King Hereafter

by Dorothy Dunnett

  ‘You are not disturbed?’ he said. Therefore, there is no danger of an attack during the night?’

  ‘No,’ said Thorfinn. ‘He’ll manage twenty-five miles or so by nightfall, and that will bring him to the stream over there called the Carron, with a dozen miles of forest and boggy ground between himself and the main river-crossing. He’d never traverse that in the dark, and his men will be tired. He’ll probably take them over the Carron and put them into the coille torr, the forest there, for the night.

  ‘By morning, we ought to be on the same side of the Forth as they are, and facing the open space to the west of the forest. There’s a Roman road there, and some firm ground if you know where to look. Bishop Hrolf will tell you all about it in a moment. Unfortunately, Forne and the Fife and Angus men will know of it as well.’

  ‘If they are waiting for reinforcements,’ remarked Osbern of Eu, ‘they will be in no hurry to fight in any case. Then what?’

  ‘Then we send an invitation,’ said Thorfinn. ‘A pressing one.’

  SIX

  T FOUR O’CLOCK, nearly an hour before sunrise, the first black bird began to sing and Thorfinn moved from light sleep to full awareness a moment before Klakkr son of Bathrik, his body-servant for many years, touched him on the shoulder and gave him the sentry’s report: no movement from the enemy in the wood.

  The familiar Scandinavian-Irish of Caithness was linked, as his sword was linked, with the high, cold brilliance of the moment. The dawn waking to battle, with his friends sleeping about him. The strong hand of Skeggi, still half-laid on his axe. The warm hair of Rognvald, shining like eglantine among the crushed bracken.

  Odin, Father of Victory, said the runes on his own Ulfberht axe. It lay over there with the gold helm made in Germany to replace the helm of Canute’s that had blown in pearls to the wind, beading the ashes of his forebears’ great hall at Orphir.

  A new helmet he owned, and a new circlet of gold, and a white scabbard marked with a cross, and a white shield bossed in steel with a great silver cross studding the cow’s hide. And white gloves with a tunic of silvery mail, lying there in a tent that was empty but for himself and Klakkr.

  Last night, the newest bard, who was called Lorcáin, had sung: a song to God, and one to the King. Every arm of his host had its priests, and the two Bishops, Jon and Hrolf, had moved quietly among them once they were settled. Sometimes, above the noise, one voice or another could be heard: Deliver, O Lord, the souls of thy servants.… May we all reach that Kingdom. May we deserve it. May we inhabit it for ever and ever.… The blessing of God come upon us. May the Son of Mary save us. May He protect us this night. Or a scrap of Norman-French: Pro Deo amur et pro Christian poblo et nostro commun salvament.…

  Last night, he had listened to prayers, but had prayed to no one, for that had never been his habit. With the same instinct that had sent Bishop Jon, he noted, to pare his nails and perfect the glossy ring of his tonsure, he on the eve of battle came cleansed from a hot bath: the ritual laugardagr observed once a week by his forefathers, of which the other Bishop John in far-off Bremen would so have disapproved. Despite all his years with his stepfather Findlaech, despite the life he had made in Alba, the Norse came first to his tongue, always, in a matter of war.

  Soon, the army outside his tent would kneel to receive the sacrament, himself beside them. Alone of them all, he had been shriven by the Pope—the Bishop would proclaim it yet again—and yet felt no different from the man who had stood on shipboard beneath a sky turned to flame and faced death with no fears and no doubts, for on such a day it was no hardship to die.

  No different? That wasn’t quite true. The wild elation had gone, with his early youth and his comrades. Still, the Normans were his kind. Like Tuathal, they liked puzzles, but in steel. They liked solving them, as he did, for the sufficient reward of achievement; but also for power, and to compel the respect of their fellow-men, and to earn a name for skill and for courage.

  Such a nature had carried him into his tortuous business of ruling, where he had found himself responsible for people who owned neither ships nor battle-gear, nor skill, nor health, nor ability. People who needed a God and a leader as he needed his sword. People who lived if their leader were successful, and who bled and died for each of his mistakes.

  So, now, war was different; but he did not know what to do about it.

