Gruoch was 17 years old when her father arranged her marriage to Macbeth. She was only peripherally aware of the man destined to be her husband. He had been present at her father's home along with other Scottish noblemen that were being considered for her, and made little impression on her. Macbeth was more than 20 years her senior, with dark eyes, dark hair, and a beard that was just beginning to show some grey. He was quiet, honourable, and Gruoch loathed this man already for what he would force her to become. She had no desire to be a wife and mother, spending the long years of her life knitting by a roaring fire while men decided her life for her. The week before her wedding, she tried to run.

It was a futile attempt, but after sending guards into the forest to find her, her father decided it would be best to move her to Macbeth's castle in Moray so that she would be trapped by the unfamiliar landscape. So it came to pass that Gruoch found herself dressed in a fine, garnet coloured gown, awaiting her fate. In less than an hour, Macbeth, a man old enough to be her father, would claim her as his property. She would spend her life subjugated to the will of this man, bearing his children, keeping his house, and entertaining his guests. She would cease to be witty and daring Gruoch, and would be known forever after as Macbeth's lady.

Several women attended her in the high tower of the castle where she was being kept until the ceremony. There were two familiar faces in the gaggle of women. One was Flora, who had been her serving woman, and the other was Catriona, her cousin. Catriona was a short girl with silky blonde hair and a wide, innocent face. They had been born only weeks apart, but Catriona was already married to Macduff, the thane of Fife. Their wedding had taken place over a year ago, and Catriona was now beginning to swell with their first child. Gruoch had not seen her since the wedding, and the woman she encountered now was quieter and gentler than the girl she had grown up with, as though the easy joy of childhood had melted out of her. Other than the elderly Flora, Catriona was the only one Gruoch could trust here with important questions. Gruoch grabbed her cousin by the arm and pulled her over to an alcove with a bench and a window while the rest of the women nattered excitedly. Catriona gave a small laugh of surprise, but allowed her cousin to guide her to the bench. With a serious expression, Gruoch tried to ask about how to cope with married life, the wedding, and the wedding night. All that she could stutter out was "will it hurt?" Which made Catriona laugh again.

She became sombre when she saw the fear on Gruoch's face, and replied, "there is some pain to be found in the marriage bed, I suppose. My husband is a large man, in many ways." At this she smiled again, and Gruoch was puzzled. The thane of Fife was quite tall, and certainly fond of ale and meat, but that didn't seem to warrant amusement. "Many ways?" she asked aloud.

Catriona grabbed her hand, and asked, "Gruoch, do you know what takes place between a man and his wife in their bed?" Gruoch scowled and shook her head. She had only heard the most vague references to the act from older women, but she knew that it created heirs. Her cousin seemed to consider her words carefully.

"A man has a sword between his legs. Oh don't look at me like that! It's not really a sword. It's smaller, like a dagger. A woman takes it into her body, and…"

With that, Catriona was cut off by the sound of trumpets. King Duncan had arrived at the castle as a special blessing on the marriage of one of his most trusted kinsmen. Gruoch was pounced on by the attending women, and hurried out of the room. She was led down the worn stone steps of the tower, more terrified than she was when she entered. A man has a sword between his legs? And it goes in a woman's body? She remembered Catriona's wedding, and how she and her husband had received no visitors for a fortnight after the wedding. To recover from her injuries. Gruoch imagined herself being stabbed through the heart by Macbeth's dagger, and wondered how any woman might survive the ordeal to come.

The walk the great hall seemed like a march to the gallows, and it was all too brief. Gruoch's father, Boite, took her by the arm and led her into the room where the gathered nobles were awaiting a wedding. Pipes were played, but Gruoch could barely hear them over the pounding in her head. She was brought before a priest and Macbeth, her lord. Her new husband was dressed in a red coat that matched her dress, clearly cut from the same cloth. His expression was stern and appraising, and Gruoch realized that he was taller than she had thought earlier. She had to tilt her head upwards to look into those dark eyes. He was a slighter man than most warriors, but there was clearly power in the way he carried himself, and the broad sword at his side served as a reminder that this man spent most of his life cutting down soldiers on the battlefield. The pipes stopped, and Gruoch had to force herself to stay where she was. She would not dishonour her father by making him hold her there at the altar. Boite had made it clear that Gruoch would marry Macbeth today, with or without her cooperation. Macbeth's land and titles were second only to the king in Scotland, and Boite knew he would never make a better alliance than this with the thane of Glamis.

