Macbeth's Niece Read online

  Chapter Two

  The trip was pleasant. Tessa was fond of Banaugh, who often comforted her when her mother’s mood was particularly spiteful. “Ye’re a merry lass,” he would tell her, “and tha’s somethin’ yer puir mother canna understand.” Banaugh and Meg were the only things she would truly miss about home.

  As the day warmed and the path led steeply downward, Banaugh entertained Tessa with stories of her clan, of glorious Scottish deeds and insidious English lords, some recited and some sung. She already knew them all, but it was good to hear his voice, drowning out her questions about life with her uncle.

  Would she fit in? Would they be kind? Did they know she was “outspoken and hoydenish”? What would happen if she didn’t suit them? Tessa was not expected to return home, ever. She was an extra mouth to feed, and her mother had solved the problem as best she could. If her uncle could not marry her off, she would make herself useful to the family in some way, tending children or sewing. That was not a pleasant prospect, since Tessa had neither the talent nor the patience for either.

  Unwilling to betray her nervousness, the girl could not help but ask Banaugh, “What sort of man is my uncle? Do you think he will like me?”

  Banaugh chuckled as he walked ahead down the rock-strewn, winding path. “There’s few men I culd think of tha’ wuld not fall in love w’ the sight of ye, lass.” He walked on a bit and then continued, “Macbeth was ever serious, likely to brood on things, especially slights from others. He is one tha’ wants to do well, and he seeks fame as yer father did not. When the twa were boys, Kenneth was angered by th’ injustices o’ the world and wanted t’ right them, but Macbeth saw it differently. T’ him life’s injustices are unavoidable. Tha’ is an honest man, t’ be sure, an’ brave as they coome, but when th’ time came, I chose t’ go wi’ yer father int’ the hills.”

  “And why did he do that?” Tessa asked, though she knew the story already.

  “As youngsters, the boys saw the auld king killed by Duncan in a fierce rebellion. Later, when yer grandfather was slain, his sons culd do bu’ two things: fight back or leave Glames an’ his thanedom o’ Moray to Gillacomgain, their cousin. Yer father Kenneth ha’ seen eno’ bloodshed betwixt Scot an’ Scot. He went int’ the mountains where life is hard bu’ he culd choose whether he’d come doon to figh’ or no. Macbeth stayed an’ regained his father’s land, bu’ he’s been constantly at war since: wi’ the Scots, wi’ the Danes, wi’ th’ English. I doot it has made him a happy man, but ’tis the way he chose. They say he is a hard man t’ know, an’ that only his lady is truly in his bosom. Still, as swee’ a thing as ye will capture his heart, I ha’ no doot.”

  Banaugh seemed sure enough, and he had once known Macbeth well. Watching her step on the treacherous hillside, Tessa hoped he was correct.

  Near the end of their journey, the two travelers stopped by a tiny stream that tumbled down the last of the steep slopes and then ran away across a flat into a nearby wood. Tessa opened the pack and removed the last of their food: cheese and two fried scones. Banaugh dipped cool, clear water into a tin cup he carried on his belt, and they sipped from it companionably as they ate. When the food was gone, Banaugh went off without a word to attend to his personal business. Tessa sat wrapped in her cloak, waiting patiently. He was an old man and would be a while.

  The day was somewhat cool, but she sat on a rock that had warmed in the sun, the rays also warming her face. Closing her eyes, the girl hummed a little tune, trying to picture her uncle in her mind. Her own father had been dark and strongly built, so she guessed his brother would be the same. She remembered Kenneth’s warm expression, his craggy face with the many small lines etched onto it by Scotland’s unforgiving weather. Her father had been sickened by the violence of Scottish politics, where brother slew brother and son slew father with no regret if it meant power. She supposed no matter how much they looked alike, that was the fundamental difference between the brothers macFindlaech: Kenneth had rejected such practices, and Macbeth had accepted them.

