Page 33 of Lady Macbeth

“Cowardice runs in the blood of Duncane.” Macbeth begins to circle them, his own blade flashing. “Your brother fled at the sight of our swords, like a frightened deer. He will first seek refuge at the keep of that witless Macduff, and then he will make his way to Æthelstan’s court—too craven to fight his battles alone.”

“Most would think it more craven to come at a man with three swords against one.” Lisander nods toward Banquho and Fléance, still astride their horses. “Your right hand is clumsy, Thane of Glammis. Hardly more able than his sulking son. All three of you, outridden by a man barely out of boyhood.”

With a furious growl, Banquho drops down from his saddle. Fléance follows him, chest heaving, and from this vantage point even the near-death wound seems faint, pale, drained of its honor.

Macbeth does not speak to defend them. Instead, he smiles thinly.

“Clearly you understand the arithmetic of your position, Prince of Cumberland,” he says. “One sword will never triumph against three, and unlike your brother, you have nowhere to run.”

The wind blows in a great, sweeping gust through the courtyard, grasping at Roscille’s veil. She hopes this will account for the way her eyes are watering, that her husband will not see her crying—or if he does, he will think it out of fear for her own life, not out of grief for what she imagines will come. The sword-thrust that will strike Lisander from the earth.

But if Lisander feels such fear, he does not show it on his face. His green gaze is steady.

“I would suggest you think on your position, too, Thane of Glammis,” he says. “My brother will reach Æthelstan’s court within the week, and once he arrives, all of England will be moved to his cause. Name yourself King if you choose, but Alba is a country in pieces. How many thanes will join you when they know it means standing against Æthelstan’s army? I am your only hope for gaining allies in Scotland, and your only hope for peace with England. Evander will bargain for my life, but he will make no concessions for a corpse. And you know well that the lion always devours the unicorn.”

Macbeth grows still where he stands. The wind brushes through his hair and beard, braiding it with cold. Roscille’s blood is frozen in her veins. Lisander does not blink, does not falter.

Her husband may be an artificer of violence, but he is not completely without reason. Roscille knows by now he is more than a dull brute. These long moments pass like water, rising, falling, drenching the shore, retreating, rising, and falling again, smothering the sand with streaks of foam.

Finally, Macbeth’s words come through gritted teeth.

“Drop your sword,” he says to Lisander. And then, over his shoulder, he calls out to Banquho and Fléance: “Clap him in chains and put him in a cell.”

The pressure in her back is relieved as Lisander’s sword falls to the earth. She exhales, but there is no true alleviation of tension, of terror, as Macbeth strides toward her and grasps her around the shoulders, pulling her small body against his colossal chest.

“I’m sorry—” she begins.

“No,” he says, quiet but firm. “Not now.”

She cannot bring herself to watch as Banquho and Fléance descend upon Lisander, grasping each of his arms, dragging him out of the courtyard. Yet she cannot bear to look away, either. She meets Lisander’s eyes, which are still cold and unreadable, and too appallingly, exquisitely green.

“Traitor!” cries a sudden, warbling voice. “You, Macbeth—turncoat, apostate! You slew the king in his bed!”

Slowly, Macbeth turns. It is the chancellor who shouts from across the courtyard, trembling in his fine robes, clutching the jeweled crucifix in thin, gnarled fingers.

“Silence,” Banquho bites out.

Macbeth holds up a hand.

“Think on your position, Chancellor,” he says. “Your old master is dead and cannot protect you. You are trapped now, in the castle of his killer. You have two choices: You may bow to me, or you may follow Duncane to his grave.”

The chancellor quivers, like a reed blown through with wind. His mouth opens, then shuts. Because she’s still pressed to Macbeth’s chest, Roscille’s vision grows blurry and hot and she cannot breathe.

After several moments of silence, the chancellor lowers himself to his knees. He sets his crucifix down in the dirt and raises his arms above his head. He tips forward, face to the dusty ground, palms flat and open against the earth. Pure supplication. Complete surrender. Macbeth will savor this image like the headiest of spirits.

Macbeth approaches. His footsteps are as loud as stones dropped from a great height. When he reaches the prostrating chancellor, he tips his head to the side, considering the lowly form of this man. Shame stirs up from him, like clouds of dust.

The blade drives swift and true through the chancellor’s wattled neck. Macbeth has killed so many men that he knows precisely where to strike, how to deliver the exact wound he desires. He crafts each kill with the cleverest touch. Sometimes there will be a showy bleeding, a gasping for breath, a long, drawn-out dying, if this serves his purpose. But now it is brutal and brief. The chancellor has no last words. His already-slumped body hardly moves from its position. There is a single spasm, like the flopping of a fish. And then only a growing red circle in the dirt.

“I have no use for another driveling priest,” says Macbeth.

He removes his sword with a subtle twist, which creates the sound of splintering bone. He lifts the blade in the air and licks its tip, tasting the chancellor’s carefully crafted death. And, too, he has crafted this message, shown to all who can see the redness wet his lips: He is observing the rite of first blood, which means there will be more blood soon to follow.

Macbeth does not go to his hall, to quench his thirst with wine or to spread maps across his war table. He goes instead to his chamber. Roscille has been ordered, with only a sharp jerk of his head, to follow. She trails after him in silence, and when they reach the room he ushers her in, then shuts the door behind her. All this time he has not even looked at her, not into her eyes, through the veil.

A servant comes with a bucket of water. Roscille stands on the bear-rug with her hands clasped in front of her, gaze fixed on the dead animal’s face, praying she can appear contrite enough to please him, praying that his eyes do not linger too long on her throat.

She raises her head only when she hears her husband drop his sword unceremoniously onto the floor; it clatters on the stone, blade still flashing red. Then he unlaces his jerkin and yanks his shirt over his head.