Macbeth held out his hand, browned by the sun, to the girl was about to marry. Gruoch grasped it, and held on tight, as though she would drift away from the crowd and out the window if she let go. They exchanged words between them when the priest told them to, but these words of fidelity and prosperity were the first that they had exchanged.

Gruoch's heart beat furiously against her chest as Macbeth leaned his face towards hers. His lips moved over hers in their first kiss as man and wife. She felt the strange dampness of his inner lip brushing against hers, and registered that her front teeth were resting against his lower lip. It was a brief kiss, and Gruoch felt lightheaded when it ended. It hadn't been as unpleasant as she imagined it might be to put her mouth against another mouth, and she was giddy with relief that this much was done.

Macbeth led her to the great table to feast with a hand against the small of her back. Gruoch walked as though she was in a dream, for none of the festivities seemed real. Many guests offered their blessings and congratulations as they approached the table where she and her husband were seated next to the king. Most of these people were strangers. She knew the faces of the king and his two sons. The older son, Malcolm, looked drawn and thin, as though he was recovering from illness. Donalbain, the younger son, was laughing boorishly, already a few mugs of ale into the feast. Across the room was Catriona, next to Macduff. Her cousin seemed happy, but Catriona had always been content with her lot in life. The thane of Fife was certainly much larger than his little wife, but his gentleness with her professed a kind of love. Arranged marriages often led to affectionate relationships, but Gruoch couldn't imagine ever trusting Macbeth enough to love him.

Most of the guests were friends of Macbeth, and Gruoch spotted a man with a small child beside him among the tables. In a moment of unexpected compliance, Gruoch leaned over to her husband, and asked, "Who is that man in the grey cloak? I know the crest he wears, but not his face."

Macbeth was taken aback that his wife had spoken to him, but seemed pleased that she had initiated this much.

"That is Banquo, a thane in the service of King Duncan. His father was killed in a conflict with Norway not three months ago. He is a friend."

"And the child with him? Where is his mother?"

"Banquo's wife died bringing that boy into the world. His name is Fleance, and his father will not remarry out of love for his dead wife."

Gruoch felt chilled by Macbeth's words. He was so nonchalant about the death of his friend's wife, and spoke with derision about his refusal to remarry. Clearly Macbeth was a man who found wives disposable. She resolved to never let him see a drop of weakness in her. If he was unfeeling, she would be too.

After hours of merriment, it was Donalbain who moved the evening to its conclusion. In his intoxicated state, he seemed to think that bawdy jokes were exactly what the evening required. He stood on unsteady feet, and raised his glass.

"I would like to thank our thane of Glamis for inviting us into his home, and here's hoping his lady will also be welcoming him in tonight."

There was a smattering of laughter from the drunk wedding guests, so Donalbain continued.

"May his sword always be ready for battle, and his will strong against the maiden enemy. I drink to easy conquest!"

Gruoch felt sick listening to the speech. Here was another who spoke of battle in the bedchamber, and it elevated her fear. Pain was one thing. She knew of pain, but she was horrified to think that Macbeth would make himself her master with this act. She might be forced to yield her body to whatever conquest was waiting, but her soul was her own.

Donalbain was showing no signs of completing his performance, but Duncan rose and gestured to his son to sit. The king then addressed the assembled guests.

"Sons, kinsmen, thanes, and those of you whose places are the nearest. Many blessings upon the marriage of my worthy cousin, Macbeth. Great happiness to you both on your union. May you be blessed with many children."

The guests applauded. After the king spoke, it was customary that the guests could now depart at their leisure. Most would remain, however, taking advantage of the food and drink offered by their host. It was at this point that Macbeth took his wife by the arm, and led her away to an adjoining staircase. Gruoch was out of view of the hall before she realized what she was being led to. She had gone with this man like a lamb to the slaughter. There were cheers and whistles behind them, as the guests had realized that the newly married couple had gone to complete the marriage.

