by David Hewson
She looked up, interested, and asked, “Glamis?”
Her home, a place she loved.
“Glamis is like this place—a palace, not a fortress. Cullen says there’s a better stronghold not far away.” He knelt before her, took her cold hand. “Dunsinane. You know it?”
Skena shivered and said, “A cold, wooden prison on a bleak and bitter mountain. I may as well be back in Inverness.”
“When I hold all the reins of power, you’ll live where you choose.”
She gazed at him the way a stranger might. “We leave soon?” she asked.
“When ships can safely sail. I’ll not put you through that cruel ordeal in the mountains again. The land route is for summer only. For the main force of our troops I’ve no other option. The court goes by ship, to Perth. Soon, when it’s spring...”
He looked out of the windows.
“This will be a pleasant journey,” he promised.
Fergus was there beyond the glass, staring avidly at the two of them as they spoke.
“Your henchman needs you,” she said, and went back to her stitching.
Macbeth strode outside.
“You asked for news of Fleance and MacDuff,” Fergus said.
Macbeth’s heart fell. “You know of both?”
The steward stood there, a sly look on his narrow face. “They are together.”
“Together?” Macbeth echoed with a surge of dread.
So MacDuff knows all, he thought. What latent suspicions he may have harbored will now bear terrible fruit. My hand is forced.
Once, he had thought kings all-powerful, men who commanded thousands on a whim. Yet now he was one, and had never felt more like a feather in the breeze, moved by forces he could neither see nor control.
“You’ve grown reclusive of late, sire,” said Fergus, breaking in on his reverie. “I fear you’re faint of heart. If so...what need have you of me?”
“Do not presume to know my mind,” Macbeth retorted. “You are my servant and shall do my bidding.”
“Oh, that I will, sir,” he answered with a happy nod.
London proved cold and foreign and friendless, though safe. Still, Malcolm would be glad to be out of England. However dangerous his position at home, there was no doubting the low esteem in which the English held the Scots. At Westminster, they had kept him alone and under guard, his men, including his brother, Donalbain, held at the Tower like foreign spies or assassins. Malcolm had been made to wait three hours for the king, who—he was told—was at prayer, during which time he was forbidden to leave the antechamber. His weapons had been taken from him for “safekeeping” and the guards had leaned on their pikes and muttered about him out of the sides of their mouths.
Edward himself, when he finally appeared, said little. The English king wore his crown throughout their meeting, which took place in the greatest hall Malcolm had ever seen, a remarkable structure of stone and stained glass adjoining the abbey itself. The Confessor sat stiff and old and pompous on his carved throne, while Malcolm was obliged to approach and kneel before him under the cavernous roof. He felt, as was intended, like a tiny, importunate insect.
The king was almost three decades Malcolm’s senior and wore his royal regalia as if born to it. He was polite, even courteous, to his “Scottish cousin”—as he styled him—but evasive about lending aid. After ten minutes, he needed to consult with his most trusted advisors, and Malcolm was again banished to the waiting room and the watchful leers of the guards.
He never saw the king again. By the time his secretary returned, the thin February sun was almost down. Malcolm was escorted back to his lodgings and left there till noon the next day, when a delegation arrived with a stack of parchment and dense Latin script marked with the royal seal. He signed where he was told, wishing he had expert council on what the documents contained. Yet if English help came with harsh terms attached, that was no more than he expected. And for Edward to enforce those conditions from Westminster would require a longer arm than the English king possessed.
Malcolm thought himself no fool. He might not wear the crown of Scotland yet or own the velvet tongue and many connections of his father, but he had seen much of England on his journey from the north, and little of it was under Edward’s sway. The king was hedged about on all sides by factions, by Wessex and the Mercians, by the Normans across the channel, and by the Northumbrians along the Scottish border. However much they put on this show of dominance, Malcolm guessed the pact was not as one-sided as Edward might pretend. An alliance was useful to them both, and Malcolm, who had no intention of leading Scottish troops against Edward’s enemies, signed the contracts without hesitation.