  He suspected that Bishop Jon, who guessed, and Tuathal, who knew, had long discussed how to lead him to the state of proper sanctity in which a king should dwell. ‘Pray to Brigit, why not?’ had said Bishop Jon encouragingly only the other night. ‘Goddess of poetry, healing and smithcraft, if she takes you that way; and if not, enough saints of the name to see you out of any small predicament. Mise dol a mach orra shlighe-sa, Dhé … There’s a fine prayer, now. It should appeal to you.’

  While Klakkr brought him ale to drink, and water to splash on his face, Thorfinn ran the lines through the echo-chamber of his mind:

  I go out in thy path, O God;

  God be before me; God be behind me; God be in my tread.

  The knowledge which Mary made for her Son, Brigid breathed through her palms.

  Knowledge of truth, without knowledge of falsehood.

  As she obtained her quest, so may I too see

  The semblance of that which I myself am in quest of.

  It pleased him. He consigned the thought, as a gift, to one of the two he held most dear.

  To the other, he had already quoted Alcuin. ‘Death? An uncertain occurrence; an unavoidable journey. Ceres; sorceress; if it comes, you must wear the royal helmet. You must endure, as a daughter of Eve. That it should all go for nothing: that would be a cheap death indeed.’

  Before his people, ten minutes later, Thorfinn said, ‘Every group of families appoints its protector and, when its protector is challenged, must choose which contender to follow.

  ‘You have chosen to follow me, as your fathers chose to follow my grandfather against the same enemy. I think you are men, as your fathers were, who will not lightly see your homes burned, your women shamed, your cattle driven off, your children taken for slaves. Let us show Northumbria what they have wakened.’

  He stood, resenting the fate that had forced him to declaim, while they shook their spears and cheered him.

  At Tarbatness, his name had been the battle-cry. Now he heard, roared for him, the war-slogan of Duncan’s doomed men: ‘Albanaid! Albanaid! Albanaid!’

  A hand fell on his arm.

  Eochaid of Scone, friend, priest, and secretary, said, ‘My lord King. There is news.’ His fingers and thumb were stained with ink still, from the long hours with the quill that had assembled there at Dunblane the cartloads of tenting and weapons, of beef and pork and ale-kegs and mattocks, of campaign cauldrons and ovens, of sacks of charcoal for the blacksmiths, of meal for the griddles, and of oats for the couriers, horses, and the toisechs’ garrons, and the powerful mounts that the Normans, alone among Western fighting-men, were accustomed to ride into the battle itself.

  In battle, too, Eochaid would stand with the Bishops and the King in the van. For, as Prior of Scone and its guardian, he bore round his neck the Brecbennoch, the little silver reliquary casket of St Columba which was all the Celtic church could bring to any battle while its Abbots of Iona and Armagh and Kells disputed with one another in the turmoil of Irish battle, Irish famine, Irish plague, demanding the grace of St Columba and first claim to the aid of his relics.

  Eochaid said, ‘It is good news from Fife. Earl Siward’s ships were sighted south of the estuary two hours ago. Six only, and two of them small. The eight ships you left waiting had already moved across to intercept them.’

  ‘Siward’s fleet has the wind,’ Thorfinn said. ‘But one of my ships has Killer-Bardi in it. And even if my eight have sunk to the bottom, it is too late for anyone to interfere with this battle now. Although, as you see, Siward is not anxious to fight. Should we tell him the news, do you think?’

  Eochaid smiled
. The early sun, striking up from the silver, made patterns on his cheek, and on his throat with all the music in it. He screwed up his eyes and said, ‘We should have the sun against us for a bit. But I can find a spokesman for you, if you like.’

  From side to side of the field, the army buzzed, like a harp strung with horse-hair, and the sun rose higher ahead above the black forest of pine mixed with alder and birch that closed the battleground at its far end, and within which the Northumbrian army was waiting.

  ‘Send a priest,’ Thorfinn said. ‘I would go myself if I thought it would serve any purpose to be killed before a blow had been struck. He’ll have to be quick. They’ll be out of that wood very soon.’

  He saw the man Eochaid picked, and watched him ride out to mid-field with two unarmed monks and the biggest cross they could find, drawing men’s eyes from Thorfinn himself. It was as if a looking-glass had been diverted. He used the moment to check on his leaders.

  Holding the men of Lennox and Strathearn on his left, on the edge of the boggy ground that ran to the river, were Gillecrist and Ferteth, with Bishop Hrolf, encased in crosses and relics, between them.

