Macbeth the King (54 page)

"You have it. But, Highness, you are not so very old. God willing, you will reign for many years yet. This of Prince Lulach is for many years to come. When all may be changed..."

"Perhaps, lad. But a king must ever take thought for the succession. And remember that he is mortal! I, now, am left in no doubts as to that last! But enough of this. I will establish you as mormaor. And one day, who knows, perhaps support your claim to the primacy? And you will support me. And thereafter, Lulach. Is it a compact?"

"It is, yes. And I thank you...'

The following May
, MacBeth returned from a visit to Galloway, to organise more celebrations—this time the coming-of-age of Farquhar—and found Gruoch ill at the House of Spynie, and with no mere ephemeral or passing ailment. He had been away for three weeks, and the very day after he had left Moray she had been afflicted with severe abdominal pains and cramps. These had continued. But despite her young people's urgings, she had refused to allow them to send to inform their father and suggest his return. When he did get back, he was shocked by the change in her, in so short a time. Although she endeavoured to maintain a cheerful front, she was drawn and pale, great-eyed, and had lost grievously in weight already. She had always been slenderly built, but never thin. Now, in these few weeks, her bone-structure had become evident.

"My dear, my dear!" he cried, in distress, a distress amplified as he embraced her and felt something like brittleness in her person. "What in God's name is this? What has happened to you? You are sick? So thin. What is wrong, Gruoch my heart?"

"It is just some silly woman's ailment," she assured, but a little breathlessly. "Nothing to concern yourself over. It will pass, as these pains do..."

"You have never been one for pains and sicknesses," he protested, almost accused. "Never the feeble sort."

"How do you know, lord and master?" she asked, with an attempt at lightness. "Can a woman not have her little aches and pains without always running to complain to her husband?"

He stared, chewing his lip. "But
...
you have grown thin. In this short time. And you are weakened—I can tell it. We must get Abbot Dungal." Dungal was the Keledei Abbot at the Rose Isle of Spynie, skilled in healing. "At once."

"I have seen the good abbot," Gruoch said. "He has given me brews, most unpleasant. Bled me also. Ordered me to eat this and not to eat that. I do not think that he is very knowledgeable about women's ailings—although he tries his best."

"Then we must find someone who does know. A woman. Some wise-woman who understands these things. My mother would have known what to do. She had healing hands and ancient lore...
"

"Perhaps. But we shall not seek to raise the Princess Donada's ghost to treat my petty sickness! Fear nothing, my love—I shall soon be myself again. Now—tell me of Galloway..."

"No! That is of no importance beside this. Nothing is. We must find someone. I will scour the kingdom if need be, search out physicians and healers..."

"You will do no such thing, heart of my heart. You have a realm to rule and guard, soldiers to train, pleas to judge, councils to hold. And, have you forgotten, Farquhar's reaching of man's estate to celebrate? There is only two weeks, with much to be arranged..."

"Farquhar's celebration be damned! With you ill, that is the last thing to be thought of."

"Not so. It is important. And not only to our son. The entire kingdom expects it. Moray in especial, for he is their mormaor. To abandon the celebrations now, even to postpone them, would be unwise. Bad for the realm. It would be seen as though you feared the future, feared this Malcolm Canmore. There were great doings for Lulach. Here, in Moray where Farquhar is well loved, he must have his day. I shall be there, and well enough, I promise you."

He shook his head helplessly.

That very evening, on pretext that he had to see old Gunnar at Torfness over Harald Cleft Chin's requirements in Galloway, MacBeth rode along the loch-shore, to call in at the Keledei cashel on Rose Isle on the way. There he confronted, almost challenged, the unhappy abbot.

"What is wrong with the Queen, Dungal?" he demanded. "She is sick, wasting. You have been giving her your brews and remedies. To no effect. What is wrong, man?"

"Who can say, Highness? I am sorry, deeply sorry. I have done all that I can. But clearly it is not enough..."

"You do not have to tell me that! You—you have the gift of healing, have you not? Can you not heal your own Queen?"

