Lady Macbeth's Daughter (21 page)

“I thought you were not much like your mother—like Geillis.”

“I wonder what my mother
is
like. Grelach, I mean. Is she as coldhearted as my father?”

“If she is anything like her daughter, she must be strong-willed and hard to please,” he says in a teasing tone.

I dig my elbow into him. “Those may be her
best
traits,” I say with a wry smile.

“She must have some kindness in her, for your nature can be as soft as a lamb’s coat.”

I feel Colum’s cheek resting upon my head.

“If I am at all good or gentle, that is due to Geillis’s care,” I say. “My own mother, you remember, left me for dead.”

“You don’t know everything that happened then. Perhaps she longs for you every day.”

“She doesn’t even know that I am alive. She never even tried to find me!” I am gripping Nocklavey’s mane so tight my hands hurt.

“If she thinks you died, why would she look for you?”

Colum’s reasonable tone only irritates me, and I toss my head impatiently.

“I only know that I never want to see her,” I say, but my voice lacks the conviction that I intend.

“One more thing about your mother. She . . . must be very beautiful,” says Colum in a low voice.

“Perhaps she is,” I admit. “But it is my father’s red hair and pale skin that I have.”

Colum sighs. “I don’t care if you were born from sheep-stealing wolves. I will always be your friend.”

At the end of the second day of our journey, the River Spey reveals itself in the distance, a glistening gray ribbon winding through a wide, flat vale. By dusk we reach her banks, where grasses, crowberry bushes, and birch saplings flourish, a small paradise fed by the rushing river. Colum and I dismount, doff our weapons, and drink deeply.

But Nocklavey, though his mouth is flecked with foam and his sides glisten with sweat, shies back from the riverbank and will not drink.

“You gave him a fitting name,” remarks Colum. “The monster Nocklavey could not abide fresh water.”

Colum jumps into the river and while he splashes like a delighted child, I linger on the bank, cooling my feet and dipping my hands in the water. The swaying underwater grasses put me in mind of the thin arms of the Greentooth hag that stole away Colum’s little cousin. Should I warn Colum to stay close to the shore?

Colum rears up out of the water, his long hair sleeked back from his face.

“Come in, Albia! If you cannot swim, I will teach you how.”

There seems to be nothing to fear from this river. I take another step into the stream, feeling the slippery stones beneath my feet. The river tugs at my legs, inviting me into its cool depths.

Nocklavey lets out a high whinny of warning. I freeze in my footsteps, suddenly afraid of the swirling water. I hear his heavy hoof paw the ground and turn to see a man running toward us in a crouching position, a dagger in his hand. Does he mean to steal Nocklavey or to attack me? My shield and sword are lying on the ground near Nocklavey. It is easy to see that the man will get to them first.

“Colum, help!” I scream.

Nocklavey lightly leaps in front of the man, giving me time to dash from the water and grab my sword. The man tries to hold Nocklavey’s harness, but with a swing of his great head the beast knocks him to the ground. He scrambles to his knees and lays his hand on his dagger, but I am already upon him.

“Don’t move. Who are you?” I raise my sword over him.

The man lets out a garbled, throaty noise. I see that his clothes are torn and filthy with mud or maybe blood, and his feet are bare. But his arms are thick and strong. He could easily leap up and overpower me.

“Who are you? Speak!” I demand, louder.

“Is he alone?” asks Colum. Dripping with river water, he fumbles in search of his bow and arrows.

The man stares up at me. His mouth is a hollow O in his face, which is pale except for a mark like a splash of wine upon his cheek.

Rhuven has described this man to me. Fleance, too, knows his evil face.

“Eadulf,” I whisper, my skin prickling with horror. “Murderer!” My sword-arm trembles with the desire to strike. “Do you know who I am?”

In a single motion he lunges to his feet, clutching the knife. I leap back, barely avoiding his blade, and bring mine down, cleaving the bones of his hand. The dagger falls from his harmless fingers.

“You’ll never strike at me again, villain. Now speak, or I
will
kill you.” I am so angry, all my limbs are trembling.

Eadulf ’s reply is a guttural howl from deep in his throat. His mouth opens wide in agony and a trail of bloody spittle drips from his lips as he stares at his broken hand.

