Chapter Seven

Seven

She wakes. In the same spot where she fell asleep, naked on the bear-rug, still-damp hair clinging to her like a caul. She sits up, unfolds her limbs. The strange thing is that she does not cry. Does not even want to. She digs through the linens in her trunk until she finds a gown and gets dressed. She puts on her most gossamer veil.

Should she appear frozen with shock, expressionless, only cold bewilderment in her eyes? Should she weep like a confused, panicked child? Should she keep her gaze to the ground, as if deaf and mute? Roscille of Breizh would choose this last option. Do not give them anything which they may in the future use against you. That reasoning feels overly simple now. It is better to be one thing on the surface, and another beneath it. Perhaps she should mourn openly. Perhaps it would not be the falsest thing. When she brushes her hands together, she swears she can still feel the faint stickiness of the king's blood.

What will Lady Macbeth do? She does not have time to decide. From down the twisting corridors, someone is shouting.

She arrives last at the scene: Every man who matters is already here. Her husband, standing with his arms crossed, his face unreadable. He has chosen murk and depths. Banquho beside him is flint-eyed, but his chest is puffed out, secretly luxuriating in being so close to his Lord again, no wife to slip between them. Fléance presses close to his father, unable to hide his face: horror and nausea, a greenish tint to his skin.

Roscille pushes farther into the room. She is still below the men's attention, every man but Macbeth. He sees her and beckons her toward him.

Blood reaches all corners of the room. The chamber is a living thing now, with a spreading nexus of veins, flowing outward from its heart, the three piled bodies. Roscille cannot bear more than a glance. She sees the inside of one man's wrist, a marbled white, somehow unspoiled by the carnage around it. That tenderness, curiously protected, in the center of this slaughter, restores her memory. This is a man. Was a man. A mother once held him at her breast. A lover once clung to him in sweat-damp sheets.

Evander has dragged the king's body out of his bed, and now he holds his father's limbs to his chest. Tears wet his lashes and he sobs openly, guttural sounds of fury, of sorrow. This is one of the only occasions when a man can weep without being shamed for it—when his crying is threaded with the promise of vengeance.

Lisander kneels in silence. It might be taken as a posture of penitence, with the chancellor standing over him, but there is no expression on his face. She is glad for his impassiveness, because this is the one thing that might break her, to see his grief.

He reaches forward, into the mess of bodies and blood, and touches the throat of one of the chamberlains. Two fingers pressed, as if searching for a pulse.

"The bodies are hours old," he says, rising. "All the blood is dry, and the rictus has set in."

The chancellor's voice is grave. "We will perform the cruentation at once."

"They will pay," Evander rasps. Still clutching his father's body to his chest, he looks up, with his fierce, damp eyes. "Whatever traitor has done this—I will string him up and tear out his bowels; I will gorge them with milk and honey and let the insects feast on their fattened flesh. I will—"

"The traitors are already dead," Lisander says.

Evander shucks his anger for surprise, redness painting his cheeks. "What? How?"

"Our father has two wounds," he says. "And the swords of his men are soiled with his blood. He is dead by his chamberlains' hands."

Roscille, at last, reaches her husband's side. She watches as understanding slowly overtakes his expression. There is a certain gentleness she has never seen on him before, one that seems to soften his edges. Without warning, he grasps her by the shoulders and pulls her into his chest.

It shocks her so much she is glad her face is hidden against his jerkin, so that no one can hear her quick inhale. Macbeth holds on to her tightly, one arm braced across her back, the other hand pressing her head to his front, large fingers spanning the entire breadth of her skull. He holds on to her as if she were the buoy, and he the drowning man. This gesture of affection between husband and wife—there is nothing he could have done to surprise her more.

From between Macbeth's fingers, she sees Lisander's gaze cut to her. It is not angry, exactly, but it is probing. He seeks the secret pain on her face, the evidence of her husband's abuse. She wishes he would not. She fears he will see her poisonous betrayal instead.

"No," Evander says. "These men were loyal and served our clan for years. There is nothing that would provoke them to betrayal. To this. " His voice grows strangled. "Our father was loved by all his attendants. I do not believe it."

