Chapter 38 Claret
When we get back on the road, Shakespeare is awkward next to me.
So awkward he keeps drinking, making jokes, narrating little poems that become increasingly unhinged, punctuated by hiccups.
I appreciate it, his way of telling me he accepts what I have with Anassa, that he views me as one of his drinking buddies – though I don’t partake much.
I need my mind sharp, for what we’re getting into.
And he needs sleep. Eventually, he dozes off, and for a blessed while, as the horses run and the road winds ahead amid farmlands and the day is bright with promise, I can occupy my mind with better things.
Like the memory of waking up with Anassa, just a few hours ago.
Like the surprise with which she stumbles on to joy, on to pleasure.
I fall into the rhythm of the carriage ride, my muscles singing with an ache that’s not entirely unpleasant, the knowledge that I carry us forward swelling in my chest with pride.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot an eagle circling us, almost racing the carriage.
It feels impossible yet exhilarating – and as the glorious bird soars down, his amber gaze so similar to mine, my bones vibrate with a strength that’s always been there but only lately has been willing to fully manifest. Only since I met Anassa and thought I’d lost her. The eagle flies away.
The elders of my court would call this encounter an omen, a message from Zeus.
I shake my head. If there’s a message in this brief avian strangeness, I hope it says that things will unfold easily from now on.
But gradually, as the vast farmlands give way to villages, then to towns, this serene hope shutters.
We are no longer alone on the road. Men, women, kids, dirty and hungry, missing body parts, walk on the side of the road. Dejected, aimless.
‘We didn’t have so many beggars where I’m from,’ I tell a shaken Shakespeare who’s just woken up. ‘Why are there so many in your world?’
He coughs. ‘This is not quite my world, is it? And beggars are a sign of societal distress; a famine or a war.’ We slow down but don’t stop, as he makes small talk with some of them, offering coins now and then.
I don’t understand everything they’re saying, but they talk about a war coming, pointing south.
Pointing to the direction we just came from.
Thom’s men, then?
Troubled by this, Shakespeare starts flicking through the stack of papyri he’s brought with him, consulting their strange markings, making ‘hmm’ and ‘oh’ sounds.
His skin, pale to begin with, has grown increasingly more ashen.
I’ve given him the time to think, to spin his tales, but I can’t keep indulging him for long.
Not when it feels like we are trotting towards trouble.
Not when it feels the eagle was indeed an omen, but not of victory.
I guide the horses into a slower pace as we arrive in Elgin.
The palace dominates the view as we enter the city proper, so big it blots out the sky.
Sharp spires of stone rise up in hubris, as if meant to pierce the heavens, prick the fingers of the gods.
How can the people of this world live in such smelly squalor, and yet their rulers live in this?
No wonder the king and queen here are not loved.
Anassa is hiding in the back of the carriage, all three of us having deemed it safer that way – in case she really looks like that Gruoch. Shakespeare is mumbling to himself still. ‘You need to tell me what we’re facing here,’ I say, my voice low. ‘I need to know, to protect us.’
‘Yes, well, in The Chronicles of England, Scotlande, and Irelande, Raphael Holinshed gives a good recounting of these times,’ Shakespeare begins, and I’m about to scream at him to speak plainly, but then he pats the papyri and it makes a sort of sense.
I point to it. ‘Is that what your … story there is called?’
‘In a way. That is the title of the book, but it is not a story, and it is not mine. This is written by a chronicler, a historian. I was born several centuries after all this. I’ve consulted this book often, to craft my own stories.
It only made sense to bring it with me, as a guide, in this unprecedented foray into my past.’
I nod, because after all I’ve seen and been through since I met Anassa, after all the rows of skulls and bloody caves and spectre-shaped waves, journeying into past centuries doesn’t seem so improbable any more. ‘So what does the chronicler say that has you white as salt?’
‘Holinshed … He mentions many wars during Macbethad’s era.
But the only one this high up north was the one in Elgin, in the summer of 1057.
