Macbeth the King (38 page)

"There might be a further inducement, I think. Orkney, Zetland and the Hebrides."

"Heaven, be good! What do you mean, man?"

"To whom does the Church in Orkney and the Isles adhere? If to any!"

"God only knows that!"

"Almighty God, yes. And the Earl Thorfinn! Our Columban Church has no least hold there. Our Columban missionaries took the Gospel there once, however, from Iona. Then the pagan Norsemen came and burned the churches and slew the saints.
In
the Orcades and Hebrides. But now, Norway and Denmark pay at least lip-service to Rome. What of the Norse in the Isles?"

"I know not," the King admitted. "My brother is little concerned, I fear."

"So, Highness—if
you
do not know, is Leo in Rome like to know?"

"I see much possibility here," Gruoch said. "Thorfinn might come to your aid, my dear, at little cost. As you went to his, against Rognvald."

Ewan of Abernethy was always cool, detached, scholarly in manner. Now even his careful voice took on a persuasive note.

"Hear me, my lord. The churches and cashels in the Orcades, few as they may be, in fact pay allegiance to none in matters of governance. Certainly they pay none to our Church. Yet, if this Bishop of Durham can claim that Galloway was a mission from Lindisfarne, and the diocese set up three centuries ago a Romish one, then so can we claim that the Orcades were a mission from Iona, and so should remain an extension of the Celtic Church. In truth it is not so—any more than Galloway is Roman. But here you have something to trade with the Pope, have you not?"

"Devil burn me!" Glamis cried. "This is beyond all. Trade! I ever said churchmen were traders at heart! But to trade with no goods and empty pouch."

"It is shrewdly judged, yes," MacBeth acceded. "But I have no authority in Orkney or Zetland. It is not Scots territory."

"But in name the
Hebrides
are Scots, Highness—even if Earl Thorfinn controls most of them. The Earl, therefore is all-important in this. If he would say that his territories might acknowledge Rome rather than the Celtic Church—then you have what you need to trade with the Pope."

"What has he to lose?" Gruoch asked. "The Norse acknowledge the Pope. It would be but a gesture on his part. And greatly aid you."

MacBeth agreed. He would go to Galloway in a day or two, where Thorfinn was presently summering—to see if he would concur, whilst Abbot Ewan proceeded to Rome.

"I? To Rome?" It was the churchman's turn to stare.

"Yes. Who else so able? Who better to persuade the Pope? It has to be a cleric. Is any more apt to the task? You must go, and so soon as you may. Before the English do. You said so, did you not?"

The abbot looked doubtful.

"Meanwhile I shall at once make over these forfeited Fife lands to the Church. So that all, not only the Pope, will perceive my strong support of our Celtic faith."

That MacBeth and
Thorfinn, with the Abbot Ewan in attendance, should be setting sail from Torfness some nine months later, for Rome via Scandinavia, was a development none of them could have foreseen that previous September day at Cairn Beatha, many circumstances being out with the control of even monarchs, Viking earls and the like. The Earl Siward of Northumbria and Deira was reliably reported to be seriously ill; King Magnus Olafson of Norway had been brought down by his own people, and was now superseded by a man of very different character, Sven Estridson, Canute's sister's son, who had first grasped the throne of Denmark and now Norway also; and the Abbot Ewan was but recently returned from his visit to Rome, his embassage only partly successful, bringing with him an urgent invitation from the Pope Leo for MacBeth to come to discuss their problems with him in person. The Archbishops of York and Canterbury had indeed appealed to the Vatican over the Galloway situation; and Thorfinn had cheerfully agreed to go through the motions of accepting the Pontiff as spiritual head of the Church in his domains—albeit with hooted asides.

So now, with Siward ill and an appeal in hand to the Pope, there seemed little likelihood of any invasion of Scotland for the time being, and MacBeth felt that he could risk leaving his country, for undoubtedly the English pressure on Rome required to be countered. Equally certainly, the swiftest means of reaching Italy was by sea, and in a Viking longship. Thorfinn desired to see the new King of Norway, to make sure that he appreciated the especial and independent position of Orkney and Zetland, and to convince Sven if possible that Iceland too could do with a good, strong governor or viceroy—namely himself. He was prepared to sail MacBeth to Rome and there say his piece about the Orkney Church, if his brother would first accompany him to Norway and support him with King Sven. At the speed he proposed to travel, he reckoned that they could do all within six weeks. For purposes of prestige, if not threat, as well as to carry ample spare rowing-crews to maintain maximum pace, he was using no fewer than six of his fastest longships.

