I'm still having minor formatting issues, so have left " BREAK " in between sections of the story. Thanks for your patience.
Disclaimer: Macbeth belongs to Shakespeare.
Dunsinane's Storm
A light snow shows everything. Hounds and huntsmen fly over the few frozen inches that leave the quarry's tracks to be read like print. Wet and red-cheeked and with arms full of game, they return laughing. And Macbeth used to laugh loudest. Back when he used to laugh.
But this snow was heavy. It blew in the dead night, full of frozen rain that stung his face and turned the battlements of Dunsinane treacherous. It was too thick. It hid all the vast country the hilltop stronghold looked down on. It hid even the lanterns burning in the watchtower from Macbeth, standing not fifty yards away.
But it wouldn't hide what he wanted it to. The bloody visions refused to fade, the last traces of the nightmare that had driven him from his bed. They clung to the wind and hung there screaming, were there in the dark when he closed his eyes against the snow. He shook the melting flakes from his hair and scowled, turning his back to the storm. With one hand clutching the rough stone of the battlements, he made his slippery way to the next tower. The snow came nearly to his knee, pressing cold and wet against his trousers. He cursed inwardly. No soldier would think to wear something so thin and useless. But a king did not have the luxury of going about in common soldier's garb.
But a thane could, and he did when he ruled only Glamis. Was that a month ago? He struggled to recall his life then, as though it were ages old, or only a dream. There was too much in between.
Where were his thanes? Christmas Eve was in three days. Duncan's court had always been swollen with their cheerful families and servants weeks before the holidays began. Gruoch insisted it was the snow that held them back, but he didn't believe that. Neither did she, he thought. Not one sent word. None of his carefully placed spies dared reach him through the storm, or the raging winter weather that had held Scotland for weeks.
After the slaughter in Fife it had closed around him. What did they now? What would he face when the spring came?
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The lantern's flame guttered and died, and Seyton let it. It showed only flying snow with the blackness behind it lit only to a dull gray. Squinting against the storm, he searched the dark around him and stumbled toward the stairs to the battlements. The last watch had melted away to some fireside, and he had kept it himself. He had warned the next shift that if he found their posts empty he would have them flogged.
He himself did not quite understand the urgency with which he kept up the castle's defenses, but his lord had placed him in command of the castle's little garrison and Seyton intended to keep it well. Macbeth seemed almost desperate, like a hunted man. But who would hunt the king?
His foot slipped on the stairs and he fell forward, his hand sinking deep into the snow. His fingers found the wooden step and steadied him. He set the darkened lantern against the wall and used both hands to climb.
Of course he had heard whispers. The lords did not approve of Duncan's murder. But they were Macbeth's vassals now, as Seyton had always been. Whether they approved or not, they owe him obedience.
But lords, he recalled, are not soldiers. Self-important, they were never to be trusted. Macbeth must know that better still, since he had dealt with them, was one of them.
He reached the battlements and stood, looking across the tops of the walls. The snow hid everything, but at least they would not see him to jump back to their stations. If Macbeth needed Dunsinane on guard, Seyton would not have shirkers go unpunished. He started toward the tower. He was surprised to find, though, that he stepped into another's tracks. Perhaps the guards were doing their duty, after all. Good men, then. He resolved to keep them in mind.
A cry rang out ahead, muffled by the wind. Seyton rushed forward, fearing one of the soldiers had fallen. One man had been blown from the ramparts already since the snow started. He found the snow-covered figure safely on the walkway, though, struggling to regain his feet on the icy stone. Hooking one arm around the stone wall beside him, he offered his free hand to the other man.
That man looked up at him, and Seyton was shocked to find himself looking into his master's startled face.
Macbeth cursed even as the tower's heavy door swung shut and Seyton dashed forward to light a fire in the hearth. He was fool to wander the battlements in a storm, and it stung his pride to be led by a servant like a doddering old man. At least the guardhouse was otherwise empty. "Was there no watch tonight?"
"There was meant to be, lord." The peat caught and smoke began to fill the little room. Still leaning near the flame, Seyton glowered at the growing flames. "I shall man the post myself till morning."
"Let it be, sir. There is nothing coming." Macbeth sat on a wooden bench near the fire and stared into it, musing. "Yet I would know what nothing is..." Seyton turned, standing. A small, stooped little thing, and built too narrow, it seemed now that he had difficulty seeing his master's face as he peered at the king questioningly.
"Shall I send scouts, my lord?"
"Not in this." Breaking off his thoughts, he scowled again. "Damn this weather!" Was he meant to bide here in Dunsinane like a bull in its stall while his nobles skulked about behind his back? He couldn't be killed. He couldn't. And yet...
"Beware Macduff..."
And Macduff had gone, escaped his castle while Macbeth's suspicions were new, even sacrificing his family to seek Malcolm. How much could they accomplish while he was blinded by this storm?
And Gruoch...
"No doctor would come in this storm, even could we send to one."
"A doctor, lord?" Seyton had heard many whispers, and there was not one of all the servant girls but was a brainless gossip. But he had heard nothing about the king having so much as a cough.
"For the queen. She..." Ill was not the word for it. She was not sick so much as falling apart. She struggled against their blankets at night, sobbing and murmuring. Often she called his name. She slept but didn't rest, ate little. And was always afraid. "She needs one."
He almost laughed. How many campaigns had he fought in? How many charges had he led, defeating kings and villains hand to hand? And every time he'd come home to find her waiting for him, strong and smiling. She never gave in to the anxieties that seized other soldiers' wives. Until now, when there was no foe in sight, and no hope for those hidden.
He could not be killed.
He supposed he should care more.
"Do you remember the year the Danes sailed in winter and set Lennox' hall on fire? There was almost this much snow." They had all spent the night buried in it, wrapped in their heavy plaids. The Danes tried to keep warm as they waited outside the scorched but still standing walls. "That didn't stop us then."
"Not one got away, unless by freezing to death." Seyton smiled. "Four years ago, was it?"
"Only four? It feels so much longer..."
"There's been much between, lord."
"Too much, sirrah." Macbeth stared into the fire, lost in thought. For just a moment, he spoke as though they were still on the field, just a thane and his lieutenant. "You'll think me daft -"
"I will not, sir."
"I wish I was never king. Just Glamis, out on the field." He paused. Seyton said nothing. "With a wife waiting and men behind me."
"You hold a fort, lord. A strong one. And have your wife still. And your soldiers."
Macbeth glanced pointedly around the deserted guardhouse. "What soldiers, villain?"
"One, sir. And as many as fear that one's noose."
"And how far does that get me, Seyton?"
"It gets you an overworked hangman."
That was not a joke.
Both men laughed.
BREAK
The storm lasted until four days after Christmas and then faded to rain. Six soldiers went to the gallows for desertion as soon as the snow stopped. Five more were flogged. Macbeth wasn't sure why.
He stood on the battlements again on the sixth day. Rain dripped from his heavy soldier's cloak and splashed the sheepskin bound around his shins. Beneath him, and beneath the boots of men hanged from the castle wall, Seyton rode out with the names of Macbeth's missing spies and enough gold to tempt the saintliest of doctors.
Until the little lieutenant returned, the king would hold Dunsinane himself.