"The rite of cruentation will reveal all," the chancellor says. "And then, my Lord, you will have your vengeance."

It is time for Macbeth to speak.

"There is treachery in Glammis," he says. "My own wife was attacked not long ago, by masked men. These same men may be your murderers. I will do everything in my power to discover them. And then I will have the vengeance that is owed to me, too."

Clever. He and the prince are now joined in their purpose. Roscille steals a glance at Fléance, to see if he is solid enough to have no reaction to Macbeth's words. The greenish hue has faded from his cheeks; he now looks as pale as the corpses. But this is merely residual horror, she thinks, not genuine fear that they will be discovered. She thinks.

Evander nods slowly, and inhales in a very tremulous way that makes him sound far younger than his years. Grief turning him into a child again. Lisander reaches over and lays a hand on his brother's shoulder, squeezing once. It is this gesture of tenderness that nearly undoes her. How easy these metamorphoses are: men crawling backward to their boyhoods, cold masks slipping to reveal the stricken faces beneath. Roscille knows the secret of how gentle Lisander's hands can be.

So many secrets, she thinks, so many lies, reaching out in all directions, tying her to one man or another. She once feared she would have no allies in Glammis, no confidence. Now she is a creature in a conch shell, everything spiraling out from around her.

If this were Naoned, there would be a seamstress kneeling at Roscille's feet and fitting her for a black dress and a black mourning veil. But this is Glammis, so Roscille—who is now accustomed to it—clothes herself. Because she has burned the pewter dress, she has no choice but to wear one that is pearly blue, its neckline far too low to intimate mourning. She does not think the men will take any special note of it, though. The promise of vengeance enacted, blood spilled, and, of course, a crown claimed, obliterates all else.

She empties a bucket into the hearth, where the flames sizzle and die. Bits of gray fabric are caught amid the charred wood. But the room only smells of ash now. There is no rust-tinged treachery in the air. In that moment, Roscille slips out of herself and, like a specter, Lady Macbeth slips in.

The household staff is gathered in the main hall; it is the first time Roscille has seen them all together. Messengers, attendants, servants, soldiers. Cooks cringing in their dirty aprons. Stable hands in mud-caked boots, staring at the ground. The guards look most contrite of all. Especially because Evander rages at them for what seems like nearly an hour, face red with lascivious rage.

What is the use of you, if not to keep the king from an enemy's blade?

Are you deaf and cannot hear screams in the night?

I should take your swords and twist them into your own bellies; then you will know the same pain as my father.

I will execute you all for the crime of incompetence. It is just as great a sin as treachery.

Macbeth allows this. Evander is a prince and, even more important, the matter of succession has not been settled. Duncane is no longer alive to execute his will (whatever it might have been). When a crown falls, many arms reach out to catch it. There will be strife between brothers; there always is. And there will be the vultures like her husband, circling overhead.

The firstborn son watches his brother rage in silence. When it seems he will never exhaust himself, Lisander lays a hand on Evander's arm and says, "Enough. You have done your job. They are afraid."

It is true—the messengers and attendants and servants and soldiers, the cooks and stable hands, are all shaking. Evander's chest rises and falls with great, heavy breaths.

"It will never be enough," he says.

He is Roscille's age, or not much older. Seventeen, eighteen. He would be a boy in Glammis, as green as Fléance, without even a near-death wound to display proudly.

"You are muddling your own intention," Lisander says. "With every moment that passes our father's body grows colder."

This pacifies him at last. Evander takes a seat on the dais, head bowed. Roscille thinks she can see him wipe away a tear. With his head bent over like that, he whispers, "Chancellor."

It is an embarrassing display. Roscille knows her husband is thinking it, too. He has not shown strength but rather ungoverned emotion. How will he rule Alba if he cannot even rule himself? It is what all Evander's detractors will be coached to say. If there were a tally under each brother's name, this would be a hard mark against him.

The king's body has been laid flat on the dais, his hands clasped across his chest. Because Roscille has seen him sleep, it looks almost as though he is sleeping still. Someone has even brushed his eyelids shut. The chancellor, wielding a jewel-encrusted crucifix, kneels before the body.

