"Revenge For a Daughter"

Kay hadn’t gone on the hunt. Now of age, he could have, but he didn’t. Not this afternoon. He was dead tired from the festivities the night before. He and the young squires, those about ready to become knights, had fought to lift the testing stones of Glamis. Only Kay and two others had succeeded in lifting the heaviest of the five rocks to their shoulders. Kay’s legs were still stiff from the repeated efforts they had made in admitted attempts to impress the young girls who were also now of age. They had succeeded.

Kay now walked through the halls of Castle Glamis, toward the kitchen. He preferred to get food himself when he could. And the servants had a bit of a day off with the men out to hunt. He didn’t really care to mess with it. He liked most of them.

He paused right outside the main hall. Shouts. It sounded like the servants yelling at each other. He continued on.

“You dare call yourself a stewardess?”

Kay whirled back around and threw open the door of the main hall. It smashed against the wall as he strode in to see his mother backed against a table, a knife to her throat. A man in peasants clothing held the knife. His other hand held one of his mother’s wrists.

“Leave her alone.”

The man stepped away, but kept his knife at her throat, held out arms length. “Do you know what your mother did?”

“Step away, dammit.” Kay moved toward the peasant.

“Back or I cut her throat!”

Kay halted. 

The man looked from Ailsa to Kay and back again. “You sent my daughter away to the far reaches of Glamis. All because she took a shine to your boy. And you know what? Do you know what they did there?” The man’s eyes were wet. “They took a shine to her there.” He drew a shaky breath. “She was eleven, Stewardess! Eleven!”

“Things like this happen every day,” said Ailsa. “It was no fault of mine.”

“Leave her alone,” shouted Kay. “I caused the problem.”

The man looked taken aback. “No, no it was your mother. Don’t defend her.”

Kay shook his head. “No, I’m challenging you. Aim the knife at me."

"The Deaths"

I wiped the blood from my hands. There wasn’t much, really. Such a terrible accident. To have “fallen” upon those rocks, what a shame. I smiled to myself at the memory. The hardest part was dragging him back up to a place where the men could find him. I was all sobbing and tears and worry. My poor, poor tutor. He was so kind to me and I just couldn’t help him when he “fell”. Serves him right, really. And father. Really, his death is on my father’s hands, not mine. If father had not hired him to make me a “proper Scottish lady” then he wouldn’tve had to die. He was the last one. My history tutor. First was my mathematics and science teacher. It wasn’t my fault that I needed a hands on lesson the day the archers had their shooting practice. Then it was my classics tutor. She was the easiest. It was so simple to introduce the poison into her habitual tea. There were two others, but they never made it to their lessons. Food poisoning. I’m not sure yet if they’ve recovered. I finish writing the details down in my soft, leather bound journal that my father gave me. It goes back on the wooden table by my bed. The bloody cloth goes in with my clothes for the washing. My lady has learned not to question me, lest she be next. My father would never assume I was behind my tutors deaths. I am a poor misunderstood little dear. His angel rescued from the fire. I braid my thick black curls and the reflection of my blue eyes smiles back at me in the mirror. I can go out to play with my brothers now that my lessons are “over”. They have wooden swords and toy bows. The man made on for me, but my father had it taken away when he hired the tutors. Oh the fit that I threw then. My brothers all ran and hid from my raging. My father tried to console me. Told me it wasn’t proper for a girl to hunt, that I was going to be a lady.  And why shouldn’t I be? What would be wrong with a lady knowing to hunt? Even the highest nobility hunt. The kings knows how to fight, how to defend himself. Why should a lady not know how as well? As I run through the cold stone halls and courtyards towards the sunny green hills, I decide for myself that I will be a lady, and a fighter. And anyone who tries to stop me… Well let’s just say they’ll find out personally just how strong I am.

"Far Away"

Kay pressed his ear against the door of the main hall, straining to listen. He could hear his mother’s voice and the voice of the farmer, but words eluded him.

A shout from his mother reached audible levels. “-far away!”

Kay heard footsteps and retreated away from the door, started down the hall. The door swung open behind him. He froze, heard the farmer retreating.

“Kay. Come here.” His mother’s voice was calm. She’d been getting better over the past two years. She still kept his name from the tapestry hidden away, but the violent outbursts had become fewer and fewer ever since.

Kay turned to face her, kept his face stiff. “Come here. We need to talk.”

Kay closed the distance between himself and his mother and did his best to hold her gaze.

Ailsa folded her hands. “I have sent her away.”

Kay bit his tongue.

“She had no place here, certainly none with you. You’re about to come of age in two years, Kay. You have no place with a peasant girl. Whatever was happening between you two… It’s unacceptable. You must only love a girl worthy of a throne.”

Kay nodded. He couldn’t say anything. He didn’t want to set his mother off.

 

“Come now, Kay. Your lessons await.” She pointed down the hall.

And Kay went. This was one battle he knew he could not win.

