Castle Glamis perched atop the knoll at its foundation, an aged hawk sleeping in the moonlight. When it awoke, years of experience and still keen eyesight would surely again grant it prey.
No. Tonight, the humble mouse dared climb. Tonight, the humble mouse dared kill. Though tonight’s clouded silence seeped across the countryside of Glamis, it could not last.
“Murder! Shut the gates!” The guard’s cry lanced out from the thane’s bedroom, wherein MacBeth lay in a pool of his own crimson blood, his wife screaming curses into the corner, his child shrieking in the next room, his servants rushing about with daggers, looking for the assassin with blood-red hands.
Outside the keep, that assassin sprinted headlong toward the gate. He would not be stopped. The guards had yet to see him. They would not see him.
“He’s coming for the gate, you fools!”
The two guards operating the winch in the gatehouse heard the shout of a familiar voice, the thane’s brother, coming from somewhere across the courtyard. They looked out to see a man with flaming red hair dashing for the still open gates. The bolder of the guards leapt out from the gatehouse, hit the ground, and somehow stood to his feet. The assassin cut him down while his hand still searched for his hilt. The other guard snatched one of the bows and ran to the wall, screaming for archers. He drew, aimed, fired, missed. Another man streaked out of the gates after the assassin, bow in hand, arrow notched. Fifty meters out, the second man stopped and drew the bow back.
An arrow flew and a life ended. The assassin rolled down the hill, snapping off the shaft of the arrow plunged in his back and stabbing himself with his own blade.
Lord MacGregor spat upon the ground, then turned and looked back at Castle Glamis. He could still hear the wails, the wails that had pierced his eardrums and awoken him from his sleep.The wails that heralded the end of his brother’s life.
It stormed the following night as heaven cast torrents of water upon the funeral pyre, upon the bagpipe players. The warrior’s song rose above the hiss of rain upon fire and the peals of thunder. MacGregor stared on at his brother’s burning form, lips drawn tight, jaw clenched. Lady MacBeth openly sobbed beside him.
The boy remained in the castle, shut away from the darkness of the funeral. Perhaps if he were shielded enough, he would find the bravery to face his father’s death at a later age.
MacGregor curled his mouth downwards. Such a petty disputed for his brother to die over. The damn Irish. The damn king. MacGregor resisted the urge to spit. No, the king would never care that his new laws, taxes, and abuse of the Irish put some of his most loyal thanes in harm’s way. The king wouldn’t even think of it. Never mind that Glamis, Cawdor, and Eremoor supplied so much of the military. Never mind that Glamis’ garrison would now surely drop by at least half. MacGregor knew many of the warriors there personally. With MacBeth gone, they would surely leave to a more stable hold. Perhaps even to England.
MacGregor leaned over to his brother’s widow and whispered in her ear. “Fear not, m’lady. I am appointing you stewardess of this hold and removing myself from it. You shall retain ownership of your husband’s realm.”
She clenched his hand tightly and nodded her thanks as the pipes wailed and the rain poured. MacGregor back at his dead brother and fought grief. Scotland needed him whole, and the only way for that to happen was for him to leave Glamis far, far behind.
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