Macbeth the King (47 page)

So here they were approaching the Orcades, in a galley escorted by two of Gunnar's longships, sailing the summer seas in gentle airs, even the Pentland Firth glassy—yet scarcely in holiday mood. Apart from anxiety about Thorfinn, MacBeth was uneasy at leaving his kingdom this summer of 1053—even though he could return to it in a day's fast sailing. For the Earl Godwin of Wessex had died, leaving a void in the power structure in England, such as Edward the Confessor was not the man to fill; and Siward, after years, could feel free, if so he chose, to turn his fierce face northwards at last, the new Earl Harold and his brothers constituting no threat to his rear. It could be, of course, that Siward would choose rather to seek to fill Godwin's place, and dominate southern England, forgetting Scotland in this new situation. But the Scots certainly could not rely on that. There had been no word of musterings or major movement of armed men from Northumbria to be sure—or MacBeth would never have left Fortrenn. And the summer was more than half over, so that it might seem probable that there would be no attack this campaigning season. But there was no certainty, and MacBeth remained anxious. That Lulach was left in nominal command, in the interim, was scant reassurance—even though, in fact, Glamis, Bishop Malduin and Abbot Ewan were in effective control. But, now of full age, the heir to the throne had to be given his due place and authority. And, to be sure, he had improved, in his step-father's eyes, in the past year. He had married—or rather, acquiesced in marriage to—Malvina of Lindores, at an elaborate wedding ceremony, and the unenthusiastic pair had settled down in apparently mutual toleration in the old palace of Forteviot across Tay, amidst scores of hawks and falcons. There had been no real opposition, on his own part or on that of the Fife thanes, to his becoming governor of that fair province, and he was indeed taking some interest in the great mortuath and its development and problems, although great results were not yet visible. But at least it was all some betterment—and, what was important, Gruoch was enheartened. The rest of the family, Farquhar, Luctacus, Cormac and Eala, all of whom doted on their Uncle Thor, were with their parents on this visit. Lulach had never found the Raven Feeder to his taste.

Their destination was the Brough of Birsay, on the west coast of the Orkneys' largest of sixty-seven islands. Hoy, further south, was the second-largest and much the highest. It was coming up now on their starboard quarter. They were surprised at the dimensions of it. They had thought of the Orkneys as low, flattish islands, rather dull compared with the picturesque and mountainous Hebrides of the west. But this Hoy had quite high, heather-covered hills, and stupendous cliffs that soared to 1000 feet above the sea, precipices of a strange red and golden stone which seemed to glow with its own fire in the sunlight. Stacks and pinnacles rose dramatically from the waves, some slender as the obelisks of Rome, and great caves yawned darkly. Today, although the sea was so calm, the mighty Atlantic swell broke whitely in surging power all along the cliff-girt seaboard. And it was long indeed, so much longer than they had envisaged: and seaboard rather than shore, for on it all they could discern only the one small stretch of beach, the rest all this fearsome palisade of rock, crag and stack. This island, Hoy, MacBeth reckoned, must be all of fifteen miles long. Clearly they would have to revise their notions as to the size of Thorfinn's island earldom. The galley's master told them that the Orkneys, in fact, covered an area of some fifty miles by fifty; and added, with some of the most difficult and dangerous waters for navigation in all Christendom.

They gained some indication of this as they crossed the narrows of the Sound of Hoy separating that island from the south-westerly end of Hrossey, as the Orkney mainland was called. The small isle of Graemsay sat in the middle of this sound, forcing the tide into two still narrower channels. At the height of the rising or ebbing, forced through these funnels, the Atlantic swell could reach as much as twelve knots; and this flow was complicated by the very different levels of the sea-floor between the various islands and the fact that there was an especially deep area at the other side of Graemsay into Scapa Flow, known as the Bring Deep. The result was a roaring turmoil of waters, called here a roost, a mixture of tide-race and overfalls, which quickly had the three vessels tossing and heaving wildly, twisting off course and causing the rowers to labour mightily and exert themselves to extraordinary manoeuvres. If it could be like this in such calm conditions, the travellers were left in little doubt as to what it would be like in rough weather. They were assured that there were hundreds of such roosts in the Orcades.

