Macbeth the King (7 page)

"Of Edmond Ironside's realms! Whom you dispossessed."

Canute was patient. "Of the realm of England, if you prefer it. Now, I could take them back. You will admit, if you are honest, that you cannot prevent it. You dare not cross Forth yourself, against our opposition. And Thorfinn Raven Feeder waits, offshore."

"Thorfinn is my grandson, and one of my mormaors."

"And one of
my
earls! Why think you he waits there? Seek to move across this river and he will attack your rear. I tell you, I can take back and hold Lothian and the rest, with little trouble. But—I should be content with less."

"Less? Less than what?"

"Less than taking it from you wholly. Do homage to me, Malcolm mac Kenneth, for Lothian, Teviotdale and the Merse. These only. And I shall be content."

The older man stared at him, assessing.

"Do that, and I shall withdraw my armies. And accept that all Alba, all north of this Forth, is yours. Pay tribute of one serf, one cow, one horse, one bushel of meal, if you like. And our differences are over-past. I say it is an excellent bargain. For you."

"No!" That was Duncan, who hated all Danes. "It is a trick and a trap. Tell him to be off, sire."

"You say so, grandson?" Malcolm, who ever knew his own mind, seemed this time to require advice. "What says my other grandson? You, MacBeth?"

"I say that you, sire, will do only what is in your own mind. But, for myself, Alba is what is important. The rest less so. You are High King of Scots, not of Lothian or the Merse. War I am prepared for. But not over who claims paramountcy in Lothian."

"So says Thorfinn's brother!" Duncan exclaimed. "The jackal who waits outside to see which side will win!"

"We shall discuss that on another occasion, cousin..."

"Peace, bairns!" King Malcolm said, in strangely genial, grandfatherly fashion. He turned to Canute. "Knut Svenson, I accept your proposal. I will be your man for Lothian, the Merse and Teviotdale. But only these. For Alba, its High King is no man's man. Aye, and who knows—one day I may come to
you
for homage! For some of Cumbria and Tynedale!"

The other monarch drew a long breath. "In that day, we shall see, old one! But—I commend your wisdom. And that of this MacBeth. The other requires...schooling! We shall be friends, now. And you may find my empire of service, I think. Now—have we a paper? And a scribe?"

"A paper...?"

"To be sure. Have you not found, in this of being a king, that papers are useful? The sword may speak loudest, but the paper can last the longest! This bishop you spoke of—such always have paper, pens and ink. And never fear, friend—
you
shall decide the words on this paper. I but wish to have a paper, signed and sealed."

Malcolm shrugged. "Myself, I have little use for ink and paper. The pen is only of worth if the sword-arm behind it is strong. But, if you wish it. Bishop Malduin, come you..."

While the bishop and one of Canute's clerks teased out phrasing to suit the situation, the two monarchs drank ale and eyed each other like wary hounds. Malcolm made less fuss about the wording than might have been expected—perhaps significant as to how much value he put on signatures. When it came to signing, he appended his name with a stabbing motion which all but broke the quill.

Canute signed as though more accustomed to the task. But he demanded witnesses, two to each side. Malcolm looked around him.

"Duncan disapproves," he said. "So do some others. It had better be Echmarcach and MacBeth. These two will serve. They brought you here."

"I sign nothing which commits me to King Canute as overlord," the King of Dublin asserted.

"Hush, man—you are signing nothing anyway. Only being witness to
my
signing."

MacBeth witnessed the two copies without demur.

There was no false bonhomie about Canute the Mighty, however much he might be prepared to smile to gain his ends. Having apparently got what he had come for, he wasted no time in taking his departure. MacBeth conducted him and his party back to the bridge-head.

"When your grandsire dies, MacBeth, who will succeed to his throne?" the Dane asked, as they were parting. "You, or that Duncan?"

"Duncan, sire. He is the King's choice. Ever has been."

"A pity. I would have thought that Malcolm would have had more sense! Hear me then, young man. Should the time come when you might think to contest such clearly foolish choice, remember Knut Svenson. I might be useful to Thorfinn Raven Feeder's brother." 

"I do not desire the throne, sire."

"Then you are more fool than you look! And your realm the loser."

Since there was
to be no fighting, MacBeth was no more anxious to prolong his stay in the Stirling vicinity than had been Canute. Malcolm's company and Court held no attractions for him. But the King, for some reason, insisted that he accompany him as far as Scone—which, since it was on his way, MacBeth could scarcely refuse. In fact, en route, Malcolm seemed to have little to say to him, and the younger man rode most of the way with his own thanes and those of Glamis and Cawdor.

