Macbeth the King (25 page)

MacBeth was perturbed and angry. He had made Thorfinn officially Lord of Galloway and also Governor of Strathclyde and Cumbria for the young Lulach, the Prince. So any attack by him thereabouts represented the authority of the Scots crown. He, MacBeth, was anxious that his reign should be, as far as possible, a peaceful one. Yet here was his half-brother, so early in that reign, challenging Siward the Strong and risking full-scale war, and without troubling to ask permission or even to inform anyone. Siward was a danger, yes, and a powerful one; but all the more reason to deal with him cautiously.

MacBeth left Gruoch at Dunsinane, and with a small hard-riding party set off across Southern Scotland for the Solway.

They went by Stirling and Lanark, Douglasdale and Niths-dale, to Dumfries, in just over two days' fast going—one part of MacBeth revelling in the opportunity for urgent physical action after all too much dignified kingliness. At Dumfries, head-town of the eastern portion of Galloway, he learned that the Earl Thorfinn was still believed to be in Cumberland, just where uncertain but last heard of near the Northumbrian border in the Gilsland area. More alarmed than ever, he rode on eastwards and crossed Sark and Esk into Cumberland.

Cumbria, the former kingdom of the Cymric Celts, incorporated in the Scottish realm for almost exactly a century, stretched south as far as Lancaster, where it marched with the Cymric principality of Wales. Although in theory Scots now, Southern Cumbria, or Cumberland, was so in fact little more than nominally; and comings and goings, save with Galloway, minimal. Certainly it was not worth going to war over.

At Caerluel, near where the Eden entered the south side of Solway, they had firmer news of Thorfinn. He had, two days earlier, annihilated a roving band of Northumbrians, near Gilsland on the Irthing, some fifteen miles to the east.

The border between Cumberland and Northumberland in those high moorland areas was a very uncertain entity; but where the great Roman Wall itself was concerned, it was clear enough—and Gilsland was right on the Wall, and inside Northumberland. So much MacBeth learned. It speeded his progress the more.

It was at the site of a former Roman camp near Denton, on the Irthing, a mile or so on the Cumbrian side, that he eventually came up with Thorfinn's encampment by the riverside.

His brother was not present, meantime, being off prospecting the vicinity eastwards apparently—that was, inevitably, inside Northumberland. The veteran Harald Cleft Chin had been left in charge of some 500 Vikings here, who were filling in the time of waiting with eating vast quantities of slaughtered beef, drinking stolen ale and playing their own uninhibited games with a large number of underclad women, whether captives or local volunteers was not clear. Harald greeted MacBeth heartily, with no suggestion of concern for his new kingly status. He was loud in his acclaim of the earl's, and his own, exploits hereabouts.

Thorfinn arrived back with the sinking sun, and at sight of MacBeth emitted a great shout of joy, dropped the handsome if bloody head he was carrying by the long hair, and came running to embrace his brother in a mighty bear's-hug, armour, bearskin, blood and all.

"Son of Life!" he cried. "God's Eyes—yourself! Here's a sight for singing. What brings you to this benighted spot?"

"You do!" MacBeth got out, struggling to free himself. "You, man. You had to be stopped. And I knew that you would heed none other than myself."

"Stopped? Stopped what?"

"Stopped your endangering of my realm, Brother. Stopped making war on Siward. Stopped invading..."

"Tush, man—are you out of your mind? It is this Siward Biornson who has got to be stopped. Before
he
makes war! Do you not know what he is about...?"

"I know enough of what you both are about to bring me hotfoot here from Fortrenn, to halt this folly. If it is not too late."

"To late for what, by the Wounds of Christ? I am governing this Cumbria for you, am I not?"

"Is
that
governing Cumbria?" MacBeth pointed to the fallen head. And, turning, gestured towards the skirling, screaming women.

"Tcha—they are doing none so badly! And that—that is no Cumbrian. That is a Northumbrian brigand. One Ulf, chief of a rascally crew of raiders that I broke up two days back. He escaped—but I got him today.
He
will trouble your Highness's peace no more!"

His brother drew a long breath, and shook his head, next to helplessly. "See you, we will speak of this later." He looked around at the circle of grinning Vikings, many of whom also carried heads.

