An
Author’s Inspiration
By
Mercedes Rochelle
Before
I even realized Historical Fiction was a genre, I was fascinated with MACBETH
and the witches’ prophecy. If you recall, after they told Macbeth he would be
king hereafter, Banquo wanted to know what they had to say about his future.
They answered:
"Lesser than Macbeth, and
greater."
"Not so happy, yet much
happier."
"Thou shalt 'get kings, thou be
none."
Just what kings
were they talking about? And what happened to Fleance after he escaped from
Banquo's murderers? I can only suppose Banquo’s legacy was common knowledge to
the Elizabethans, for Shakespeare dropped the Fleance subplot, leaving later
generations to puzzle over its meaning.
Shakespeare's story of Macbeth, taken from
Raphael Holinshed (who took it verbatim from Hector Boece 1465–1536), was a
legend, not real history. Macbeth did NOT kill King Duncan in his bed; King
Duncan was killed in battle. In fact, Macbeth was considered by historians to
be a good king who reigned fourteen years. But really, who would want to give
up such a juicy tale?
I knew none of
this at the time—when I started this novel a good 35 years or so ago (some
first novels take a long time to mature). In the early '80s—when the internet
wasn't even a twinkle in Al Gore's eyes—I only had access to books in my local
libraries, and in St. Louis that was a severe handicap. Once I moved to New
York and discovered the NY Public Library, my research venue improved considerably.
I was surprised to discover that Banquo was thought to be the ancestor of the
Stewarts, and James I had only mounted the throne of England a couple of years
before this play was written. Shakespeare was giving a nod to James I’s
ancestry—and his work on demonology—while showing his audience that killing the
king was a really bad idea. It wasn't until much later—only recently, as a
matter of fact—did I discover that MACBETH was written in response to the
gunpowder plot of 1605. As it turns out, Shakespeare's family had some
disconcerting connections to the conspirators, and it is thought that the great
bard wrote Macbeth to clear himself of any guilt-by-association; the play was
first performed nine months after the gunpowder plot was foiled.
But I digress...
 |
| Portrait
of James VI and 1, c. 1606, by John de Critz (Source, Wikipedia). |
As it turns out, connecting
Banquo to King James Stewart was the whole purpose of the witches. So when the weird
sisters told Banquo “Thou shalt ‘get kings”, they were talking over 500 years
into the future! The witches, such an integral part of the play, were already
embedded in Shakespearean society; much of that can be attributed to King James
(also James VI of Scotland) who was pretty much responsible for the witch
burning craze that infested Scotland in 1597. To this day I still don't
understand why this would be a good plot device for Shakespeare. In fact, it is
popularly thought that James was so displeased he banned the play for five
years, though I can't find any credible documentation to support this
speculation. However, it has also been suggested that the weird sisters (or
wyrd sisters) were a manifestation of the Norns—the Norse goddesses who
controlled our destiny, much like the Greek Fates. What did Shakespeare have in
mind? Considering that paganism was alive and well in the 11th
century, it's not really all that far-fetched. And indeed, this is the
interpretation I chose for my novel. It was the Norns who set up a chain of
events that placed the Stewarts on the throne. It made so much sense to me!
I discovered a
history called Cambria Triumphans, written by
Percy Enderbie in 1661; it referred to the old legend, and from this
came the plot of my novel. He told us about Fleance and "during his
residence in the Welsh court, he became enamoured of Nesta, the daughter of
Gruffydd ap Llewelyn; and violating the laws of hospitality and honour, by an
illicit connection with her, she was delivered of a son who was named
Walter." Aha! I struck
gold. Little
did I realize (until I was deep into my research) how many historical figures
were actually related to Walter; on his mother’s side he was grandson of Gruffydd
ap Llewelyn, Prince of Wales and Ealdgyth, daughter of Aelfgar, Earl of Mercia
(and future queen of England); on his father’s side he was grandson of Banquo.
He was a distant relation to Alain le Rouge, Count of Brittany and future Earl
of Richmond. And, to fulfill his destiny, Walter was created the first Steward
of Scotland, a hereditary post. Walter’s quest to unravel his legacy took him
through many historical events like the Battle of Dunsinane, the Battle of
Hastings, and Malcolm III's court, and gives us a rare look at eleventh century
Scotland as well as King Malcolm's relationship with William the Conqueror.
-->
I hadn't planned
to write a historical novel, but by the time I figured it all out, my course
was already charted. While researching this book I became fascinated with Earl
Godwine and his family, which inspired me to write my “Last Great Saxon Earls”
trilogy. All three books overlap this one, and Walter even makes a cameo
appearance in “The Sons of Godwine”. This year I was able to regain my rights
and publish a revised edition of “Heir To A Prophecy”. It was great fun to
revisit my old friend.
Excerpt from
Heir To A Prophecy
Ambush
Fleance barely slowed his step as Banquo stopped again,
removing a rock from his shoe. He and his father were already late to the
king's banquet, and a half mile still stretched between them and the castle
gate. It had seemed like a fine idea a couple of hours ago, taking a walk to
get away from that hostile environment. There had been too many uncomfortable
pauses in conversation, too many unfinished phrases, too many sideways glances.
