Reimaginings of the Lady Macbeth story have been a big trend recently at Sally O’ Reilly’s Hag Tale is an excellent addition. In this extract Wulva becomes aware that this legendary role is being created for her.

Hagtale
By Sally O’ Reilly
Published by Scribe Publications

Wulva hears that there is to be a great feast, to greet a new arrival. A mormaer from the north is coming with his men. They are to hunt boar, and there are to be celebrations. Such is the chaos and frenzied activity that for a while she is caught up in the preparations. But then Aefric takes her to one side. 

‘When our guest comes …’ She looks at Wulva, uncertain. ‘My lord Macduff has asked that you entertain our visitor. His wife died, not long ago.’ 

‘I shall do as my lord says.’ 

‘But yet — I don’t know.’ Aefric frowns. ‘You are so young. Be careful. Talk to him only in company. If anything disturbs you, come to me. You are our daughter, and only just a woman.’ 

‘Who is this guest? What is his name?’ 

‘Lord Macbeth,’ says Aefric. ‘A great warrior.’ She hesitates then lowers her voice. ‘My lord thinks very well of him as a soldier. But I do not admire him as a man. He is the sort that is never still, never satisfied. Even in the firelight, when there’s talk and laughter, you can see him looking outward, at the dark. He’s … greedy, hungry. Cruel. Even his love of hunting is greater than it should be. There are no more boar living in his country, which is why he has journeyed here.’ 

‘Are you afraid of him?’ 

Aefric takes her hands. ‘My child, there is only so much I can tell you. This is a matter of allegiance, and what will come I cannot say.’ Her voice drops to a whisper. ‘Be careful of him. Be guarded. And don’t repeat this. What I have said must go no further.’ 

Wulva goes to her chamber and closes the door. She thinks of the witches and their mission. Standing at the window, she watches the stormy clouds. Then she takes her finest clothes from the chest and lays them on the bed. A bodice trimmed with fur and silver thread, broadcloth skirts of deepest scarlet. 

He arrives, in the midst of other men. Glittering, blackhaired, wolf-pelts around his shoulders. His eyes are pale, and when their gaze meets, she feels a jerk, a shock. It’s you. She knows that face, she knows that scent. He bows his head, watching her intently. She feels his presence like a fever, cold and hot at the same time. The sickness presses down on her. Is this part of their spell? No good can come of this, she thinks, but she cannot tear her eyes away. 

Macduff calls her over; they talk of wars, of kings, and plans for battle. They talk of horses, plunder, areas for expansion. There is worthless land — mountains, chiefly — and land worth dying for. This is the land that may be fenced and ploughed and cultivated. Blood for food, food for blood. Macduff glances at her; she knows he wants her to say something to impress his guest, but the moment passes, and she remains dumb. This does not seem to matter. The talk shifts to the boar-hunt, and the plans for the following day. There’s a wide forest on the mountainside where boar are still plentiful. All the while, Macbeth is watching her, and there has never been a watching like it. She feels as if she is under the eye of Almighty God, or maybe the eye of Satan. Her body and her face are charged with a power beyond her understanding, and within that power she’s nothingness, a puff of sky. 

‘Why are you so quiet?’ he asks, the talk around them vanishing. 

‘Why should I speak?’ 

He touches her forehead. ‘There is much in here. I see it.’ She feels as if she is standing on the edge of a steep cliff, as if the drop is all around her, as if she dare not take a step. If there’s a task to do, an errand to run, she cannot name it. All there is in all Creation is this: a finger held out, touching her skin; beneath the skin, the bone. 

‘Wulva,’ he says, considering. ‘A curious sort of name. And you are a curious kind of creature, aren’t you? Not quite what you seem.’ 

And she thinks of what Cailleach said: You will know him when you see him. Likewise, he’ll know you. 

There is a storm brewing beyond the castle walls; the sky is reeling, and the three sisters are out there, riding the steep winds, making a pattern of what is yet to come, spinning cloud into frenzy. Sea-scapes mount into the night sky and crash down upon the splintered ships below. 

The down on her arms itches. She drinks a cup of wine, and he notes her every move. There is no escaping this; she cannot get away. White flesh in a red gown, heart beating like a drum. 

Hagtale by Sally O’ Reilly is published by Scribe Publications, priced £16.99.