Macbeth and Son (3 page)

…a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

(
Macbeth
, Act V, Scene 5, lines 26–28)

Luke shoved his copy of
Macbeth
to the back of his desk. What did all those old words mean, anyway? he thought as he opened the window. His bedroom stank of air freshener. It always had that not-quite-roses smell after Mrs Tomlin cleaned.

Mrs Tomlin and her husband lived in the cottage down past the machinery shed. The cottage had just been a wreck when Mum and Dad had the farm. But when Sam married Mum he’d had the cottage renovated at the same time as the new wing of the house was built.

Now Mrs Tomlin did the housework, and the cooking too when Mum went down to stay with Sam during the week in Sydney, and Mr Tomlin helped Mum run the farm. Mum and Sam slept in the new part of the house, but Luke had kept his old bedroom.

He breathed in the night air gratefully. Cold cowpat wasn’t the best smell in the world. But at least it was a real smell. Better than air freshener.

It was three days now since the letter had come from St Ilf’s. Three days of people congratulating him, telling him ‘Well done.’ Three days of empty triumph. Mum had been walking around with a grin the entire time, singing ‘Rocky Mountain High’ under her breath. You always knew Mum was over the moon when she sang ‘Rocky Mountain High’.

How could he ever tell Mum he’d cheated?

But he hadn’t really cheated, he told himself. Cheating was when you meant to do it. How was he to know that the exam paper would be one he’d seen before?

If only he hadn’t won a scholarship! If he’d just passed the entrance exam it wouldn’t have been so bad. It wasn’t even as though he needed it. Sam had plenty of money. And now everyone would expect this brilliant kid and instead they’d just get dumb old Luke. He didn’t even want to go to school in Sydney, away from all his friends.

If only he’d mentioned that he’d already seen the exam paper immediately…or at least when the letter came. But if he said anything now everyone would think he
had
cheated. And it’d break Mum’s heart.

‘Look after your mum,’ Dad had said. Looking after Mum back then had meant keeping the wood box full of kindling and making her a cup of tea when she came in from the paddocks. Not this…

Luke sighed and looked at the book again. He couldn’t concentrate on
Macbeth
now. Maybe over the
weekend…There was still all of next week anyway before his talk was due. Mrs Easson had treated him differently since she’d learned about the scholarship, as though she really listened to what he said now. She’d probably expect a brilliant talk, too.

Luke undressed slowly. There was no one to say goodnight to tonight; Sam and Mum weren’t due back till tomorrow. Mum had flown back to Sydney with Sam after the scholarship celebrations. Mrs Tomlin had left dinner for Luke in the oven. Tuna Surprise—though the only surprise Luke could see was that no one dropped dead after eating it. He wished Mrs Tomlin would stop thinking she could cook, and give him a frozen pizza instead.

The sheets were cold. Central heating never seemed to warm sheets, not like the true heat of summer. Of course the house was air conditioned too now, but he could still remember the summer when Dad had died, the way the bed still seemed to sweat no matter how late Luke went to sleep. And that winter when the toilet froze and the pipes cracked and Mum went frantic because she couldn’t pay a plumber…

Luke shut his eyes. Mum hated him talking about those days. She wanted ‘now’ to be the only world there was…the ‘everything is perfect’ life, with a TVstar husband and a son who’d won a scholarship.

What should he do?

At least in Shakespeare’s world things were clear, thought Luke, almost asleep. You knew what was right and wrong in those days…If only I lived in a world like that…

Macbeth’s world, with its swords and witches…Witches…

The Weïrd Sisters, hand in hand…

(
Macbeth
, Act I, Scene 3, line 32)

The three witches were stirring the cauldron that hung in the big fireplace at the end of the great Hall.

Lulach stood on tiptoe to peer inside. ‘What’s in the pot today?’

Six months had passed, autumn and winter, since his father’s death. Food had been short. Many in Alba were close to starvation—or worse. All there’d been to eat yesterday was seaweed stew, with a few shellfish in it that the women had gathered along the shore. No barley to thicken it, no oatcakes baking on the hearth. No meat either, and the best of the spring milk kept for the calves…

It had been a desperate winter. Even Lulach had to admit that the new Mormaer had done his best. But with the men away so much last summer the barley harvest had been poor, and there hadn’t been enough fish dried either. And since King Duncan lost the last war, Thorfinn had been sending his men raiding along the coast.

