Lady Macbeth's Daughter Read online

  Lady Macbeth’s

  Daughter

  LISA KLEIN

  NEW YORK BERLIN LONDON SYDNEY

  To my sisters,

  Marilou, Jeanne, and Barb

  “… I have given suck, and know

  How tender ’tis to love the babe that milks me.”

  —LADY MACBETH (1.7.54–55)

  “Bring forth men-children only!”

  —MACBETH (1.7.72)

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Author’s Note And Acknowledgments

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Wychelm Wood, Scotland. A.D. 1032

  The nameless baby lay on the cold ground, wrapped in a woolen cloth. An owl hovered overhead and seemed to clutch a shred of cloud in its talons, drawing it across the moon like a blanket. In the darkness, two figures struggled against the stone walls of Dun Inverness. Groaning, the man stumbled away. The woman, Rhuven, wrapped herself in a cloak and picked up the baby. She set out in haste over the scrubby, open heath, now and then looking over her shoulder to be sure she was not being followed.

  Across the blasted heath Rhuven ran, entering an ancient forest, the Wychelm Wood. Murk rose from the ground and dripped from the branches overhead. Unseen creatures with shining eyes watched her. She passed into a grove of young birches, their white bark shining in the moonlight. Beyond them in a clearing loomed twelve tall stones in a wide circle, Stravenock Henge. Nearby a wolf howled and Rhuven thought she saw its shadowy shape among the stones. She clutched the baby tighter.

  Just ahead she saw Pitdarroch, the great oak tree whose gnarled roots grasped the boulders from which it grew. From its branches the owl uttered its shuddering call, summoning Rhuven onward, deeper into the pathless Wychelm Wood.

  In an ancient roundhouse deep in the wood, a woman with wild graying hair sat on the hearth, stroking her chin with knobby fingers. The smoldering peat fire cast a faint light on the soot-blackened walls.

  “Someone comes this way, Geillis,” she said. “I feel it.”

  The woman sleeping on a rush mat stirred and lifted her head. Her face had few lines and her hair was brown and sleek.

  At the door Rhuven called, “Sisters, let me in!”

  Geillis, more nimble than Helwain, leaped up and lifted the latch. She gasped at the sight of Rhuven with a child.

  “It is my lady’s babe, not mine,” she said with a frown. “My lord has ordered her to be killed. Having no other hope, I brought her here.”

  “But why?” asked Geillis, horrified.

  “Her leg is misshapen. Otherwise she is perfect.”

  “So it is a girl,” Helwain mused.

  Rhuven turned to her. “Why did you promise Macbeth sons?” she asked sharply.

  “He came to me for a cure once. He desired to know when he would have a son.” Helwain shrugged. “I told him what he wanted to hear.”

  “Now he believes you cursed him, and my mistress and this poor child suffer for it,” said Rhuven accusingly.

  Geillis wrapped a scrap of cloth around her finger and dipped it in sheep’s milk. The baby sucked it with an eager mouth.

  “What do you expect me to do?” demanded Helwain.

  “Keep his daughter alive,” said Rhuven, her eyes keen and narrow. “And heal her crippled leg.”

  “Do you know what you ask?” Helwain’s voice shook with controlled anger. “He slew our kinsman Gillam and drove Geillis and me from our land into this wilderness.”

  “Do it for the sake of the child,” Rhuven pleaded. “She is not guilty of her father’s wrongs.”

  “We are poor and have no means to raise her,” Helwain objected.

  Rhuven held up an armband made of gold with a stone as red as blood. It glowed in the faint firelight. “This was my lady’s.”

  Helwain nodded. “It should fetch a good sum.”

  “No! It belongs to the child now!” Geillis seized the jewel from her sister. “My child. I will raise her as my own daughter.”

  Rhuven sighed and whispered her gratitude.

  “But how did you get the babe?” Geillis asked gently.

  Rhuven’s eyes filled with tears. “I followed my lord’s man and pleaded for the bairn’s life. He refused. In the end I had to … to buy her from the filthy skellum.” She looked away from her sisters in shame. “I must go now. Only give the child a name to thwart misfortune, and she will be well.”

  At the door, Rhuven turned again to her sisters.

  “Above all, I beg you, keep her life a secret. If my lord knew that she lived, we would all be in grave danger.”

  The full moon spilled its light onto the surface of the wide loch. Geillis and Helwain crouched on the shore beneath a rowan tree, its berries orange-red as embers. Helwain dipped her fingers into a small leather pouch, then rubbed the baby’s head and the soles of her feet with ashes of oak and elder for strength and luck. She crushed juniper berries, releasing the sharp scent of pine.

  “For protection from all enemies and harmful spirits,” she murmured while Geillis held the child over the water.

  A swan glided from the still reeds, her feathers white in the light of the full moon. The bird made barely a ripple in the water.

  “Let us name the babe Albia,” said Geillis. “She, too, is innocence sprung from darkness.”

  Helwain nodded. She cupped her hands and poured water over the silent child. A few drops splashed into her eyes and Geillis hastily wiped them away.

