King Hereafter

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘It is necessary,’ Groa said.

  ‘It may be necessary, but it is not easy to be his wife in other things with dignity, as you are doing,’ Godiva said. ‘Even if you have nothing else, you have a partnership.’

  Groa looked, in her turn, across the room. Thorfinn her husband was speaking, his black hair obscuring half his face. The deep voice, indecipherable, went on, mixed with comments from Alfgar and Sulien. She said, ‘He must have been quite young when he came first to Chester.’

  ‘He ran a race on the oars as my husband’s boat passed down the river. Yes, young. Perhaps nineteen,’ said Lady Godiva. ‘But he knew what he wanted then, and he got it. I have often wondered if he thought it worth while.’ She smiled suddenly. ‘Am I insulting you?’

  ‘No,’ said Groa. ‘I understand you. I don’t know what he thinks. And that is the truth.’

  ‘Perhaps that is safest,’ the Lady said. The men were rising. She rose as well, and held out her hand to Lulach, who was crossing the room led by one of her slaves. Godiva said, ‘He is a beautiful child. You didn’t hear, by any chance, the discussion over my hair?’

  Groa sighed and put her arm round the boy. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Lulach, what did you say about the Lady Godiva?’

  The clear eyes looked up. ‘When I was Roger, I wrote about it,’ Lulach said. ‘Her long hair and white legs. Is your husband cruel to the people of Coventry?’

  The Lady laughed. ‘No, he isn’t,’ she said. ‘And thank you for the compliments, even if they are only guesswork.’ Earl Thorfinn had arrived. The Lady Godiva looked at him over the boy’s head and said, ‘Does he speak like this to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the Earl. ‘He says you are a fertility goddess. I believe him.’

  When they got back to their pavilions, Groa saw there was a man in spurs waiting outside the tent her husband used, with his men. She recognised him as one of the Amundasons from Helmsdale. He was covered with mud. When he saw Earl Thorfinn was approaching, he went inside the tent.

  She knew Earl Thorfinn had seen him, but he said nothing of it, and left her at the entrance to her own quarters. After that, she did not see him for the rest of that day.

  He had, of course, some acquaintances among the toisechs and mormaers and churchmen gathered here for the king-making, and doubtless there were many more whom he wished to meet. She had observed him already that morning, moving between one building and another, always with a group of men about him, talking.

  There were some women she knew there also, from the days of Gillacomghain, and it would only be civil to seek them out again. She called Sinna and gave her instructions and proceeded to fill the rest of her own day, as it turned out, to her entire satisfaction.

  Next day, standing in sunshine round the Mód or Moot Hill, the men of Mercia and of Cumbria and of Lothian and of a few places much further south watched the toisechs of Alba, from the Forth to the Spey, receive their new monarch.

  Above the high cross: above the gold-fringed banners of Kells, fluttering before the porch of the little stone church of the monastery, rose the strains of the antique liturgy of the Gallician church of the Celts.

  The threefold cry of the tersanctus, the Canticle, the Collect, and all the Eastern rituals, mixed with plainsong and organum and the long, unwinding scroll of the Alleluias, floated up and over the sky with the incense and ended. The banners jolted while the tonsured heads eddied, like floats round a rock, and the other heads, bare, mitred, or capped, worked through the crowd and settled, at length, into a slow-moving stream which made its way from the church and across and up to the Moot Hill.

  ‘Credentia,’ the Breton from Fougères said, ‘is the other name, I am told, for this hill. How many hills of Credon do you know? I suppose it is practical. The hill where rights of credit are exercised by the seigneur; where tribute is brought at the correct seasons.’

  ‘Some of them claim it means Hill of Belief,’ said Osbern of Eu. ‘It is part of the king-making. You must be practical in all directions. And it is a long time since the churchmen have had to present to the people a king. He cannot be known to them: the men of this country live in their pockets of rock as do seabirds and are hardly aware one colony of another, except to make war from time to time. So the king must be a symbol. So you see the sitting upon the stone, now, and the giving of the cloak and the wand. Then they will recite the names of his fathers, and he will take the oath of kingship, to protect and father his peoples. My lord Crinan explained it.’

  ‘I heard him,’ said Juhel de Fougères. ‘What is important to you and to me is what follows.’

