Macbeth the King (2 page)

"Not any man, no. But
you
might, now and again. God's Body—do I not fight your battles for you?"

"Do you, then? I thought that you fought only Earl Thorfinn's."

The giant came stalking up, and clasped a great hand on each of the other's shoulders, to shake him bodily. "You got my messenger?"

"Yes. Inverness has fallen. And Gillacomgain is dead." 

"Dead, to be sure. Burned alive in his own hall. With half-a-hundred of his people. Barred in. And by his own High King." 

"And yours. And mine."

"Yours, perhaps—not mine. I have none such."

"You hold your earldom of Caithness of him. And Orkney of King Knut."

"I hold both by my own sword-hand! That alone. As I hold the Hebrides."

MacBeth shrugged. "So Gillacomgain is dead. I cannot weep for him. He and his brother slew my father and took Moray. But...burned to death! That was ill done."

"Does Malcolm Foiranach do other than ill?" Even the Earl Thorfinn's voice held a hint of something like dread at the naming of Malcolm the Second, the Destroyer, High King of Scots.

The other did not answer that. "So he has taken Inverness. Slain Gillacomgain of Moray. As he has slain all others who might heir his throne. Save three. Four, if you count a woman. So, he will come for me! And you. But your messenger said he is not marching on Ross? And he has not followed your long-ships. You did not fight with him?"

"Was I to fight Gillacomgain's battles for him also? I, Thorfinn? I held to my borg and port at Torfness. Sent out watchers to Inverness, all over Moray. When I fight Malcolm mac Kenneth it will not be in any other man's quarrel."

"Not mine, then? The mighty Thorfinn folds his hands, and watches!"

"Yours and mine, brother, could be the same, in this. Is he not grandsire to us both?"

They eyed each other for a long moment, eyes level grey and hot blue, considering, so different yet with something akin, some basic character—for these too were half-brothers, unlikely as it seemed. Malcolm the Destroyer was old now, but none the less terrible—more so indeed, since he saw his end approaching and would leave the way made straight, before he went, for the grandson Duncan mac Crinan, on whom he doted. All others of the two royal lines must die, as so many had already died, that Duncan should reign undisputed. The High King had had only two daughters—Bethoc, who produced Duncan; and Donada, who married first the Viking Earl Sigurd the Stout, of Orkney and produced Thorfinn, then on Sigurd's death wedded the Celt, Finlay mac Ruari, Mormaor of Moray, and produced MacBeth. Three grandsons of the High King—and the finger of death on two of them.

MacBeth nodded. "You have come here, for whatever reasons. And are welcome. What is your intention?"

"I shall stay with you a little time, Brother, here at Cromarty. To discourage our royal grandsire. He is the less likely to move into Ross, against you, if our united forces are here, waiting, than if I had remained on the Moray coast, at Torfness. He will learn of it quickly. He will not attack my Torfness, I think. It is too strong. We are ready for him. So, he will not long remain at Inverness. If he does not advance on you, he will retire, southwards. An old man, his own fireside will call him. And, when he retires, through the Mounth passes by God's Blood, we shall have him! We go by sea, you and I, across to Torfness again. A forced march inland to the hills which he must cross. Surprise attack—and an end to Malcolm Foiranach! Who has lived too long already. And to Duncan his lap-dog, who is with him."

"No." That was quiet, but flat, final.

The earl frowned—and when he did so, he made a frightening sight. "I say yes! It is he, or us. Or
you—
for he will never take Thorfinn! This could be our great opportunity, man. As he struggles home to Fortrenn, through the passes. He would not look for it..."

"No. He is still High King of Scots. And I am Mormaor of Ross, and no rebel nor regicide."

"Fool! He would crack you like a louse between his fingernails, mormaor, grandson or none! If he could lay hands on you."

"He is still High King. Sits on the Stone of Destiny. And I am one of his lesser kings, as are you, for Caithness. We have sworn a great oath, brother. On that Stone. To cherish and support him. He may betray
his
oath. But I shall not. Not before I take it back, before a Council of the Kings, at the same Stone."

Exasperatedly the big man glared at him. "You were ever an obstinate dolt!" he declared. "Why I waste my time and patience on you...?"

"Because you need me, hot-head! As, God knows, I need you, yes. But not to slay our mother's father..."

Impatiently the other turned to look back at his ships, marshalled, sails down, oars holding gently against the tide-run, waiting there in the narrow mouth of the firth, the most feared and effective naval force in all the northern seas.

"You do not deserve my protection!" he all but snarled.

"Perhaps not. Will you sail away again, then? Back to Torfness, in Moray? Up to Caithness? To Orkney? Or the Hebrides? Or even to Ireland itself? The seas are wide—and none may stop Thorfinn Raven Feeder."

"Fiend seize you...!"

