by Mike Ashley
“Traitors!”
“Why don’t you go to England?” she said reasonably. “Your cowardly brother Donal Bane has already left for Ireland. For a time.”
“What did you tell him?” I said.
“I said he was in mortal danger – from you. He too saw you last night. He was easily persuaded.”
“By you. Persuaded by you.”
I almost spat these words. I opened the coffer, bundled up the bloody clothes and threw them at her feet.
“At least you can dispose of these,” I said. “My hands are already as bloody as you can wish.” On the way out of the room, I smelled her, rank as a fox.
I didn’t go to England, not immediately. Instead I repaired to one of my boltholes and brooded, while Macbeth and Lady Macbeth were crowned King and Queen at Scone. I wondered whether she’d played me for a dupe all the time or whether she’d switched horses in mid-stream when she realised that her husband wasn’t going to murder Duncan, and that I would have to do the deed instead.
If I had done it.
I couldn’t rid my mind of that picture: myself standing above his bed, slippery daggers in hand and so far unused – by me. The sheets soaked through with blood . . . afterwards . . . or before as well?
Suppose Macbeth had carried through the deed. So that when I assailed my father I was stabbing a dead man.
I discerned a plot but could not be certain where its boundaries lay. My mind spun, trying to latch on to certainties.
Take Banquo, for example . . . Banquo, who’d received various king-begetting promises from the hags. Who’d been out and about that night. With his son Fleance. (But what good cover that would be, what colour, to have your son with you.) Banquo, who’d been in my room, finding my shirt, dragging it from the coffer so as to display it the world. If it was my shirt . . . foolish, trusting Malcolm Canmore not even to make sure of that.
And my brother Donal Bane . . . out of bed and watching. I’d thought I was concealing things from him. How convenient that dim candle was for both our sakes!
I recalled the chamberlains too, and the way one had stirred and seemed to wake. Had Gruoch actually given them a sleeping-draught? Or were they, like me, her conscious instruments. Perhaps they had done it after all, as Macbeth claimed, and been slaughtered for their pains.
If I was unable (at this moment) to lay my hands on the throne, could I at least claim my guilt? Guilt is something to be going on with.
In this mist only one aspect of the matter was clear, and that one hardly to my advantage.
Gruoch had won. She and her oaf of a husband.
But she was not infallible.
Her mistake was in allowing me leave Glammis Castle alive. She should have shrieked out, brandished my guilty garments (if they were mine); ordered me cut down at her gate; permitted the rain to handle my spilled blood. I don’t suppose it would have stained her conscience for any longer than it took to wash away. It’s what I would have done to her if circumstances had been reversed. It’s what I will do to her – and to her oaf of a husband – in time.
But first there are other matters to settle. Banquo and his son Fleance, for instance, they shall not live.
Others will die too – the deserving and the undeserving. Women and children, I expect. Those who failed to proclaim me in the courtyard of Glammis Castle must pay for their hesitation. Of course, I will be careful to keep a distance between myself and the turmoil that I foster. I will use others as I have been used by the fox-faced woman.
Turmoil will lead to anger; anger to resentment; resentment to rebellion; and so to the unseating of Gruoch and Macbeth.
A King’s son is not to be spurned.
The Death Toll
Susanna Gregory
Susanna Gregory (b. 1958) is the author of the mystery series featuring Matthew Bartholomew, a teacher of medicine at Michaelhouse, part of the fledgling University of Cambridge, in the mid-fourteenth century. That series began with A Plague on Both Your Houses (1996). The following is not a Bartholomew story but is set over 300 years earlier at the start of the turbulent reign of Henry I and in the even more troublesome territory of the Welsh Marches.
1
There was an uneasy truce between the English and the Welsh when Sir Geoffrey Mappestone returned to his home in Goodrich Castle after his second pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The year was 1106, and King Henry sat on the throne – a Norman despite his claims to have been born on English soil and to speak the English language. Under Henry’s rule Norman noblemen held the best titles and the richest land: the English and Welsh alike had lost a great deal when the Normans had sailed across the Channel and seized the country four decades earlier. Geoffrey wondered why the Celts and Saxons had not combined forces to resist the invaders, rather than weakening each other with petty quarrels and the pursuit of ancient hatreds.
