Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (29 page)

Duncan studied Fleance’s face. His friend, though exhausted, reflected the quiet determination Duncan often saw in his
expression
. ‘And, I take it, you give no store to such accusations?’

Fleance looked at him and shrugged. ‘There is no value in fighting against things which are not true. Macduff knows me; my father’s nurse recognised me; my boyhood friend is fighting
alongside
me. And you,’ he added, ‘believe me with no other
evidence
save m
y word.’

‘That is all I need from you, Fleance: your word and your
allegiance
.’

The next morning, the atmosphere among the troops was
subdued. Th
e messenger sent to talk with Norway had not returned. Fleance stood in front of his regiment and listened carefully to
Duncan
who, once more, encouraged his men.

‘You have seen for yourself our strength. You have encountered your enemies’ weakness in both heart and body. You, the army of Scotland, are the best of fighters with the swiftest and deadliest weapons known to man. Though our sometimes hostile land can bring challenges, it also breeds warriors such as yourselves, keen and well equipped to deal with any usurper. Over the years, many nations have tried to quench the spirit of the Scottish heart – and have failed.’

There was a low hum of agreement to these words. Fleance looked around the soldiers. They stood tall and proud and he felt honoured to be leading such men who would willingly sacrifice themselves for their king and country.

Duncan continued. ‘Our country is peopled by those who live among the vast and cruel and wonderful, and who adore its lochs, its highlands, its lowlands, mountains and ports. We remind you that there come swiftly many keen folk, men and women, who would add their strength to our number. Gird your loins with this knowledge: we will overcome, for our cause is a just one. We defend the weak, the lost and the frightened. We defend our right to follow God’s anointed. Go forth, in the name of Scotland and your king.’

The soldiers raised their swords and Fleance felt the vibrations of their combined shouting go through his whole body. He secured his helmet, signalled to the horn blower and marched forward with the continuous blast of the horns echoing around him.

They had been fighting for three hours and only the runners, who came with water and supplies, and their determination to fight to protect Scotland, kept them going. Fleance had trained his mind to see the men before him as difficult branches he had to cut down for Magness. It would undo him to imagine them as flesh and blood.

As Duncan had said, the rebels were not so well armed or
trained a
s they had all been led to believe. Their weapons were inferior and their soldiers poorly equipped. Only anger and
strength p
ropelled them forward.

Beside him fought Macduff. The old man talked all the way through his fights with whoever he was up against – sometimes with humour and sometimes with rage. In another life, Fleance thought after one such dialogue, the man would have been a great jester of the court.

Sword and shield moved as if with a life of their own, following the pattern Macduff had taught them. Fleance held up his shield and blocked the crash of his enemy’s axe, swinging his sword up and around, driving the blade into the vulnerable gap between the two pieces of armour.

Spinning against the falling body onto the next man.
Block. Swing. Aim for the gap. Hack. Don’t think. Don’t stop.
On and on.

Many men fell under their onslaught. Fleance was glad to have Macduff by his side as he fought against those who came against him. Some he killed; a number he fought but they, knowing they were outsmarted, quickly ran away.

Such was the case of the last man to try his luck against
Banquo’s
sword. After two attempts to thrust his own into Fleance’s side, both times blocked easily, the rebel threw down his sword in defeat and lifted his hands in surrender.

Macduff had dispatched his last enemy and turned to the trembling man who stood before Fleance. ‘Away with you, you skanky dog. Take your tail between your legs and tell your leader Macduff says it’s a foolish man who tries to conquer Scotland.’ The man hesitated a moment and Macduff feigned to charge him. The terrified rebel turned on his heels and sprinted back across the battlefield to his own side. ‘The fool,’ Macduff growled. ‘You were kind to spare his life.’

Fleance shook his head. ‘Honour, not kindness. He had surrendered. Had I run him through, it would be murder.’

The field lay before them. Many fellows were down. Sounds of moaning and crying drifted into the cold, spring air. Fleance and Macduff removed their helmets and leant against their swords, breathing heavily.

‘You have your father’s skill and strength,’ Macduff said, looking closely at Fleance.

Fleance shook his head. ‘’Twas not from Banquo I received this education but from my adoptive father, who spent many long hours teaching me the skills of the sword and crossbow.’

As they rested, catching their breath, Fleance sensed the fight against the rebels was almost won. Many men fled the sight of the Scottish army and, after a gruelling three hours, he could see
soldiers
from both camps withdrawing, staggering back to their posts into the mist and cold.

Around them, the battlefield was littered with bodies – some alive and some dead. Fleance and Macduff were two of the few left standing. It was a gruesome and sad sight.

Just then, from the direction of the rebels’ camp, came a man on a horse. He appeared out of the fog riding towards them. Though he was some distance and the murkiness shrouded his identify, the flag he held told them that he was for the rebels.

Both Fleance and Macduff straightened and lifted their swords. They watched him approach and, some yards away, dismount. He held the flag aloft and walked towards them. Fleance’s heart jumped violently.

‘Magness,’ he cried.

Magness stood before them both. ‘Aye. And here you are.’

Macduff paled. ‘Magness? You survived?’

Magness turned to Macduff, ignoring his question. ‘I received your message from one of my men. It is not foolishness which brings me to lead our army against the king but love of my country.’

‘Some love you show Scotland by trying to kill its fellows and its king,’ Macduff said.

‘Well, it seems, Macduff, you and I have different ways of dealing with politics.’

‘Aye, you as a traitor against your own country,’ Macduff cried.

‘You, Sire,’ Magness roared, ‘left your own castle defenceless against the tyrant to try to wheedle support from England rather than gather good fellows in Scotland who were more than ready to fight under your direction.’

