Lady Macbeth's Daughter (14 page)

“My warrriors must have the best horses and helmets of bronze. Without pride, they fight like old women. Woe to your blacksmith, the damned Viking, if he forges me a weak blade! I will use it on his neck.”

I hear the thump of a fist against the table.

“Nay, he is a man I trust,” comes Banquo’s voice, deep and firm.

“You are a luckier man than I am. I cannot trust my own wife.”

“My lord, the queen is a most virtuous lady,” says Banquo.

I press closer, straining to hear the king. His voice has sunk low.

“. . . Eadulf tastes every dish and every cup before I do. My wife and her greedy father . . . dispatch me with some poison . . . place that damned Luoch on my throne.”

“My lord, surely you are mistaken,” says Banquo.

“Nay, once I prove their treachery, their eyes will not close again in sleep. And you, Banquo!” Macbeth’s voice is sharp. “You are either with me or you are against me. Which shall it be?”

“My liege, you have had too much to drink.”

The king utters a harsh laugh.

“If I had a son all would be well. But my lady’s womb is cursed. The fateful sisters did it. But you have a son. Tell me, do you not dream of him ruling Scotland?” The king’s voice insinuates, even threatens.

But Banquo does not take the bait. “My lord, I pray you, question not my loyalty,” he says. “I have no ambitions for myself or my son, except to continue to serve you with good faith.”

I hear the sound of one man clapping another on the back.

“Banquo, you have satisfied me, withstood the test. I trust you as always.”

“Whatever you ask of me, that I can do, I shall perform,” Banquo replies.

To my ears, it is an awkward-sounding assurance.

“My Viking blacksmith will—”

The king interrupts him. “Then I ask that your fosterling bear my cup at the feast. I hear she is a comely lass.” He laughs.

“I will see if she can be found, my lord.”

My heart pounds, sending the blood pulsing into my ears. My fingers curl, trying to clutch the boards nailed to the floor.

When Banquo comes into my room, I am sitting stiffly on my bed. I stand up and bow, hiding my face so he cannot see my terror.

“My dear, you will attend the king at his table tonight.”

“Must I?” I say, not raising my head. “My hands will shake, and I may drop his cup and displease him.”

“I know you are grieving for your mother, but the king must be satisifed.”

“I am afraid of him . . . Father,” I say, swallowing hard. I want to tell Banquo about the king’s great crime, but where and how do I begin?

Banquo hardly looks at me. He seems preoccupied. “There is nothing to fear. Do this for my sake, daughter. And wear something that becomes you.”

I have no choice, so I merely nod, and Banquo leaves, satisfied.

My mouth dry with dread, I fasten the ties of a long-sleeved blue woolen gown, an old one of Breda’s. I weave my hair in braids. It takes several tries with my fumbling fingers. Then I wrap Fleance’s girdle around my waist. It seems to hold me like a steadying hand. Finally I slip on the red-jeweled armlet and secure it above my elbow, hoping it will give me courage.

In the dining hall, men crowd the benches around long trestle tables. A fire blazes in the hearth where a scop plucks his lute, preparing to sing. The hall resounds with shouting, laughter, and the scraping of spoons on plates. When I enter carrying a flagon of wine, no one, not even the king who requested my service, notices me.

From behind the king’s chair I study his every feature and movement. His back beneath the tunic of tooled leather is broad and straight. When he turns his face to the side, I see that his nose is long and straight, flaring at the ends. He does not look like a murderer. His skin is fair but deeply lined, his lips thin and stained with dark wine. When he lifts his cup for a toast, I see that his thick forearms are covered with red hairs. A crown of beaten gold sits firmly upon his head, and his hair shines in the firelight, with hardly a streak of gray. I am glad my hair is confined in braids. I hope that no one will notice that it is exactly the same color as the king’s.

I dread the moment he notices me, yet I am perversely impatient for it. I move to the front of the table, set down the wine, and pick up a platter of pastries shiny with grease and sugar. The table is narrow, and I am not three feet from the king’s face.

