"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.

"The Sticking Place"

The stewardess, Ailsa MacBeth, five years a widow, stared on at the feast that filled the hall of Castle Glamis. The family tapestry hung behind her, floor to ceiling, illuminated by the torches that ringed the room and allowed light for the noblemen and women to enjoy the food prepared by the kitchens of the keep. Only the stewardess wore black. Only the stewardess wore a veil. Only she did not partake in the laughter, the raucous singing and drinking. On a night when the air was filled with good cheer, she was still filled with ice.

That ice held back the memories of her husband’s death, of awaking to see the red-haired Irishman standing over him and stabbing him in the chest. She flinched even now, held a hand to her stomach to steady her breathing. But appearances had to be kept up.

She took her glass, stood and raised it in front of the hall. All fell silent. “Come,” she said. “Love and health to all. I drink to this day, to Midsummer. To the joy of all at this table. To my son, the future Lord MacBeth.”

She couldn’t stand all the smiles around her, but she forced her own to surface as they chorused her, and as one spoke out: “Our duties and the pledge.”

Glasses were raised and drinks quaffed. All was silent for a single brief moment as they returned to their seats. As the first mouth was opened to talk, a loud crash came from the kitchen. Ailsa’s head whipped around on a swivel toward the doors. She left her chair and strode toward the doors. She knew what awaited her on the other side.

She pushed through the doors to see young Kay MacBeth standing over a broken barrel. The floor reeked of alcohol. Three servants stared on in horror as Aisla descended upon her son. Her hand grabbed him by the wrist, and led him off, down the hallway to the private chambers. The servants began to clean.

 Ailsa shoved her son into the masters room of the castle. A fire crackled in the pit dead center of the room. A servant poked at the fire. In his haste to scramble out, he left the iron poker still in the pit.

Kay stood in front of his mother, the look in his eyes unsure of what would come next. Ailsa slammed the door and the child knew. Before he could run away, she grabbed his wrist.

“How dare you, Kay? You disrespect your father.”

“Let me go!”

“No.” She slapped him on his cheek. Hard. Quick. A red mark grew on his cheek. “No, you need to learn discipline. How will you ever live up to your father if you go on like this? You’re a pathetic runt.” She shoved him to the floor. Her ice was cracking. “You will never live up to him.”

“The servants-“

“How dare you try to shift the blame?” The ice cracked again. “Do you know the responsibilities you will have when you are older?”

Kay stood back to his feet, his small shoulders down, his eyes looking anywhere but his mother. She couldn’t stand it. His father looked people in the eye. His father stood upright. Without thinking she grabbed the poker from the fire and struck him on the side of the leg. The boy screamed out. 

“Never do that again,” she hissed. The poker dropped and clattered on the ground. The boy held his bruised, burnt flesh as Ailsa called for a servant to clean up.

7 Months - Regan

It was cold and raining. Typical day for Scotland. Along the mud trodden, wet, brick streets creeps a young woman. Hunched over, wrapped in a shawl and dripping with rain, she clutches a child to her chest. She’s searching for a door with an overhang that will keep the baby dry until someone has the chance to find her. Light pours out of balcony windows, the sound of drunken laughter ringing in the streets.  She bends to lay down the silently screaming child, too cold and hungry to really cry, and she wraps her a bit tighter in the shrinking blanket. And then she leaves. 

There’s clattering in the allies as people stumble out of the bars. Thick Scottish accents reverberate off the otherwise deserted street. The child wriggles slightly in the chill air. Not so much as a knock on the door, or a call for help to protect the baby girl. Her mother left her for dead. Indeed why should she care? She has to get back to her lovers. Lovers that frequent this part of town, where the poor and ill thrive and the rich stay away. Lovers that pay her well but not well enough to keep an unwanted child alive. 

She’d been starving for those past nine months. No one wants a pregnant escort, even the desperate. And that night in the dirty kitchen of the crowded boarding house, the squalls of a baby sounded like freedom to the young woman. She knew she had to be rid of her. But no one she knew would take her. Not the other women in the house. None of the ladies at the market. Everyone had a family too big for comfort, or was in no place or mood to take on children. So she took to the streets. Kindness was not going to pay her bills so she could no longer be picky about who the child’s parents were. A doorstep seemed as good as any place. 

A sweep of her cloak in the dark and the daughter of this nameless woman was orphaned. As if understanding her fate the baby manages one good cry. A door creaks open above her head, kitchen light pouring across her raw and reddened cheeks. A gentle scoop and she’s brought inside, never to know her real mother and not to end up with the same fate.