Macbeth's Niece (30 page)

Tessa looked up dazedly and despaired even
further. Gazing down on her were Ian Hawick and another man who
could only be the new king of Scotland, Malcolm Canmore.

“Mistress macFindlaech, is it?” Hawick
sneered. “I wondered if we two would meet again.”

“This is the one you mentioned who is kin to
Macbeth?” the young man asked Hawick. Tessa looked at him with some
interest despite her predicament. He was young, perhaps seventeen
or so, but he looked strong enough and had a determined set to his
chin. She knew little of Malcolm, but she guessed he would not
consider her a possible ally. “Pretty thing.”

“For a snake, I suppose,” replied Hawick.
“This chit tried to enlist my aid to fight for her wicked kinsman,
and when I told her I was King Duncan’s loyal subject and therefore
yours, she attacked me in my own home.”

“You pig!” Tessa spat at him. “Tell him how
you have cheated both Scots and Englishmen all your miserable life.
Tell him how you planned to rape and even kill me! Tell all these
fine English soldiers how you hold one Jeffrey Brixton, Englishman,
prisoner and demanded ransom money from his family!”

“Hear how the girl lies, sire?” Hawick
bellowed. “Am I to stand for this?”

“God’s hooks, who is one to believe?”
Malcolm frowned, looking from Hawick to Tessa in bewilderment. One
of the men standing nearby stepped up and whispered something in
his ear. His face cleared, and he raised an eyebrow at Tessa. “It
seems you have chosen badly in your lies, lass. This fellow served
with Jeffrey Brixton and knows for certain the man is dead, washed
overboard in a storm off the coast a year ago. Tie her,” he spoke
to a soldier. “We will decide what will become of the tyrant’s
niece when we reach Scone.”

Unable to think of anything that might make
Malcolm listen to her, Tessa said no more. At least Banaugh had
escaped. The man tied her hands and set her on a stone while they
finished the ritual of field-dressing venison.

The procedure was strictly spelled out by
tradition, and any man who did not know the steps necessary would
have been heaped with ridicule. The stag was split open and the
entrails carefully removed along with the windpipe. The carcass was
then cut into large chunks. The head was removed and flung into the
bushes for the birds. A piece of gristle at the end of the breast
bone was also tossed aside as the “raven’s fee,” an ancient
tradition of paying off the dark powers of the earth represented by
these birds. The eyes, liver and entrails were given to two large
hounds that accompanied the group. The meat was then divided among
the party according to rank. It was bloody work, but the men went
at it cheerfully, having captured both meat for the castle and an
interesting prisoner in one day’s hunting.

While the others were absorbed in what they
were doing, Hawick wandered over near Tessa and stood, apparently
gazing at the river. He spoke out the side of his mouth. “Well,
lass, you’ve been quite a trial to me, but I have won at the
last.”

“At least Macbeth died fighting and not by
your slimy hand,” Tessa responded.

“Aye, well, he’s dead either way, isn’t he?”
Hawick sneered. “It’s too bad, though, your friend Brixton didn’t
come along. He decided to stay behind and keep my sister
company.”

“More likely he is locked up again in the
barn. Isn’t that how Mairie keeps her men nearby?”

Hawick laughed. “I assure you, lass, he
stayed of his own accord. When news came north that Sir William is
dying, Mairie was quite interested. My sister has always had her
eye on a title, and Lady Brixton would suit her well. As I left to
go north, they were preparing to set off for York. Together.”

He wandered off, glancing slyly over his
shoulder to see if his words had hit home. Tessa sat stiffly on the
adamant rock, letting no sign show of her inner turmoil. Mairie had
commented she could love Jeffrey if he was someone important, and
now he had hopes of a title. If Mairie could get Jeffrey Brixton,
she could have him, Tessa decided furiously. However, the thought
of that perfect face smiling up at Jeffrey as he escorted her into
Brixton Manor would not make the ride to Scone any easier.

Hawick approached Malcolm as the troops
rinsed their hands in the river and prepared to depart. Tessa,
watching from the corner of her eye, could tell she was under
discussion. What would be Hawick’s recommendation? Her death?
Certainly he would be safest if she were silenced and could not
recount his crimes. Her thought was interrupted as a trooper picked
her up and set her roughly onto a horse behind another man who
snickered, “Hold on, girl. It’s a wild ride you’ll get with a man
like me!”

