Macbeth the King (30 page)

MacBeth stoutly maintained that there was no defensive situation, natural or man-made, which patience and ingenuity could not turn.

An hour or so's inspection, with the forenoon sun dispersing the morning mists, and the King sat his garron, very thoughtful.

"It is difficult, I grant you," he told his lieutenants, at last. "Complicated. But not impossible, I think. The door is only as strong as its lock and bar. The lock, here, is the defending force. Weaken them, and we may open the door. We cannot reach them, to fight. But we can disperse them, thin them out. Their weakness is lack of numbers, compared with ours. We must use our numbers to stretch them, so that they are thinned, everywhere. Then we choose our own place to cross in strength. These woodlands can hide our numbers and moves, as well as the enemy's."

Doubtfully the others eyed him.

"See you." MacBeth warmed to his theme. "We have 3000 men. I doubt whether they will have 300. Crinan would not dispose large numbers here, when he has so much to guard—all the northern passes, where he would look for us. There is much that we can do to thin out their defence. There is a mile of this gully and trough beyond. Not all of it could be crossed but we can force them to line most of it. Then there are the boggy glens to the north. We can send some hundred up there, to try to turn their flank. We may not achieve it—but it will mean the Athollmen sending more to prevent it. Then, at the other side, the south, is this loch—Craiglush, covering that flank. There is wood everywhere around. To make rafts. When they see us building these, they must detach more men to guard the loch-shore..."

"Rafts!" Neil exclaimed. "Saints save us—that will take an age of time! To fell and drag and build sufficient to carry hundreds..."

"None so long, man. We have plenty of axemen—war-axes, but they will serve. Plenty of horses to draw the wood. Ropes from twisted bracken. Besides, we have the time. Our main object is to split Crinan's army, draw part of it up to Dunkeld, then defeat it. We must give him time to come to us—since we do not mean to go to him!
We
choose the battle-ground. He has to come fifteen miles, and the Tay to cross—and will not yet know that we are here. The fight may not be until tomorrow. We have time and to spare."

Young Martacus of Mar, who was seldom far from MacBeth's side, spoke up hesitantly and yet eagerly. "Trees," he said. "F'fallen trees close g'gorges and choke valleys, in winter spates. F'fell many trees. Not only for rafts. Trim them and roll them down these steep banks. Some will float away, but more will catch and hold. Pile up. Fell scores, hundreds. Roll them down at many points. They will build up. Choke the gullies. And men may cross over. Like bridges, lord King—like bridges." He stammered a little breathlessly, in his excitement.

"God's sake, Martacus—you have it!" MacBeth cried. "A notion, indeed. Man—you have a head on those shoulders! We shall make my uncle's trees fight for us. Back to Bothar-stone then, and bring on our people. The axemen are going to be busy..."

So that sunny August forenoon the Wood of Drumbuie resounded to the chop of axes, the crash of falling trees—mainly birches—and the shouts of men, with little of the atmosphere of war about it all. Garrons dragged the logs to roll down the banks, or took them to the loch-shore, parties probed up into the hills, and all" along the mile-long trough there was activity.

There was little sign of the enemy, apart from a group of about two-score who waited near the first bridge-end, presumably the leadership. These were equipped with bows, and every now and again shot a few arrows across, as warning to their opponents to keep their distance. Clearly the far end of this bridge was prepared for swift demolition, with ropes tied to props and supports, which could be dragged away from a safe distance should the royal troops try to rush it. Elsewhere men could be glimpsed amongst the trees, now and again, but no other grouping was evident save up in the glens to the north where the ground was less thickly wooded and considerable movement could be seen amongst the scrub.

MacBeth kept riding to and fro along the entire two miles or so of this front, from the heights to the loch-shore. The marshy edges of the latter were far from ideal for raft launching, with a state of more mud than water rapidly becoming established. But quite a number of figures could be seen watching from the far shore half-a-mile off. Up in the glens the prospects for any real attack were still less auspicious, with the floors so waterlogged that any crossing against opposition, especially against archers, would be scarcely practicable. It was the central sector that encouraged him, where Martacus's log-jams were proving effective. Five points had been chosen for the tips, two below the bridge, three above, well spaced out. The ravine had an enormous appetite for tree-trunks and branches admittedly, seeming to swallow up vast quantities of timber with little evident result. But they had, after all, hundreds of woodcutters, hundreds of horses, and no lack of trees. Gradually the heaps and piles down at the river-level began to grow, partly damming up the water itself. And there was nothing that the enemy could do to halt the process—since any attempt at clearance on their part would expose them to MacBeth's archers. Some of the logs were carried away by the current, of course, but most of these finished up adding to lower jams. Two of the tips began to look promising, and the major efforts were switched to these.