"To be sure. But you came here for more than my protection, I think? Glad as I am to have it. How many men have you there? Which host you wish hidden in my firth of Cromarty."

"Twelve hundred. Thirteen hundred. Heroes all."

"No doubt. But too many for Rosemarkyn. I am presently at my summer hall there. Your hundreds must needs go up the firth to Inverpeffery. But, lacking your presence, can I let your sea-wolves loose on my town? Or must we leave Rosemarkyn and accompany them? To protect my people."

"Devil roast you—you have an ill tongue in your head, Scot, Cruithne, Pict! Any other speaking so would never speak again!"

"I take advantage of your fond brotherly love, yes! But see you, I have my poor helpless folk to consider. Like lambs before your...protectors!"

"Thorkell Fosterer will go with them. To Dingwall. Or whatever you call it now."

"Very well. Let us be on our way."

"Praise be! I feared that we would take root here!"

The half-brothers turned and strode down to the tide-line. The dragon-ship was now closer inshore, indeed with its ferocious prow driven up actually' on the shingle—the long-ships were built for this—and a gangplank reached down steeply to the beach. Thorfinn ran straight up, without pause, extraordinarily light on his feet for one so large; he was still a youngish man, of course, only in his thirtieth year, three years older than MacBeth, who climbed up less dramatically but ignored the other's mocking hand held out to aid him on to the high prow platform.

Amongst the fierce, shaggy Norse throng who awaited them thereon, all bulls'-horned helmets, hide jerkins, steel plating, silver jewellery and bracelets, one squat, immensely broad man, with the longest arms and ugliest face in Christendom, stepped forward, grinning hugely.

"Greetings, lord," he said. "You grow more like a man each time I set eyes on you!"

"And you like an ape, Thorkell!" But MacBeth grasped the other's hand nevertheless. Thorkell Fosterer, Amundi's son, was Thorfinn's foster-father and chief lieutenant, no blood relation but one of the greatest fighters and most successful ladies' men in all the North.

The earl eyed them both. "Which the greater fool I know not!" he barked. "My lord mormaor or this swineherd's get from behind an Orkney peat-stack!"

There was a roar of laughter from the other Vikings.

"The Raven Feeder is always right," Thorkell observed. "His size ensures it. But whose is the greater folly—the fool's or he who relies on him?"

Thorfinn grasped MacBeth's arm, and started to push through the throng. "Come and see another sort of fool." He turned his head. "And you, Ape—get yourself to another ship, with most of these house-carls I must use for fighting-men. Take them, and the rest, to Dingwall. I go to Rosemarkyn with this sober brother of mine, for a little. He fears for his innocents at Dingwall. So, I charge you—do not burn all down. And rape only the women. Who will esteem you, I swear, for the attentions of real men! Come, Son of Life."

He led the way down from the fighting-platform and along the boarded walk-way between the tiered rowing-benches, where the brawny oarsmen, many stark naked, sprawled at ease after their exertions, amidst a powerful smell of sweat and rampant masculinity. Their quips and ruderies, as the earl and mormaor passed, were lusty and uninhibited—for the Norsemen were not great respecters of persons—Thorfinn at least giving back as good as he got. Then, at the decked-in cavity beneath the high stern-platform, the big man paused, stooped to peer in, and shouted, "Come out, woman. We have company."

A faint stirring, after a moment, in the dark, cavern-like interior, and two persons came slowly to the entrance, a young woman holding by the hand a curly-haired child of perhaps two years. The little boy looked frightened and hid behind his mother's skirts. But the woman certainly revealed no signs of fear, concern, or even interest. Holding her head high and proudly, she ignored Earl Thorfinn, glanced briefly at MacBeth and then looked away along the lines of leering, unclothed rowers, calm, expressionless. But she held the child close to her side.

MacBeth drew a long quivering breath. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on, dark of hair and eyes, of lovely chiselled features, alabaster skin and with a superb figure. Tall, holding herself like any queen, she was clad richly, but her clothing torn and peat-stained.

"The Lady Gruoch—it can be none other!" he exclaimed. "Princess, I, I greet you. I...am sorry."

She inclined her dark head, unspeaking.

"What does she here, on your ship?" he demanded of his brother.

"Ask
her.
She asked to be brought to you. The saints know why! She escaped Malcolm's grasp, with Gillacomgain's brat—how I have not learned. Some of my people found her, and brought her to me at Torfness borg. I offered her comfort, refuge, even my bed! Oh, yes—it may be almost time for me to think of taking a wife, even, and raise sons! But she would have none of me. A fool-woman! I do not wonder that she refused Duncan the Palsied, who seems to have sought her. But Thorfinn is another story!" The giant shrugged. "But, no—she must be brought to MacBeth mac Finlay. God knows why women so lack judgment!"