Weeks later, spurred by the Confessor’s support and word of growing discord back at home, he pressed northward. At York, he had met his uncle, Siward, and—more importantly—the ten thousand men promised to him by Edward. At the turn of the year he had been an exile. Now he was a warlord, leading an army strong enough to mount an invasion.
Yet what had seemed an answer to his prayers raised another problem. Malcolm and Donalbain’s flight had led many in Scotland to blame them for their father’s death. Even without that crime laid to their charge, Malcolm knew he had few friends among the Council of Thanes. To enter Scotland now at the head of an English army might prove...awkward.
He had sent to Ross and Menteith, to Lennox, Angus, and Caithness, but none would meet him or offer a single word of support. With Banquo dead, they looked to MacDuff to be their leader—even their king, should it come to that. But the thane of Fife would not be drawn. Three times, Malcolm had sent riders, their saddlebags full of English gold, urging him to come south. Three times, the messengers had returned, their bags no lighter than when they left.
After weeks encamped along the English border, this failure was turning worrisome. He could not sit in Northumbria forever with an army that consumed whole farms at every meal. If his forces did not strike soon, he would have to let them go. A return in ignominy to Scotland was unthinkable. There was no home for him there, no friendship, only danger. He would have to seek some miserable exile in Ireland, to live out his days empty-handed in a blasted and forgotten corner of a foreign land.
And deal there with his brother.
Camped outside Berwick, indecisive, growing desperate, Malcolm found Donalbain more tedious by the hour. The previous night, the two had argued bitterly about strategies and tactics. Malcolm was for force and impetuousness. Donalbain advised less haste and more diplomacy.
“Frightened, brother?” Malcolm threw at him in the heat of argument and drink.
The younger man flew at him, hands flailing. “I fight in an army of ten against an entire nation,” Donalbain screamed. “How dare you, brother?”
“Ten?” Malcolm screamed. “What kind of fool are you? Ten thousand. Look beyond your door.”
“Ten thousand English,” his brother replied with a sneer. “I can count my Scottish brothers on two hands. And one of them is you, who follows our dead father when it comes to military matters. So perhaps I’ll lose a finger there.”
“You’ll lose your head if you talk that way. Brother or not.”
Donalbain looked at him and snarled, “We must find ourselves Scottish allies, or we’re nothing more than vassals for that skinny old prig in London. An army of foreign invaders. No better than the Vikings. Worse with traitors at the helm.”
A part of this was true and that was why it stung.
“We come to liberate, brother,” Malcolm said. “I’ll take any foreigner’s soldiers if they’ll help with it.”
“Aye,” Donalbain grunted. “And when they go home with all our riches, with the blood of our women and children on them, and Scotland laid to waste from tip to toe...do you think our people will be grateful? How comfortable will be that throne then, brother? How secure?”
“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” Malcolm said. He pointed out the tent, toward the icy water of the Tweed by Berwick. “And
I’ll cross that border when I wish.”
“Best wait a while,” Donalbain answered, reaching for his coat. “Macbeth lacks the cunning and the wit to be a king. Wait and his own innocence and impetuosity may send some friends our way. Or else”—he drained his goblet, then raised it in an ironic toast as he walked to the tent door—“we’ll spend our days getting fat on Dublin bacon and drinking cheap poteen.”
He left without another word.
Fergus the steward and his three henchmen were on the first ship to leave when, finally, in the first week of March, the ice from Findhorn Bay began to clear. It was a small trader bound for the tiny port near Leuchars on the coast of Fife. The royal party would make a shorter journey a few days later, in greater vessels headed for Perth and then the inland fortress known as Dunsinane. Their trip might take weeks, with necessary calls in Aberdeen and elsewhere along the way, currying favor, establishing loyalty. Fergus was free of all these cares and knew it. There was but one objective in his sights: kill MacDuff and finish Banquo’s son, as he should have done that day on the pass to Laggan.
