Macbeth and Son (9 page)

Thou lily-livered boy.

(
Macbeth
, Act V, Scene 3, line 15)

School dragged all day.

Part of it was because Luke was tired from all that time on the Internet. But mostly it was because he was trying to think his own thoughts.

School wasn’t a good place to think, Luke decided. The teachers kept getting in the way.

Was Mrs Easson right? Did the truth about Macbeth matter?

Maybe what she was saying was that lies didn’t matter if good came out of them.

Shakespeare lied about Macbeth, but wrote a brilliant play. So that made it okay.

So what if he didn’t tell anyone about the exam? He’d made Mum happy. Sam could boast about his stepson and Megan would think he wasn’t the dumb kid next door after all.

He should just leave things as they were…just enjoy people thinking he was great because he’d got a scholarship, enjoy the dream if it came back tonight…

Things had turned out pretty well for Lulach, hadn’t they? A stepfather he was proud of—and who was proud of him too.

What would happen next? he wondered.

No—what
had
happened next? All of it had already happened a thousand years ago.

Was there another war? What was Thorfinn’s daughter like? Fat like him? Or maybe she was really hot. Perhaps she looked a bit like Megan, but with blonde plaits…

‘Luke! Luke Beaton!’

‘Wha—yes?’ said Luke.

‘We were talking,’ said Mr Macintosh, ‘about the square of the hypotenuse. Now, if Mr Beaton could just give us his valuable attention for a minute, we could all see that…’

I’ll go back on the computer as soon as I get home, thought Luke. See if I can find out who he married.

He might even dream it tonight too—some of it, at least. But he wanted to know
now…

‘Luke!’ said Mr Macintosh, exasperated.

It was funny listening to the play being read out that afternoon in Mrs Easson’s class after he’d been living the whole thing. Especially with Jingo—Jingo!—reading the Macbeth part. There was no way Jingo could ever be a hero like the Mormaer, he thought. Except that in the play Macbeth was a villain.

‘
Pr’ythee, peace
,’ Jingo pleaded in his role as Macbeth, fed up with having his wife nag him to kill Duncan. ‘
I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none
.’

Luke grinned for the first time that day. Maybe Mrs Easson had got it right. Maybe Jingo
was
like Shakespeare’s Macbeth—a big man when his mates were around him. But Luke bet that Jingo wouldn’t have the guts to do anything by himself.

‘
What beast was’t then, That made you break this enterprise to me?
’ recited Megan. ‘
When you durst do it, then you were a man
—’

Mrs Easson held up her hand. ‘Megan, Lady Macbeth is angry, she’s trying to shame her husband into acting. She’s even more evil than he is. Try to put more passion into it.’

Megan raised her chin. ‘I don’t think she’s evil. She’s just stuck with him and trying to make the best of it.’

‘Interesting. All right then, that’s your assignment for Friday. You can explain to us why you think Lady Macbeth isn’t evil.’

Megan blinked. ‘But I was supposed to talk about the poetic language!’

‘I’m sure you can work out a new ten-minute talk,’ said Mrs Easson easily.

Luke wondered if she was getting back at Megan for not agreeing with her. It was hard to tell with teachers. Sometimes they seemed to get off on your arguing, other times it just set them off.

He glanced at Megan. She didn’t seem upset by the new assignment. Just thoughtful, as though she might actually
want
to do the extra work.

Mrs Easson looked at her watch, which got half the class checking theirs as well. Then the bell went.

When shall we three meet again?

(
Macbeth
, Act I, Scene 1, line 1)

Luke lay in bed waiting for sleep, the smell of not-quite-roses all around him. Mrs T had sprayed his room again.

He’d been all ready to go back to the computer, to read more about what really happened to Macbeth and Lulach. But somehow he couldn’t. He wanted to
live
it, not read about it.

Last night he had read about Macbeth’s life. But his death would be there as well. Lulach’s too.

Duh! Of course they’re dead, dimwit, he told himself. It was a thousand years ago. You saw the dates last night. When Lulach was born, when he died.

But…but he couldn’t just
read
the rest of the story. It’d be like reading what his own life would be like: who he’d marry…

…how he’d die.

No, he couldn’t do it.

If the dream didn’t come tonight, maybe…maybe…he’d look up more of the story then.

It was hard to get to sleep when you were waiting for it to come. Luke rolled over onto his stomach.

‘Sleep…sleep…
Macbeth does murther Sleep…
’ The play’s words kept sticking in his mind.