Since MacBeth and Gruoch had been crowned jointly and she was a queen-regnant rather than just a queen-consort, it was unnecessary for any council of regency to be appointed during the monarch's absence. Gruoch would rule very well, assisted by Lulach and the high officers of state, Chancellor Malduin, Glamis the Constable and O'Beolain of Applecross the Sennachie, supported by the Council of Mormaors—less Martacus of Mar who, with Farquhar, was travelling with the King. Paul and Erland Thorfinnson were also making the journey, each commanding a longship. So the expedition looked like being a lively one. Ingebiorg had come south to keep Gruoch company at the House of Spynie.

They had an impressive send-off, with what seemed to be a large proportion of the Moray population present, not to mention the Norse garrison of the Borg and all the notabilities, to wish them God-speed. It was the first time in memory or tradition that a King of Scots had left his own realm, save to go into England or on a foray to the Irish coast, and considerable was the excitement, in the bright May sunshine of the Eve of the Ascension.

The Boar Banner of Scotland flying at the high dragon-prow of Thorfinn's flagship—although the Raven flew higher, at the masthead—oars flashing to churn and spray white water, they led the squadron out to sea in spirited style, gongs beating, horns ululating and men bellowing the rowers' chants. They might not be going hosting or to war, but Thorfinn and his people at least were convinced that it was to be a triumph of some sort.

They headed due north-east, and with a fair south-west breeze behind them did not fail to keep up a spanking pace suitable for Thorfinn's reputation. There was really no need for the oars, but the Earl kept up with the rowing as a matter of principle, asserting that rowers were there to row and that idle men on a long voyage grew fat and soft. He aimed to maintain 200 miles a day throughout—that is, from sunrise to sunrise—but if this wind lasted, they should see the Norwegian coast well before nightfall the next day. They were out of sight of Scotland in just over the hour.

It made an exhilarating experience, in the best sailing weather of the year, with the Norse Sea not gentle but less daunting than usual, sun, high cloud and consistent winds. Each ship had two spare oar-crews, so all were fairly crowded; and to pass the time there were races between the vessels—the dragon-ship never actually losing—singing, wrestling bouts on the high stern-platforms where even the rowers could watch and wager, and other activities. The crews were changed every hour. Rowing was halted during the hours of darkness, but these were brief indeed in late May so near the Arctic Circle, and the stars always pale. Men slept where they might, in net hammocks, on decks and platforms, on gangways and rowing-benches, propped against bulwarks, wrapped in cloaks, plaids and skins beneath the great straining raven-painted square sails.

MacBeth had never before made a voyage out-of-sight of land, and found the novel experience much to his taste. There was a remarkable and welcome feeling of suspension of concern and responsibility, a timeless and carefree atmosphere in which he could forget that he was a reigning monarch—and the Vikings certainly did not make a point of reminding him of the fact.

He was, indeed, almost disappointed when, the following afternoon shouts of triumph greeted sightings of land ahead—which could only be the Norwegian coast. Thorfinn, in contrast, was delighted, declaring it the fastest passage even he had ever made, and indicating that his excellent navigation had much to do with it. That would be the point of Stattlandetnes, he declared—almost 500 miles in thirty-two hours. Was there anyone else in Christendom, in all the world, who could rival that? His brother was prepared to allow him his exultation.

They turned considerably more into the north now, along a coast that looked remarkably similar to that of Western Scotland and the Hebrides, mountains and cliffs, islands and skerries, with the yawning mouths of sea-lochs opening frequently. Sundown found them passing between the islands of Hitra and Froya, which masked the mouth of the Trondheim Fiord. Here, in a sheltered bay, the flotilla anchored, Thorfinn announcing that the fiord was long and winding and not to be negotiated in poor light—Nidaros, their destination, chief place of Norway, being some thirty miles up.

