"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.

18 Months - Kay MacBeth

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.

Introduction

Hi everybody. My name is Sydney, and I’m a writer, communicator, speaker and actress. I have a blog, called Let’s Be Adventurers where I write about life and things. I write a lot of poetry. I’ve been in two homeschool Shakespeare plays. I wish it would’ve been more but I just didn’t know about them until more recently. This last May I had the tremendous honor of playing Lady Macbeth. Macbeth is a really great Shakespearean story and I believe that, it being a play and not a book, there’s a lot of descriptiveness that we miss out on about some truly great characters. So that’s why I’ve decided to help with this project. Matt and I will be writing the preceding stories of Macbeth and his Lady. DISCLAIMER, this story will not be historically accurate necessarily. We understand that the Macbeths were real people. We are not writing about these people we are writing about Shakespeare’s characters. So, sit back, relax and enjoy the stories of Regan and Kay, Before Macbeth.

And I’m Matthew. This little co-writing project was the result of Sydney and I performing in the play MacBeth, as the partners in treason. I’m a meticulous actor and I tend to create elaborate backstory to power my performances. When Sydney wrote up a little piece on the first meeting of the MacBeths, I was actually really shocked to see how it matched up with my vision of MacBeth’s backstory. So one or both of us suggested that we should write a full on series of the events that led up to the play MacBeth, including the events before they met that caused them to become the people that they were. A few days later, we had names and a timeline. We’ll be delivering a new story every week. We hope you enjoy this project of ours. We call it Before MacBeth. Also, if the anachronisms bother you... This is a work of fiction. Please put your in depth understanding of Gaelic history aside. Thank you.