Maybe if he counted sheep. No, something Scottish. He tried to think. Haggises? No, they weren’t animals, and anyway, he didn’t know what they looked like. Bagpipes, perhaps…or deer…

There had been a deer in that first dream…

Deer upon the hillside, a cluster of birch trees in a hollow, a brown stream running shallow through the grass, rocks weathered to strange shapes, their shadows waiting to pounce upon the white mist flooding up the gullies.

White mist…no, thought Luke drowsily, not mist at all. The whiteness was sheep…but close up they were more brown than white. He hadn’t meant to think of sheep, but here they were…

This castle hath a pleasant seat…

(
Macbeth
, Act I, Scene 6, line 1)

The sheep ran down the track towards the stream.

‘
Baa!
’ they cried indignantly. ‘
Baaa!
’

They were small, with big horns and black faces and straggly wool.

‘Head them back to the pool!’ yelled one of the shepherds.

Finally the sheep were pushed into the water. They struggled across the pool and up the bank on the far side.

Kenneth laughed. ‘There’s nothing soggier than a wet sheep,’ he said. Half his face was brown, the other puckered red. Kenneth must have recovered, just like Lulach’s mother had said.

Lulach grinned. ‘I imagine one of them will be our dinner at the abbey tonight.’

Lulach was much older—a few years older than Luke perhaps. Ten years or so must have passed, Luke realised. Other things had changed as well. These days Lulach wore fine woollen cloth, striped
red and blue and yellow. His cloak was held with a silver brooch, and there were rings on his fingers. Even Kenneth wore gold rings now.

Their retinue rode behind them—guards, equerries (in charge of the horses), cup bearers, singers, pipers, even a troupe of jugglers in case the King got bored. Lulach had his own guard now too, and his own equerry—his old foster brother Knut, who had left the monastery the year before to join him.

It was a different land now too. The green hills were the same, and so was the soft dim sky. But the men who chased the sheep were young and well fed. They’d grown up in peace, not been starved in times of war.

Lulach and his men cantered on, leaving the shepherds and their flock behind but keeping close to the stream.

Long-haired black cattle grazed on the hills above them, like moving black boulders, and cloud shadows raced across the grass.

The stream grew broader and deeper. Fields stretched out on either side: barley, wheat and oats on the high lands, with kale, onions and leeks lower down. When the grain was harvested in a few months’ time the cattle would be put to graze on the stubble.

The fields all belonged to the abbey—a gift from the King to enable the monks to feed the poor. No one starved during winter these days. Not under the rule of King Macbeth.

Lulach could see the abbey now: the big wooden main hall, the farm buildings, the church, the hospital with its separate building for the lepers, the
high stone walls that would protect the herb beds, vegetable gardens and orchards from the harshest of the cold winds and, nearest of all, the lower stone walls of the community’s guesthouse.

Tomorrow he’d be next to the King while he sat in judgment. Lulach looked forward to days like this. The King relied on the laws, of course, when he settled people’s quarrels about inheritance or cattle theft. But he used his wisdom as well. Lulach thought he learned as much about his stepfather on such days as he did about the laws of Alba. And these days, he thought with pride, the King sometimes listened to Lulach’s advice too.

Lulach had learned to read fluently these past few years. The laws that the people of Alba had brought over from Ireland were fascinating. Law was what protected the powerless, and made sure each person had equal access to land and care when they were sick. The law laid down how criminals should be punished. What other nations, Lulach sometimes thought with pride, had laws like these?

A gong sounded deep inside the abbey, a single stroke to mark the quarter hour, so that the neighbourhood would know what time it was.

Children ran to meet the royal party as they entered the abbey gate, laughing with excitement at the newcomers. One of the royal jugglers pulled a handful of knucklebones from his saddle bag. He tossed them in the air and caught them in a cascade while the children squealed with delight.

Out in the fields, their parents, the tenants of the abbey lands, stopped and waved or cheered.

‘God bless our king! God bless our King Macbeth!’

It’s a land of law and children now, thought Lulach, as they rodeup to the abbey gate. If there was smoke on the wind these days it was from hearth cakes cooking or baking fish, not burning crops.

Even the seasons had been kind, men said, in these golden years of King Macbeth.

Lulach had been right. The guesthouse dinner was a grand one. Roast mutton as predicted, roast beef, roast swan, a giant salmon baked in a wicker basket over the fire, stuffed herrings, stewed eels from the abbey ponds, fresh heather ale, puddings of leeks and almonds or mushrooms with green cheese, oatcakes and fresh wheat bread.

The Abbot himself was fasting and didn’t join them at the feast. Lulach sat at the High Table next to the King. No one approached the High Table unless the King beckoned. That small distance was the only privacy the King had these days.