It was in the early afternoon that a messenger came down from the glens with the information that the Athollmen there seemed to be withdrawing from their defensive positions, as far as could be seen going right back over the side of Crieff Hill. MacBeth immediately sent a runner down to the loch-shore for news from there. He came back presently with the word that the watchers on the far side of Craiglush had now disappeared.

"How say you?" the King asked his nobles. "Do they retire?

Or merely concentrate their force at these log heaps, which soon we shall be able to cross?"

He had his answer shortly afterwards. A horn sounded somewhere to the west. The Athollmen at the bridge-end began to pull on their ropes, and in only a few seconds the entire structure collapsed into the ravine with a crash. Then, without further demonstration, its former guardians turned and hurried off into the woodlands westwards.

"Gone!" MacBeth exclaimed. "They are off. They see that they cannot hold all these log-piles. Martacus—you have won the day! Without a drop of blood spilt. This, I say, the sennachies will sing of, hereafter!"

The young man flushed, wordless.

It was as MacBeth judged. By the time their advance parties had won across the awkward, makeshift bridges, there was no sign of the opposition anywhere. The way to Dunkeld was open.

* * *

By the time that they resumed their march MacBeth was already preoccupied with the next and principal problem—the choice of a battle-ground. For it never crossed his mind that his uncle would not come hot-foot to the rescue of Dunkeld. As he rode round the base of Crieff Hill, he could see the great River Tay now, smooth and dark, and beyond it the vast Wood of Birnam which climbed the steep Hill of Birnam. It was on that far side of the river that Crinan was almost certain to come, by the direct and quickest route—for there was no practical crossing of the Tay above the ford at Kinclaven, a dozen miles down, to the ford at Dunkeld, save for a boat-ferry at Caputh, useless for an army. Inevitably that name of Birnam repeated and repeated itself in MacBeth's mind. On this occasion, however, it was Dunsinane that would be coming to Birnam, not the reverse, so he had no foreboding. There was a Pass of Birnam, where the steep hill sent out a great buttress thrusting towards the Tay. But he was not looking for an ambush, however successful. That would not serve his purposes. It had to be a full-scale battle. He had to inflict a major military defeat, not win a skirmish. Or it all would have to be done again. He might lose that battle, of course—in which case he would be unlikely to survive for any second attempt.

Nevertheless, the Birnam Pass situation might have its uses. North of the pass the valley opened out again for almost a mile, to Dunkeld and its ford, and here there was something of an amphitheatre of fairly level ground, haughland and rig cultivation strips and the common grazings of the townsfolk, flanked on the east by the broad Tay and enclosed in the west by wooded hillsides. A killing-ground.

MacBeth decided that he would keep an open mind meantime. But if he did not perceive a better site, this would probably serve.

They expected to find Dunkeld itself held against them; but Neil, scouting ahead to the very edge of the town area, reported no opposition evident. Halting his force half-a-mile off, MacBeth rode forward with only a small leadership-group and escort—for he well knew the effect of an undefended town on an army such as his own. Before entering the place, he sent off Neil and his scouts again, to cross the ford—which they could see was not defended—and to probe southwards inconspicuously, looking hopefully for the advancing Crinan.

Dunkeld looked entirely normal in the afternoon sun, a sprawl of grey cot-houses with their thatched roofs and blue columns of woodsmoke, clustering round the abbey and cashel area at the riverside, and the fort and rath perched high on the crag above. But as MacBeth and his party cautiously made their entry, it was to discover only a few old folk and young children there, amidst signs of recent hasty departure. The place was abandoned by all who could get out, evidently having left at mere minutes' notice, fires left burning, pigs and poultry rooting about, even doors open. The visitors rode on to the cashel by the riverside, with its small stone abbey-church, where the clerics at least had not bolted.

The King dismounted and went forward alone to a group of silent, waiting churchmen. "I am MacBeth mac Finlay," he said. "I greet you, in peace. The good folk here appear to have fled from their King. Where have they gone? And why?"

