Page 24 of Lady Macbeth

“Then your hand will not falter, either.”

Roscille cannot bring herself to look at him. She merely nods, gaze on the ground. “Yes, my Lord.”

His hand leaves her face, travels down her throat, until he grips the chain of the necklace. The ruby catches between his finger and his thumb.

“I drove my sword true,” he rasps. “Cawder’s blood was so thick and hot as it covered me that I thought I might never be clean again, my jerkin and my tartan, all soaked. My hands, red enough to shame a saint. And yet I did not hesitate; I do not regret. It is the way of the world, violence.”

Men are all keen to say this, Yes, it is my will that is right, my desire that is natural, all things arranged to my pleasure. Even the Duke, who is more miserly with his violence, is no different. She envisions her father’s hand again, slick to the touch with blood.

“I brought back this title for myself and this necklace for you,” Macbeth goes on, quietly. “Two hungers sated with one act. And this will be the same. Queen, hereafter.”

She wants to close her ears to his voice. She does not want to think that she has started this, set it all in motion with one request, for the ruby that now chafes painfully against her throat. Her fear, transfigured by her husband’s appetites, made swollen and monstrous with his greed. All because she could not bear to submit herself to him like all the world’s women have before. This is the cruelty that her father’s seed engendered. The wickedness, growing long green tendrils through her veins.

When she looks down at her hands, for a moment she sees red. Red and red and red. Her heart gives a horrified jolt. But when she blinks, they are pale again, unblemished and saintly white. They will not remain this way. She tucks her hands back into the trumpet sleeves of her gown, so that they vanish from her sight.

“Yes,” she whispers back at last. “It will be so.”

First she must survive another supper with the king. This one is for Macbeth and his treasured guests only. There is Banquho, of course. And Fléance. Her actions have ensured him a place at the table beside his father, proudly wearing his garish new honor-wound.

Yet—it is now Roscille who sits at her husband’s side. Not the man who has been his right hand. She can feel Banquho’s gaze on her all evening, his anger scorching her skin. He has been displaced, the order of his world made unfavorable and bizarre.

King Duncane sits at the table’s head, and he is having trouble eating, dribbling wine on his jerkin, the food falling before he can put it into his mouth. It is horrible to watch, his helplessness, his infirmity. Roscille stares down at her plate. Macbeth leans away, as if the king’s shame is catching. Or perhaps it is only the knowledge that this is the last time he will see Duncane alive.

Yet whatever guilt he feels now will not buffet him from his course.

“We will hunt tomorrow,” Evander—Iomhar—says. “Banquho says the sun will be high. A rare thing, in Glammis!” He laughs loudly, and the huge empty room throws the sound back at them. Roscille flinches.

“Good weather portends a fruitful hunt,” Banquho says.

There will be no hunt. Tomorrow there will only be a cold body and grieving sons and a kingdom breaking apart like the ground over a tree’s new roots.

Lisander sits at the other end of the table, in a good position for her to watch him. As before, he eats very little, and does not say much, but his quick-darting gaze shows that he listens intently to the words passing around him. And every so often, he does glance toward Roscille. Her skin heats when he does, blood drawing close to the surface.

Can she risk confessing? Can she speak of her husband’s intent and let the king clap him in chains? Lisander said he would protect her—but that does not mean he will believe her, or that his protection would be enough, in this court of men. Macbeth is Duncane’s cousin, and he has only just proven himself loyal with the killing of Cawder. They would sooner kill her for treason against her lord husband, or perhaps they would merely laugh, at this woman with her addled mind. Is she one of those prostrating martyrs who claims she can talk to God? Does she believe the wind speaks to her in auguries? Better keep a tight grasp on this tricky wife. Even better: Cut out her tongue. Stitch her lips shut.

No one notices that she, too, cannot eat. Evander lords over the chamber with his boisterous words, until her husband cuts in.

“Have your accommodations been comfortable?” Macbeth asks.

The king’s cloudy eyes prick with interest. “Oh. Yes. Lisander?”

Lisander lifts his stare. For a moment Roscille half fears, half hopes, that he will look at her. But he merely meets Macbeth’s gaze steadily and replies, “Comfortable enough.”

“Good,” says Macbeth. “I am pleased.”

Roscille is sure that no one except her pays attention to his fingers, clenched tight around the edge of the table. His bitten-off, yellowed nails dig into the wood. Time passes sluggishly, like a river still choked with ice, and then supper is over, and the servants come to take the platters and uneaten food away.

The king’s chamberlains help him up from his seat. There is a streak of dried wine on his chin. Lisander rises when his father does, and unexpectedly reaches over the table, using a cloth to wipe the king’s chin clean. The tenderness of it shocks her, as it does the rest of the hall. They cannot decide if he is a good son, for attending to his father so vigilantly, or if he is a bad son, for calling attention to his shame. Duncane reaches up, tremulously, and grips Lisander’s hand. With dry, chapped lips, he kisses his son’s fingers and closes his eyes. The moment seems to halt the progression of time, and when Duncane at last releases his hand and Lisander steps away, the minutes begin to pass again, though strangely, like a ship rocking in unruly waters.

More pleasantries: Good night, good night, good night. Hunt tomorrow, high temperatures, honors done.

Duncane limps out of the room, his chamberlains girding him and his sons following behind. Macbeth’s eyes cut to Roscille, and he gives the most imperceptible of nods.

The corridors are empty of all servants; Macbeth has made it so. Roscille walks slowly, slippers hushing against the stone. The impossible has happened already: She has begun not to hear the ocean at all. She must pause and listen for it, reacquaint herself with its rhythm, to be sure that her senses are not dulled. Most of the torches on the wall are extinguished, but she follows the ones that are lit (perhaps this is Macbeth’s doing as well) and they lead her to King Duncane’s chamber.

His two chamberlains are at the door. They are whispering to each other in low, rough voices, amusing themselves as they pass the long hours at their post. These are not good guards. If they were Wrybeard’s men, they would not be talking or laughing. They would be as still and silent as his draughts tiles, arms folded behind their backs. Roscille approaches them.

They stop their snickering, but their faces still show proof of their laxity; their cheeks are red. Roscille would not be surprised if they had snuck some wine from the kitchens. The left one straightens, clears his throat, and says, “Lady Macbeth. What are you doing here at so late an hour?”