He was right. It was all she could do to
keep from falling as they rode through bracken and bush. The
horse’s constant twists and turns through the wood and her
inability to see around the man in front of her made the ride
miserable. Despite her humiliation, Tessa had to hold on to the
soldier’s belt, for her tied hands left no other means of balance.
Thus she headed toward the ancient place of Scottish kings, where
Macbeth, her kinsman, had been crowned King of Scotland only a year
before.

The party arrived in Scone after riding hard
the rest of the day. The castle sat in the growing dusk like a
large, gray frog, its mouth open wide and its twin tower “legs”
rising against the setting sun. Before the castle the small hill
where the stone of Scone sat was being decorated with dozens of
flags in preparation for Malcolm’s coronation. It was clear Malcolm
was anxious to complete the ceremony before some other nobleman
decided he might have the qualities necessary for kingship. A
pavilion frame had been constructed, and around the base of the
hill merchants had already staked out places for themselves to sell
their wares to the crowds who would gather to watch.

The gates of the castle closed for the night
behind them. Curious faces took in the unusual return, wondering
quite naturally what prisoner had been brought back along with the
venison. Tessa held her head high and tried not to show any
emotion. A glance into the crowd made her heart jump—Jeffrey! But
it was not he, for the man was shorter, much heavier, and wore the
plain-spun brown robe of a priest. He regarded her with no sign of
recognition or interest.

Inside the castle, Tessa was escorted into
the great hall where Malcolm, after being seated comfortably behind
a large table, refreshed himself with a cup of wine. She was not
even offered a drink of water to relieve her thirst. She looked
with longing at the stone jug but said nothing.

On Malcolm’s left sat several Scottish
thanes, none of whom she recognized except Hawick, who smirked at
her as usual. To the right sat the English, men in a delicate
position. England was Scotland’s sometime enemy, and they had
helped a rebel defeat a crowned king. The fact that the defeated
king had been unloved did not endear invading English troops to the
Scots by any means. Scottish politics was in its usual quagmire,
and England’s current government not much better. These men had to
set about making Malcolm king of Scotland in fact as well as in
name, and no one envied them their task.

Siward, the general who headed the English
troops, mourned the loss of his oldest son, rumored to have died at
Macbeth’s own hand. The old man was dignified in his grief, but
implacably set against the clan macFindlaech. When Tessa’s name was
mentioned, the old man’s eyes settled on her with animosity. His
son was lost. Would he take revenge on the dead Macbeth by
demanding the execution of his kinswoman? She met the old man’s
eyes calmly and saw in them no such demand. He was a soldier in the
truest sense and did not make war on women.

More dangerous was Macduff, whom Tessa had
never met but remembered from her uncle’s description. He had
rejected Macbeth’s claim to the throne, escaped to England to avoid
pledging allegiance, and his whole family had died for it. The
man’s eyes revealed he was half-mad with grief. Not just grief, she
thought, but guilt, too. If he had known Macbeth’s ambition, why
had he left his family in its way? Wrapped in his own thoughts, the
man said little in the discussion of what should be done with
Tessa.

Some, including a thane called Ross,
counseled Malcolm to do away with Tessa to prevent future problems.
“She is loyal to her uncle’s cause,” he maintained. “She will breed
sons and teach them to hate you.”

“I had not thought to kill women on my road
to rule,” Malcolm replied with judgment wiser than his years would
have predicted. “The question is what to do with her? She is a
threat, I admit that.”

“You could marry her,” said a young man who
sat next to Malcolm. He had said little thus far, and Tessa noticed
his voice broke, causing him to blush furiously. The lad could not
have been more than fifteen, and since he spoke in council, must be
Donalbain, Duncan’s younger son.

Malcolm’s lips twitched. “Marry her,
brother? That is your solution to the problem?”

The boy blushed even deeper but made his
argument clearly. “She is Macbeth’s kinswoman. You are Duncan’s
son. Uniting the two clans would end the arguments on either
side.”

