Page 40 of Lady Macbeth

He means to bury his son’s truth along with her own. The confession of Fléance’s deception is too shameful to be worth what it may offer in return—Roscille’s punishment. It is better to keep all the words that have passed within this dungeon a secret from Macbeth.

Because she knows this, she has some power over him, she thinks. They will both be damned by the same confession.

“No,” she says. “Your son’s fate is yoked to mine. I have nothing to fear from you. Leave this place.”

Banquho’s eyes are two points, silvery and gleaming, like the ends of a dagger.

“You put yourself between me and this ousted prince,” he says, voice low and rasping. “Why?”

Why? Because she is not a cold creature who will see yet another innocent soul bleed for her lies. Because she has stanched the flow of the poison that runs from her father’s seed and into her; she is no more his ermine than she is Alba’s unicorn. Because Lisander saved her, then spared her, and if it is not a debt that has been woven between them, it is something exquisite, and stronger, a golden rope stretched across an abyss. Because she is the emperor now, and it is within her power to keep men from being devoured by the eels’ gnashing teeth.

“Roscille,” Lisander says hoarsely, “do not do this.”

But she did not account for what she sees, as she stares openly, defiantly into Banquho’s eyes. She did not consider rage beyond reason.

Banquho steps forward, and Lisander reaches through the bars, as if he might be able to grasp him, but it is too far and he cannot—within an instant Banquho has both of her wrists caught in one of his hands. Roscille fumbles to tear off her veil, to catch either Banquho or Fléance in the path of her gaze, but then Banquho’s other hand smothers her face, forcing her eyes shut, blinding her. The animal panic overtakes her, and she is writhing, choking out half-formed protests.

She is slippery, like a fish: It takes Banquho and Fléance together to pin her down. There is a table, where the wood is soaked permanently with blood so that it is now a muted red color. They press her upon it. Ropes join her wrists, twisting her arms above her head. Her cheek touches the wood, rubs her skin raw against the lace veil. Her skirts are yanked up, and the sudden coldness of the room on her bare legs makes her shriek.

“Let her go!” She hears, but cannot see, Lisander rattling the bars of the cell. “Flay my skin from my body, I welcome it, just leave her be!”

If Lisander were of clear mind, he would not do this, would not shout. He would not protest the torture of a woman meant to be his enemy. He would watch at ease as she is whipped in his stead. Perhaps he would cringe at the barbarity of it, but he would never object, no. It is a good thing that Banquho and Fléance are too occupied with the task before them to take special note of it. The exuberant spending of such long-hoarded violence smothers all else.

“Here.” Banquho’s voice is rough. “I will hold her. You take the whip.”

At least she hears Fléance exhale, a sound of hesitation. But that is all it is: a short breath into the cold damp air. And then the same air sings as he raises the whip and brings it down against the back of her thighs.

The pain is beyond the capacity of a noble lady’s imagining. Roscille has no reason to have ever felt the sting of a whip before. That is for servants and slaves and lowborn girls who forget their place. When the first blow comes, she is still able to think, amid the haze of red in her mind, This will be the worst, and each one after will be more bearable.

She is wrong. The pain piles up like stones. The lick of the whip is no easier to bear because she is expecting it; every time, her skin sizzles, like oil on cooking meat.

She must become an animal in order to survive it. As each blow lands, Roscille imagines that her body is not her body, that she is in fact a serpent-woman like the Melusina, and instead of legs she has a scale-patterned tail, thick with muscle and fat, impenetrable to the weak weapons of men. Fléance is breathing hard, flushed with this fever-dream of power. She knows this without even seeing his face.

A scream wrenches its way out of her throat. Her mind is red, and red, and red, choked with fog and filthy air. Distantly, she hears the cell bars still rattling. Roscille wonders if Lisander is thinking of how he stroked his hands up her thighs, kneading her flesh desirously, and how that flesh is ruined now, flayed into strips and ugly and pulpy with blood.

The pain is huge enough to fill hours, but some small untouched part of her brain knows it has been mere moments. She begs: Please stop, please, please, but perhaps she forms the words in her head only. She has stopped writhing against Banquho’s hands. What is the point of such protests? It will only delight her tormentors more. This is the greatest of men’s aspirations, to—whether through love or through violence—draw screams from women’s mouths.

Words pass between them, gruff and whispered, so she cannot make them out. But whatever is said makes Fléance pause. The sudden absence of pain is a gulf that fills instantly with terror, terror that the pain will come again. Like a dim and witless dog, Roscille whimpers at imagining it.

Then Banquho lets go. With her arms released, with nothing to hold her, Roscille’s body slides limp to the floor. The cold stone is a relief. It spreads its numbness through her cheeks, her palms, her still-bare thighs. More words pass over her head.

Fléance: Look, she lies as if she is dead. If we have killed her, Macbeth will never forgive it.

Banquho: No, she is not dead. Let us leave her now. She will come to in the morning and we will send for a doctor. It is not so bad. She will walk without limping by the time Macbeth returns.

Fléance: Are you certain?

Banquho: Yes.

Fléance: Then let us go.

The room smells like a slaughter-yard. Roscille lies belly-flat on the floor. A slippery wetness drips between her legs and onto the stone. To move even an inch is agony. She is barely able to open her eyes.

Through damp lashes, she sees Lisander. He is kneeling on the floor, reaching through the bars of the cell. His hand covers hers. His palm is colder than she imagined it would be, but then everything feels cold now, in comparison to the white fire lacing up and down her thighs.

“Roscille,” he whispers.

“It is not your fault. I chose this.”