Gruoch held her head high and her expression blank in defiance of what was to come. With his hand on her back, Macbeth brought her to a heavy wooden door, and led her inside the chamber. Candles had been lit along the walls, bathing the bedchamber in a warm glow. Servants had also left a basin of warm water and goblets of wine on a long table near the windows. The bed itself was draped in red cloth, and dark wooden posts rose above it, allowed a crimson canopy and curtains to frame the bed. The floor was the same cold stone as the rest of the castle, with the exception of an animal skin that lay on the floor by the bed. Macbeth closed the door behind them, and Gruoch hoped that the violence of bedding killed her.

Macbeth did not so much as glance at his wife as he walked towards the bed. He pulled at the buttons of his coat and flung it away. He began pulling at the cords on his linen shirt when he turned around and found that his wife had screwed her eyes shut. He walked to her, and gently caressed her cheek with the back of his hand. Gruoch's eyes darted open, and she saw the expanse of her husband's chest bared before her. She saw the impressive definition of his muscles, and the hair that grew across that broad chest. Like his beard, it was interspersed with grey, but the vitally of this body showed that he was far from the weakness of old age. Like his hands, the skin of his chest was browned too. He was a man used to working under the sun. Gruoch felt delicate and pale in comparison. Boite had forbidden her from spending long periods of time outside, lest she look like a farmer's daughter.

Gruoch had closed eyes in preparation. She pictured happy times at home, riding her horse, losing herself in her lessons, and embraces from Flora while she waited for her husband to bring her pain. It did not come. Instead, he had gently stroked her face. Looking away from his chest she met his gaze, and found unexpected kindness in his expression.

"Have you had a lover before, my lady?"

Gruoch scoffed, hoping to hide her nerves. "My father couldn't have married me off if I had."

Macbeth's eyes sparkled with amusement. "True, but have you been touched anywhere by a man? Kissed?"

Gruoch shook her head. "I never met a man who caught my interest."

Macbeth seemed to take this as a challenge, and moved closer to her, so she was forced to back up against a wall. Against the wall, he continued to advance, so that he crowded her space. He dominated the air, too. Every breath in carried the scent of this man who was all around her. He placed his hands against the wall, and Gruoch was trapped everywhere by his body.

"I have not had a woman in some time, my lady, and I have been looking forward to this. I have never taken a wife before now, but Duncan insisted that it was time for me to produce heirs to secure my legacy. I don't know how to be a husband, but I know this. I want to know you with my hands," he said, as he slid the palms of his hands down Gruoch's arms and onto her waist.

"I want to know you with my mouth," and he brought his face down to the crook of her neck to kiss her there.

"I want to know you with my cock," he purred. With that he ground his hips against her, and even through the layers of her dress, Gruoch could feel something hard pressing against his trousers. He really did have a sword between his legs, and it was going to hurt her, and she didn't know how or where, and it was going to get her with child. She flinched away, and turned her head toward the door. Her body tensed, ready to fight this man who would hurt her so deeply.

Again, there was no pain. In fact, Gruoch felt the heat of her husband's body move away from her. He looked concerned and displeased.

"Will you not yield to me as your husband?"

Gruoch couldn't answer. Her voice and strength were gone from her body, and all she could do was sink to the floor in a heap.

Realization dawned on Macbeth's face. "You're afraid of me."

Gruoch looked away from him, and stared blankly at the door. She would defy this life that had been forced upon her any way she could. Macbeth walked away and sat on the bed, and although he was in his own bedchamber, he seemed lost.

"You're a maiden. I have never had a maiden before, but I have heard that maids are fearful of the act. Tell me, lady, is it me you fear, or would you fear the consummation with any man?"

Gruoch couldn't look at him. Without a word from her, he had found a question that would destroy her if she answered. He already knows you're afraid.

"Both," she answered. Her voice was small as is reverberated across the stone room. "I am afraid because my life is not my own. I am afraid that I will displease you and you'll hate me. And I am afraid because you're going to hurt me."

"I will not hurt you," he replied.