The dead chamberlains have been brought forward without ceremony, their bodies heaped at the edge of the dais. The chancellor runs his hand over the king's blood-soaked tunic, murmuring to himself.

"I must be alone for this, with the corpses only," he says. "If you would like me to find out whether these chamberlains were the ones to make the king's death wounds."

"We will test this first," Lisander says. With his unnatural grace, he steps down from the dais. He wears mourning-black, and his leather coat fits tightly over his gamy muscles. The dark circles under his eyes are more pronounced than ever, but his gaze gleams sharp and green above them. An almost inhuman green, like moss the morning after a storm. A color Roscille has not seen since leaving Breizh for barren, wind-blanched Glammis.

Lisander does meet her eyes, then. Unflinching, unafraid, even defiant. Her stomach clutches with fear. He does not know. He cannot know. All he knows is that two nights ago she stood at the edge of the cliff and contemplated throwing herself off it. He knows that she has the singe of witchery. He knows that her husband treats her meanly (though this is hardly a revelation). He knows the weight of her body in his arms.

He cannot know the way her throat closes when she sees him or the way tension gathers in her lower belly like a taut metal coil, heated on the forge. Roscille's cheeks burn. She looks away before he does.

Macbeth takes her by the shoulder and leads her from the chamber. His grip is gentler than she expected. Lisander and Evander heave the wooden doors shut.

The chancellor works so quickly there is hardly even time for Roscille to worry. She knows little of cruentation, but apparently it is an easy rite to perform. In minutes, the chancellor is calling out for them, and Evander bursts through the doors.

"What news?" he demands, striding through the hall, overturning a wooden bench in his wake. The scrape of wood against stone makes Roscille flinch.

Yet they need only approach the dais to know. Both of the king's death wounds are leaking. The old blood is sluggish, more black than red, like mud forced from its banks by the melting of spring. But he is bleeding indeed.

Evander gives a choked cry and drops to his knees. He shields his face, though that cannot disguise the sounds of his weeping. Lisander puts a hand on his brother's shoulder again. There is even more significance to this gesture now; it speaks so many words while saying none aloud. Roscille has no siblings and cannot understand the special affection which grows between them. But she does understand the message that Lisander means to send. He loves his brother. It will not come to war between them, over their father's crown. At least not easily.

"These were not men who would turn on the king for nothing," Lisander says, "and give their own lives for it. There is greater conspiracy at work here. In Glammis."

He turns to Macbeth and, by extension, Roscille. They have stood together this whole time, husband and wife. The hand and the dagger. Lord and Lady Macbeth.

"As I have told you, there is treachery here," Macbeth says. "Sowed discontent among my clan. Fléance—come. Tell the prince what you know."

His voice roughens on that word, prince. Hesitantly, Fléance steps forward. The wound Roscille bore him stands out even in this half-light, still healing, still a bit gruesome. His honor will not be doubted.

"I took the Lady for a ride about the lands," Fléance says. "She was eager to see more of her new home. There was no reason to think— The Lord is a respected man. He does well for his clan."

He pauses. Roscille closes her eyes. Let them think she grieves at remembering this fearful moment. Let them think nothing more.

"A man without enemies is a man without power," Macbeth says. "Go on."

Fléance swallows, his throat bobbing, distorting the wound. "There were masked men, three of them. They struck the Lady to unconsciousness. I fought them off, but I could not give chase without risking the life of Lady Roscilla."

Lisander's gaze flickers to her. "Lady Roscilla—is this true?"

Roscille used to think there was no state more powerless than one of forced silence. Of words that mean nothing, touch no one. But now she is a dog, commanded: Speak. Lie for your life. This is a castle of consequences. Every word has its echo.

"Yes," she says, meeting his eyes. "It was— I do not wish to recount it."

Lisander holds her stare for a long moment. She remembers Macbeth's words. The prince of Cumberland is too clever.

At last, Lisander says, "Understandable." And then he blinks and looks away.

Roscille exhales.

Words pass among the princes and the chancellor and Banquho and Macbeth. One clan is named, then another. All men who may be killed falsely, whose lines will be ended for her lies.

"I will ride and seek out these traitors," Evander declares. "They will know the sting of the blade, and I will taste the tang of their blood."

