Macbeth the King (36 page)

There was still the Celtic epilogue, as it were, although comparatively few of the Norsemen waited to see it—which the Queen and Ingebiorg thought was very rude, but Thorfinn advised to wait and see. This new development also involved tar and fire, a much smaller cauldron brought from the main bonfire and a large wickerwork hamper which proved to contain about a score of live pigeons. The birds were ceremoniously taken out, splashed with the tar, set alight by torches, and released. Exclaiming at the cruelty, the visitors were nevertheless enthralled, fascinated, by the picture of the blazing birds flying through the wild dark night, down amongst the shipping and on over the roofs of the town, spreading fire as they went, an evilly beautiful sight.

"Now you will see why our people did not wait to watch this Pictish nonsense start," Thorfinn said. "They are all gone to save their houses and ships, to put out fires in thatched roofs and rigging."

"But
...
but why? What is the sense of it?" the Queen asked. "Why torture the poor birds so? Is it as meaningless as all the rest?"

MacBeth could explain this last, at least. "It is an ancient tradition—although not so old as the Clavie, to be sure. The daughter of one of the Pictish kings was given in marriage to a Norse prince—who brought her here but shamefully ill-used her. The indignant Cruithe had no fleet to challenge him and his, but for revenge for their princess they loosed hundreds of flaming pigeons to fly amongst the longships anchored in this haven and bay, and so destroyed them by fire. Also much of the town. Or so goes the story. Perhaps there is a grain of truth in it somewhere—for this Ness of the Bulls was a sacred place of the Cruithe long before ever a Norse pirate descended on our shores."

"Aye—and it was time that we came, if your Picts had to get pigeons to do their fighting for them!" the earl declared.

Gruoch shivered. "I think that I have had enough," she said. "I
am
cold. Enough for one night. Enough for one Yuletide!"

Her husband nodded. "Rested and renewed, we baptise the Christ tomorrow—Epiphany!" he said, almost grimly.

"And
we
go home," his brother added. "You can manage that one by yourselves...?"

MacBeth paced the
floor of Gruoch's pleasant and comfortable sitting-room in the palace of Cairn Beatha, tripping a little, and not for the first time, on one of Thorfinn's handsome white polar-bearskin rugs. He kicked it irritably, a reaction not typical.

"Am I to tell this proud Saxon that I will not accept his proposal, then?" he demanded, of his wife. "If I do, I must give due reason. I cannot find any fervour, even willingness, in our churchmen to do anything for Galloway. They are not interested. They say that it is not, has never been, part of the Columban Church. They say that the people reject any monks and teachers they send, have always rejected them. Even Malduin accepts no responsibility there, as Ard Episcop. So what can I say to this Saxon bishop? On the face'of it, what he asks is right and in reason. The Galloway folk should not be condemned almost to heathenry within this Christian realm of mine. And yet..."

"Yet if you give way to this Bishop of Durham over Galloway, you open the door to so much more," Gruoch said. "The Merse, Teviotdale, even Lothian itself—all could be claimed to belong to the Saxon faith rather than the Columban—that is, now, to Rome. Could they not? Bishop Malduin and his friends show little interest there either. Let the Saxons gain but a foothold in Galloway, and these will be their next demands."

"I know it. I have told Malduin and Cathail and Ewan. Even Robartach in Iona. But they see it as no concern of theirs. They are here to do God's will, not an earthly king's, they say! Their Church seeks no earthly kingdom, save in the precious souls of men! A plague on them—are they not able to see that the Romish Church thinks otherwise? That it
seeks
domination. And that its domination could weaken my kingdom. And
their
independence. Malduin is my Chancellor. He must see this
..."

"Oh, he sees it, no doubt. As Chancellor. But as Bishop of St. Andrews he sees it differently. And even if he did see it your way, my dear—what could he do? He is Ard Episcop, yes, senior bishop of our Scottish Church. But he does not rule that Church. He is not Primate. Indeed, since Crinan died, there is
no
Primate is there?"

"That is the curse of it! The Primacy, and the Abbacy of Dunkeld, are hereditary in Crinan's line. So that the Primate now should be Maldred mac Crinan—since Duncan's lawful son Donald Ban is too young. An exile and rebel—and dwelling in this Saxon bishop's land, Northumbria! Aye, and Malcolm his bastard nephew still calling himself Prince of Strathclyde and Cumbria!"