Gruoch grew angry. He was trying to pacify her with lies. "You say you have known a woman before, but you do not think you will bring me pain? You are a liar or a fool. My cousin told me what husbands do to their wives in the marriage bed. You have a sword, and I will bleed."

Macbeth laughed, and a hearty and relieved sound echoed through the chamber. "My lady," he said, "I have not brought you here to kill you in my bed. There is pleasure to be found for wives as well as their husbands."

Gruoch looked unconvinced, and Macbeth's tone became serious.

"You are young, wife, and have been kept from the world. Have you seen a man's body?"

Gruoch shook her head, afraid that if she spoke again she would cry or scream at the indignity of what was happening. He thought her to be weak and a fool.

Macbeth stood, and pulled at the laces on his trousers until he exposed himself. Gruoch looked, and saw that there was no sharpened blade, but only flesh. It certainly looked large, but it was rounded at the tip, and the deep colour showed that it was mortal blood running though this weapon.

"What is it called?" Gruoch ventured.

"Cock. It's a cock. Or prick if you prefer. There are quite a lot of names."

"And where…" Guroch trailed off.

"Let me show you where I will go. Come here."

Gruoch rose from the floor and accepted her husband's offered hand. He saw her staring at him, and he returned his hardened length to his trousers.

"Turn, my lady."

Gruoch turned and felt Macbeth undoing the ties at the back of her gown. When he has loosened it, she let it fall to the floor around her, leaving her dressed only in a thin, white shift. She shivered, although she was not cold. Macbeth brought his hand to the small of her back once again, led her to the bed, and motioned for her to lie on the blankets.

Macbeth sat on the bed, and ran his hand along her exposed lower leg. "On a cold night you might be glad to join under the warmth of the blankets, but I want you to see everything that will happen tonight so that you will not fear our bed."

Gruoch nodded, willing to allow a tentative truce if it would allow her to get through this quickly. The anticipation was making her guts roll. She felt an impulse to touch this man, but she still feared what it would mean.

Macbeth positioned himself so that he knelt above her, and brought his hand upwards along her leg, moving underneath the shift. Gruoch struggled to catch her breath. His hand felt like it was burned a trail up her thigh. She wanted him to continue touching her, but the burn was also one of fear. He moved his broad hand up to the most secret part of her body, and with a single finger, caressed the folds between her thighs.

"Here," he whispered.

Gruoch bolted upright. "There? How is that… how are you supposed to fit inside me?"

Macbeth moved his hand away from the meeting of her thighs, and gentled her with a kiss on her forehead. He pulled the frightened girl toward him, and held Gruoch in his arms. It was the same comfort Flora had offered her as a small child, when she was frightened of the wars that called her father away for months at a time, or the thunder that growled from the sky.

"In truth, I do think you will feel some pain tonight. Many maidens feel pain at their first bedding. The women I have known were not burdened with maidenheads, and truly, they found pleasure. This first night is the only obstacle. I do not know how much pain you will feel. Even if I had bedded a thousand maids before this night I would not know. I am no woman. But I swear to you, I will be as gentle as a husband can be with his new wife."

Gruoch considered his words, and breathed deeply. "From what little I have heard from married women, it seemed that their husbands were beasts. I asked my serving woman once, as she said that couldn't walk when her husband was done with her on their first night. You have not been cruel to me yet. If being your wife is to be my lot in life, then I will trust you for now, against all my reason, to be as gentle as you can."

Macbeth smiled, and brought her in for a kiss. It was sweet, like he was making an unbreakable promise to her. His lips barely ghosted over hers for many more kisses, and his hands ran down her back. He pulled her forward so that she was sitting in his lap, with her legs wrapped around his hips. It made them the same height, which made Gruoch feel like she had some power here. She could feel her husband's cock pressing up against her, but this time she was prepared to face whatever came. With both hands on her face, Macbeth brought her forward for a deep kiss. Unlike all previous kisses, this was something animal. His tongue pushed forward into her mouth, until all she could taste was her husband. She brought her own hands to his face, and let out a sigh of tentative pleasure. This seemed to encourage her husband, who continued to frantically kiss her as though she was the very air he breathed. His hands moved lower, until he had a tight grasp on her hips.