Malcolm Foiranach was no sluggard, whatever his age, and it took the host only a day and a half to reach fair Scone, in its woodlands across Tay from Bertha at the mouth of the tributary Almond. MacBeth did not ford Tay, and took his leave of his grandfather here.

"I fear that you are a fool, boy," the King said. "I sorrow for it. But then, your mother Donada was a fool. And she disobeyed me and married your father when old Sigurd died. I cannot abide fools."

"Yet you abide Duncan!"

"Ah, but that is different! A fool who will do what he is told is to be preferred to a fool who will not! Forby, Bethoc is no fool. And she married him that I chose for her—Crinan. Crinan's line the throne needed. Finlay's it did not! And Duncan is their son."

"Yes. And many have had to die for that fact!"

"Death is ever with us, boy. With kings more than others."

"There is honest death and dishonest. Decent and cruel. You, sire, I think deal in the second!"

"Watch your tongue, MacBeth! Forby, I have a kingdom to rule. And may not be so nice as some would like."

"Have I your royal permission to leave, sire?"

"Go, then. Duncan will go with you. As far as Dunkeld.

Crinan—bide you with me, this night. I have matters to talk over."

"Sire—I have a long road to go. I would prefer to go on alone, and fast."

"Nonsense. Duncan will not hold you back. Is it that Gruoch you are in such haste to win back to? It is time that you bairns learned to live with each other instead of ever bickering. Duncan will go with you to Dunkeld, with the Athollmen. That is my royal command."

Fortunately the cousins did not have to see a great deal of each other on the further fifteen miles to Dunkeld. Each had his own leadership group and friends, and their hosts kept separate. But at the Birnam pass of Tay, a couple of miles south of Dunkeld, with MacBeth discussing with Neil Nathrach his mother's strange dream about Birnam Wood moving to Dunsinane, Duncan rode up from the rear.

"MacBeth," he said, without preamble. "We have had little cause to love each other. But we are kin, and there is no need for us to be unfriends. The King would have it otherwise. We near my father's house of Dunkeld and the day draws on. Bide the night there. My mother—your aunt—would welcome you."

MacBeth looked at him sidelong. "I thank you," he said stiffly. "But I called upon the Princess Bethoc. On my way south. And we could ride another score of miles on our way, tonight."

"It would please her. She often speaks of you. Come, even for a small while. A refreshment of wine or ale. It would be esteemed kindly."

MacBeth could be obstinate, even ruthless; but he was not the man to utterly reject an advance.

"Very well," he said. "For just long enough to pay my respects. And to drink a horn of ale." He saw Neil Nathrach scowling and head-shaking. "Neil, ride on with the host. I shall catch up with you before many miles."

His half-brother nudged his garron close, at the other side from Duncan. "Do not enter that house alone," he muttered.

The other nodded. "Duthac. Murdoch. Come meet the princess, my aunt," he said, to the Thanes of Alness and Oykell.

It was Duncan's turn to frown, but he said nothing.

At the green haugh of the Tay, below the towering crag on which rose the dun of the Keledei, the Castle of the Culdees or Holy Men—from which Dunkeld obtained its name—seat of the Hereditary Abbots, the Moray host camped, the Athollmen began to disperse and the Rossmen marched on. MacBeth and his two thanes, with a small bodyguard, turned off, to climb with Duncan to the dun.

Bethoc nic Malcolm showed no more signs of delight at her nephew's re-appearance than she had done earlier. Nor indeed in her son's return—though this was perhaps just her way. After only a fairly brief exchange they seemed to have exhausted all that they had to say to each other, and MacBeth was more than ready to depart. But Duncan had disappeared, presumably to see to the suggested refreshment. There was some uncomfortable waiting.

When his cousin returned, with servitors bearing trays of oatcakes and honey, wine and ale, he brought with him a child, a boy of about three years, a sturdy infant of somewhat lumpish build, reddish-haired with a notably large head.

"Here is my son Malcolm," he announced. "Meet your kinsman the Lord MacBeth, Callum." He patted the boy's head. "Is he not a fine lad?"

MacBeth had heard of this child, a bastard allegedly of a miller's daughter at Forteviot, of whom Duncan was said to be inordinately proud—which indeed he must be to have the boy reared here in his father's house. It was a strange circumstance for a prince unmarried, possibly some proof of his manhood. What Bethoc thought of it she did not divulge.

