King Hereafter

by Dorothy Dunnett

  He had understood that part of the Allerdale army was going to attempt something of the sort. Bishop Malduin peered up the hill. When he brought back his gaze, the Irishman and the woman were no more than running shadows under the walls of the ring-fort, their retreat masked by a curtain of spears and of arrows. And rising on either side of him, Siward’s soldiers were throwing themselves forwards and upwards, sword in hand, to chase the enemy out of their hiding-places and sweep, struggling and fighting, up the slope to the fort.

  Bishop Malduin did not wait to see that, or to see the counter-attack from the walls that forced Siward’s men back and down, until torchlight showed the slope empty of all that was living, and tenanted only by the angular humps of the dead.

  Long before that, Bishop Malduin was back with his friends, having abandoned with his plea his dignity and even his banner.

  The flag of Malcolm had already fallen, and lay beside the body of his pretender, prostrate now on the heath with a dart in his throat.

  In a little while, when he had recovered himself, Bishop Malduin took his courage and, leaving the anxious company of his kinsmen, made his way through the confusion of a newly settling encampment to look for Earl Siward, his leader.

  Siward’s pavilion was lit, and someone was shouting inside. At the entrance, Bishop Malduin turned and looked back at Dunsinane. The top half of the hill was lost in grey smoke, and you could not see where hill and sky met, save for the volcanic glow tinting all the curdling clouds above the highest citadel, where the seat of the blaze ought to be.

  So that, at least, had succeeded. Bishop Malduin passed the guards and walked into the tent, where my lord Siward was informing his royal nephew Malcolm son of Duncan that he was a pampered, white-bellied parasite who, if threatened by a four-year-old goatherd from Bjarking, would undoubtedly piss himself.

  My lord Malcolm, white with fury, got his sword out. None of the grinning men in the tent, Malduin saw, made a move to stop him. If he thought he could outmatch Siward with a sword, there might be some agreeable sport in the offing.

  On the other hand, Siward might have lost his head, too. Bishop Malduin said, ‘Does it matter? Their King didn’t come either.’

  Siward turned. ‘You might have thought it mattered, if our men hadn’t taken the Black Hill when they did and made a distraction. Thorfinn had men planted in every nook on that hillside, and they were angry. You would have got an arrow in the throat the next minute, and not only the greedy simpleton this fellow paid to dress up in his place.’

  Malcolm’s sword flashed in his hand. Siward turned on him. ‘Do you realize yet? If Thorfinn had come, we would have lost him.’

  Whether King Duncan’s son Malcolm was easily frightened or merely prudent, Bishop Malduin did not know. It was true that, brought up in the south, his speech and style were not those of Northumbria, and still less those of Norway. If anything remained of his childhood in Cumbria, nothing Scandinavian about him would remind you. Earl Siward had recognised the necessity of bringing him, but Earl Siward had little time for him. However courageous or otherwise he might be, there was no doubt that the younger man’s situation was solitary. And precarious.

  He showed no awareness of it. He looked from Earl Siward to Malduin himself and gave a laugh. ‘You mean he would have got away alive from that hillside?’

  ‘He might have surrendered,’ said Bishop Malduin. ‘Does it matter?’ Half the army, he imagined, must be within earshot by now. It was not good practice to make these things public.

  The young man stared at him. Then he turned to his uncle. ‘Well, my lord,’ said Malcolm and, lifting his sword, drove it home in its sheath. ‘It seems that to some men it appeared even possible that, with the King in your hands, you would spare him. If Thorfinn thought the same, then, I grant you, my absence might have made a difference. But Thorfinn knew you, didn’t he, as well as we do? And sent his wife.’

  Anger rose in Bishop Malduin’s breast. It made his voice shake, addressing Earl Siward. ‘I spoke for you in good faith,’ said the Bishop. ‘You invoked the name of God and His church. You offered honourable captivity, and in the church’s name I promised it.’

  Siward said, ‘Don’t be a fool. You didn’t know. Whatever happened, it would have been our blame, not yours. Look at the Irish fellow they had. He practised deception and knew it. Anyway, we’ll have him tomorrow.’