  “We don’t want her to be plagued with the sight of ghosts!” she said.

  “She is already destined to have a troubled life,” said Helwain. “But a babe that doesn’t cry at its naming will have but a short life in which to suffer.” She pinched the baby’s left foot, the one that turned oddly inward.

  Albia flinched, then began to wail.

  Chapter 1

  Dun Inverness

  Grelach

  I feel as weak as a child. I can barely rise from my bed, though Rhuven urges me every day, brings me food, washes my hair. I am Grelach, granddaughter of Kenneth, who was once Scotland’s king, and I will do as I please. Now it pleases me to die, but I haven’t the means or the strength to do it. I am sixteen years old and have nothing to live for, now that my baby daughter is dead.

  My room is at the top of this tower built upon stones that are older than history, older than grief itself. I would throw myself from the window, but it is too narrow. Below, the River Ness flows into the sea. Gulls screech, the only sound. The wind is damp and smells of the sea.

  “Rhuven, am I as wicked as he says I am?”

  “Nay, child, there is no evil in you,” Rhuven says, her voice soothing.

  I look down to where the milk seeps from my breasts, staining the cloth wound tightly around my chest.

  “Can you not stop this? Oh, it hurts, it hurts as if it were blood!” I wail. But I do not weep. Not from my eyes.

  “I will fetch clean swaddling and
a warm posset to calm you,” says Rhuven. At the door, she turns to me. “Do not think about what is past and done. That way lies madness.” Her eyes are dark with sadness, too.

  But I cannot help thinking about the past. Only a few short years ago, I was a child with no cares. Then my father, Ranold, announced that I would be married. I thought, What does a girl of thirteen winters want with a husband? If my mother had been alive, she would not have let me marry for at least another year. But a father must be obeyed.

  My father had killed many men and I was afraid of him. We are a family of warriors, always fighting, even among ourselves, and taking revenge on our enemies. My grandfather the king was slain by his own cousin, Malcolm, who became king and declared that his grandson Duncan would inherit the throne. I will never forget how this angered my father.

  “It is the tradition to share power among kin. But now Malcolm has shut out my family from the succession! He shall pay dearly for this,” he threatened.

  But I was the one who paid. Ranold married me to Gillam, a cruel warrior more than twice my age who became thane of Moray by killing the prior thane.

  “Moray is its own kingdom within Scotland. By marrying the thane, you bring power into our family,” my father explained, gripping my arm so hard he left a bruise. “Obey Gillam and bear him sons. Remember you are descended of kings, but always keep your ambitions hidden. That is the key to survival.”

  I took my father’s words to heart. I was afraid of what he would do to me if I forgot them.

  I was even more afraid of Gillam the first time he put his wet and foul-smelling mouth against mine and thrust his hand under my skirt. I called out for Rhuven, but the ugsome thane smothered my cries and forced me to lie with him. Soon I was with child, but being only thirteen, I was ignorant about my body. It was Rhuven who noticed my growing belly. Months later came the terrible pains that left me gasping and groaning. I thought I had been poisoned and was about to die. Rhuven summoned the midwife, who pulled from me a black-haired boy covered in wax and blood.

  “What a foul creature!” I cried. “Is it a monster?”

  “Not unless you have lain with the devil,” said the midwife.

  My husband is the devil, I thought.

  The midwife shoved the wailing boy into my unwilling arms. He suckled me until my nipples bled. At the touch of his hungry mouth, I gritted my teeth. When I put him from me, he screamed like the banshee.

  “I wish you had not been born!” I screamed back. I felt like I was chained to a stone.

  We named the boy Luoch. Even then, I couldn’t love him.

  One day Gillam left to lay siege to a town, and soon word came that he had been burned to death by flaming pitch. I smiled for the first time in months.

  The man who had killed Gillam won his lands and titles. Within a month, my father forced me to marry the new thane. His name was Macbeth.

  I knew what marriage meant, so at the wedding I refused to speak. My father slapped me, causing me to cry out, which the priest took for “Aye.” Thus for the second time I was married against my will. My new husband gave me a gift, an armband made of gold and set with a large gem. When the jewel caught the light, it gleamed bloodred. I had never owned such a treasure, and it softened me just a little.

  Macbeth was only ten years older than I. His most remarkable feature was the carrot-colored hair that fell to his shoulders and glistened on his mighty forearms. He did not seem to be cruel like Gillam. But we had nothing to talk about. We ate in silence and he spent the evening with his warriors. He slept in a chamber next to mine and did not try to force himself on me.

  Soon I grew curious about this unusual man. I put my ear to the door of his room and reported to Rhuven that he did not snore or grunt in his sleep. Then I spied on him, with Rhuven beside me in the shadows, as Macbeth and his companions sat before the fire drinking.

  “She is barely out of childhood and already mother to a son,” said one man. “Be a man, and beget an heir on her at once!”

  “The oracle said I should father many sons,” came Macbeth’s reply. “I would not be in too much haste and overleap my good fortune.”