  A noise made the girl open her eyes. Before her, indeed too near for comfort, were three wild-looking women. They stared at her intently and she drew back, startled. They were an eerie trio, with disheveled hair, tattered clothes, and odd eyes like hooded lanterns letting out small but intense rays of light. They paraded around the rock on which Tessa sat, making muttered sounds and little mewling cries. Recovering from her surprise somewhat, the girl spoke with a hint of challenge in her voice to cover her nervousness. “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  The muttering continued with no notice taken of her question. One of the three reached out and took a strand of the girl’s hair in gnarled fingers. Annoyed, Tessa pushed the hand away. The skin felt like old paper, dry and likely to crumble. She repeated, “Who are you?”

  “On your way to England, are you?” one woman rasped.

  “Of course not,” Tessa replied. “I travel north, away from England.” Like most Scots, Tessa had no use for the English, who claimed they ruled Scotland. They were usually wise enough not to try to prove it.

  The crone smiled dreamily and repeated, “On your way, on your way!”

  The second spoke, her voice high and keening. “Always seeking!” A long, grubby finger waggled under Tessa’s nose. “You’ll find happiness only among the dead!”

  “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  The woman repeated, “—only among the dead.”

  The one who’d touched her hair now spoke, her face close to Tessa’s. She was missing several teeth in front, and her tongue slid through the gap, making her words slushy and sibilant. “Two men who marry you, Pretty, will never be your lover, but your true lover will forget your name!”

  Tessa tried to make sense of the words, but in the end her temper got the better of her. For one thing, each woman repeated a part of her statement, and the cacophony became irritating. For another, the foul odor emanating from the women, a mixture of unwashed bodies, bad breath, and ancient, musty wool, was nauseating. Tessa tried for a polite tone, practicing ladylike meekness.

  “I will remember what you’ve said, but please leave me alone. I prefer to rest in peace and quiet.”

  The trio laughed gleefully at this, gasping out, “Peace and quiet! Peace and quiet!” until Tessa shut her eyes in frustration. Suddenly there was silence, and she opened her eyes to find them gone. There was no sign of their departure, no rustling in the bushes or movement in the grass. They had simply disappeared.

  Shortly after, Banaugh returned to find Tessa sitting dazedly and she told him what had occurred. “I can find no sign of them. They vanished.”

  Banaugh shook his grizzled head. “I ha’ heard o’ such. They speak t’ folk o’ the future. But,” he warned, “they love t’ play tricks on humans, as all fairy folk do, so they tell the truth a-slant.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s truth t’ it, no mistake,” Banaugh averred, “but it’s no’ plain. Truth hides in the words they speak.”

  Tessa thought about that for a moment. “Fairy folk? No. They were only crazy old women. Why, Banaugh, think of it. The very first thing they said was wrong. I’m not on my way to England.” Rising, she adjusted her cape. “Now we must get on. No more time for false prophecies!”

  Macbeth’s castle wasn’t far from Tessa’s home as the crow flies, but it took several days on foot to make the steep descent. Built at the extremity of Crown Hill, on a plain near the junction of the River Ness and the Moray Firth, the stronghold commanded a view of both land and sea for a long way, an easily defensible site. As they came into the valley, the travelers saw its outline and heard the bell signaling the evening meal from a long way off.

  Not a castle by European standards, Inverness was still impressive. As young men, Macbeth and Kenneth had traveled across England and to the Continent. Macbeth’s home was modern compared to the old Scottish brochs that were simply thick-walled towers, with design evident in its construction. Ev
ery advantage had been taken of the terrain, and the motte was stone rather than the usual wood. There were no windows on the ground floor for defensive reasons, and the outer wall was manned by well-trained troopers in leather tunics and trews. The round tower sat centered in a large bailey, or castle yard, both substantial and imposing. Despite its fortress-like qualities, the place fit harmoniously into the roughly hewn Highland countryside. Tessa’s heart lightened at the sight of it, and she promised herself she would please her aunt and be biddable and feminine.

  And now she had been a model of propriety for two months, Tessa thought, returning to the present and the fireside. Gruoch had patiently taught Tessa the rudiments of running a castle, which any good noble wife must know. Chatelaines were responsible for managing the household, supplying the needs of the various members, and even defending the place when their husbands were away. Gruoch ran her husband’s property efficiently and with a firm hand, leaving him free to deal with other matters.

