"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.