  Among the royal kindred, like a pine tree over juniper scrub, the King’s half-brother stood, his hands clasped behind him, his cloak pinned to one shoulder. The Breton said, ‘There he is. A lapis-dyed velvet, you will note. How could the grandfather have been such a fool as to marry his daughter to Orkney?’

  ‘Was he a fool?’ said the other man. ‘To his deathbed, he claimed overlordship of Caithness, and of Sigurd’s other conquests as well. He could no longer hold them but he could claim them.’

  ‘Then let us see,’ said the Breton, ‘what stuff his grandsons are made of, and who will claim, and who will refuse.’

  From her place beside the Earl her husband, with the sun hot on her long, woven robe and her veil and her train, Groa saw the two men conversing. Beside her, Lulach was silent, as he had been through all the service: watching Duncan; watching equally his stepfather Thorfinn of Orkney with those clear, pale eyes as he moved without speaking through the ritual. Now, as the singing cut through the air and the robed figures clustered close about the short figure, square in its great chair under the canopy, she said in a low voice, ‘When? When is the homage paid?’

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Or soon. My cousin the Bishop will be first.’

  ‘And then you?’ she said. He spoke with absolute calm. A month ago, a week ago, she would have thought nothing of it.

  ‘Probably,’ he said. He was looking not at the ceremony in front or at the crowds down below, all around them, but beyond, as if searching for something. ‘And then the feast?’ she said. ‘Lulach, you will enjoy that.’

  ‘No. I have made my excuses to Duncan. After this we must leave,’ said the Earl.

  ‘Leave?’ said Groa. Heads were turning, and she lowered her voice still further. ‘But why? The messenger last night? Is there news? What is it?’

  ‘Nothing troublesome,’ he said. ‘But there is really no reason to linger. And there is the baby. Thorkel, as you know, is not far away.’

  If you need help, go to Thorkel, was what he was saying. Because if a crisis was coming, it would not save him to leave before the feast. This was one of Duncan’s homes: here were his people: there, massed behind, were the men paid to defend him and his family. Here, Duncan could strike as he pleased, and vengeance, Thorkel’s or anyone else’s, would not raise the dead. She said, and did not realise how far her thoughts had carried her, ‘And whom shall I marry then?’

  ‘Duncan,’ her husband said. ‘Eventually. I imagine Raphoe and Kells would frown on a second wife, but the first one might always perish in childbirth. What do you wager that they’ll call the new child Maelmuire? They won’t let the Abbot over to Kells till he’s baptised it, that’s certain.’

  The singing faded. The monks moved back. The steps cut into the grass of the Moot Hill were cleared, and the Abbot of Kells, bowing, came and removed from Duncan’s hands the golden wand of his kingship. From two different parts of the mound, trumpets blared. Her husband said, ‘I must tell you something.’

  She had been scanning the meadow. It was true. Their pavilions had been struck. The flag of Moray was flying nowhere except here, behind the Earl’s head. Then his words reached her, and she looked up into his direct gaze. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Look,’ said Lulach.

  Children spoke, and one did not need to listen. Her eyes on Earl Thorfinn’s, Groa said again, ‘What?’

  ‘Lo
ok,’ said Lulach. ‘A rider. A man speaking to the King’s men.’

  Earl Thorfinn turned, and did not turn back.

  She therefore watched, too, as Lulach’s rider dismounted and spoke: an envoy as bemired as her husband’s man of the previous night, and as weary. Watched as the message went from one mouth to a second and then was carried under the canopy, to be slipped with discretion into the new monarch’s ear.

  Duncan listened, and turned red, and then pale. Her husband said, ‘Lulach? Why don’t I listen to you? You couldn’t carry me yet.’

  He looked different. Groa said, ‘Is this solely between you and Lulach, or might I know what is happening?’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Earl Thorfinn. ‘I am about to kneel to my brother in homage. There goes the Bishop. The hands. The promise. The kiss. Ah, well. Ni heuir ni fedir, as Sulien would say. No sowing, no harvest.’ And as the Abbot of Kells stood before him, he gave him his hand and allowed himself to be led to the chair in the midst of the Moot Hill.

