The dark branches reached crookedly into the inky sky, waving in the breeze and making the stars flicker. Behind them the full moon shone brightly through the cracks, piercing the pitch black night. The cemetery was bathed in soft moonlight, and the crowd advanced through the wisps of fog as time ticked by. Whispers of conversation were swallowed up by the ominous forest surrounding the clearing, and cloaks were wrapped tighter against the cold as the mourners drew near to the tombstone. They spoke in hushed tones to each other - wary to break the silence of the night - and comforted one another. However, one figure stayed back from the group, casting worried glances into the forest with a furrowed brow. Her black dress brushed the raindrops on the grass as she looked back at the sound of her name.

“Where is the King, my dear lady?” The man inquired as he approached.

“Oh! Lachlan, hello!” She replied, “It is wonderful to see you, but unfortunate it has to be at such a time as this.”

“Indeed, it is.” Lachlan agreed, “Your husband had a close bond with Banquo, did he not?”

“Yes.” Lady Macbeth nodded, “He was most distraught upon hearing the news”

“And to speak of that subject; what is the news?”


“Pardon?”

“Madam, all I know is that Banquo - forgive my bluntness - is dead. As to how or where he fell, I know nothing.”

“I’m afraid I have the same dilemma, good sir.”

“Ah” Lachlan frowned, “perhaps Macbeth will know.”

“I can’t say.”

“Well, that brings me back to my first question. Where is Macbeth? I thought he might be here by now.”

“I wouldn’t make it cause for worry, sir,” Lady Macbeth assured, “The King has a lot on his mind, I’m certain he’ll be here soon.”

Lachlan frowned again, and opened his mouth as if to say something, before he decided against it. He narrowed his eyes as he spoke again.

“And how is the King? Is he well?”

It was Lady Macbeth’s turn to hesitate at the suspicious note in his voice. She quickly covered it up with a sweet smile.

“He is quite well, Lachlan; thank you for your concern. He just has a lot to think about.”

“After his… ah… episode, at the meal the other day…” Lachlan pressed, “Can you be certain he is well? Was that normal?”

Lady Macbeth started moving towards the other mourners as she replied, “As I’ve said, Macbeth has a lot on his mind.”

Lachlan nodded knowingly, moving with her, “Ah, yes. The stress of being King can change people, eh?”

Lady Macbeth paused and smiled thinly at Lachlan, “Forgive me, my good sir, but I can’t say I like what you are implying about my husband.”


Lachlan dropped his facade and locked his piercing grey eyes with Lady Macbeth’s soft green ones. “If what I am implying isn’t true, wouldn’t Macbeth be mourning the unexpected - and I question that word - death of his comrade?”

Lady Macbeth drew in a quiet breath. She knew that amongst the murmurs of sorrow coming from the group by the tombstone, there was also mutterings of suspicious activity. The death of a young and fit man surely involved foul play, and no one was succeeding in hiding their speculations. However, she was shocked that someone would be bold enough to almost directly accuse the King of Scotland.

Lachlan started to turn back to the group at the tombstone; “Perhaps the King has changed more than we know.”

He walked softly back to the group, leaving Lady Macbeth staring after him. The forest was deathly calm behind her, and she watched as Lachlan started a hushed conversation with another friend of Banquo’s. Shivering as a breeze swept through the cemetery, she wrapped her cloak around her and headed back the way she came. She had to find her husband.

“How can I? How can I go? Was it not enough that I did the deed? Must I go among his friends, his family, and put on a face that is not mine?” His voice shattered the silence; the wind picked up as if to drown out his anguish. Lady Macbeth stood in the shadows in front of Macbeth, her calm expression in contrast with her fierce voice.

“What a coward you are!” She hissed, “You put on a face that was not yours when you killed King Duncan, did you not?”

Macbeth stopped pacing and stood, his chest heaving in the cool night air.

Lady Macbeth continued: “What was different at that time?”

“What was different?!” Macbeth yelled. “What was different was that King Duncan was not a friend of mine! I am a traitor! A TRAITOR!”

The only response to Macbeth’s words was the cawing of crows from the direction of the cemetery deep in the woods. Lady Macbeth glanced into the forest, then up at the moon advancing upon the sky. She turned back towards Macbeth with a steely glare.

“You made your choice already when you killed King Duncan. You were as much a traitor to society as you are now. As am I. But I accept my choice because it is what had to be done.”

“You were not the one to which Banquo’s ghost appeared at the dinner table!” Macbeth yelled, “You are not haunted by your actions!”

“For heaven’s sake, keep your voice down!” Lady Macbeth said, “Do you wish to collapse all that we’ve built with a single sentence?”

Macbeth glanced around wildly at the dark shadows as Lady Macbeth continued,

“Listen to me. There are people back there at the cemetery who are wondering where you are. Some of them are speculating that you wanted Banquo dead.”

“Did I not?!” Macbeth interrupted, “Did I not want him dead?!”

“Yes, but you must not let them know that.” Lady Macbeth hissed, losing patience. “Aren’t you thinking at all, fool? If you do not show up at his funeral they will have no doubt that you committed the murder. Or at least that you wished it.”

“I cannot go there!”