The pipers finished their tune and began another, while a team of jugglers ran in, tossing their batons to each other. Lulach reached for a hunk of salmon. The juice dripped onto his trencher and he licked his fingers. He offered some to the King.

Macbeth took the fish absently. He had spoken little all through the meal. Suddenly he said, ‘I got a letter last se’enight.’

‘Sire?’ The King received many letters, ten or more in a month, from lords or envoys abroad—even from the Vatican in Rome, where he had recently visited.

‘From Thorfinn,’ added Macbeth.

Lulach froze. Suddenly he knew exactly what the letter was about. ‘His daughter?’

‘She’s thirteen,’ said the King. ‘High time she was married.’

Lulach put down the fish. He’d suddenly lost his appetite. He had always known this day was coming, though the King had never mentioned it again after their meeting with Thorfinn.

Suddenly he remembered his mother, all those years ago, sitting on the hill with the cows and talking about duty. She had been the same age as Thorfinn’s daughter when she first married.

Did she love Father then? he thought suddenly. Or did she marry him from duty? For some reason that had never occurred to him before.

These days Queen Gruoch spent most of her time supervising Moray, acting as the mormaer she had never wanted to be. She was rarely able to spend time with the King and his tanist.

More duty, thought Lulach. Well, this is mine. He’d been waiting for this day since the handshake in the rain, all those years before. To help keep the land peaceful, to keep the alliance with Thorfinn safe.

‘Will we be married at Scone?’ he asked, as though unconcerned. ‘Or in Moray?’

The King looked relieved. Perhaps he was expecting an argument, thought Lulach. ‘Neither. Her father wishes her to be married from home. He doesn’t want her sailing off till she’s a married woman.’ The King raised an eyebrow. ‘It could be done by proxy, if you’d rather.’

Royalty were often married by proxy before they left home, with someone standing in for them at the ceremony.

Lulach shrugged. ‘No, sire. I’ll go myself.’

And meet Thorfinn the Raven Feeder once again, as well as his daughter. The dream of the blackened skull hardly came at all these days. But it was still hard to accept the idea of his father’s killer as his father-in-law.

‘Good.’ The King gave a half smile. ‘Thorfinn is easily offended.’

Thorfinn had recently declared himself independent of the Norwegian king—no longer the Norse earl of the Orkney Islands, but their king. Thorfinn had also fought alongside Macbeth’s troops when King Duncan’s son, Malcolm, had tried to seize the throne. Malcolm had been a child when Duncan had been killed. Now he was old enough to be king, and his English uncle was helping him. No, thought Lulach, you wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Thorfinn.

‘Thorfinn’s been a good ally,’ the King went on. ‘And who knows when we’ll need him again.’

Malcolm had been living down in England, at the court of the English king, Edward. Like other English kings, Edward believed that God had ordained that a king’s son should become king after his father died—even if he were stupid or insane. King Edward was horrified at the very idea of electing a king. He was pleased to support a rebellion that would get rid of such dangerous ideas on his doorstep.

If Malcolm gained the throne he’d get rid of the elections too. He was half English, and had grown up there. What did he care for Alba’s laws?

But Malcolm had failed. He’d fled back down south to England.

Lulach had been too young for that war. He was glad. And with Thorfinn as an ally, hopefully Scotland
would be too strong for Malcolm ever to attack again, even with English help.

‘I’ve heard a little about Thorfinn’s daughter,’ the King continued. ‘Her name is Thora. They say she’s beautiful.’

‘Every earl’s daughter is supposed to be beautiful,’ returned Lulach, trying to keep his voice light. ‘She’s probably fat like her father.’ With warts too, he thought gloomily.

‘Perhaps she takes after her mother. Her mother died, you know, two years ago. Thorfinn has married again.’

The King threw a mutton bone to his favourite hound. The dog grabbed it and began to gnaw at it under the table.

The King laid his hand on Lulach’s. ‘If she’s hideous you can leave her with your mother. Visit her once a year to breed your sons. They say she’s fond of animals,’ he added encouragingly, spearing a chunk of greasy eel with his knife. ‘That shows she must have a good heart.’

Fond of animals? Lulach imagined Thorfinn’s daughter watching her hawk rise from her wrist to pluck smaller birds from the sky and tear them into pieces. Or maybe she enjoyed bear baiting…

‘I’d better head north soon,’ he said casually. ‘While the weather holds.’

The King relaxed slightly and nodded. They watched as one of the jugglers added the halfstripped sheep’s head to his batons, and then a roast leg of mutton too, while the courtiers laughed and the dogs underneath the table drooled and hoped he’d drop it all.