The Norse ships were fast and narrow, like spears bringing horror and death. They left the land empty: crops burned, the dead lying where they’d fallen, while the living, men, women and children, were herded into Norse ships to be sold at the Dublin slave markets.

Thorfinn’s men hadn’t come to Moray yet. But Lulach had heard of a fishing village further north where all the survivors of Thorfinn’s raid had jumped over the cliffs onto the rocks below, sons carrying their old parents, mothers with their children in their arms. A swift death on the rocks was better than a slow death by starvation.

Lulach’s tummy rumbled. Something smelled good today. Better than seaweed stew.

Meröe grinned, showing her hard red gums, and gave the cauldron a stir. ‘Fillet of a fenny snake,’ she whispered, the hairs on her chin quivering like a billy goat’s. ‘Eye of newt and toe of frog…’

‘No,’ insisted Lulach, ‘what’s really in there?’

Meröe laughed and ruffled his hair. Lulach wished she wouldn’t do that.

‘Venison. His Lordship had a good hunt last night. And kale and nettles to make you strong.’

Lulach said nothing. The new Mormaer had hardly spoken to him since he’d been elected last summer. He had more to occupy him than one small boy, though he’d been friendly enough.

But Lulach hated him. This was the man who’d taken his father’s place. Even his hair was wrong: red instead of yellow like his father’s.

But Lulach said nothing. What was there to say? The people had voted for the new Mormaer. The land needed a leader.

Lulach took the big horn spoon from beside the pot and scooped out a spoonful of meat then blew on it to cool it down.

His mother had told him that when the mormaers met at Scone to elect a king, people ate from big trenchers of soft white wheat bread, two people sharing the same trencher. Lulach had never tasted wheat bread, and here in the north everyone at the rath ate out of the one big pot. Even the people who slept in their own cottages came up to the Hall to eat.

The venison stew tasted good. Better than barley porridge or dried fish.
Much
better than seaweed stew. When I’m a man, thought Lulach, I’ll hunt every day. No one will ever have to eat seaweed stew again.

Clang! Clang!

It was the sound of a sword beating on a shield. The danger call!

Lulach dropped the spoon. The stew splashed on his stockings, but he took no notice.

A woman screamed. Someone in the courtyard yelled, ‘Smoke! Smoke from the watch fires on the cliff!’ And then the terrible word: ‘Norsemen!’

Thorfinn’s men! thought Lulach. The black skull flashed before his eyes again. Thorfinn, the man he had to kill one day…

‘Grab what you can!’ a woman cried. ‘They won’t find us in the hills!’

Someone began to sob.

‘Stop snivelling!’ The Lady Gruoch strode into the Hall, still wearing the long white apron that she put on when checking the cheeses. ‘Do you think our Mormaer will let Norsemen reach the Hall? Ealdith, send a runner down to the bull yards to tell him—’

Hoof beats clattered on the cobbles out in the courtyard. ‘Sounds like his Lordship knows already,’ muttered Meröe.

Lulach ran outside.

His stepfather sat tall and straight on his brown horse, his thick red plaits touching his shoulders. Behind him Kenneth grabbed the reins of another horse from the blacksmith. ‘Will I send out the runners to fetch the men from the far fields, my Lord?’

‘No time,’ said the Mormaer shortly. ‘They’ll have the crops burned and every child along the coast trussed up in slave ropes before the runners can deliver their messages. Who’s here at the Hall?’

Kenneth counted on his fingers. ‘Girc Blacksmith, Bodhe One Eye, Dugald and Angus the bowmen…and you and I, my Lord.’

The big man laughed. ‘Six of us, eh? It’ll have to do!’

Kenneth stared. ‘But, my Lord, the lookout says six ships! That’s more than a hundred men!’

‘Then we’ll use brains instead of swords. Tell Angus to bring his arrows. My Lady,’ to Lulach’s mother, ‘I need oil and rags. Linen, not wool or hide.’

How can you fight Norsemen with oil and rags? wondered Lulach. They needed men with swords! This man was a fool! But Lulach’s mother nodded and slipped back into the Hall.

