Macbeth the King (24 page)

"My claim is that the Ivorach seized the two mortuaths unlawfully and should never have been accepted as mormaors. I represent the ancient line of one of them, perhaps both. In this pass, with a child heiring Gartnait, I say that it would be just that I should have the mortuath."

"Because he
is
a child? You did not make so bold while Gartnait nor yet Donald were mormaors!"

"My brother Matain was then Thane of Buchan."

"I see. Very well, my lord. You have made your position clear. Now we shall hear others in your support. Who speaks for Lachlan, Tharie of Buchan?"

"I, Cathula nic Crinan, do," a clear cool voice declared, and a woman stepped forward, to stand beside Lachlan. She was of striking appearance, not beautiful but with a fine presence, holding herself proudly, about MacBeth's own age, and richly dressed.

"Ha, Cousin," he said. "It is good to see you."

She inclined her head—it certainly was no bow—and neither smiled nor spoke. Not that he blamed her. After all, he had slain her brother, and
his
brother slain her husband.

Gruoch leaned forward in her chair. "Greetings, Cousin," she said quietly.

When there was no response to that either, MacBeth shrugged. "You wish to support Thane Lachlan, your good-brother, Princess? Do any others?"

"I do, Highness. I, Formartine."

"As do I, Fyvie, lord King."

"I say that we need a strong mormaor here, such as we have not had for long," Formartine asserted.

"I thank you. Now we shall hear the other side. Who speaks for Martacus mac Gartnait?"

"I do—Kintore." A burly middle-aged man said heavily. "And speak for many more than myself, King MacBeth."

"I can believe that. Speak up then, my lord."

"I say that the lad Martacus is well enough, of mind as of person. I can remember Lachlan mac Caerill himself, at fifteen, as but a weed of a youth, with spots!" There was a titter at that. "There is nothing amiss with the Ivorach line. I myself fought with Donald at Clontarf—a stout warrior and great man with the axe. If Gartnait was scarce so well-doing, and ill-advised enough to fight against Your Highness at Torfness, he was yet no weakling. He fought at King Duncan's command. I say that there is no reason why Martacus should not be Mormaor of Mar, as is his right. Many would rally to him who would not rally to Lachlan of Buchan—Kintore amongst them!"

MacBeth nodded. "That I can understand. Does other wish to speak?"

"May I, my lord King?" a soft voice asked. "Martacus is my son. But perhaps I know him best."

"Ah yes, Lady Ailie, to be sure. Let us hear a mother's voice."

The Lady of Mar was small and plump and rosy, as different from the Princess Cathula as was possible to imagine, and not only in looks. She was diffident, mild-seeming, and spoke with the slightest lisp, this forcing of herself into prominence here clearly an ordeal, yet her determination to speak on behalf of her son as evident.

"Martacus is a good boy," she asserted nervously. "He speaks but little. He is easily tongue-tangled, shy, but, but so am I.

There is nothing wrong with his wits, lord King. He thinks before he speaks, perhaps over-long for some. So that when talk is swift, he may say little, or nothing. I...I am like that, my own self. But he listens and heeds. And acts well enough. Indeed he is more scholar than was his father or any kin of mine. He reads much, too much perhaps. And he is kind of heart, would hurt none. But not weak, no." Biting her lip, the woman shook her head in a gesture that was more eloquent than she knew. She said no more.

"Thank you, Lady Ailie," the King said. "You make me wish to meet this son of yours. For I too was slow of speech, as a lad—some say I still am. And the Prince Lulach, here, is something the same. Is Martacus mac Gartnait here?"

Out from behind larger folk a boy was pushed, small for his age and most obviously reluctant. He was sturdily built however, stocky, open-faced with freckles and curling hair, holding his head somewhat forward as though possibly short-sighted. Coming to stand between his mother and Kintore, he bobbed two quick bows towards the thrones. A hand reached out to grasp his mother's.

"Ha, Martacus of Mar," MacBeth said, conversationally. "We have not met, but we are kin of a sort, for your great-grandsire wed my grandsire's sister." He spoke slowly but not loudly. "We shall talk more privately hereafter. Meantime I am not going to harry you with questions—for it is an ill thing for anyone, man or boy, to have to stand before many and give account for his wits. So fear nothing. I but wish to speak with you, as one kinsman to another." He smiled. "You understand?"

