Macbeth the King (34 page)

Thorfinn nodded in rapt approval—while his wife made faces at MacBeth.

There was a lot more of picturesque and one-sided flourish before the composer got down to the vital battle—with the King of Scots getting a look in as the noble Raven Feeder's brother and helper, twing-twang. But the armed encounter itself was more authentic. Obviously Arnor had been present himself, and he described aspects of the scene and situation vividly, with a seeing eye and ready tongue. Now the dagger came into play more often than the lyre, as the story unfolded. He told how the Earl Thorfinn had gathered together each hero and each longship from every isle of Orkney and Zetland, even from the far Faroes, and sent the brave Thorkell Fostri across the Pictish Sea to Caithness and Sutherland to muster the out-land clans there and march them down through the Westland to Skye. How the great fleet set sail from the Brough of Birsay westwards for the Hebrides; and how the Raven Feeder and his foster-father had met the Three Crows at Waternish in the north of Skye and there fought and won two distinct battles on land and on sea, slaying mightily with axe and mace and sword and spear, burning with fire-arrows, ramming with iron prows, Thorfinn slaying his scores, Thorkell his dozens. How Rognvald sank with his ship, his skull cloven in two, the Icelander Goden fell to Thorkell's mace, and the Norse crow's representative, the Earl Hundi, a hound indeed, yielded, so that his head now adorned a dun's walls at Waternish, with a thousand others. Great work. Twang. MacBeth King of Alba meantime kept the other scavengers at bay, twing. Hail the Victor! Hail the Heroes! Hail the Raven Feeder!

It made stirring telling and went down well, especially with Arnor's employer. The skald was toasted and back-slapped and forced to slake his dry throat with vast quantities of ale.

The servitors marched in with steaming cauldrons and platters, to prolonged cheers.

The serious business of great eating—and drinking—proceeded thereafter for literally hours. This was inevitable, in view of the problems of unexpectedly having to cater for vastly larger numbers than anticipated—over seventy sat down—but also it was intentional, for this was an especial night, and it was as well to prolong the table-sitting until midnight, when further activities were due. Even the children were permitted to remain in their places until the end, for once—and if some of them were apt to be asleep much of the time latterly, so too were not a few of their elders. Whilst they waited for the successive courses, there was entertainment, to be sure, fiddling, singing, dancing, juggling, story-telling. MacBeth himself contributed a tale of the mighty exploits of the Sons of Uisneach for love of Deirdre nic Feidhlim, a stirring and romantic account, semi-factual, semi-legendary, only enhanced by the low-key style of the royal delivery—and accompanied by sundry Viking snores. Arnor Earl's Skald was called upon for another offering, but was found to be too drunk to comply.

At length, noises from without, bagpipe music, singing and shouting, intimated the approach of midnight, and a move was made outdoors by all capable of it. Torches were lit, coats and plaids donned, MacBeth in his newly-acquired wolfskin cloak, Gruoch a vision in white fox. Outside, the scene was striking. The snow had ceased, leaving a thin white covering over all, and now it was freezing, a still night of bright stars. The flickering light of scores of torches made of it a gleaming and sparkling wonderland. Across the loch a large and noisy crowd had assembled, come from the hall-town, neighbouring townships, the fishing-havens and the Keledei cashel and college on Rose Isle, their torches setting the sky aglow and reflected in the dark water which was beginning to grow a skin of ice, their pipes wailing and shrilling. Cheers greeted the appearance of the royal party.

Waving, MacBeth took Gruoch's arm on one side and Ingebiorg's on the other, and signing for Lulach and his children, and Thorfinn and his, to follow on, led the way down to the waterside jetty, the youngsters delighting to be allowed to carry their own torches. There a large flat-bottomed barge, used for ferrying horses, was waiting, oarsmen ready. Into this they piled, and were rowed out to midway between island and shore, one hundred and fifty yards from each. There they waited.

The slow, sonorous clanging of a great bronze gong from the hall door-way marked the midnight hour, this special midnight, the turning-point of the winter solstice, the Birthday of the Unconquered Sun and Return of the Burning Wheel, of ancient Pictish and pagan worship, as well as the Christian celebration imposed thereon, the first day of Christ's Mass and start of the Haly Days. At the first reverberation the shouting and the piping died away.

