Chapter 15 Anassa
‘Are you one of mine?’
How beautiful, how terrible my lord’s voice is – how I would know it anywhere, in any realm. Even under this ludicrous mask he’s wearing, which muffles his speech. It must be a disguise to distract our enemies.
Oh, how unmoored he must have been, how lost without me!
Besieged by grief at my demise, he must have followed me into this world …
A wave of guilt crests at my chest, entirely unprompted.
I feel so warm, all the way up to my ears.
Anything wrong I may have done during our unlikely separation, anything untoward or unwifelike surely can be excused. Can’t it?
But before a flutter of birds inside calls me a liar, bringing to mind the way Claret’s blood glistened in her throat, tracing a path of red intention to her cleavage … my lord repeats himself.
‘Are you one of mine?’
It’s hard to tell where his gaze falls, under this donkey mask, yet it’s not hard to glean his meaning. ‘My Lord Macbeth,’ I declare, ‘I remain forever yours. Your loyal wife and servant.’
The birds don’t like that. They caw at me, unseen, urging me to retract my words.
My lord stands up, throwing his mask away with a flourish that seems oddly rehearsed.
The donkey head lands on the floor with a hollow sound, as if made from less sturdy material than it looks, its empty pupils pointed upward.
My lord’s skin seems flushed, sweaty. ‘Wife? No, no, creature, don’t confuse yourself.
I already have one of those – and one is quite enough, if not too many.
Now, do step closer, let me look at you. ’
His manner confuses me. He’s clearly in his cups, which is odd in itself, because I can’t recall my husband ever being drunk.
And his accent … Words elongated, vowels tilting, as if an English spirit has possessed his Scottish tongue, stretching it sideways, squeezing out his brogue.
But it’s the content of his words, more than their shape, that gives me pause.
‘What do you mean, my lord? I am your lady wife. Your “dearest partner of greatness,” as you call me.’
‘Ah, that line, I know that line!’ He takes a big swill of his goblet, wipes his lips with his palms, and sighs a deep sigh as if savouring the flavour of something more than wine. Then, throwing the goblet on the floor in an uncharacteristically boorish manner, he beckons me. ‘Approach, figment.’
I do as I’m told, like any faithful wife would, although his attitude alarms me.
His hand, curiously stained with ink, reaches for my face. But before he can touch me, Claret points that dagger of hers at his throat. ‘Beast or man, I wouldn’t,’ she growls.
I feel even warmer. This must be shame, shame stickier than the rain.
What company have I been keeping? What must my lord think of me, his graceful queen, in league with such a creature, scantily clad and quick to strike?
Was it wrong of me to spare her life before – and doubly wrong for allowing this crass proximity to take root, ruffle me so?
‘No, Claret, there will be no need for knives. He’s my lord husband, the Lord Macbeth. ’
‘What? I most cert— certainly am not!’ He stumbles, unsteady on his feet, kicking the fallen goblet.
His denial upsets me. He can’t be so drunk he doesn’t know who he is. Has this world made him confused, like I was confused at first? Like how I must have forgotten my own name?
‘My lord, look at me,’ I implore him. ‘Don’t you know me?’
Dark brown eyes find my face, slightly unfocused.
‘I do know you …’ He raises his hand again but doesn’t touch me, merely moves his fingers in the air as if drawing the contours of my face.
‘My lady, what happened to the pristine porcelain of your cheek? Who defiled it so? I would have never written such an ugly scar, cast such a shadow on your moonlit beauty. No, no, no, this is all wrong.’ Turning his back on me, he begins pacing in circles, mumbling to himself.
I want the earth to open up and swallow me. I must look hideous – hideous enough to cause him such distress … What if he doesn’t want me back like this? It would serve me right.
I ignore the treachery of ravens, stirring within, exhilarated at the prospect.
‘Is that truly your husband?’ Claret asks, her voice dripping with war.
Her earlier softness has all fizzled out, and I’m reminded of the fate of husbands whom she deems unworthy. ‘He isn’t usually … like this,’ I attempt, not ready for more blood.
‘Wearing a donkey’s head? Drunk witless? Denying your existence? Insulting you?’ she scoffs, then carries on, lower, ‘I told you once, I kill those who need killing. Just say the word.’
I am about to respond – to refute her, obviously – when my lord turns around. He looks dazed, his dirty hands combing through his hair. ‘Who are you? Are you one of mine?’
That phrase again … But this time, it’s clearly Claret he addresses.
What could he mean? He spends a long, disturbing moment studying her face.
‘No, you’re not one of mine. You’re someone else’s, aren’t you?
Marlowe’s, perhaps? Did he send you to advocate for him with Shepherd?
And yet you escort my creation and seem willing to defend her.
Oh, this is all rather confusing … Peaseblossom!
Mustardseed! Moth! Come out of hiding and explain this mess! ’
Before I have the time to fret over my lord’s lost sanity, his accusations towards Claret, three sprites flit into existence, hovering around his head. They’re little more than shiny wings and knots of light, yet I can hear their tiny voices clearly, like crystals chiming in the wind.