  And in the event it was Sulien, whom he had invoked, who stood closest to the King’s brother when he came to kneel, his cloak spread on the ground, before the High Chair; and Sulien’s gaze, steady and searching, that rested on him throughout.

  The Earl Thorfinn knelt, and Duncan looked down on him, his russet cheeks yellowed.

  Silence fell. On the mound, those near to the chair could hear the King breathing. Then, slowly, the Earl lifted both hands, closed them palm to palm, and offered them as in prayer to his brother.

  On the chair-arms, the short, ringed hands curled and uncurled as the two men remained, their gaze locked. Then, lifting his hands in turn, Duncan covered the passive fingers of vassaldom with the hands of the King. ‘Make your oath. I will hear it,’ he said.

  From whatever caverns it: came, the rich voice carried with ease: to the King’s father and his wife and all her kindred; to the churchmen of Alba and Ireland; to the men who held their lands of the King and who would come in their turn to kneel and to submit. Her hands on Lulach’s shoulders, Groa listened.

  ‘I, Macbeth stepson of Findlaech son of Ruaidhrí, Mormaer of Moray, do accept thee Duncan son of Bethoc son of Malcolm as overlord for my lands in that province, and swear to defend them as the King would defend them from the enemies of Alba, and to pay what the King is due, as Findlaech my stepfather paid it. Further, my lord—’

  He paused. Watching, Sulien saw that Duncan’s grip on the closed hands had slackened, as his face had slackened. A little rustle ran over the mound and was gone. Everyone waited.

  ‘—Further,’ said the profound voice, ‘I, Macbeth stepfather of Luloecen son of Gillacomghain son of Maelbrighde son of Ruaidhrí beg my lord King’s permission to name my stepson Luloecen this day as my successor, to be Mormaer of Moray and its lands in Mar after me, and to become your man in his turn for these lands.’

  ‘You have leave,’ Duncan said. He dropped his hands.

  Thorfinn of Orkney lowered his gently and, rising, drew something from under his cloak. ‘This belonged to his great-uncle. It would do the boy great honour, sire, if the King’s highness were to invest him with it now, in earnest of his forthcoming succession?’

  Before Duncan had nodded, it seemed, Lulach was walking buoyantly up to the High Chair and was looking from his King to his stepfather. ‘The ring?’ he said, ‘It’s the ring, isn’t it?’

  Sulien didn’t know what he meant. But Groa did, even before she saw the gold glimmer in Earl Thorfinn’s hands, and then in Duncan’s, and heard Lulach laugh because the big band would stay neither on his wrist nor above his elbow, but had to be held. Then the Bishop’s voice quelled the rustle of comment and someone else was moving to kneel at the chair. Lulach dashed up beside her and, smiling, she put her hand over his mouth and then removed it to run her fingers admiringly over his ring. Then she removed them because they were shaking, and summoned her courage, and turned to her husband, returned to her side.

  ‘You didn’t tell me,’ she said. ‘About Lulach.’

  ‘It was a surprise,’ said the Earl. His face was impassive as ever, but his eyes seemed to have become a shade lighter. He said, ‘It all depended on how Duncan felt.’

  ‘And you didn’t do homage for Caithness,’ Groa said. ‘Was that a surprise, too?’

  ‘It was, to Duncan,’ said Earl Thorfinn.

  With difficulty, she weathered a reverent silence, then burst into whispers once more. ‘Then why didn’t he demand Caithness tribute? What made you think he’d grant favours?’

  ‘Because he’s just had some news and doesn’t know what to do about it,’ the Earl said. ‘And my hope is that by the time he’s made up his mind we’ll be on shipboard.’

  ‘News?’ said Groa.

  ‘Sad news. Remember all those Norse-Irish colonies I cleared out of the south-west for him? Perhaps you don’t, but I did.’

  ‘More fool you,’ said Groa boldly.

  ‘That’s Thorkel’s favourite comment. You must judge by results.’

  ‘They came back?’

  ‘They couldn’t come back. They were dead. No. It’s worse than that. A different lot of Irish-Norse have moved in and occupied all their lands.’

  ‘So he wants you to clear them out all over again? I don’t think you should,’ Groa said.

  ‘I don’t think I should either,’ said the Earl. ‘In fact, I don’t think even Duncan expects me to.’

  At last, she became suspicious. ‘Why? Wait a moment. Who are the new Irish-Norse? Who is their leader?’

