Macbeth's Niece (3 page)

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. Every
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.

Chapter Three

That night there
were guests for dinner, and Tessa was introduced to her Uncle
Biote, the thane of Cawdor. This man she regarded with some
curiosity, since he was her mother’s brother and she might have
been sent to live with him. Three daughters of marriageable age
gave him enough to handle, so she’d been sent to the childless
Macbeth.

“I heard you were a beauty, and it was not a
lie,” Biote said as he kissed his niece’s cheek in greeting. Grouch
had let Tessa make over one of her old dresses, since she’d had
only two and neither very grand. The dress was of the softest
fabric she’d ever owned, made of deep green wool that suited her
coloring. The fact she’d botched the sewing a bit in her haste to
finish didn’t show unless one looked closely. Uncle Biote was
red-haired, like his sister Kenna, but thin-lipped and becoming
paunchy. “I have all lasses meself, more’s the pity. Ooch! The
expense of those three! But they are dear to my heart,” he boomed,
offering his arm to Tessa as they went to the table.

The boards had been set up on trestles in
the center of the great room, and here, family, household, and
guests met for the evening meal. They usually ate simply here in
the north, but there were enough people in the thane’s household to
make the evening meal a large endeavor, and extra care had been
taken tonight because of Cawdor’s visit. There was always meat, of
course, but tonight there would be several kinds: venison, fish,
beef, and fowl, roasted on large spits in the cookhouse. Bread and
scones made fresh daily would be served with preserved berries and
fruits put up by Gruoch herself, a source of pride for her. There
would be a large pudding for dessert, and of course, haggis. The
room hummed with good humor and smelled of a dozen tasty dishes.
Tessa had a large appetite despite her tiny figure and looked
forward to the meal with enthusiasm.

The evening soon became more interesting.
Tessa sat next to her Uncle Cawdor as directed by the steward just
as an amazing man appeared in the doorway, his clothes the finest
Tessa had ever seen. A long tunic of gleaming white wool fell
loosely over closely fitted white hose. On one shoulder hung a
short cape, also of white and trimmed in some sort of fur. The toes
of his shoes were pointed, and around his waist was fastened a belt
of thin gold discs with a scabbard at the side for his knife.
Tessa’s own knife hung at her belt, but the belt was simply a
leather strap, and the knife slipped through a loop of twine.

Apart from his wonderful clothes, the new
arrival was nothing short of perfect in form and face. Over medium
height, he towered above the servant who announced him, yet moved
with the grace of an athlete. Blue eyes and black hair made an odd
but striking combination. A wayward lock hung over his forehead,
returning there immediately each time he swept it back with a hand.
At one side of his mouth, a small line appeared and disappeared
from time to time. Tessa would soon learn its appearance signified
repressed humor. His skin, browned from the out-of-doors, was
smooth, his face cleanly shaven. Handsome was hardly a word to
describe him, but in Scotland, no male would appreciate being
called beautiful.

“I’m sorry to be late,” the man said, and
his accent gave Tessa a shock. He was English! A great deal of her
interest drained away. Handsome to be sure, but a waste of good
looks and fine clothes if he came from such a place! She knew from
stories, songs and discussions around the fire in her father’s home
that the English were a cowardly, conniving lot who respected none
but themselves. It was surprising such a one was guest to her
uncle.

“We were sitting down this minute,” Gruoch
answered, always the cordial hostess. “Come, sit next to me, sir. I
am interested to hear of your travels.” She made an imperious
motion and the three people on her side of the table moved down the
bench to make room for the Englishman.

As the young man obeyed, he was introduced
to the assembled diners by Macbeth. “This is Jeffrey Brixton, who
has brought us a new bull from his brother’s herd near York, for
which I am grateful.” Tessa understood the need for new breeding
stock for healthy cattle, even from England, so she supposed the
man must be fed.

Brixton addressed the whole table. “Being
the fourth of four sons, I am expendable and sent on all sorts of
errands. Some might complain, but I appreciate the chances I get to
see the world.” He spoke in a silly, overdone manner that, Tessa
reminded herself, one should expect from Englishmen. His head
bobbed slightly from side to side as he spoke, and his voice was
too high and drawling to convey masculinity. In spite of this,
Brixton made himself the center of attention as he praised
Macbeth’s hall, his lands, and especially his wife. “I had heard of
the lady’s beauty,” he gushed, “but it is beyond the rumors.
Macbeth is the luckiest of men to have found such a treasure.”

Macbeth thanked Brixton solemnly as Gruoch
smiled patiently. She was used to such praise, being a beautiful
woman despite her cold personality. She called a page to fill a cup
for Brixton, Macbeth spoke to the steward, and the serving
commenced with efficient clanks and chops. Only Tessa, still taking
in the stranger’s spectacular appearance, saw him glance around the
room with an expression that belied his earlier friendliness. The
unguarded look was calculating and unfriendly.

Something was wrong about this man. Contrary
to appearances, the Englishman was not happy to be there but was
watchful and alert beneath his pose of clownishness. Sensing
Tessa’s interest, he turned toward her. The striking eyes met hers
for a moment and by the merest movement managed to convey something
she did not understand. Acknowledgement of her beauty? A jibe at
himself? She had only the briefest sense of it and could not fathom
its meaning. Brixton’s attention returned to his hostess, who
handed him a wine cup with her own hand in thanks for his
compliment.

Jeffrey Brixton quickly became Tessa’s
greatest challenge since arriving at Inverness. While others at the
table found him amusing, even hilarious, she grew less and less
able to control her dislike of the man. Throughout the meal he
entertained with stories of his travels, all told in a simpering
manner with much waving of his hands and rolling of his eyes. His
tales centered on himself, making fun of his position in life and
the various circumstances he had gotten into while carrying out his
brother’s somewhat trivial and often complicated orders.