He spread his hand down through the water and laid it flat on the new boards to begin to lever himself upwards. He put his weight on the hand. And this time the animal came through the arch and devoured him.
When he woke, he was still in the Gloup, but in a dry boat with someone’s cloak under him. A voice, Thorkel Fóstri’s, was saying over and over, ‘My son. My son. Thorfinn my son.’
So his foster-father was safe, and he had made an exhibition of himself. He wondered who else, coming to the rescue, had viewed the spectacle and remembered having seen Copsige’s boat out fishing as they came by. He felt like swearing, but knew better than to move. As it was, his head was a shell of iron, clanging with pain past and present.
There was pain, hardly less, in Thorkel Fóstri’s strained voice. He must open his eyes and reassure him. It was not his fault that all this had happened.
Then he opened his eyes, and saw the three expressions that fled, naked, across his foster-father’s white face, and knew exactly where the fault lay.
Although Thorkel wanted it, Thorfinn did not chose to cross to the island to make his recovery, nor did he want to return to Sandwick, or to put himself in the care of Bishop Jon’s little monastery at Deerness. He lay at the Gloup entrance, leaning back on the rock in the sun while the little yole was bailed out and made shipshape, and then he let Thorkel Fóstri guide the boat round the cliffs to a landing-place where, unseen from land, he could sit propped against grass and wait until the ruined muscles had ceased the worst of their protest.
They had brought meat and wine with them, and, once the pain had stopped making him sick, he was glad of it. Thorkel Fóstri, after the first moments, had said nothing at all except what had to do with his comfort, and in that he never ceased to show the most agonising and abject care.
Sitting with his eyes closed and a cup of good wine beside him, Thorfinn recognised that a good deal of it was his own fault. He should have told his foster-father from the start, He had refrained, to avoid the very scene to which he was now committed.
He had not reckoned on the fact that, through the years, his way of thinking was, also, something that Thorkel Fóstri had studied. When he opened his eyes, his foster-father spoke first.
Thorkel Fóstri said, ‘The blame is all mine. I would have made it difficult for you if you had told me. I’ve seen the wounds. I should have been content when you didn’t come rowing or climbing.’
‘Oh, that was only part of the reason,’ Thorfinn said. ‘Kings are supposed to be perfect. And foster-sons like to be, too. I shall answer your other question, if you like. I can hold a sword for a short time. But not for long.’
He paused, and then said, ‘And no one knows that. Not even Sulien.’
He closed his eyes again, because it seemed the best thing. After a long time, his foster-father said, ‘Have I made it worse?’
‘No,’ Thorfinn said. He opened his eyes and made them truthful. ‘To be able to do what I do, I had to stretch the muscles every day, and it was nearly as bad. You can’t make it any worse now.’
Nor, unfortunately, could you make it any better. But he had had a long time to adapt to all that, and Thorkel Fóstri would also, in time. He set himself to talk the thing out and lead his foster-father back to peace with himself.
It had been done from love, in a form that was not Lulach’s but entirely human.
If you looked at it in one way, he had, he supposed, today escaped the last of his hazards, if the third death was by drowning.
And he had plenty of strength, still, to ride a dolphin with.
So the King took leave of his two fair sons and returned south, nor, as he left, did he look over his shoulder, any more than he had looked back at Scone.
It was no time, in any case, for nostalgia, but time to pour out once again all the invention and energy restored to him. For there was no word yet of his army of Normandy.
It was understandable. Duke William had not been an unreasonable ally. As May gave way to June, and June to July and then the beginning of August, the messengers passed backwards and forwards from Caen and Falaise and Bayeux. The peace with Duke William’s overlord King Henry was breaking. Count Geoffrey of Anjou again threatened hostilities. No men who wished to be thought well of by their Duke could leave Normandy just at present.
‘He seems as beleaguered as you,’ Tuathal said. ‘So long as he doesn’t leave it too late. By winter, you couldn’t send transports all the way from Normandy to Alba.’
‘By winter, there won’t be anyone left alive between Moray and Lothian,’ Thorfinn had said. ‘It would all make the Abbot of Armagh feel quite at home. How can we persuade King Harald to attack Orkney now?’