  ‘Eachmarcach,’ said her husband simply. ‘He’s just used all Duncan’s good bases to make himself King of Dublin.’

  There was a long, long silence, during which twenty people offered to be liegemen to King Duncan and Groa heard none of them. At the end—

  ‘You are clever, aren’t you?’ she said flatly.

  ‘I married you. Otherwise—yes, I am certainly clever,’ said Earl Thorfinn agreeably. ‘It comes from living in Orkney. You will see when you get there.’

  SIXTEEN

  HAT SPRING, Kalv Arnason and the bonder of Trøndelagen sailed from Ladoga to Sweden as soon as the ice broke and by summer had crossed Kolan to Vaerdalen and Nídarós, accompanied by the late King Olaf’s eleven-year-old bastard son Magnús. There, on the Eyrar of the river Nid, the bonder proclaimed Magnús the new King of Norway, and Magnús in turn declared an amnesty to all those concerned in his father’s slaying of five years before.

  It was further decreed that Kalv Arnason was to be regent during King Magnús’s minority.

  It was not proclaimed, because everyone noticed in any case, that wherever the boy-King Magnús might go, he was accompanied by his beautiful foster-brother: Rognvald son of Brusi the late Earl of Orkney.

  The news came to Orkney with a trading-vessel and was brought by Thorkel Fóstri to Thorfinn, who did not swear this time even in Norse, but merely said, ‘So it seems, brave Kalv, that King Canute is not expected to live.’

  He thought. ‘I seem to remember that Rognvald was once betrothed to my wife. Break the news gently to her, my foster-father—she may not be pleased to learn that she has married the wrong man.’

  ‘And is that all you have to say?’ Thorkel said. He knew now that he was not being told everything. It did not help to know that no one was in a better position. Since they came to Orkney, Thorfinn had taken no trouble to conceal the fact that he and his wife slept within separate partitions. ‘Perhaps you have married the wrong wife,’ Thorkel said.

  ‘What are you saying?’ Thorfinn said. ‘Her uncle is regent of Norway, and her mother’s cousin is King. By the way, I am taking eight ships to Dublin, not five. With all that going on, no one is likely to disturb us this summer except perhaps young Svein, looking for help or new subjects now that Magnús has deposed him. If he does, throw him out. Emma will like it.’

  In the event, it was Thorfinn himself who came back from Ireland in time to sail south and show Duncan, in the throes of a minor in
vasion, how to dissuade Canute’s oldest son from the idea of landing in Fife on the east coast of Alba. There were enough men at his rear to make sure that, while facing Svein’s spears in the front, the spears of his brother Duncan might not find their way through the back of his jacket, which had not been charmed by a Lapp. The well-known fact that he now held large parts of Strathclyde and Galloway in joint possession with Eachmarcach of Dublin and had just come back from establishing his interests in the Viking city of Dublin itself was not referred to by anybody.

  By dint of collecting silver instead of heads from all the richer Danes he encountered, he returned to Orkney that autumn with a satisfied hird and a good deal left over to add to the shiploads he had already brought back from Dublin.

  In November, King Canute died in Shaftesbury at a time that pleased everybody, since no one could go to war, and everyone could take time to sharpen their weapons and make allies and think what to do when the spring came.

  It was the most interesting winter there had been for years.

  Thore Hund, storm-stayed on his way back to Norway after his summer fur-voyage, remained part of the winter in Orkney with the Earl and his wife at their various halls.

  He found a dozen others like himself, hemmed in by the gales and the currents and content to spend Yule as the guests of Earl Thorfinn, whose hearth and whose tables were always well plenished from the winter feast until spring-time, and whose generosity to the men who served him in Orkney and Caithness and to the stranger benighted at his door was already well known.

  What the Earl gleaned from it all, in trade and news and future alliances, Thore Hund also began to recognise, as the feasting gave way to the talk, and the talk, sometimes when he was still there, to the planning. To Thorfinn’s famous wife Groa, whose uncle Kalv had wed Thore’s own sister, Thore Hund said, ‘I am not sure where I have not seen something to match this before, unless it were a geyser, that time I was trading to Iceland. I am not a man who often feels tired, but Thorfinn makes me feel tired.’