The Secret'st Man of Blood
I wanted to write something for the Anniversary of the Battle of Dunsinane, July 27, but was working on another story and took too long. So I wrote a story about after the battle. It seemed appropriate.
I do not own Macbeth.
"You are accused of murder and of treason against His Majesty King Malcolm III." The speaker was a young man, English, with a shock of blonde hair sticking out from under his helmet. He stood beside the Thane of Lennox's horse. "You are guilty beyond question, and are, by his command, to be hanged by the neck until dead."
I know. The noose was already around Seyton's neck, the rough hemp pricking the skin of his throat as he stood unsteadily on an empty barrel. His right leg was stiff and covered with thickening blood from the wound that was just serious enough to ensure his capture. He had lost too much blood now, anyway, swaying dizzily against the rope. But his face stayed blank, his lips pressed tight together.
"However -" The doomed lieutenant wondered idly whether the lad paused for simple emphasis or because he was loathe to say the rest. He did seem to view his current assignment rather distastefully. Lennox, beside him, looked on with a set, almost sad expression. Seyton would have smiled. He had always thought highly of Lennox.
"However, having considered your indentured state, the king may yet grant you your life if-" If indeed! Once again, he fought off a smirk. "You are willing to aid in the crown in bringing to justice those who were your fellows in the tyrant's service."
This, too, Seyton had expected. And he had known, even as he heard the men who had captured him finally approaching too close for hope, that if tempted, he would fall.
He looked at Lennox. An old man, he had stayed true until he could no longer deny his disgust for the king, He would have a hard time over the next long months while the loyal were hunted down. Perhaps, Seyton thought, he shouldn't have taken the precautions he had so that he could have said something to that gentleman's advantage.
Or perhaps he should have given his word against the Thane of Ross, who was held in highest contempt by all Macbeth's officers. He had played the spy in the assault on Fife, and had told Seyton and his men, waiting outside the gates, that Macduff was there and then ran for the border.
But would it serve any purpose? No, they didn't want to hear about the wolf in their own ranks, only the other officers, the hirelings; men who had only followed orders, would cause no harm on their own.
But not a word would he speak about them. Not a word would Seyton ever speak again. For the first time since his capture, he opened his mouth, letting blood pour from his leering smile.
The English boy paled as he realized what the convict had done. Even Lennox, bless his heart, let his eyes widen. Who would have imagined a man would do that to himself?
Seyton managed a gurgling laugh until the barrel was kicked out from under his feet. The rope finished the job he had started before his capture. The servant was silenced forever.
Looking on, Lennox suppressed a shudder. The dead man had cut out his own tongue. There hangs a man who knew the meaning of loyalty.