The King stepped up on to the raised prow of the scow, and when the last pealing note of the gong had quivered across the loch, raised his hand.

"My people and my friends," he called, deep-voiced, into the hush. "I greet you all this God-given night. I wish you well, and seek your own good will towards myself, the Queen and our family. Aye, and towards the Earl and Countess of Orkney and theirs. And I ask Holy Church's blessing upon us all, and upon this realm and people."

There was a murmur, like the making tide on a long strand, and then a single strong, clear and musical voice was uplifted.

"God Almighty keep you all. Bless, preserve and cherish you, in soul and in body, and on all on whom you seek His love.
In
the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, One in Three and Three in One." That was the Keledei abbot from Rose Isle.

Even the Vikings were silent.

Then MacBeth spoke again. "I now declare to you Yule Girth," he called. "Sanctuary, in the name of the Christ who was to be born in seven days. Freedom for all, even the wrongdoers, from imprisonment, from arrest, from man's punishment, from this hour until Up Haly Day, the twentieth day of Christmas. All note and heed. It is my royal command. All man's punishment of his fellows is but lent from God, the true judge. And God was born to die for sinners at this time. This to remind us. I proclaim Yule Girth. Let no man break it—or be given cause to break it." He paused. "I and my wife and family wish you all the peace of this season. You will pleasure us by drinking to our health. And we to yours."

Now the cheers broke out, loud and long, the solemnities over—especially when other torch-lit boats were to be seen coming out from the Hall Isle laden with casks and barrels and baskets. If any had wondered at it, this was why Gruoch had had to take heed to her catering that evening, lest the traditional hospitality for the Yule Girth crowd should be too much encroached upon. A minor miracle or two of wine, loaves and fishes would not have come amiss.

* * *

That Yuletide of 1046/47 was certainly one of the least restful that the MacBeth household could remember—although they were celebrating peace on earth in general and in Scotland and Orkney in particular—Thorfinn and his entourage seeing to that. Whether they behaved thus back in their own islands, or whether it was due to the holiday atmosphere away-from-home and the reverberations of victory, was not to be known. But clearly they had come to enjoy themselves, and no opportunity was to be missed nor under-valued. Much of which enjoyment applied likewise to their hosts. But the pace became slightly wearing for non-Vikings.

The traditional ceremonies of the festive season fell to be observed, of course, and they were many; but it is safe to say that never had all been celebrated with such gusto before in Morayland, with extra Norse revelry added to the native Celtic ones. There was the Mistletoe Bough saturnalia, with licence between the sexes scarcely approved by Holy Church—although the Celtic Church was more broad-minded in such matters than the Romish one. There was the Norse Animal Carnival, when the young people dressed up as birds and beasts, wolves, herons, bears, eagles, to go round the townships singing carols and choruses that seemed to have strangely little to do with Bethlehem, to be rewarded with cakes and ale—although perhaps many of the cottagers presented these to the capering Vikings more out of alarm than from piety.

There was something of a clash of traditions on 24th December, when the Log Even's high jinks, concerned with the selecting and dragging and setting alight of the Yule Log competed for favour with the very different Holy Night ceremonial of the Christians. Christmas Day itself, in consequence, proved to be something of a blessed oasis, with attendance at the Nativity Processional and Holy Communion thereafter obligatory on all, providing a most necessary interval for recovery from various kinds of exhaustion. On this occasion, however, the comparative peace did not last the day out, for it was Thorfinn's turn to play host at Torfness for the prescribed Christmas feast.

It proved to be, as could have been anticipated, a wholehearted not to say extravagant affair, with quantity rather than variety the basic theme, oxen roasted whole, venison by the haunch, salmon by the score and liquor sufficient to float a longship. The Borg hall, huge, bare, gaunt and draughty, was hardly ideal for festivities, but holly, ivy and fir branches in abundance helped to relieve the bald stone walling, and two great square sails from the longships had been brought in to hang side by side, the two black spread-winged ravens facing each other.