MacBeth, fond of children, stooped to speak to the boy, accepting it as a further sign that there must be good in his cousin so to cherish his illegitimate offspring. When he straightened up, it was to find Duncan himself holding out to him a great silver-mounted bull's horn, brimming with wine.

"Drink, cousin," he said. "Drink to the future of Alba and its reigning house."

MacBeth could not object to that, and sipped.

"Young Malcolm mac Duncan will recite his lineage back to Alpin, and beyond," the proud father declared. "Callum—tell the Lord MacBeth the names of the kings you come from."

But the child grew shy, embarrassed, and despite much coaxing, could not be cajoled into speech.

"Drink up, man," Duncan urged. "It is good wine. From France. I will fill up the horn..."

"Enough! I shall not finish this, indeed."

"Callum—Malcolm son of Duncan, son of...?"

At length they got away, Duncan almost effusive in seeing them off.

"The Lord Duncan was...notably kind," Duthac of Alness observed. "Kinder than his usual."

"Kinder to mormaors than to thanes, perhaps!" Murdoch of Oykell said. "My lord got wine. We got only ale."

"We must not be too hard on the man," MacBeth said. "He is scarce used to dispensing hospitality, I think."

They caught up with Neil Nathrach and the main Ross force at sundown, in the pass of Killiecrankie, and camped for the night just beyond its northern jaws.

Feeling unaccountably weary and slightly sick, MacBeth rolled his plaid around him early, and sought sleep.

He wakened in the night lathered in sweat and writhing with pain.

Presently his groaning attracted a sentry. When this man could get no sense out of the mormaor, he woke Neil.

That man had some skill as a physician, with knowledge of herbs and simples, passed on to him by his mother. He felt his half-brother's brow, his pulse, his heart-beats. Then he probed strong fingers at the stomach.

"God's saints, man—your bowels are in knots, just!" he cried. "You are fevered..."

But MacBeth was only semi-conscious now, and lashing out.

Calling for help, Neil bound his arms with his own golden sword-belt, declaring that his brother must have eaten something foul and should be made to vomit it up. But how to achieve that in present circumstances? Tickling the throat with a feather was scarcely practical behind clenched teeth. And he had no brews here to use as vomitories. Nor could he try bleeding, lacking equipment.

"What shall we do?" Murdoch mac Leod, who had wakened, demanded. "He is very sick. He, he looks like to die on us!"

"He is sick, yes. But he will not die yet awhile, pray God. He is strong. What can this be? It is like...poison! Aye, poison!" The thought struck him. "You—
you
do not feel sick, my lord Thane?"

"No. I am well enough. Why?"

"You also ate in Duncan mac Crinan's house! Did my brother eat differently?"

"No. Oatcakes, honey, ale, wine..."

"Wake my lord of Alness. See if he is well..."

Duthac of Alness, although dazed with sleep, could find nothing wrong.

"God knows what it is, then," Neil said. "But—we must get him first to salt water. Then home. Then..."

"Salt water! Nowhere in all Alba are you further from salt water than in mid-Atholl!"

"Salted water, then. Water with salt in it. To make him vomit. Somehow I must get it down his throat. A house, with salt. To bring up what is poisoning him. Then home, where I can treat him. Starting forthwith."

"Home, man! To Inverpeffery? Have you thought how far that is?" Oykell demanded. "Eighty miles to Inverness. Over twenty beyond."

"Even so." Neil paused. MacBeth was talking, but incoherently, raving. "Even so. Tie him in a litter between two garrons. Ride day and night, without stop. A score of hours? Less. It can be done. And must."

Neil Nathrach had his way. He bound his half-brother in his plaid, and with another two contrived to form a litter slung between two horses, roped so that they could not pull apart, he left the Ross host there at Killiecrankie, and with a small group and spare garrons, set off northwards into the night, without delay and at highest possible speed.

Houses with salt were not to be looked for in any numbers in the Central Highlands, nor indeed anywhere. Neil recognised that he might waste much vital time searching; so he waited until, in the early dawn he saw a larger establishment than the usual cabins and cot-houses of the clansfolk, a small hall-house within its group of huts, at the crossing of the Atholl Garry at Struan. Without compunction and amidst a great barking of dogs, he knocked up the owner in the name of Crinan, Mormaor of Atholl—uncle by marriage, after all, to the casualty. An old man eventually answered the summons, without enthusiasm. Asked, from his bed, to provide salt for complete strangers, and not Athollmen at that, he was scarcely to be blamed. But salt was forthcoming, and water was to be had in plenty. Getting the solution between the now unconscious sufferer's lips was less difficult than Neil had feared, because now the teeth were unclenched.