  On his own right, on the rising ground that led to a wood, and then to the moors and hills that rimmed the horizon, stood Cormac and Gillocher with the men of Atholl and Mar, and the church-banner of Tuathal, holding firm those men of Fife who had chosen to follow the King rather than Bishop Malduin, his acolytes, and his family.

  The men of Buchan and of Moray, who knew him best, he had kept in the centre under himself, with Morgund and Mael-Isu. Among these also stood the men of Angus, deserted by Kineth, with Malpedar from Moray to work with their own leaders and the presence of the Moray men to stiffen them. Above them, overshadowing the rippling wicker-work of personal banners, floated the white standard blessed by the Pope, in the care of Bishop Jon.

  Behind him was the rock-fortress of Stirling guarding the bridge, the narrow crossing over the Forth. Behind that, among the bogs of the river-plain, was the wide crossing that led to their station last night and then, further north, to Dunblane, where their base was.

  The horse-lines and baggage were over the river. Siward’s were in the forest ahead, along with six thousand men far from home and greedy for booty. An hour ago, all you could see was the sparkle of steel in the blackness under the trees, and the falling ray of an arrow when one of his men moved too near, having a look at the ground.

  Now the trees were fenced with armed men standing shoulder to shoulder: brown, featureless faces above scales bright as fresh-landed fish. In the centre, taller and broader than any man there, his greying head bare, stood Siward their leader, Kalv’s nephew. Siward, son of that rich Norwegian fur-trader who had found more profit in England than in the uncertain fortunes of Norway. Siward, the man who had planned in his turn a fair dominion for himself and his offspring, and had seen his son die in the land of his rival. Siward, the man who, had he, Thorfinn, been standing under that cross and issuing that challenge instead of a priest, would have had no hesitation in ordering his best marksman to smite him dead with his bow or his javelin.

  As he would do to Siward, given the chance.

  Bishop Jon said, ‘Will you listen to that? I never heard the fellow so eloquent when he was blessing the butter. “What hope has your fleet against the fleet of Macbeth? They have met, and your ships have sunk. What hope has your army against an army blessed by the Pope? Throw down your arms, and we will spare you. If your men are afraid to fight, as we see, and also afraid to surrender, place yourself in our hands. You will be an honoured hostage, and to your underlings we shall display our lenience.’ ”

  ‘I told him what to say. You don’t have to repeat it,’ Thorfinn said. A flashing ripple passed through the distant trees and struck an answering glitter from his own side. Then Siward, his arm raised, had his men under control, and in a moment the sound of his voice could be heard shouting his rebuttal.

  Throughout, Thorfinn kept his horse motionless. It didn’t matter what the words were. He had had no expectation of doing more than exasperate, and supply a distraction. He looked round again and collected the eyes of his leaders. He had drawn his sword and held it, not yet in challenge aloft, but where the naked blade could just be seen by men on horse-back.

  Only the leaders were mounted, and even that would not last long, although there were horse-boys behind with replacements. Siward’s army would be the same. A man used to wielding an axe fought best on foot, and preferred the round targe with its cutting-edge and ramming-spike to the long, harp-shaped shields of the cavalry.

  Above the trees, a frieze of white smoke rose into the blue morning sky and hung unremarked under the sun, thickening a little. On either side of Thorfinn, there was a rustle and clash as men shifted. The priest, standing in front of them, was relaying Siward’s message, which contained words he thought he had forgotten.

  Over the forest, the smoke looked like newly plucked wool, with darker tufts here and there, and glints of orange, bright as sunrise on spear-blades. A shadow passed over the empty battle field: then another. The voice of both armies changed. The rumour of noise from under the trees became spaced, punctuated by sharper sounds and sometimes by a subterranean crackling, like distant footsteps in frost. Then the sun started to darken, and the orange spear-tips melted together to form one mountainous band, and the spaces under the trees flashed and shook with leaping men and torn shouting.

  Thorfinn said, ‘He will either send back a fire-party and advance with the rest while he still has them in order, or he’ll abandon both his carts and his cover and bring them all on to finish us.’

  ‘I think—’ Tuathal said.

  ‘Yes. Good. He’s bringing them all. Let’s go,’ said Thorfinn, and stood in his stirrups.