Sunrise saw them probing in line astern up the black waters of the shadowy abyss that was the fiord, between soaring rock walls of mountains which were now seen to be very different from the Scottish ones, much more steep and barren, those inland ahead of them still snow-capped, denying the light of the stripling sun to the entire seaboard. Where there was any coastal plain, it was forested with dark pines and the light green stippling of opening birch; but all above was bare rock, mist-wraiths and cascading white water. Of inhabitants there appeared to be few signs, no villages save for a small fishing-haven or two at boat-strands or timber jetties, with scattered farms amongst the foothills.

Nevertheless, presently when the sun had burst over the lofty snowfields ahead, transforming the scene with its level brilliance, it was to be seen that blue smoke columns were ascending into the morning air from headlands and eminences on both sides of the fiord.

"So the sluggards have awakened!" Thorfinn commented. "They warn belatedly the strangers' approach. This Sven Woman's-son can be but an indifferent hero, I say! Had it been I who dwelt here, and six strange longships headed up my coast and into my fiord, I would have had this place blocked long ere this, and a score of ships challenging."

"Perhaps your raven-device is sufficiently known even here, and respected?" his brother suggested.

"Known, no doubt. Respected, perhaps. But scarce welcomed, I swear! Magnus Olafson, I think, would not have welcomed me!"

"They say that this Sven is a very different man..."

In a couple of hours of uninterrupted rowing, with still no sign of other shipping in either welcome or opposition, the fiord took a major bend to the south, and widening notably thereafter revealed a distinctly different scene, hitherto hidden by thrusting hill-shoulders. Here there was a great basin before the fiord narrowed again north-eastwards, with the mountains drawing back, green foothill pastures and more gently-rising forests clothing the mountainsides. At the southern edge of the water a town, not large, clustered, where the Nid River joined the fiord, with its jetties, warehouses, curing-sheds and boatbuilding yards around a narrow-necked but seemingly sizeable harbour.

"Is that the principal town of all Norway?" MacBeth wondered. "Even Torfness is larger."

"The Norse are not folk for living in towns," his brother said. "There are but the three cities in all Norway—Bergen, Oslo and this. As a town Nidaros was founded but fifty years ago by Olaf Tryggvesson. He had his house here. When he took up Christianity, he built a church beside it. But it was the monks and churchmen who made the town, rather than Olaf."

As they drew closer, they could see the masts of considerable shipping in the harbour, behind a sea-wall. But no craft put out to challenge them. Presently they could see also that the harbour area at the river-mouth was fortified strongly, with a fort on a small island dominating the narrow entrance to port and river. Many men could now be descried, and the glint of steel.

Approaching near the fort, Thorfinn himself signalled his orders by clanging loudly on the dragon-ship's gong, and thereafter bellowing the first bars of a song. From all the flotilla the singing broke out, not just the monotonous chant of the rowers but a recognisable melody, somewhat ragged at first but quickly becoming synchronised, and still to the fast beat and rhythm of the oars, the speed increasing notably. Although presumably to indicate peaceful intent, it sounded markedly martial and confident.

They were quite close to the walls of the island fort when a creaking clanking sound penetrated the singing, and a disturbance in the water just ahead heralded the surfacing of a massive chain being raised by winchmen across the harbour entrance. A foot or so above the waves-level it rose, to stretch, hanging green, dripping weed from the sea-floor, and effectively barring all entrance. Even the dragon-ship's fearsome projecting iron ram would avail nothing against those mighty links.

Shouting to his oarsmen to back water, and fast, the Earl raised his hand, clanged the gong again, and the singing died away on all the longships. Rowers all but stood on their thirty-foot oars, four men to a sweep, to reduce speed in time.

"I am Thorfinn Raven Feeder of Orkney," the earl yelled. "Come in peace. To speak with Sven Estridson. Greetings! Lower your chain."

There was a distinct pause. Then a hoarse voice answered across the water. "We know who you are, Raven Feeder. And want none of you. The king is not here."

Thorfinn frowned. "Who speaks there?" he demanded.

"Eric Jarl. Of Trondheim. Keeper here."

"Then Eric Jarl, lower your chain. So that we can speak together decently. As jarls should. Not shout like huscarls."

"No!" That was bald.

"A plague on you! We come in peace, I say."