That man raised an open hand to the woman. "I am honoured," he said. "We met but once, lady. When we were both but children. You may not recollect. But I have heard much of you. And, I swear, you are more beautiful even than they told me!"

Gillacomgain's widow eyed him levelly. "I remember you. And have heard you reputed as honest," she told him quietly, in a voice softly Highland as his own, melodious after the harsh and jerky Norse enunciation. "I had to go to someone. For the child's sake."

"Yes. Welcome, then, to Ross, Princess. You will be safe with me." Thorfinn snorted.

"Yet...my husband slew your father. And took Moray, which should have been yours. And this is his son." That was said in the same even, almost impersonal tone.

"Even so. We are cousins of a sort. And that was a dozen years back.
You
were not concerned."

"I am, was, Gillacomgain's wife."

"Yes. But..."

"More important, she is Bodhe's daughter, King Kenneth, of blessed memory, his grand-daughter," Thorfinn interrupted cynically. "Sole heir of that royal line, since Malcolm Foiranach murdered her brother. Let none forget it. Malcolm and Duncan do not, it is clear. That is why Gillacomgain was burned in Inverness. And, hopefully, this woman and child with him! We shall not hide what that means by polite words and small talk."

There was silence at that, for a little. It was stark truth which had to be faced. Gillacomgain, Mormaor of Moray, had died, not because of his many sins but because he was married to this Gruoch nic Bodhe mac Kenneth, with better claim to the high throne of Scotland than had Malcolm himself, or any of his grandsons. She had escaped him, but nothing was surer than that he would try again. For this child at her knee should be King of Scots, whether she ever was queen or no. And if MacBeth, of Malcolm's own line, was endangered before in the road of Duncan's succession, he would be infinitely the more so if he sheltered the Princess Gruoch.

This knowledge in all their minds, they looked away. The fleet was on the move again, this dragon-ship also, heading westwards now into the calm waters of the great landlocked basin of the firth.

MacBeth sank down on one bare knee before the shrinking child, holding out a hand. "This small one is a fine fellow. He will be a stout support for his lady-mother one day. How is he called?" 

"Lulach."

"Lulach mac Gillacomgain mac Maelbride mac Ruari! As I am MacBeth mac Finlay mac Ruari. So we are kin, you and I, young one. I greet you!"

"Where are you taking us?" the mother asked. "To Inverpeffery?"

"No. To Udale Bay only. Then we ride over the ridge of this Black Isle to my summer house of Rosemarkyn. There is no safe anchorage for ships there, on that southern coast. All save this craft will go on to Inverpeffery."

"And...the King?"

"We keep close watch. All along my Ross border. Never fear—we shall not let him lay hands on you."

"Is he not the kind one!" Thorfinn mocked. "The gentle MacBeth. Watch him, woman!"

It was only a few miles to Udale, a sheltered bay on the south shore of the firth, where the dragon-ship disembarked its important passengers. Save for one other vessel, the main fleet rowed on for a further ten miles, to where Strathpeffer opened off the firth to probe into the hills, and the province of Ross had its seat. At the township of Balblair, above the Udale anchorage, MacBeth borrowed sturdy Highland garrons to carry his party across the high spine of the great peninsula of Cromarty, known as the Black Isle, seven miles to Rosemarkyn.

* * *

The hall-house of the mormaor at Rosemarkyn stood on a terrace above the shore, at the foot of a steep lofty bank, part cliff, part sand hill, pockmarked with holes in which darting martins had their nests and over which jackdaws swooped and squawked. It was a long, low building of timber covered with clay, inside and out, to seal the draughts and prevent the danger of fire, reed-thatched, two storeys in height save in the centre where the great hall itself rose right to the smoke-blackened roof-trees. The wings flanking the hall contained many chambers, a small private hall, armoury, sleeping accommodation and storerooms. The kitchens, bakehouse, brewhouse and servants' quarters, with the stables and byres, lay across a cobbled yard at the back, dug into the side of the bank, a deep draw-well in the yard's centre. Orchards lay right and left. The house was commodious, unassuming but pleasant. It was no dun, no rath, or fortified dwelling, and Thorfinn jeered at it as totally undefendable. But MacBeth pointed out mildly that he looked to his people for defence, not to walls, ramparts and palisades. Certainly, all around were the cot houses and cabins of his clansfolk; if they could not protect him, walls would avail little. Besides, it was only a summer residence, for the sea breezes, the boating and fishing, the swimming and hawking. Although it looked directly across the Moray Firth, near where it narrowed at Chanonry Ness, to the Inverness plain, Strathnairn and the Laigh, as no other of his houses did—which was why he was here now—it was no place for warfare. The ' churchmen, who knew a pleasant spot when they saw one, had been long established here, the old Irish saints under Moluag making this their base in Ross nearly five centuries before. Indeed, the name meant the Monastery of Ross.