Macbethad died in this war. So if my calculations are correct, from the snow we just had …
This must be January or February, 1057. We have arrived mere months before it all goes to shit. ’
‘Anassa’s door brought us just in time, then,’ I muse. ‘How convenient.’
I cannot help but feel the Moirai’s hands in this once more. Clotho gave Anassa that key – and it unlocked a door to here. The sense of something monumental brewing around us, and us the spoon that stirs the pot faster, creeps on me.
Shakespeare coughs. ‘Uhm, when we arrive at the palace, let me do the talking. Women in this era, unless royalty, were meant to be seen and not heard. You driving that carriage already draws enough attention to us.’
I would kick him if I didn’t think he has a point.
I’ve seen the looks too, since we arrived.
Little boys, stopping to gawk at me. Women’s eyes going round, their hands doing a strange crossing movement from forehead to chest to shoulders, as if warding off evil.
‘I’m happy to hand the reins to you, if you can manage it,’ I say instead.
And I’m not lying. Last time I felt such burning in my muscles was when I had to swim to save Anassa from that wraith.
The lengths I’ll go to for that woman …
‘Yes, very well,’ Shakespeare says, surprising me. ‘It should be straightforward enough, at this speed.’
I hand him the reins and sit back, ensuring the hood of my cloak covers my face.
I am aware my features must be startling.
These people all have sunken noses, pale blue eyes, and hair that’s either dirty wheat or bronze.
I’ve only seen one or two folks with skin as dark as mine or more; the rest all look like ghosts. No wonder, with so little sun around.
The horses neigh, sensing a less experienced hand behind the whip, but like me they’re too tired to cause much fuss.
Shakespeare brings us to a big square, its centre marked off with rope.
I see a boulder in the middle there, as if builders began constructing something, but then decided not to. ‘Is this …’
‘The cathedral I told Thom about, yes. Rather, it will be, in a few decades or so. It was the only monument close to the castle I could think of to mention safely to the villagers at Mary’s inn at Tomnavoulin. No matter how they feel about a king, no one hates a cathedral, a place of worship.’
‘You are a smart man.’ I must be exhausted, because I say it out loud.
‘And you, my dear, are –’
But I will never know what Shakespeare was about to say. Because as we circle the square, putting the still unbuilt structure behind us, we see the gate leading to the palace.
And it is guarded.
Although it seems my worries were unwarranted, this time.
Shakespeare descends, to converse with the guards.
He wields words like swords, twisting and bending them and striking his opponents when they least expect it, leaving them dazzled.
It goes against my every instinct, standing back silent next to Anassa, who was asked to come down while our carriage is being held for ‘inspection’, watching Shakespeare sweet-talk the guards into letting us in.
‘Cousins,’ he says, ‘bereaved cousins of the Queen from the South,’ and one would think everyone in this country is cousins with everyone else.
Yet it works. One guard leads us through the gate, while two more escort us to the palace.
Unease grips me as I gaze up and up, the palace’s top spires lost in sleet clouds, as if some ominous tomorrow swiftly approaches. ‘Are all the palaces in your world this big?’ I ask Anassa under my breath as we climb the outer stairs, cloaks spilling black and claret on grey stone.
She tssks. ‘Castle. And mine was bigger,’ she responds, haughty and haunted and as quiet as a cool breeze. This must be even stranger for her, I realize.
The guards usher us into a great hall, its innards drab and grey and brown inside like its exterior.
These people must not like colours very much; there is no gold anywhere, no vivid hues to denote opulence, prosperity.
Black fabric like Theseus’ sails drapes the walls, painted with silver crowns.
Sorrowful. Anassa’s brow furrows as she takes in our surroundings.
‘Will you escort my cousins to see Queen Gruoch, if you please, kind sir?’ Shakespeare asks one of the guards.
The guard grunts, looking at his companion – his superior? – for confirmation. I do not like the leer in that man’s face as he nods. ‘Now,’ the leering man tells Shakespeare, ‘you wanted to meet King Macbethad himself, is that right?’