"You believe Maldred is concerned in this? This...device?"

"Not himself, I would think. I see Siward's hand in it. If he cannot beat us by invasion of arms, the Dane can use the Church to penetrate my realm. He who is as good as a pagan himself! To prepare the way for his sword, when he shall have finished his wars with Godwin of Wessex."

"If you believe that, then you must reject this bishop. No?"

"Aye—but what do I tell him? What excuse can a Christian monarch give for seeming to deny the proper ministrations of Holy Church to large territories of his kingdom? I cannot just say no to him, and so leave it."

"Siward would! As Malcolm would have done. Duncan, no doubt, also—if he had thought to care."

"But...I am different, God helping me! And 1 am known as a
supporter
of the Church."

"The Columban, the Scottish Church. Not the Roman."

He frowned at her. "Have you no help to offer me in this?"

She smiled. "Should a mere woman raise her silly voice in the affairs of Holy Church? Is that not anathema? But
...
why not temporise? Say that here is a problem you have already given much thought to. And that you have decided to appoint a bishop there. A Bishop of Galloway. So that this of Candida Casa is unnecessary. Would that not serve, for the moment? Even though you do no more than make such appointment?"

"I cannot appoint bishops to anywhere!" he protested. "That is not the duty of the King. Only the Primate and the High Council of the Church."

"Robartach of Iona and Malduin, with Cathail of Scone and Ewan of Abernethy, all your friends, could do so, surely? If you asked them..."

The clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside, and raised voices, interrupted her.

"A plague! They are here." MacBeth stepped over to the open window. "God be good—the man comes in a silken horse-litter! Like some eastern queen! With acolytes and singers. Come, see..."

"My heart—we must not be seen to peer out of windows, like cottagers!"

He drew back. "No. Do you wish to receive this Saxon with me?"

"Perhaps I should come later."

MacBeth waited for the visitors in the lesser hall. The two bishops were led in, and bowed. Summoned, Cormac of Glamis and Ewan of Abernethy, came in to flank the King.

"My lord King," Malduin said. "Here is the good Edmund, Bishop of Durham, or Lindisfarne, come to bring greetings from the Archbishop of York, and to speak with you on sundry matters."

Edmund bowed again. He was a large, smooth man, mitred and richly robed as for a cathedral service, jewelled rings and cross sparkling—perhaps the reason for his travel by litter. Beside him Chancellor Malduin in his simple dark and long-skirted habit and leathern girdle looked like some poor mendicant monk. All they seemed to have in common was the bishops' croziers, which each carried, the one man-height and white-painted, with an elaborate gold crook set with rubies, the other less tall, of gnarled ash topped by a smaller bronze head, only a simple half-crescent but most richly chased with intricate Celtic design, battered-seeming as though indeed long used for herding a flock.

"Welcome to my house, Bishop Edmund," MacBeth said carefully. "My friend Malduin will have looked to your comfort whilst in my realm, I have no doubt. Here is the Thane of Glamis, my' High Constable. And the Abbot Ewan of Abernethy, High Judex."

"High King," the Saxon prelate said, "our father in Christ, the Lord Archbishop of York, sends you God's blessing."

"A sinner, I need all such," the King acceded. "And I thank him, and you. Although he is scarcely
my
father in Christ! But—he sends more than that, I think?"

Edmund inclined his head slightly. Because of his mitre, his tonsure, in the Romish style on the crown of his head, was not visible, whereas that of Malduin, above the forehead in the Celtic tradition, was very much so, especially in contrast with the longish greying hair which fell almost to the shoulders.

"I bring as gifts this ring and this cross—poor things, but offered in Christian love and esteem, Highness."

MacBeth signed to Abbot Ewan to bring the proffered jewellery to him—for the two bishops stood at a few yards' distance—magnificent pieces both, and clearly the craftsmanship of some far land.

"Too fine by far for this poor realm," the King said, admiringly. "But we shall cherish the kindness. I thank you. We must think of some small token for you to take back to Northumbria—if nothing to match these. But then, there can be little in Scotland which would tempt you, and those who sent you, I think, my friend? Save, perhaps, things less...material!"

The other's smooth round features remained expressionless. "I come seeking no gifts, Highness. Only offering the good will of Holy Church. And that we, your Church and mine, may work together in harmony for the good of Christ's reign on earth and holy evangel, and the hurt of all evil-doers."