  ‘Tonight,’ Malcolm said.

  Siward sat down and made a sign, and men began to bustle about with boards and platters. His body-servant knelt, picking up the bits of clothing and arms he had discarded. Siward looked up. ‘My men have had a long day,’ he said. ‘And so have I. We’ve tried one attack in the dark, and it failed. At first light tomorrow, we’ll think of the next one.’

  Malcolm stood where he was. ‘I know the men are tired. But so are Thorfinn’s. He lost men in that attack. He’ll have lost more in the fire, and some of his arms, with any luck. The men who’ve taken over the Black Hill can harry them all night long, even with something as simple as stones. Surely now is the time? Now, when we know that the hill below the ring-fort is clear?’

  Siward plunged his fists into a basin. Blood and dirt from his hands spread murkily into the water. His muscular forearms were pelted with hair, grey as his beard, and there was a gleam of gold over one elbow. The fur-trader’s axiom. The gold in your purse is for luxuries. The gold that you wear is your life-line.

  Siward did not even look up. He said, ‘Have I said I want to stop anyone else? If Allerdale’s men happen to be fresh and rested and wild for the honour of bringing down the last stand of Alba, I for one would do nothing to stop them. Ask Thor if you like. Do what you want. Only keep out of my way. I’m going to eat. And then I’m going to sleep.’

  Malcolm looked at him. Then he turned and walked out of the tent. He did not look at Bishop Malduin as he passed, but Bishop Malduin saw that he was smiling.

  Thor of Allerdale, it would appear, was of Malcolm’s mind, for the first of their assaults on Dunsinane took place within the next couple of hours. The climbing of the hill was accomplished in silence, and the first crash of the conflict came to the occupied vales all about as the attackers came to the wall and flung poles and ladders against it.

  So much the watchers could deduce, but not much else. The tumult went on for a long time, and the observers far down below could only glimpse the thickets of glittering steel that clustered here and there on the walls, and the bursts of sparks that were spear-shafts, lit by the glow of the fires. Above the hoarse breath that was shouting there played the virtuoso instruments of war: the sound of the trumpet, and of the human voice screaming, and of the chiming of smith-work, sweeter than any.

  It went on for a long time without much variation. Then those who were connoisseurs of such things could tell that the ground-bass of shouting was increasing steadily. It continued getting louder and louder until it exploded in a fierce roar that rang all through the sleeping valleys. The roar of ‘Albanaid!’

  Then there was silence.

  The watchers set by Earl Siward ran to his tent as instructed and, as instructed, wakened him.

  ‘My lord! An attack on Dunsinane has failed. They are counting the casualties. My lord Malcolm and my lord of Allerdale are unhurt.’

  The Earl groaned and, turning over, grunted dismissal. They went back to their posts.

  This time, they waited only an hour before Malcolm and the Cumbrian army launched their next attack; and the shouting began long before the tide of running men had come within reach of the walls.

  This time the measures used on both sides could only be guessed at by a new pattern of incendiarism, and by a new quality in the noise that filtered down to them. It sounded, this time, as if some of the attackers were inside the fort. And, whatever was happening there, it made Earl Siward’s observers thankful to have no part of it.

  This time there was no victorious shout of any kind. Only, after a very long time, the noise seemed to die away, bi
t by bit, and men began to come down the hillside.

  The watchers gathered what news they could and ran to wake the lord of Northumbria.

  They found him not only wakened already, but apparently dressing, in a high temper, and speaking sharply as he did so to two men from his household who had not been there before. Before the watchers could even open their mouths, the Earl’s body-servant came running with his boots and his cloak, and three more people pushed in the doorway and joined the others, looking half-slept and wary and as bad-tempered as they dared.

  ‘Well?’ snapped the Earl, looking up, and the senior of the two observers jumped and gathered his wits. ‘They tried Dunsinane again, my lord, and got in. But they didn’t manage to take the place and eventually got driven out, with a lot of wounded and dead. They don’t know how many of Thorfinn’s men they killed, but they say there can’t be so many left. Thorfinn himself is still alive, so they say. My lord of Allerdale and my lord your nephew are both wounded, but say they would try again if you give them men from our army. Theirs won’t follow them again.’

