Lady Macbeth's Daughter (26 page)

But Luoch has assessed the situation. He points out the Englishmen commanded by Malcolm, the archers and the infantry that belong to Macbeth. Then I recognize Macduff ’s red and gold standard at the foot of Dunsinane Hill, where soldiers assault the defenses that, once breached, will open the way to the fort above.

“Fleance must be there, and Macbeth as well. We will join the battle at the foot of the hill,” I decide, and Luoch nods in agreement.

Descending the tree proves trickier than climbing it. When my left foot touches Nocklavey’s back again, I feel an ache there, a reminder of my old weakness. I seem to see my infant self, lying on my back beneath a tree, filled with wordless longing.

“Luoch, do you know, I have never climbed a tree before,” I announce with a wide smile, forgetting for the moment the dangers before us.

“Sister, everything about you surprises me,” Luoch replies with grudging admiration.

Once armed again, we skirt the field, then fly into the fray so swiftly that none can stop us. A great din assaults my ears; the smells of muck and blood and sweat sting my nose; lances, stones, and arrows fly all around me. But Nocklavey, like the prow of a great ship, divides the sea of foes. I see the startled faces of men who stop their fighting to stare at me, and I realize that my red hair, stirred up by the wind, rises like flames from my head. Doubtless they have never seen a woman in battle before.

“Fleance, I am here!” I shout, but my voice is lost in the mayhem like the mewing of a kitten. I want him to know that I have come. But seeing me might only distract him. Rather, I must focus upon my own revenge.

My eyes search through the thick crowd of identical-seeming warriors for the one who must be the king. It is like looking for a single stone on the wide strand. Suddenly Nocklavey rears up and a high shriek issues from his throat. Has my valiant partner and protector been shot? I lose my grip on his mane and slide back over his haunches to the ground, then leap to my feet. Nocklavey’s hooves find the earth again, scattering men before them. They strike the earth again—at the very feet of Scotland’s king.

Macbeth stands before me, his legs planted wide apart, his thick arms painted with battle-marks as they were that long-ago night on Wanluck Mhor. I hear him breathing hard and fast. Or is it Nocklavey beside me whose mighty nostrils flare like a bellows? Thick red hair, damp with sweat, curls from beneath the king’s helmet. I cannot see his eyes, but I sense their black malevolence. His sword is drawn, and his crown gleams dully, like a tarnished metal toy.

This is my chance. Here is my final test, for which the battle with the boar was but a trial. This time I must gain the advantage, strike the first blow.

I find my balance, lunge forward, and swing my sword. It strikes the king’s forearm, glancing off his metal greaves.
What have I dared to do?
I raise my shield, bracing for his counterblow, knowing that I am no match for this warrior-king. His arm is as thick as my thigh. A single stroke of his blade would kill me.

But the king does not even lift his sword.

“So this is how the soothsayer deceives me,” he says slowly. “ ‘No man of woman born shall harm Macbeth.’ ” A bitter laugh escapes him. “Nay, a
woman
is to be my downfall.” He lifts the helmet from his head, drops it on the ground, and replaces his crown.

Now I see his eyes. They are dark, not with the evil I expected, but with something more like sadness.

I had planned to cry out loudly and charge him with all his crimes, but I find I cannot speak. I see that he knows me and why I am here, and that is enough.

“Come, daughter, break my limbs and take the flesh from my bones. I have wronged you, I have wronged your mother, and death is all I deserve.” He kneels and presents his neck to me, inviting the blow.

Time seems to stop. The king and I are alone on the battlefield. I raise my sword, using both hands, and feel the jeweled armlet tighten as my muscles tense beneath it. With one blow I can avenge years of wrong, free Scotland from tyranny, and be hailed as a liberator. Like floodwater, the blood rushes in my ears, the blood I share with Scotland’s king. The blade in my hands quivers with longing.

But how can I slay my own father? What kind of monster would that make me?

Inch by inch I lower my sword until its tip touches the ground. I realize that I do not want to kill him with my sword. Can it be that I want to touch him with my hand instead? But I do not, yet.