"Our Druide has already performed cruentation on all the men of the nearby villages," Macbeth says. "But there are still more, in farther towns. I swear to you, I will not rest until we both have our vengeance. In King Duncane's name."

Evander nods. "Then let us go."

"Forgive me," the chancellor says, "but I cannot allow this matter to go undiscussed. Soon the world will know that Alba is without a king. And a country without a king is a meal for vultures."

This is the man who has sat in the king's war councils. He is right: The peace with England is Duncane's peace, his dead wife's peace, the peace buoyed by the Saxon blood running through the veins of his sons. ?thelstan has no love for Scotland otherwise. And the Irish and the Northmen and the Welsh are sharpening their own claws in the meantime. A king's death is a wound: It cannot be left untreated for long. Blood will fill it.

The room thrums with silence.

"Brother," Evander says. "You know our father's will. It must be you."

Lisander's face hardens. He does not speak. Roscille is as puzzled as the others in the silent hall—any man would leap to claim this easy power, presented to him like wine for gulping.

At last, he replies, "And you know our father's mind was muddled by sentiment."

Fiercely, Evander shakes his head. "No. It is the duty of the living to respect the wishes of the dead. Our father's body may have been impaired, but his reasoning was not. You are the elder. You are—"

"Not fit," Lisander cuts in.

He speaks in Saxon. There is a rumbling among the men gathered in the hall. Not all of them know Saxon and many will not understand. Even the ones who do will be perplexed. Lisander is a discomfiting presence, dark and silent where his brother is ebullient and bright, but this alone is not enough to warrant him being passed over. Far more ill-fit men have ruled kingdoms before.

"You refuse what any other man would slay a thousand for," Evander responds, in his own angry Saxon. "You think yourself not a man—it is your mind that is muddled by sentiment in this matter, brother."

The air in the hall is growing dense and hot, as if filled with smoke. For a long moment neither prince speaks. Then, blinking and clearing his throat, the chancellor steps forward.

"We may put off the coronation until we return to Moray," he says—in Scottish, to quell tempers. "But Alba's enemies are many and they are hungry. We must not show an infirmity."

It is almost funny, to hear him say this—Scotland has been ruled for decades by infirmity; its king diseased, wasting. Moray is the chosen seat of Duncane's clan. It is a week's ride from Glammis, at least. Enough time for news to spread like the light from signal fires; enough time for distant lords to gather their armies and distant kings to consult their war councils and seek the blessings of their priests.

"We will go to Moray, then," says Lisander. "And if there is talk, we can say the king died of illness. It would come as no surprise."

"And leave our father's murder unavenged?" Evander demands. "No. I will not go to Moray until I have found the traitors and slain them. Any further rule will be tainted, until this is done. Already clan Dunkeld is—"

He stops himself abruptly. Yes, there are rumors about Duncane's clan; with such a mysterious and terrible and enduring affliction, how could there not be suspicions that it is divine punishment? It is said often that this is why Duncane wed a pious woman, why he dresses his Druides in gold and seats them at his council table. All of it silent penance for a secret crime. Of course, these are stories only, true in the minds of some, and ash in the mouths of others.

"Let us ride out now," Macbeth says to Evander. "I will bring you to every village in a day's distance—Fléance, you will come as well. I will bring my own Druide. And I will find these traitors, on pain of death."

Evander's ordinarily bright, ruddy face is uncommonly pale, yet even now he and Lisander barely look like brothers. His chest swells.

"Fine," he says. "I will go on with you and the boy. Lisander, you and the chancellor must prepare to depart for Moray."

Lisander is quick to reply, "We should not be apart from each other in this moment; it will show weakness. Let us go to Moray together, now. We can return to Glammis again with the force of an army."

Macbeth looks as if he will say something, but Evander's response is immediate.

"I will not leave Glammis without wetting my blade," he snaps. "We owe our father this much."

The two brothers wage a silent war. Separate and stay, or unite and leave? But Evander is the sun and his heat and rage cannot be tempered by Lisander's cool, remote reasoning. Eventually, Lisander averts his gaze.

