Page 28 of Lady Macbeth

He pauses. Roscille closes her eyes. Let them think she grieves at remembering this fearful moment. Let them think nothing more.

“A man without enemies is a man without power,” Macbeth says. “Go on.”

Fléance swallows, his throat bobbing, distorting the wound. “There were masked men, three of them. They struck the Lady to unconsciousness. I fought them off, but I could not give chase without risking the life of Lady Roscilla.”

Lisander’s gaze flickers to her. “Lady Roscilla—is this true?”

Roscille used to think there was no state more powerless than one of forced silence. Of words that mean nothing, touch no one. But now she is a dog, commanded: Speak. Lie for your life. This is a castle of consequences. Every word has its echo.

“Yes,” she says, meeting his eyes. “It was— I do not wish to recount it.”

Lisander holds her stare for a long moment. She remembers Macbeth’s words. The prince of Cumberland is too clever.

At last, Lisander says, “Understandable.” And then he blinks and looks away.

Roscille exhales.

Words pass among the princes and the chancellor and Banquho and Macbeth. One clan is named, then another. All men who may be killed falsely, whose lines will be ended for her lies.

“I will ride and seek out these traitors,” Evander declares. “They will know the sting of the blade, and I will taste the tang of their blood.”

“Our Druide has already performed cruentation on all the men of the nearby villages,” Macbeth says. “But there are still more, in farther towns. I swear to you, I will not rest until we both have our vengeance. In King Duncane’s name.”

Evander nods. “Then let us go.”

“Forgive me,” the chancellor says, “but I cannot allow this matter to go undiscussed. Soon the world will know that Alba is without a king. And a country without a king is a meal for vultures.”

This is the man who has sat in the king’s war councils. He is right: The peace with England is Duncane’s peace, his dead wife’s peace, the peace buoyed by the Saxon blood running through the veins of his sons. Æthelstan has no love for Scotland otherwise. And the Irish and the Northmen and the Welsh are sharpening their own claws in the meantime. A king’s death is a wound: It cannot be left untreated for long. Blood will fill it.

The room thrums with silence.

“Brother,” Evander says. “You know our father’s will. It must be you.”

Lisander’s face hardens. He does not speak. Roscille is as puzzled as the others in the silent hall—any man would leap to claim this easy power, presented to him like wine for gulping.

At last, he replies, “And you know our father’s mind was muddled by sentiment.”

Fiercely, Evander shakes his head. “No. It is the duty of the living to respect the wishes of the dead. Our father’s body may have been impaired, but his reasoning was not. You are the elder. You are—”

“Not fit,” Lisander cuts in.

He speaks in Saxon. There is a rumbling among the men gathered in the hall. Not all of them know Saxon and many will not understand. Even the ones who do will be perplexed. Lisander is a discomfiting presence, dark and silent where his brother is ebullient and bright, but this alone is not enough to warrant him being passed over. Far more ill-fit men have ruled kingdoms before.

“You refuse what any other man would slay a thousand for,” Evander responds, in his own angry Saxon. “You think yourself not a man—it is your mind that is muddled by sentiment in this matter, brother.”

The air in the hall is growing dense and hot, as if filled with smoke. For a long moment neither prince speaks. Then, blinking and clearing his throat, the chancellor steps forward.

“We may put off the coronation until we return to Moray,” he says—in Scottish, to quell tempers. “But Alba’s enemies are many and they are hungry. We must not show an infirmity.”

It is almost funny, to hear him say this—Scotland has been ruled for decades by infirmity; its king diseased, wasting. Moray is the chosen seat of Duncane’s clan. It is a week’s ride from Glammis, at least. Enough time for news to spread like the light from signal fires; enough time for distant lords to gather their armies and distant kings to consult their war councils and seek the blessings of their priests.

“We will go to Moray, then,” says Lisander. “And if there is talk, we can say the king died of illness. It would come as no surprise.”

“And leave our father’s murder unavenged?” Evander demands. “No. I will not go to Moray until I have found the traitors and slain them. Any further rule will be tainted, until this is done. Already clan Dunkeld is—”

He stops himself abruptly. Yes, there are rumors about Duncane’s clan; with such a mysterious and terrible and enduring affliction, how could there not be suspicions that it is divine punishment? It is said often that this is why Duncane wed a pious woman, why he dresses his Druides in gold and seats them at his council table. All of it silent penance for a secret crime. Of course, these are stories only, true in the minds of some, and ash in the mouths of others.

“Let us ride out now,” Macbeth says to Evander. “I will bring you to every village in a day’s distance—Fléance, you will come as well. I will bring my own Druide. And I will find these traitors, on pain of death.”