Lady Macbeth's Daughter (27 page)

“Now that Macbeth is dead,” she says, “I must tell you something—a secret I have kept for years.”

“Rhuven, we have no secrets from each other,” I say with a sigh. “You have been with me since I was a mere girl.”

“I pray you will forgive me for holding it so long. It has been a heavy weight on me.”

“What do you know of the burden of secrets?” I say bitterly. I stand up to stretch my limbs.

“Listen to me, Grelach!” she pleads. “Your daughter—”

I cover my ears with my hands. “Do not remind me of old griefs!”

Rhuven takes my hands in her own and whispers, “She lives.”

“My daughter has been dead these sixteen years,” I say sharply. “Macbeth was mad when he swore he saw her. How could you believe him?”

“Because he
did
see her. She
is
alive, and I have seen her.”

I stare at Rhuven, stunned. In all my life I have trusted no one more than her. But now I learn that even she deceived me.

“Then you lied before . . . when you told Macbeth you saw her body.” My mind forms the words slowly. “Why should I believe you now?” I pull my hands away from her grasp.

“Because I am the one who saved her life when she was a baby. I took her to my sisters, who raised her in secret. Then Banquo and his wife fostered her, and that is how the king came to see her at Dunbeag. I know it seems impossible, but it is true.”

I can only shake my head and wonder, What is true? Is Macbeth truly dead? I have not seen his body, though Seyton did. Does my daughter truly live? Rhuven claims to have seen her. Rhuven has known all along!

“Why did you hide this from me?” I demand. “Why? How different my life would have been, if I had only known!” I clutch my head to stop the whirling of my thoughts.

“Listen, Grelach,” cries Rhuven, now in tears. “I hid the truth in order to spare three lives. You would have sought her out, and then Macbeth would have killed you both, and me as well.”

I see that Rhuven did what she had to. I must not blame her, yet I am still angry. Not at Rhuven, but at my lord, for taking my daughter away. I have lived with this anger for sixteen years. Then it comes to me: Macbeth is dead, and I am free. Free to seek my child.

“What is her name?” I whisper.

“Albia.”

I turn the name over on my tongue. I wonder if she looks like me.

“Does she know about me? Where is she?”

“I don’t know where she is now. But aye, she knows the truth. It has made her confused and angry.” Rhuven sighs. “Banquo’s death has also made her want revenge. She was seeking Macduff—”

“Then she is also against me!” I wail. “Must my children both despise their mother’s weakness? Alas, I deserve their hatred. Rhuven, you should have let me die.”

Rhuven takes me by the shoulders. “You must not despair, my lady. We will find her and I swear by the face of Banrigh and the soul of Saint Brigid that you shall be reconciled.”

I look upward. Above Rhuven’s head, the white moon seems to fill the sky. Now even the stars are visible, flickering like countless tapers. My heart expands within the cage of my ribs.

I will find my daughter. I will ask her forgiveness. One day I will hear her call me “Mother.” I will wait as long as it takes.

Chapter 27

Dunsinane

Albia

Luoch tries to change my mind.

“I don’t think you should come. My mother is not well. Her mind is disturbed.”

“I know,” I say, meeting Luoch’s eyes directly. “For she is as guilty as Macbeth.”

Luoch looks away. I can see he is ashamed.

“If we go together, it will be easier for us,” I say.

“But it will be hard on her. She thinks you are dead,” Luoch reminds me.

“Hard dealing is what she deserves,” I reply in a grim tone.

Luoch sighs. “Then let us go, before she hears the news from someone else.”

I am eager to get out of this confused mob before Luoch and I are injured. But we don’t have the chance. We are standing beside Macbeth’s body when six horsemen, their mail-coats jingling, draw up on steeds decked with bright trappings and encircle us. The foot-warriors fall back, all except for Macduff. Seeing the foremost rider, Luoch whispers, “It is Duncan’s son Malcolm!”

But my eyes have passed over Malcolm to rest on the rider beside him, a lieutenant resplendent in a blue-trimmed hauberk and holding a shiny brass helmet under his arm. Its brightness makes me blink and tears fill my eyes. For the rider is Fleance, and he is unharmed.

I put my hand over my mouth to keep from shouting his name. My legs tremble with the desire to run to him. But Fleance doesn’t notice me. His eyes are focused on the dead king. Out of respect, someone has placed his dented crown upon his chest.

Macduff steps forward and describes with quick words his triumph over Macbeth, then sweeps up the crown and with a grand gesture offers it to Malcolm. A roar erupts from his men. Luoch and I remain silent. Is this our mistake? Or is it merely that we stand over the king’s body, as lambs will often stay beside the body of their tup who has died?

At a nod from Malcolm, two of his men take hold of Luoch and me, disarming us. For a moment I am too stunned to speak, then I begin to struggle. Luoch demands to be released, but Malcolm only laughs.

“You are Macbeth’s stepson, the queen’s son, and you have some supporters here. But I am Duncan’s son, and I will rule Scotland now.”

My efforts to free myself have made my hair come untucked, and now it flies about my head. Malcolm turns to me in surprise.

“What have we here? I heard report of a woman on the battlefield but took it for a legend. Who are you?” he demands.

Before I can reply, Luoch speaks out. “She is my sister, and you will not harm her.”

Malcolm looks confused. He dismounts and stands before me, peering at my face. “What sister? Is this a family conspiracy then?”

“Unhand me, and let me speak!” I cry. The guard loosens his grip and I shake my shoulders free. “I am the daughter of Macbeth and Grelach, long lost but now returned, not to claim any rights for myself, but only to help unseat the tyrant.” I pause to take a breath. “This I have done, yet you treat me like a foe.”

