A commanding viewpoint in daylight. But now the sun was going. And soon Thorfinn and what he had saved of his men—one hundred? two?—would be alone on his hill in the dark.
Siward said, ‘How badly wounded is he, do they say?’
‘Thorfinn? Macbeth? Well, he can ride,’ Ligulf said. ‘But he was pouring blood, so it’s said. I doubt if there’s any fighting left in him. But he could still command their defences. They’ve got a long, gradual slope on the north side over there. He’ll throw a line across there, I imagine, and draw the rest up inside the walls. Some of the cottagers who held up the shipmen seem to have taken refuge there already, and a handful of wounded and others who couldn’t keep up with the fighting. He’ll have more than two hundred to defend it with. And maybe some cattle. And, by all accounts, a good spring of water as well. They could hold out for a while, unless he dies of wound-sickness or a blood-burst.’
Above, the sky hung, changing colour like fine China silk, with homing birds on its surface like powder. Here, emptied by space of all texture, men’s voices spoke and called and were thrown back from hill to hill, as every channel glinted with spears and with acorn helmets of dulled steel or leather and shields like shells on a necklace. Behind, when he twisted round, he saw that the black smoke obscuring the sun had been joined by another burst, this time of pure flame, rising over the river. He said, ‘It looks as if Perth has gone. I was saying. We have enough men to do whatever we feel like. But we could lose a lot up that slope before we get to the walls and then over them.’
Siward grunted. He said, ‘I wouldn’t mind.’ He felt, with satisfaction, Ligulf’s annoyance.
Ligulf would like him to embark on a long siege. It would suit Ligulf … it would suit a lot of people to have Siward of Northumbria held up in Alba with most of his forces. He wished again, bitterly, that the fools who served him had managed to get rid of this half-bred seaman in daylight.
Ligulf said, ‘Will they obey and storm the hill anyway? It’s certain death.’
‘The mercenaries will,’ Siward said. ‘So will the rest. I haven’t shared out the booty as yet.’
‘Then an appeal to surrender?’ Ligulf said. ‘Send someone to parley. He must know he’s beaten, one way or another, unless he means to spend all his life there. What about Malduin?’
‘That fool?’ said Siward. Malduin of Alba was the only Bishop he had left. Aethelric, Bishop of the Holy Confessor Cuthbert and his Ever-Victorious Flag, had left after the second battle of Forth, and Cynsige had fallen sick and departed soon after. Siward said, ‘Faced with Malduin, Thorfinn is more likely to hold out till the loosing of Satan. Unless …’
He stopped, because he could hear hooves pounding behind, above the jingling thud of marching men. The scout from Scone. He drew in his horse and waited.
It was Gospatrick, Malcolm’s cousin. ‘My lord Siward, Perth has fallen.’
One should hope so. But he said something approving. The boy’s face was green. The boy said, ‘My lord Siward, there is bad news as well. Your nephew … the young lord Siward was killed in the fighting.’
The Earl said something or other and, after a moment, put his horse in motion again. Osbern gone. And now his sister’s son. And every other brat dead that that fool of a woman had ever thrown, except for a baby.
He was going to be the last. After he went, there was going to be none of Thore Hund’s blood in Northumbria except the pink-faced issue of his God-blighted brothers-in-law.
But he hadn’t gone yet. Not by a long, long way. By God, he wasn’t going to go, either. In sixteen years, Waltheof would be a man, and Northumbria would be here, waiting for him. Northumbria and Lothians also. And more, if matters went right.
Ligulf prompted. ‘You were saying? About an appeal by Malduin?’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Siward. ‘Ah, yes. I was about to say that, while Bishop Malduin might not encourage our friend to surrender, his nephew young Malcolm might manage it. From what you say. And also that, while they are doing it, there are other possibilities that you and I might with profit explore. One cannot trust quite everything, after all, to churchmen and youngsters.’
Ligulf was smiling. The black moustaches opened like pincers. ‘No indeed,’ Ligulf said. ‘So what were you thinking of?’
And smiled all the time that he listened, so that Siward thought the moustache-ends would be hooked on his ears.
The sun had set, and the hill of Dunsinane had been fully invested for an hour when the trumpet for parley blew at its foot and the banners of Kinrimund and of Malcolm son of Duncan stirred beside it in the afterglow.
