Macbeth the King (48 page)

"They say that Satan looks after his own sort, Thor!" MacBeth said. "Some have named
you
Satan, in your day. Take it as a good omen if that one has deserted you!"

"What you are saying, man, is that I deserved this? If I did, I could name others, as well as Siward, who deserved it as much and more, yet go free." He had to pant as he said it.

"Perhaps. I do not say it is a judgment, Thor—God knows, I dare not, I who slew the King of Scots!"

"That rat! Do you still blame yourself for that? You well served both God and man that day!" His brother mustered a smile. "No, Son of Life—my judgment I brought upon myself. For bending the knee to that German Leo, in Rome! I knew that I would pay for that weakly act!"

"For a Romish churchman of a sort, that is heresy, is it not? At least, His Holiness kept his compact with us. There has been no more from Bishop Edmund, no trouble against Galloway."

"Now that Godwin is dead, Siward will strike—nothing surer, man. He is the strongest man in England now. And nothing the Pope can do or say can stop him."

"Perhaps, being the strongest man in England, he will turn his eyes southwards instead of north? Take Godwin's place, and over-rule Edward the Confessor? The new Earl Harold of Wessex will not stop him."

"He might do that. But if he does, God
help you
afterwards! For then he would be stronger than ever. But he will come for you, sooner or later, brother—be assured of that. When he married his sister to Duncan, he made that certain. He has an old bone to pick with you—and a long memory."

"It may be so. I am doing what I can. I have had all the mormaors to increase and train their forces, to practise swift mustering and movement of men. I have brought a score of

Norman knights from England, to teach my people how to fight on horseback, and other modes of war. We now have a cavalry force led by these, three squadrons of one hundred men, well horsed. Also mounted archers. I keep a close watch on all my borders. This shadow has hung over me for long, Thor. I never forget Siward."

His brother clenched a great fist and beat on his knee. "And I lie helpless here! It is damnable! But you can still rely on my aid, see you. My sons will bring my longships, at your call. Thorkell Fostri is old now, too old for hosting. But he can still see that the ships are ready, supplied, men trained. Harald Cleft Chin, in Galloway, is sound. I plan to send Erland there, soon, in my place. And there is Kalf Arnison, Ingebiorg's uncle, a fine fighter..."

"Always I have known that I could rely on you, Thor—and I thank you. Although I have tried to build up a fleet of fighting-ships of my own. Old Gunnar, at Torfness, has been aiding me in this. There are more
Scots
ships than Orkney in Torfness haven today. Although building ships is slow work, for folk little used to it. But—these fine sons of yours? They must be a joy and consolation to you? They are in Iceland now, I understand. How is it with Iceland?"

The earl shook his head. "I could wish that land sunk under the sea!" he said hotly. "Always it has been a plague and a burden to me. Sitting there to the north. Waiting until my back is turned, to raid and harry. Zetland is never safe from them, in especial. And then, when at last I was ready to deal with them as they deserved—this! Governor of Iceland—only once have I set foot on that accursed land since I gained Sven's commission—and even then I was unwell."

"Is it so important? To fret over? For long you scarce thought of Iceland. Before that of Rognvald and Magnus Olafson..."

"They stabbed at my back. None does that and fails to pay. Or...did! They have grown above themselves of late, those franklins and goden. Up-jumped peasants!"

"They are Norsemen, the same as your own folk. Vikings of a sort..."

"That they are not! They are peasants, I say—diggers in the earth, herdsmen, keepers of hens! There is not a jarl amongst them. They fled Norway to escape Harald Fair Hair's taxation. Instead of fighting the tax-gatherers. As we in Orkney did...
"
Thorfinn was gulping and gasping in his indignation.

"That is an old story, Thor. Nothing to concern you now.

And your sons will teach them who is governor there now, I have no doubt...*'

"I do doubt it, man. They are weak, soft! Good lads enough, but lacking spirit, fire. Their mother has spoiled them!
They
will never tame the Icelanders."

MacBeth forbore to point out that his brother had just named the Icelanders as tame peasants, not true Vikings. He was concerned that the other was working himself up into an anger and resentment which could only be damaging to his condition. He sought to change the subject.

"Have you had any further dealings with Sven Estridson?" he wondered.

"Dealings! With that bitch's whelp! No—nor shall I. The creeping snake!"

"Save us—I esteem him better than that, Thor!"

