Macbeth the King (6 page)

It was arrows at first, and a hail of these winged in upon the enemy from both sides. They were now unprotected, with their shields facing only to the front, and insufficient by far to cover both elongated sides as well. Enfiladed, the English fell in scores.

Now both armies rushed in reinforcements. But the fact was that only those in the bog itself were really effective, for the causeway was so narrow that only a few on each front thereon could bring their weapons to bear; the rest could only wait to fill dead men's shoes. And to act as very prominent and easy targets for the men in the moss.

It was a skilfully laid trap.

When it became abundantly apparent to the foremost of the English that their position was untenable and that no further advance was possible, they had only one course to take, backwards. And now the third stage of Malcolm's plan was brought into action. The most southerly companies of the force in the moss moved in on the causeway from both sides, like great pincers. It was a difficult, almost desperate floundering business and not achieved with either speed or exactitude. But eventually, coated in mud and slime, the claws met, and all the enemy to the north of that point were trapped.

There followed a dire slaughter, Canute and his great host on the south shore powerless to intervene in time. Some fought fiercely to the end. But probably the majority jumped into the bog, preferring to take their chances there. Some of these undoubtedly managed to scrabble and plouter through the mires and pools to the river, through the Scots lines, and across. Others lay hidden under banks and in reed-clumps, until darkness might enable them to escape. But most died there, one way or another. And presently the causeway was again clear of the foe.

It was no great victory, to be sure. Probably not more than 800 or so were involved on each side, and the vast English army remained but little diminished and unblooded. But it was a resounding defeat for Canute the Mighty, and its significance as great as it was undeniable.

"He will not try that again, I think," Malcolm Foiranach commented. "Since we can repeat it."

The Scots stood to arms again that night, but the foe made no move.

Next day the two armies waited, a mile apart, in a strange hiatus, so much strength, might and hostility concentrated in so comparatively small area, facing each other, like fighting-dogs on leash, yet inactive. When King Malcolm was asked what he intended next, he replied curtly that that depended on what others did, since he was not the Lord God Almighty. None thought to question him further.

Then, about mid-day, a messenger came to the Scots camp from a look-out post on the hill of Clach Mannan some nine miles to the east, from which a good view down the Forth estuary into the Scottish Sea could be obtained. He reported that a great fleet of longships had come in from the Norse Sea and were now lying off Saint Serf s monastery at Culross, in Fothrif. Scouts declared that the sails bore the black raven device.

"So—Thorfinn has come, at last!" Malcolm exclaimed. "But—you said he lies off? At Culross? Why lying off?"

"I do not know, lord King. But that is the word. The great host of ships lies offshore, waiting."

"Foul Fiend seize you, man! What do you mean, waiting? Waiting for what?"

"I know not, lord King..."

"MacDuff—this is your territory. Ride to Culross. At your fastest. Tell my grandson of Caithness that I require him here, forthwith, not idling there. His longships to be brought as near to this craig as may be. I have been waiting for him, and those ships, for too long. I require them for my next move. Bring him back with you."

"He may not heed me, Sire. Thorfinn Raven Feeder is a man of a high temper..."

"Satan scald you, man! Off with you."

It was evening before MacDuff of Fife returned—and alone. The Orkney fleet still lay off Culross, he explained, defensively. He had had himself rowed out to it, in a coracle, and told Thorfinn his, the King's message, but to no effect. The earl would say neither yea nor nay. But he would not come to Craig Kenneth.

"What do you mean, fool—neither yea nor nay? What is he there for? He has come south. In answer to my summons. What service to lie there? We need his ships. You, MacBeth—what is he at?"

"I cannot tell you. I did not know whether he would come, or no. He considers himself no man's liegeman, yours or Canute's. What he may intend I know no more than you."

"Mine or Canute's! Are you telling me, boy, that he admits no difference between myself and the Dane?"

"He holds the Orkneys of Norway."

"He is my daughter's son."

They stared at each other, enemies.

The day following, with no move of any sort evident from Culross, Canute at least ran out of patience. He sent another deputation, again suggesting a meeting, but this time he worded it differently. He did not demand but requested. And offered to come to Malcolm on Craig Kenneth, in view of his great age, if he would ensure safe conduct. They had matters of profit to both to discuss, he asserted.

