Like even though it’s made from solid stone, this palace sits at the precipice ofhereandother, of manmade structure and uncanny gateway to the realms where spirits dwell.
I almost sigh with relief when the stairs end and we’re told to wait outside a lacquered door. An uncomfortable stretch of time passes, during which the sun outside the windows dips lower, my unease mounting with each passing breath. Finally, the guards return and escort us into a room with a big window, filled with coloured glass. There are creatures drawn on it, friendly and colourful and winged, and I decide this is my favourite room so far.
Then I see her, seated on a narrow chair, the light from the window casting her form in a kaleidoscope of greens and oranges, purples and blues. Yet every ounce of her figure is drenched in black cloth, with a sole ornament on her chest catching the light, two straight lines crossed together. The woman could have been a wraith, if not for her face, with its alabaster cheeks and big, proud forehead, hair carefully pinned back, grey at the temples. Her eyes are green like Anassa’s but not quite, the way the timid sunrise isn’t quite the brilliant noon. Dark circles underneath them speak of some sickness, some unrest of mind or body.
She looks at us, cautious, reserved, but not hostile.
‘Queen Mother Gruoch,’ the guard salutes, taking a step back but remaining at the door, vigilant.
Queen Mother? I turn to Anassa, to see what she makes of this, if she feels some aspect of herself being reflected on that lesser woman’s face. But Anassa is not looking at Gruoch. What steals her forest gaze is a painting, anapproximation of a man in god-like scale, covering all the wall to our left from floor to ceiling. Red cheeks, long scarlet hair, a cloak as blood-hued as mine. A crown rests on his head, beset with rubies.
And bordering that painting, another cloth of black. Anassa stumbles.
‘I see you’re taken by his grandeur,’ Gruoch says softly, getting up. ‘I find that painting soothing, it captures him so perfectly, you know?’
‘I …’ Anassa starts, and she sounds so lost I want to hold her in my arms. ‘I don’t understand. What is this?’
‘What don’t you understand,dear cousin?’ Gruoch drags the words out like a death sentence. A somewhat wicked smile crosses her lips and ah, I see it now. A resemblance, fleeting but there. ‘Of course, if you truly were my kin, as you purported, you would have heard the news by now. You would have joined us for his funeral in Iona, where he forever rests among Scotland’s true rulers. But you are mere imposters, aren’t you? Sent to spy on us, in our time of grief.’ Gruoch sighs, waving her hand as if we are annoying insects.
‘Wait! Gruoch, my … queen, you must listen to me,’ Anassa panics. ‘King Macbeth –’
‘King Macbethad fell in battle six months ago, may he rest in peace.’
‘No!’ Anassa gasps.
Shakespeare’s words from earlier rush back, sharp as a slap. The war in Elgin, the one Macbethad died in … We are too late. We’ve come too late.
‘You can take them now,’ Gruoch says, voice flat, indifferent. Her gaze goes to the portrait, as if she’s speaking to her dead spouse. ‘They don’t know anything of use.’
Metallic fingers dig into my flesh, forcing my hands behind my back before I can reach for my knife. More guards. I wasn’t paying enough attention.
Anassa’s screams mirror mine. We kick and spit and fight to free ourselves from these tin men, all chain and metal and rough faces. In vain.
I barely have the time to pray to Moirai, to curse them, as they drag us down the stairs.
39. Anassa
With every forced step down this sombre staircase, dragged by these armoured goons with a lack of care that borders on sheer malice, my despair grows.
What a fool I’ve been – what an utter, vainglorious fool, thinking I could somehow reason with that sore excuse of a queen. Gruoch is not me; she’s not even remotely like me. And her husband … Her husband, with his rosy cheeks and ginger locks, looks absolutely nothing like my Lord Macbeth. Will truly wrote himself as the main character in our tragic play, twisting the source material into something sinister, something filled with fog and cackle, with ghosts and witches. Yet as the guards force us through that main floor towards another, narrower staircase, scything the bowels of the earth until we reach a foul-smelling basement, I only have myself to blame. I’m the one, not Will, who wrote this sombre ending to my story, inked in deluded thinking and dour fortune. And it’s my fault that Claret has to suffer that same fate.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I tell her as they march us along a corridor so filthy my words drown in dry heaves. Grime, human excrement and sweat wrestle each other for the most prominent odour, while the cries of men and women punctuate our every step …
A prison. They have brought us to the castle’s prison.
‘It’s not your fault,’ Claret mumbles as the guards take us to the last cell on the right, one that looks mercifully empty and silent, at least. Her face is thunderous, shaking with righteous anger, but I can tell it’s not directed at me – and for that, I’m grateful.
The guards unlock the door and throw us in, the clang of rusted steel bars singing our lament. And as they lock us in and leave without further explanation, a thin skylight the only thing that separates us from pitch blackness, I see him.
Curled up in a corner, face bruised and swollen.
‘You vile lady villains,’ Will says, voice cracking. More of an observation than an insult.
He tries to get up, but a cough consumes him. He spits blood.
Claret springs to action, searching Will’s stuff, his pouch, finding the cloth that once contained our meal and the rest of the aqua vitae. She dabs the liquid on the fabric, using it to clean Will’s face.
‘Ow. Ow! More gently, please,’ he hisses, flinching.