The boy, who had been listening intently, tensely, lips slightly parted, now moistened those lips, and after a moment, swallowing, said,

"Yes, King."

"Good. You live at Kildrummy, on the Don, I have heard? I have never been there. Is it a great dun? Or a rath? Or a hall-house perhaps, your Kildrummy?"

Martacus's pink tongue-tip appeared, and he looked over at his mother, as though suddenly agonised. Presently he whispered something, but to her only.

MacBeth leaned back in his chair, at ease. "Lady Mar—if he prefers to speak to you, rather than to me, I do not know that I blame him!"

"It is not that, Highness," the mother stammered. "It is that he does not wish to seem to misspeak you, to contradict you, the King."

"Contradict? How that? Tell me, Martacus—and contradict if you will."

Hesitantly, jerkily, the lad spoke. "Kildrummy is...not any such, King. Not dun or rath. Or hall-house. It is a fort. Of the old people. The Cruithne. On a hill. Many houses. Within ramparts. Many ramparts."

"Ha! A Pictish fort converted? To be sure. I know the sort. Indeed I have inherited one just so, with this new crown of mine! Dunsinane, the name. Kildrummy is so? Do you like living on the top of a hill?"

A nod.

"This fort of mine, Dunsinane, has its difficulties. As a house. On top of its hill. The Queen, here, I think, esteems it but lightly as a home."

Gruoch spoke. "Yes. It may be very strong, secure. But living on a hill-top could be uncomfortable, I think. Fine prospects, yes. But draughty. And cold in winter. I do not know if I should like it, Martacus."

Whether it was the feminine intervention or merely the subject that interested him, Martacus found his voice.

"No," he said, with something like assurance. "Living on a hill is good. None may creep on you unawares. And in winter it is better. For the water does not freeze."

"I should have thought that it would freeze more readily?" Gruoch objected, but smiling.

"No." The boy was almost scornful, of this feminine ignorance. "Water does not flow up on to a hill-top. So a deep well has to be sunk. Down to where the water is. And there, deep under the ground, it never freezes." He spoke slowly, picking his words, but with entire authority.

MacBeth coughed. "Now that I had not thought of!" he said. "You advise a hill-top house then, Martacus? What of having to carry up all the fuel, peats and wood, for the fires?"

"Peats and wood will dry more quickly on high ground than on low. And it is easier to make stout ramparts."

"How so?"

"The wind is stronger. The stone may be melted by burning, the better."

"Ha-a-a! So you can melt stone, young man?"

"Yes. The old Cruithne did it. They built their ramparts of stones and logs and turf and peats. Leaving holes for the wind, between all. Then set it all afire. The hill-top winds birl, just." The boy waved his hand in a circular motion. "The peats and the wood burn very hot. The stones melt and run together. So the ramparts become hard, hard. They cannot be breached by ram nor pick. Nor yet burrowed through."

Still speaking conversationally, relaxed, MacBeth raised his voice somewhat. "Did
you
know that, Thane of Buchan?" he asked.

After a moment Lachlan answered. "I have heard something of the sort, I think."

"To be sure—something of the sort. I see that I must consult Martacus mac Gartnait over my fort-building hereafter!" MacBeth paused.
"Non potest urbs occultari supra montem posita!
How say you, Martacus?"

The boy flushed, gulped, and then came out with a halting,
"Nec tamen facile hostis cius urbis civis inopinantes opprimet."

"Good. Your lady-mother said that you were something of a scholar." Again the raised voice. "My lord Lachlan—do you agree with that?"

Stiffly Buchan answered, "I did not hear what was said."

"Hear? Or understand? We spoke in the Latin."

"I, I was not trained for the Church, my lord King!"

"Was I? Very well, Martacus—we shall talk more of this later."

"Thank you, my lord of Mar, for enlightening
me,
at least!" Gruoch said. "I knew nothing of this, of the melting stone."

MacBeth raised his hand. "Enough has been said on which to base a judgment," he declared, more formally. "I have three counsellors here, whom I shall consult. And then give our decision." He murmured to his wife and then turned to the trio behind the chairs, who bent their heads to listen and speak.

The talk in the hall and beyond swelled.

The discussion on the dais did not last long. The O'Beolain signed to one of the horn-blowers to sound a blast, and into the ensuing quiet cried, "Oh, people—hear you the High King's judgment."