"Then you are a fool! As was I, at that Roskilde. To trust him. He sends messengers to me—to me, Thorfinn! For tribute. Tribute for
Orkney!
To the Norse crown..."

"That again? But that, too, is an old story."

"The wretch claims that because I am his governor for Iceland, I am his jarl and he my liege lord! Here in Orkney, as well as in Iceland. Have you ever heard such folly?"

"M'mmm. There was, I suppose, always the risk of that, Thor. But so long as he only
asks...
"

"I think he may not ask again! He said that I might choose my own tribute, so long as I acknowledged him as overlord. So, the second time, I sent him back my choice of tribute—the head of his messenger! One of these housecarls of his Hird. Wrapped in a raven banner..."

"Oh! I...ah...you did?" It seemed time to change the subject once more. "See you—you have heard that Lulach is wed? To Ewan mac Gillachrist's sister, Malvina. A MacDuff."

Thorfinn was not interested in Lulach. "My heart bleeds for her!" he said flatly. "This of Sven. It is his mother, to be sure, who has put him up to it. She is an interfering vixen, that Estrid. I always said so. God save us from masterful women...
"

MacBeth came to the conclusion that he was doing his brother no good by staying up and talking with him, in this mood, only getting him the more roused, the more frustrated, the more breathless. He pled weariness, at the next pause, and sought his bed.

The royal family's stay at Birsay was not to be a catalogue of woe, depression and resentments, however. Presumably Thorfinn had worked off his pent-up feelings and anxieties that first night, for thereafter he was on the whole extraordinarily cheerful, and though hardly reconciled to his lot, sought to spare his guests. Indeed, in the week that followed, he organised so full a programme for their entertainment as to all but wear them out. They were taken sight-seeing, visiting other islands and townships, hunting and hawking—for the name Birsay was only a corruption of the Norse
Birgisherad,
meaning hunting-ground—fishing both at sea and in the innumerable lochs, cliff-climbing, cave exploring, even walrus-harpooning. They investigated great stone-circles, the crumbling settlements of ancient peoples, rock-carvings, giants' graves and tumuli, brochs and forts. Clearly there had been age-old settlement here, long before the Norse era; and MacBeth began to wonder if the trumped-up claims for a Scots-Pictish hegemony were less specious than he had assumed. The islands had been heavily populated by an active and far from backward people.

The young folk rejoiced in it all, and even MacBeth, at forty-seven, to some extent found himself renewing his youth. Gruoch stayed more often at the Brough, with Ingebiorg, and in consequence saw more of Thorfinn than did the others—but with her he was still male enough to attempt to be the hearty, sex-conscious Viking—which, in fact, wrung her heart more than if he had let his disability run full rein.

The long evenings—for it was never really dark—were a succession of feastings, story-telling, singing, dancing, contests of strength and skill and stamina, almost as taxing as the days* programmes. Viking hospitality was nothing if not thorough.

All but exhausted, as though after a strenuous campaign, MacBeth sat with his brother and their two ladies on the last night of their visit, watching the waves break whitely on the rocks and reefs far below, in the soft silver-gilt memory of the sunset which glowed over all the wrinkled sea.

"What think you of Orkney, then, Son of Life?" the Earl asked, out of a long silence. "You may not see it again. Nor myself, I think."

"Who knows what any of us may see again, or not see, Thor? Even tomorrow's dawn—if you have dawns in these strange parts! But I find your islands much to my taste. I can well see why you love them, you and all Orkneymen. Aye, I could dwell here, myself, pleasantly enough. Perhaps I might yet
have
to—if my enemies could drive me off my throne!"

Gruoch stirred. "Do not speak so," she requested, low-voiced.

"That I do not see, ever," Thorfinn asserted. "You, Brother, will only be
carried
off that throne of yours, I vow. Never leave it. That Stone of Destiny means too much to you, lump of rock as it is."

MacBeth said nothing.

Ingebiorg spoke quickly. "In winter, here, it is very different. Sometimes we cannot win out of the house for days. Cross the threshold. For the wind. Spray covers us, even this high, hiding all prospects. Seas pour over us, shake the rock, thunder in the caves beneath. Seaweed, fish, lobsters, even rocks bigger than a man can lift, fall on us. We cannot hear ourselves speak, at times. There is little snow and frost, but the storms are terrible. And the days only a few hours long."

