We fall silent again, watching Eithne pouring a beaker of mead, adding more honey, then tipping in what looks like a very small amount of powder. I can’t believe it will suffice, but I’m not about to start doubting her capabilities.

  I move across to the window and stand behind Aife’s shoulder. Should anyone look, I’d be no more than an outline. Beyond the window are the carefully tended clusters of plants that Eithne has been cultivating since we fled here after that last battle sent us into exile. Her skills in diagnosis and treatment have paid our way, more even than the endowment of the monastery land Macbeth and I made years ago.

  The two passengers gather their cloaks, tucking them into the rope belts at their waists. I see the glint of steel. And a long streak of red brown from shoulder to waist on one of them.

  Soldiers, then. Not simply messengers. They clamber over the side of the boat and splash through thigh-deep cold loch water. Neither of their faces is familiar to me, but Aife says, ‘The tall one? He’s the youngest Seaton boy. His father waited on your husband, Gruoch. Surely he’ll not be one of Malcolm’s men.’

  I wish I had her certainty. After Lumphanen, after the battle when my heart broke, I doubt everything and everyone.

  Then the abbot appears, habit hitched to his knees, almost running across the machair to the sandy beach, the sharp sea grasses whipping his bare calves. I’ve never seen him move so fast. The cantor is at his heels, Angus bringing up the rear. They stop short of embracing the strangers, but it’s clear the encounter is a welcome. A wary welcome, but a welcome nonetheless.

  And then a mighty battering at the door startles us. My heart almost stops, but Eithne remains self-possessed. ‘Brendan,’ she says calmly. ‘Aife, let him in.’

  I moved between the clusters of plants, running my fingers along stems of rosemary and lavender that lined the path. Their familiar fragrance calmed me; Eithne said it allayed the superstitions of those who think she’s a witch. I wasn’t so sure about that; I thought what stilled the tongues of those who would denounce her was the protection our royal throne granted her. Everyone knew it would be an act of folly to accuse the handmaiden of the Mormaer’s wife of witchery. It grieved me to owe anything to Gille, but I had him to thank for that. I suspect he did it out of fear rather than love; Eithne unsettles even the most battle-hardened men with those eyes that seem to see straight through them to the far shore of their nightmares.

  And she had unsettled me that night, with her impossible implication that Macbeth would be the one to give me a son. Even to think that was dangerous beyond comprehension. If she’d made such a prophecy in the hearing of Gille Coemgáin, the Mormaer of Moray, the husband of Gruoch, nothing would have saved her. Or the rest of us, in all likelihood. Me, Aife, Ligach – we’d all have gone down together with Eithne.

  Deep in thought, I walked on, trying to make sense of my reaction to Macbeth. I’d seen handsome men before, though not many so easy on the eye. I’d heard fluent-tongued men before, though not many with his quickness of wit. I’d even seen dancers with such abandon and flair before, though few with such finely turned legs. But there was something that marked him out and I seemed unable to put a name to it.

  ‘Unable or unwilling?’ I suspected Aife would have asked, a tease in her voice to temper the temerity of her response.

  Before I could find the answer, I heard quick footsteps at my back. Cursing my recklessness, I swivelled round, reaching for the brooch at my shoulder. Its pin was long and sharp; I learned from my mother the importance of always having some defence to hand.

  I turned and faced the very danger that was troubling my thoughts. Macbeth slowed to a halt a few feet away from me. He spread his hands to show he was unarmed, though I was not convinced. He was too careful, too clever to enter another man’s hall without something to protect against the fickleness of alliances. At the very least, there must have been a dagger concealed somewhere about his person.

  He smiled, dipping his head in acknowledgement of my status. ‘My lady Gruoch. I hope I didn’t startle you. I came outside for air and I saw you among these plants here.’ Not quite apologetic, not quite flirtatious. But somewhere in the middle.

  I scolded myself for the blush I felt rising from my neck. Then I told myself it didn’t matter, that the moonlight would obscure a response I couldn’t afford. ‘One of my women grows them for the pot. And for their healing qualities.’ I sounded stiff and formal to my own ears, which was definitely the safest path for me.