Two of the men who traveled with him—an Inverness cutthroat and the giant with no tongue—had been with him then. The fourth was new, an Irishman who replaced the villain Banquo wounded most severely, a man murdered by Fergus’s own hand not long after. He was a bloodthirsty, foul-tempered cur. The right man for this vicious job.
A week it took, with a little time for drink and whores in Arbroath’s winding, sooty alleys as the captain sought provisions. After that the vessel crossed the Firth of Tay and found land at Crail, seeking refuge from the blustery gales in a tiny harbor next to a spit of sand surrounded by cruel cliffs and rocks. The captain, a tedious, pious man, dispatched his cargo and his passengers, and then sailed on to make a pilgrimage to the tiny Isle of May, five miles across the water. A saint was buried there, he said. One who’d salve all consciences, forgive—after due penance—all sins.
Not mine, Fergus thought as he listened to this brief sermon. And still, they’re not quite done.
It was a steep walk up from the beach to the town above, with its tidy, compact castle set on the cliff top. Being a cautious man, he stopped in a tavern on the way, bought generous drinks for his men and others, ate a hearty meal, took rooms for all to spend the night in comfort. There wasn’t so much money hereabouts, and he was, he said, a trader seeking business.
None looked at them much or seemed to care. The place appeared distracted. It had the febrile, nervy manner he’d come to recognize over the years, that of a quiet and peaceful people fearing conflict, close and personal. Viking raids were like the midges that swarmed over the land in summer—predictable but haphazard, a pesky drone of constant discomfort. But like midges, Vikings left once there was no more blood to suck. War was different. In Scotland it was, almost always, a civil conflict, brother against brother, town against town. In battles of this kind the rich and comfortable might find themselves penniless or worse in a single night. Fortunes rose and fell on the turn of a penny, the slash of a sword. A man like him, lowborn, an emptier of pisspots most his life, might find himself a lord with land and servants, palaces and castles, all through debt or alliance forged upon a moment’s opportunity.
He watched the other three filling themselves with ale, then, when they’d had enough, put a hand over the pots and looked steadily into their eyes.
The landlord was a cheery, fat drunk.
Fergus tipped him and said, “I hear your thane’s a fine and decent man.”
“Oh, that he is,” the publican agreed.
“I’d like to think he’d see me. Business—”
“MacDuff’s just one of us, pal. He’ll see any man who needs him, high or low.” He squinted at Fergus’s companions. “Though I’d go on your own, if I were you. Your friends”—he squeezed his nose—“have a Highland fragrance we notice in these parts.”
“Alone? On these black streets at night?” Fergus asked, astonished.
“Crail’s a safe and pleasant place, friend. You need fear nothing. But wait till morning anyway. The castle’s empty at night, save for the thane and his kin. Business is a matter for daylight hereabouts.”
Fergus thanked him. Then they made a show of yawns before ambling out back to the rooms besides the stables. One hour later, sharp knives in pockets, keen and ready for murder, they crept through the rear horse yard gate and found the path to the castle on the hill.
There were few lights there, and a single man upon the door. A porter, like him once, unarmed and cheery.
The Irishman stuck him a single deadly blow, then Fergus led the rest inside. From somewhere came the sound of voices, sharp and high and angry.
That night, Ross had broken the news to Ailsa MacDuff, his cousin: her husband was flown and Fleance with him. A fearful row ensued.
“Gone from Scotland, you say?” she cried.
“There are matters he must discuss. Must clarify with Malcolm and Donalbain. Be patient, I beg you.”
“Patient, cousin? What patience did my husband show? His flight is madness. Now we seem the very thing we’re not—traitors to the king. And without a word to me...”
“The land is full of spies,” he said. “We need caution, wisdom, fear...In times like these, a man must be wary.”
She slapped his face and watched his cheeks turn red with blood and anger.
Beside the fire, Gregor, their son, a surly child of twelve, stood laughing. Next to him was the cradle with the baby, Flora, and rocking it gently was the middle child, Rose, a beautiful girl of four, with long blonde curls.