Roscille has known her husband long enough now to read his expression, even when his eyes try to hide their burning. Now it is the twitch of his lip which gives him away. Though it does not quite dare to be a smile, he is pleased.

To Fléance, Macbeth says, "Saddle the horses."

Fléance, still chafing at being called boy, dips his head and takes slightly mutinous steps out of the chamber.

"Shall I come as well, my Lord?" Banquho asks.

"Yes, you might as well," says Macbeth—and now it is Banquho who fumes: He has become an afterthought.

Macbeth then turns to Lisander. And then to Roscille.

"I wish you safe travels," he says. "My wife will see that you are sent off with supplies and goodwill."

Macbeth and his party exit the castle and Roscille cannot breathe. It is the necklace, curling around her throat like a seizing serpent. It is Lisander's stare, his singular presence, the fact that they are alone for the first time since the night he rescued her, promised his protection, the offer that she spurned so horrifically, instead dampening her hands with his father's blood. It is the way her husband looked at her before he left, the way he said my wife, the two syllables falling like stones. When his gaze cut between her and Lisander, it was with the sharpness of a blade. There were two second, secret syllables hidden in that look.

Kill him.

She cannot. It is too much; he cannot expect her to do this. She has only just cleaned her hands. She has given three different men their deaths. Is this what it means, truly, to be Lady Macbeth? Sorceress, murderer, the dagger in her husband's hand? Or perhaps she has always been this. All of Wrybeard's courtiers, le Tricheur—they were right to fear her. Glammis has peeled off the dressings of innocence and uncovered the inhumanity beneath.

Lisander has been watching her in silence. Even in this mostly dark hall, his black hair catches the light and gleams. He brushes it back from his face, a swift, common gesture that makes her throat tighten even further. His hand moves with such deftness, the tendons on the inside of his wrist flexing.

In a quiet voice, she says, "I will have the kitchens prepare rations for your journey. Let me give them the order. Wait—wait here…"

Lisander nods. His lips part, and Roscille is momentarily fascinated by this simple action, too—the delicate opening, the skillful flick of his tongue.

"I will be in my chamber," he says. And then, before Roscille can say another word, he exits the hall.

The kitchens. Roscille has never been before, but at least here there is little difference between Macbeth's castle and the Duke's. There are the blood-soaked butcher blocks, the baskets of apples and root vegetables, the hanging braids of garlic, the fire-grease-rust scent in the air. The cooks stammer out their greetings, as surprised to see the Lady here as she is surprised to be here. She waves them off. They scatter.

She still has Macbeth's dagger in her chamber, but she will not use it. If she must do it, she cannot kill him with the same blade her husband used to kill Cawder; she cannot give him the brusque, ugly death of a stranger to a stranger. A kitchen knife is the closest thing there could be to a woman's weapon —perhaps it will make Lisander's death wound suspicious, but that hardly matters now. By the time the sun sets, Duncane's line will be ended.

King Hereafter.

There is a place where wooden pegs have been driven into the wall, and instruments hung upon them. Blade after blade, some of them serrated, others smooth, some meant for dicing and chopping, others for sawing and rending. Roscille's hand hovers in front of her eyes. It looks as white as the rotten hands of the washerwomen. It is shaking.

She takes the smallest knife, the one whose absence will attract the least attention, the one that will slip most easily into her bodice. The metal is cool against her skin. Her flesh does not warm it. She is bloodless, a serpent-woman. When she leaves the kitchens, she does not even hear her footsteps on the floor, only the tide that rushes up from the darkness below, as if straining toward the light.

Lisander's chamber is easy to find—courtyard-side, without a window.

Roscille does not knock, just steps inside. The room is not unlike her own: equally as small, though without the resplendent bear-rug. Lisander is kneeling in front of the trunk, his lithe hands working to pack things away. Clothes, a bedroll. She tries to see if there are any blades glinting among the cloth, but she cannot find any. If Lisander has weapons, they are well disguised.

It will not matter, she tells herself. Once I lift my veil, nothing will matter at all.

Lisander looks up at her. "Lady Roscille."

He knows. She does not know how, or how she can perceive this knowing from him, but Roscille's veins suddenly run with ice. It is something in his eyes, those impossibly, surpassingly green eyes. Her heart stutters. His hand curls around the edge of the trunk.