For Orkney, prepared for her assailants, lay lean and fit and flashing with steel, and hedged about with her new ships as with a stockade of gold set with jewels. Odalric, Otkel, and Hlodver were in the north, with his sons and his foster-father. There was money for it all since Tuathal’s journey overseas, although of course a day of reckoning would come. Money for ships and arms, and money for bribes. Thorkel Fóstri’s remorse and Crispin money would see that so soon as a ship’s master received orders, word would fly from Norway to his ear or Thorfinn’s. In summer, ships were always at sea for one reason or another, and a message could be conveyed by no more than the flash of a flag, or the tilt of a silver mirror, or the blaze of a cresset up at the masthead. In a good wind, a ship from Orkney could find Thorfinn at the southernmost limits of his present kingdom in twenty-four hours.
‘But not in a bad wind,’ Groa remarked. Since hearing about the Normans, she had taken to coming to all the council meetings in case, Thorfinn observed, he had decided next to call in the Arabs. ‘Whoever desires a religion apart from Islam, it will not be accepted of him, and in the world to come, he will be among the Losers.’
‘If the Norwegian fleet attacks Orkney at the same time as Malcolm decides to move north from Lothian, then you will be among the Losers, Islam or the Aesir,’ Groa said.
‘Not with Duke William’s men with me in Alba,’ said Thorfinn.
‘Where?’ said Groa.
‘All right. In Normandy. But, Duke William willing, on their way soon to Alba. And even before they arrive, it’s all right. I have as many men in Alba as Malcolm has,’ Thorfinn said.
He meant it as well. He was, Groa saw, perfectly cheerful. Nowadays he moved about Mar and Moray so much that hardly one sentence was spoken in the same hall as the next, but it seemed to refresh him, if anything, and the sparkle communicated itself to those about him. He took and shed Bishop Hrolf and Bishop Jon, Gillocher and Morgund, Lulach and Tuathal, and in his company they all became brisker and laughed more and, when he left them, looked busy and successful.
She herself was the only person, apart from his household, who remained with him all the time, ever since a certain moment in Orkney when he had come back to be industriously good company after a day-long sail with Thorkel Fóstri; after which he had made himself, in private, extremely drunk and had slept for eighteen hours without waking.
What had happened she had no idea and, indeed, preferred not to know. She simply concluded that someone ought to be at hand, in case it happened again.
So she was there with him in Buchan when the news came. She saw him receive it, and fall silent for a moment before he put the messenger through his usual thorough inquisition and dismissed him. Then he sent for his mormaers. Of the Bishops, Hrolf was with him and Tuathal, at Deer, only a short ride away.
Groa thought, What news can be as bad as that? but said nothing. Then he turned and caught sight of her.
‘It’s invasion. Malcolm is at Stirling with an army, and on his way north. And not just with the settlers and rebels. Tostig of Northumbria is behind him, with the whole force of Northumbria and extra troops from his brother Earl Harold. They’ve heard about the Normans. It’s the only possible reason. And, please God, they’ve heard about the Normans because the Normans happen to be on their way.’
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br /> Groa said, ‘How many Northumbrians?’
‘Under Tostig, something like six to eight thousand, including about five hundred mounted. Assuming Fife and Angus let them through, these could be here fairly soon.’
‘The Normans are coming by sea,’ Groa said. ‘They could still come in time, before the footsoldiers arrive.’
‘I suppose they could,’ Thorfinn said. After the first word, his mind had left the sentence. He stood quite still, thinking, until the door opened and men began to come in, and then he sat down and talked.
Nothing new. The possibility was one of a dozen he had prepared for, even though it was one of the worst. The loyal troops were to be drawn back north to Mar and Moray, to reinforce the line of the Dee, and the armies of Malcolm and Tostig were to be allowed to march north without resistance. He had not enough men to harass them, but distance and the hill-ground would delay them. During which time, perhaps, his hired troops might arrive.
No one was crass enough to say, What if they don’t? He had placed the alternatives before them, long before. He could allow eight thousand men to engage in formal battle against his bands of survivors. Or he could negotiate. If they would negotiate.
