Macbeth ... from 'Lady Macbeth's Tale'

There’s something you should know about her, they
tell him. But always it’s left unsaid, the final truth behind
the gossip surrounding her marriage. Some tragedy is
hinted at. Something that lingers in her southern voice.
Though she’s a Scotswoman, to her fingertips, make
no mistake about it. And the bonniest. The advancing
years merely serving to add to her renown as the most
exquisite of noblewomen. Only the gossip, that persists
like a treacherous undercurrent, hints at something ...
Yet, when he enters his cousin’s house, what takes
his breath away is how rumour and suspicion have no
place in its fastidious arrangements. His eyes, scanning
dark corners as if for sudden ambush, find only the soft
glow of wax tapers.

His cousin welcomes him to the feast. His tall,
languidly elegant kinsman, sporting the smoothly-
capped hairstyle of his Norman companions.
‘It’s been too long coz!’ The Mormaer of Moray
smiles easily, with the manner of one well-versed in
dealing with inferiors.
‘Aye,' he answers shortly. Always tongue-tied by
these sort of occasions. Still, his eyes go on taking in
everything: registering there are no women present ...
noting the effete manners of these Normans.
‘We played together as youths, remember?’ Moray
drawls.
‘At our grandfather’s court!’
‘How is King Malcolm?’