because she happens to have a jeweled armlet? Nothing will protect her from a mad king bent on murder. I cannot sleep. I dare not even close my eyes. Rhuven is also afraid. She asks my leave to go away again, but I will not permit it. I must have her by me. I cannot know when Macbeth will succumb to another fit.

Nor can I stop tormenting myself, asking Rhuven, “If I had saved my daughter, might everything be different now?”

And Rhuven replies, “It is no use saying, ‘What if this or that.’ It changes nothing.”

“Is it because I let her die that the saints have cursed me, and the gods given me no sons?”

“The saints don’t have such power, and the gods are not so cruel. Remember, you are the queen, and let that be your comfort,” she replies.

I laugh bitterly. “To be queen is no comfort! My eyes do not sleep, my hands are raw with rubbing, my husband is crazed, and our love has turned to hate and fear of each other.”

Then I begin to sob, choking and shaking for more than an hour, though not a tear falls that might relieve me.

“Grelach, my lady, you must try to stop,” Rhuven says worriedly, plying me with wine. It smells of mandragora, sweet and strong. “Tonight is the banquet and you must be fit to greet the king’s guests.”

Rhuven helps me dress in a long tunic of red silk and links of gold about my waist. I think of a prisoner’s chains. She braids my hair, wraps the braids around my head, and sets my crown within. It is not heavy, but it weighs down my head like a rock tied to my hair. Now I am ready to play the king’s loving wife.

A fire in the hearth fights the chilly air in the dining hall. Torches blaze, sending up curls of black smoke. The most powerful thanes—Ross and Lennox, Angus and Siward of Northumberland—are all gathered here. I take my lesser seat beside the king’s chair and permit them to kiss my hand in greeting. My lord mingles with his thanes, calling out a hearty welcome. I watch their faces and think that I see flickers of discontent when he passes by.

Then I notice that Banquo is not among the party. As the king’s general, he should be here. From time to time I glance hopefully at the door, but he does not come. My lord is unusually animated. Is it merely the wine—or another crime—that makes him so excited? My hands begin to throb. I will not think about it.

Luoch sits at a table staring into the fire. He should be among the thanes, listening to their conversations as I instructed him. I glare at him until he looks up. With a motion of my head, I summon him to me. Almost eighteen, he is a tall and awkward carl. He should be more of a man.

“Why do you sit at the table like a child waiting to be fed?”

“I’m hungry,” he says.

I resist the impulse to reach up and strike him. What makes me think that he could ever rise to the throne? He has no more ambition than a slug.

“See those men? Put yourself in their midst. Listen to what they say. Speak to them. Win their respect.”

Luoch runs his hand through his wild black hair and pouts, as he always used to when he planned to defy me.

“I don’t have anything to say. I have been in no battles. They ignore me as if I am not here.”

“That is because you make yourself invisible. At least use your ears and listen,” I order him. “Go, and don’t be such a lackwit!”

“Aye, Mother,” he says with a sigh. Obediently he shambles off and greets the thane of Lennox and offers to fill his cup. Then he glances up at me and I nod.

He knows he must please me, and he will yet do so.

Macbeth calls for his men to be seated. I take my place at the table. There is a movement in the doorway. At last, I think, Banquo has arrived, and Fleance with him.

But the man in the doorway is Eadulf. He wears a hood but I recognize the blotch on his cheek. My lord gets up, almost knocking over his chair. He strides over to Eadulf and they whisper in the doorway. My lord’s back is to me, but I see him clap Eadulf ’s shoulders in approval. The next moment he shoves Eadulf, sending him sprawling, and brings his arms back as if to strike him again. Instead he grabs his own head and growls. Eadulf scrambles away. Does this mean Banquo and Fleance are yet alive?

I hurry to my husband’s side. The mandragora makes my head spin and it is a struggle to stay upright. Now the thanes have taken notice and they stand up to see better. I have no time to ask Macbeth what Eadulf has done—or not done.

“My lord, you must come to the table now and welcome the men to eat,” I say in a low voice, gripping his arm and leading him toward his seat.