“Albia, he cannot speak. He has no tongue!” cries Colum, seizing my sword-arm.

“By the pitiless gods,” I whisper, staring at his mouth. “Who did this to you?”

With his good hand, Eadulf points to his head and makes a circling motion.

At once I understand. “Colum, it was the king! Macbeth punished him because he failed to kill Fleance as well as Banquo. Silenced him, so that he could never speak of his crime. Am I right?”

Eadulf nods. Then with further gestures he manages to convey that he meant only to steal the horse.

“Were you at Dunduff ?” Colum demands. “Do you know what happened there?”

He shakes his head vigorously and indicates that he is alone, that the king drove him away.

“Colum, I don’t trust him. He slew Banquo and tried to kill Fleance. If I were to kill him it would be a just revenge.”

“Your quarrel is with the king, Albia; this man is only his instrument. A broken, discarded one at that.” Colum begins to clean and bind up Eadulf ’s hand, using a strip of cloth from his own tunic.

“He doesn’t deserve our mercy,” I say, still holding my sword. I am wary, knowing that Eadulf ’s good hand could easily smash the side of Colum’s head.

“Remember, he spared your life once before,” Colum says softly.

“But he took Rhuven’s virtue.”

“A price she willingly paid,” he reminds me, having listened well to my story.

Eadulf has been following our conversation, his eyes growing ever wider. Now he grunts with the desire to speak. He points to me, his hand circles his head again, and he makes the motion of cradling a baby, then points to me again. He is asking me a question.

“Yes,” I reply, “I am the king’s daughter. But no more like him, I pray, than the daylight is to the darkness.”

At that Eadulf, careless of his broken hand, throws himself at my feet and wraps his arms around my legs, and by the noises coming from his throat, I think he must be sobbing.

Chapter 19

The Grampian Mountains

Albia

Eadulf will not be left behind. With fervent signs he indicates that he fears Macbeth and that he wishes to join us in seeking the rebels.

“What shall we do?” I whisper to Colum. “Unless we tie him up, he will follow us.”

“If we leave him tied up here, he will die. We must bring him with us.”

“Colum, you are too innocent. Even with an injured hand, he is still strong enough to harm us.”

“Albia, I am certain he will not hurt you. Did you not see the look that came over him when he realized who you were? You are his savior.”

Still I am reluctant. “Even if he does not plan to murder me, he might steal Nocklavey while we sleep. He has spent so long serving Macbeth, he must be a master of deception.”

“Can’t a man change? Look at him, as much a victim of the king as you once were.”

Seeing Eadulf in pain and looking desperate, I wonder for a moment if he had been unwilling to murder Banquo. Did he let Fleance escape? And all those years ago, was he perhaps relieved not to carry out Macbeth’s command to leave me for the wolves?

Colum’s pleas finally persuade me to give the rogue a chance, and the three of us set out together. Eadulf travels on foot. He holds up his hands and will not come near Nocklavey, as if to assure us of his good intentions. For his part the beast eyes Eadulf as if warning him and stamps his mighty hoof, showing his strength.

Following the winding River Spey, we journey for several days, crossing the broad strath, the valley where the distant mountains can be seen disappearing into the clouds. We travel through groves of trees that close around us protectively, then open again into dales where the river spreads out like a lake. A few dwellings nestle at a point where a tributary stream flows into the Spey. As we approach, an acrid smell greets us. The huts seem deserted; one smolders from a recent fire. Nocklavey comes to a halt and throws his head to the side as if bidding us turn around.

“Macbeth’s men are not far ahead,” I say to Colum. “We are no match for them. Which way should we go now?”

Eadulf makes a noise to get our attention. Taking a stick, he draws on the pebbly shore and points to the mountains in the distance.

“The Spey flows on, then doubles back?” I ask.

Eadulf nods. He makes another mark on his map, then taps the ground firmly.

“Do you mean we should leave following the river and cross those mountains?”

Eadulf crosses his arms over his chest with a satisfied look.

“We might head them off and reach Angus’s lands first,” I say to Colum.

