Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) Page 3

  He tugged on her braid. ‘But it’s because you’re always in them, sweet.’

  She laughed out loud. ‘You’re such a sop, sometimes. If I didn’t love you so much, I’d want to pound some better phrases into you.’

  That twinge again. Rosie threw the phrase out so easily. Love. Fleance knew that it was the power of this feeling and this woman beside him that was adding to the quiet dread which sat in his heart.

  ‘Better hurry,’ Rosie said, her voice as light and happy as his soul felt weighted and sorrowful. ‘Come on, Flea. The quicker we get these mushrooms, the longer we have on our own.’

  In the torchlight, he saw her eyes dance and her beautiful smile widen. Such was the power of her presence, his pain slipped below the surface and, shaking his head to get rid of the last of the ill feeling, Fleance matched her skipping pace towards the field.

  On the way back, they stopped by the stream. Fleance secured the torch into the soft soil, took off his cloak and laid it on the ground. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I need to catch my breath.’

  Rosie laughed. ‘You’re as strong as an ox and as tireless as a mule.’ But she sat down beside him. Fleance pushed her onto her back and lay on his side to look at her.

  ‘I’m breathless because of being with you, Rosie.’ He stroked the side of her face. ‘I’ve never known anyone so wonderful and so beautiful. You’re a princess.’

  She rolled onto her side and looked at him. ‘No, Flea,’ she said softly, ‘I’ve not a jot of royalty in my blood. I’m regular folk through and through.’ Then Rosie spoke of the people she’d met on their travels; her descriptions and mimicking causing Fleance to laugh so much that his face ached. Later she reached over to him and ran her fingers through his hair. ‘You’ve lovely locks for a man.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Well, look at Da and Magness – thick, knotted and usually hosting lice. Yours is always clean and soft and so dark at times I see it shimmer blue.’

  He stared at her. The stroking motions of her fingers were sending him into a kind of trance. ‘Rosie,’ he whispered. ‘You’re very dear to me . . .’

  ‘Shhh,’ she said, putting her fingers to his mouth. Then, swiftly she replaced them with her lips. Her hand traced down the side of his neck, over his shoulder.

  She pulled his tunic free and moved her hand up. He pulled her close then just as quickly pulled away.

  ‘What is it?’ Rosie whispered.

  ‘Mushrooms.’

  ‘Mushrooms?’

  ‘Aye. Miri will be wanting these mushrooms.’ Fleance untangled himself from her embrace and sat up. ‘We best hurry.’ He stood up, and put his hand out to Rosie.

  Once she was on her feet, she moved towards him again and gave him a long and sweet kiss.

  Then, Rosie, not knowing what he was thinking, but perhaps understanding the way of love, picked up the basket of mushrooms, leaving Fleance to carry the torch, his cloak and his raging passion.

  ‘We’re almost dead with hunger,’ Miri called when she saw them arrive at the camp.

  ‘Sorry, Miri. We lost sight of the night. But we did find lots of mushrooms.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Miri murmured as she took the basket from Rosie, her sharp eyes taking in their dishevelled appearance and the soil marks on their clothing. ‘Why don’t you take Rosie for a whirl?’

  Fleance grabbed Rosie around the waist and dragged her into the light of the fire. Their hands found each other as they swung and danced to the music of Keavy’s lute. Too soon, the music stopped and they fell against each other, faces flushed and breathless with laughter.

  The next morning, Rosie’s family were preparing to set off. Fleance felt a great ache at the thought of her leaving. ‘’Tis only a month, Flea. We’ll be back this way again soon,’ she said. But, for him, a month was too long. Rosie looked over at her father who was securing the load on their wagon. ‘My birthday is in two weeks,’ she whispered. ‘You might come and join the celebration. Da would be pleased with that.’

  Dougal had climbed up on his wagon. ‘A month, then, Magness, before I return this way. Will you and Miri still be here?’

  ‘Aye,’ Magness replied. ‘We have much to keep us busy in these parts.’

  ‘Flea?’ Rosie asked.

  ‘Aye, I will be there,’ Fleance said.

