Macbeth the King (10 page)

A bell was ringing from the saddle-roofed tower of the monastery, no doubt to warn all of the Rossmen's approach. At the far side of the bridge a great crowd waited. So far as the newcomers could see, they were not armed, or not aggressively so.

MacBeth reined up. With women present, he was taking no unnecessary chances. He sent forward the priestly group, Bishop Dungal's coigreach or crozier prominent, an acolyte ringing Saint Maelrubha's famous hand-bell from Applecross.

A somewhat similar clerical party came out across the long wooden bridge from the other side, also displaying a crozier—indication that Bishop Malise of Inverness was present. The two groups met, conversed briefly and then came back over the bridge together.

Bishop Malise, a younger man with a leonine head and fine features, raised his hand. "The blessing of Almighty God upon you, MacBeth mac Finlay—if you come in peace," he declared strongly. "And to you, Lady Gruoch. I hope I see you well? And the Lord Lulach. My lord Abbot—I greet you."

"We come in peace yes, Bishop," MacBeth agreed. He pointed. "These assembled there? Who are they?"

"The thanes, my lord. Of Urquhart and Cawdor and Lovat. And the good folk of this town and country. To welcome you."

"Urquhart? And Cawdor?" MacBeth glanced at his wife. Morgund of Urquhart was married to Gillacomgain's sister; and Hugh of Cawdor had been a close friend of the late mormaor. "How honest, think you, is
their
welcome, Bishop?"

"So be it you come in peace, wholly so, my lord. Or so I believe."

"How many armed men have they, man? Hiding out of sight?" That was Farquhar O'Beolain.

"Only each his own small guard, my lord abbot. This I know."

"Very well. We shall go speak with them," MacBeth decided. "And try these thanes' honest welcome." They crossed the bridge.

The three thanes and the town's notables stood on a slight rise, in from the bridge-end, backed by the crowd, watchful, silent. No cheers greeted the Rossmen. It might be a welcome, but it was a wary one.

A big burly man of middle age, small-eyed and fleshy-featured, richly dressed, the central of the three thanes, spoke.

"Greeting, my lord mormaor. We all wish you well. And hope that you are fully recovered from your sickness. Which we all heard of with sorrow. And much concern."

"I thank you, Morgund of Urquhart. I am well." MacBeth spoke coldly, however. This man, Gillacomgain's brother-in-law, had been no friend to Gruoch in the past. He had a reputation for cunning and ambition. He was calling MacBeth mormaor now, but that might be only in reference to Ross. It would do him, and the others, no harm to be made a little more uneasy. "But—should not your first concern be with the Princess Gruoch, the lady of this mortuath? And with your late lord's son, Lulach? Whom you did nothing to aid, when in need."

That had the desired effect. Urquhart turned to the other thanes, who looked equally upset. Something like a sigh rose from the crowd.

'To be sure, my lord," Cawdor said. "We are devoted to the Lady Gruoch. And to the Lord Lulach. We sorrow for their misfortunes. But rejoice that she has now found so sure a shield and protector as yourself." He was a lean, dark individual with a beaked nose and trap-like jaws.

Gruoch inclined her head but said nothing.

"We could do nothing against the King," Lovat said unhappily, a weak man in a delicate situation.

"Against
the King, no! I do not advocate treason!" MacBeth told them, sternly. "But
for
your lady and young lord, you might have done something. I did, with the less duty. They had to escape alone, unaided, like hunted creatures. From murder and burning. And you stood by." It was unfair, of course, deliberately so. But it was important that these people should be confused, uncertain of their position or his intentions, apprehensive.

"What could we have done...?" Urquhart began, but MacBeth cut him short.

"Enough of this. Do we stand here all day? I see that my wife's house has not yet been rebuilt. After more than a year."

"We, we knew not who was to be Mormaor of Moray, lord. Until we knew..."

"My Lord MacBeth," Bishop Malise intervened firmly. "Refreshment awaits you at my cashel of Saint Baithen. There is no need to stand here."

"Very well. Lead the way, bishop."

As they climbed the hill between the cabins and cot-houses, picking their way past the rooting pigs and pecking poultry, Gruoch looked at her husband assessingly.

"I am seeing a new MacBeth!" she observed.

He shook his head. "No. But this is necessary. A lesson taught now, to these, could save much teaching elsewhere."

"I pray that may never need such lessons!"

He smiled. "In our house, you do the teaching!"