"Almighty God has given me only a very small talent in this respect, my lord King. Sufficient perhaps for common complaints, lesser sicknesses. But this, this is...otherwise. Beyond me, I fear. She, the Queen, is in God's own good hands in this..."

MacBeth clenched his fists, as though to prevent him from reaching out to shake the abbot. "What is it then, man? Do not prate to me of God—but tell me, of a mercy. What is wrong with her?"

"I fear, I greatly fear, that you said it yourself, Highness. It is my belief that she has the wasting sickness. That this is no matter for herbs and potions? But something only for the Maker of us all."

"Lord Christ!" The King stood for a moment or two, aid then turned about without another word, and walked away, treading carefully.

He did not afterwards recollect crossing the loch back to where his horse waited, or indeed where he went thereafter, until, some unspecified time later he found himself in rising woodlands, amongst fallen pines and opening bracken, still afoot, and had some little difficulty in making his way back to his garron. He forced himself then to ride on, to Torfness, and to make a level and expressionless report to Gunnar Hound Tooth, and to arrange for a relief fleet to be sent to Galloway.

That night as he lay beside Gruoch, he did not close his eyes before cock-crow, still as she forced herself to lie in seeming sleep.

The next two weeks were a trial indeed, for both of them, for Gruoch in that she did not reveal, or at least make too evident, her pain and growing weakness; for MacBeth in that
he
did not reveal that he was aware of the dire seriousness of her malady, while the planning and preparing for the festivities went on. He did send far and near for persons renowned in the arts of healing, to be sure—for he had said that he was going to do this, anyway—but he could not submit the Queen to an endless succession of physicians, leeches, hospitallers, even spae-wives. So he had to interview these folk himself, secretly, and try to pick out from the many who came, or were sent by well-wishers, a few whom he hoped might be the most effective, using Abbot Dungal himself as adviser in the selection. Gruoch patiently put up with the examinations and ministrations of the chosen—with neither she nor her husband, in fact, having any expectation of betterment, and lacking perhaps the faith for faith-healing. At any rate, no improvement developed. And time and again it came to the man that this was far from being how this woeful interval should be spent; that it might be better for them both to try to accept realities and seek to comfort each other as best they might, without the pretence. But somehow, that did not seem possible, and this grievous make-believe had to go on—and partly for the young people's sake.

Gruoch fulfilled her promise, and represented herself as able and anxious to play her full part in the activities of Farquhar's birthday, the Eve of the Blessed Augustine. What it cost her, only she knew. It was a day of high-sailing cloud galleons, darting swallows, sun and shadow. It had been their endeavour not just to make it all a repetition of the recent celebrations, with more emphasis on youthful doings and predilections—although care had to be taken not to seem to emphasise this, for young men reaching majority seldom wish anything like immaturity to be emphasised. But it all did add up to a fairly active day, with much moving around, music, high spirits and noise—a trial indeed for one in pain and weakness. MacBeth, of course, watched his wife like a hawk throughout, and frequently sought to stop her from taking part, moderate as such participation had to be, to spare her from anything which he thought might over-tax what remained of her strength.

Inevitably that first day's programme ended with the usual feast and entertainment. Only toying with her food, Gruoch had sat through most of it, until MacBeth noticed that she was swaying back and forth in her chair, her eyes fixed ahead of her but not on the entertainers. She had made him promise to stop asking her how she was feeling, if she wished to retire and the like, but he had once again begun to do just that when, at one of her sways, she pitched forward over the table-top on to her uneaten viands and so lay sprawled.

Starting up with a groan, the King raised her head, to find her unconscious. He picked her up bodily in his arms, and she was light indeed. Farquhar materialised at his shoulder, then their other children and Neil Nathrach. Harshly MacBeth dismissed them, telling them that their duty was to see to their guests’ cheer. He would look after his own. With all the company rising to their feet, he strode with his burden from the hall.

They were in the old palace at Forres, the House of Spynie being inconvenient for such large gatherings. The place was crowded with the visitors, of course, but MacBeth took Gruoch to one of the bedchambers, which was strewn with other folk's clothing, laid her on the bed, and ordered the guards to admit no one. He went back to her side, took her limp hand in his own, and so sat watching, a man in torment.