"They used to make our beds but the snugger," her husband said. "And a woman's body the kinder."

They heard Ingebiorg swallow.

"Bears always sleep all winter, I have heard," MacBeth said, with an attempt at lightness. "But you wake for your Yuletide festival, do you not? Your Up Helly Aa."

"It is not all gales," Thorfinn said. "I have seen winter days so calm that we have heard carls laughing as they herded beasts on the Knowe of Marwick yonder, more than two miles off, across the bay. But I like the storms—man's weather. I
...
still do. I am waiting for a truly mighty storm. To go."

MacBeth opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again.

"It will have to be a terrible one indeed, Thor," Gruoch declared, finding a smile. "To dislodge the Raven Feeder! Or even to flutter the bird that sits on his wide shoulder. Hugin, is it not?"

"Ha! You remember, woman? I thank you."

"It is getting cold," Ingebiorg said. "It is nearly midnight."

"What matters the hour, lass? When we have eternity ahead of us!" But the women rose.

They sailed in the morning—and Thorfinn was down at the jetty again, to see them off, having left the house on his own, unannounced, earlier. The parting was a strained one.

"You believe what the churchmen say, Son of Life?" he asked, at the end as they gripped arms. "You always have, have you not? The fortunate one!"

"Not
all
they say, Thor. In much I am a doubter, I fear. But where my reason and my inner heart tell me the same as they teach, and more, I believe, yes."

"So—we shall see each other again, Young Brother? One day?"

"I have no doubts of that. And you will be the you that you have made of yourself, here. And I, me—God forgive us!"

"Aye. So be it. Off with you, then. It is enough. I shall look for you...when Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane...!"

To
the surprise
of many and the joy of the Queen at least, the Princess Malvina of Strathclyde was brought to bed of a son in the late June of next year, 1054. They named the child Malsnechtan. Nechtan was a favourite name for the former Pictish kings—and, in the providence of God, one day this infant might well be King of Scots.

If the actual birth was quietly received, MacBeth made much of the christening celebrations some weeks later, with the dynasty to think of—even if a part of him could have wished that Lulach's line would not have perpetuated itself, so that one of his own blood, Farquhar or other, would eventually succeed. Infant baptism was not essential in the Celtic Church, but on this occasion it was deemed advisable, and the ceremony took place at Scone Abbey, Cathail, now an old man, officiating, and a large proportion of the realm's nobility attending.

The brief service over, they were making for the celebratory feast in the abbey's eating hall, when a weary, travel-stained messenger from Galloway changed all abruptly. Siward had struck, he announced, invading Galloway from both Northumbria and South Cumbria. Paul Thorfinnson, Harald Cleft Chin and Sween Kennedy were doing their best to hold up the attacks; but having to split their force into two left them weakened. They required immediate help.

MacBeth did not hesitate. He had, after all, lived in expectation of something of the sort for years, and had only to put his planning into operation. It was fortunate that so many of his chiefs and leaders happened to be assembled there at Scone when the alarm came, saving much time. Ordering an immediate full-scale muster, and leaving Gruoch, Lulach and the womenfolk to wind things up at the abbey, with Farquhar and Luctacus, he hurried the three miles to Cairn Beth, to change from their finery into armoured tunics and helmets. He ordered Sir Osbert Pentecost to have as many of the Norman-trained cavalry as was possible to assemble at short notice waiting for him at Dunsinane, ready to ride for Galloway forthwith. Glamis assured that he would have 500 men mounted and ready within three hours, three times that number by the morrow, 3000 in a couple of days.

Early that same evening MacBeth and the two princes rode south-westwards for Stirling, through Strathearn and Strath-allan, with about 700 men, of whom 200 were the trained cavalry, leaving Glamis in charge of the mustering, to send on the main force as and when he could.

All night they rode through the July half-light, to cross the Forth at Stirling and then over the Kilsyth Hills in the misty dawn and down into Strathkelvin. Then the long weary lift up to the Lanark moors and into Clydesdale. But hard as they went, for the King it was a frustrating progress. It quickly became apparent that however excellent the great Flanders cavalry horses might be for tactical fighting, they were slow, slow for this cross-country travelling, lumbering, heavy brutes which held back the garron-mounted remainder grievously. After a brief rest at the Kelvin, MacBeth decided that he must leave them behind, to come on at their own pace.