‘Yes, yes, if His Majesty will grant me an audience, of course.’ Shakespeare bows, to show respect.
And because he bows, he doesn’t see what I see: the guard’s mouth, twisting into something sinister, his hand clutching his sword.
Yet there’s no time to warn him, share my misgivings – warranted or not.
The first guard ushers us up a spiral staircase, also carpeted in black.
I shiver, though it’s not cold inside. But the air feels heavy with something I can’t put my finger on, something that brings to mind those waves we crossed to reach Shepherd’s arch.
Like if I look too closely at those drapes, I will see hands, struggling to cross over the onyx veil, hungry to snatch us, drown us in velvet shadows.
Like even though it’s made from solid stone, this palace sits at the precipice of here and other, of manmade structure and uncanny gateway to the realms where spirits dwell.
I almost sigh with relief when the stairs end and we’re told to wait outside a lacquered door.
An uncomfortable stretch of time passes, during which the sun outside the windows dips lower, my unease mounting with each passing breath.
Finally, the guards return and escort us into a room with a big window, filled with coloured glass.
There are creatures drawn on it, friendly and colourful and winged, and I decide this is my favourite room so far.
Then I see her, seated on a narrow chair, the light from the window casting her form in a kaleidoscope of greens and oranges, purples and blues.
Yet every ounce of her figure is drenched in black cloth, with a sole ornament on her chest catching the light, two straight lines crossed together.
The woman could have been a wraith, if not for her face, with its alabaster cheeks and big, proud forehead, hair carefully pinned back, grey at the temples.
Her eyes are green like Anassa’s but not quite, the way the timid sunrise isn’t quite the brilliant noon.
Dark circles underneath them speak of some sickness, some unrest of mind or body.
She looks at us, cautious, reserved, but not hostile.
‘Queen Mother Gruoch,’ the guard salutes, taking a step back but remaining at the door, vigilant.
Queen Mother? I turn to Anassa, to see what she makes of this, if she feels some aspect of herself being reflected on that lesser woman’s face.
But Anassa is not looking at Gruoch. What steals her forest gaze is a painting, an approximation of a man in god-like scale, covering all the wall to our left from floor to ceiling.
Red cheeks, long scarlet hair, a cloak as blood-hued as mine.
A crown rests on his head, beset with rubies.
And bordering that painting, another cloth of black. Anassa stumbles.
‘I see you’re taken by his grandeur,’ Gruoch says softly, getting up. ‘I find that painting soothing, it captures him so perfectly, you know?’
‘I …’ Anassa starts, and she sounds so lost I want to hold her in my arms. ‘I don’t understand. What is this?’
‘What don’t you understand, dear cousin?
’ Gruoch drags the words out like a death sentence.
A somewhat wicked smile crosses her lips and ah, I see it now.
A resemblance, fleeting but there. ‘Of course, if you truly were my kin, as you purported, you would have heard the news by now. You would have joined us for his funeral in Iona, where he forever rests among Scotland’s true rulers.
But you are mere imposters, aren’t you? Sent to spy on us, in our time of grief.
’ Gruoch sighs, waving her hand as if we are annoying insects.
‘Wait! Gruoch, my … queen, you must listen to me,’ Anassa panics. ‘King Macbeth –’
‘King Macbethad fell in battle six months ago, may he rest in peace.’
‘No!’ Anassa gasps.
Shakespeare’s words from earlier rush back, sharp as a slap. The war in Elgin, the one Macbethad died in … We are too late. We’ve come too late.
‘You can take them now,’ Gruoch says, voice flat, indifferent. Her gaze goes to the portrait, as if she’s speaking to her dead spouse. ‘They don’t know anything of use.’
Metallic fingers dig into my flesh, forcing my hands behind my back before I can reach for my knife. More guards. I wasn’t paying enough attention.
Anassa’s screams mirror mine. We kick and spit and fight to free ourselves from these tin men, all chain and metal and rough faces. In vain.
I barely have the time to pray to Moirai, to curse them, as they drag us down the stairs.