The succeeding coastline of Hrossey was very different, reefs and skerries and low rocky headlands and bays mile after mile, rising inland by green braes to very modest heights, scattered with groups of what seemed to be tiny farms, a great many of these, their cattle and ponies dotting the land as far as eye could see. This was a populous terrain, then, more so than most parts of Scotland, it appeared—as it must be, of course, to produce the Raven Feeder's thousands of armed Vikings. Not much tilled land was visible, however; these people were herders and fishers and warriors, not tillers of the soil.

For almost two hours they beat up this rockbound coast. Small circular forts crowned almost every headland, strange stone towers, round as bee-hives but tall, windowless, ending apparently in parapets, which the shipmaster called brochs—a name evidently compounded of the Norse borg and the Anglo-Saxon burgh, but clearly duns of a sort. At length they reached a much larger bay than any they had yet seen, more than a mile across, with low ground behind forming a wide gap between the green braes and rolling moorlands. The bay was rock-ribbed like the rest of the coast, and unprotected from the westerly winds and Atlantic seas, although a river entered at its centre. But its northern horn was remarkable for an abrupt rocky islet, really no more than a squat, broad, almost circular table, detached from the mainland by only a narrow belt, rising to perhaps 150 feet, with a ftattish top, a most peculiar formation that dominated the whole bay and coast. On its summit was another fort, but not a broch, much larger, with ramparts of earth and stone, clearly an early Pictish strength, within which were many buildings of timber and clay, almost a village.

"The Brough of Birsay," the shipman said.

As the others exclaimed at its dramatic style and position, MacBeth looked puzzled.

"But—where is the anchorage? The haven?" he demanded. "This is as dangerous a landfall as I have seen. Look at those reefs and breakers. In any weather less calm than this, that bay will be a death-trap. And there is no vessel to be seen."

"Wait, you," the skipper advised.

They sailed on, close under the towering rock; but not too close, for it was guarded by its own screen of jagged reefs and skerries, over which the tide boiled whitely. It could be seen that there were the deep black mouths of caves opening into the rock, into which the seas surged. Beyond the stack, northwards, they found only the open sea, for the coast here turned away eastwards at right angles, this Brough Head being in fact the westerly tip of Hrossey.

Now their longship escorts were pulling tightly round to starboard, to head into another and much smaller bay, north-facing, round this side of the detached rock, and entering it through a gap in the savage line of skerries. The galley followed, and then as the escorts continued to row ever further round to starboard, until they were actually facing south-eastwards instead of north, a small hidden inner bay opened, directly under the east side of the stack, protected from every wind that blew, with even a brief shingle strand at its head. This was notably full of craft, longships, birlinns, drawn up in marshalled ranks; and further over to the east, really on another bay of the mainland, they could see a fishing-haven, with more boats, backed by a wide scatter of cabins and cot-houses. Also to be noted, as they entered the Brough bay, were the two ends of a great chain, its centre submerged, plus the winding-gear therefor, on the flanking rocks. The Jarl Eric of Trondheim was not the only one to recognise the advantages of a bolt to his door.

As they drew in to the short stone jetty—carefully, for there was not a lot of room in that tight-packed haven—they could see that a group was waiting to receive them. There had been plenty of time, of course, for they must have been in view for the best part of an hour. None would be apt to creep up on the Brough of Birsay unawares. MacBeth's heart lifted to see there a massive figure towering head and shoulders above all others. Somehow he had been prepared to find his brother if not bed-bound, at least house-bound.

With the galley warped in and the gangway run out, however, Thorfinn did not come striding aboard but waited there on the jetty for his visitors. MacBeth hurried down, and the other called out, "Son of Life—you have been long in coming! Were you hoping that I would save you the trouble?" That was a stout effort, and the grin that went with it almost as of old. But the voice was certainly not, breathless, throaty, lacking body, sufficiently so to slow down MacBeth's pace involuntarily.

"Thor!" he said. And again, "Thor!" And could find nothing else to say at that moment.

The change in his brother was extraordinary, not so much as it were in quantity as in quality. He was as big and massive as ever, indeed almost more so, although perhaps the term bulky would now replace massive. But it was as though the framework within all that bulk had somehow softened, its essential force evaporated. The man was still a giant, still a dominant presence; but the dominance now was by a conscious effort of will, the stature a facade. Nevertheless, if* the features had a fleshy look to them, the jowls noticeable, the colouring purplish, the eyes at least were the same, hot, glittering, intensely blue.