“Will you have a pastry, my lord?”

The words I say are empty. The ones I do not speak contain everything.
I know who you are. I know the crimes you have done. But
you have no idea who I am.
This thought gives me power. I look directly into the eyes of my father. They remind me of black pools in a dangerous bog.

The king’s eyebrows lift in surprise, as if he has read my thoughts.

“You must be the . . .
daughter
. . . of my host,” he says, with a sly emphasis that makes my heart pound. Does he know who I am after all? He winks at Banquo and laughs sharply.

Banquo tenses. His hands curl into fists. Fleance touches his father’s arm and Banquo glares at Fleance—because he dare not look so at the king.

All at once I understand. The king believes I am not Banquo’s daughter, but his mistress! I flush with undeserved shame.

“The lord Banquo is a
most honorable father
,” I say, so that the king cannot mistake my meaning.

“And you are a bold child.” He takes the tray from me and shoves it aside. “I want none of your pastries.”

His look and his words seem to warn me, and I feel my chest constrict with fear. How foolish of me to provoke a man so powerful and merciless. I step back from the table.

“I did not dismiss you. Come, pour me more wine,” he orders, summoning me with his cup. Obediently I pick up the flask, but as I tip it the red liquid splashes on his hand.

“I am sorry, Your Majesty,” I say, feeling heat rise to my face. “Let me fetch a cloth.”

“No, stay.” The king raises his hand to his mouth and licks the wine from it, never taking his eyes from me. “I was mistaken. You are no child, but a young woman. A most fetching one. So drink with me.” And the king thrusts his cup into my hand.

I do not drink strong wine, so I simply hold the cup. The king stands up and leans over the table between us. His hand closes over mine on the goblet. The mere thought that it is
my
father’s hand
that touches me stuns me into submission. He lifts the cup to my lips, and I have no choice but to open my mouth and swallow. The wine, bitter and fiery, makes me cough and sputter.

“Now take a bite of this,” he commands, holding out a morsel of pastry. I reach out my trembling hand but he shakes his head and motions for me to open my mouth. Anger and shame battle within me, but I obey, feeling his fingers against my teeth as he places the floury bite on my tongue and withdraws his hand. His gaze is intent and watchful. What is his purpose with me? I close my eyes to avoid looking at him and chew, hating the taste.

After I swallow, I open my eyes to see a sly smile flickering on one side of his face.

“Now you are dismissed,” he says. He takes the remainder of the pastry and puts it in his own mouth.

I realize then that the king, suspecting poison, has made me taste his food for him. I have passed the test. But had I fallen dead before him, he would have felt no speck of remorse. Suddenly I cannot bear to be under the same roof as this tyrant. I must get out of Dunbeag!

As I rush by Fleance’s table, his eyes meet mine. He has seen what passed between me and the king, and his look is one of rage and jealousy. If only he knew how much I hated the king’s attention. Banquo leans his head on his hands as if he has drunk too much.

I am outdoors, running down the path leading to the village. A wild energy flows through me from being in my father’s presence and holding back my hatred.
Father?
That word should never belong to Macbeth! When I come to the spot where Fleance and I last met, I stop and wait, praying that he will come. Though my limbs are shaking I feel as strong as a boar. I wish I had my sword, that I could swing it hard, hear it clang, and feel it shiver in my grip.

Hours pass and darkness comes. The moon glows faintly behind thick clouds. By now the feast is surely ended, the scop has sung of warlike deeds, and the soldiers are all drunk or asleep. The fire has drained from me, leaving me exhausted. But I will not return to Dunbeag to sleep in the same house with a murderer. I make a bed for myself among the bracken and lie down. Tomorrow after the king and his retinue depart, I will tell Banquo what I know.

I hear footsteps along the path. It must be Fleance. He alone would know to look for me here. I jump to my feet.