Roscille takes a step forward, feeling the knife against her ribs. Lisander starts to rise. But as soon as he is on his feet, she raises her hand, and does not merely lift her veil but removes it completely, tearing it off, letting it drift to the floor.

Unguarded, her eyes meet his.

She has only ever known this feeling once, with the stable boy, but years have passed since then, and as her body has grown, her passions have grown with it. Bloomed red and hot, as quick as marigolds. Roscille takes another step, and then falls, and Lisander catches her arms with his arms and her mouth with his mouth.

Once he has hold, he presses her to him. Her hand finds the nape of his neck, and his skin there is as soft as she imagined it would be, like the velvety petals of a rose. Her lips part for his tongue, and he moves into her without contrition, as if his body is made for this purpose alone. One arm lowers to circle her waist, and the other tangles itself in her hair, tugging her head back so that his lips can brush along her jawline, down her throat.

Roscille whines, a keening, puppyish sound she neverknew she could make. That coiling heat in the bottom of her belly moves lower, deeper, until it is a pulse between her thighs. And then, as if it is pulsing outward, this desire, Lisander grasps her firmly by the waist, lifts her easily, dexterously, and lays her on the bed beneath him.

He looks down at her, straight into her eyes. No mortal man has done this and lived. Her hair spills out silver against the sheets.

"You are beautiful," he whispers.

She does not know what compels her to whisper back, "Strange. Unnatural."

"No," he says. "You have been made to fit a shape that confines you. That does not serve you."

Roscille cannot figure out where her compulsion ends and he begins. Whether these are her words that have merely snuck into his mouth. She considers it for a moment, with a twist of guilt, of grief—and then finds she does not care. The air is heavy, thick and sweet. Whatever this fire is, it consumes them both.

His lips are against her throat, and another sound rises up in her, unbidden. She feels shameful in her need, so she presses her face to his shoulder, muffling her moan against his jacket—the leather, too, impossibly smooth. His mouth will leave marks; she has seen them on a hundred serving girls before, a cluster of bruises, purple with red pricking through them as blood rises to the surface but does not spill.

Roscille almost protests, for this is certainly beyond what her husband will allow, even within his order ( Kill him ). Before she can, Lisander unclasps her necklace. He slips it off her, and it is lost in the sheets.

"I have hated seeing you wear this," he murmurs.

Roscille unhides her face. "Why?"

"Spoils from his conquest of Cawder, yes? Your husband's garish pride, stamped upon you."

She feels bold enough to capture his face in her hands, tilting his chin toward her. "What if I told you it was not only his pride, but my protection? It is like a shield."

The corner of his mouth lifts. "Then I will allow you your armor again when we are through."

Lisander slides between her thighs. His hips, cleaving her apart. He kisses her mouth once more, and her fingers fumble at the laces of his jacket, but he is not there long enough for her to get it loose: His lips touch the hollow of her collarbone, and then he follows the line of her bodice with his mouth— the knife, the knife, she panics briefly, but the fear is washed away in waves of pleasure—until his head is ducked between her knees.

He kisses her up her thighs, grasping at her flesh, which is white and soft with the ease of a noble lady's life, until he reaches that place where she has hardly dared to touch herself—first because it is a sin, for a woman to find pleasure on her own terms, absent of a man, and second because she does not want to be weak in her wanting, slave to the lusts of her body. She has always believed her form cannot be trusted, that it will betray her calculating mind.

Now she cares nothing for these convictions. She fists the sheets as Lisander moves between her thighs, his mouth hot and sweet, and there is something cresting in her, like blood trying to break the skin. She arches her hips off the bed, and puts a hand over her mouth to muffle the mortifying and too-human sound. She has never felt so horribly, wonderfully embodied before.

Suddenly he stops. Lisander lifts his head and leans over her, no longer gentle as he grasps the knife through her bodice.

Roscille's heart crashes to a halt, but she cannot speak. When he meets her gaze, there is no more languid tenderness there. It is sharp, like green cut-glass.

"Wait—" she chokes out.

She tries to push him off, to rise from the bed. But then his hand is around her throat.