  Two days before Rosie’s birthday, Fleance asked permission from Magness to travel south on Willow to present her with his gift.

  ‘You know I have no legal right to tell you what you can and cannot do, lad,’ Magness said, stroking his beard. ‘But there are dangers out there you know little of. Men who would feed your mind with fancy stories of loyalties to the wrong side.’

  ‘But I’m well armed and skilled, Magness. And, I will keep to my own company on the journey.’

  Magness frowned. ‘I can trust you to do that but I know not who will be in Dougal’s company. I would ride with you to make sure no harm came to you but I am needed here.’

  Fleance felt a pressure below his ribs. He clenched his jaw to maintain control over his rising frustration. ‘Magness, I am a man, not a boy. I only ask for your blessing because . . .’ He stopped. Why was he asking?

  As if understanding something Fleance could put no words to, Magness spoke for him. ‘Because you want to know if I find Rosie a good match for you. Am I right?’ Fleance nodded, the pressure subsiding as he saw Magness relenting. ‘Well, I can deal with you gone a few days but I want to know that you’ll be safely back with us soon.’

  ‘Aye,’ Fleance said, his heart racing. ‘She’s eighteen and I am . . .’ But what could he say?

  Magness rescued him. ‘And, lad, she’s the one for you and you need to do this – am I right?’

  Fleance nodded. ‘Do you not think, Magness, she is the most beautiful woman . . . ?’

  Magness chuckled. ‘Aye, after Miri and Keavy, she’s not so bad.’ His adoptive father thumped him lightly. ‘Go, boy, for I believe there is a long line of suitors for your young lady’s heart.’

  Fleance mounted Willow, heart racing, a small valuable bundle sitting inside his coat and headed south to Rosie.

  He held his mother’s necklace in his hand, heart pounding. Would she approve? Would his father have agreed to what he was about to do? ‘I gave this to your mother on our wedding day,’ Banquo had told him. ‘It was given to me by my mother. She had it made as a celebration of my birth. Now, I give it to you, Fleance, for, one day, you shall give it to another just as worthy.’

  Fleance had wrapped the precious chain and cross in a soft cloth which he had picked from Miri’s mending basket. The material was a deep red colour which pleased him. He wanted Rosie to appreciate that his love for her was as solid and strong as the colour of the wrapping.

  When Fleance arrived at Rosie’s cottage, the light was leaving the day. He tethered Willow and splashed water on his face before presenting himself. Rosie was placing flowers around the table and had not seen him ride in. He put his hands over her eyes and she squealed with fright. Then she turned, her face beaming and threw her arms around his neck. ‘I knew you would come,’ she said. ‘Now I will have the best birthday, ever.’ Rosie took his hand and pulled him over to where she would sit.

  Dougal, already cheerful from drinking ale, began to organise those gathered to come before a great table which he had placed in front of the stone house. ‘Friends,’ he cried. ‘Come forth for I have some words to say on this occasion.’ The gathered crowd laughed and Dougal smiled. ‘These are better words than I normally feed you,’ he said. More laughter. ‘You are doubting my skill as an orator?’

  The look on his face and his words were too much for those gathered. They roared with laughter and it took many minutes to bring them back to a sober attitude.

  Fleance touched the small package in his pocket. Would it say enough? Would it say
too much? Would Rosie shy away from him because he was too plain with his affections?

  Dougal had made a wonderful roaring fire and many were gathered around it. ‘Go to it. Eat, drink and be merry and give a proud father leeway to make mistakes.’

  People smiled. Dougal was right. They were here firstly to enjoy Dougal’s hospitality and secondly for Rosie’s birthday.

  The summer night was not as warm as the fire. Fleance went to find Rosie. She was helping her mother with the food.

  ‘Ah?’ he said. ‘Can I help you?’

  Rosie, her face red and shining with the effort of trying to organise her own party, turned to him. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Take over the men. They, of all things, need directing.’

  Fleance saluted her and she smiled. ‘At your command,’ he said and left the light to organise the people who had come for the family’s celebration.

  They ate the cake and enjoyed the feast but he had not yet given Rosie his gift which still sat in his pocket. Fleance breathed deeply. There would be a time where he could present his birthday gift to Rosie if only they could steal a moment alone.