Passing the burned-out hall-house in its wrecked stockade, Gruoch averted her eyes, and kept the child in talk and looking elsewhere.

Nearby they came to the cashel, the Celtic Church's name for a monastery. It was a wide turf-walled enclosure, the walls not crowned by a defensive paling of pointed tree-trunks like the rath, the spacious interior dotted with many wood-and-thatch buildings. Most of these were small and all were simple. The majority were the sleeping-cells of the monks and brothers, mere huts, the bishop's no different from the others. The two largest buildings were the dining-house—it could hardly be called a hall—and the guest-house for visitors, itself sufficiently modest. The church of Saint Baithen was on the same scale, with no more pretensions than a cottage. Compared with any Romish religious establishment, in dressed stone, pillars, stained-glass and ornament, it was all humble indeed, some might say laughable. But the Celtic tradition was a notably different one, outdoor, non-hierarchal and non-territorial, with the emphasis on teaching, conversion and baptism, healing. Buildings were considered of much less importance than holy wells, sacred spots and streams, carved stone shrines and crosses, saints' bells and the like.

In the dining-house a simple meal was provided for all who could squeeze in, although most were catered for outside. There was much milk and cheese, oatcakes and honey, bowls of curds laced, since it was the Feast of the Nativity, with the Highland spirit, whisky.

The thanes were careful now as to what they said, and paying elaborate if awkward attention to Gruoch and young Lulach. MacBeth all but ignored them for a while, talking with Bishop Malise—whom indeed he found more to his taste than old Dungal of Rosemarkyn, a man of character and intelligence. Eventually, he paused, turned, and raised his voice.

"My lords—I would have your attention. And, it may be, your advice. Who, say you, should be Mormaor of Moray?"

There was a profound silence as men eyed each other uncomfortably. None was going to be foremost in answering that awkward question, so baldly put.

But MacBeth was insistent. "Morgund mac Morgund—you are senior here, I think. Who say you?"

The big man moistened thick lips. "I...it is not easy, MacBeth mac Finlay. He, Finlay, was mormaor here. But...died. And you are his son, his only son. But Malbride and Gillacomgain have been mormaors since. Malbride left no child. And this, the Lord Lulach, is Gillacomgain's son..."

"I did not ask for a history lesson, man! I asked you who you say should be mormaor now?"

"My lord, it is the King's choice..."

"Not so. The King confirms, he does not choose or appoint. Not unless there is no rightful heir. He is Ard Righ, King of Kings, not
Maker
of Kings. Are you saying that there is no rightful heir here?"

"No, no..."

"Then who, man?"

Urquhart gnawed his lip, looked over at Gruoch, and remained silent.

"So! Cawdor—how say you? Since Urquhart is insufficiently bold to venture an opinion, perhaps you may have more spirit?"

"I say, my lord, that the question is best answered by the Lady Gruoch. Since the choice lies between her husband and her son."

"None other?"

The thane hesitated, eyes darting. "I am aware of none other," he said then, carefully. "None other with right as heir." 

"Ah."

"Others might come forward, claiming other right. Of the sword, perhaps." 

"And such might be...?"

Cawdor considered the knuckles of his fist, gleaming rather noticeably white. "There is the Earl Thorfinn, my lord. Who already has a grip on Moray land. At Torfness. Or there is the Earl Gillaciaran of the Sudreys, Thorfinn's uncle—who has taken over certain Moray glens down by the Western Sea. Since Gillacomgain died. Again there is MacDowall, Lord of Galloway, who has conquered some of Dalar and Argyll. And pushes ever inland towards Moray-land. All these."

"These are not heirs. Only possible
takers."
It was no part of MacBeth's strategy to indicate that Thorfinn would
not
seek to take over Moray. "As for takers, there might be others, nearer home who might so aspire?" He paused significantly. "But I spoke not of such. I asked you, Cawdor—who by
right
should be Mormaor of Moray?"

The other made his choice. "
You
should, my lord."

"I should? Then—you would dispossess the Lord Lulach?" He patted the boy's head.

"My lord. And lady! Since it must be one or the other, it had better be yourself. It is possible that Lulach might have the first claim. But he is only a child. He could not
hold
Moray. For many years to come. You, I say, are the tanist—the nearest in blood best fitted to hold the inheritance together. It is a wise system."

"I could be captain. Hold the mortuath
for
Lulach."