When it became evident that Malcolm was disposed to accede to this, there was some upset in the Scots camp.

"Why concede him this?" Duncan mac Crinan did not often seem to counter his grandfather. "He cannot attack us. Let him seethe in the cauldron he has boiled!"

"Hark to the warrior Prince of Strathclyde!" Malcolm scoffed. "Winner of battles uncounted! Canute has lost less than a thousand men on that venture. And he has—what? Fifty thousand more. He is a hard man. If he chose to repeat that attack on the causeway again and again, how often could we defeat him? Four times? Five? Before we weary. Still he has two-score-thousand left. You are but babes, all of you! When you cannot win with your swords, talk, I say. If your enemy will be so kind! You—go tell the Englishmen that I will speak with King Canute here. At two hours past noon. That will give us time. Tell him that he has my royal word that he and his will return safe to his people. Meanwhile, we have work to do."

The work consisted of rounding up local people, even older children, women and old men, and forming them up in ranks and companies well back from the Scots camp, but seeming to be in extension of it, giving them a scatter of banners, shields, helmets and spears, so that at a distance they looked like reinforcements. Canute would not be within half-a-mile of the nearest, to perceive the deceit.

At length, a great blowing of bulls' horns heralded the English royal party, riding fine tall horses, so much more slender and longer in the leg than the Scots garrons.

"We must behave civilly towards England's king, curse him—even though he is no more than a Viking pirate!" Malcolm declared. "Someone must go meet him on the causeway. Duncan—you, I cannot think, would be sufficiently civil to the Dane. It had better be my other grandson, MacBeth, who loves Vikings! Echmarcach of Dublin will go with him. Lest he forget whose side he is on! Go, and bring this self-styled emperor to me."

As Duncan hooted, MacBeth tightened his lips but restrained his tongue. The Irish kinglet and he moved over to their horses and rode off down the steep track, silent.

They met the group of about a dozen, perhaps one-third of the way along the causeway, between the long lines of scowling Scots abristle with spears, swords and axes. Most of the oncoming party looked typical Vikings, with their great horned and winged helmets, shaggy bearskin cloaks and thonged and banded breeches, although there were Saxons and Welsh lords amongst them also. Canute himself was easily identified, for he was the smallest, thinnest man there, on the largest horse. He was in his late forties, slight but wiry of body, narrow of feature, with long, lank hair, drooping moustaches and forked beard, keen of eye and very mobile of expression. His black helmet was encircled by a golden crown, and the armour scales of his leathern tunic were also dazzling, polished gold. He was waving an animated hand as he talked with his companions, clearly no careful maintainer of royal dignity.

MacBeth saluted him. "Lord King, I greet you in the name of my liege lord Malcolm. I am MacBeth mac Finlay of Ross. And this is Echmarcach, King of Dublin."

"Ah, MacBeth, yes. I knew your father. You are half-brother to my good Thorfinn Raven Feeder, yes?" He had an extraordinary deep voice for so slight a man. "The King of Dublin I have heard of. He is a long way from home! King Malcolm is well? For his years? Despite his inability to travel!"

"He is well. As you shall see. We take you to him."

Canute's darting eyes were very watchful as they rode, missing little; but he talked easily, almost companionably. There was no hiding his shrewdness, however.

"You also are far from home, MacBeth," he observed. "Malcolm the Destroyer must have deemed himself in dire need to bring you so far south?"

"I am one of his mormaors. It is my duty to answer his summons to arms. As must all others. With their fullest strength."

"Ah, yes. How fortunate is Malcolm in his lords. Mine, now, so often find other business of their own more pressing! Is that not so, my friends?" He looked round on his party, smiling.

"We, perhaps, have greater need of defence, sire," MacBeth suggested.

"You are scarce in a position to deny it! I have more men coming from my farthest bounds. As have others. They may be here this day."

Up on Craig Kenneth the two monarchs met, such very different men, yet both renowned warriors, both superb leaders, both ruthless. Malcolm, behind his table under the trees, rose.