Within the stout shelters of the ring-fort and the citadel on its peak, a light, Spartan orderliness had been attained, and nothing had been neglected.
Those in need had received food and drink, encouragement and solace, and their wounds cleaned and bound. Weapons and arms had been looked to, and damaged harness repaired, while all the dispositions for defence and for siege had been made as practice demanded. The only thing they were short of was rest, and only the badly wounded had leisure for that.
Even the women worked, for it kept their minds busy as well as their hands. Among them were those who had left Dunkeld with Groa: Anghared, who knew now how Ferteth had died; and Maire, Eochaid’s sister, who stood with the Lady’s hand at her shoulder and watched the smoke that fouled the western sky and the sunset. The smoke of burning Scone, of Moot Hill and monastery, of Stone and Rod and all that formed the core of Alba. The smoke of Eochaid’s pyre.
No one knew yet quite how the women had made their escape from Dunkeld. To anyone who asked, Groa merely said vaguely that they had contrived to get out. Only to Cormac, lying paralysed in his hut, with Thorfinn and his wife kneeling beside him, did Groa say, ‘Maelmuire helped us. They would kill him if they knew. He is a good boy.’
She had not heard how Thorfinn had come by the dreadful wound, which she had never quite seen, and he did not tell her. Perhaps, having found Groa and the rest missing, the Cumbrians had merely tried to turn the disaster to what advantage they could. Perhaps not. Malcolm, it appeared, had some little cunning. And Maelmuire’s, it seemed certain, was a mind easily read.
With the mess cleared away, and the bleeding stopped, and some food inside him, Thorfinn found it possible to move about, with discretion, and at least people had ceased to look at him with horror. He felt extremely cold but quite clear-headed.
They were lucky to be where they were, but no one could say it was ideal. Pared of all possible cover, the hill still presented the attacker with great folds and bluffs and pockets in which he could lurk, unseen except from the highest point up above.
The outlook-tower and fortress built on the topmost knoll, above the ring-fort itself, took care of most of that, and was protected by the fortlet on the Black Hill beside it, across a narrow and plunging ravine.
He had a dozen men across there, but although they could protect him, he could do nothing for them if someone cared to climb the Black Hill on his blind side. Similarly, there were earth-and-stone bulwarks on the slopes under the walls of the big fort, which had already served to shelter the archers covering the entry of the last of his company. But that was an asset that, in the wrong hands, could become another danger.
Their supplies were good, but for Siward and Ligulf and Allerdale and the rest they would be nearly limitless. Already, at the start of slack water, Malpedar’s sharp eyes had noticed the thin, moving blur of a longship rowing upriver between hill and hill on the dim, shining stretch that was the Tay.
Moving upriver with food and weapons and pavilions, no doubt, for the leading noblemen of the invasion. A smaller vessel, one of Siward’s, had forced her way up against the tide some time before. It was the quickest way of getting men from one side of the river to the other. No doubt, in time, more of the twenty-five would come upriver, too. There was no opposition now. No one to throw firebrands and missiles. No one to harry them. They held both banks of the Tay from its mouth to Du
nkeld.
Then the trumpet sounded, and he climbed the inner wall steps of the ring-fort, with Tuathal and Malpedar, the fittest, beside him, and the other two Mormaers behind: Gillocher with his broken arm strapped and Morgund with the bruise of the morning purple now between his scarred brows. Bishop Jon was already up on the wall, at another part.
They waited, hearing the shouting, thin from below; and then the louder voice of their own man outside, in his niche by the furthermost ledge, from which he could climb still in cover to safety.
In a moment, he appeared with his message. Bishop Malduin wanted to speak with the King. He would have with him the King’s nephew Malcolm, and they would both come unarmed, provided that the spot where they met was outside the range of both armies.
Bishop Jon pursed his lips, and his face inflated at two of its angles. He said, ‘Wide thy road with traffic of hundreds, O lucent land of grass and wagons. You tell me you killed Allerdale’s son.’
Thorfinn reflected. Then he spoke to the messenger. ‘Tell my lord Bishop of Alba that in ten minutes’ time I shall come to speak with him and my nephew by the yellow rock he will see halfway between the ground and the walls of the fort. I shall have Bishop Jon with me, and neither of us will be armed.’