Miriam’s astute observation had come to
shocking reality. Once again she was to be the pawn of men’s
political hopes. Would she never be considered as a person, allowed
choices about her own future?

“My lord—” she began.

“Speak when you’re spoken to,” Malcolm
barked. “Brother, I am listening.”

“If you marry this woman, you fulfill our
father’s wish that you would be king, as well as continuing the
line of Macbeth, who was, if nothing else, a strong king. In time
you would have sons with the blood of both families to cement their
claim to the throne.”

“And the streak of madness,” Ross put in
bitterly.

Another lord spoke rather timidly. “Macbeth
was driven mad, it is said, by witches who live on the moors, but
we all know he was once a good soldier and a lively comrade.” His
comment fell rather flat. No one else was about to speak well of
the man they had just defeated. The man lapsed into embarrassed
silence.

In the quiet, Macduff said surprisingly, “I
once called him friend.” It was said with wonder, with no
understanding of the demons that pursued Macbeth macFindlaech to
the depths where his life ended.

A voice spoke from behind her. “My lord,
might I suggest this council should continue without the lady? She
seems fatigued almost to fainting.”

It was the monk. With his cowl thrown back,
she saw him more clearly. His expression was kind and concerned for
her, and Tessa realized she had been holding herself erect with
great difficulty. Fear, exhaustion, and tension sang in her blood,
making her light-headed.

Malcolm gestured, and a trooper stepped
forward. “Take her to a cell and see she is fed.”

Tessa was not privy to further discussions
of her fate, nor could she summon up much concern. After so many
betrayals, Malcolm could do nothing to bring further shock or
despair. Food was brought, some cider, and even a small pitcher of
water with which she could wash away the dirt of the road. After
she had rested, Tessa sat quietly in the small cell as night
darkened its corners. It was overgrown with lichen and damp but
otherwise tolerable, and she had seen no rats yet. What would the
decision of the council be, death or marriage? It was almost funny.
To some girls, marriage to Malcolm would have been the height of
ambition. Tessa could find little interest in either
possibility.

Chapter Twenty-Five

She must have dozed for a while on the
narrow pallet that offered little in the way of comfort or warmth.
It was uncertain how much time had passed when she heard the
protesting scrape of the bolt being pushed back and the
accompanying squeal of the door opening. Tessa came awake quickly
and sat up. Morning was breaking, but it was still very gray, and
little light penetrated the cell in any case. The figure that stood
silhouetted in the doorway was the one she least wanted to see,
Hawick.

“I’ve come to tell you, lass, you’ll not be
wife to the king.” She could not see his face in the gloom, but she
could hear the smile in his voice. “It seems the English have a
spare princess for the lad. Old Siward made her sound like the
alpha and the omega, so unwilling was he to have Macbeth’s
bloodline continue on the Scottish throne.”

Tessa sat immobile, unwilling to give Hawick
any sort of response. The outlaw moved into the cell, shutting the
door behind him with a low word to someone outside. With a feeling
of dread, Tessa saw the man’s large shape loom closer, and then his
face was close to hers.

“I’m thinking, then, that Malcolm will not
mind if you and I have our delayed wedding night. After that he may
kill you or not, as he likes.” Strong hands reached out and gripped
her arms.

Tessa knew screaming would bring no help.
Hawick had arranged this with the guards. She was of no use to
anyone here, and therefore of no concern.

She tried to scratch at the man’s eyes, but
he did not retreat an inch, merely slapped her so hard that she
staggered back. He caught her arms and pinned them tightly behind
her with a callused, callous hand.

“I’ve come to show you what you missed
before and to repay you for the ridicule I suffered when you
escaped and left me tied like a Christmas goose.” His voice shook
with anger, but he pulled her close, and it softened. “Come, lass,
you would not die without knowing a real man?” His grip tightened
as she continued to struggle, knowing it was useless but refusing
to give in.

“I don’t believe she is destined to die any
time soon,” said a voice, and they both looked toward the door. It
opened and a man appeared, carrying a torch that lit the cell and
revealed the monk Tessa had seen twice before. Hawick reluctantly
let go of Tessa and turned to him.