Macbeth the King (32 page)

"Retreat? The rest of the rebels? Soul of God—that may mean that Crinan has reached them. And is hastening back to Dunsinane. For whatever force remains there."

"Not Crinan, no. That traitor lord lies back there. He will lead no more rebellions, Brother."

"You mean...dead? Crinan is slain?"

"Most certainly. I slew him myself."

"You...!"

Neil Nathrach grinned, grimly. "To be sure. He tried to ride through us. Fleeing. He was dragged from his horse. And brought to me. I soiled my dirk with him, there and then!"

"Neil—you slew him? Captured! Not, not in fight?"

"I did. He had to die, Brother. I feared that
you
would not slay him. Grown too nice! Although I have seen the day when you were otherwise! So long as that man lived you and your throne would be in danger. He was a traitor, and father and grandsire of those who would bring you down. It was the cleanest way. Better than captivity and trials and intrigues. Was it not?"

MacBeth stared at his half-brother, silent.

"Come, then. I will take you to the body..."

It was only a few hundred yards. There at the side of the trampled, bloodstained roadway, a little apart from any other dead, lay Crinan mac Duncan, on his back, as noble-seeming in death as he had been in life, features calm, aloof. Someone had crossed his arms on his chest, partly hiding the blood.

MacBeth sank down on one knee beside the body, face wiped clean of expression. "Should I mourn him?" he demanded, of no one in particular. "He was my aunt's husband. Father of my cousins. Primate of Holy Church. One of the lesser Kings of Alba."

"He was a traitor. He rose against the
High
King."

"He never swore allegiance to me. Never acknowledged me as King. I slew his son. Now...this!"

"So I slew Crinan—lest you would not! He was no uncle of mine! You should have dealt with him long ago. Then so many others need not have died."

MacBeth rose. "Have his body carried back to Dunkeld. To the Lady Bethoc. With care and due dignity. He was a Prince of Scotland. I will go on, see how it fares with Murdoch and the rest..."

Well beyond the pass-mouth they found Murdoch of Oykell himself, with most of his original force, Neil's detachment and the reinforcements—and no sign of the enemy save for prisoners and wounded. The rebels were in full retreat, he announced. There had been little real fighting. None seemed to have been in command of the tail of the column, lengthy as it was. They themselves, as ordered, had been content with making a demonstration of strength and preventing the Atholl-men from pressing forward to rejoin the front of their army. But when fleeing men began to come along from the north, they deliberately let them through, or some of them, to carry the tale of disaster. Quickly thereafter the panic spread, and the rebels began to stream away southwards, in small parties and large. Murdoch had a mounted squadron out behind them, keeping them on the run. And to send back word if there was any stand made. But that he judged highly improbable. These leaderless heroes would not halt until they were safely back the dozen miles to Dunsinane.

MacBeth accepted that, but sent forward an additional contingent to assist in the matter. Then he and his lieutenants turned back.

At the battle-field they found at least a semblance of order , being established, prisoners being marshalled, the wounded being roughly cared for, the dead laid out in rows, friend and foe, arms and booty being stacked. The captives amounted to many hundreds, more having surrendered than died, although undoubtedly not a few had escaped by swimming the river. There was considerable debate as to what to do with them. They were mainly Athollmen of course, although there were some from other mortuaths. MacBeth had no doubts. Let them go, disarmed, he commanded. They had learned their lesson, and would be loth to rise in rebellion again. They were, to be sure, all his subjects.

Their leaders, however ineffective, were a different matter. Five thanes and half-a-dozen lesser chieftains had been captured alive, but mostly wounded. Of the thanes, three were of Atholl—Glentilt, Dull and Fandowie. The other two were Kinnear, from Fife and Strowan from Strathearn.

The King had them brought before him. He dealt with the three Athollmen first. He looked at them long and hard, frowning.

"Have you anything to say?" he asked, at length.

The youngest, Thane of Fandowie, slight, pale from loss of blood, spoke. "Lord King, the Lord Crinan our Mormaor, commanded it. Ordered that we raise our men and join him. We could do no other."

"I say that you could. Had you refused to rise against your King, he could not have forced you. You, Dull—say you the same?"

"I say only—mercy, Highness."

Glentilt stared ahead of him, unspeaking.

"Very well. Since you are all thanes of Crinan's, obeying his command, even though I could have your lives, as rebels and traitors, I shall be merciful. You will be banished my realm henceforth. During my pleasure. Go where you will, outwith Scotland, from my sight. Take them away."

