Page 38 of Lady Macbeth

She has to use the Brezhoneg word for “handmaiden.” As far as she is aware, this word does not exist in Scots. And if it does, she has never heard it used by the men in Glammis.

“I am to bathe and dress you and darn your gowns? A servant?” she suggests, in Scots.

“You will also be my companion.”

Senga’s eyes narrow, as if awaiting a trick.

“I would like you to embroider my gowns in the style of Alba. In return, I will teach you to read and write. In your native Scots, if you do not know it already, or if you do, in Latin.”

There is something in Senga’s gaze that makes Roscille believe she would be amenable to this. A sharp cleverness that was surely not appreciated by the vulgar men of her village. She is brave enough to stand without trembling in front of her Lady, and when her sins were recounted, she offered no apology. Defiant and unruffled, this is the type of woman that Roscille wishes to surround herself with.

“Yes, my Lady,” Senga says. “This I can do.”

Senga’s fingers are rough and callused with farmwork, but they will soon soften with the luxuries of courtly life: three meals prepared by the hands of servants, a feather bed instead of straw, velvet slippers instead of heavy wooden clogs. Even her slight limp will correct itself once her back is no longer burdened with carrying buckets from the well.

As she gives Senga needle and thread, Roscille allows herself to imagine Glammis under her purview, forever. She will have monks sent from an abbey with their books so that a small library can be constructed. She will have musicians play at supper and host tournaments and jousts. All of these are things that Wrybeard did—but perhaps still she can do more.

Perhaps she can bring in more such iron-willed women. She will banish men like Banquho, with their nasty, vain tempers. She will harshly punish any man who shows the flat of his hand to a serving girl. She will only fight wars which are just. When she has such power, she will no longer need to inflict small cruelties in order to survive. She does not need to be the cold creature of her father’s conception.

Are these all the dreams of Lady Macbeth? Certainly they are not her husband’s desires imprinted upon her. Yet she could only hope to attain this power through his design. Queen Hereafter. His words. Her fate, arranged only to please him.

But she indulges herself in this dream for several more moments, as Senga settles into her sewing.

She and Senga are talking in the great hall when Banquho enters. Rage is all around him, radiating invisible mists. The whites of his eyes are cracked through with red. He shoves past the tables in quick, long strides and then leaps up onto the dais. When he slaps both his hands down in front of her, it makes her book jump and Senga flinch so that she pricks her finger with the needle. A drop of blood squeezes out and falls onto the floor.

“You had this woman brought here against my wishes?” Banquho demands.

Roscille’s eyes flicker to Senga. “You are dismissed,” she says.

Senga hesitates. Roscille has saved her from the nunnery, and this act has woven a tenuous loyalty between them. The anger in Banquho’s voice makes her gaze flash with fear for her Lady. But Roscille only stares at her intently, without blinking, and so Senga hurries out of the hall, trailing her unfinished embroidery.

“And you enlisted my son to do it, without my knowledge? He says he went down to the village and dragged the woman here with his own hands.”

“It is Macbeth’s will that I should have authority over Glammis in his absence,” Roscille says. “If you do not agree, you may take up your grievance with my husband when he returns.”

“He left you to keep the castle of Glammis,” Banquho snarls. “This is not Naoned; you are not a lady of Breizh. You are Queen of Alba. You will not turn this place into a bawdy imitation of Wrybeard’s lavish court. That is not the will of Macbeth.”

His voice fills up the empty room and echoes around them, pressing in on her. Roscille draws a breath to steady herself, but it is thin and tremulous. She has, perhaps, gone too far.

“I am sorry that we are not aligned in our values, Lord Banquho,” she says. She tries to be tactful, tractable even. “I will wait for Macbeth’s return before I make any more changes to the castle.”

This is very reasonable. Forbearing to his desires. Surely Banquho will see it.

But Banquho does not pause. “You have forced my own son to act against his father’s wishes. You have no respect for order or for the ways of our people, Lady Roscilla.”

“I am sorry for that,” she says. “I will not ask such of Fléance again.”

Now, certainly, his anger will pass. She has folded to him entirely, done everything save falling to her knees in repentance. If she misjudged her position, she corrects herself now.

“And you have failed in your one required duty.” Banquho spits the words. “The former prince of Cumberland sleeps easily in his cell. Not a wound on his body, not a scream to be heard.”

Roscille stiffens. “He does not sleep easily. He knows he is prisoner. He has been in solitude and total darkness for days; that is a torment of its own.”

“That is not the torment our King Macbeth has in mind.”

Roscille levels her gaze with Banquho’s. She thinks back to the earliest moments of knowing him, when he proudly declared he was Macbeth’s right hand and how, since then, his position has eroded like a mudbank in a rainstorm, become slippery and untenable. In no small part because of her. She has even cleaved his own son away from him.

Men are cruelest in their desperation. When they have nothing solid beneath them. Perhaps she should not have been so flippant, in her own precarious position. She is still a woman alone. And all these men around her are blind, roving mouths.