"Regan"

Her throat was raw from smoke. Everywhere she turned there was fire. She couldn’t see, she couldn’t even cry. She heard yelling in the distance. The screams of the only woman she knew to be her mother. The cries of her brothers. And the galloping of horses. It wasn’t long before there was shouting above her. A strong arm reached through the din and scooped her up. Being carried away from the uproar she could hear the pleas of the only parents she’d ever known. They were calling out to her. She reached her arms to them, but they were far gone now. They were running now, away from the remains of their wagons and lives. The little girl, her dark hair singed about her face, which was covered in burns to match her hands, was carried off to a tall castle, looming over the green fields which were now blackened around the edge. An older man, dressed nobly, was standing at the door post. He took the child from the knight who carried her and sent her off with a nurse. There was whispering among the servants. Would he keep the child? The nameless daughter of gypsies. Lord Gilchrist looked on her with tears in his eyes. How was it that she could so strongly resemble his late wife, who always wanted a daughter, but never lived to have one. He would keep her yes, and he would cherish her, more than any father who ever loved a daughter. And he would call her Regan.

"Tapestry"

The wind had long since chased the clouds that hung over Castle Glamis that morning away and the spring sun shone down to warm the cold courtyard.  Near the stables, in the still of midday, two children wrestled. Kay MacBeth and Eric, a servant boy. Kay gripped his opponent’s collar and shoulder, mirroring Eric’s grip. Kay struggled, twisting left and right with his hips and kicking out with his foot in an attempt to throw Eric. He failed. The stable boy wouldn’t be shaken. Eric blocked another strike at his knee and returned with one of his own. Kay lost his balance and Eric twisted hard. Kay tumbled and landed hard on his left shoulder.

Eric followed him down and punched him in the gut. The breath rushed out of Kay as Eric pinned him with a knee. “Yield?”

“Don’t yield.”

Both boys looked up, across the courtyard. Ailsa MacBeth stood there, shoulders back, head high. “Do not yield, Kay.”

“But I’ve beaten him?” Eric had a confused look on his face.

“Kay, get him off of you and fight him like you mean it.”

“I can’t.”

“Break his leg.”

“I can’t!”

Ailsa narrowed his eyes. “You’re a MacBeth. We don’t lose battles. Break his leg.”

Eric stood up off of Kay. “I have to help my dad…” He darted off into the shadows of the stables. Kay heaved himself up off the cobblestone, holding his bruised shoulder. Ailsa stared at him, slowly shook her head.

Servants once again cringed at the rage-filled cries that echoed through the halls of Castle Glamis. Something had set her off again, and her son now bore the full weight of her wrath. No one dared enter the hall.

“You’re a MacBeth, a warrior. How can you let such a worthless wretch of a servant best you?”

“He’s better than me.” Kay tried to avoid his mother’s gaze, his back to the family tapestry that hung on the wall, depicting each member of their bloodline from as far back as four hundred years. Even his name and likeness hung on the very end, right beside his dead father’s. 

“Servants are not better than us!” Ailsa grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Her right hand squeezed tight and pain seared in his shoulder. “We are nobility. You will be a lord! They are common.”

“I couldn’t beat him.”

Ailsa slapped him across the face, once, twice. Kay jerked his head out of the way on the third. Ailsa let him go and stood up again, her face contorted into a mask of anger.

“You are not a MacBeth. You will never live up to the name of your father.”

Kay looked at her. The child’s mind couldn’t comprehend what she meant, but the words and the slaps hurt. What followed hurt him more.

Ailsa crossed over to the tapestry and grabbed right at the edge, right next to his name. She tugged hard. Fabric ripped. And Kay’s name disappeared. She turned back to him, lips tight. “You don’t deserve to be in our family. Your name will never be up there if you continue to be weak. You have disgraced your bloodline. I don’t want to call you my son.”

"The Gypsy Girl"

“The child is playing in the wood box.” “The child has gone off with the boys.” “The child is still sleeping.” She didn’t have a name, the little orphan girl. She’d been in and out of different orphanages. No one ever wanted to adopt her, and many places were running out of room. It was a dirty place, where she last was. On the outskirts of town, with tired old workers, it loomed black and dreary on the Scottish highlands, shrouded in mist. The place was practically waiting to be raided. But not by the camps of soldiers, that so often flooded the streets of the towns; foreigners just trying to get some food. It was another rainy night when the band of gypsies crept over the asylum walls. The crumbling brick dragging dust into the darkened, silent hallways. The men were scavenging for food or fuel when they came across the toddler girl in her crib. She was the only toddler they had; the rest all adopted or recently died from common children’s illnesses. One young man came close and reached out to touch her dark hair. His barren wife had always wanted a daughter. A scoop of his arm and she was gently placed in the large rucksack, along with the food and trinkets. Carried swiftly over the walls and down the road, out of the orphanage. And so the child joined the small band, on an impulse. She grew up with them quite happily. Wanting for nothing. She learned the feel of the hills rolling beneath her feet, the sun on her face and the wind in her hair. Her hands were never clean and her feet were always calloused. But she was free and she was unafraid.