Macbeth's Niece (24 page)

“Come now, lass, get up. I’ve got you now,”
he called, but the figure did not rise. Grabbing the fabric of the
fine dress he had last seen the macFindlaech woman wearing, he
found it stuffed with an old horse blanket, empty of any human
form. Staring openmouthed at the man on the bank for a second,
Dougal realized their mistake. “The horses!” he cried. The other
reacted quickly, scrambling up the slick bank as best he could. He
was too late. Both horses were gone, and even the sound of their
retreating hooves was drowned out by Dougal’s roared curses at the
slip of a girl who had bested Hawick’s clan a second time.

It was an exhausted and bedraggled pair who
several days later approached Scone, the ancient site of kings
close to the center of Scotland. Macbeth now resided in an imposing
castle overlooking the River Tay, north and east of the town of
Perth. The travelers had learned in bits and pieces as they
traveled that the king maintained a large household at Scone
comprised of paid troops as well as Scots still loyal to Macbeth.
Anxious to reach the place, the two had ridden their horses almost
to death, the beasts’ only rest in days being when they ferried
across the Firth of Forth. Tessa and Banaugh dozed in their saddles
as the autumn rains drenched them.

Tessa’s emotional state teetered between
manic determination and sheer despair as she encouraged her
exhausted horse onward, the smell of his sweat mingled with her own
unwashed scent. That Jeffrey could plot the death of her uncle was
a betrayal she could never have imagined, even if, as Banaugh tried
to convince her, he had done it to save his own life. She was
determined to get to Macbeth’s castle before Hawick and warn her
uncle. No matter what he had done, he was her blood kin, and he did
not deserve assassination.

As a result, the old man and his “grandson”
had taken every short cut possible, no matter how treacherous,
sleeping little and eating less. Banaugh, wiry and tough to begin
with, had grown even more spare, and Tessa found it necessary to
use rope to hold up the breeches she wore.

As they journeyed, the pair had heard worse
and worse news of Macbeth’s chances of success. The king was
despised, and his soldiers had deserted in large numbers. His
behavior had gone from merely odd to totally unpredictable, and
those around him served only from fear or greed. People spoke in
whispers the rumors that had gathered around him for a year now: he
had murdered not only the old king but his best friend, Banquo; he
had put to death many people who had done nothing more than
question his actions; and he had ordered the murder of the entire
family of one Macduff, a former comrade who had fled to England,
refusing to acknowledge his former comrade-in-arms Macbeth as
king.

When she heard this, Tessa remembered her
uncle’s words concerning Macduff. “I was most wounded by his
treachery.” But to take revenge on wife and small children? If the
rumors were true, her uncle had lost himself completely to
ambition, and the Macbeth who once existed was no more. She
considered turning back at one point, but something of family
loyalty prevailed. Perhaps she could convince her uncle to give up
the throne and go into exile. At least she could warn him of
Hawick’s plan, for she would not let the outlaw succeed, no matter
what. Let Macbeth die in battle if he must, but not on Hawick’s
knife. And certainly not by Jeffrey Brixton’s plan.

It was about ten miles from their
destination, as they broke camp early one morning, that Tessa and
Banaugh saw English soldiers for the first time. They were chilling
to see, disciplined and businesslike as they made their way to war.
Walking stolidly over the rough ground, their conical helmets
bobbing as they stepped, their leather tunics shedding the rain as
they were intended to, the troopers’ eyes seemed watchful and
emotionless.

They steered clear of the soldiers, since it
was dangerous to be seen riding two fine horses in their present
condition. They had received a few questioning looks as it was, an
old man and a boy, neither one prosperous-looking, mounted on
well-trained, well-bred steeds. They skirted wide of the troops,
therefore, and through a forest Banaugh said was called Birnam.
Once they judged themselves far enough away, they dismounted and
sat for a few minutes, letting their sore muscles rest from long
hours in the saddle. Their one blessing all this way had been the
gold Macbeth had given Tessa months before. They had been sparing
with it, and Banaugh had kept it safely hidden, bringing out only
what was needed. As a result they had been able to buy food now
that they had no time to hunt or gather it. As they shared a
breakfast of cheese and a small loaf of bread, neither spoke much,
being tired to the point of semi-consciousness.