  The night was dark. Stars had not yet made their appearance. It had been an enjoyable gathering, but the whole time Fleance had been looking to give Rosie the necklace. She, laughing, returned from inside where she had been helping her mother. Fleance was standing in the light of Dougal’s cottage.

  ‘Flea?’ she said, standing still. ‘Are you not well?’

  His left hand wriggled. Fleance had to give her the right words. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Yes. I’m not sure.’

  Rosie laughed out loud. ‘I do not know what you mean.’

  Fleance was confused. He held out his hands. ‘Sorry, I just wanted you to know . . .’

  Rosie came towards him, lifting her hands to his shoulders. ‘Know that I care for you?’ she said.

  Was this enough to hand over such a precious gift? Fleance cleared his throat. ‘Rosie, the word “care” does nothing to paint the picture of how I feel for you.’

  Rosie looked back towards the cottage. ‘Flea, what are you saying to me?’

  He lifted her hands from his shoulders and held them to his chest. ‘Rosie, I have something for you. For your birthday.’

  Rosie smiled brilliantly at him. ‘But you have been my birthday gift. I need nothing more.’

  Fleance put his hand into the pocket. ‘A gift which I believe my mother would delight that I give to you.’ He pulled out the necklace.

  Rosie’s looked confused. ‘Your mother?’

  ‘Aye. My mother’s cross and chain, given to me by my father after she died.’

  She pulled him down to sit outside the cottage. ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘of your mother.’

  A sudden painful wave swept up to his throat, surprising him. Now, he was just a boy. Nine years old. How could he explain to her how remarkable his mother’s ministrations were? ‘I was nine,’ he told her, ‘when she got ill. It was a surprise for us, and me and Da were not prepared because she had never been ill. I was too young to know the cause except to understand her passing grieved not only me but all who knew her.’

  Rosie poured the chain between her fingers. ‘It is so beautiful.’

  ‘Aye, and deserving of your wearing,’ he said. Still thinking of his mother, he took Rosie’s hand. ‘She was good,’ he said.

  ‘Good?’

  ‘So calm and funny and free. We loved her,’ Fleance said.

  Rosie nodded. ‘The best mother to have then,’ she said.

  This was the moment Fleance knew he adored Rosie. She took the necklace. ‘Put it on please, Flea, for I cannot.’

  She bent her neck down and it reflected the flames of the dying fire. Pale and soft and beautiful. He dropped the necklace down around her neck, fastened it and then, before anyone noticed, planted a soft kiss on her bare shoulders.

  ‘I love you, Rosie,’ he whispered.

  Rosie turned around and looked at him and then smiled.

  The weather had turned. Summer had long since become a pleasant memory and it had been a month since Rosie and her family last called upon them, though the two weeks since Fleance had been with her had seemed an eternity. As Rosie’s family entered their clearing, Fleance helped to settle the horses and ensure the visitors were well set in their lodging.

  Magness and Dougal talked on and on. It was all politics. Fleance was not concerned about the state of England; he had more personal issues. The dreams which he’d suffered ever since his father’s death had lately become more regular and nightmarish. He could not shake this powerful feeling that there was something he was supposed to do before he would be free to stay here in England and be with Rosie, building a new life among this comfort and joy. Why did he have to have this black nagging at the back of his mind, his father’s last words a haunting command? He would rather not have to think about these things. Fleance desperately wanted to plan and live for the future, not constantly be pulled back into his past.

  Rosie came back, sat down and held his hand. She leant into him while the noise of her father and Magness buffeted the night.

  ‘I’m telling you, Dougal. Donalbain’s a madman,’ growled Magness.

  ‘Well, so long as Malcolm reigns, that’s not a bother.’ Dougal wiped his stubby fingers with a wash cloth.

  ‘Aye, but Malcolm’s not been fruitful where his brother has. Three bairns to none.’

  Out of the corner of his eye, Fleance watched Dougal drink deep again before replying. ‘I say again: Malcolm’s a fine king and been so for long enough. There’s no need to fear going back to them dark days of Macbeth.’

