I know people have started this kind of story before – Lady Mac was doing a hell of a job- but I'll give it a shot anyway.

Disclaimer: Macbeth is Shakespeare's, and he's dead, so obviously it isn't mine and he doesn't know I'm writing this. (Duh.)

CHAPTER ONE:

The royal fortress of Forteviot was built in the middle of a sour, barren moor. The soil it stood on was good for little more than absorbing the blood of those who died defending it, supporting only stunted heather and the occasional burst of gorse. The landscape bucked and rolled like a bull beneath a similarly restless sky, creating several small hillocks. On the largest, the only one of notable height, the ancient dùn rose up from the heath. It consisted of one massive tower of dark stone sloping slightly inwards as it neared the top. There were no windows. The only entrance was a heavy wooden gate. Looming stern and imposing over the surrounding countryside, it harbored no pretense of being a kind a comfortable home. Its purpose was to defend, and defend it would.

"Defense!" a young man cried victoriously inside its walls. "He defended this country against the Vikings, and the Danes, the Saxons - God and King Malcolm damn them – from your family – no offense – from my family, from every breathing thing on God's earth, but wouldn't you know he couldn't defend himself from old age!" Cheerfully, he removed his clothes and few possessions from the box at the foot of his bed and crammed them into a course sack. His blond hair shook merrily as he worked, and his blue eyes flashed. "And now he's got to defend his own interests. An Athol succession won't come easy." He closed the sack and sat down on the bed. "Thank God for the king's good will!"

Macbeth didn't share his excitement. Leaning against the wall beside the door, he watched his friend sullenly. "Duncan will thank Him for Lochaber's support, your Camerons will thank Him for their boy and their precious feuds returned, and the King will thank Him for one less hostage to feed. I thank Him not, save for your sake."

Banquo laughed, throwing his pack against the rough stone wall and leaning back against it. "And I heard your cousins won the whole of your father's inheritance! Does the House of Lorne not award its ill temper with its land?"

"The clans agreed I was better able to sustain and expand it," he replied through gritted teeth. "Where did Lochaber find such high spirits?"

"From the hand of the king himself, and today I bring home the charter." He waited for a response. "Ah, Mac, you're the very embodiment of friendly spirit and optimism. You could at least wish me luck."

"Luck." He looked briefly at the ceiling, then closed his eyes and said,

"Grant thee good beer at night and good sport in the day,

And no one and nothing get in your way,

And when your wee wifie has too much to say,

May you never look far for a roll in the h-"

Banquo started laughing, leaning forward until he was nearly bent double. "Forget being a soldier, Mac, you'd make one hell of a poet!" He saw that Macbeth was grinning too. "Come with me to the battlements for a while. I think I have some time yet before they come for me."

They walked along several empty halls and narrow stairways to reach the wood and stone ramparts at the very top of the fortress and stood looking out over the stretch of bare mud that served for a road. The wind was cold and the air heavy with the smell of rain and peat smoke. Dark blue-gray stratus cast shadows over the whole moor, creating a scene that was both eerie and beautiful, which they quietly absorbed as the dim light faded away.

"You'll have to tell me what it's like to be home," Macbeth said quietly.

"You'll be out of here soon enough. He can't leave you here forever."

"Nor can he turn me loose. But I hate to be alone here with that stupid-"

"He's not that bad."

Three horses appeared in the shadows at the edge of the moor, only two with riders. These were the Camerons. As they neared the gate, Banquo withdrew from the wall and turned to go. "Goodbye, Mac."

"Good luck, Banquo."

Lady Gruoch considered herself fortunate to have a small chamber adjacent to her bedroom. Although it was only slightly larger than a broom closet and furnished only with a chair, she spent much or her time there because there was a small window set into the stone wall. It looked south over the hills surrounding Inverness to the dark waters of Loch Ness, now shining with the reflection of golden sunset and purple cloud.

As she looked out over her husband's land, she nursed their newborn son, Lulach. He sucked contentedly, his fat little fingers curling around a stray lock of her sandy hair. Smiling, she wrapped his warm lambskin around him and kept him close to her body to shield him from the cold air. He was not yet three weeks old – he would have lots of time to get the fresh air his nurse swore would be good for him. She gently ruffled the tuft of soft hair that sprouted above his round little face. It was black like his father's, but he had her green eyes. He blinked them at her and continued nursing.

The door behind her swung stealthily open, betraying her husband only with the softest creak before she heard the ancient floorboards groaning under his weight. He stood behind her chair, silent, his hands planted firmly on its wooden back. "Hello Gill," she said quietly.

He didn't answer, at first, looking over her shoulder at Lulach. He stared down steadily, making Gruoch uncomfortable under his gaze. "How does he?"

