Highland Queen

Chapter 25

I worked tirelessly over the coming weeks as Macbeth lay in his bedchamber staring at the wall. It was long past time when I had hoped to return to Moray. I eyed my growing belly skeptically, knowing that I would soon have to think of a solution to my problem. Aside from fleeing and letting everything fall into disrepair, my options were limited. I needed to get Macbeth on his feet if I had any hope of making my way north before anyone knew I was with child.

Of course, hiding such knowledge from my maids was impossible.

“I’ll select dresses with more fabric at the front. They will conceal your state better,” Tira told me. “And I’ll loosen the laces where I can.”

Rhona studied me carefully then shook her head. “You know there will be talk.”

“And Macbeth… Would be best if we move back to Moray,” Tira said, echoing my thoughts.

I nodded. “I agree. But there is much to be done.”

“Yes. But I worry, my lady.”

She didn’t have to tell me. I, too, worried. I needed to leave, and soon.

Rising early one morning, I took out my box of medicines and went to Macbeth’s chamber.

“Queen Gruoch,” his servant said, bowing when I approached. Remembering Macbeth’s whoring at Inverness, I hesitated.

“Is His Majesty within?”

The man nodded then went inside, motioning for me to follow.

The room was dank and dark. Incense burned, making the air stifling.

“Has he left the chamber at all?” I whispered.

“No. But the priest comes three times a day.”

I nodded to the man then motioned for him to leave.

Crossing the room, I pulled back the heavy drapes and flung open the windows.

“Who is there?” Macbeth called from his bed.

“Your wife.”

“My wife,” he repeated.

I pushed open every window then eyed the room. Macbeth had drawn the drapes on his bed closed. Feeling unreasonably furious, I snatched the fabric back.

“What—what are you doing?” Macbeth asked, wincing at the bright sunlight.

“Airing out this sty.”

Macbeth sat up in bed. He had grown a scraggly beard. His bedclothes smelled sour.

I went to the door. Macbeth’s man came to attention. “Have fresh linens brought. I need a maid to come tidy the room.”

The servant nodded then rushed off.

Turning, I headed back inside. Opening my box, I pulled out one herb at a time, carefully selecting those I thought might ease his mind and balance him. I ground the herbs into a fine powder then mixed them into a glass of water.

“Get up,” I told Macbeth, pulling out the chair at his table.

“What is that?”

“Medicine. I made you a similar tonic in Thurso…many moons ago.”

Macbeth rose slowly then slumped into the chair.

I pushed the cup toward him.

“Your Majesties?” a voice called from the door.

I turned to find the maid there.

“Strip everything,” I told the maid, motioning to the bed. Macbeth’s servant stood at the door. “And you, sir. Set out fresh clothes for the king. Get his washing tub. And a shave…” I said then paused. “Well…the beard suits you,” I told Macbeth.

“I’ll leave it,” he said absently.

I nodded. “It needs to be trimmed, as does your hair.”

I turned to Macbeth’s servant who nodded.

Just outside the chamber, I spotted another footman. “You there,” I called to the boy. “Bring a breakfast for His Majesty. Tell the cook I want whatever fresh fruits and cheese there is to be had. Fish, if there is any. Honey cakes.”

I looked back at Macbeth who was staring at me, his eyes wide and fixed.

“What are you doing?” he whispered.

“What needs to be done.”

One obstacle at a time, I would make my way to my fate.

I glanced at Macbeth’s cup. “Drink. Finish it.”

He did as I asked then slid the cup toward me. I took it from him, rinsing it in the basin. I cleaned my tools then packed my bag back up.

“After you are dressed, you will go outside, walk the grounds, and check on the soldiers.”

“Gruoch, I—”

“I don’t want to hear anything. You need fresh air and exercise. I will be in your council chamber when you are finished,” I said then latched my box closed once more.

Satisfied I’d made a start forward, I left Macbeth’s chamber.

It was some time after lunch when Macbeth arrived. He looked pale and gaunt. There were dark rings under his eyes and an odd gleam within them. He sat down in a chair in front of the fire.

“Gruoch,” he said, but then he said nothing else.

“I’ve had an idea,” I told Macbeth.

“What idea?” Macbeth asked absently.

“That you should take a pilgrimage to Rome.”

Macbeth turned and looked at me. “To Rome? Me?”

“Many rulers do so. We need to strengthen our ties abroad, and you need to strengthen yourself.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Yes, you do. I have never fully agreed with the priests of the White Christ nor do I embrace your faith. But I believe that if you embrace your faith, you may find a way back to that man I met at Lumphanan.”

“That man is a stranger to me.”

I laughed. “And to me.”

Macbeth smiled slightly. He looked at his worktable where I had neatly stacked all the correspondence. I’d had shelves moved into the chamber where I kept ledgers and essential missives. Ruling Scotland, it turned out, was not much different from ruling Moray. Scale was the only factor. After the initial shock at the confused state of things, I was beginning to make progress.

Macbeth exhaled a heavy sigh. “You have been doing everything.”

“Someone has to.”

“And things are…”

“Settling down. You’ll be delighted to know that cousin Bethoc is here. If you wanted any greater motivation to walk to Rome, I can’t think of another.”

To my surprise, he chuckled. “I’ll consider it. And Crinian?”

“He’s revisiting his dedication to his vocation. He is Abbott of Dunkeld once more. The mines and treasury are secure. Now that I’ve choked off the money we’ve been bleeding south, the southern lords are suddenly very eager to ally with us.”

“Thank you, Gruoch. These days have been very strange for me.”

I bit the inside of my cheek but said nothing. How many strange days had Macbeth caused me?

When I looked up, I realized Macbeth was studying me carefully. “Are your hands cold?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.” He eyed the papers on the table once more. “What can I do?”

I looked across the desk, selecting the messages I’d received from Thorfinn. I handed them to Macbeth. “Get well.”

He took the parchments from my hands. “Gruoch, I don’t deserve—”

“No, you don’t. So do us all a favor and come back to yourself. For now, I have to send some messages,” I said then strode out of the room.