But now, dusk was quickly deepening into night, and it was getting difficult to
see into the forest. There was probably a spy in every tree, for all he could
tell.The young man’s curly hair blew about his face as he looked up at the
treetops. High cheekbones accentuated dark brown eyes as he raised his brows to
see better through the shadows. His fine square chin gave him a profile he was
proud of, and he went beardless, disregarding the current fashion. But his
mouth, usually so prone to laughter, was pursed tonight in frustration.
"Blast this uphill climb," he grumbled as
Banquo adjusted his cloak clasp. He glanced at his father wryly; this reticence
was most unusual for him. His father grunted a response, but finally shifted
his belt, shaking off his lethargy. Picking up their pace, father and son
strode deep into the forest.
It was a quiet night, punctuated by the crunch of stones
underfoot. Not a cricket was heard, nor birds, only the sigh of leaves rustling
far overhead.
"It shall be rain tonight," Banquo said.
From behind came the cry: "Let it come down!"
In an instant, three dark forms were among them. Banquo
was their main target, and two of them fell upon him, slashing the startled man
in the face. The worthy lord was blinded by his own blood even as he shouted,
"Villains, Murderers! Fly, Fleance, Fly!"
Though past his physical prime, the old warrior still was
more than a match for both opponents. With a practiced motion, Banquo swept his
sword from the scabbard, aiming an overhead cut at his nearest attacker's head.
If the blow had hit, he would have cleaved the man's skull. But the blood was
flowing so fast into his eyes that his aim was flawed. The blade only glanced
off the other's shoulder, eliciting a howl of pain.
Enraged, the murderer dived at Banquo, catching him in
the throat with a dagger. Letting go the knife, the man stepped back, clutching
his arm; he was astounded that Banquo was still on his feet. For a moment, it
seemed that their victim would respond with a last lunge. Then he staggered,
gurgling, and collapsed into the arms of his murderers.
Fleance was already in motion before his father had
shouted. Shoving his torch into the third assassin's face, he set the man's
mask aflame. Screaming, clawing his face, the murderer went down, his feet
kicked out from under him.
Fleance allowed himself a brief sneer. Then, wasting no
more time, he moved toward the others when he saw the killers slashing Banquo's
face. The boy hesitated, reluctant to abandon his father. But the assassins
were too good at their work. Even from this distance he could tell that Banquo
was already finished; his body gave no more sign of life.
It was also clear that their companion’s screaming made
no impression on them; the assassins must have assumed that the victim was
himself. Cursing, Fleance took advantage of the confusion. He stamped out his
torch, kicked his assailant once more as the man was struggling up, and ran for
his life.
Murder gave the forest a sinister cast. The trees seemed
to bend their limbs before him, seeking to block his way. Fleance's breath came
in short gasps, heightening the pain in his side as he ran frantically the way
he had come.
His first thought was to go to Macbeth and raise a search
party to ride down these outlaws. Then, a deeper, more telling conviction
assailed him, though he knew not whence it came: perhaps the murderers were not
there by chance. Perhaps they were paid assassins, in which case he could trust
no one.
He considered, leaning against a tree and catching his
breath. He wasn’t going anywhere without a horse, and both horses were still
stabled at the castle. Going any closer to that accursed place was the last
thing he wanted to do; however, he reminded himself that no one besides the
assassins would know that there had been any trouble.
It was a risk. Perhaps they would lie in wait for him
near the stables and finish the job. But he had a feeling that they would be
too busy tending their wounds. Despite himself, Fleance smiled grimly.
He looked slowly around the tree and up the path.
Everything was quiet. He took one step then another, resisting the urge to
break into a run. This was no time to panic. He needed to keep his senses about
him. He looked one more time in all directions, then began striding quickly
toward the castle, hand on his dagger.
No one stopped him at the castle gate and Fleance went
directly to the stabler’s door. He knocked quickly then stepped back, looking
around. There was no indication he was being followed yet.
The stabler took his time answering, his face breaking
into a scowl when he recognized Fleance; he hadn’t expected anyone to leave for
some hours yet. But when the youth held out a penny, his mouth curled into a
greedy sneer and he quickly came out, making the coin disappear as he passed.
Fleance watched him go into the stable, resisting the
urge to shout at the other to hurry up. The man seemed to take an inordinately
long time, then he came out—alone.
"What about t’other?"
"I only need one now. Is he ready?"
The man shrugged. "Whatever you want." He
opened the stable door and Fleance sighed with relief to see that his horse was
saddled. Without another word he mounted, offering no explanation for his hasty
conduct and rode off, leaving the man scratching his head.
-->
Pick up your copy of
Heir To A
Prophecy
Mercedes Rochelle
Born in St. Louis MO with a degree from
University of Missouri, Mercedes Rochelle learned about living history as a
re-enactor and has been enamored with historical fiction ever since. A move to
New York to do research and two careers ensued, but writing fiction remains her
primary vocation. She lives in Sergeantsville, NJ with her husband in a log
home they had built themselves.