The entertainment this time was provided partly by Arnor Earl's Skald and partly by an older man, one of the longship's oarmasters, Njal by name. Arnor had composed a new piece, a skit on Thorkell Fostri, as a mighty warrior who waxed valiant and terrible but always on mistaken targets, with consistently embarrassing results, a comparatively brief comic turn which brought the house down as Thorfinn's ape-like foster-father alternately roared his laughter and gnashed his teeth with rage. But Njal, a grizzled veteran lacking an eye, chose to render an old favourite of countless Yules—although not at first sight particularly applicable to the celebration of Christ's birth. This was the song of Odin, God of War, and the Two Ravens. These renowned birds, Hugin representing Mind and Munnin representing Memory, were appointed by the other gods of Valhalla to sit one on each of Odin's shoulders whilst he conducted his battles, giving good advice and consequent victory. Thor the Thunderer, his son, was jealous of the ravens and sought to borrow them now and again; but Odin would not part with them. So the beautiful Regner Lodbrocksdotter, who was in love with Thor, wove and embroidered in one single night, a splendid double-raven banner for the Thunderer. She could not guarantee quite such miraculous powers to her woven ravens as to the live ones, of course, but assured that when the birds on the banner seemed to stand erect, ready to soar, victory would be Thor's; but when they drooped, his arms were destined to defeat—so it would be wise to avoid battle on such occasions. Since, clearly to all seafarers, it would be the wind which ensured the one or the other, Thor and his Viking successors took due heed of the fair Regner's advice ever after, with suitable results.

Hence Thorfinn Sigurdson, in due line of succession, kept his own raven duly fed on flesh. But, Njal added grinning, there being a tradition that it was apt to be only Munnin the Memory, on the left, which occasionally drooped and slept, the wise earl chose to fly only one raven on his sails and banner, Hugin—and so always won! Wild applause greeted this new quirk at the end of an old story, none more delighted with the notion than Thorfinn. The draughts of that vast echoing hall, rippling the painted hanging sails and seeming to make the black ravens nod and flex their outstretched wings, enhanced the story-telling.

The eating over, through lack of further capacity rather than any lack of meats, and the rest of the night dedicated to serious drinking, Thorfinn denied himself in the interests of the few women present and announced to his principal guests that he had a different entertainment in store for them now. At Gruoch's protest that she had partaken so fully that all she was fit for was bed, her brother-in-law assured that that was anticipated and what they were going to do now was designed to cope with full bellies, and would moreover send them off to bed in due course in proper fettle to do justice to the occasion—this with large leers and nudges. However, Ingebiorg was equally and more persuasively insistent, and the royal party rose to leave the hall. Outside, the young people were put in Paul Thorfinnson's charge and sent off on their own—the infants having been left asleep at Spynie—even though Lulach for one looked extremely doubtful. Their elders were conducted across the snow-covered yard of the fort, to a low range of buildings on the west side, part of which almost seemed to be on fire from the amount of smoke issuing therefrom—although some of this proved to be only steam.

"A bath-house!" MacBeth exclaimed. "Do not tell me that we are going bathing? At this hour?"

"What else!" Thorfinn declared. "What better way to end an evening? And to begin a night!" He slapped his brother on the back. "You will be twice the man you are now, in an hour's time, I promise you, Son of Life! And these ladies even more desirable than they are now! We Norsemen know how such things should be arranged. In here with you. Gruoch with Inge."

The two men entered a small torch-lit chamber where a fire burned brightly and where an aged attendant greeted them. Here they undressed. MacBeth had heard often of these Norse steam-baths, but never had occasion to sample one. He was not too sure that he wanted to, even now; but Thorfinn was vehement that it was an essential part of the evening's programme, and something not to be missed—especially in present company.

Naked as the day they were born, the earl led the King through a doorway into the next chamber—and the blast of hot air set MacBeth coughing and choking. Never had he felt such overpowering and encompassing heat. He faced a dense yellowish mist, steam illumined by the firelight and the glow of whale-oil horn-lanterns—for torches could not have survived alight in that moisture-laden atmosphere.

The half-brothers were very differently made, in more than their natures. Thorfinn was, of course, heavily-built as he was tall, massive in every way, notably well-endowed but acquiring a distinct belly. MacBeth was almost slight by comparison but leanly muscular and with no thickening of the middle as yet—he was, to be sure, a year or two the younger. Also he was very much the more hairy in body, furred all over.