  Fleance froze. Macbeth? The sound of that name stabbed at his stomach. He stopped stroking Rosie’s arm and turned to face the men, listening intently.

  ‘For a wanderer, you’ve got strange loyalties,’ Dougal continued.

  Magness spat into the fire. ‘An’ I got a long memory. Scotland’s a hell place for me ever since bloody Macbeth ruled.’ He coughed again and then spat. The group was silent, even Keavy who had crawled beside her mother, tucking her arm into Miri’s.

  Loyalties? Was that it? Why Magness oft threw out a curse towards the royal house of Scotland when he thought he was alone? He had never said anything directly to Fleance, but something settled over the family like a dusting of ice every time politics or the past was mentioned. Fleance had learnt not to pry, thankful that Magness seemed to hold by the same attitude.

  Dougal coughed. ‘But ’tis fine now, Magness, and has been for ten good years. Malcolm’s a godly king.’

  ‘That may be but I know the country’s still cursed.’ Magness’s face, even in the light of the fire, reflected deep anger – it was a look Fleance knew very well.

  ‘Magness, man. You’re sounding like that fool brother of the king’s. Don’t tell me you still believe in those silly women’s tales.’

  Miri roused herself. ‘More men would do better to listen to such women’s tales.’

  Dougal pulled the blanket around his shoulders. ‘Ah, well, it’s not like we can do anything here. The country has fellows enough to keep it working properly.’

  Magness sprang to his feet. ‘How can you be saying that? Have you forgotten? Have you forgotten who and what we lost under the tyrant? The wounds are still festering. Don’t be fooled into thinking that Malcolm has been able to clean and clear out the rot. Rather he has just kept tight a malignant bandage over a festering gash.’

  ‘An’ what are we supposed to do here in England, eh? Nothing! That’s all we can do,’ Dougal replied angrily.

  Magness stood silhouetted against the firelight, a striking sight of a healthy man even though his thick beard was splashed with grey. ‘Nay. We can do something. If those of us who have been ousted get together, Dougal, my man, we could ensure Scotland stays strong.’

  Dougal also
stood and faced Magness, his protruding belly almost touching the other’s folded arms. ‘This is mad talk. Even for you.’ He threw the last of his drink into the fire. ‘I’m to bed.’ And he stomped off into the darkness to his tent.

  Chapter Three

  Young Fleance, only eleven, was on his father’s horse. They’d ridden all afternoon and were hungry. The sun had already slipped low beyond the hills and they relied on Willow to find his way back to Macbeth’s castle in Inverness. His father had been quiet of late and had not talked as freely as was his custom. Fleance knew better than to question it as this often drove Banquo further into himself.

  This ride, however, Banquo had been most animated and Fleance had enjoyed the closeness. ‘The bags have loosened,’ he’d said, pulling up the horse and jumping to the ground. ‘Give me some light.’ Fleance had held the torch higher. ‘No, here. Yes, that’s it.’ Fleance watched him untie and retie the rope which held together their travelling bags to the saddle of the horse. ‘I guess I’ll need to teach you how to do this properly, eh boy. Again.’ Banquo grinned and Fleance moved back for him to remount the horse. ‘Nay, I’ll walk for a bit.’

  They trod onwards and came out of the trees. A thick cloud moved across the bright moon and Banquo looked up. ‘It will be rain tonight . . .’

  ‘Then, let it come down!’ A voice roared out of the darkness. Without warning, Fleance saw the light from a sword arc towards his father. Willow reared up in fright and it was all Fleance could do not to be thrown. He heard the sickening thud of metal striking flesh. ‘Da?’ he screamed.

  ‘Run, Fleance. Run!’

  Hesitating for a moment, Fleance saw his father fall to the ground but a dark shadow lurched towards him, grabbing at him. ‘Get the boy.’

  His father roared. ‘Fly, boy. ’Tis treachery. I am finished. Go so that you can revenge!’

  With his heart thrashing in his chest, Fleance kicked away the grappling hands and urged the horse into a full gallop. He knew not which direction only save it was away from his father. Fleance clung to the horse’s mane, tears blinding his eyes, the words of his father echoing in his head.