  His smile quirked into something more mischievous. ‘Is she the one they say is a witch?’

  I frowned. ‘They would not utter such lies in my hearing. Eithne is a wise woman with rare gifts in tending the sick. There is no magic in that, just an understanding of how plants work hand in hand with our bodies.’

  He nodded. ‘For we are all one with nature, if we can only decipher the complicated bonds. I have such a herbalist back on Mull. Your Eithne is one to keep close and keep safe.’

  ‘She is. As you have a gift for the dance, so has she for the plants.’ The words were out before I knew it. The man brought a dose of cac-shiubhal from my lips.

  ‘You enjoyed my dance?’ He performed a quick set of steps.

  ‘Perhaps not as much as you did.’

  He was not at all put out of countenance. A wry expression flitted across his features, and he gestured to the fallen beech trunk that Aife had persuaded two of Gille’s wood carvers to turn into a crude bench. ‘I love the dance, I can’t deny that. That yoking together of precision and euphoria. But my legs are tired now. Shall we sit a while?’

  ‘I do not make a habit of sitting with strange men in dark gardens,’ I said, stiff as I could manage.

  ‘But I am not strange, I am a kinsman. I think we share . . . what is it? A grandfather? A great-grandfather?’ He settled on the bench as if it were shaped to his body.

  ‘We share a darker blood.’ I sat at the other end of the bench, studying his face in the moonlight. It threw a dramatic cast on his features, silvering the vivid red of his hair. I rebuked myself for the thought, but I couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to run my hands through its thick waves.

  ‘Findlaich.’ His merriment had disappeared, his mouth a thin slash across his beard. ‘Is it true, then, what they say? That your husband’s hands are red with the blood of my father?’

  I looked away. I did not want to meet that blue stare without the warmth I’d seen in it a few moments ago. ‘Is that what you believe? Did you come here to test your conviction?’

  ‘I did not grow up alongside Gille. I don’t know him like a cousin or a brother. So I can’t be sure when he is lying to me. Coming here at the head of an armed band, taking an eye for an eye – that would have been the choice of some of those closest to me. But that way, I could never be certain I was killing the right man. So I chose to come as a friend so I could learn to judge for myself.’

  I turned to face him again. His face was sombre, the animation put away for future use. ‘I can be of no help to you in that quest. My husband does not confide in me about matters of strategy.’

  He gave an impatient shake of the head. ‘No, no. You misjudge me. I was not trying to provoke a betrayal from you.’ He looked away. ‘I apologise, I should not have spoken so freely.’ A frown. ‘I don’t know why I . . .’

  ‘I’m the one who raised the matter. I appreciate your frankness. In our hall, my women and I have to assume the role of spies to find out what is happening.’

  His eyes returned to my face. ‘That must feel . . . strange?’

  ‘It feels necessary. Choices are made that affect our lives. Sometimes a matter of life and death. Even if we have no right to be part of the decisions, I think we have a right to know the outcomes. My father was the most traditional of men, yet he was willing to explain himself to me.’ I shrugged. ‘It seldom changed anything if I disagreed. But at least I knew what was coming for me.’

  ‘When I marry, I like to think I would be more like your father than your husband.’ He shook his head, an expression of disgust on his face. ‘Listen to me. “When I marry.” I have little enough to offer a woman. The disregarded son of a murdered father who has not even managed to revenge his death.’

  ‘Better to be slow than to shed innocent blood, surely?’

  ‘Not all of my kinsmen see things that way. I have to tread a careful path.’

  I couldn’t help smiling. ‘Judging by your footwork between the swords, that should come naturally.’

  He smiled too, and I noticed his shoulders relax. ‘I plan to survive, my lady.’

  I dared. ‘I hope you do.’ And the small voice in the back of my head wondered whether talking thus to me was part of that survival strategy.

  He rose, wincing a little as his back straightened. ‘I must go back. Gille will mistrust my absence.’

  ‘Mine also. The advantage I have is that we women can always fall back on the ailments of our sex.’

  He chuckled. ‘I have enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps we can talk again?’

  ‘How long do you plan to stay?’