Tuathal said, ‘My lord. The footsoldiers could be here in less than five days. The horse might reach the Dee in not much more than two.’
It was the nearest he came to the other thing that everyone there was thinking. Against King Duncan and his fleet and his Irish mercenaries, the men of Orkney and Caithness had stood side by side with the men of Tarbatness seventeen years before.
But Tarbatness had been within Thorfinn’s Caithness earldom. And Caithness and Orkney now had a predator of their own on their doorstep. If the King, against all his past record, emptied Orkney and Caithness in favour of Alba, he would do nothing but lose them to Harald of Norway.
Thorfinn said, ‘The Caithness men, as you know, are mustered in the far north against Norway. They could not march down in time, even if they were asked.’ He paused, and said, ‘If Malcolm will not negotiate and his army breaks through Moray and into the north, there is no doubt, of course, that the Caithness men will make a stand against them. It’s unlikely that he will: his lines would be far too extended. I take it there is no fresh news from Normandy?’
Bishop Hrolf said, ‘Only the same, and it’s stale. A lot of coming and going in Anjou, and Count Geoffrey has been seen in the same room with the King of France more than once.’
‘Perhaps they are insulting one another,’ said Thorfinn. ‘But we shouldn’t count on it. You know what to do, then. The Dee is our frontier, and as strong as we can make it. Bishop Tuathal and I are leaving for Lumphanan now. The rest of you had better set out as fast as you can. Do with your families as you have arranged. Lulach, a word.’
The hall-house was a small one, and reeked of summer heat and humanity after the men left. Anghared opened the doors and, drawing two chamber-servants with her, moved discreetly to the other end of the room. Lulach, with his hand on his mother’s shoulder, said, ‘Finnghuala and the children are away already. You need me.’
‘Do I?’ said Thorfinn.
‘For a while,’ Lulach said. ‘When the time comes to go, I shall make use of it. And my lady mother will stay?’
Both she and Thorfinn spoke at once, saying different things. She was the first to repeat herself. ‘I shall stay at Lumphanan. If your front line is the Dee, that’s safe enough. At least, it’s a good deal safer than Dunsinane.’
‘Of course. What am I thinking of?’ said Thorfinn. ‘Lumphanan is fully two miles from the Dee. A man could hardly walk there in half an hour. Which of your ladies will you bring with you?’
‘All of them, I expect,’ Groa said. ‘Of course I shall forbid them to come, but if they insist, what can I do about it? Or you?’
Lulach touched her shoulder again. ‘I shall see you both,’ he said, and walked out of the hall.
Thorfinn said, ‘We have made him uncomfortable. It must be as hard for him to listen as it is for us to talk.’
‘Then there is no need to talk, so far as I can see,’ Groa said.
After that, although she rode with his party, she did not see a great deal of him either that day, on the ride south to Monymusk, or the following morning, when he far outpaced her on the ride to Lumphanan.
She hardly lacked for company. For weeks now, foot-levies had been quartered on Deeside to guard against just such a challenge. Now the rest were moving south also, and the purple hills were accosted by striving, sparkling swarms, whiskered in steel. Groa and her servants and the bereaved women of Scone and Dunsinane who wished to keep her company were the only beings in skirts to be seen, but men going to war did not stop to trouble them, or her guard. In any case, most of them were known to her.
When she caught up with Thorfinn, she heard what the scouts were saying. That the Northumbrian foot were coming steadily north from Stirling to the Tay crossing. That the body of Northumbrian horse, racing ahead, was already well on its way: through Scone; through Glamis. Malcolm’s banner was with it, and the flag of Durham with the pennant of Forne. Then someone who had seen it in Winchester identified the flag of Tostig, Earl of North-umbria and younger brother of Harold of Wessex.
At Monymusk, she was allowed a rest of five hours. Thorfinn, who had arrived ahead of her, had had perhaps an hour’s sleep, she judged from the look of him, and was eating and talking at the same time before riding off south. When she came into the hall, he broke off and got rid of the man he was talking to and, gathering his horn and what was left to eat, opened the door of their chamber with his back and followed her in.