Tuathal said, ‘My lord?’
‘I know,’ said Thorfinn. ‘But they’re going to attack the Black Hill sometime, and we might as well encourage them to do it while there’s a modicum of daylight left. I’ve just sent over another fifty men, but they’ll need time to get through the ravine. Bishop Jon, I didn’t ask your leave.’
‘Neither you did,’ said Bishop Jon. ‘In fact, as I recall, I was busy refusing it as you interrupted me. I’ll go if you assure me that there are archers behind all those barricades.’
‘Of course,’ said Thorfinn. ‘And Allerdale has his archers in all the rough ground between there and the bottom. The balance is still fairly even.’
‘In a way,’ said Bishop Jon. ‘But I offer you a thought. There is not a man out there but wants to get rid of you, for one very good reason or another. And, on the other side, there is hardly a man out there who cares very much what happens to either Bishop Malduin or your gallant young nephew, God rest their souls. In my view, the balance is not even.’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Tuathal said.
‘All right,’ said Thorfinn. ‘If you were Malcolm and that idea had struck you, too, what would you do about it?’
‘Ah,’ said Bishop Jon.
‘Exactly,’ said Thorfinn. ‘Come along. We have ten minutes in which to make ourselves immortal.’
The voice that had rung over the fishpond at Goslar had no trouble making itself heard in darkening night on a hillside in Alba.
‘It is our King’s desire,’ said Bishop Jon, firmly planted on the designated yellow rock, ‘that this meeting should be conducted by churchmen. Above me, you see the banner blessed in Rome by the Holy Pontiff himself. The reliquary of the Blessed St Columba lies at my breast. Guided by God and His angels, let us therefore proceed to our business.’
Since he spoke in Latin, there was no immediate reaction whatever, except in the breast of Bishop Malduin, facing him. The usurper on the yellow rock held the Pope’s banner himself, its white folds plain in the opaline after-light and the distant ruddy flicker from torches at the top of the hill and the bottom. You could even see the spark of the Brecbennoch on top of the long cloak the other Bishop was wearing. His cousin Thorfinn, standing below him, was also cloaked, but his features below the ringed helmet could not be distinguished.
Bishop Malduin was glad. Hate directed against Malcolm and the rival banner of Alba beside him he could understand. He disliked Malcolm himself. But it had been no part of his plan to be thrust into open war against the King his first cousin. And it was no fault of his that it had happened. If Thorfinn had seen fit to accept the established solution—the solution that suited everyone else—and unite the ministrations of Kinrimund and Durham, none of this need have happened. The man at his side jabbed an unmannerly elbow into his ribs, and Bishop Malduin announced stiffly, ‘I speak for my lord, equally. But not in Latin, if you please. It is not understood.’
‘Do you tell me, now?’ said Bishop Jon in Irish-Gaelic, and with just enough astonishment to rile Malduin further. He then proceeded, still in Irish-Gaelic, to repeat, with good-humoured patience, all that he had just said.
Bishop Malduin said, ‘That tongue is not understood either. I assume you have Saxon?’
He had Saxon, all right. It was the kind they spoke in Saxony, and, at the accent, Bishop Malduin felt his stomach twist. There was no point in extending this comedy further. He delivered, in the Northumbrian Saxon that his own side, at least, would understand, the ultimatum of Siward and Malcolm.
The Earl Siward had found King Macbeth and his men brave opponents, and regretted that such slaughter had been necessary. Now, however, the King would wish to take thought for the gallant few who had suffered with him and now shared his vigil on this hilltop.
For them, there was no hope except in surrender, and Earl Siward and his nephew the lord Malcolm were glad to offer them their lives, provided they threw aside their arms and came down from the fortress.
As for the King himself, they understood that he had taken such wounds that his future could not be robust. It was time to look at the facts. Lothian had never been his, and the Norman usurpers he had planted it with were gone, either dead or taken prisoner, and that part that had always belonged to the see of the west was Cumbrian once again.
Fife was empty. Two-thirds had followed himself, their Bishop, and their young lords. The rest had been led by Prior Tuathal to their deaths.