Fleance watched Macduff pull himself up to his full height. ‘You know very well why I had gone – to get the rightful king and an army to overthrow Macbeth.’ His eyes blazed.

Magness spat. ‘And, in doing so, you allowed Macbeth to rain destruction on your castle.’

Beside him, Fleance sensed Macduff falter. ‘It is a sacrifice I live with daily.’

‘And I,’ Magness said. He turned to Fleance. ‘Your friend here left his wife and babes and mine without protection and they were slaughtered.’

Macduff took a deep breath. ‘It was the right thing.’

Magness jammed the flag into the soil. ‘Man, you have nae idea what is and was the right thing. Your “right thing” saw your wife and babes slaughtered; your right thing meant my five beautiful children were murdered.’ He straightened his back. ‘Your own wife was forced to tell all that you were a traitor.’

‘No,’ Macduff cried. ‘I was helping Scotland against the
madman
.’

‘And, in doing so,
Sire
,’ Magness sneered, ‘you and I lost
everything
. Oftentimes, Miri and I think how much easier it would have been if we had been at the castle that day, joining our babes in heaven rather than suffering in the hell we have these past years.’

Fleance listened, each fact thudding into his mind, making sense of things that for years he had not understood. Magness and Miri had been part of Macduff’s household.

‘I have made my peace with God and myself. I have no need to justify my actions to you or to any man,’ Macduff replied, his defiant tone muted in the thickening mist.

Magness had pulled out his sword and held it aloft.

‘What are you doing?’ Fleance cried.

Magness turned to him and shook his head. ‘Flea, I trained you for just such a moment but never considered you would be on the wrong side.’

‘I’m not on the wrong side, Magness. You are. Duncan is a great man; a great king.’

‘Aye, but for how long. This family of royals has been so plagued with superstition and indecision; the loyal folk know they need something better.’

Macduff lifted his own sword high. ‘This is the talk of fools, you stupid man. Take me on and we shall see whether Scotland needs a man like you or a man like me.’

Magness sprang at him and the crash of sword and shield sounded out over the quiet ground.

In horror, Fleance watched: Magness, whom he loved as a father, and Macduff whom he admired as a wise and wily protector. The clashing of their swords and the sound of their rage filled him with dread. He wanted to intervene but something buried deep within each man was fuelling their fight.

Over and under; jabbing and twisting and moving like dancers at a feast. Macduff pulled out his dirk and was swinging the sword and thrusting the dirk over and over, but only twice did it hit its mark for, each time, Magness deflected the advances, the wound of no consequence. They fought for a long time: a younger man against an older one. Backwards and forwards in the mud and blood and corpses of the fallen soldiers.

To Fleance’s eyes, Macduff was the more experienced fighter but Magness’s rage seemed to give him inhuman strength and endurance.

‘Give over, man,’ Macduff cried. ‘This is in vain.’

‘You would surrender?’ Magness challenged.

‘Never, for I stand for the king and for Scotland.’

Magness brought his sword down but Macduff held it off. Both were breathing hard through gritted teeth as they pushed against each other. Suddenly Macduff had the upper hand and shoved
Magness
so that he fell onto his back. He pointed his sword at
Magness’s
throat, breathing hard. ‘I would not kill you while you are down, for my hands are charged too much with the blood of your children. Surrender yourself to Scotland and face the consequences of your treachery as a man.’

Magness spat at Macduff. ‘I will not surrender and be forced to kiss the ground at young Duncan’s feet. You will have to kill me.’

Just then, there was a swift movement from behind Fleance and, with a sickening thud of heavy metal on soft flesh, Macduff was down.

‘No!’ Fleance cried and turned to see the killer. A rebel soldier was now swinging the weapon that had felled Macduff in his direction: a vicious spiked ball and chain. Without thought, he brought his father’s sword up and caught the chain as it came towards him. The weight and movement knocked them both sideways but the soldier had no other weapon.

Fleance ran his dirk up and under the man’s ribs, just as he had done with the assassin all those months ago. Hot blood poured from his attacker and Fleance pushed him to the ground.

‘You,’ the dying man panted.

Fleance recognised him. Kelvin: the man who had attacked him and Macduff in the woods all those months ago. He lifted up his sword. ‘For Macduff,’ he shouted and brought it down on Kelvin’s neck, ending the man’s life as violently as he had lived it.

‘I see you still mind my words,’ Magness said getting to his feet.

Fleance turned to him, rage drowning out all other thoughts. ‘This was a cowardly killing,’ he roared, pointing to the pulverised skull of the thane. ‘Are you content now?’ he screamed, his father’s weapon held out before him. ‘Does this settle your score?’ His head was pounding and he felt hot tears in his eyes. ‘Is the blood of your children avenged now, Magness?’ Fleance, his chest heaving, the full force of his rage and sorrow threatening to overwhelm him.

‘Well, young Flea, here’s your chance to make it right. You must fight and kill me. Or you can let me go.’

Fleance, his hands sweaty and shaking, looked down at the slain body of Macduff. His fury over this senseless killing would undo him. He must not be fooled into engaging when grief and anger surged through his body.

He lowered his sword. ‘You have been as a father to me,’ he cried. ‘Keavy would never forgive me if I killed her father.’

Magness looked at him a long time, his face dark and closed. ‘Forgiveness is over-valued, Flea. I advise you not to care about such a word, for it makes a man weak.’ He wiped his sword and placed it back in its scabbard. ‘The times have changed and Scotland needs to look further for its leadership. We would prosper under
English rule.’

‘The people deserve better,’ Fleance shouted. ‘Duncan will restore Scotland and bring our people peace and prosperity.’