dire. “And then Banquo’s time will come—unless I stop it!” He leaps to his feet.
I see murder in his eyes. No doubt or hesitation, as on the night he slew Duncan and the grooms.
“No, you must not! Don’t kill again,” I plead, breathless. “At least not until you are certain he is disloyal. What if you are found out?”
My lord laughs sharply. “When it is done, not a drop of their blood will touch my hand.”
I am too afraid to ask who will do the deed for him. I do not want to know.
That night I dream that I am standing at the edge of a loch. My hands are covered with blood. I dip them into the water, but they will not come clean, though I rub them together, then wipe them with great swaths of linen. The stain is set in my skin. I immerse them again, and the entire loch turns red. I cry out in my sleep and wake up trembling. My lord, not Rhuven, is beside me in the bed.
“Quiet!” he growls in a threatening voice. His hand covers my mouth.
Chapter 12
Dunbeag and Wychelm Wood
Albia
When we return to Dunbeag, Breda treats me no differently than before. Perhaps it does not matter to her whether I have a father or not. Nothing more is said about him. She is being kind, in her own way. Then Banquo and Fleance return from Dun Forres, Fleance swaggering and swearing like a soldier. No wonder Breda envies Fiona her sweet-faced bairns.
The second winter of King Macbeth’s reign roars in like a hoary beast, colder and more cruel than the last one. Neither rebels nor loyal warriors leave their hearths to fight. The only battle is the one for survival. I worry about Mother and Helwain but have no way of knowing how they are faring. Rhuven does not even visit. The roads are deserted, even by the bandits. But at the king’s behest, Banquo and Fleance leave Dunbeag, wrapped up like bears against the cold, and do not return for weeks. Banquo is grim-faced and silent about their business, but he has brought rewards from the king: marten-lined cloaks for themselves and yards of madder-colored silk for Breda. Rhuven has sent me a new gown, and Banquo gives me a pair of shoes, soft and sturdy, made from a cow’s hide. I kiss his hairy cheek and thank him, but this time the word “Father” sticks on my tongue and will not come out.
“I have something for you, too,” Fleance announces. “I will give it to you later.”
I wonder what new trick he has devised to trap me. This time I will be ready for him.
“I hope it is a shield,” I say, eyeing him with suspicion. “Meet me on the path to the village. I will bring the sword and you can give me another lesson.”
I arrive there ahead of Fleance and wait, jumpy as a rabbit. Finally he comes, wearing a fine yellow tunic and carrying his sword and two shields.
“You brought me what I asked for. Well done!” I say as someone might praise a hound, but I smile to show my goodwill.
“And I brought something you left undone , some time ago,” he says, holding one hand behind his back.
“What did I leave undone? Is this a riddle?”
In reply, he holds out a folded piece of cloth. Frowning but curious, I take it in my hands and unfold it, revealing a bright girdle made of silk. It is as smooth and blue as the surface of a loch and trimmed with a woven braid in a pattern I recognize.
“Why, it is the braid I broke last year—when you—” I stammer, remembering how he tried to corner me while I was weaving and I struck him. “Why did you even save it?”
He shrugs. “It was too fine a piece of work to leave in the dirt.”
“But how did it come to be finished?”
“I took it to the weaver woman in the village.”
I examine the braid and cannot tell where it was broken, so well did she complete the design.
“It is so lovely, I cannot accept it,” I say with a shake of my head. “I have nothing to give in return.”
“Only grant me leave to put it on you,” he says, his blue eyes on mine.
I hesitate. Still, I long to wear something so
I see murder in his eyes. No doubt or hesitation, as on the night he slew Duncan and the grooms.
“No, you must not! Don’t kill again,” I plead, breathless. “At least not until you are certain he is disloyal. What if you are found out?”
My lord laughs sharply. “When it is done, not a drop of their blood will touch my hand.”
I am too afraid to ask who will do the deed for him. I do not want to know.
That night I dream that I am standing at the edge of a loch. My hands are covered with blood. I dip them into the water, but they will not come clean, though I rub them together, then wipe them with great swaths of linen. The stain is set in my skin. I immerse them again, and the entire loch turns red. I cry out in my sleep and wake up trembling. My lord, not Rhuven, is beside me in the bed.
“Quiet!” he growls in a threatening voice. His hand covers my mouth.
Chapter 12
Dunbeag and Wychelm Wood
Albia
When we return to Dunbeag, Breda treats me no differently than before. Perhaps it does not matter to her whether I have a father or not. Nothing more is said about him. She is being kind, in her own way. Then Banquo and Fleance return from Dun Forres, Fleance swaggering and swearing like a soldier. No wonder Breda envies Fiona her sweet-faced bairns.
The second winter of King Macbeth’s reign roars in like a hoary beast, colder and more cruel than the last one. Neither rebels nor loyal warriors leave their hearths to fight. The only battle is the one for survival. I worry about Mother and Helwain but have no way of knowing how they are faring. Rhuven does not even visit. The roads are deserted, even by the bandits. But at the king’s behest, Banquo and Fleance leave Dunbeag, wrapped up like bears against the cold, and do not return for weeks. Banquo is grim-faced and silent about their business, but he has brought rewards from the king: marten-lined cloaks for themselves and yards of madder-colored silk for Breda. Rhuven has sent me a new gown, and Banquo gives me a pair of shoes, soft and sturdy, made from a cow’s hide. I kiss his hairy cheek and thank him, but this time the word “Father” sticks on my tongue and will not come out.
“I have something for you, too,” Fleance announces. “I will give it to you later.”
I wonder what new trick he has devised to trap me. This time I will be ready for him.
“I hope it is a shield,” I say, eyeing him with suspicion. “Meet me on the path to the village. I will bring the sword and you can give me another lesson.”
I arrive there ahead of Fleance and wait, jumpy as a rabbit. Finally he comes, wearing a fine yellow tunic and carrying his sword and two shields.
“You brought me what I asked for. Well done!” I say as someone might praise a hound, but I smile to show my goodwill.
“And I brought something you left undone , some time ago,” he says, holding one hand behind his back.
“What did I leave undone? Is this a riddle?”
In reply, he holds out a folded piece of cloth. Frowning but curious, I take it in my hands and unfold it, revealing a bright girdle made of silk. It is as smooth and blue as the surface of a loch and trimmed with a woven braid in a pattern I recognize.
“Why, it is the braid I broke last year—when you—” I stammer, remembering how he tried to corner me while I was weaving and I struck him. “Why did you even save it?”
He shrugs. “It was too fine a piece of work to leave in the dirt.”
“But how did it come to be finished?”
“I took it to the weaver woman in the village.”
I examine the braid and cannot tell where it was broken, so well did she complete the design.
“It is so lovely, I cannot accept it,” I say with a shake of my head. “I have nothing to give in return.”
“Only grant me leave to put it on you,” he says, his blue eyes on mine.
I hesitate. Still, I long to wear something so
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