Gruoch felt like she was being tumbled through the sea. Her husband was everywhere. All she could taste and smell and see was him. She decided that if she was to be bedded, she would claim him as she was being claimed. Gruoch brought her hands to her husband's exposed chest, and marvelled as the strength his body contained. He was pleased by her exploration, parted his mouth from hers to pull the linen shirt from his body, so that she had more of him to see.

Macbeth began to pull at the hem of his wife's shift. Feeling bold, she allowed him to lift it over her head, leaving her entirely exposed to his eyes and hands. He immediately brought his head to her white breasts, kissing them and worrying her hardening nipples with his fingers. It was terrifying and exhilarating, like flying.

While he began to kiss down her neck, Gruoch ran her hands over his back. She felt a puckered wound from an old conflict, and she was aware of this man's strength in a way she had never encountered before. Her own body was soft where his seemed to bulge out under the skin, and she found that his restrained strength added to hers. Here was a man capable of taking what he wanted from her, but he would not. This powerful body belonged to her. She was queen over this warrior in her bed. He was making desperate noises as he rubbed his body against hers, feeling the fullness of her breasts, and she brought her hand up to cradle his head. His eyes were glazed, and his expression made him look like a starving man presented with a roast goose.

He pulled himself away, and looked deeply into her eyes. She could see herself reflected there, white against the dark. He gently laid her down on the bed, titling her backwards, and moved his body over hers. He left his trousers on while he moved his hands downwards. He didn't want to ruin her pleasure by reminding her of her fear.

Gruoch could not help but consider her position. She was so much shorter, younger, and weaker than her husband, but she could see that he was not the expressionless soldier he had been earlier. There was genuine concern in his eyes, even if it was only to avoid breaking his new toy before he had finished playing. This man had some regard for her, and that inch of respect might be enough to salvage some kind of partnership out of this marriage.

Her husband's hands returned again to the meeting of her legs, and a single digit stroked her entrance. Gruoch drew a sharp breath, but when his finger began to massage her folds, she felt a molten heat pool low in her belly in anticipation of the glorious unknown. When that finger drew across something that sent ripples of pleasure through her, Gruoch held her legs closed, overwhelmed by a bliss so strong that she felt her heart leap into her throat. Her reaction drew a pleased smirk from Macbeth, who began to push a single digit somewhere inside of his young wife.

Gruoch froze, feeling full in a way she did not recognise. Looking between their bodies, it seemed that Macbeth had only pressed himself in to the second knuckle. It was then that Gruoch realised she felt damp. Terrified that she had wet herself without noticing, she tried to stammer out an apology. Macbeth quieted her with a deep kiss.

"My lady, it simply means that your body is prepared to accept mine," he murmured against her lips. "But you are so tight around a mere finger. My cock is longer and thicker, and I will need you to adjust further before I risk joining with you. Will you relax for me?"

Gruoch nodded. "If this must be done, I would rather it were done quickly."

Macbeth nodded his agreement with her request, and continued the movement of his fingers. All this while he used his legs to keep hers spread, so that she was held open to his exploration. Gruoch felt small, like she was a morsel to be consumed. The fullness of a single finger entered her, and a small noise of discomfort escaped her lips. Macbeth resumed gently kissing his wife, trying to reassure her of his care. He drew his finger in and out of her body. The sensation was strange, but not entirely unpleasant. Gruoch began to adjust to the sensation, and found that she was making tiny movements with her hips in time with Macbeth's stroking. When he returned with two fingers, something between a gasp and a scream tore out of her, but it was no scream of pain. This was pleasure that she did not know existed. Pleasure beyond a bite of hot apple cake, beyond the kiss of autumn wind against her cheek, surely pleasure so divine that it was a sin.

Returning to herself and the candlelit room, Gruoch met the gaze of her lord. His expression had turned dark with triumph and hunger. He leaned away from her to pull his trousers down and off his legs. The lines of his body along his hips pointed towards the core of him, where his cock was so flushed with blood it looked purple and angry at the tip. He was hard and massive, bigger than two fingers, and Gruoch began to doubt her courage.

"Husband," she began, "I do not know what to do."

"My lady," he replied, maintaining a formality that was laughable in their position, "I ask only that you allow me to do my best by you, and that you will tell me if I hurt you beyond what you can withstand."