Neil of Cawdor, nearby, snorted his disapproval.

"Now these other two," the King said. "Cosgreg of Kinnear and Kerald of Strowan. You both I know. You have supped at my table. What
have you
to say?"

"Mercy, lord King," the first faltered.

The Strathearn thane, although twisted with the pain of multiple wounds, glared proudly ahead and scorned to plead.

"You both saw me seated on the Stone of Destiny. Both came thereafter and swore allegiance to me, before God, as your High King. These others did not. They were not present that day. Yet you have risen in arms against me. I say that you are foresworn traitors and should die. Can you deny it?"

Neither found words.

"So be it. I offer you this mercy only. Your own swords. Take them, if you will. And fall on them. Or else hang. Choose you."

There were swift breaths drawn, and gulps, not only on the part of the prisoners. None spoke.

"Neil of Cawdor—this is work for
you,
is it not? Take them. At once. See to it. I have better things to do. And let these lesser men go. Like the others."

Turning abruptly on his heel, MacBeth called for his horse.

Gunnar Hound Tooth
presented himself at the House of Spynie just as the pitch-pine torches were being lit in the lesser hall, with the fading of the grey early November daylight, and caught up young Cormac, now five years old, in one great hand, and his little sister Eala in the other, to raise them high and shake them at each other, like dolls, to their yells of mirth. He was now in his seventieth year but, if bent a little about the shoulders, still as strong as an ox. Continuing to hold the children up, he made what served him for a bow towards Gruoch—something he could never bring himself to do for MacBeth—and grinned.

"Lady—how is it that you grow younger with each year? Unlike others. And with these two warriors to wear you down? Not to mention those three other sons of yours!"

"Flatterer! You must be wanting something, Gunnar? What could a Viking want of a woman in her middle years—when, if all we hear is true, he lacks not for youngling queans yonder at Torfness! Even at three-score-years and ten!" Gruoch, now thirty-five, indeed grew the more lovely as the years passed, despite her five children, of a serene dark beauty.

"Ach, the best wine is that kept for a while, woman, I say! More taste and body!"

"As well that my husband is not from home, Pirate, or you might sweep me off my unsteady feet! Where have you come from? I thought that you were in Orkney."

"I left the Brough of Birsay yesternoon. And landed at the borg two hours back."

"So-o-o! And you come here thus soon. You must be in haste, then—not just to trade flattery with silly women!"

He set the children down. "There is some call for haste, yes."

"Cormac—go for your father..."

"No need." MacBeth appeared in the doorway. "I heard that the
Dorus Neamh
suffered raiders! Greetings, old friend. I did not know that you were back. It is good to see you, always."

"I am just come, King."

"And in haste. He only left Orkney yesterday noon," the Queen said.

"Tidings from Thorfinn?"

"Trouble," the old Viking answered briefly.

"Trouble? It is not like the Raven Feeder to admit trouble. Only to make it! What is this?"

"It is that Rognvald Brusison again. And this new King of Norway, Magnus Olafson. Kings can be as the plague, King!"

"The Earl Rognvald? I thought that all was settled with that young man."

"So thought we all. But Magnus has stirred him up again. Using him against his uncle. To try to win Thorfinn's allegiance to Norway, a curse on him!"

"Come you," Gruoch said to the children. "Men's talk. You will eat with us presently, Gunnar?"

Rognvald Brusison was Thorfinn's nephew. Sigurd the Stout of Orkney had had three sons by a previous wife before he married Malcolm's daughter Donada, and so produced Thorfinn—Somerled, Brusi and Einar. That was why Malcolm had given his grandson Caithness and Sutherland for an inheritance—since he could not hold them safe himself against the Norse and Orkney raiders. Sigurd, however, had divided Orkney and Zetland amongst the four sons—ensuring endless dispute, with Thorfinn, as he grew older, tending to win more and more. The three elder half-brothers were all dead now, Somerled and Einar leaving no heirs. But Brusi had left a son, this Rognvald, and sent him to Norway for safety. Canute had sought to use the boy's claims to part of Orkney—he was the son of an elder brother, after all—to bring pressure to bear on Thorfinn to acknowledge him as his sovereign lord and pay his due tribute to Norway. With marked lack of success. At Canute's death, however, Thorfinn had voluntarily recognised that his nephew had some rights in the matter and settled some of the less valuable and populous Orkney isles upon him. And Magnus Olaf-son, attaining the Norse throne, had created him earl. For seven years there had been peace between uncle and nephew, with Rognvald in Norway most of the time. Now, it seemed, Magnus was emulating Canute.