"Better to be mormaor yourself, lord. If my lady will agree? At least until the Lord Lulach is of full years. Men, I say, would be less like to assail Moray if it was yours than if it was a child's. And you but captain. The Earl Thorfinn, your half-brother. I think that he would not seek to take
your
mortuath. But he might think to take Lulach's, who is no kin to him."

"Aye. So there we have it! It is the Earl Thorfinn you fear. And I am the best guard against my Viking half-brother. Is that it?"

Cawdor was silent.

MacBeth looked round the group. "Were it not for Thorfinn Raven Feeder, someone else might be sitting Mormaor of Moray now, I think! With your blessing. Who? You, Urquhart? You, Cawdor?"

Throats were cleared, heads were shaken. Major discomfort reigned.

Conal of Lovat—who of course could have had no ambitions for the mortuath—found words first. "Hugh of Cawdor is right, lord," he asserted earnestly. "You should be mormaor. Your Ross protects Moray on the north. The Earl Thorfinn, if it is yours, will protect it on east and west, from the sea..."

"And in the south? Crinan of Atholl and Gartnait of Mar. Do they love me? Crinan, father of Duncan!"

"My lord." Urquhart recovered his voice. "The Lord Crinan does not desire Moray—that is clear. When you were sick, like to die, we feared invasion. We approached Crinan. But he did nothing. He has...enough. If Duncan, Prince of Strathclyde, desired Moray, would he not have taken it, when he was here? With the King. Forby, he is gone courting the Northumbrians to wed the Earl Siward's sister, they say. So he is too busy. And his father will not contest your taking of the mortuath, I swear. As for Gartnait of Mar, he has no concern in the matter."

"I see. So, when you thought me dying, you would have handed over the mortuath to Crinan or Duncan, with no thought for Lulach here, the rightful heir!"

"Not so, lord. But..." Helplessly Urquhart shook his greying head.

MacBeth decided that it was enough, the lesson sufficient. "So be it," he said. "You all would name me as mormaor? Here, before these many witnesses. Above all others? That is your considered advice? You, Urquhart?"

"Yes."

"You, Cawdor?" 

"I do."

"You, Lovat?"

"To be sure, my lord. That I have held, from the first."

"Very well. If the other thanes of the mortuath think as you do. And if my good wife agrees. I shall accept the Mortuath of Moray. Until Lulach shall be of age to hold it himself. Do you agree, my dear?"

Gruoch nodded. "I do. It is best so."

"Good. We shall sound the other thanes. In a progress. All of us." He paused, to let that sink in. "It is understood?"

Only one voice was raised, that of his own Farquhar O'Beolain of Applecross. "And if the King disapproves? Will not confirm?"

"My grandsire may not greatly love me, my friend. But he is a man much concerned with realities. What he cannot alter, he accepts with what grace is in him. This, I think, he will accept—since he can do no other. Lacking traitors in the camp!"

That pause was pregnant.

MacBeth rose, and assisted Gruoch to her feet.

Later, in the spider-hung guest-house, handed over for their exclusive use, Gruoch chid MacBeth gently.

"You can be as hard a man as any, I have learned this day."

"Would you have had me otherwise? It got the matter settled to good effect."

"Oh, yes. To excellent effect! But—so sly, so cunning!" She smiled, however. "When it was to be that Morgund who was the cunning one."

"That one has less wits than he is given the name for, I think. Hugh of Cawdor has more, it seems. Although I would trust neither of them!"

"Yet you so worked it that it was they who gave you the mormaorship! Or seemed to."

"To be sure. It was
...
advisable. So now they are committed. To me. Before many witnesses. And will be more so before we are finished. A man, or a mormaor...or a king, must use the tools that come to his hand."

"A king...?" she whispered.

* * *

Next day they set off up Glen More with a much enlarged company—for MacBeth insisted that the three thanes accompanied them, with some of their people. Moray was a vast area, the largest mortuath in the land, and it was out of the question to visit even any major portion of it. But certain key districts and thanedoms they could show themselves in, with advantage.

They rode up the north shore of long Loch Ness, Urquhart's own thanedom, this, requiring no attention. But at the far loch-head, at Kilchumin, they entered the territory of the Thane of Lochaber, a highly important individual of mixed loyalties, whose west coast sea-lochs were much at the mercy of raiding Vikings and Islesmen. MacBeth felt that here was a man who would quickly perceive where his best interests lay.