‘Ah, that line, I know that line!’ He takes a big swill of his goblet, wipes his lips with his palms, and sighs a deep sigh as if savouring the flavour of something more than wine. Then, throwing the goblet on the floor in an uncharacteristically boorish manner, he beckons me. ‘Approach, figment.’
I do as I’m told, like any faithful wife would, although his attitude alarms me.
His hand, curiously stained with ink, reaches for my face. But before he can touch me, Claret points that dagger of hers at his throat. ‘Beast or man, I wouldn’t,’ she growls.
I feel even warmer. This must be shame, shame stickier than the rain. What company have I been keeping? What must my lord think of me, his graceful queen, in league with such a creature, scantily clad and quick to strike? Was it wrong of me to spare her life before – and doubly wrongfor allowing this crass proximity to take root, ruffle me so? ‘No, Claret, there will be no need for knives. He’s my lord husband, the Lord Macbeth.’
‘What? I most cert— certainly am not!’ He stumbles, unsteady on his feet, kicking the fallen goblet.
His denial upsets me. He can’t be so drunk he doesn’t know who he is. Has this world made him confused, like I was confused at first? Like how I must have forgotten my own name?
‘My lord, look at me,’ I implore him. ‘Don’t you know me?’
Dark brown eyes find my face, slightly unfocused. ‘I do know you …’ He raises his hand again but doesn’t touch me, merely moves his fingers in the air as if drawing the contours of my face. ‘My lady, what happened to the pristine porcelain of your cheek? Who defiled it so? I would have never written such an ugly scar, cast such a shadow on your moonlit beauty. No, no, no, this is all wrong.’ Turning his back on me, he begins pacing in circles, mumbling to himself.
I want the earth to open up and swallow me. I must look hideous – hideous enough to cause him such distress … What if he doesn’t want me back like this? It would serve me right.
I ignore the treachery of ravens, stirring within, exhilarated at the prospect.
‘Is that truly your husband?’ Claret asks, her voice dripping with war.
Her earlier softness has all fizzled out, and I’m reminded of the fate of husbands whom she deems unworthy. ‘He isn’t usually … like this,’ I attempt, not ready for more blood.
‘Wearing a donkey’s head? Drunk witless? Denyingyour existence? Insulting you?’ she scoffs, then carries on, lower, ‘I told you once, I kill those who need killing. Just say the word.’
I am about to respond – to refute her, obviously – when my lord turns around. He looks dazed, his dirty hands combing through his hair. ‘Who are you? Are you one of mine?’
That phrase again … But this time, it’s clearly Claret he addresses. What could he mean? He spends a long, disturbing moment studying her face. ‘No, you’re not one of mine. You’re someone else’s, aren’t you? Marlowe’s, perhaps? Did he send you to advocate for him with Shepherd? And yet you escort my creation and seem willing to defend her. Oh, this is all rather confusing … Peaseblossom! Mustardseed! Moth! Come out of hiding and explain this mess!’
Before I have the time to fret over my lord’s lost sanity, his accusations towards Claret, three sprites flit into existence, hovering around his head. They’re little more than shiny wings and knots of light, yet I can hear their tiny voices clearly, like crystals chiming in the wind.
‘Blessed Bard!’
‘Wondrous Bard!’
‘Drunk like a lard!’
They giggle and he groans, and it all makes so little sense that perhaps I should be fretting over my own sanity. Perhaps all this is some rain-soaked vision, while we still struggle in the grass, Claret and I, a blade poised between us. The thought offers strange comfort.
Until Claret shatters it.
‘You three!’ she yells, pointing her knife almost jovially at the sprites. ‘You were there when I woke up. Are you envoys of the Moirai? And is this … man supposed to be our guide?’
The three sprites make a beeline for Claret’s head, circling it like a crown of moving light. They each grab a strand of curly hair, twirling it in the air.
‘Beautiful queen!’
‘Bloodthirsty queen!’
‘Stuck in-between!’
Shockingly, Claret doesn’t smack them away or threaten to skewer them with her knife. She simply nods, allowing them to continue. There’s something so endearing about this image; she looks almost bashful, like a young bride getting her hair braided before her wedding.
I blink away the bizarre thought, swallow the sudden burning sweetness on my tongue.
My lord sighs quite dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. His inky fingers leave a smudge. When was he ever so unkempt, so ragged? Even at our darkest moments, the husband I remember exuded such gravitas … Now, he addresses each sprite separately. ‘Must you torture me with tasteless rhymes, Mustardseed? I wrote you better than that, Moth. Get to the point, Peaseblossom, before I decide to make some changes to an old play. Say, rewrite some scenes.’
His threat seems so utterly nonsensical to me that I can’t even begin to parse its meaning, yet it finds its mark. The sprites – how he can tell these blots of light apart I do not know – cease their playful buzzing and abandon Claret’s curls, floating back to him at once.