“Renounce the throne, let the thanes choose a new king, and I will show you mercy,” I say, struggling to hold my voice steady.

The king’s head is level with my shoulder. I can see a struggle playing out on his face. The moment is brief, but it seems long.

“It shall be as you say.” He lays his sword on the ground. “I am finished.”

“Luoch, be my witness to this!” I cry, but my brother is out of my hearing, fighting somewhere on the field.

And then I see a man in a red and gold tunic, hewing his way toward us with a sword in each hand, his vengeful gaze fixed on the king.

“Turn, hellhound, and fight!”

The king rises slowly to his feet and turns toward the voice.

“Macduff, my soul is too much charged with blood of yours already. I will not fight with you.”

“Put on your helmet and fight me, dog.”

“I am already vanquished,” says the king. “By this woman—”

Macduff does not even glance at me.

“Have you yielded, coward, just to save your life?” He spits out the words. “I’ll put you on show in a cage, like a rare beast, and have it written: ‘Here you may see the foul tyrant.’ ” He raises a woad-painted arm, as mighty as Macbeth’s. His sword is already bloody.

Goaded by Macduff, Macbeth picks up his sword again. His eyes now blaze like a fire banked for the night and rekindled in the morning.

“Then lay on, Macduff! And damned be him that first cries ‘Enough.’ ”

Macduff drops his second sword and rushes the king, who raises his shield and nimbly sidesteps Macduff ’s blow, then counters with his own, so that the thane’s shield shivers and cracks. Back and forth they strike, blow for blow, the two men equal in strength and evenly armed. But the king lacks his helmet, which he removed when he knelt down. Now his head, with its insubstantial crown, is as vulnerable as an egg.

Soon both men are bleeding from their several wounds, yet their rage only increases. I watch in horror, not knowing whom to hope for, when Macduff ’s blade glances off the king’s bare head, bounces from his shoulder, then finds the soft flesh where the lifeblood throbs in the neck. Macbeth greets the ground, and his crown tumbles from his head.

A cry goes up and, like a ripple when a stone is thrown into a pond, spreads from man to man.

“The king is dead! Macbeth lives no more! Scotland is saved!”

The news flows across the battlefield, and the combat grinds to a halt. My brother reappears, bleeding from a gash on his leg.

“Luoch shall be king!” someone shouts, and others begin the chant, “Hail, Luoch. Hail, Luoch.”

“The tyrant’s stepson?” cries an angry voice. “Never.”

“But he fought against Macbeth. He is blood-kin to the great King Kenneth.”

Curses and shoving commence between Luoch’s supporters and his detractors. Macduff ’s men seize Macbeth’s, who flee to avoid being taken prisoner.

“Who is that woman?” I hear someone shout. “Did you see Macbeth kneel to her?”

“Is she a foreign queen?”

“No, she is the witch who unmanned him.”

Luoch grabs my hand and pulls me down. Together we crouch beside the king’s body. “Cover your hair. Put it under your helmet somehow,” he orders me. “Who knows what this rabble will do now!”

I hurry to obey him, but I have too much hair, so I end up stuffing it down the neck of my tunic instead.

Then I see the tears on Luoch’s cheeks. They surprise me at first. Macbeth was not Luoch’s father. Yet he did raise the boy, who suffered his insults while hoping one day to be recognized as a son. No wonder he grieves. I look at my father’s dull and sightless eyes, black as peat, his mouth half-open where his last breath escaped him. I feel no sorrow, only a deep peace, despite the chaos around me. And a sense of release, as if my soul, not my father’s, has been freed from the world’s cares.

I touch the king’s arm. It is still warm.

“I suppose I shall have to tell my mother,” sighs Luoch, looking toward the tower atop Dunsinane Hill.

I follow his gaze. My heart seems to turn over in my chest.

“I will come with you, Luoch,” I hear myself say.

Chapter 26

Dunsinane

Grelach

A raven perches on my window ledge, its feathers black as my lord’s eyes. I wave my arms and the ill-omened bird flies up into the gray sky, cawing and shrieking. A moment later it is back in the same spot, peering at me with glittering eyes. Its fateful presence chills my blood.