"Yes—let us eat first, of a mercy! An empty belly, they say, breeds wind and wrath both! We shall eat, lad—and talk the better sense thereafter."

Despite ample eating and drinking, however, identity of views remained as elusive as ever. Avoiding a head-washing and hair-combing session at the riverside, MacBeth led his brother along the Irthing bank, in the dusk, away from the camp.

"Thor," he said, seeking to be patient, "Why did you not inform me before crossing Solway and invading this Cumberland? Seek my agreement and permission?"

"Invade? Permission? I am Governor of Strathclyde and Cumbria, am I not? How can I invade it? Or require permission to enter it?"

"You know as well as do I that Cumbria is not as the rest of my realm. Parts of it, Galloway and Eskdale, Annandale and Liddesdale—these are part of Scotland, yes. But this southern country, called Cumberland, is a
dependency
of the Scots crown, no more. Malcolm the First gained overlordship of it, to the River Derwent, by a bargain with the English king—who did not control it anyway, for it was then an independent kingdom. That was in 946 or thereabouts. Malcolm did not conquer it. Since when it has adhered to the Scots crown, in name—not because we hold it fast, or because its lords love us, but because if they do not accept the Scots suzerainty they know the English will step in and take them. They are all but independent, but prefer our light hand to the English heavy one..."

"I know all that. These Cumbrian lords, then, should be grateful to me for protecting them from Siward. For he intends to take Cumbria and Galloway. And later to name Maldred mac Crinan King of Scots—but himself rule Scotland through that weakling. That is Siward Biornson! Thinking to do what Canute could not do."

"You have no proof of this."

"I have as much proof as I need. Think you I have not put men to the question—these Northumbrian chiefs I have captured? Before beheading them! That is Siward's intention, have no doubt."

"It may be what he eventually hopes for. But meantime he has not raised his hand against Scotland. Or Cumbria. Or Galloway. This that you are doing could provoke him to do so, provoke outright war. And I do not wish for war, am not ready for war."

"Then leave the warfare to me, who am ready!"

"No! I am King of Scots, and if war there is to be, I will decide on it and declare it."

"Tush, man—you can spare yourself that sort of talk, with me! I shall not stand by and see Cumbria, much less my own Galloway, threatened, and do nothing."

"In Scotland, if I say so, you
will,
Thor."

They had turned to face each other, there in the half-dark, two determined men.

"So that is how the cock crows, Young Brother!" Thorfinn said, great voice quivering. "To
me,
who put you on your throne."

"That you did not. You helped me
towards
it, yes. Weakened Duncan, yes. Hastened his end, no doubt. And I am grateful for some of it. But you did not put me on the throne. Do not ever say it, Brother, if you would keep my regard and affection."

"Ha! Your new crown makes your head swell, I swear!"

"Swear it if you will. But let me be clear on this, Thor—and you—now and for always. I, and I alone, made the decision as to whether I would accept the crown. And accept it not from you but from the Council of Mormaors. I now sit on the Stone, for better or for worse. To be a worthy King of Scots, I must
rule
as well as reign, in Scotland. I cannot allow myself to be forced or pressed or overborne by any—even by my brother the Raven Feeder! In Orkney and Zetland, which are yours, not Scotland's, and in your hosting outwith my realm, you will do what you must and I will not attempt to interfere. But in my kingdom you will do as I say. Let me never have to say it again, Thor."

They marched on along the riverside path, the very air almost vibrant between them, and quickly Thorfinn's enormous striding took him well ahead. But presently MacBeth found his brother waiting for him.

"You know, do you not, that I could tear your precious kingdom out of your grasp, and sit myself on your throne—as easily as that!" And he snapped his fingers.

"You could try, yes. But I do not know that you would succeed. And I would fight you to the death, Thor."

"I could take over your land bit by bit, man. Your provinces and your mortuaths. Already I control Caithness and Sutherland, Galloway and the Hebrides and much of Dalar and Argyll. Think you you could stop me taking the rest?"

"Yes. For I sit on the Stone."

"Your Stone did not save Duncan!"

"Duncan was unworthy. It will be my concern to be more worthy. I have sworn the oath and received the hands. Do not forget it—for I do not!"

