Highland Queen

Chapter 39

That night, the lords and ladies feasted, toasting Macbeth’s great success. Bethoc was absent, and no one asked Macbeth what had happened to his bastard. I couldn’t stand being in the same room with the rest of them. As pleased as I was about Macbeth’s success, I couldn’t swallow his complete disregard for his own child. But why did it surprise me? When our child had died, he had thought only of himself. He had most certainly not thought of me. Macbeth only thought of others in relation to himself. If he was not harmed by a loss, then there was no loss. If he was not in pain, there was no pain. There was only him and his desires. And right now, listening to him toast his wins was too much to take.

After checking on Bethoc, who had cried herself to sleep, I went to my chamber. Madelaine joined me shortly afterward.

“Fife arrived just after supper,” she told me. “I will ride out with him when he leaves.”

I nodded. “I’m worried for Epona. She was so frail when I saw her last. And Crearwy… Madelaine, she hates me.”

Madelaine shook her head. “No. She loves you. She’s just angry. It will pass.”

“And if it doesn’t?

“Then you still did right by her, even if neither of us wanted it, and she never sees it.”

Sighing, I nodded. I rose and went to my bureau. Therein, I found Crearwy’s pin. I handed it to Madelaine. “Please, give this to her for me. Tell her it belonged to her aunt. The flower is the symbol of Gillacoemgain’s mother’s line.

“It’s lovely. I will give it to her. How is Aelith?” Madelaine asked.

“She’s doing very well, according to Banquo’s letters.”

“With the war done, will you return to Lochaber?”

“Not yet. Not with Macbeth in such a state. But I have an idea. An old idea. Let me see if I can make good on it again.”

“Corbie, I don’t know how you manage.”

“I manage poorly, Aunt. My life is like a bucket full of holes. Every time I look, something important slips away from me.”

Madelaine nodded sadly, that hollow look coming to her eyes once more. “Yes,” she whispered, but it was all she said. She understood well. Sometimes, there was nothing to be done to fix the broken pieces.

Well, almost nothing.

Madelaine and Fife left within the week. Shortly after their departure, the bishop arrived at Dunsinane.

Macbeth was in the chapel praying early one morning. He was muttering to himself and picking at his head. I studied him as I approached only to realize he was pulling out locks of his own hair.

“Macbeth?”

“Aren’t they beautiful?”

“Aren’t what beautiful?”

“The angels,” he said, motioning above him.

I sat down in the pew closest to him. “Macbeth, I have invited the bishop here.”

“Why?”

“To talk to you about taking your pilgrimage.”

“Oh. Very well.”

“You will go?”

“Of course. It’s a good idea, Gruoch. Do you want to come?”

“No.”

“All right. I will send word to Thorfinn. He is going to come.”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“No. The angels told me he would come. You see them?” Macbeth said, pointing.

I followed his gaze. When I shifted my vision and looked with my raven’s eyes, I saw something.

“Will you send word to Thorfinn for me?” Macbeth asked.

“Macbeth, Thorfinn is embroiled in his own troubles. And he just had a son.”

“Ask him.”

“All right,” I said with a sigh then rose.

“And Gruoch?”

“Yes?”

“Will you write to Elspeth?”

“I already have.”

“Thank you.”

Saying nothing more, I left him there. What was there to say? There was no use in arguing with a madman.

As requested, I sent a rider to Thorfinn. I then asked the bishop to make plans for Macbeth’s pilgrimage. With those tasks done, I went back to work. With the flare-up in the south extinguished, and Siward’s army defeated, Siward withdrew. My spies informed me that he had barely raised enough money and men to ride north again. Rumor was that Crinian had made promises that had come to nothing—just like Crinian himself. I didn’t expect to hear from Siward again any time soon.

Macbeth stayed as he was. While preparations for his departure to the continent had been made, Macbeth refused to go until we heard from Thorfinn. While I took his words as the raving of a madman, I was surprised when riders approached one day bearing Thorfinn’s standard.

I went to the yard to discover the jarl there. I could scarcely believe my eyes.

“Thorfinn?”

He laughed. “I figured there was no sense in sending a messenger. I would just come myself.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to Rome, of course. My ships are ready to take us whenever Macbeth is ready. Where is my king?”

I sighed.

“Ah,” Thorfinn said simply.

I motioned for him to follow me. We wound up the steps of the castle to the third level. “I say, what a grand edifice. Dunsinane is a sturdy old boat,” Thorfinn said.

“And ancient to its roots.”

“As is the wood around it. I’d swear I heard sprites whispering to me.”

“Your guess isn’t far off. But you must tell me, how is Injibjorg and your son?”

“Both are well. And you—please forgive my wife, but your secrets are safe with me—how is yours and Banquo’s daughter.”

I nodded. “Aelith. She is with Banquo in Lochaber.”

“Macbeth wrote that Banquo was ill.”

“Ill in spirit. He is unwilling to support Macbeth further.”

“I’m glad to hear he is well in body. I love Banquo and Macbeth like they were my brothers, but I have eyes. This trip to Rome is well devised. Your idea?”

“It was an inspired thought.” It was, in fact, Scotia’s idea, but I wasn’t sure she wanted Thorfinn to know that. “And you want to go? Really?”

“My ambitions are different from Macbeth’s. We will go to Saxony and meet Emperor Henry and then on to Hamburg. I have already made the arrangements.”

“Then you must speak to the bishop. He, too, has made plans.”

“Bah,” Thorfinn said, waving his hand dismissively.

“You do know people make this pilgrimage in honor of the White Christ? You will go to Rome where they will, no doubt, ask you to be baptized.”

Thorfinn shrugged. “After such a long walk, I will need a bath.”

“Thorfinn!”

“I am named after the thunder god. He knows my heart. No pretty words and scented oil will change that.”

When we reached the uppermost level of the castle, we found Macbeth looking out into the forest.

“Macbeth,” Thorfinn called.

Macbeth turned around. He smiled widely.

“How gaunt he is,” Thorfinn said with a gasp.

“He is unwell. It is a burden you are taking on. He believes he speaks to angels.”

Thorfinn gave me a concerned look then crossed the space to meet Macbeth.

“I told you he would come,” Macbeth shouted at me.

I nodded to him then turned to go.

He was right after all.

I only hoped that maybe his angels could guide him back to sanity.