  I whispered to Rhuven, “I wish I knew everything the oracle promised him, for it would touch my future as well.”

  I decided it was time to make my new husband notice me. At dinner I would stare at him until he looked at me, then I would smile and glance down. I brushed his arm while serving him and felt him start at the touch. A shiver ran through me as well. Then I spoke to him directly for the first time, saying, “My lord, will you have some wine?” My voice was high and nervous.

  “Indeed, I desire it,” he replied. His eyes met mine. They were deep-set and as black as a raven’s wing.

  That night he came to my bed and I let him touch me where he pleased. He was not rough as Gillam had been. I began to look forward to lying with him in the darkness. Soon I sensed that I was with child again. As my breasts and belly grew large, I marveled at my power. The granddaughter of a king, I carried a king in my womb! Though I could not choose my own husband, I could bear a son who would fulfill his ambitions, and in so doing lift me as high as the stars.

  When my pains began, Macbeth was away on a sea journey. I pushed until I had no strength left, but the child would not be born. Even Rhuven looked afraid. Finally the midwife reached in to seize it by the feet. I screamed in agony, feeling myself tear apart, and fell into blackness.

  When I opened my eyes again, Rhuven was holding a tightly swaddled baby. A gold fuzz covered its head, not the black tufts Luoch had been born with.

  “How can he be mine?” I asked, fingering my own black hair.

  “It is doubtless Macbeth’s child,” Rhuven replied. “Will you hold her now?”

  “Her?” I asked.

  “The babe is a girl,” Rhuven said softly.

  “My lord will be unhappy,” I said, turning away. “Let me sleep now.”

  “No, my lady, you must look at her.”

  The urgency in Rhuven’s voice made me sit up. She removed the baby’s swaddling. An amazed cry escaped me to see the naked, pink-skinned girl with wide blue eyes. She waved her tiny fists and one leg kicked the air. Then I noticed that the other leg barely moved. Its foot pointed inward.

  “Is it a changeling?” I heard my voice rising. “The faeries took my baby and left this one in her place!”

  “Nay,” said Rhuven, frowning. “This is the bairn you bore and none other, for I have not closed my eyes since she came from you.”

  “O Rhuven, what have I done wrong?” I wailed. “Everyone knows it is a mother’s fault if she bears a deformed child!”

  “Nothing, my lady. Perhaps it was the midwife’s fault. Or a weakness in your husband’s seed—” She broke off and threw me a fearful look.

  My heart began to pound at the thought of Macbeth.

  “We must keep it from him,” I said in a rush.

  Rhuven nodded. “You can trust me to be silent.”

  A month passed. I nursed the baby and watched her become fatter. She did not bite and torment me as Luoch had. And with each swallow of milk she drew from me, affection flowed into me like waves lapping at a shoreline. There was no reason to love her, for being a girl, she could bring me no gain. But I loved her anyway. It did not matter to me that she was not perfect. I longed to give her a name, but until Macbeth returned she could not be properly baptized.

  Two more months went by. Every day I scanned the sea, and when I finally saw Macbeth’s ships approaching the harbor, I almost fainted with dread. Rhuven took control. She dressed me in my best gown and told me to wear Macbeth’s gift, the gold armlet.

  I picked up my daughter and held her close. Then I changed my mind and put her back in the cradle. I greeted Macbeth alone, placing his hands on my milk-swollen breasts to distract him.

  “My dear heart, my sweet chuck,” he murmured, kissing me hungrily. “I don’t want to leave you again for so long.”

  I sighed with relief. All
would be well!

  “Now show me my son.”

  “In good time, my lord,” I said, reaching for another kiss.

  He would not be deterred. “Rhuven! Bring in the child.”

  Her eyes downcast, Rhuven carried my daughter into the room.

  “Now that you are back, let us choose a name and have the baptism,” I said, disguising my dread with false cheer.

  Macbeth did not reply. He fumbled with the baby’s swaddling, then let out a groan of dismay.

  “Great warriors must have daughters to give in marriage to their allies,” I said.

  He stared at her. “Does the oracle deceive me?” he asked, bewildered.

  “The next one will be a boy, I promise.” I took the baby from Rhuven, intending to cover her again, when my lord seized her. The blanket fell from her and all her little limbs began to writhe—except for the leg that hung limp, its foot turned inward.

  “This cannot be my child!” Macbeth cried, and fixed his black, mistrustful eyes on me. “With whom—or what—have you lain?”

  “With no one but you, my lord,” I said, fear rising in me. “Look, she has your fair hair and skin.”

  “She has the bones of some weak, creeping villain,” he growled. “Who is the father?”

  “You accuse me wrongly!” I said, indignant. “We are innocent.”

  “The oracle does not lie!” Macbeth shouted, his face red with anger. “She said I would have sons. Strong sons. Not weak and deformed daughters.”

  He shouted for his men, and the burly Eadulf appeared.

  “O you fates that meddle in mortals’ lives,” intoned Macbeth, staring overhead. “Witness that I hereby renounce this unnatural child of a wicked mother.”