She said, ‘It’s all right.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘War happens suddenly, but there is time for what has to be said.’
She said, ‘You mean Malcolm may be there already when you get to the Dee?’
‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘I’ve got another banner, twinned to the one the Pope gave me. Sulien approved.’
‘And the Brecbennoch?’ she said. ‘I thought that was here.’
‘Tuathal has it,’ he said. He put the pile of food down on a board and said, ‘You won’t have eaten. I’ll get—’
‘Finish it,’ she said. ‘Thorfinn, for the sake of God. I’ll eat your company.’
He looked at her then, and picked up the meat. He said, ‘Sulien says that Fothaid is now an ordained priest. He was in Malduin’s household.’
She said, ‘But Tuathal has been consecrated.’
‘No one else can be Bishop of Alba. Also, it seems that, now the Emperor is dead, the Athelings, the Saxon heirs, have been released. They are being sent to Earl Harold, and not to Duke William. It makes Harold of Wessex their guardian, especially if none but the children are left. Duke William is now a greater rival to Earl Harold than Denmark. But Wessex still fears Harald of Norway.’
She said, ‘Thorfinn. I know it all.’
There was a little pause. Then he said, his voice quite different, ‘Superba, I believe you do. Do you know the story of the sibyl called Groa? When Thor and the giant Hrungnir fought a duel, Thor came from it with a hone sunk in his head. When Groa recited her spells, the hone worked its way loose.’
‘She was married to a man called Aurvandil the Brave,’ Groa said. ‘Another of your names?’
‘Sulien would not approve,’ Thorfinn said. ‘But at least we began by talking about the Brecbennoch and the Banner of St Peter. I have to go. I will see you at St Finnian’s hill at Lumphanan.’ He paused. ‘What a lot St Finnian has had to do with my affairs lately. A short-tempered man who, I’m sure, continually gave his wife instructions she did not need.’
‘Since she wouldn’t need them, how could it matter?’ said Groa.
So she slept in a cold bed, but very deeply, and had to be wakened to ride on with the rest. There were not so many now, for all the force Thorfinn had was now down on the banks of the Dee.
The scouts’ news she listened to, anxiously. The banners of Earl Tostig
and Malcolm had moved from Glamis to Forfar to Brechin and were making their way now over the range of the Mounth by the great pass that led to the banks of the Dee between Kincardine and Banchory. The footsoldiers, showing no disposition to spread, seemed to be following, much behind, in their footsteps.
They would reach the Dee, as Thorfinn had once pointed out, something like two miles or perhaps three from Lumphanan. And since they were not spreading out, it would seem that they intended no irresistible attack over the river, where their power would sweep aside the weaker force, thinly spread, that was all Thorfinn could pitch against them.
Arrived at Lumphanan: ‘You think they mean to discuss terms?’ Groa said to Thorfinn when, at last, he came within her sight late that evening.
He was dirty, but he looked no more tired now than he had the day before. He could snatch sleep, she knew, in the saddle. Even while she spoke to him, men called, smiling, and he waved in return.
He said, ‘Groa?’ and she knew that he had forgotten she was near, and her eyes filled at the artless softening of his face and his voice. Then he said, ‘Yes. They seem to be making camp over the river, and there’s no sign that they mean to cross. They couldn’t, anyway, until their main force comes up. Where they are, they’re well protected and perfectly safe, with a guard on each flank and a watch on the hills behind them.’
‘They must have been confident,’ Groa said, ‘to outrun the foot by such a distance. What a surprise they would get if your Normans came.’
‘What a surprise we should all get,’ Thorfinn said. ‘And I don’t see why we should despair of it. Once the proper messages have been exchanged, and the bishops have visited one another and delivered their warnings and blessings, and Malcolm and Tostig and I have haggled over a meeting-place and conditions and hostages, and once the three of us finally sit down to decide what it’s worth not to kill one another, you would be surprised what a long time I intend to keep them talking. They will have time to give birth to my soldiers in Caen and wean them and rear them to puberty. Have they found you a tent, or are you in the hall?’
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