It was because of this silence that they
heard the first sounds of chopping far off to their right. Soon the
noise grew, and the sound of many hatchets filled the wood with a
rhythmic pattern. Tessa was too tired to care, but Banaugh crept
silently off to see what it meant. He returned with a confused look
on his face. “The soldiers are chopping the branches off the
trees,” he told Tessa. “I dinna know what it could be for.”

“Nor do I, but we’d best be on, in case they
come this far,” Tessa replied. Wearily they climbed into the
saddles once more and headed north with a leftward slant to avoid
being seen by the men whose actions continued behind them, the
chops growing more distant as they rode.

A drizzling rain fell all day, and noon
brought them to the castle, which had the closed look about it that
signified preparation for war. No one moved outside the walls, no
sheep or cattle grazed in nearby pastures, and the cottages that
stood on the outer perimeter were shut tightly, no smoke trailing
from their roofs.

Scone Castle sat before the Grampian
Mountains like a gray obstacle to the green beyond. Poised above
the River Tay, the palace overlooked the routes north to the
Highlands and east through Strathmore to the coast. Across the
river stood the town of Perth.

Five hundred years before, the Romans had
camped here, at the very limit of their empire. They had never
defeated the warlike Picts, who later came to rule Scone, but
Christian missionaries had more success a few centuries later. The
Culdees, or servants of God, had established themselves at Scone in
the seventh century and converted the Picts. Now Scone was the
place where Scotland’s Christian kings were crowned. By tradition
the king sat during the ceremony on the Stone of Scone, a stool of
rock that sat atop Moot Hill, a knoll at the front of the castle.
Tessa imagined her uncle accepting the crown of Scotland. It had
been his greatest desire, but had it made him happy? She doubted
it.

They rode around Moot Hill and boldly up to
the castle gate. Removing the hood she had used to hide her hair,
she called out, “I am Tessa macFindlaech, come to see my uncle the
king on urgent business.”

Several heads peered down at them over the
wall, and someone must have recognized Tessa, for a few moments
later the door opened enough to allow them entrance. A brusque
soldier took in their muddy boots and bleary eyes with a practiced
eye and sent someone to tell another someone inside the castle of
her presence. Banaugh went to see to the exhausted horses. Tessa
was surprised to see young Jamie, the boy she’d served with at
Inverness, come to meet her. His appearance was no cleaner than it
had been before, and he had a harried look about him unusual in one
so young.

“Jamie, is it not? I am Tessa, whom you once
knew as Tom. I must see the king.”

“Tom? But you—” He stopped and digested what
he was seeing. Probably the boy had seen stranger things in the
past year, for he adjusted well. Tessa saw reluctance in his
expression. “I cannot say he will treat you well, miss. He is
sometimes himself, but not often these days. He talks to the air
and starts at shadows.”

“I have heard it. How does my aunt?”

“Dead.” The boy’s eyes stared past her and
gave away nothing. She did not ask more, unsure if she wanted to
know. Had the king—? No, that was impossible. More likely Gruoch
had been unable to bear the terrible dreams any longer and had
found a way to put an end to her unhappiness. Her death was nothing
but justice if the tales were true, that she had badgered Macbeth
into murder, perhaps even helped do the deed. Still, Tessa could
find it in her heart to be a little sad for her. Macbeth’s lady had
simply not understood the consequences of so terrible an act.
Murder for political reasons might seem the nearest way to one’s
ambitions, but such things could not be done without grave damage
to one’s own soul.

“Jamie, I must see him. I will take the
chance.”

The youth led Tessa into the hall, once
grand but now in great disarray. Rushes lay rotting on the floor
with scraps of food, dirt, and worse. The trestles had not been
cleared away, and the boards were littered with dishes. Overturned
cups had spilled their contents onto the floor. She had had a
moment’s fear her uncle might berate her for her appearance, dirty,
unkempt and in dress improper for a female, but she saw at once
that none of that would matter. Before a weak fire sat a large
chair where Macbeth slumped, wine cup in hand.