"Well, my lord." She made an effort to sound cheerful. "Agnes says it is a good sign that he was born on a Sunday. She says she's never seen a Sunday child yet who was crossed by witches."

Gillecomgain grunted. "I think he'll have slightly bigger concerns."

This alarmed her. She turned back in her chair to look up at him and held the baby tighter. "What, pray tell, should worry one so young?"

"Hush! You'll disturb him!" He took her by the shoulder and turned her back towards the window. "Let the boy get his fill." She sat still. They were both silent for a moment. "I have to leave tomorrow."

"Now, my lord?"

"I'll be away for a few weeks only."

"Very well." Her tone was bitter, but she couldn't argue.

"It's without help. If the House of Moray is to-"

"Very well, my lord."

Sensing her frustration, he leaned close to her, the stubble on his chin scratching the back of her neck. "Wouldn't you like to be a queen?" he whispered.

"Hush. Let the boy get his fill."

Gillecomgain left without another word.

The stone walls of the king's fortress always amplified the sound of rain. The rough stone broke the drops a thousand different ways that produced a million different echoes in the great hall. The sounds of the court were slowed and drowned by the soft whispers of the shattered droplets. The various servants and attendants were hypnotized by it, and even Macbeth, standing several feet behind and to the left of his grandfather's throne, felt its entrancing effect. It took nearly all his effort to stay focused on the negotiations taking place before him.

The king was speaking with a Danish noble about dowries. The man held some position in Northumbria which Macbeth knew he should remember but could not. His name, he recalled, was Siward, and for what felt like hours, he drove the price up and down like a rabbit in the shadow of a hawk. Every sum the king proposed was either above the bride's worth or else so low that it might imply that her house could not shoulder a greater burden. Not that it was any of his business, Macbeth thought. He was only acting as a go-between for some minor Saxon landlord. He suspected the bastard only wanted to keep her from marrying into a Scottish family, like his sister had while his father was alive. The English were always difficult to deal with.

Malcolm seemed born to be a king. He filled the throne like no other could, his majestic build and handsome features impressing his servants and courtiers more than the fine ornaments around him. His silver hair fell around a face still strong for all its wear. That face now wore an expression of great joy, indestructible interest, and above all, a desire for friendship, which was echoed in his deep voice. The only thing that could indicate that he was less than fully pleased was the frustration not completely masked in his eyes.

"Surely," he said warmly, "such a sum as…" he paused briefly and raised one hand slightly to demonstrate that he was guessing to please his guest, "300 pounds would be without offense?" Macbeth could almost hear the underlying thought, and perceiving his grandfather's suspicions about the Englishman's feeling's, doubled his own.

"I'm afraid, your majesty, I must disagree," Siward answered icily.

A hint of slyness crept into the king's smile as he began to feign amused confusion. "Ah, how these English customs confuse me!" His eyes were shining victoriously, and Macbeth was sure that his joy was genuine now. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to suggest an acceptable amount."

This caught the earl by surprise. "I – well, your highness, I think perhaps we might wish to use Scottish standards."

Malcolm allowed himself just a trace of a smirk. "Yes. After all, it served your father well enough when arrangements were made for your sister, didn't it?" He reached over to the stool at his right and gave his oldest grandson a pat on the shoulder. Duncan, half-slouching in his chair beside the throne and toying idly with some trinket, did seem to be aware at all that the Englishman was his brother-in-law.

Siward scowled at the mention of his sister. "Quite," he agreed bitterly. Perhaps, Macbeth thought, it wasn't that she had married a Scot, but that she was the wife of a complete moron. Unlike his younger cousin, Duncan had little interest and less talent in leadership or politics. He had done poorly when he was in school, was awkward with almost any weapon and disinclined to wield one anyway. However, he was very well liked by most who visited Forteviot because he was always excited to see people whether he understood why they had come or not. Even at thirty-seven – seventeen years older than Macbeth – he retained this childish quality.

"Very well, in the Scottish fashion it will be. We'll settle the dowry at twelve cattle, seven sheep, and 72 pounds." Malcolm grinned at Siward, who was looking back angrily. "And a good hen, of course, if one can be spared." Even Macbeth smiled. The king had a brilliant sense of humor from time to time.

"I'm sure that will be acceptable," the Dane said, practically growling.

"Good, sir. I am glad to be done with it!" He leaned forward and gestured for Siward to come closer. "Now if I might have a word with you on a more confidential matter…" The Englishman came forward grudgingly, standing beside the throne. Despite his keen hearing and relative proximity, Macbeth could hear very little of their conversation over the sound of the rain. He had only caught a few snatches before Malcolm looked back at him. "You can go, boy. You needn't stand all day."

"Thank you, your highness," he replied politely, then bowed slightly and left the hall, his grandfather's words echoing in his mind – "other things must be attended to…"