Farquhar was the first to come—Lulach was not attending the festivities—and entered despite the guard. His father scarcely saw him. Eala and Cormac came next, anxious-eyed; then Luctacus, slightly drunk, tearful. The King, at last, said that he would send for them if there was any change, anything that they might do. To suggestions that they send for Abbot Dungal or other physician, he gave a curt negative.

The night dragged on.

He dozed over towards morning, chin sunk on chest, and woke with the sunrise to find Gruoch's eyes open. Her lips moved when she saw that he was awake, but no sound came. He leaned forward to kiss those trembling lips, to whisper not to try to talk, but to rest, to harbour her strength. She managed to nod slightly, and he felt the hand still within his own tighten a little. She did not close her eyes however.

Despite himself he dozed again.

When next he came to himself, she was watching him, with such a depth of love and affection in her dark eyes as to bring a lump to his throat. Her lips moved again, and this time there was a faint murmur. Leaning close, he heard her.

"Poor...my heart! So long...a night. This no...employ for the...Son of Life!"

He shook his head, his turn to be wordless.

It took some time for her to summon strength to speak again. "Where?" she whispered. "Where are we?"

"Still at Forres. In someone's room. Are you in great pain, my dear?"

Her fingers gripped his. "Did I spoil...Farquhar's, Farquhar's...?"

"No. Not so. You became over-tired, that is all. I brought you here. To rest. The feasting went on. He came to see you, later. Farquhar. And the others. But you slept..."

Presently she asked him, "Take me home. The
Dorus Neamh.
The best place...that I know. I would...make my end there. In my own bed.
Our
bed."

He swallowed. "Do not say that, Gruochie—never that. We shall get you well again. I will take you home, yes. But not yet. I do not think that you are strong enough. For the journey. Ten miles. Presently we will go..."

"Please! Now. I would...be there. I do not think...that I have much time. Better to be going there, at least...than, than..." She gasped for breath. "On my way."

Biting his lip, he gazed at her as she pleaded this of him. He nodded.

Leaving her, he arranged for a litter to be contrived, slung between two staid old garrons. Wrapped in plaids and furs, the Queen was gently carried out to this, and escorted by her family, they set out at a walking pace. To ensure that this pace was not exceeded and that there was the minimum of swaying and jolting, MacBeth himself walked between the horses' heads, while Farquhar and Luctacus walked behind, to steady the litter.

The journey took almost three hours, Gruoch only half-conscious much of the time.

At last she was installed in her own bed in the House of Spynie—and was sufficiently aware of it to whisper that now she was content, before slipping away into something like sleep.

For three days and nights she lay, and in that time MacBeth was never far from her side. She would eat nothing—and when once, he insisted that she tried, and with great difficulty got a mouthful of gruel and milk down her throat, the resultant convulsions were so desperate that the man feared that he had killed her, as he held her frail, racked body in his arms. All she could take were sips of watered wine, and that infrequently.

On the fourth day she seemed to rally somewhat, although she had moaned a lot during the night, something she had not done hitherto. Faintly she chided him. He was a king, was he not? With a realm to rule. Not a nurse or foster-woman. He must be off, about the realm's affairs, not waiting about a weakly woman's bedside. There was much to do, always much to do. And he had sworn on the Stone to cherish his kingdom,
their
kingdom, as a father. He must go do his duty, or she would not know any peace of mind. Never fear, she would be awaiting him on his return. It took her a long time to get all that said.

It was true, of course. Matters, problems, decisions which only he could take, were piling up. Neil did what he could, but he was not the same man since Earnside, something vital gone out of him. Since Gruoch did seem slightly stronger—she could not have spoken thus, otherwise—he allowed himself to be persuaded. He rode to Forres, sending out summons to a council, at short notice.

In late afternoon Luctacus arrived at the palace in panting haste, bursting in on the conclave. His mother had been siezed in a most dire attack. They had feared that she would not survive it. Still she might not, although it had eased a little when he had left. She was not conscious latterly...