After years in the scorching dust of the Holy Land, Geoffrey liked to climb to the castle battlements and look across the cool green hills that surrounded his home. Goodrich stood on a rocky promontory above the River Wye, on the English side of the border with Wales. Fertile fields rolled towards the muddy brown curl of the river, edged by the great Forest of Dean. In the distance, Geoffrey could make out the creamy stones of Flanesford Priory, and beyond that the leaning wooden spire of the village of Garron. Garron was Welsh and poor; Flanesford was English and rich. They were uneasy neighbours, and often even the powerful current of the River Wye had not been enough to keep monks and peasants from each other’s throats.
Taking a last deep breath of crisp winter air, the knight left the battlements and descended the spiral stairs to the great hall. It was full of people, since it was the day of the month that Geoffrey’s brother Henry collected tithes and heard petitions. Geoffrey saw that Prior Edmund of Flanesford, resplendent in white robes and thick riding cloak, had Henry’s ear. His secretary was with him, listening to the conversation between baron and churchman with thinly disguised anger. Edmund’s hands, encased in soft white gloves, gesticulated in agitation. Obviously, the discussion was not going well.
“The monks are here because of the tolls for crossing the river at our ford,” came a voice at Geoffrey’s elbow. “They want them for their priory. They’ve had greedy eyes on them for as long as I can remember.”
Geoffrey recognized the dark, lean features of Rhodri, lord of the manor at Welsh Garron. Next to him was his burly cousin, Huw, the son of the local witch. There were rumours that Garron was not happy with Rhodri’s rule, and that Huw was waiting to step in and claim the leadership. Both cousins wore short tunics and rough wool leggings. They carried sturdy broadswords in their belts, and Rhodri had a purse, although Geoffrey doubted it held many coins. Rhodri and Huw were not wealthy men.
“The ford tolls have always belonged to Garron,” replied Geoffrey. “My brother won’t give them to Edmund.”
“What makes you so sure?” demanded Huw aggressively. “Austin monks are powerful men – what they want they usually get, because people are afraid of offending them.”
“But Henry doesn’t want your Welsh raiding parties helping themselves to his English cattle, either,” replied Geoffrey tartly. “Peace with Garron is important to him.”
“Peace is an English preoccupation,” said Rhodri distastefully. “We Welsh enjoy a good battle.” Geoffrey saw him glance challengingly at Huw. So, he thought, the rumours were true: relations were not harmonious across the border.
Geoffrey pushed his way through the throng to the door. A dispute about tolls for using the crossing point over the Wye was none of his affair, and he had no wish to become involved. That was Henry’s unenviable task, and went with owning the Goodrich estates. Geoffrey’s only responsibility that day lay with his destrier, to ensure the animal was properly exercised. Warhorses were expensive, and many knights preferred to oversee their care themselves, rather than leaving it to a squire.
“The tolls should come to the priory,” announced Edmund to Henry in a voice loud enough to arrest Geo
ffrey’s progress and make him turn in surprise. “You’re wrong to find in favour of Garron – yet again. But I’m a fair man. I’m prepared to accept your decision for now.”
“No!” cried his pale-faced secretary in horror. “We cannot accept a decision that is so monstrously detrimental, Father! The ford adjoins our land. The tolls belong to us!”
Geoffrey saw Edmund rest his gloved hand on the man’s shoulder to calm him. “It’s winter, Aidan, when few people use the ford anyway. We’ll take our petition to the bishop in the spring.”
“I’ve already written to the King,” said Aidan defiantly. “He will see justice done.”
Geoffrey seriously doubted it, knowing very well that the King would not bother to embroil himself in a matter relating to a few penny tolls unless there was some advantage to himself. He would not even have wasted his time in reading such a plea.
“We’ll petition the bishop,” repeated Edmund, dismissing his secretary’s futile attempt to secure royal favour. “But meanwhile, I long for the peace of my priory. We shall accept Henry’s decision for the time being.”