After a few steps he halts. “Good appetite and health to all!” he announces in a forced and hearty tone. “All that our feast lacks is the presence of Banquo. I hope that no mischance keeps him away.”

Does he speak in a double sense? I cannot tell.

“Sit, my liege. I may not eat until you do,” says Ross, gesturing toward my lord’s chair.

But still my lord stands there. He looks at his chair.

“The table is full,” he says as a fearful look contorts his face.

The thanes begin to murmur and look doubtful.

“Which of you has done this?” asks Macbeth, shifting his glance from face to face, his body still rigid. “You may not say that I did it.”

My pulse quickens in alarm. I dash to my lord’s chair and grip its back, urging him to come and sit.

“Don’t shake your gory locks at me!” he shouts, pointing to the chair.

The chair is empty. Can he not see that? Who does he see there? Is it Duncan’s ghost?

“Dear friends, sit down,” I call, my voice rising over theirs. “My lord is not well. These fits sometimes come upon him. He will recover in a moment. Do not regard him, or he will become more disturbed.”

I rush back to Macbeth’s side and drag him with difficulty into a nook.

“What folly is this? Come to your senses. Be still, and say nothing more,” I beg, terrified that he is on the brink of confessing our crime to all the thanes.

He stares beyond me. “If you can nod, then speak, too!” he demands. He grips my arm, saying, “Look, he goes now.”

“What you see is no more real than a painting. An image of your fears.”

I glance behind me at the table. The thanes are seated. They are quiet. No one is eating.

“In the olden times, when the brains were out, a man would die,” Macbeth whispers, amazed. “But now they rise again, which is a greater wonder.”

Then as suddenly as it came, the fit is over. He walks to the table like himself, a king. I follow and take my seat, my legs and hands still trembling. Macbeth raises a cup, and drinks—to Banquo’s health! A chill constricts my chest. It is just like my lord to toast Banquo while plotting his death, as he professed his loyalty for Duncan after he had killed him. It is my lord’s way: to hide his guilt by feigning love.

The men lift their cups and drink. “Where is Banquo?” they murmur.

My lord jumps from his chair and sends it crashing to the floor.

“Away and quit my sight!” he shouts. His face is as white as a linen sheet.

My hands fly up, knocking over my cup, and the wine pours into my lap. My lord is raving again.

“How can you behold such sights without blanching?” he demands of his thanes.

Only Ross dares respond. “What sights, my lord?”

“I pray you, don’t speak!” I cry out before my lord can reply. “My husband grows worse and worse. Good night, all. Go at once.”

The men get up and quietly leave. Luoch is the last to go. He glances over his shoulder at Macbeth, his nostrils flared with disgust. I wave him away.

My lord and I are alone in the hall. The untouched food grows cold on the platters. The torchlights flicker and shadows on the wall dance as if to mock us. I can barely speak for the anger in me.

“Did you invite all your thanes here in order to witness your madness? You have no doubt roused their worst suspicions, and they will plot to overthrow you.”

“The small serpent has fled,” he says, not attending to my words at all.

“What do you mean? Don’t speak in riddles,” I demand, my patience gone.

“Fleance escaped, but his father lies dead in a ditch.”

I sink down onto a bench, dropping my head into my hands.

“And you think that after tonight’s display, none here will suspect that you had a hand in the deed?” I ask, dismayed. “How will you justify it?”

“He was caught poaching game on my land. The wardens shot him.”

“Even so! To kill a thane without a trial? This is a sure way to turn the others against you.”

My lord is not listening. He holds out his hands and examines them. They are powerful and long-fingered, the bloodstains hidden beneath the skin.

“There is still more to be done,” he says.

“Fleance? The youth is no threat to us. You are king, as promised. Let the rest be.” I am begging him now. “You tempt fate, and I fear it will destroy you.”

But I might as well be talking to a stone, for still my lord does not heed me.

“I will go to the Wyrd sisters again. They will tell me what is to come.”

I grab his chin, forcing him to look at me. “Hear me, and do not go!”