Page 51 of Lady Macbeth

“Banquho. Banquho. Banquho. Thane of Lochquhaber.”

“That is no prophecy,” Banquho says uneasily.

Left Witch: Banquho, Thane of Lochquhaber. Lesser than Macbeth, but greater.

Right Witch: Not so happy, yet much happier.

Gruoch says, “Thou shalt beget kings, yet be none.”

They join hands, and dip them into the water. Where their skin touches, silver spreads in shapes: Banquho reflected back at himself, and back again, and again, faces piled upon faces, and each one wearing a crown.

Banquho cries out, and reaches for Macbeth again, but his Lord is not there. His body is, but his mind and spirit are released. They are out like animals, chewing on the witches’ words, tearing them apart with a fury.

Left Witch, Right Witch, and Gruoch all at once: “All hail Banquho! All hail Banquho! All hail Banquho!”

Their voices sizzle in the air, and the water burns green, like a cauldron with its oils. Macbeth turns away from les Lavandières, away from his first wife to face his second. He wears a mask of incandescent rage.

Banquho is already trudging through the water, panting, scrabbling. He clambers up the steps. He is a warrior and can scent blood before it is even spilled.

He shoves past her, hurtling from the dark into the light. Macbeth growls in wordless anger, limping up the steps after him, and the witches do not stop their chanting, and behind her veil, Roscille smiles.

The chase does not go on for long. Banquho’s gait is blundering with terror, and Macbeth limps still, stopping occasionally to rest with his shoulder jammed against the wall. Roscille can see smoke rolling off him, from the pyre lit behind his eyes.

He does not even close the door, so the witches’ voices leak out, spilling through the corridors, suffusing the castle with the smell of salt water. Roscille follows in silence, her footsteps hushed against the floor.

Macbeth charges into the courtyard, sword already drawn. His head whips back and forth, searching. Banquho has reached the barbican, but it will not open for him. He yanks at the bars like a prisoner in his cell. His face white, he cries out, “My Lord, please—”

“Lesser than Macbeth, but greater!” his Lord roars. “Not so happy, yet much happier. Thou shall beget kings! All this time, the treachery in Glammis has been wearing the face of my most trusted friend!”

Friend is not quite right. He uses a word that has no equivalent in Brezhoneg. It means “ally, partner, brother-in-blood.” It is a word forbidden to women, a word for warriors only. There is a closer term in Greek: hetairos.

This shouting draws out the castle’s other inhabitants. Servants peek from doorways and windows. Winter Fox and Mountain Goat and Weasel-cloak all emerge, hands on the pommels of their swords, ready always to draw. Even the old Druide shuffles out, Macbeth’s Druide, the one who joined her hand to her husband’s on their wedding night.

And then there is Fléance. Pleasure surges through Roscille as she sees the blank horror on his face. Whatever harm you have done me, it will be repaid now a thousandfold.

“You believe the word of these creatures over the vows I have sworn to you, many times over?” Banquho asks desperately. “You are mad, Macbeth, to have taken counsel from them!”

Winter Fox blinks. “My Lord, what creatures does he speak of?”

Macbeth turns to him. Blood has spread all the way down his stockings, thick and ugly and black, and dripped into his boot.

He says, “A madness has overtaken the Thane of Lochquhaber.”

The words muffle every sound in the courtyard, flattening even the wind, like iron beaten on an anvil. Even Banquho stops rattling the bars, and stands still as the wind sweeps through and ruffles beards and hair, and presses Roscille’s veil against her lips.

“No,” Banquho says at last. “You are the mad one. Listen! He keeps these women in chains beneath the floors of his castle—no, I cannot even call them women! They are not inhabitants of the earth. They are withered, wild creatures. Witches! And he defers to them, has them speak false prophecies in his favor!”

“Do you see?” Macbeth gestures. “What demonic humors have corrupted our dear friend’s mind? To say this, Macbeth harbors witches! He sees unearthly visions before his eyes.”

“Lies!” Banquho howls. “I am no traitor, and I speak truly! Go down the longest, lowest corridor of the castle, and see these evil creatures for yourself!”

Winter Fox and Mountain Goat and Weasel-cloak all look among one another, jaws and lips moving as though they are chewing food, but they produce no words. Roscille will never stop marveling at the stupidness of men when the order of their world is disrupted.

It is the Druide who speaks.

“Perhaps,” he says, “we may release these humors from him. Banish the demons, and return our friend to his reasonable mind.”

Another beat of silence.