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.