"We are all agreed," MacBeth announced. "Martacus mac Gartnait appears to us to lack nothing in wits. We see no reason why he should not be Mormaor of Mar. I now so declare him, before all. So the Thane of Buchan's cause fails on the first point. But I have been concerned for his second point. Buchan was formerly a mortuath, yes, and is over-large to be merely a thanedom. Beatha the Pict, or Cruithne, was to be sure Mormaor of Buchan—as I should know, for he was a forebear of my own. My name, indeed, is taken from his. It is, I think, unsuitable that Buchan should be only a thanedom of Mar. And Mar is great enough without Buchan. So I do hereby ordain that it shall be again a mortuath of my kingdom. Lachlan will, I am assured, make a good mormaor. As, in a year or two, will Martacus—both to the good support of this realm. This is my royal judgment. Hail, Martacus, Mormaor of Mar! Hail, Lachlan, Mormaor of Buchan!"

Loud and long the cheers resounded for what was clearly a most popular decision, with both sides well content.

After the eating and drinking and entertainments which followed the judgment were over, and they could be alone in the abbot's simple house, Gruoch questioned MacBeth.

"That judgment, my dear, so very wise—good enough for Solomon! I think that you had made up your mind to it before ever you entered that hall! Confess it!"

He shrugged. "Not quite. I believed that this would be the best decision, yes. But until I had seen both contestants and estimated their quality, I could not be sure."

"Suppose then that we, your advisers, had counselled otherwise?"

"Then, my heart, the King would have had to weigh up for his decision who he could least afford to offend! And make judgment accordingly."

"I see. So that is kingship! Not justice but expediency?"

"Perhaps. That, I am finding, is where a king may have to be different from other men. But, at least, I have now two more mormaors on whom I probably can rely for support. Which is important."

"I would not rely too strongly on Buchan—if he weds that Cathula!
She
will never forgive you the deaths of her husband and her brother. And more her brother than her husband, I think!"

"It may be so. But it is not so much Cathula as her father who concerns me."

"Crinan? You are troubled over Crinan?"

"I do not say troubled. But concerned, yes. He did not come to the coronation, although summoned. I have sent him two letters—but he has not replied. He has sent his son Maldred and the boy Malcolm Big Head to take refuge with Siward of Deira—which I take but ill. He sits there in Atholl hating me."

"He is but one mormaor in many. Nine now, is it?"

"Yes. But he is Primate of the Church, Abbot of Dunkeld also, and could sway many. MacDuff of Fife does not love me either. If these two joined forces..." He paused. "But—enough of such talk, lass. Enough for the day. Today has gone well. And tomorrow we ride to Spynie, and forget this of kings and queens and realms for a space—if we may. The
Dorus Neamh
my love—only fifty miles away."

"Blessed place," she said. "My dear—do you wish that you had never accepted the crown?"

"No-o-o," he answered. "No. It had to be, I think. It
...
was fated."

"What else is fated, then?"

"This—that we two shall be all in all to each other. Till the world's end, my love. Inseparable, through light and dark. That whenever men hereafter think of MacBeth they shall think also of you. Is that enough?"

"It is enough," she said.

The first major
shadow to darken the new reign was cast, however, not by Crinan nor yet MacDuff but by Thorfinn Sigurdson no less.

Early that winter Siward Biornson of Deira, the Dane, slew the Earl Eadulf of Northumbria, and now ruled most of the North of England. Perhaps more significantly, as far as Scotland was concerned, he had married the inoffensive and gentle Maldred mac Crinan to his wife's sister, Aldgitha, a woman much older than himself. Siward was not the sort of man to arrange such things without sufficient reason; and taken with the fact that he now had his own sister, Queen Sybil, Duncan's widow, back in his care, and her stepson the boy Malcolm Canmore, it looked as though he visualised uses for them all. As young Malcolm had been Prince of Strathclyde and Cumbria, and Maldred his governor there, it might seem ominous for Cumbria—which of course neighboured Northumbria on the west.

At any rate, Thorfinn, who was taking his overlordship of Galloway—which was considered part of Cumbria—seriously, and was spending much time in the area, perceived the threat. And being Thorfinn, he did not long delay action for consultation or authority, but sailed the following spring, as early as conditions allowed, across the Solway Firth and invaded Cumberland proper. There he inflicted two minor defeats on his fellow-Viking Siward's forces, before MacBeth heard about it all.