  He was on his feet, looking around, checking for watchful eyes. We had been partially sheltered by the surrounding plants, but a warrior takes nothing for granted. ‘We will be here for two or three weeks perhaps,’ he said. ‘Cousin Gille has some days’ hunting planned. He wants to show off how plentiful the game larder of these hills is. To remind me that I am the poor relation.’ That wry glance again.

  ‘There’s more than one kind of richness.’ I had no idea where this boldness came from; I had seen too many bad outcomes for women who were careless. I was generally the most careful of women.

  His eyes met mine in a level stare. ‘I hope to find that out for myself.’ Then, in a swift movement, he reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. They were cool and dry against my fingers, but when he withdrew, I felt as if I’d been branded. ‘Till the next time,’ he said and disappeared into the shadows like a ghost.

  He’d barely gone when Ligach slipped out from a cluster of fennel as tall as she. ‘Well played, Gruoch,’ she said, head to one side, considering.

  ‘I had no game in mind,’ I protested. ‘I was simply conversing with our guest.’

  She raised her eyebrows, amusement lifting the corners of her generous mouth. ‘If Eithne is right, then there is a game to be played.’

  I stood up and faced her. ‘Eithne is not always clear – and not always right.’

  Ligach linked her arm in mine, and we moved back through the garden towards the hall. ‘But if she is right . . . this is a game you might enjoy?’

  Any reply would have held me hostage, so I said nothing.

  Not that night.

  Aife lifts the latch and Brother Brendan lurches in. His tonsure still reveals stubble black as sea coal from Fife, and his dark eyes conceal more than they reveal. He’s a big man, and clumsy with it, except when he’s helping Eithne with the bees. Then, he becomes a delicate creature, his fat fingers handling the honeycombs with an unexpected tenderness that protects the honey and the wax walls of the cells. It’s true that he loves the honey, but he also seems to love the bees. It goes both ways – Eithne says he has never been stung, that the bees crawl on his arms but don’t sting him. Aife says he’s so thick-skinned he doesn’t notice, but none of us takes her literally.

  He stops a couple of steps into the barn. He always makes sure to keep his distance from us, as if being closer than a spear’s length will drive him wild with untameable lust. ‘Angus says you need help with the hives?’ he says, his voice a deep rumble in his chest.

  ‘I want to move the one by the wall back alongside the one nearest the barn,’ Eithne says. Then she points to the beaker on the table near him, meanwhile pouring another four beakers from the special bottle. ‘But first we should celebrate the arrival of visitors. We don’t often see strangers, and I’ve been saving this bottle for a special occasion.’ She lifts one of the beakers and raises it in a toast. The rest of us follow her lead and call out the ancient Gaelic toast, ‘Slàinte mhath!’

  Brendan wastes no time in yielding to temptation. He lifts his brimming beaker and takes off half of it in a single draught. He wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his cassock and smacks his lips. ‘Praise be to God,’ he exclaims. ‘Eithne, you have excelled yourself!You’d make the Blessed Virgin herself turn to drink.’ He takes another slurp. ‘Magnificent,’ he says.

  We all murmur agreement and it’s no lie. The mead is sweet and rich, but with a fragrant and elusive quality that sets it apart from Eithne’s usual offerings. She pushes the bottle towards Brendan. It’s untainted by her concoction, but it’s still a strong brew. Brendan tops up his beaker and swallows another gargantuan swig while we merely sip at the small ration Eithne has allowed us.

  ‘Tha’s . . . tha’s ambro . . . ambaro . . . amborsio . . .’ he slurs, burping. Then giggles. Then another gulp. ‘Witchcroft . . . I mean, wishcraft . . . not that, youse arenae . . .’ Then a crash as he goes over like a felled tree, taking two stools with him.

  ‘He’ll be out for hours now,’ Eithne says, clearly pleased with herself.

  ‘Are you sure?’ I ask.

  Eithne scoffs. ‘The apothecaries in Rome told me they use it to render patients insensible so they can perform all kinds of surgeries. From what I heard, we could cut his leg off and he wouldn’t notice.’

  ‘All the same, should we tie him up?’ Ligach asks, studying him from various angles.