"Thorfinn believes this move to endanger him?" MacBeth wondered, scarcely believingly.

"More than believes! The danger is there. Magnus gave Rognvald a fleet of longships and many men. He sailed north-about, by Iceland, gained more men and ships there from Thorfinn's unfriends, and drove south for the Hebrides. There he has slain the Earl Gillaciaran and defeated in battle the son Somerled. He now holds Colonsay and Islay and Coll and other isles. And is believed to be intending to join with Echmarcach of Dublin and Man, and other Irishry, to bring down Thorfinn himself."

"Saints alive—and I have heard naught of this! But what of Thorfinn himself? He has not sat idle through all this, surely?"

"He was in Galloway when he gained word of the fleet at Iceland. Thorkell Fosterer sent him word that something was amiss and he had better come home. He dared not bring a large force with him—for he has to watch your Cumbrian border, with that Siward, like a hawk. So he came fast and alone, with only a couple of longships. The Fosterer sent for me, with all I could bring from Torfness. Others likewise. The Earl is mustering a great force and fleet. And sends me to you, King."

MacBeth went to throw a log on the fire, frowning. There had been two years of peace since Crinan's death. Siward had not struck in force—although he had nibbled away at Cumbria, and even Teviotdale and the Merse, his feud with Earl Godwin of Wessex continuing to preoccupy him. The last thing that MacBeth wanted was to become involved in war, at this stage, and against the Norse. His realm was prospering, the benefits of peace like a benison on the land, law and order established as never before. Yet—could he turn down his brother's call for aid? Thorfinn had never failed in his help, when needed—even when not needed!

"What does he want of me?" he asked, reluctantly.

"No great deal. The Raven Feeder does not plead aid from any man. He would but have you go to Galloway. With some strength. And let it be known that you go. It is to your own advantage. Lest Siward and that Maldred think that they can strike while Thorfinn is occupied elsewhere. But if you are there, Echmarcach of Dublin will think twice of moving against him. If you gather all the shipping of Galloway. Facing Man. He will not dare go to Rognvald's aid, with the King of Scots and a fleet only twenty-five miles from Man."

MacBeth nodded. "That I can do, at least. Might well do anyway. But—it is late in the season for campaigning. Especially by sea."

"Yet Rognvald
chose
to strike now. Perhaps Magnus could not let him have the men and ships earlier. He arrived at Iceland only three weeks ago."

"And what is he doing now? Since defeating young Somerled?"

"He is taking over the other islands, one by one, in the Hebrides—Mull, Tiree, Jura, Rhum, Eigg. The Outer Isles, likewise. So that he has a firm base from which to threaten Thorfinn. If he can hold the Western Isles, in alliance with the Danes of Ireland and Echmarcach, and with Iceland threatening from the north and Norway from the east, Orkney could be in the claws of a lobster! In especial, if Siward took a hand."

"Very well. I will start for Galloway as soon as I have gathered a force. And leave King Echmarcach in no doubts of my intentions."

"Good. The Raven Feeder will do the rest..."

It took only three days to scrape together a token force of men from Moray and Ross, amounting to about one thousand. Most men, like their masters the thanes and chiefs, were indeed glad enough at the prospect. With the last of the harvest long in, the beasts back from the high shielings pastures, there was not a lot of man's work to be done at this time of year. And peace, however satisfactory for women, bairns, churchmen—and the King—began to pall on the active of the male sex. Chopping, carting and sawing logs for the fires, cutting reeds for thatch, digging peats, smoking meat and brewing and drinking ale and spirits—these a man can quickly tire of.

It was a long way to Galloway, nearly 200 miles even as the crow flew; and the highest passes were already under snow. MacBeth chose to march down the Great Glen to the Western Sea at Lochaber, with no really lofty heights to cross. There he engaged Thane Ewan—now much in his debt through having been granted considerable portions of the former Breadalbane territory consequent on the death of its rebel lord—to gather together every available vessel from a lengthy and quite populous sea-board fit to make the voyage to Galloway. Ewan of Lochaber was prepared to do this, but not to provide men for the expedition; for he had ominous tidings from the north and the islands, in especial that the Earl Rognvald had now captured the great and important island of Skye, only fifty miles to the north, and even made raids on the mainland at Ardna-murchan—which was much too close for comfort. The thane required all his manpower for home defence.