‘Blessed Bard!’
‘Wondrous Bard!’
‘Drunk like a lard!’
They giggle and he groans, and it all makes so little sense that perhaps I should be fretting over my own sanity. Perhaps all this is some rain-soaked vision, while we still struggle in the grass, Claret and I, a blade poised between us. The thought offers strange comfort.
Until Claret shatters it.
‘You three!’ she yells, pointing her knife almost jovially at the sprites. ‘You were there when I woke up. Are you envoys of the Moirai? And is this … man supposed to be our guide?’
The three sprites make a beeline for Claret’s head, circling it like a crown of moving light. They each grab a strand of curly hair, twirling it in the air.
‘Beautiful queen!’
‘Bloodthirsty queen!’
‘Stuck in-between!’
Shockingly, Claret doesn’t smack them away or threaten to skewer them with her knife. She simply nods, allowing them to continue. There’s something so endearing about this image; she looks almost bashful, like a young bride getting her hair braided before her wedding.
I blink away the bizarre thought, swallow the sudden burning sweetness on my tongue.
My lord sighs quite dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose.
His inky fingers leave a smudge. When was he ever so unkempt, so ragged?
Even at our darkest moments, the husband I remember exuded such gravitas …
Now, he addresses each sprite separately.
‘Must you torture me with tasteless rhymes, Mustardseed? I wrote you better than that, Moth. Get to the point, Peaseblossom, before I decide to make some changes to an old play. Say, rewrite some scenes.’
His threat seems so utterly nonsensical to me that I can’t even begin to parse its meaning, yet it finds its mark. The sprites – how he can tell these blots of light apart I do not know – cease their playful buzzing and abandon Claret’s curls, floating back to him at once.
Claret looks … oh, she can’t possibly be sad about them leaving her.
I’m still affected by the rain, not thinking clearly.
One of the sprites speaks. ‘Oh Bard most Blessed and Merciful, if I may –’
He waves his hand like the king he should have been. ‘You may, Mustardseed.’
The sprite approaches his ear, whispering something I can’t hear.
My lord’s eyes narrow, finding new focus, as he looks at me and Claret.
He nods. ‘I see. It’s time to take these two lost sheep to Shepherd.
’ He casts a melancholy glance to the floor, where his empty goblet and the donkey mask lie.
‘Alas, I was enjoying my wine and my respite. But such is my duty, as a custodian of ideas.’
Claret groans, exasperated. She doesn’t repeat her offer out loud, but lifts the blade of her knife ever so slightly, showing me she means murder. I shake my head. ‘Fine,’ she mouths.
Suddenly, my lord pushes his throne aside with shocking ease, revealing a trapdoor underneath. He lifts a gilded doorknob, and the trapdoor opens. ‘After you, ladies,’ he says.
I freeze. Not another enclosed, underground passage! ‘My lord husband,’ I say, hoping I have misunderstood, my voice light, mellifluous, ‘do you mean us to go in there?’
‘You know, I really wish you wouldn’t call me that. It’s inappropriate.’
‘Inappropriate? You would rather I didn’t call you my lord? Or hus—’
He raises one hand at me, pinching his nose with the other, as if my even uttering that word brings forth a headache. ‘Just call me Bard. The Shepherd will explain the rest.’
Caught between my recent fear of tunnels and my need not to offend him, I simply nod.
‘Good. Now that’s sorted: I’m merely your guide, and as such I must urge you both to hurry. Terrors abide, waiting for little stories to be left unattended, to tear them from limb to limb.’
Claret swears under her breath. Then, to my surprise, she steps forward. ‘It’s like the Moirai told us, Anassa. We found our guide; we must follow him.’ She gives my lord – the Bard, if that’s the title he now fancies – her most vicious smile. ‘We can always kill him later.’
The Bard blinks at her words. Claret pays him no mind, already approaching the trapdoor.
She looks down, tsks, and starts descending.
Her red cloak gradually disappears out of sight, like blood seeping into the bowels of the earth.
I feel the urge to hug myself, contain the many jarring feelings in my ribs.
This man, who seems to have forsaken me, treating our matrimony like a nuisance.
This new darkness. And this new edge to Claret’s words, after what happened in that meadow earlier, between us.
Something both sharp and soft we can’t take back.
‘Do hurry up, my Lady Macbeth,’ the Bard says, making me flinch. That name already feels like a glove too small, blocking my blood flow. ‘And do not fear. Your trials have ended; I shall keep you safe till I deliver you to Shepherd.’
I do not know who Shepherd is, how any of these words and instructions fit together.
If I should even obey him, out of some familial duty I seem to be the only one to carry.
Unconvinced but unwilling to let Claret go ahead alone, I approach the trapdoor and descend, grateful for the wall I find on one side, grasping the mossy stone for comfort.
Claret’s cloak billows as she descends, the only bright sight ahead of me. If she can face this, so can I.
I don’t even complain when the Bard follows after me and shuts the door behind us, trapping me once again in unforgiving darkness.