I guide the horses into a slower pace as we arrive in Elgin. The palace dominates the view as we enter the city proper, so big it blots out the sky. Sharp spires of stonerise up in hubris, as if meant to pierce the heavens, prick the fingers of the gods. How can the people of this world live in such smelly squalor, and yet their rulers live in this?
No wonder the king and queen here are not loved.
Anassa is hiding in the back of the carriage, all three of us having deemed it safer that way – in case she really looks like that Gruoch. Shakespeare is mumbling to himself still. ‘You need to tell me what we’re facing here,’ I say, my voice low. ‘I need to know, to protect us.’
‘Yes, well, inThe Chronicles of England, Scotlande, and Irelande, Raphael Holinshed gives a good recounting of these times,’ Shakespeare begins, and I’m about to scream at him to speak plainly, but then he pats the papyri and it makes a sort of sense.
I point to it. ‘Is that what your … story there is called?’
‘In a way. That is the title of the book, but it is not a story, and it is not mine. This is written by a chronicler, a historian. I was born several centuries after all this. I’ve consulted this book often, to craft my own stories. It only made sense to bring it with me, as a guide, in this unprecedented foray into my past.’
I nod, because after all I’ve seen and been through since I met Anassa, after all the rows of skulls and bloody caves and spectre-shaped waves, journeying into past centuries doesn’t seem so improbable any more. ‘So what does the chronicler say that has you white as salt?’
‘Holinshed … He mentions many wars during Macbethad’s era. But the only one this high up north was the one in Elgin, in the summer of 1057. Macbethad died in this war. So if my calculations are correct, from the snow we just had … This must be January or February, 1057. We have arrived mere months before it all goes to shit.’
‘Anassa’s door brought us just in time, then,’ I muse. ‘How convenient.’
I cannot help but feel the Moirai’s hands in this once more. Clotho gave Anassa that key – and it unlocked a door to here. The sense of something monumental brewing around us, and us the spoon that stirs the pot faster, creeps on me.
Shakespeare coughs. ‘Uhm, when we arrive at the palace, let me do the talking. Women in this era, unless royalty, were meant to be seen and not heard. You driving that carriage already draws enough attention to us.’
I would kick him if I didn’t think he has a point. I’ve seen the looks too, since we arrived. Little boys, stopping to gawk at me. Women’s eyes going round, their hands doing a strange crossing movement from forehead to chest to shoulders, as if warding off evil. ‘I’m happy to hand the reins to you, if you can manage it,’ I say instead. And I’m not lying. Last time I felt such burning in my muscles was when I had to swim to save Anassa from that wraith.
The lengths I’ll go to for that woman …
‘Yes, very well,’ Shakespeare says, surprising me. ‘It should be straightforward enough, at this speed.’
I hand him the reins and sit back, ensuring the hood of my cloak covers my face. I am aware my features must be startling. These people all have sunken noses, pale blue eyes, and hair that’s either dirty wheat or bronze. I’ve only seen one or two folks with skin as dark as mine or more; the rest all look like ghosts. No wonder, with so little sun around.
The horses neigh, sensing a less experienced hand behind the whip, but like me they’re too tired to cause much fuss. Shakespeare brings us to a big square, its centremarked off with rope. I see a boulder in the middle there, as if builders began constructing something, but then decided not to. ‘Is this …’
‘The cathedral I told Thom about, yes. Rather, it will be, in a few decades or so. It was the only monument close to the castle I could think of to mention safely to the villagers at Mary’s inn at Tomnavoulin. No matter how they feel about a king, no one hates a cathedral, a place of worship.’
‘You are a smart man.’ I must be exhausted, because I say it out loud.
‘And you, my dear, are –’
But I will never know what Shakespeare was about to say. Because as we circle the square, putting the still unbuilt structure behind us, we see the gate leading to the palace.
And it is guarded.
Although it seems my worries were unwarranted, this time. Shakespeare descends, to converse with the guards. He wields words like swords, twisting and bending them and striking his opponents when they least expect it, leaving them dazzled. It goes against my every instinct, standing back silent next to Anassa, who was asked to come down while our carriage is being held for ‘inspection’, watching Shakespeare sweet-talk the guards into letting us in. ‘Cousins,’ he says, ‘bereaved cousins of the Queen from the South,’ and one would think everyone in this country is cousins with everyone else. Yet it works. One guard leads us through the gate, while two more escort us to the palace.
Unease grips me as I gaze up and up, the palace’s top spires lost in sleet clouds, as if some ominous tomorrow swiftly approaches. ‘Are all the palaces in your world thisbig?’ I ask Anassa under my breath as we climb the outer stairs, cloaks spilling black and claret on grey stone.
She tssks. ‘Castle. And mine was bigger,’ she responds, haughty and haunted and as quiet as a cool breeze. This must be even stranger for her, I realize.
The guards usher us into a great hall, its innards drab and grey and brown inside like its exterior. These people must not like colours very much; there is no gold anywhere, no vivid hues to denote opulence, prosperity. Black fabric like Theseus’ sails drapes the walls, painted with silver crowns. Sorrowful. Anassa’s brow furrows as she takes in our surroundings.
‘Will you escort my cousins to see Queen Gruoch, if you please, kind sir?’ Shakespeare asks one of the guards.
The guard grunts, looking at his companion – his superior? – for confirmation. I do not like the leer in that man’s face as he nods. ‘Now,’ the leering man tells Shakespeare, ‘you wanted to meet King Macbethad himself, is that right?’
‘Yes, yes, if His Majesty will grant me an audience, of course.’ Shakespeare bows, to show respect.
And because he bows, he doesn’t see what I see: the guard’s mouth, twisting into something sinister, his hand clutching his sword.
Yet there’s no time to warn him, share my misgivings – warranted or not. The first guard ushers us up a spiral staircase, also carpeted in black. I shiver, though it’s not cold inside. But the air feels heavy with something I can’t put my finger on, something that brings to mind those waves we crossed to reach Shepherd’s arch. Like if I look too closely at those drapes, I will see hands, struggling to cross over the onyx veil, hungry to snatch us, drown us in velvet shadows.