  Macbeth was a strong man, handsome in a rugged way, with a strong resemblance to his brother that drew Tessa to him. He had welcomed her pleasantly enough, though he made no inquiry into either his brother’s life since they’d parted or his death. He seemed distracted and distant, often walking alone by the Firth in the evening. There were rumors of war, but in Scotland that was not unusual. Something else bothered him, but the thane’s worries were not the business of one insignificant household female.

  One night Tessa met her uncle as she walked along the Firth, looking longingly across at the mountains that had been her home. Macbeth approached without seeing her in the dusk, starting when he saw he was not alone. Tessa hurried to identify herself. “I am sorry, Uncle. I did not mean to disturb you.”

  “You are no disturbance, Niece. I too like to walk. It helps me to sort things out.”

  At his gesture, Tessa fell in beside him and they walked in silence for a few moments, the only sound the crunching of rough stones beneath their feet. “Is it difficult to be a man, Uncle?” Tessa asked suddenly.

  Macbeth smiled. “I suppose so. I have never been else, so I cannot compare.”

  “My father told me of the days when he was young, how the kingship was the source of much trouble in the land.”

  “True,” Macbeth agreed. “We swore fealty to Duncan after he killed his grandfather and took the throne.”

  “His own grandfather?” Tessa shivered at the idea.

  “Aye. In Scotland even close relatives can be traitorous. Your father would not admit it, but that sort of thing is common. Kenneth chose to avoid conflict.” Macbeth’s voice showed both a lack of understanding and a slight distaste for his brother’s choice. “Strength holds the kingship. A weak king is worse than no king at all.”

  Tessa said nothing. It was actions like Duncan’s murder of his grandsire, she suspected, that had sent Kenneth into the mountains, removing himself from the matter.

  Macbeth continued as if he’d forgotten she was there. “Duncan was strong then, and Scotland loves a strong king.” His face clouded in the moonlight. “Lately the old man has shown weakness sure to bring trouble among the thanes. The last uprising he left entirely to Macduff and me. We did our part, of course, but it has led to talk of the king’s changed personality.”

  “The king is very old, then?”

  Her uncle smiled. “Older to you than he seems to me, but yes. Old for a fighting man, and that has led to another problem.” Macbeth’s voice took on a teaching tone, as if explaining to Tessa was important, but she sensed he was clarifying things in his own mind as well. “You see, Scottish kings are warriors, expected to take the field during battle. Furthermore, kingship is not necessarily handed down to the son of a king, but to the strongest fighting man. Yet Duncan recently named his older son Malcolm to succeed him. The boy is not of age, which should have prevented his being chosen. Several noblemen are upset, having as good a claim as the boy by blood.” Tessa knew his own noble blood made Macbeth a possible candidate. He uncle seemed to be wrestling with his own conscience in light of the king’s weakness and Scotland’s demands.

  They reached the castle gate, and the guards snapped to attention. Remembering to whom he spoke, Macbeth concluded, “It is a coil, but nothing you must worry about, pretty Tessa. Scotland has gone on for a long time, and it will not end with you or me.” With that, her uncle bowed slightly and continued up the stairs to his chamber.

  That talk was the only real contact Tessa had had with her uncle, but it gave her insight as she sat now by the fireside with his wife. It was the possibility of kingship Lady Macbeth thought of as she criticized the weakness of men. Plainly she thought her husband should make a bid for the throne, and he had not. Tessa imagined her aunt’s chilling touch on Macbeth’s face as she spurred him toward ambition, and she shuddered.

  The chemistry between Macbeth and Gruoch was familiar to Tessa, for her parents’ marriage had been similar. The male was the head of the Scottish household, to be sure, but both Gruoch and Kenna macFindlaech made their husbands aware of their wishes in no uncertain terms. The difference between them was that Tessa’s mother had been likely to rant and carry on, while Gruoch managed her husband with probing looks and cool little silences.

  Watching her aunt now as she stitched on, Tessa said no more, since she didn’t know enough about King Duncan to make a judgment. Was he cowardly? Senile? The business of kings was nothing to do with her, she reminded herself. Tessa sighed and returned to work on the tapestry that was supposed to be a lady’s form of relaxation.