“What is stopping you?”

“Banquo!”

“Banquo is dead!”

“He was dead at the time of our meal, too, was he not?” Macbeth pointed out angrily.

“My husband,” Lady Macbeth pleaded, “you need to go to the funeral if you wish to keep your title and your life.”

“Dead men are supposed to be still and silent!” Macbeth raged, tearing at his hair. He started pacing around, glancing at the trees’ claws. “Banquo is coming for me!”

Lady Macbeth grabbed Macbeth’s hands. “Calm down! You work yourself up for nothing, just as you did before you killed Duncan.”

“And what about it?”

“Nothing came of it! You almost didn’t complete the deed, coward that you are, and yet once it was done all good things came before us.”

“I can’t deny the good things that came of it,” Macbeth agreed,

“Surely! King of Scotland! What else would a man wish for?”

“and YET!” Macbeth yelled, yanking his hands away, “one also cannot deny the strange things that have happened to me after the fact.”

“My husband,” Lady Macbeth said, exasperated, “What do you speak of?”

“The visions! Banquo’s ghost appearing! I tell you, these are not small matters!”

“They are matters of your mind!” Lady Macbeth insisted viciously. She pulled Macbeth closer to her and stared into his wild eyes. She spoke slowly, as the shadows of the night creeped closer to where they stood. “All I ask of you is to put on a mourners soul for tonight. Join the people in their speculations about Banquo’s death, even if it means accusing others discreetly.” She continued soothingly, “Put on a show just as you did with Duncan, and no one will doubt your sorrow.”

Macbeth’s breathing steadied as he looked at his wife.   “And what of the ghost?”


Lady Macbeth swallowed back her frustration. “The ghost will not be there,” she appeased, “for what ghost would attend their own funeral?”

Husband and wife stood in the forest as the fog thickened and weaved around the trees. Their shoes were wet with dew from the grass, and the only sound was the gentle creaking of the trees. The grim shadows of the night advanced upon the couple, and after a long moment Macbeth spoke; his voice anguished.

“Let us go.”

“We cannot wait any longer.” Lady Macbeth agreed.

They disappeared into the thick forest, following the dim path to the cemetery.

In the distance, the bell struck midnight. It chimed once, twice, three times before the procession arrived at the edge of the woods. The air around the castle was warm and inviting after the chill in the trees, and even the faint sound of the guards and servants was welcoming. Free from the canopy of trees, moonlight flooded the stones of the castle as footsteps echoed off the walls. Some footsteps were hurried, eager to head home after a grim evening, and others were slow and sorrowful, not yet ready to leave the place of mourning. In front of them all, two figures stopped to bid goodbye to the others, their tears drying in the breeze. With heavy hearts they wished blessings upon friends of Banquo’s and offered final words of comforts to family members. A figure with piercing grey eyes stepped up to them, nodding at Macbeth,

“A good night to you, my Lord,”

And turning to Lady Macbeth, “Perhaps I was mistaken, my lady.” He offered.

Lady Macbeth allowed a grateful smile, keeping her attitude sorrowful.

“I trust you would have kept your opinion as your own, good sir?” She ventured cautiously.

“Not entirely,” Lachlan admitted, “although none enough to start anything.”

Lady Macbeth nodded and bid him a sweet farewell, relieved that he had not created a rumor about the King’s actions. She turned to Macbeth, who was conversing with someone good-naturedly. She sidled up to him.

“Not too cheery, I hope, my lord?” She whispered, barely audible, as she smiled at the guest.

Macbeth cleared his throat and wrapped his arm around her, facing the man before him.

“Blessings to you, my friend,” He said, “and may you and I - and our dear wives - not be too burdened by this sorrowful event.”

“To you as well, O King.” The man agreed, and took his lady by the arm to journey home.

Lady Macbeth looked up at Macbeth as he watched them go. The moonlight colored his hair silver and created shadows under his eyes that exaggerated his weariness. For the moment, however, this was a good thing; for weariness could be placed upon Macbeth mourning for Banquo and not upon his inner battle. Even still, as he turned and looked at Lady Macbeth, his gaze was steely. No longer was he frightened, like a dog who cowers from the storm, but poised and alert. Lady Macbeth ran her hands through his hair, damp from the mist of the fog, and her ruby lips smiled up at him.

“Has my Lord accepted his actions?” She inquired.

“If accepting it would mean I feel no regret, I suppose I have.” Macbeth said, taking his eyes off of his wife and instead looking into the grim forest, “Although I don’t think I could feel regret, for I have hardened my heart.”

“A hardened heart is a protected heart, my husband.”

Macbeth looked back at the Queen, “Then you and I have hearts that cannot be injured, even by the strongest of weapons.” He laughed humorlessly.

The crows cawed again, from deeper within the woods, and the full moon was at its peak. The ominous fog retreated back into the forest as time ticked by. The trees swayed in the wind, their claws reaching to blot out the stars, and the silence was interrupted only by the crickets singing their broken song. The bell swung again, and its single chord rang out across the castle grounds, echoing off the walls, and was swallowed by the shadows of the woods. Now all was silent again, and empty except for the King and Queen of Scotland, standing in the moonlight.