Macbeth's Niece (5 page)

“Ah.” Cawdor suddenly looked unhappy,
chewing his lip and frowning. “I wouldna have the girl suffer,” he
began. “She is blood, you know.”

Brixton sniffed. “You Scots have been
spilling each other’s blood for centuries, family or no. How did
Duncan become King Duncan? How did our host last night gain his
castle and his wife? Killing relatives, that’s how.”

Cawdor became angry, too, but on him it was
less than impressive. His paunch quivered as he tried to draw
himself up to full height, and his jowly cheeks shook. “And are the
English any better? I think not.”

Suddenly Brixton smiled sheepishly. “You’re
right. We English also kill each other, relatives and all, for
personal gain. It’s the way of men, I fear.” His face took on a
pensive look, but he shook it off and changed the subject. “Do not
worry, sir. I will not abandon your niece, and I have no desire to
hurt her. I will take her to my brother’s wife, who may take on a
half-grown brat, having no children of her own.”

Tessa considered objecting that she wanted
no part of his wicked family, but in the end remained silent. She
had to think of a way to reach Macbeth, who would save the king, or
even Gruoch, who would never side with the English despite
despising Duncan. She watched and waited for any chance as Brixton
bade Cawdor goodbye and herded her to the pier where a small ship
was being readied for departure.

The morning was still gray, but the fog was
thinning, its damp hold on the riverbank reluctantly letting go.
She saw several sailors, all English judging by their
harsh-sounding speech and unfamiliar clothing. Would any of them
help her if she were to scream out that she was being captured?
Looking into the eyes of one who stopped his labor to leer at her,
she doubted it. They despised the Scots, she knew, and would side
with Brixton against one who was both female and Scot. He had their
allegiance, he had money, and she had nothing. Tessa’s heart was
heavy as she accepted that her situation was hopeless. She cursed
Jeffrey Brixton silently as they proceeded in apparent amity toward
the ship that would become her prison.

Brixton kept a hand lightly on Tessa’s neck
as they walked up the gangplank. He explained casually to the
captain there would be an extra passenger. Gold was exchanged, and
the captain gave her the merest look of interest before returning
to his preparations. Brixton led her into a tiny cabin formed by
canvas sheets draped from the mast, the only private place on the
ship. Once he’d pulled the curtain to shield them from curious
eyes, he untied her hands and moved his belongings to a corner of
the space, spreading a blanket on the floor.

“You may take the pallet, as much comfort as
it will give,” Brixton told her. “No one can help you. The men on
this ship are in my employ and have no interest in what happens to
a Scottish brat. If I have to beat you to keep you quiet, well, I
will do that, too.”

It was said in such an offhand manner that
she knew he meant it. Soon Tessa heard the men cry out orders as
the ship left its docking and started out to the sea. There had
been no chance to escape, no chance to warn of Cawdor’s treachery.
And now she was on her way to England.

Suddenly, the three crones’ faces appeared
in her mind, and she heard the first one repeating, “—on your way,
on your way, on your way.” Falling onto the tiny bunk, Tessa turned
away, shivering despite the heavy cloak.

Chapter
Five

A day later, Tessa’s despair abated somewhat
with the acceptance of change that youth affords and with the fact
that her worst fears had not materialized. She was alive, though a
prisoner; safe, though torn from all she knew well. To her
surprise, Jeffrey Brixton had left her untouched; in fact, he had
largely ignored her once the ship cleared Macbeth’s territory.
Good, she told herself. She had nothing to say to the man
anyway.

Having never been on a boat before, Tessa
took some interest in the vessel on which she rode which smelled,
not surprisingly, strongly of fish. It was clinker-built, which
meant planks had been overlapped to form its sides. A single square
sail hung on the mast, and oars bristled from the sides as
alternate power. It was maneuvered by means of a “steer-board”
roped to the right side. The center was about fifteen feet across,
and the mid-section was tented to provide their private space,
about six feet square. The sailors weren’t pleased to have a woman
aboard, but gold counted for more than superstition.