“What’s so funny?” Ross stormed at the boy.
“She’d never hit her man that way,” Gregor retorted. “But you...”
Rose ceased rocking the cradle and put her little hands over her ears.
“What kind of father abandons his wife and his bairn to fly to England?” Ailsa demanded. “Even a wren fights for its young against the owl. And my brave husband runs in fear at nothing more than whispers.”
“Fleance—” he began.
“I never knew that boy was Banquo’s son. You tell me he’s the cause of this?”
“They’re gone together. For diplomatic conversations. All will be well, cousin. Stay here, stay safe, and speak to no one. In a week, a month—”
“A month?” she howled.
“Be the wife,” he interrupted. “Your husband’s noble, wise, and judicious. He knows what’s best. I cannot tell you further. These are cruel times. One man’s vile traitor is another’s true and loyal patriot. There’s a wild and violent sea around us, whichever way one moves. Stay low, stay true to those who share your blood.” He put a tentative hand to her cheek and smiled. “You are my pretty cousin and I will see to it that no harm comes to you or yours. But now”—he shrugged—“I must be gone.”
“Well, thank you!” she yelled, and watched him turn his back to leave. “Thank MacDuff, too, when you see him. And say his bed will be cold and passionless should he find some reason to return to his ain folk again sometime. You bastard man...”
The little girl Rose sat down on the floor, hands clamped more tightly to her ears. Gregor shouted abuse. The baby began to bawl.
A candlestick flew at Ross’s back, then a glass vase.
Briskly, he departed the room, rushed down the stairs, and out the door.
Halfway down the hill it occurred to him he’d never seen the porter at the gate.
“Crail,” he said softly to himself, shaking his head as he stirred the horse for the long ride south. “Fast asleep as always. May your dreamy peaceful slumber last forever. We’ve wars to fight elsewhere.”
The child Gregor had a foul, unruly tongue, and his temper now was worse than his mother’s, aggravated by the way she clung to him and hugged his head as if he were a weak, defenseless bairn.
In the cot, the baby’s wails grew louder.
“Poor children,” she whined, teary-eyed and trembling. “Your father’s dead to u
s. What will we do? How will we live?”
“Like the birds, Mother,” he snapped.
She eyed him and said, “What?”
“With whatever we find,” he answered, tearing himself away from her, standing there, hands on hips. “Besides...”
He took out a small knife from his jacket. She stared at the thing, as did Rose on the floor. The baby’s crying turned into a rhythmic choke. The blade was a present from MacDuff. Not suitable for a child.
“Besides what?” She blinked. He was dashing the dagger through the air. “Give me that thing, Gregor. It’s not a toy. I don’t want it near your sisters.”
He stashed the knife in his belt and snarled, “To hell with my sisters. My father’s not dead. Don’t lie.”
“Dead to me,” she said.
“Then what will you do for a husband?”
“Ten a penny down the market. Give me that knife, boy!”
“If men are that cheap, buy a dozen, sell them on,” he cried, laughing at her, retreating from his mother’s grasping hands as they reached out for him.
“That mouth will not serve you well, child. Give me the knife!”
The boy retreated toward the door. “Is my father a traitor, then?”
“To flee this house and leave us to fend alone...yes.”
“Strong words, Mother!”
“A man who swears loyalty to his family, then lies and runs away...traitor enough for me, and honest men should hang them,” she said. “Gregor! Will you be still?”
He dashed around the table, teasing her, almost tripping once over Rose. Ailsa saw, to her fury, the knife was back in his hand.
“It’s the honest men who’d hang, you witch,” he told her.
“And why, wise child, is that?”
“Because,” he replied, shaking his head as if she were plain ignorant, “there’s more men out there that lie and swear than go meekly about their business, honest as the day. Strength in numbers.” He flicked the dagger before her. “My father taught me that. If he were dead, you’d weep for him. Not chase me round this chamber.”