Jamie stopped well out of range of the
king’s arm and announced, “Tessa macFindlaech, sire, your niece.
She brings important news.” Then he was gone, without waiting for
dismissal, and they were left alone.

Her uncle was greatly changed, much worse
than before. His eyes, which had once been steely and direct, were
watery, and the lids drooped as if it were too much effort to keep
them open to the world he had created for himself. His hair had
gone from richly dark to shot with gray, and strong streaks of it
stood up from his forehead and sprang from his temples. Where once
he had appeared taut and vibrant, a man of power, now his muscles
were slack and his movements slow and feeble. The wreck of the man
who once was sat before her, and she despaired for him.

“Uncle,” she began. “I have come to warn you
of a certain treachery. One of the border Scots, more an outlaw
than a laird, plans to gain entry to the castle and kill you, using
my name. This Hawick stole the safe conduct you gave to me when
last we met, and he will claim I am his wife. He is the worst sort
of man, and I barely escaped him with my life.”

Macbeth seemed not to have heard her. His
eyes squinted, and he tried to focus on her face. “Tessa? My
brother’s little Tessa?”

“Yes, Uncle, it’s me,” she replied,
frustrated by his torpor. “You must listen! He will kill you if he
can, to gain favor with Malcolm.”

Macbeth’s droopy eyes took on a glint of
slyness. “Ah, my dear, he may try, but kill me he will not.”

“Uncle, please listen.”

“No man can kill me, you see,” he continued
without acknowledging her. “No man of woman born shall harm
Macbeth.” He said it in a crowing, crooning tone Tessa recognized.
The three weird sisters. He had found them, it seemed, and now
parroted their words.

“Uncle, the three women who told you
this—remember, I have heard their words as well. Their truth is
slanted, as your old friend Banaugh warned me when first I saw
them. One cannot believe the words themselves but must look beyond
them. There is truth, but not the truth that seems to be.” She
stopped, unable to put it as she wanted to, but Macbeth paid her no
mind anyway. He seemed far away, and Tessa extended a consoling
hand.

“Uncle, your wife—I am sorry she is dead.
She was…helpful to me.” Tessa wouldn’t lie, so she couldn’t say
kind
. Gruoch had been neither kind nor unkind, merely
efficient, cordial only to those above her, and neutral to everyone
else.

“She took her own life,” he said in
response. “She could not stand the dreams, you see. I have them
too, but I am a man. I have screwed my courage to the sticking
place—” He spoke as if to convince himself, but he could not
complete the thought.

Jamie appeared again. He seemed to be the
only personal attendant Macbeth had left, or perhaps the only one
brave enough to approach the king. “Sire, a man is at the gate. He
says he comes from your niece,” here he glanced at Tessa, “and he
carries your safe conduct.”

“Kill him,” Macbeth said calmly. With a
start, Tessa realized something of what she said had
penetrated.

“Uncle—” She didn’t know what to say.

“Tell the guard to kill him,” Macbeth
repeated, and Jamie left the room with a nod of assent. “Now my
dear, you must go to a place of safety. There will be a battle
soon, perhaps today, and I would not have you nearby.” Suddenly he
spoke rationally, as if he had no care except for her protection.
“I suggest you make your way upriver about three miles. There is a
hamlet where you will be safe. When the battle is over, you may
return. I will have more time for you then.”

Tessa looked sadly at this madman who could
calmly order the death of a man he had never seen, the deaths of
Macduff’s wife and children, and even the death of his best friend,
and now calmly take precautions for her safety. She thought briefly
of insisting she stay with him, but what could she do? He must
fight this battle, and she must hope it would be his last. There
was nothing for Macbeth now but an honorable death. She had given
him a chance at that.

Jamie returned, stopping in the doorway this
time, obviously not happy about what he had to tell. “Sire, when I
returned, the man was gone. The guard said he had forgotten
something and would return shortly.”

Tessa had a thought. “The old man who came
with me, is he presently in the courtyard?”

“Why, yes, miss,” the boy replied. “He sits
waiting for you just inside the bailey gate.”