Brixton stayed on deck except to sleep at
night, avoiding contact with Tessa. From a small boy who came in to
bring food and remove the slops, she learned they were headed south
to Grimsby, a fishing town at the mouth of the Humber River, where
she and Brixton would travel west toward York, Brixton’s home. Rob,
who disliked the “Robin” most of the men on board called him, was
from that area himself and enjoyed talking—and boasting—about
home.

“There’s a fine minster, as fine as you
would see in London, I’m thinking,” he told Tessa, bracing himself
without effort as the little ship shifted. “And the town is full of
shops where you can buy anything in the world.”

Tessa, though a few years older than the
boy, felt intimidated by his description. She herself had never
been in a town of any size at all, though her father and uncle had
traveled as young men, and she had heard tales of London and even
Paris. What if one became lost in all those tiny streets and
huddled shops?

The boy was a good source of information,
but he feared a box on the ears if he stayed too long at a time.
“Young Brixton,” he told Tessa, using a term he’d heard the older
men use, “he’s got no prospects. The estate went to his eldest
brother, as is right, and there are two more brothers above him. So
even though Lord Brixton has no children, this one will never see
the title, more’s the pity, for we like him best of all, we
do.”

Tessa had her own opinion of Brixton, but
unwilling to alienate her source, she merely nodded. Perhaps the
older Brixtons were less despicable than this one, but she couldn’t
see how they could be. Did they all kidnap innocent young women and
plot against neighboring governments? Of course, being English,
they might.

Rob went on, picking up the porridge bowl
she had emptied. “Master Jeffrey always treats us well, and he’s
generous when he gets a payday.”

“And for what does Master Brixton get paid?”
Tessa could not help but ask, wondering how much the boy knew of
this man’s perfidious vocation.

“Young Brixton’s a soldier, Miss,” came the
reply, “and a brave one too, I trow. He fights for armies that need
men. A mercenary, he is, well paid sometimes but not often enough,
he says. See, there’re lots of young men of good family with no
money, so they hire themselves out to fight, like Master Jeffrey
does. Cap’n says he’s making quite a name for himself, for he is
both brave and smart.”

A mercenary! That explained things that had
bothered her. Brixton had seemed a simpering sort at her uncle’s
home, but that mien had been replaced with a stronger, harsher face
the next morning. Now she understood he’d played a part, acting the
pampered English fool the Scots expected, all the while beneath it
gathering information and planning destruction. More detestable
than she’d first thought.

She drank the last of her cider and handed
Robin the tin cup. “So he’s in the employ of the Norwegians at the
English king’s connivance?” she asked calmly.

Rob had the grace to look a bit abashed.
“There’s many in the North country as doesn’t take to the Scots
raiding our lands and stealing our cattle. If we can keep the
thanes busy elsewhere, it leaves us in peace, y’see.”

“Mm,” was all Tessa could manage lest she
let her anger spill out at the boy. Scottish raids were in reprisal
for English attacks. She could have recounted generations of
maltreatment the Scots had suffered from English troops, but she
knew it was of no use. The boy, like most of the English, thought
the Scots half-wild, half-wicked savages, fit only to be kept in
their place with military might. If Rob could have seen the fine
banquet her aunt had laid and her uncle had presided over that
night when Jeffrey Brixton had falsely accepted their hospitality
while plotting against the Scottish throne!

Rob finished his tasks and left, giving her
a cheery nod. Alone in the tiny cabin, Tessa cast about for
something to pass the time. The sounds and feel of the ship had
quickly become monotonous, almost hypnotic. She wandered aimlessly
in a circle, all the space available for exercise unless she went
on deck, where the sailors leered until her face burned red.
Attractive she was—“bonny Tess,” her father had called her—but
their looks made her ashamed of her body, as if they were imagining
what lay under the dress she wore. As a result she stayed below,
all the while chafing with nothing to occupy her, not even the
tapestry she had once detested.

