Polygon’s Darklands Tales series continues with the Queen of Crime, Val McDermid taking on the story of Lady Macbeth. It’s a story we think we all know, but this excellent novel will tell you otherwise. In this extract, Lady Macbeth, here known as Gruoch, is married to Gille Coemgáin, Mormaer of Moray. He is hosting a banquet and Gruoch meets Macbeth for the first time. 

Queen Macbeth
By Val McDermid
Published by Polygon 

There was roast lamb, wild boar and venison. Sides of salmon and sea trout, smoked fish and mussels. Porridge sweetened with apples baked in honey and sweet cicely. Bannocks and bread made from the flour of oats and beans. Roasted turnips and onions, tiny sharp radishes and sauces from mustard balls. Stewed plums with crushed roasted hazelnuts. Cheese and curds. Me at his side in my finest robes. 

And, of course, strong ale and barley bree to set heads bleezing. 

No expense had been spared, no stores left unplundered. Bellies would be grumbling with hunger to pay for this display of wealth. Not my belly, of course, nor my three women. Not Gille’s either. But the others who depended on what came from our kitchen – they’d be going to bed with their stomachs empty for a couple of weeks till the larder was replenished. 

Then the filidh took the floor with his usual bardic fervour. A tale of battle, told to the hypnotic rhythm of a tattoo on the bodhran. As the story reached its climax, Macbeth leapt on the table and laid a pair of crossed swords at his feet. ‘Give me music,’ he shouted, and the piper answered with a reel that made my head swirl. 

Not Macbeth. He raised his hands above his head, fingers imitating a stag’s antlers, and began to dance. His feet moved among the four quarters made by the blades so nimbly it became impossible to keep track of how he got there and where he would go next. His lèine was dyed madder red and it danced with him, rising above his knees, giving us flashes of his woad-blue braies. And his hair like a flame. I’d never seen a display of colour like it. He danced like a man possessed. Even Aife, who has no interest in men, flushed pink at the excitement of it. 

He reached the end with a flourish and made a deep bow to Gille, then to me. He jumped down from the table; his men surrounded him and shouted his name. I saw a brief flash of resentment cross my husband’s face. Clearly Macbeth had not heard how Gille liked to be the name given most praise, especially after a display of luxury such as we’d laid on that night. 

Before my husband could glimpse the thoughts Macbeth’s display had set running, I excused myself and slipped out of the hall, Aife and Eithne at my heels. ‘You had better return,’ I said. ‘Don’t give Gille occasion to make you the butt of his anger.’ 

They understood my reasoning. No matter what I felt towards Gille, I was bound by my father’s insistence. He himself was the son of a king, which made me part of that same royal line. So he could countenance nothing less than the highest rank for me. Mormaer of Moray, king in all but name of the Highland fiefdom, was the perfect match. A marriage with Gille Coemgáin would make stronger my father’s position and do him honour. Never mind that Gille had a bloodstained history and a jealous temper. I was traded for status. Not the first nor the last woman to be treated like a gaming piece. 

I placed but one condition on the deal. I insisted that my three women should remain at my side. Eithne, for her understanding of the world we cannot see; Aife, for the support and sustenance she gives Eithne’s gift, and thus to all four of us; and Ligach, ever practical, who never sees a problem, only a challenge. They have been my companions since childhood, and I knew I would struggle at Gille’s court without my three allies at my back. 

Of course, Gille distrusted them and missed no opportunity to treat them harshly. He could not attack me directly, for my father’s name still carried weight even in Gille’s territories. So he made them surrogates. If he had noticed me leaving the feast accompanied by Aife and Eithne, he would take out his wounded pride on them. 

I watched them return to the hall, arm in arm in the pearly moonlight, then made my way to the physic garden Eithne and Aife had created. It was fragrant and soothing, the night scents different from the day. I breathed deeply and felt my turbulent heart return to its regular beat. 

But the turmoil followed me. 

Queen Macbeth by Val McDermid is published by Polygon in May, priced £12.00.