Kenneth too stared at his new chief as though he were crazy. ‘My Lord, there’s no way six men can stop a Norse raid! We need to wait till the fishers see the watch smoke and bring their boats in.’

The new mormaer stared at him. ‘And have a proper battle, eh? Like one of Duncan’s? Men slashing at each other till enough have been killed or crippled, and the raiders go away?’

Kenneth shook his head, puzzled. ‘What else can we do, my Lord? We have to wait till we have enough men—’

‘Who is mormaer here? You or me?’

‘You, my Lord, but—’

‘I will not start my time as chief by losing half my men! Now, are you coming with me or not?’

‘Of course, my Lord, but—’

‘Move!’ roared the Mormaer. His horse tossed its head and danced across the cobbles at the noise.

It was like a spring wind melting the ice. Women ran, their terror vanished, at least for now, bringing horses, rags. Girc and Bodhe hastily strapped on their swords. Lulach’s mother ran out of the Hall again, with a jar of precious oil.

The Mormaer bent down from his horse to take the oil. Lulach stiffened as the Mormaer kissed his wife, then stuffed the rags into the belt of his smock.

It still hurt Lulach whenever he saw the Mormaer kiss his mother. It hurt to see him take charge like this too.

It should be his father there. Or him…

Maybe the Norsemen would kill his stepfather too. Lulach felt a stab of guilty pleasure at the thought.

But if they killed the Mormaer they’d burn the crops before the harvest. They’d round up Moray’s people for their slave ships…

Duty, thought Lulach. A chief has a duty to his people. And I’m a chief’s son, even if he’s dead.

‘My Lord!’ Lulach found his voice. He ran up to the big horse. ‘Take me as well!’

‘Lulach…’

Lulach heard Kenneth laugh and a ripple of amusement from the watching women. ‘I can fight the Norsemen!’ he cried indignantly.

His stepfather didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smile. He bent down from the saddle again and touched Lulach’s shoulder briefly with his free hand. ‘When you can lift a sword you can come with me. But for now, look after your mother and the Hall.’

‘I can so lift a sword!’ cried Lulach. ‘Kenneth has been teaching me and Knut with wooden swords for ages…since St Andrew’s Day!’

‘All of six months, eh?’ said the Mormaer admiringly, but now there was laughter in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but—’

‘One day I might be mormaer! It’s my duty to go!’

‘Lulach!’ said his mother. ‘This isn’t the time—’

But the Mormaer held up his hand. He looked down at Lulach consideringly. Almost, thought Lulach, as though his stepfather had never really looked at him before. ‘Mormaer of Moray? Well, so you may be…’ A strong hand reached down. ‘Climb up then, my son!’

It was the first time his stepfather had called him ‘son’.

It was strange to be sitting so high up again. He hadn’t been up on a big horse since his father had ridden away. Lulach felt he could see the whole world—the green hills and the mist, the river then the dark waters of the firth beyond the Hall.

But below him people muttered.

‘A child! He’s taking a child!’

‘The boy will be killed!’

‘And if he’s killed, whose son will be Mormaer of Moray next?’ It was Meröe’s voice.

Lulach heard his mother say, ‘Meröe! Inside! Now!’

But his stepfather only smiled. He reached down a hand to his wife and touched her hair. They were large hands, callused across the palm from wielding a sword. Father’s hands were like that, thought Lulach. One day my hands will be like that too.

‘I’ll look after him,’ the Mormaer said softly, one hand holding Lulach and the reins as well. ‘Trust me.’

Lulach’s mother nodded, her plaits bouncing under her yellow scarf, which marked her out as a married woman. ‘I do.’

Then they were off.

Out of the courtyard, over the cobbles, then on to the muddy track and past the outlying cottages, each with their patch of green crinkled kale. If only Knut could see me, though Lulach. But Knut was with the cattle up on the hills.

It never occurred to Lulach that perhaps this would be the day he’d die. Death was for grown-ups. Not for him.

Suddenly the Mormaer pulled at the reins. The horse veered away from the track that led down to the beach, then galloped across the heather. The other horses followed. Birds burst in fright out of the bushes then flapped away.