  ‘Bring them here,’ Siward said. He stood up.

  ‘We are here,’ said Thor of Allerdale from the doorway.

  You would not at once recognise the big, carrot-haired man who had run Cumbria so long and so shrewdly under his various masters. Weariness had bleached him to neutrality, and all that was left was a masking of blood and sap-smears and peat, and an arm that dripped red down his breech-leg. He said, ‘Next time, we bring you his head.’

  Malcolm behind him did not speak. Siward looked at him. ‘You got spitted?’

  In the fleshy face, the cheekbones jutted unnaturally between the hollows below and above, and the small rose-mouth was a double white line. Malcolm said, ‘Our men are tired, or we would have had him this time. Give us two hundred. Two hundred, that’s all.’

  ‘I told you,’ Siward said. ‘Wait till morning, when your men are rested. You’ve lost a lot, and upset them. It doesn’t do any good. Try again tomorrow. I’ve got to go.’

  Spoken like that, it could have meant anything. That he wished to visit the wounded. Review the battle-terrain. Inspect the state of the horses. Visit the easing-pit, even.

  Malcolm said, ‘My lord, before you go, will you not change your mind? There are still four hours to dawn. The honour of taking Thorfinn should belong to the Northumbrian army.’

  Siward picked up his helmet. ‘You have it,’ he said; and rammed the thing on his head. It had a boar carved on top, to safeguard him. It had worked pretty well in this campaign. He said, ‘By the time this dawn breaks, I expect the Northumbrian army and the rest of us with it to be off the Ness of Fife on our way south. I’m for York. I’ve done enough. I’ve taken the country for you. There’s Scone. You can have yourself crowned there, if you can find enough people to do it.’

  ‘It’s levelled,’ said Malcolm. He frowned.

  Allerdale’s exhaustion was of a different order. He said, ‘You’re leaving? My lord? Why? And on the ships?’

  ‘They’re all upriver, waiting,’ said Siward. ‘We have seven miles to march through the valleys there. The men won’t mind. I haven’t shared out the booty as yet. You have what belongs to your army?’

  Malcolm said, ‘I don’t understand. You say you’ve taken the country. Maybe you have. But you haven’t taken the King. And how can you keep the country unless you leave an army? You’re removing the Northumbrians. And if all the ships are going … Are you taking the men from the Danish ships, too?’

  ‘I hired them,’ said Siward, More men had come in, including lord Ligulf, also, you would say, in a temper. Siward said, ‘My army can look after Lothian and help Allerdale from time to time with any trouble he may have in Cumbria; but Northumbria is its business, and when there is trouble there, that’s where I’ll be.

  ‘Allerdale’s men are still with you. You’re supposed to be the new lord of Fife and Angus and Atholl, so I suppose Bishop Malduin and his kinsmen and the young lords from all these parts might be expected to stay behind also and help you populate your new kingdom. As for Thorfinn, he doesn’t sound to me like very much of a threat. If any of them up there are still alive in the morning, it won’t take you very long to get rid of them. Or if your men have lost heart, sit about till they die.’ He examined his sword and shoved it into the sheath, turning.

  Malcolm said, ‘You said you would see me King of Alba. The King wished you Godspeed. You got money from Harold of Wessex.’

  Siward said, ‘The King wished me Godspeed. The King wanted this war because he agreed with Earl Harold. Thorfinn of Alba was playing too great a part in the affairs of the nation and would be better got rid of.’

  He heaved a laugh. ‘And, as you say, Earl Harold gave me money. Earl Harold wants Northumbria for his young brother Tostig. My son is dead. My nephew is dead. Tostig will have it if I am killed on campaign in Alba, or if my kinsmen waste their time and their claims on slaughtering each other while I am away.

  ‘I am going back to prevent that now. If, with a kingdom placed in your lap, you cannot pinch out the man on that hill and then rule it, I doubt very much if you were of the stuff that makes kings in the first place. I must go.’

  Ligulf said to Forne, ‘What?’

  And Forne said, ‘A messenger from the south. Osulf, Orm, and Archil are mustering. He’s right. If he doesn’t get back, he’ll lose York.’