“Valiant words,” says Malcolm in a wry voice. “Yet for all I know you fought beside him, then when he fell you switched your allegiance.”

“I did not,” I protest.

Malcolm only shrugs. “It is what they all do,” he says. “But I will not be fooled.”

“My words and faith are true. This man will vouch for me.” I turn to Fleance, my lover, feeling triumph at hand.

But Fleance is staring at me, a look of shock and disbelief on his face. His mouth opens as if to speak, but he can only shake his head.

“Fleance, you know me. Tell them who I am,” I plead, growing alarmed.

Then I realize that I never told Fleance who I truly am. Until this moment he did not know that his mortal enemy, Scotland’s king, was my father. I kept the truth from him, and now it emerges too late to help me.

Fleance says not a word as Malcolm’s soldiers lead me away.

They take Luoch and me to the fort on Dunsinane Hill. It is a steep climb and I stumble frequently, for my hands are tied together. Macbeth’s men have all fled and Dunsinane is deserted. There is no sign of Grelach there.

Luoch’s spirits are sunken, for Ross and Angus would not vouch for him. They conferred with Malcolm and agreed that we both should be imprisoned because of the danger we pose as kin to Macbeth and the queen. I reminded them all that my Birnam Wood strategy led to their victory, but they only shook their heads and murmured something about sorcery. In words as dire as I’ve ever spoken, I warned them that if anything happened to Colum and Eadulf, they would see what sorcery can do. They did not laugh at this. Only I knew that the threat was an empty one.

And now that they have left us here, my spirits fall as low as Luoch’s. I am afraid of the harm that must come to Colum because of today’s events. At least my loyal friend will never believe anyone who claims that I betrayed him. Not so Fleance. To discover that I am the daughter of the king who killed Banquo and Breda! To see me come to Dunsinane in the company of Eadulf, his father’s murderer! How can he ever trust me again? No, I have lost his friendship and all hope of his love.

I wonder dismally how my search for truth, my desire to see justice restored in Scotland could have ended like this: with me imprisoned in a windowless cell in the dead king’s stronghold. Why did I think that I could fix the ruin Macbeth and Grelach made? I am a fool indeed. In all of Scotland, there is no one to help me now.

The sound of voices awakens me. Malcolm and his guards are in the next room where Luoch is being held. It must be morning now, for light streams in at a door or window somewhere. Perhaps they have come to free us.

Then I hear Luoch’s voice, a high, keening wail. “Oh you gods, pity her soul!” Then it sharpens with anger. “She would not take her own life. She was killed. Murderer!”

There are sounds of a scuffle. I hold my breath, stunned. The queen is dead? Was she stabbed? My
mother
is dead. Now I will never know her. Regret mingles with horror at the thought of her dying within these very walls. But I feel no sorrow, except for Luoch’s sake.

Outside my door, I hear Malcolm dismiss his guards. Then he comes into my cell and locks the door behind him. With my eyes I measure him, Duncan’s elder son. He is not tall or muscular, but his head is very large. He tilts his chin upward as if to seem taller. It only makes him look proud.

Malcolm also studies me. Though my hair is tangled and my clothes torn, I will not look away and let him think I have anything to be ashamed of.

“The queen is dead,” he says. “We found the poisoned cup.”

Through the wall I can hear Luoch weeping.

“I did not know her,” I say evenly.

“She and my father were cousins. So you and I are also kin.”

“But you are less than kind, after what I did to aid your cause.”

Malcolm smiles but without warmth. “I will have some water brought, that you might clean yourself up,” he offers.

“That would be a start. Better still, tell me that my companion Colum is safe.”

“And the rogue Eadulf, too? That henchman of the tyrant?” Malcolm frowns.

“He has done wrong, I grant you,” I say, trying to remain patient. “But he turned against Macbeth, suffering greatly because of it. And I did not choose his companionship.”

But Malcolm is no longer listening. His eyes are wandering over me.

“You might be a beauty, with that hair. If you wore a dress.” He looks with distaste on my sheepskin leggings. “I’ll have one brought to you from the late queen’s closet.”

The idea of wearing my mother’s clothing makes me shudder.

“I do not want a dress,” I say firmly. “I want my friend Colum released. He is only a shepherd with no desire to become entangled in your wars.”

Malcolm waves his hand. “He may go. He is nothing to me. But Eadulf must stay, for Fleance deserves revenge for his father.”

I am relieved at least for Colum’s sake. But what comes next in this broken realm? Will Fleance be permitted to kill Eadulf ? Will more murders follow?

“Who will be Scotland’s king now?” I ask Malcolm.

“I will,” he answers without hesitation. “It was I who brought England to the battle. I have the most warriors and the best claim, being Duncan’s appointed heir. Not Luoch, that puling son of the tyrant’s wife. Not Macduff. Brave though he is, his royal blood is scant.”

Malcolm does not even mention Fleance. Perhaps Macbeth’s fear—that Banquo’s line would rule Scotland—has died with him, and what I thought was the Sight will prove only an illusion.

“It is a pity that the two who could vouch for you are dead,” Malcolm is saying, staring at me sharply. “How do I know you are who you claim to be? Many women have red hair like Macbeth’s and gray-blue eyes like the queen’s.”

“Nothing I say will convince you,” I reply, giving him no answer.

Malcolm fingers his large head thoughtfully. “Both Seyton and Macduff swear they heard the king lately speak of a daughter who had returned from the dead. They thought he was going mad. But perhaps he spoke a measure of truth.” Suddenly he smiles. “Riding into the battle, you shone like a fiery lodestar in the sky.”