Excerpt of Heir to a Prophecy by Mercedes Rochelle

It is of legends that I write in this story, rather than
facts; for after almost two thousand years of history,
what can we call the truth out of the tiny scraps that
have survived? When annalists claimed that a man was
descended from a bear, or that the stone of Scone was a
pillow for Biblical Jacob, who is to say what is fact and
what is fancy? History was written by the winners and
polished by great dramatists.

Hence, with this thought in mind, I give you the origin
of the royal Stewarts, as it was handed down to
Shakespeare.
It all began with the witches' prophecy.

Macbeth's friend Banquo was with him when the three
witches appeared on the heath – strange, weird creatures
with seductive words.

"All hail, Macbeth!" the first had said, "Hail to thee,
Thane of Glamis!" – calling him by his true title.

"All hail, Macbeth!" quoth the second, "Hail to thee,
Thane of Cawdor!" – giving him a title belonging to
another.

"All hail, Macbeth," cried the third, "that shalt be King
hereafter!" – giving voice to his secret desire.

Macbeth did not know it yet, but the second witch had
spoken the truth; already King Duncan had declared the
Thane of Cawdor traitor, and awarded the title to Macbeth
for his courage in battle.

Then the witches spoke their prophecy to Banquo. They
said:

"Lesser than Macbeth, and greater."

"Not so happy, yet much happier."

"Thou shalt 'get kings, though thou be none."

The witches vanished, leaving the pair with gladsome
prospects.

All might have gone well, but Macbeth's ambitions were
too strong to wait for chance to bring them about. King
Duncan's life stood in his way; before long, King Duncan
was murdered. The true heirs, Malcolm and Donald Bain,
fled the country, thus leaving the throne empty for
Macbeth to mount.

Only Banquo had reason to suspect that Macbeth was the
murderer.

As of yet, however, good Banquo showed no signs of
betraying his friend's secret. But as time went on, the
king brooded – hating him – begrudging Banquo's every
breath.

It really wasn't treachery Macbeth suspected; rather, his
anger had sprung from the futility of his own position.
Although he was king, he had thrown away his peace of
mind – jeopardized his very soul – so that Banquo's heirs
would sit on the throne he had bought so dearly.

Having gone so far, there was only one thing to do.
Banquo had to be dealt with... and his son, Fleance. To
that end, Macbeth ordered a great feast to be prepared,
and commanded their presence as guests of honor...

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 shadow. 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 adjusted 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.