One of the clerics, glancing at his fellows, spoke. "We
...
they did not know...who came. Did not know, lord King, that it was yourself. How could we? The word was but that a great armed host was bearing down on us. We, they feared an assault."

"Why?"

The spokesman moistened his lips. "Armed hosts are seldom gentle."

"No armed host has ungentled Dunkeld during all my reign. Why now?"

The other did not answer.

"So much for ill consciences! Are you Bishop Donnan?"

"No, Highness. The Bishop is up at the rath, yonder. With the Princess Bethoc."

"Ah. My aunt feels the need for the protection of Holy Church? She at least has not fled? Where is her husband?"

Silence.

"So be it. I shall go pay my respects to the Lady Bethoc. Meantime, my men are hungry. Of your goodness, prepare food, much food. And drink. This is a rich abbey—you will have a sufficiency. Be prepared to share it, I charge you. The Thane of Brodie, here, will arrange for it to be carried to our host."

MacBeth climbed the steep twisting track to the Dun of the Keledei. He had not been here since the day when Duncan had given him wine to drink. His thoughts were grim. So much had stemmed from that last visit. The rath or fortified hall-house stood within the ramparts of the ancient Pictish fort crowning the soaring, rocky crag, like some eagle's nest. Today, the great outer gates were shut, and all inaccessible, for it was a strong fortress.

The King drew sword and thumped on the heavy gate-timbers with its hilt. Men could be seen peering from behind the ramparts.

"Ha—porter!" he cried. "Open! Open, I say! I am MacBeth the King. I would speak with the Lady Bethoc. And the Bishop Donnan."

There was no reply. But some of the heads disappeared from view.

They had to wait a considerable time before a youngish cleric appeared on the bastion beside the gates, to stare down at them.

"You are MacBeth mac Finlay?" this man said doubtfully, as though he could scarcely credit it. "The King?"

"None other. And you are Donnan mac Colin?" The Bishop of Dunkeld was Crinan's brother's son, and ruled the abbey on behalf of his uncle. "We share an uncle I think, Bishop?" These two had never met.

"I, I greet you, lord King."

"Aye—but from a distance, it seems! Where is the said uncle?"

"He is, ah, from home."

"I had heard a whisper to that effect! How far from home, Bishop?"

"I am unsure, Highness. He has been gone...for some time."

"You say so. But—would it not be more comfortable to say so from closer at hand? Instead of keeping your monarch standing outside your door, shouting?"

"I...yes, Highness. I am sorry. But the Lady Bethoc my aunt,
your
aunt, orders that the gates remain shut. This is not
my
house..."'

"Very well. Go tell my aunt that I seek word with her."

Thankfully the bishop turned and went.

But he was soon back, his relief evaporated. "I regret it, Highness," he called down. "But the Lady Bethoc is, is otherwise occupied. She says that she has nothing to say to you, in the absence of her husband. She says to tell you that, that she has not forgotten her son Duncan! I am sorry, lord King."

MacBeth nodded. "So am I. But I understand. Tell her that I, too, have not forgotten Duncan mac Crinan! I bid you good day, Bishop. Perhaps we shall meet again in better comfort, before long."

It was late afternoon, and MacBeth was eating his share of the less than sumptuous provision hastily scraped together by the Friends of God, as the Keledei were styled, when Neil's courier arrived hot-foot. A great host had been sighted marching from the south, crossing the extensive Muir of Thorn. It was some six miles off, three miles beyond the far mouth of the Pass of Birnam. The Thane of Cawdor was keeping it under observation, hidden in the woodlands.

Before the man had finished MacBeth was calling for his horn-blowers to sound the alarm.

Having thought of no better plan of operation, he put his original scheme into immediate action. His force was divided into three unequal portions. 400 were sent to block the Pass, Neil to be recalled to command; 600 to go beyond, swiftly but on foot, to hide in the tree-clad hillsides along the line of the road southwards. The remaining 2000, with all the horses, MacBeth himself took to rim the great amphitheatre of open ground between the pass area and the ford of Tay—Dunkeld town being on the north side of the river. These he disposed amongst the trees of Birnam Wood. There was a sufficiency of cover, at any rate, in South Atholl, for any tactician. All his commanders knew their tasks, having been well briefed beforehand, in case no better project presented itself. Which was as well, for time was now short.