  Every face was already turned.

  The pleasure he felt, and the calmness, and the determination burned as clear as the trees in the forest. He smiled—the unknown, rare smile, as if it were his wife he was’ going to meet—and, lifting his glittering sword, thrust it upwards and forwards.

  The answering roar blenched the flames back and cleared the face of the sun for an instant. The trumpets blew on both sides. Then, in a long, jolting line, Northumbria marched from the flames of the forest with Siward in the van, mounted now, and buckling the straps of his helmet before taking his gloves and his shield.

  His voice, shouting commands, hardly ceased. It was not necessary to hear them. As they approached, the Northumbrian army began to divide, until it, too, was formed in three blocks across the limited ground, to match the three advancing rectangles of Alba.

  The horses wanted to break out and canter. Thorfinn held his big gelding hard-reined, and saw the mormaers doing the same. The marching-pace had to be held even and steady. He wanted Siward’s army over the centre, and also over the bright, narrow vein of the deepest of the many rivulets that seamed the field, running down to the Forth. He also wanted to see who was opposing him.

  Cynsige of York in the centre, with Siward. The power of the church that consecrated the Bishops of Alba against the power of a dead and discredited Pope.

  On Siward’s right, the standard of Siward his nephew and of Forne, who surely had no great experience behind him, and the great banner of Durham. Bishop Aethelric, this time, against Bishop Hrolf, the nominee of Cologne and Bremen and Goslar. Gillecrist and Ferteth should manage the nephew and Forne. Bishop Aethelric, he had heard, was accounted able even in Peterborough, and ruthless into the bargain. But he had not, perhaps, been taught overmuch about the battle-tactics of the Romans.

  Siward’s left wing, though, was of a kind that spelled danger. Ligulf of Bamburgh against Atholl and Mar. Hard fighting-men all of them, and Ligulf with a reputation equalling Earl Siward’s own.

  And with Ligulf, the banner he would rather not have seen. The flag of Kinrimund, with, under it, Malduin, Bishop of Alba, and his men, and Kineth, his lost Mormaer of Angus. Tuathal’s Fife levies would be opposed by their own fle
sh and blood. And the men of Angus, here in the centre, would be close enough to their fellows under Kineth to make it easy for them to falter or abscond.

  All riddles could be solved. Including this one.

  Siward’s men were over the stream. Watching, Thorfinn could feel the eyes of the trumpeter beside him burning into his skin. ‘Yes. Now,’ he said, and lifted his sword again, spurring suddenly as the trumpet blared, followed by those on either flank.

  Now he was riding clear in the front, and so, on each wing, were Cormac and Ferteth, their shields held before them. The exposure lasted only an instant. A spear, too spent to hurt, struck his own shield and found no room to fall to the ground, for by then men and shields were packed close around and behind him, and the three wedges had formed the svinfylkja, the pig’s snout, the secret of Odin that he hoped fur-traders’ sons had not been instructed about.

  Thorfinn spurred, and the wedge of men behind him and behind Cormac and behind Ferteth broke into a pounding run.

  To the Northumbrian army they must appear as three arrowheads with a thousand barbs each, roofed and armoured on either side by the heavy, scaled ranks of their shields. The risky moment was the first, when they made impact. But his horse was from Normandy, brought up through Wales and trained to kill with its hooves. And once it went, he would be in the thick of it with all his weapons and a better chance than most.

  He aimed for the centre, where Siward’s helmet flashed and dulled as the smoke wavered over the sun. He was conscious of a gust of warmth, brought by the wind, and of a sprinkle of white ash, gentle as snow. He hoped, an instant before the impact, that the gambit of the fire was not going to spoil the gambit of the Normans, and saw from a distant glitter far on his right that it was not. The shields of his men broke bows against the shields of his enemies, and the shouting that had been going on all the time rose to a shattering yell. Steel flashed. He lifted his sword and slashed, one, two, three, at the men between him and Siward and then found himself hurtling beyond him, pushed by the momentum of his own men screaming behind and on either side. He serrated the air with his sword and used his shield as a wall and a battering-ram. Like sod sliced by the share, or sea by the bowsprit, butchered meat in its clothing reeled back on this side and that, and as men fell behind him, they were replaced in the svinfylkja by others. It was the same, he could see, on either side.