“Fleance?” I call softly. “Here I am.”

A tall hooded figure approaches me. At the sound of my voice, he quickens his steps. I feel a twinge of alarm. The gait is not Fleance’s. The man throws back the hood of his cloak and I recognize, by the faint moonlight upon his red-gold hair, the king—without his crown. I gasp and stumble backward.

“So it is not my general, but his son who is your lover,” he says.

“I have no lover,” I reply. The backs of my legs meet the hard surface of a large rock and I lean against it for support.

“Then you will not object to the king’s wooing you,” he says, touching his chest and nodding his head. It is a gesture meant to look noble, but it fills me with horror.

“I do object, for you have a wife,” I say quickly.

“My wife is barren, and I must have a son.” His voice is low and urgent.

There is no time to think. Words cascade from my lips before I can stop them.

“Why must you have a son? Why not a daughter? Is a girl-child not good enough for a man?”

I see confusion in his face. And anger. With a few swift steps, he is upon me. I reach out to hold him off but he grabs both my hands in just one of his. His body pins me against the rock.

“What nonsense you speak. Be silent!” His voice is rough. I smell wine and meat on his breath. He reaches up with his free hand and loosens my hair from its ties. He tilts my head back so that the dimmed moonlight falls on my face. There is a tenderness in his touch that confuses me.

“Your eyes are gray-blue, like hers,” he murmurs. “So beautiful, so beautiful.”

It takes me a moment to realize that he is not seeing me, but someone else. Does the queen, my mother, have gray-blue eyes? He once loved her, I am certain.

The king’s breath is hot upon my face.

I turn my head to the side. “Do not kiss me!”

I hear him sigh. His hands move to my waist, searching for the ties to my girdle. Thankfully, I knotted it firmly.

“Do not touch me, I pray you,” I plead, pushing away his hands.

“I am the king. I take what I want.” His voice is anguished.

“You will not have me. I will kill you first!”

“Do you threaten your sovereign lord? That is treason, my lovely one.”

“Treason is no more unnatural than your desires.”

In reply he takes my wrists and presses my clenched fists to his face so that he is kissing my knuckles. I squeeze my eyes shut, unable to look at his face so close to mine. As I struggle to free my hands, I feel the cool night air against my arms. Suddenly I hear the king gasp and feel his grip give way. What is it? I open my eyes and look down to see that the sleeves of my dress have fallen back to reveal the gold armlet above my elbow, its red gem gleaming in the faint moonlight.

“Where did you get that?” he whispers in astonishment.

For a moment I feel triumph, seeing his black eyes widen with something like fear. Then terror grips me, for I have no idea how to answer him. If I reveal that I am his daughter, he might kill me at once. But how else can I explain why I am wearing Grelach’s gem?

“By all the saints, tell me,” he demands.

But I cannot speak. Whatever I say might implicate Rhuven as the thief. I cannot even think while his hands are upon me, knowing the violence they are capable of.

“Unhand me first, for you are hurting me,” I say to gain time.

He drops my hands. I rub my wrists and cast around in my mind for words to explain how I came by the armband. I wish I had prepared for this moment. But I never expected to see the king at Dunbeag, let alone encounter him like this. How can I ever say,
Grelach is my mother and you
are my father
? Speaking those blunt words would mean claiming the degenerate king as my kin. Yet only the truth will do.

I cross my arm over my chest, bringing the gold and ruby armlet in front of me like a small but potent shield. The king’s face is in the shadows, but I know his eyes are fixed upon the gem. I take a deep breath.

“I swear by Guidlicht and Neoni and by the four worlds—”

The king starts at the mention of the old gods. I raise my arm so that the gold gleams as if containing its own light.

“This belonged . . . to my mother.”

The king’s hands fly up and his fingers tear at his red locks, pulling them down the sides of his face, which bears an anguished and terrible look.

“My . . .
daughte
r?” The word escapes him in a guttural cry that seems to tear the fabric of night.