"Ah. How excellent a purpose! 1 am sure that Bishop Malduin, and Abbot Ewan here, with others, will rejoice to work with you towards that good end."

"I do not doubt it. But..."

"But...? That does not suffice you?"

"High King—we need
your
aid in this matter also. Your, h'm, intervention."

"In good will between the Churches, bishop?"

"Not in the good will, perhaps. But in active co-operation. Which is required."

"And this our bishops and abbots cannot provide?"

"It seems not. Not fully. They say that they have not the authority. Only you, Highness, it seems, in the Columban Church, have the authority. With the Primate exiled...
"

"The Primate is not exiled, friend, since there is no Primate appointed at present. But the chiefest office in our Church is held by the Abbot of Iona, Columba's successor. And the Bishop of St. Andrews, here, as Ard Episcop, chief of the bishops. It is not your system—but it serves."

The other pursed his lips but remained silent.

"In what way, Bishop Edmund, is the authority of these insufficient for your purpose?"

"King—it is that, there being no true hierarchy here, none of these may pronounce upon a matter outside their own see and sway. Only you can, it seems. As in the matter of the diocese of Whithorn."

"Hah—so now we have it, bishop! But there is no diocese of Whithorn. If you refer to the Whithorn in my province of Galloway? Or Candida Casa. Or is it some other Whithorn? It could be a common name, after all—the White House."

"No, it is Whithorn in Galloway I speak of. And your pardon, High King, but there
is
a diocese of Whithorn or Candida Casa. It was founded in the Year of Our Lord 727, under the Archbishopric of York. Out of the Blessed Ninian's parish, and his place of burial."

" Was,
bishop—not is! Far be it for a mere monarch to instruct a churchman on Church matters, but the see was abandoned in the year 875, if I recollect aright, and has not been in existence in the two centuries since."

"Not abandoned, King MacBeth, but reserved. No see of the one Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church, created by the Vicar of Christ himself, the Pope in Rome, can ever cease to exist. Whithorn may have been for a time abeyant, but it is still a see of Holy Church. It is one of the four original dioceses of Northumbria, and so under the pastoral jurisdiction of my episcopal charge of Durham."

MacBeth stroked his small pointed beard. "You say that the Pope of Rome created this diocese. But, my friend, we here in Scotland do not recognise the authority of your Pope, outside his own communion. Save as the chief bishop of a large part of the Church. But not
our
part. We respect him for what he is and recognise his great power. But he has no authority here. Our Celtic Church accepts only one Vicar with God—the Lord Christ Himself."

Edmund looked pained. "When the diocese was created,

Highness, Strathclyde and Cumbria was an independent kingdom, not in Alba or Scotland, I would remind you. And Strathclyde recognised the authority of the Supreme Pontiff."

"That, I think, is open to doubt, Bishop. For Strathclyde and Cumbria was a Celtic kingdom also. And although Saint Ninian himself adhered to Rome, there were three centuries of Columban churchmen before your Romish diocese was set up." MacBeth shrugged. "But this, to be sure, is an old story. And, I swear, not what brought you here today."

The other cleared his throat. "In part it is," he said. "It has been long a source of distress to myself, and to the archbishop, that the people of Galloway are insufficiently ministered to, their spiritual needs much neglected. Your Columbjte Church is little concerned with them. Bishop Malduin admits that they are not within his authority. I cannot believe that the Abbot of Iona includes them in any responsibility of his. Nor other of your higher clergy. This is a grave matter. Souls are at risk. And we, whose diocese this is, or was, the one Church, Holy and Universal, desire to resume our ministry there."

"You make it to sound, Sir Bishop, as though Galloway was some heathen province! Devoid of religion. I can think of a score of monasteries. That of Saint Cuthbert on the Dee. Saint Machute's of Wigtown. Those of Kirk Medana and Kirk Madrene in the Rhinns. Capel Finnian of Mochrum. Kirk Claugh of Fleet. But enough."

"These there may be. But they lack spiritual oversight and direction, Highness. This is a grievous state of anarchy. It much weighs on our minds and consciences. Since we consider ourselves to be still responsible to the Holy Father and to Almighty God for the souls of these in our abeyant diocese." Edmund took a deep breath. "Therefore we do request that the sec of Whithorn or Candida Casa be restored to the oversight and care of Holy Church in the Diocese of Saint Cuthbert of Durham, and in the Archbishopric of York."