  ‘Roll him into the corner,’ I suggest. ‘When he wakes up, he’ll believe he’s just having the world’s worst hangover.’

  So, heaving and grunting, and cursing too, we manage to manoeuvre big Brother Brendan into the far corner of the room, among the pile of fleeces Ligach hasn’t got round to spinning yet. By now, he’s snoring. Thankfully, the pigs are penned between the barn and the abbey; they’ll get the blame if the snores make it as far as the monks’ cells.

  ‘Now what do we do?’ Aife asks.

  ‘We wait,’ I tell them.

  ‘For what?’ Ligach next. I hear a nervousness in her voice that’s not like her.

  ‘For as long as it takes for Angus to come back with news. And in the meantime, Eithne can burn some herbs and see what answers she can give us before we decide what questions to ask.’

  The morning after Macbeth’s dance found Gille in a dark mood. He sent for me while most of his men were sleeping off the effects of the barley bree and the women were still working around the snoring sprawl of Macbeth’s men to clear the worst of the mess from the hall.

  I found him in his chamber, still in his nightshirt. My heart sank; a summons like this usually meant he was set on another attempt to get a son on me. But that morning he wanted something different.

  He gestured to a settle, half-occupied by his discarded banqueting robes. They stank of smoke and sweat and cooked meat. ‘What do you make of our cousin, wife?’

  I sat down, arranging myself to best advantage. I had to tread carefully. I knew I must not appear to have taken the wrong kind of interest in Macbeth. ‘He seems amiable,’ I said. ‘Better to dance than be quarrelsome, as some of our cousins can be.’

  Gille ruminated, chewing the ends of his moustache. ‘You know some men say I was behind the death of Findlaich?’

  Time to flatter. ‘If you had wanted to murder Findlaich, you would not have hidden behind the hands of other men. You would have faced him directly and the world would know it.’

  He smiled. ‘You know me well. But Macbeth does not. Do you think he believes the rumour?’

  ‘There is no sign of hostility from him or his men. They are not heavily armed. They didn’t pick fights when they were drunk. They just got more drunk and more cheerful. They seem to be without guile.’

  ‘Aye, but they could have stashed their weapons nearby before they arrived. They could be lulling us to sleep, persuading us to drop our guard. Then falling on us in our beds and gutting us. Taking their revenge for the hurt they think we caused them.’

  I allowed myself a low chuckle. ‘They’re not that subtle, Gille. Macbeth has few fully-fledged warriors at his back. These lads are barely one step up from peasants. If that had been their plan, they could have moved on us last night. Half our men are still insensible after their excesses. You were generous to allow them to indulge themselves so much.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ he smirked. ‘I picked ten of my best fighters, men I can trust. I ordered them to act like drunken ruffians, but to remain sober. To watch Macbeth and his men, to discover whether they were also pretending. When the carousing was over, they reported that the visitors were sincerely and thoroughly pished.’

  ‘There you go. They’re only here to pay tribute and have a good time at someone else’s expense.’

  He shook his head. ‘I wish I could believe that.’ He pushed himself upright, dragging a wolfskin across his shoulders. ‘What does your woman say?’ He looked away, not meeting my eyes. He hated to admit there might be some substance to Eithne’s utterances. It was an insult to his manhood, to need that reassurance.

  If I’d been foolish enough to answer him honestly, Gille would have made sure not one of Macbeth’s company was left standing. It would have become a tale of hospitality betrayed that reverberated throughout Moray and Alba; it would have given Malcolm the perfect excuse to march on us. But since my marriage I’d grown proficient at lying; I’d had plenty of practice. ‘Eithne says Macbeth comes in a spirit of goodwill towards Moray.’

  ‘To Moray? Not to me?’ He snapped back to stare at my face.

  ‘Moray is you, my lord. And you stand for your entire kingdom. Any man who hurts Moray hurts you, you know that.’ A wary nod from Gille. ‘And so it follows that goodwill towards Moray is goodwill towards you. If I thought Eithne’s words meant anything different, I would have come direct to you. I wouldn’t have waited till you asked me.’ I got up from the settle and joined him on the bed.

 

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