Together we gaze at the mountains, their steep sides streaked with snow. Their peaks are hidden. How high do they rise? I have no idea what to expect there.

“Those must be the Grampian Mountains that Wee Duff spoke of,” Colum says, sounding awed.

Then I look at Eadulf and see not the man who killed Banquo, but one who wants, almost as badly as I do, to vanquish Macbeth. I will have to trust him.

“We will go the way you advise,” I decide.

We turn our backs to the river and face the mountains. Soon we enter the fringes of a pine wood whose fallen needles soften our steps and deaden every sound. Unlike the arching wychelms, these trees grow straight and tall, their branches so far above our heads they would be impossible to climb. While the bracken and bushes are brown, the distant tops of the pines are still green, as if death has not yet reached that high.

There is no path through these untraveled woods. Fallen trees lie across one another, their trunks so thick that not even Nocklavey can leap over them. We backtrack around them and climb and climb, skirting ravines that open in the earth unforeseen. We cross icy streams and pass under cataracts that plunge from overhanging cliffs. We sleep in the caves that gape beneath huge boulders, making our beds from fern fronds and pine needles. Not a single berry on a withered bush remains for us to eat, but Colum has the luck to shoot a gray fox. It makes a small feast, and the fulness in our bellies distracts us briefly. But the uncertainty, like hunger, soon returns. How long will it take us to cross these mountains? What will we find beyond them? What if Eadulf leads us astray, by accident or intent?

The higher we climb, the colder the air becomes until our breath hangs in the air before us. Nocklavey’s flesh, dark with sweat, steams. Then the pine forest suddenly ends and we find ourselves facing an implacable ridge of rock. Only the nimblest of mountain sheep could find a footing there. We dismount and Colum leads Nocklavey while Eadulf and I go on foot, seeking out a path. Our ascent is slow and perilous, but at last we reach the crest, only to see a higher one beyond, scattered with scree and snow. A cry of dismay escapes me but Eadulf, undeterred, plunges onward. Colum and I have no choice but to follow, stumbling on the loose rock and slipping in the snow. For two days we scramble up and down the steep faces. My feet, bruised by the rocks, ache with cold, and my hands are raw from gripping the rough stones. My recent fever has sapped my usual strength, and the muscles in my legs tremble from exertion.

The third night draws on since we left the Spey, and the fading light turns the snow-spotted mountainsides blue and gray. I ride Nocklavey to spare my sore hands and feet, while Colum and Eadulf scout ahead for the easiest passage. All at once an icy wind blows up as if from the rocks themselves, and huge flakes of snow swirl around me. Nocklavey and I are enveloped by a whiteness as all-encompassing as night. He stops, turns, takes a few steps, turns again, as if seeking a way out of this strange darkness. I no longer know which direction we are facing. The world has become invisible. We might be on a precipice, about to fall to our doom. But I cling to Nocklavey’s mane, for I am less afraid to be on his back than on foot.

“Colum. Where are you?” I shout into the snowstorm that roars in my ears like a god who is angry that we trespass on his frozen lands.

No reply comes back to me. What if I cannot find Colum and Eadulf ? How will any of us survive without shelter? I tell myself that Eadulf is not the sort to perish from a single night of cold. And Colum can make a fire anywhere, dry or wet. But what about me? I am already shivering like one with a deathly fever.

A low whinny reverberates in Nocklavey’s broad chest. He throws his mighty head from side to side and steps backward as if avoiding some danger. The skin on my neck and arms begins to tingle.

“What is it?” I whisper, peering into the thick gray-white fog. I make out a dim shape near the ground, like a rock. But then it moves. A gust of wind scatters the snow and mist like a hand parting a curtain, and I see, not twenty feet away, a large gray boar with a long snout. I close my eyes and quickly shake my head to clear my mind of the dreamlike figment. But when I open my eyes, the animal is still there, snow on its back, its dark tusks curving upward in menace. It stamps the ground on short legs and lowers its head. My hand scrambles behind me for my sword, just as the beast begins to charge. I see its red eyes glowing like fiery embers the instant it leaps at Nocklavey. The furious horse rears up. Unprepared, I tumble from his back and my sword flies from my hand into the snow.