“Good,” said Henry. He gestured for Rhodri and Huw to step forward. “I’ll have the agreement drawn up and you can all make your marks.”
Rhodri nodded curtly, and Geoffrey could not decide whether the Welshman was pleased or not. It meant he would have no excuse for stealing Henry’s cattle, which was probably a more lucrative activity than collecting penny tolls. Huw’s face was grim, and Geoffrey sensed he would rather Rhodri had failed, so that the loss of the tolls would further his own cause in securing the leadership of Garron. Geoffrey was about to escape from the hall into the invigorating chill of a clean winter morning, when Henry called him back.
“I need you to draw up this deed, Geoffrey. My clerk is ill and Rhodri refuses to sign anything the monks write. All those years of learning before you became a knight can come in useful at last. You can write this agreement for me.”
Geoffrey complied reluctantly. He did not want to be indoors when the sun was shining, and he disliked the reek of burned food, animal manure and unwashed bodies that pervaded the hall. But his brother had been a generous host, and scribing a document was the least Geoffrey could do to repay him for his hospitality. He went to sit at the table, taking pen, ink and parchment from the pouch he carried at his waist. The two monks and the two Welshmen pressed forward to watch.
Rhodri was grinning, gloating at the clerics’ disappointment. Huw watched intently, hoping for an argument that would see his cousin fall from Henry’s favour. Edmund seemed resigned, but his secretary was seething. His thin lips were pressed into a tight white line, and his pale blue eyes were as cold as ice.
“The Royal Commissioners have recently imposed a new tax on the priory,” he said furiously. “How can we pay it when we have no income from the ford tolls?”
“We have to pay this new tax, too,” Rhodri replied immediately. “And we do not have chests full of gold crosses and silver chalices to fall back on.”
“But neither of you has to pay as much as me,” said Henry resentfully. “Because I own the land on which priory and village stand, I am expected to produce twenty pounds!”
There was a collective gasp of astonishment. Twenty pounds was an enormous sum of money.
“Why has the Treasury made this sudden demand on us?” asked Rhodri curiously. “Is the King thinking of financing another Crusade to the Holy Land?”
“It isn’t sudden,” replied Prior Edmund wearily. “The King is a man who likes his gold, and he has been imposing high taxes on his people ever since he was crowned. It has just taken him a while to reach this distant corner of his kingdom, that’s all.”
Geoffrey said nothing, and continued to pen the agreement. He knew from personal experience that the King was indeed a greedy man, and it did not surprise him that the shrewd monarch was happy to wring money even from the poorest inhabitants of his domain, as well as from the Church.
“I’m tired of being pestered with this toll business every month,” announced Henry, abruptly changing the subject. He was a blunt man, not over-endowed with patience or intelligence. “I want you to add a bit on the end of that deed, Geoffrey: this agreement will hold for as long as everyone who signs it is alive. Their successors can petition me again, but I’ll not hear another word about it until then.”
Geoffrey regarded his brother uneasily, knowing that feelings ran high where money was concerned; even monks had been known to commit dreadful crimes in order to claim something they felt was rightfully their own. Henry’s peculiar clause was just asking for someone to be murdered.
“Perhaps it would be better to say that the agreement will stand for five years, rather than the length of a man’s life,” he suggested tentatively. “It would be safer –”
“Do what Henry says,” interrupted Rhodri, revealing white teeth in a wolfish grin. “I intend to live to a ripe old age, and it would be good to have this business resolved once and for all.”
Huw’s black expression suggested that his cousin might not live as long as he expected, while Aidan, was horrified at the prospect of signing away the priory’s rights. Edmund was thoughtful.
“No Welshman can resist a fight,” he said eventually. “Draw up the agreement, Geoffrey. The tolls will be ours before the year is out, because Rhodri will be where he belongs – in a pagan’s grave.”
2
Drafting legal documents was not something at which Geoffrey excelled, and it was some time before he had completed the task to everyone’s satisfaction. Edmund and Aidan watched him like hawks, sitting side by side on the stone bench that ran along one wall. Rhodri and Huw stood opposite, as uneasy in each other’s presence as they were in the monks’.