Atholl had fallen. Dunkeld was razed to the ground, its Mormaer dead or helpless, and Maelmuire, rightful heir to the abbacy, had joined my lord Malcolm his brother.
Scone likewise had been levelled, and the King’s manors of Perth and Forteviot, and the Mormaers of both these countries, he understood, were now dead. Strathmore, they could see, lay before them occupied, and half Angus had risen to follow its Mormaer his kinsman under the banner of Kinrimund. The rest, he had no doubt, would follow.
Bishop Malduin paused, and no one interrupted him. Side by side, Thorfinn and the usurping Bishop stood watching him, and the little wind of the evening did not stir the folds of their cloaks any more than the cloaks they on their side were wearing. Bishop Malduin said quickly, ‘It might be said, my lord King, that greed brought you down from your lands of Caithness and Orkney and impelled you to lay hands on a kingdom that was not for you.
‘We are not greedy. We have the kingdom of Alba, all but Moray, and we do not seek to wrest that province from your stepson Lulach, any more than your grandfather King Malcolm sought to take it from Lulach’s father Gillacomghain. Under the new King of Alba, he may keep it, provided that we may be assured of his loyalty.
‘He has been brought up with your sons, my lord King. His lands abut on your own to the north. It seemed to my lord Siward and my lord Malcolm that the only way to ensure peace in Moray was by asking you to place yourself in our custody.
‘I have to ask you therefore, my lord King, to step down now and throw yourself on our mercy. My lords will treat you with honour. You will keep your life, as will all those of your men who follow your example. It is even possible that, out of the generosity of your captors, Orkney and Caithness may be returned to you. The alternative is defeat and death on this hillside. And that this army marches on Moray and takes and kills your stepson Lulach also.’
Silence. Opposite, the Bishop stirred on his rock. He said, ‘I hear you, now. It was a long speech, and I’m not sure that I remember all of it. May we confer?’
‘Assuredly,’ said Bishop Malduin. The light was going. The voices of men hung near and far in the air, like the murmur of marsh-geese at nightfall. A thickening of the sound, far up the hill of Dunsinane or even behind it, was probably only imagination.
Bishop Jon tur
ned. He said, ‘The King’s lady is also here. What assurance of safety would she have?’
Virgin Mary, Mother of God. They might be going to agree. Bishop Malduin, his voice not quite firm, said loudly, ‘The same.’
Bishop Jon paused. He said, ‘You speak of mercy. It seems to the King that if he trusts himself to your honesty, he must test that honesty first. My lord Malcolm beside you is cloaked. Bid him throw back his cloak and his hood, and let us see whether or not he is unarmed, as was the condition.’
There was a layer of noise, high on the hill, that had not been there before. Bishop Malduin ignored it. He had stripped the young man of weapons himself before they set out, so that he was perfectly confident as he turned to him.
It annoyed him that my lord Malcolm was moving away, hissing something, and was making no effort to open his cloak.
Bishop Malduin did it for him, pulling the edge back so severely that the clasp broke and the whole cloak, hood and all, tumbled backwards.
The man who stood cloakless and glaring was not the young man whose weapons he had apologetically removed a short time ago. It was not my lord Malcolm at all. It was a mercenary, fully equipped with shirt of mail and sword-belt and waist-knife, with an axe in the hand that was not dropping his banner.
He lifted the axe. Bishop Jon flung himself off his rock with a remarkable clank. Bishop Malduin clung to his flagpole. Behind every boulder in front and behind, steel appeared. A stentorian voice—Earl Siward’s voice—bellowed, ‘Stop!’
For Bishop Jon, instead of turning to fly, had taken his King by the arms and pulled back his cloak as Bishop Malduin had done.
And under the cloak was neither the mail shirt and battle-axe of perfidy or the weaponless negotiator of the parley conditions. Under the cloak were the long red hair and bright, jewelled dress of the Lady of Alba. The Lady Groa, whom no would-be ruler of Alba or Moray would dream of harming.
Mercenaries with bows and with spears were not necessarily of the same mind, and Bishop Jon was still in view. It was only chance that precisely at that moment the top of the mount burst into flame and the sounds Bishop Malduin had heard became suddenly the din of unmistakable battle, taking place on the crag with the black, stony crest that overtopped the highest point of Dunsinane.
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