‘My Lord!’ Lulach had to yell above the sound of hoof beats.

‘Yes?’

‘We’re going the wrong way! The Norsemen are on the shore! Down that way!’

He felt as much as heard the rumble of his stepfather’s laugh again. ‘I know where the beach is by now! But if we gallop along the shore they’ll see us.’

‘Shouldn’t we have brought the dogs?’

Another rumble. ‘We’re not hunting today!’ Then more seriously, ‘Well, perhaps we are. Lulach, will you do as I tell you? Without question?’

Lulach considered. ‘Yes,’ he yelled at last, as the horse jumped over a larger puddle than before.

‘Why?’

‘Because…because you’re my stepfather?’

‘No. Because I’m the leader and this is a party of war. And if I’m killed, then Kenneth is the leader, and you obey him. That’s the way war has to be. No arguing. No questions. A question might kill us all. You understand?’

‘Yes,’ said Lulach unwillingly.

‘Good,’ said his stepfather softly. ‘A tanist needs to learn when to be quiet as well as when to question.’

Lulach felt his heart lurch. Was the Mormaer really going to make him his heir? But the big man said nothing more. They galloped on.

They could see the sea again now, grey water under the grey sky—like dog fur almost, thought Lulach. His father had called fish ‘the silver harvest’, so much easier to gather than the golden grain, which had to be coaxed from the soil.

Suddenly Lulach saw something else: a flash of red and brown lying by the track. They cantered closer, and Lulach saw it was a body. The man must
have been running to the Hall when the Norsemen caught him and sliced through his neck with their swords. His head had rolled into the heather. One hand was missing too. He must have worn a ring, thought Lulach. It was too tight to pull off, so the Norsemen cut off his hand to get it.

He thought, I won’t be sick. I won’t.

They were close to the sea now. Suddenly white smoke floated up above the hills. The smoke turned black. Then there was more of it, and more…

‘They’re burning the barley,’ muttered the Mormaer.

Lulach knew what that meant. Another winter of hunger, especially if the raiders reached the main fields around the Hall. And what if they reached the Hall itself?

The Mormaer turned his horse to face the other riders. ‘The ships are around the bay,’ he said softly. ‘No talking now. Follow my lead.’

There was a sheep path that led down to the water. Lulach had been that way before, gathering seaweed with the women. How had a stranger like his stepfather known of it?

A hare peered up at them from the heather, all long ears and startled gaze, then darted into cover. The Mormaer held up his hand again. They dismounted and tethered the horses to a stunted tree.

‘My Lord!’ Kenneth spoke in a harsh whisper.

‘Yes?’

‘Leave the boy here!’

‘No!’ cried Lulach, just as his stepfather said, ‘As he said, it’s his duty. Do you deny him that?’

‘No. But—’

‘He’ll be safer with us,’ said the Mormaer shortly. He thrust the pot of oil at Lulach. ‘Look after it,’ he said softly.

‘Yes, my Lord,’ whispered Lulach.

They crept along the shingle of the beach. The wind spat in their faces and ruffled the waves. Lulach’s leather shoes crunched on the pebbles, so loudly that he was sure the Norsemen would hear him. He wished he had bare feet, like Angus and Dugald.

What if the Norsemen did hear them?

I’ll slow the others down if we have to run away, thought Lulach. Or would his stepfather leave him behind if they had to run? It wouldn’t be fair for the others to die because of his short legs.

For the first time he wondered if he’d done the right thing.

The Mormaer pointed to a clump of trees with twisted trunks. The men and the boy slipped behind them. Lulach peered through the branches.

The Norse ships bobbed on the waves: long swift raiders, each with a single man guarding it. Their ship’s boats were pulled up onto the shore.

‘See the sail?’ whispered the Mormaer. ‘That’s Thorfinn’s sign.’

Thorfinn! Lulach hadn’t thought his heart could pound so hard. ‘Where is he?’ he whispered fiercely.

The Mormaer glanced down at him. ‘Shh, lad! He won’t have come himself. Dugald, Angus, can your arrows reach the ships?’

Angus hesitated. ‘The nearest ship, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t hit a man from here!’

‘Just hit the ship—the deck if you can, not the sail or sides. Think you can do that?’