Again they strode on, Thorfinn once more swiftly moving ahead.

Presently MacBeth slowed, turned, and went slowly back whence they had come.

He was almost back to the camp when his brother caught up with him again.

"Fiend seize you—you ever were a difficult, obstinate devil!" he burst out. "God knows why I suffer you, and support you. And, and love you, the saints forgive me! I must be growing old! But, curse you—yes, have it as you will. MacBeth the King! Let it stand."

"Difficult, I accept. Obstinate, perhaps. But the King, yes. And always. You have the choice. I have none. I have sworn the oath." He half-turned then. "Is it a compact, then, Thor?"

A massive arm encircled his shoulders. "Have it
your
way, lad. A compact, yes." And they gripped hands.

"I am glad." That was simply said. And, after a pause, "Tomorrow you will return to your galleys and sail back to Galloway. And bury those heads!"

"Precious Soul of God!" Thorfinn exclaimed.

That summer was
an uneasy one. If MacBeth's own enemies, or those of his realm, were indeed going to strike, it seemed probable that they would do so sooner, at the beginning of his reign, rather than later when he was likely to be settled on the throne. Siward's manoeuvrings were obvious enough in all conscience; and Crinan's behaviour sufficiently ominous. And King Harald of England had died suddenly, after a weak reign of only four years, to be succeeded by his brother Hardicanute, King of Denmark, Canute's second son, who was little of an improvement; and moreover delayed his coming over from Denmark to take up his new throne, so that there was a hiatus in the rule, with the inevitable consequence of the English nobles, Danish and Saxon alike, taking the opportunity to increase their power and wealth at the expense of weaker neighbours, Siward by no means alone in this. Anything might happen in these circumstances, MacBeth realised only too well.

Nearer home there was a further preoccupation. Old Malmore, Abbot and Co-Arb of Iona died, leaving a significant gap to be filled in the leadership of the Celtic Church.

MacBeth consulted Abbot Cathail of Scone, who declined the suggestion that he himself should stand for election, but proposed the late Malmore's own assistant at Iona, Robartach by name, a vigorous but modest man in his late thirties, who had latterly been carrying much of the abbatial burden in any case, and was refreshingly unconnected with any of the rival groupings and influences within the Church at large. MacBeth remembered the man as quiet but effective and reliable. Anxious lest Crinan should insinuate some nominee of his own into this important position, he agreed to throw his weight behind the nomination of Robartach.

These preoccupations were the background to the summer period. But in the foreground were very different problems—and for these Gruoch was largely responsible. MacBeth had come back from Cumberland to discover that his wife had not been idle during his absence, having taken the opportunity to plan out her own answer to the Dunsinane accommodation difficulties. She had found an alternative and improved site nearby, on another green hill-top three miles to the west. Here she had already mapped out and planned the house she wanted. She was not asking for a great new palace. It could be quite modest in size—but it must be comfortable, and with larger chambers than this barrack at Dunsinane.

MacBeth was nothing loth. He accepted her site and plans gladly. But he decided to make something of a political virtue out of a domestic necessity. If this was to be a royal house of the High King, he said, palace or none, then it should be built, as it were, by the nation and not by himself only, though in the main he would pay for it. From the moment he had decided to accept the crown, he had, at the back of his mind, the need to improve the image of the throne, sadly tarnished of late years, to seek to emphasise the unity of the kingdom.

So the call went out to all the mormaors and greater thanes, as an exercise in kingcraft and solidarity. All were invited to assist. If they lived too far away to make a personal appearance practical, they could send expert craftsmen, materials, furnishings, transport animals.

Oddly enough, the notion caught on remarkably, and something of a social element was introduced, aided by Gruoch's suggestion that all should be encouraged to come along and bring their wives and womenfolk with them—unheard of hitherto. As a result, MacBeth got to know his nobility, by and large, almost better than any King of Scots had done before him; and they him.

Deliberately MacBeth summoned young Martacus of Mar to assist with the rampart-building of the outer fortress, to apply his theory of stone-melting. And to keep Lachlan of Buchan happy, a personal invitation to him to supply timber from his inland forests. He accepted cheerfully, but the Princess Cathula, to whom he was now married, made her excuses.