In the corner where Brixton’s things lay she
noticed a book’s corner protruding from under the blanket. Despite
it not being usual for females, Tessa could read. Her father had
taught her, having no sons and no other child who was in the least
interested. Though her mother had considered it useless at best and
evil at worst, Kenneth had worked with Tessa several evenings a
week, teaching her to read the few precious books he possessed,
proud of her progress. “It’s because she wears herself out with
being a tomboy and so can do nothing useful a’ nights,” was her
mother’s acrid response. Tessa loved the feel of books in her
hands, loved deciphering the written word. She even had an
understanding of the differences between her native Scots and
English, languages similar but not the same.

Reaching to pick up the book, she hesitated.
Would Brixton be angry? The thought itself was enough to urge her
onward. So much the better if he was. He’d stolen her from her home
and family. Let his anger have scope; she didn’t care!

The book was homemade: a sheaf of papers
folded together and fastened with string to a leather sheet that
formed a cover. The pages were written in a masculine hand, forming
clear, large letters. Almost at once Tessa realized it was
Brixton’s own writing, a journal of his activities, thoughts, and
opinions, begun some two years back and continuing to just over a
week before. Tessa paged through the book, reading bits here and
there. A picture of the man emerged as she read:

May, 1037: I embark on my career, it being
plain my brother William wants none of me. Ethelbert has chosen the
church as his vocation, and Aidan stays home despite William’s
broad hints and small discourtesies. I will have none of it. If the
lord of Brixton Hall wants me gone, then gone I shall be. I aim to
win for myself a name and perhaps even a title. Both are possible
as strong men seek support for their various causes. One day I will
no longer need my brother’s grudging providence of my equipment for
campaign. Then I will pay him back and bid him farewell. Aidan will
probably drink himself to death by thirty years anyway, and then
William will be alone. My heart aches for Eleanor, though, left by
herself in that crumbling house while her husband plays the
courtier in London. Perhaps that’s why he dislikes me so. Eleanor
is fond of me and it makes him uncomfortable. It is ironic he is
jealous of what he holds so lightly. He treats her with cold
politeness when she wants so much to be loved.

Tessa stopped reading for a moment. So
Brixton was in love with his sister-in-law. No wonder his brother
wanted him somewhere else. And he had the nerve to deplore the
turmoil in Scotland! She scanned more recent entries.

November, l038. I have offered my sword to
nothing, it seems. There is no real king of England. Hardecanute is
more Dane than anything, and the court is full of foreigners. One
must speak Norman French, Norwegian Danish, and Anglish simply to
eat a meal in the hall. There is much dissention among them, and
while there is plenty of opportunity to fight, I wonder what it all
means. They tell us we must subdue the Welsh, so we go east and
make a show of force. Then we must sail to Denmark to help the king
with unrest there, then to Norway and west again to Scotland. It is
certainly enough to keep a man busy and earn him his keep, but to
what avail is it?

Our little island seems destined to be ruled
by one foreigner after another. My own people were Saxons who, with
Angles, Jutes and other tribes of wanderers, took the land from the
Celts who lived there after the Romans left, then the Vikings came
with their terrible raids and settled the coast, pushing us inland.
Even the Normans in France make noises about claims to the throne
of England. For whom do I fight, or for what? Is there a nation
called England, or will it disintegrate into small warring kingdoms
as it has done before? I have little faith the current rulers can
keep control.

Tessa stopped reading and considered. The
boy who left home anxious for glory had changed in less than two
years into a man who saw the world differently. She thought of her
own family: two uncles, both unhappy with their king. One would
betray him, and the other had probably considered it. Was there
anywhere in the world where people lived peacefully?

The curtain parted at that moment and
Brixton came in, taking in with one glance what she was doing.
Tearing the book from Tessa’s hands, he threw it to the rough plank
floor and grabbed her, his strong fingers digging into her arms. He
pulled her to him, her face close to his, and hissed furiously,
“You snooping little Scottish bitch! Is nothing safe from you? I
only left it because I assumed you could not read, but you were
reading, weren’t you?”

She felt momentary guilt, knowing she’d
violated the man’s privacy, and fear, thinking he might strike her.
Despite both, her temperament asserted itself, and she spat back at
him, “I was not asked if I wanted this voyage, Englishman! You
brought me against my will! Nothing is safe from you—not my family,
my country, nor my life! It matters not to me what you do now, for
I can never go back home after your hands have been on me!”