“Wine,” ordered Henry, as he dipped his forefinger in the inkwell and drew a crude dagger on the completed document to signify his acceptance of its contents. “We shall drink to this agreement and hope it brings us peace.”
“Our monks shall not be using the ford,” said Aidan icily. “They will travel miles out of their way rather than give their money to Garron.”
“That will not matter soon,” muttered Edmund. “The Welshmen will fight each other, Rhodri will die, and the rights to the ford will revert to us.”
“I have no intention of dying yet,” said Rhodri cheerfully, unmoved by the prior’s predictions.
“We shall see,” muttered Huw darkly.
Geoffrey watched a servant carry goblets and a jug brimming with wine to the table. He set them down and retired, leaving the six men alone in the hall. The short winter day was coming to an end, and the sun flooded the room with rays of deep gold. Shadows darkened the corners, and Geoffrey looked forward to the time when the shutters would be fastened and a fire lit. It was cold in the hall.
Henry poured himself wine and gestured that the others were to do the same. He pushed a cup towards Geoffrey, who needed no second invitation. The knight filled his goblet to the brim before joining his brother at one of the windows, to stand in the light of the fading sun in the hope that there would be some warmth in it. Henry’s favourite hound fussed around them, licking its owner’s hands with a slobbering tongue, anxious for attention.
Geoffrey watched Rhodri step up to the table and dip his thumb in the ink. His confident, flamboyant mark covered a good quarter of the document. His treatment of the wine was equally colourful: he lifted the jug high, so that it fell in a noisy purple stream into the cup and splattered the table, and then snatched up the goblet with a victorious flourish.
Huw took Geoffrey’s pen in both hands like a weapon, and sprayed ink all over himself and the document when his heavy grip snapped it in two. The clerics regarded each other expressionlessly, but made no comment. Huw then moved to the wine, pouring with his back to the others, as if he was afraid that he would spill it and embarrass himself further.
Aidan scratched his name with his own pen, then spent some time filling his goblet as high as it would go w
ithout spilling. Edmund was last. He signed his name without removing his gloves – not an easy task when the bone pen was shiny and slipped in his fingers. Geoffrey supposed the prior had grown chilled in the frigid hall, and did not want to expose his hands to the icy air. He sympathized: Geoffrey was cold himself. Edmund shook sand across the wet ink and went to the wine jug. When all six men had full cups in their hands, Henry lifted his high, so that it glinted in the last of the sun.
“To peace,” he said. “And to an end of this squabbling over tolls.”
“To justice,” said Rhodri, eyeing the monks and Huw challengingly. “And to Wales.”
“To a new beginning,” added Huw ambiguously. From the unfriendly glance he shot in his cousin’s direction, Geoffrey was certain he was not referring to the agreement he had just signed.
“To Rhodri’s early demise,” muttered Aidan, drinking heartily.
“To God,” whispered Edmund piously. “May He have mercy on us all.”
Geoffrey just drank his wine.
Once everyone had drained his cup and Henry was looking pleased with himself for finally resolving what had been a tiresome conflict, Geoffrey prepared to leave the acrimonious atmosphere in search of somewhere more pleasant to spend the evening. He was halfway across the hall when Edmund made a sudden retching sound and began to scrabble at his throat. The others regarded the prior uncertainly.
“I can’t see,” Edmund whispered. “I can’t breathe.” He dropped to his knees and vomited.
“What’s wrong with him?” demanded Henry in alarm. “Is it a falling fit?”
“Poison,” whispered Edmund. His eyes, wide in his face, fixed themselves on the Welshmen. “I have been poisoned.”
“Do something,” said Henry, appealing to Geoffrey. “Help him.”
Geoffrey knelt next to the stricken man, but there was little he could do. He had seen enough of poisons on his travels to know that it was already too late to reverse the effects of whatever the prior had been given. Edmund’s breathing was rapid and shallow, and a sheen of sweat glistened on his ashen face.