  They stood and watched Siward stride out of the tent, and his nephew follow him, speaking still, with the man from Allerdale at his side.

  Forne said, ‘Which King would you rather have, if you came from Alba?’

  ‘What?’ said Ligulf. He brought his attention back. ‘Ah, yes. Your wife’s father had a leaning towards our man on the hill. Well, I tell you this. I sympathise with friend Malcolm. If I were friend Malcolm and carried just a little more weight with my allies, I would get between Siward and his ships and dare him to abandon me before Dunsinane were mine. For whoever plants his banner in Scone, there can be only one King of Alba while Thorfinn is alive.’

  A woman’s voice said, ‘No, don’t. Don’t rouse him yet.’

  And another’s, close at hand, said, ‘We must. Morgund will, anyway.’

  Thorfinn opened his eyes. The third attack then, so quickly. But, of course, it would be. He lifted his head from his chest and said, ‘I’m awake.’ He had thought Morgund died when Malpedar did.

  Cormac’s wife said, ‘Not another attack. But some sort of movement down below.’

  She looked composed, the way women could in the midst of disaster. The dying fire from the citadel glimmered on the bandaging on her arm. Neither Groa nor the other two women had suffered much hurt so far, except the pains of loss and exhaustion, and those would be worse later on. The firing of the citadel, though, had been a mixed blessing. It showed them their attackers, but it also silhouetted the defenders against the blaze.

  The besiegers had cut Tuathal down by its light, although he was still alive. He had heard Bishop Jon’s voice somewhere, too, although he knew the Bishop could not walk any more than Cormac, who had done valorous things propped on the wall. If this was Morgund coming towards him, then he and Gillocher were the only two uncrippled leaders.

  Of men, he supposed they had lost a hundred dead, and nearly that number of wounded. Their only success had been with the Black Hill, where his extra defenders had managed to extinguish Allerdale’s attempt to take over the crest overlooking them.

  Instead, he still had a few of his own men over there, and by firing the citadel had gulled both Siward and Allerdale, so it seemed, into thinking the Black Hill was now in friendly hands.

  That way, they had managed to smuggle across some of the worst of their wounded, and then the country people. They could not get off the hill, for Allerdale’s people ringed it, and Siward held the vale to the south, between the Sidlaws and the hills and braes that led to the Tay. But when Dunsinane fell, they might have a chance of escape.

  The thirty
or so who were left with him now were all men whose business was fighting, and his friends their mormaers, and his own wife and the mormaers’ womenfolk, who would not leave and who had been their mainstay, with food and weapons and the binding of wounds.

  He saw Groa kneeling by someone now, her short, ragged hair whipped by the wind. Somewhere out on the hill, a long red flag blew cold on the bushes instead of lying warm on her breast, or on his. And beside it, the torn gown he had worn in the foolish masquerade which had still brought Jon and himself back to safety and earned enough time to make the Black Hill defence finally possible.

  The pity of it was that Malcolm had been determined enough, or stupid enough, or obstinate enough, to launch attack after attack, no matter how many men he might lose, instead of embarking, as one had hoped, on a long, peaceful siege. One wondered just how much encouragement he had received from Thor or from Siward, and what the reasons of Thor or of Siward might be. Siward’s men, at any rate, had taken no part in either attack after the parley. Siward had more sense than to throw away men when he could attain the same end simply by waiting.

  Except that now he did not appear to be waiting. Propped in his corner of the turf-and-stone wall, wedged into it like a piece of the masonry, Thorfinn watched the campfires blink and blink as men and horses passed and repassed, and listened to the rising hum of men bestirring themselves, ready for action.

  On their side, there was nothing more they could do. He and the others were as ready for action as they could ever be, resting where they would fight. The great outer ring of the fort was long since beyond them to hold, even against a force as circumscribed as the Allerdale one. They had retired first to the inner ring, and now to the crown of the lower hill, where there were buildings behind a stout palisade. The ideal spot, of course, would have been the watch-tower on the knoll higher up, but that was burning still. And the heat, if it kept them away, would at least prevent the enemy also from occupying it.