"Knut, son of Sven," he greeted.

"Malcolm mac Kenneth—we meet at last! For this I have waited long. Too long." 

"My hall door was always open, had you come in peace."

"I had hoped, expected, that it would be you who would come to me!" 

"Why so?"

"To pay homage for your kingdom, what else?"

"Homage, Dane? The High King of Scots pays homage only to Almighty God!"

Canute controlled himself with an obvious effort. "I think your memory fails you. With old age, perhaps. But
...
I did not come here to wage a war of words, Malcolm. But to come to some agreement—if we can."

"Do I hear aright? Or do my so ancient ears betray me—like my failing memory? Knut the Dane come to talk peace? Sit you, sit you, man—before you change your mind!"

After a moment, Canute grinned, although with a modicum of humour, and sat down at the other end of the table from Malcolm. All others stood, silent, watchful.

Malcolm eyed the other with mock consideration. "Should we commence with prayer to God and His holy saints?" he asked. "I have my good Bishop of St. Andrews here, adept at the matter. I have heard that you have become uncommon pious of late. Since visiting the Pope of Rome."

"That will not be required," Canute said shortly. He had, two years earlier, led a most notable pilgrimage to Rome, unkind tongues suggesting that the accumulated weight of his oppressions having made something such imperative if he was to be able to sleep of a night. The King of Scots, as it happened, slept excellently well.

The older man shrugged. "We do not agree on religion. Nor yet on homage. Have you aught else to discuss with me, Knut Svenson?"

Canute removed his heavy crowned helmet and laid it on the table, nodding. "I have, yes. I have come a long way to see you. At some inconvenience. You will understand that I would not wish to return to Peterborough empty-handed. There is the matter of Lothian, the Merse, Teviotdale, Cumbria and Strathclyde. And..." He glanced over at Echmarcach, "...shall we say, Dublin and Man also?"

"Forgive me if I do not understand? Your interest in these principalities of mine seems to me to be obscure."

The other laughed. "Obscure, my friend? Do your aged eyes also fail you? Or is it caused by yonder smoke? Has it not come to your notice, Malcolm, that I
hold
these principalities? Or can hold them. And there is nothing that you can do to alter it."

"Hold? You mean that you have ravaged and burned a path through them to reach here? That is not holding them, Dane."

"Think you that you can drive me from them?"

"I can try. And will. Do you wish to spend the rest of your days in fighting the Scots?"

"If so
you
wish. But I think that there will be few Scots left to fight."

"All Scots are not in Lothian and the Merse. Nor yet in Cumbria and Strathclyde."

"No. But when we cross this Forth, we shall deal with the North as we have dealt with Lothian and the South."

"When! You cannot cross the Forth, man. Or you would not be here talking! Have we not proved that?"

"You have proved nothing—save that you rely on a mile of narrow track across a bog. Not much to save a kingdom! A few hundred you have repulsed. Think you that you will keep my full strength back, when I attack in earnest? That was but a trial, a testing."

"You will find the same reception, and the same bog, each time you test. However often."

"Nevertheless, we shall cross, in the end. And you know it. I have many times your numbers. See you—I would save the bloodshed. On both sides. We should come to an agreement."

"Save bloodshed—
Knut!"

"Yes. Why should hundreds of men die, thousands it may be, for lack of a word or two spoken?"

"And the word or two? Homage? Fealty? The price of freedom itself!"

"Freedom? Freedom to do what? You would be none the less free in my empire. My yoke is not heavy. Ask these others. Indeed, you would gain much. And lose little."

"You waste your breath, Dane."

"You would condemn your peoples to invasion and slaughter, old man? For the sake of your own pride?"

"My
pride? Think you my people have no pride? Ask these, my mormaors and thanes. Ask them if I should do you homage!"

A glance round the growling Scots present seemingly convinced Canute, for he changed his tune somewhat. "Malcolm—I am willing to go some way with you. To save the bloodshed. Lothian, the Merse and Teviotdale—these are not part of your ancient realm of Alba, of Scotland. You, and King Kenneth before you, added these by conquest. From Northumbria and Cumbria. Part of
my
realms..."