With that he dropped his body low over hers, and grasped the base of his cock to guide himself in. He made eye contact with her at this last moment, silently begging her permission.

Gruoch knew that had no real choice in the matter, and lying there, smothered by the body of a man ready to pierce her, she simmered in anger and fear. She was not a fragile, delicate bird whose wings might snap in a strong wind, and with a single movement of her husband's hips, she would cease to be a child. She was descended from a line of kings. The blood that made a man king only made a woman an advantageous marriage partner, but she was still of that line. She would make herself equal to any man. She would take what was hers without hesitation.

"Screw your courage to the sticking place, and do not hesitate," she whispered. The words had been for her, but Macbeth took them as a command. With a hard thrust of his hips he seated himself inside his wife. There was a pinching pain as he tore through her maidenhead, and the stretch was nearly unbearable. The heat and size of his hardness filled Gruoch until she was sure she could feel him in her throat. Stilling his hips, and with sweat dripping from his brow, Macbeth held himself over his wife, waiting for her to adjust. Tears began to spring from Gruoch's eyes. This was not the role she had wanted to play, but it was the one she had been born into. Now she was run through with a hard length of flesh, and the stretch combined with the burn of her fear was enough to make her feel slightly ill.

Macbeth's breath staggered out, as though he was in pain. One hand came to Gruoch's face, shaking as it tried to give comfort. "What's done is done," Macbeth whispered. Receiving no objections from Gruoch, he began to pull his hips back, and thrust shallowly into her again. The thrusting was measured and slow, and while it was uncomfortable, it caused Gruoch no great pain. As Macbeth continued, she began to feel pleasure within the discomfort. Suddenly, one thrust made her gasp in pleasure as her husband's cock struck something inside of her. She wrapped her arms around her husband's neck, and pulled him down so that his face was her neck and shoulder. The position allowed her to gasp out noise to the vastness of the room with each thrust.

Macbeth seemed as lost to pleasure as she felt. Emboldened by his wife's participation in the act, he increased the power and speed of his thrusts until each movement moved them up the bed. Gruoch could barely contain something within herself. She allowed her head to drop back against a pillow, exposing the curve of her throat. Macbeth was like a wild stallion between her legs. She had feared the intensity of a rutting man this morning, but now she revelled in the feelings it brought her. It was too much, yet not enough. Gruoch was shaking like a leaf against her husband, feeling each pounding motion within her like it was reverberating into every corner of her body. Without understanding, she felt a wave a pleasure wash over her, and her body tightened around the length of her husband.

Macbeth let out a sound that could have been a moan of pain when he felt the tightening embrace of his wife's walls. Macbeth dropped low and took his rights from her, pounding away erratically with abandon. The sensation was too much for Gruoch, who felt over stimulated from the unrelenting impact of a cock into the spot that brought her so much pleasure. She began to cry, and she could not tell if it was from pleasure or pain.

Macbeth thrust into her in a way that was almost brutal, until finally his hips stilled and he spilt inside her with a groan. He pulled himself away from his wife, which exposed the sweat that had moulded their bodies together to the cool night air. He ran a hand through the curls of his wife's hair, and promptly fell asleep.

Naked and awake on top of the blankets, Gruoch was left with a dull ache between her legs. It was the kind of pain that would surely hurt more the next morning. Gruoch felt strange, knowing she had completed this trial of womanhood. She had been thoroughly bedded by her husband, and the faint scent of blood lingering in the air told her she had bled from it. She might have allowed him this much of her body, but sleeping next to him seemed unfathomably vulnerable. Gruoch rose from the bed and padded over to the rug. The feel of the fur suggested it was bearskin. Gruoch carried the heavy skin over to a low settee in a corner of the room, and huddled herself under it. Her husband's breathing was slow and even as he slumbered. It would take time, but Gruoch knew she could make him into an ally. He had listened to her and waited for her permission, which was better than she had received from most men. She needed him to enter the world of men, but this man who had refused to marry for many years seemed to need her. There would be time. There would be years before them. If Gruoch had to be a woman, and had to be married, better that is should be this man who might willingly become her partner in greatness.