Don’t look at me so.” I close my eyes and turn my head away from her.
“Grelach, you must tell me, or I cannot protect you.” She grasps my shoulders and shakes me gently.
I rub my hands together, unable to stop myself. “Rhuven, bring me some water to wash with.”
“Not until you tell me the entire truth.” She takes my face between her hands, forcing me to look in her eyes.
I trust Rhuven. She is my constant companion, my other self.
“I only put the drops of mandrake in their wine to make them sleep. It was not part of the plan to slay them,” I whisper. “Only Duncan.”
I do not need to say more. I have as much as confessed my husband’s crimes—and my part in them—to Rhuven. Now she, too, has reason to fear Macbeth.
Chapter 8
The Shieling
Albia
When I come home from the shieling at the end of the summer, I notice at once my mother’s gaunt shape and the shadowy circles beneath her eyes. I ask her if she is ill.
“All of Scotland is sick,” she replies.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“King Duncan is dead, his sons have fled, and Macbeth rules in his stead,” replies Helwain in a flat voice, like someone who has tasted of a plant that numbs the brain.
So the painted warrior of Wanluck Mhor is now the king! Helwain should be exulting that her words have proven true. Then again, what does it matter which bloodthirsty thane sits on the throne? Nothing in Scotland changes but the seasons, and they follow one another as predictably as night follows day.
But I am wrong about that. First, my body changes. With Banrigh’s monthly visitation, my breasts grow round, my hips flare out, and my emotions reel from one extreme to another. That winter I turn fifteen.
The weather also changes, and with violence. Even before the fall crops are ready to be gathered, icy winds blow from the north and cover every green thing in heavy white rime. Murdo’s barley freezes and falls limp in the fields. Mother and I have to walk all the way to Inverness to buy grain, and it is so scarce that we can afford only a little. The winter months bring snow so deep that the sheep cannot reach the ground to graze and so they begin to die.
One day, six wolves threaten our flock even as Colum and I stand watch. Though we draw closer to the fire and throw rocks at them, they creep toward us, their teeth bared and their eyes gleaming with gold fire. I am afraid they will attack me, but instead they seize two sheep—not even the weakest ones—and the pack melts away, their tawny coats blending with the dead, gray-brown grasses. The bleating of the hapless creatures rises to the pitch of a scream before ceasing.
“Albia, did you notice anything unusual about those wolves?” Colum asks into the silence.
“Aye, they were fat. It could not have been hunger that made them so fearless.”
“Did you see their eyes? Something evil held those wolves, to be sure,” he says in a dire tone.
“Do you think Nocklavey is abroad?” I whisper. “And that is why everything is dead and destroyed?”
But Colum does not answer.
My mother is also in the grip of something unnatural. Her cheeks grow hollow and she shivers her very flesh away even while she sits directly before the fire.
The prowling wolves, the deathly cold, and my mother’s illness throw Helwain into distress. She scatters animal bones and mutters over their meaning until the clattering crazes me. I cover my ears until I cannot help shouting at her.
“Throw those damned bones outside. Can’t you see my mother is ill? Use your magic to make her well, you old fatereaper!”
Helwain turns on me. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Tell me why!” She grabs me by the throat as if to shake an answer from me.
I push her away and she goes sprawling into the fire. She screams as her hand touches the embers. Mother leaps up from her bed, her feverish eyes burning.
“Albia, never lift your arm against my sister!” she rasps.
I hide my head and shake with tears
“Grelach, you must tell me, or I cannot protect you.” She grasps my shoulders and shakes me gently.
I rub my hands together, unable to stop myself. “Rhuven, bring me some water to wash with.”
“Not until you tell me the entire truth.” She takes my face between her hands, forcing me to look in her eyes.
I trust Rhuven. She is my constant companion, my other self.
“I only put the drops of mandrake in their wine to make them sleep. It was not part of the plan to slay them,” I whisper. “Only Duncan.”
I do not need to say more. I have as much as confessed my husband’s crimes—and my part in them—to Rhuven. Now she, too, has reason to fear Macbeth.
Chapter 8
The Shieling
Albia
When I come home from the shieling at the end of the summer, I notice at once my mother’s gaunt shape and the shadowy circles beneath her eyes. I ask her if she is ill.
“All of Scotland is sick,” she replies.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“King Duncan is dead, his sons have fled, and Macbeth rules in his stead,” replies Helwain in a flat voice, like someone who has tasted of a plant that numbs the brain.
So the painted warrior of Wanluck Mhor is now the king! Helwain should be exulting that her words have proven true. Then again, what does it matter which bloodthirsty thane sits on the throne? Nothing in Scotland changes but the seasons, and they follow one another as predictably as night follows day.
But I am wrong about that. First, my body changes. With Banrigh’s monthly visitation, my breasts grow round, my hips flare out, and my emotions reel from one extreme to another. That winter I turn fifteen.
The weather also changes, and with violence. Even before the fall crops are ready to be gathered, icy winds blow from the north and cover every green thing in heavy white rime. Murdo’s barley freezes and falls limp in the fields. Mother and I have to walk all the way to Inverness to buy grain, and it is so scarce that we can afford only a little. The winter months bring snow so deep that the sheep cannot reach the ground to graze and so they begin to die.
One day, six wolves threaten our flock even as Colum and I stand watch. Though we draw closer to the fire and throw rocks at them, they creep toward us, their teeth bared and their eyes gleaming with gold fire. I am afraid they will attack me, but instead they seize two sheep—not even the weakest ones—and the pack melts away, their tawny coats blending with the dead, gray-brown grasses. The bleating of the hapless creatures rises to the pitch of a scream before ceasing.
“Albia, did you notice anything unusual about those wolves?” Colum asks into the silence.
“Aye, they were fat. It could not have been hunger that made them so fearless.”
“Did you see their eyes? Something evil held those wolves, to be sure,” he says in a dire tone.
“Do you think Nocklavey is abroad?” I whisper. “And that is why everything is dead and destroyed?”
But Colum does not answer.
My mother is also in the grip of something unnatural. Her cheeks grow hollow and she shivers her very flesh away even while she sits directly before the fire.
The prowling wolves, the deathly cold, and my mother’s illness throw Helwain into distress. She scatters animal bones and mutters over their meaning until the clattering crazes me. I cover my ears until I cannot help shouting at her.
“Throw those damned bones outside. Can’t you see my mother is ill? Use your magic to make her well, you old fatereaper!”
Helwain turns on me. “Fair is foul, and foul is fair. Tell me why!” She grabs me by the throat as if to shake an answer from me.
I push her away and she goes sprawling into the fire. She screams as her hand touches the embers. Mother leaps up from her bed, her feverish eyes burning.
“Albia, never lift your arm against my sister!” she rasps.
I hide my head and shake with tears
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