“Rhuven, come. I must have light. Bring me a taper.”

She stands at my elbow, speaking softly. “There are a dozen burning already, my lady. I have no more.”

Seyton bursts into the tower room, his tunic torn and blood-soaked. It was midday when he and my lord left for the field, and now night draws rapidly on.

“How fares the king against his foes?” I ask. Despite everything, I expect to hear that he has vanquished them, for when has ever failed to win a battle?

Seyton crumples, his knees hitting the floor. “My lady, the king has been slain by the traitor Macduff.”

This news confuses me. I thought Macduff and his family were dead. Did the thane somehow escape? Why didn’t Luoch and my father slay Macbeth? Then they could claim his crown. It must not fall to Macduff or anyone else!

“Did you hear me, lady?” Seyton says, louder. “We cannot hold Dunsinane or protect you now.”

Rhuven leaps up, as if she has been waiting for this moment. “Let us flee now, Grelach, before they reach the tower.”

“What about my son?” I demand of Seyton. “Was he victorious?”

“I dread to tell you this, my lady, but Luoch has been taken captive by Malcolm, who acclaims himself the king.”

“That cannot be!” I exclaim in a rush of irritation and dismay. Luoch should have roused the others to support him. But no, he let himself be taken by Duncan’s worthless son. My last hope, gone. My son, too stupid to be a king.

“Then is Fleance, Banquo’s son, also dead?” I ask, trying to recall what the Wyrd sisters showed my lord.

“I do not know. The dead are too numerous to count. Their bodies are ruined, some beyond recognition.”

At the thought of all those deaths, a wave of weariness and despair rolls over me, leaving my limbs heavy and weak.

“Why do I yet live?” I murmur.

“My lady?” asks Seyton, anxious.

“Nothing. It is finished, Seyton. You are done. Go. You also, Rhuven. Save yourselves.”

Seyton disappears in a flash, but Rhuven does not move.

“I will not go unless you come with me,” she says firmly.

“In a moment, Rhuven.” I hold up my hand. “First gather my jewels together and fetch my cloak.”

While Rhuven is busy, I pour the mandragora into my cup. A week’s worth I have hoarded, a deadly dose. I go to the window. The raven has flown away. Dunsinane is deserted, at least until Macduff and Malcolm arrive to claim it. I sip the thick, strong liquid. It will numb all my limbs so that I will not feel the fall. Rhuven will find my body. Will anyone in all of Scotland, besides her, weep for me? No one weeps for Macbeth. Not even his wife.

I lean from the tower window, one hand on the ledge. Down among the stones, in the gray murk of dusk, a white shape catches my eye. Is it a deer? It stands unmoving, giving off a silvery glow. Am I asleep and dreaming already? How quickly this poison works! I breathe its heavy sweetness. The cup is still almost full. I lift it to my lips again.

“Grelach, no!” comes Rhuven’s startled cry. She throws her arms around me and the cup flies from my hand, spilling the red liquid into the gathering night. Seconds later the brass cup clatters on the stones below.

“Rhuven, do you see the white deer, too?” I ask in a daze, forgetting the cup. “Or have we frightened it away?”

With her arms still around me, Rhuven glances out the tower window.

“Aye, I see the deer. She beckons us. We must follow now, or lose sight of her. Come.”

I let Rhuven lead me from the tower. Down the ladder, step by careful step, from the deserted fort, and down the steep path on the hill’s far side, for this is the way the deer went, Rhuven swears. I hear the dull commotion of the battle’s aftermath, but soon the sound fades and we come to a barrow half-hidden in the hillside. The mandragora, though I sipped but a little, has made my limbs feel like lead, and I beg Rhuven to let me rest here for a while. She protests, but my body has already succumbed to a heavy, dreamless sleep.

When I open my eyes again, it is still night, but I can see Rhuven’s face as plain as in the day, for the moon is shining on the horizon. I stare at it with awe. When have I last seen the moon?

“I had to wake you, my lady,” Rhuven says, an urgency in her voice.

I sit up, at once alert. Has the white deer led us not to safety, but into a new danger?