Ingebiorg, at her husband's side, came hastening forward to throw herself into MacBeth's arms. "Oh, my dear, my dear!" she said, half-sobbed. That was all.

"Yes lass, yes," he told her, soothingly, stroking her still-yellow hair, and holding her tightly for a moment. "Inge, the strong one!" He released her, and went on to his brother. "So you are on your feet, Raven Feeder? I need not have hurried!"

"Hurried? You!" They grasped each other's upper arms, and their eyes met and held. "But—I am glad to see you, Brother."

Ingebiorg brought Gruoch to him, to be embraced.

"Oh, it is good to see you, Thor," she said. "We have thought of you always, wishing you well. We have plagued the good God on your behalf. You should not have come down to meet us."

"He comes down the hill so that he may travel up again on his new toy—the great bairn!" the countess said, but her voice held a quiver.

The young people, at least, laughed heartily when they perceived the mighty Thorfinn's transport arrangements. A sort of sledge to which a heavy chair was attached, waited at the foot of the steep zigzag track up to the fort, with two sturdy Icelandic ponies harnessed; and to this the earl was led, set-faced. There, Arnor Earl's Skald got him seated, amidst a sudden silence from the watchers, and went to the ponies' heads. Gruoch broke the hush.

"I would like to go up in that too, Thor. May
I?
Can your horses take me also? I grow old, I think."

"Come," he said, almost eagerly. "There is but the one seat. But my knees are not so feeble that they will not support the Queen of Scots!"

So, with his arms round the woman whom once he had brought fugitive to his half-brother, complaining that she would not wed him, the Raven Feeder was dragged up the stiff incline to his own house. Sundry Vikings looked on, expressionless.

Ingebiorg, on MacBeth's arm, indulged in a few hoarded tears.

On the summit of the Brough, the visitors found a large and comprehensive establishment within the Pictish ramparts, almost a self-contained community, in the Norse style, rather than any conventional castle or palace, centring admittedly around a vast longhouse, but with barracks, stables, kitchens, bakehouses, blacksmith's forge and armoury, brewhouse, horse-mill and warehouses, even a wood-carver's yard. All in stone, clay-covered—for timber was scarce in the islands—with turf roofs. One building which perplexed the visitors, and which MacBeth took to be some sort of covered well-head, proved in fact to be the housing for a deep and wide shaft cut down through the living rock to one of the great caves beneath, where meat and fish was kept stored in the cold. It was provided with winding-gear and a hoist large enough to take men—for the caves had other uses besides storing food. There was also a large underground reservoir, cut out of the rock as at Torfness, for maintaining a water supply should the well be inadequate—another relic of the Picts, who had been not inconsiderable engineers. Over all flew a huge raven banner on a tall staff—to rouse mixed feelings in the viewers.

Everything about that sea-king's eyrie seemed to emphasise to the newcomers, as they settled in, the hopelessly unsuitable and helpless state of its lord. For all here was geared to the active life, to voyaging and hosting and fighting, to hunting and fishing, seal-catching and whaling, boating, herding, cliff-scaling for eggs and the like—none of which Thorfinn the Mighty would ever do again, most evidently. The least exercise exhausted him and left him breathless. He lay most of his time, in fact, on a sort of massive couch with handles, which could be carried here and there about the Brough by four men and, in this summer weather, Ingebiorg explained carefully, spent the days out on the very edge of the cliff, amongst the wheeling seabirds, staring out to sea, ever staring, especially northwards towards Iceland, the sheer longing in his eyes a pain to behold. Sometimes, she confessed, she feared that he might indeed hurl himself over the edge, in his utter and terrible frustration.

It was apparent now, to his guests, how greatly the earl had taxed himself to come down to meet them at the jetty.

That evening, after they had eaten—with Thorfinn only toying with his food—the brothers talked long into the night, in the famed Orkney summer-dim half-light, with the others retired to bed. The earl had much difficulty in winning to sleep, he confessed. Alone, they need not maintain the attempts
at
normal converse and superficial bonhomie; but however he felt, Thorfinn at first sought not to allow any sorry-for-himself attitude to show. He was particularly eager to hear about the position in England, especially as regards Siward, whom he still managed to curse with a fair semblance of fervour. The sorrow that Almighty God had not smitten that oafish barbarian as He had seen to smite himself, he asserted—the first real indication of his fought-back bitterness.