Macbeth the King (33 page)

MacBeth sought to soothe him by assuring that Rognvald would soon have more to occupy his time.

The King could not afford to wait overlong for this assembly of boats, for nothing was surer than that news of it would reach the islands eventually, and the last thing he desired was for a squadron of Norse longships to descend upon his motley fleet, like wolves amongst sheep.

And it was a motley fleet which, three days later, set out down Loch Linnhe, scores of craft of all shapes and sizes, mainly fishing-boats inevitably, but with some chiefs' galleys amongst them, and some heavy trading ships belonging to the Church, used for transporting hides, wool, grain and the like. Despite their numbers, little more than half of the force could be carried in these for a 150-mile voyage in winter seas. So the rest were sent off, marching southwards by land, around all the sea-lochs, with instructions to pick up more vessels on their way, in Lorn and Cowal and even the Clyde estuary.

At first the straggling, awkward collection of ships kept close to the shore, in the interests of secrecy—for it was not Rognvald whom they wanted to impress with their presence and numbers. At least, not at this stage. Entering the Firth of Lorn, they kept east of Lismore and crossing the mouth of the Sound of Mull, deliberately by night, they slipped down the narrow Sound of Kerrera and so into the welter of islets which flanked the lower firth and then the Sound of Jura on the east, keeping out of sight of Mull. They had to go at the speed of the slowest, of course—and that was very slow. Soon they were strung out for miles, with the galleys hurrying to and fro to act like sheepdogs for an unruly flock.

The weather was not good; but on the other hand, it might have been a lot worse. It was wet and chilly, with a long oily swell which had most of the passengers seasick, cold and miserable for much of the time. But there were none of the dreaded storms, and nothing to impede the voyage save their own inadequacies.

Down the coast of long Kintyre they could keep reasonably well inshore. But off the perilous Mull thereof they had to take to the open sea, to give good clearance to the tide-races and currents and cross-seas which, at the junction of the Clyde estuary, the Hebridean Sea, the Irish Sea with the Atlantic itself, made this a graveyard for shipping. Now, moreover, they were finished with secrecy, Rognvald's longships being unlikely to be thus far south. MacBeth
wanted
his presence to be noted and relayed to the Lochlanners, the half-Norse, half-Celtic kinglets of the Irish east coast, and to the Isle of Man no great distance now to the south. So, after sheltering the third night in Machrihanish Bay—a death-trap of a place in different weather conditions—the ungainly fleet set off with the dawn seawards, on a dog's-leg course which took them far enough south to be seen plainly from the Ayres coast of Man. With the sun sinking, MacBeth gave the order to turn and run before the southwesterly breeze for the Solway mouth.

Darkness caught them, unhappily, in the wide entrance to Wigtown Bay. The shoals and shallows of that place were far too dangerous to risk night-time navigation. So they had to heave-to and spend a highly uncomfortable twelve hours in the jabbly waters of Solway. Inevitably the vessels became much dispersed in the process, and in the morning much time was spent in getting all rounded up again. A change of wind to the south-east also complicated matters; and they had to wait off Sliddery Point again, for the tide to allow them into the shallow landfall of Cruggleton Bay. It was noon before the demoralised, cold, hungry, seasick Northerners eventually landed, below the towering cliffs of Dun Sliddery of Cruggleton.

Sween Kennedy, Ingebiorg's cousin, was unashamedly relieved to see them, despite the task and cost of catering for such a multitude of visitors. He was an easily-alarmed man, and the rumours circulating in Galloway since Thorfinn's sudden departure were not calculated to let him sleep easy of a night. He believed that both Echmarcach and Siward intended to descend on Galloway, and possibly some of the disaffected South Cumberland lords also, who saw an opportunity to add to their territories. The lack of any strong king in England encouraged all such brigandage. The arrival of the King of Scots himself reassured the man almost pathetically, even though he brought no large army.

In the days that followed, MacBeth was very busy ranging far and wide over Galloway and even across Solway into North Cumberland. His activity was admittedly mainly making a show, for he hoped very much not to have to come to blows with anyone. But if he had to, the preparations he was making so obviously, even spectacularly, could have their practical uses. Harald Cleft Chin, who was still Thorfinn's military deputy in Galloway, had his headquarters at Kirk Cuthbert's Town, forty miles to the east on the Dee estuary. But from the point of view of invasion from Man or Ireland, Cruggleton on Wigtown Bay was more central—if less effective for any assault from Northumbria. So the King set up two almost independent commanderies, the western one under Brodie; while he himself rode the entire territory, day in day out, unkingly as the process might seem, instead of summoning the lords and chieftains and leaders to his side at Cruggleton—there were no thanes in Galloway.

His main concern was with local musters all up and down the land, not trying to form any large central army. That and assembling shipping and even quite small craft at every port, fishing-haven and boat-strand of the long, indented Solway seaboard. He had no least doubt that sufficient word of both these moves would reach Echmarcach who was thought to be on Man at present; and inevitably he would have to think twice about either invading Galloway or sailing north for the Hebrides to the aid of Rognvald. MacBeth judged him not to be a rash man.

The Earl Siward the Dane was altogether a different story. Siward was not unlike Thorfinn, anything but cautious, a vigorous, cunning, ambitious man, certainly the man to take advantage of a situation such as this if he could. Yet Harald Cleft Chin, who maintained quite an army of informers and spies along the Northumbrian border with Cumbria, declared that he had no word of any suspicious moves westwards. Most of Siward's admittedly large manpower was said to be concentrated in Deira, South Yorkshire, in long-sustained skirmishing warfare with the Earl Godwin of Wessex, the late Canute's brother who, ostensibly in the name of his son-in-law Edward the Confessor, was seeking to bring Siward under control—although in fact the enmity was much more personal. Whether Siward could mount a thrust on Cumbria at the same time was debatable.

The remainder of MacBeth's force from the north arrived in groups up to a week later, some having had to ride all the way. A surprise was the appearance of a completely new company of some 600, under Murdoch of Oykell, sent by Neil Nathrach overland, on his own initiative. Most of these were sent to man the Northumbrian border.

On the last day of November, the Feast of Saint Andrew, a single longship swept into Wigtown Bay from the north, its square sail bearing the black raven device. It brought Somerled mac Gillaciaran, with the news that all was over. Thorfinn had met and utterly routed his nephew Rognvald in a great battle, on land and sea at Waternish in Skye. Rognvald was indeed now dead, and most of the Norse and Icelandic ships sunk or captured. He had fled from the defeat, but had been caught at Papa Stronsay in Orkney, and slain by Thorkell Fostri. Thorfinn sent his thanks to the King. He suggested that they celebrate by keeping Yule together, at Torfness.

* * *

Thorfinn arrived in Moray in great style only a week after MacBeth himself got back—who had come via Fortrenn, well aware that he must keep the southern half of his kingdom fully informed and concerned in all that went on, however much he might prefer his own North. His brother brought Ingebiorg and their children Paul, Erland and a three-year-old daughter, a second Ingebiorg; also Thorkell Fosterer and a great train of Viking notables—which made the King of Scots' establishment look modest indeed.

They presented themselves at the House of Spynie
en masse,
on Yule Girth Eve, the eighth day before Christmas, on an afternoon of feathery snow-fall—and one glance at the crew behind the earl and countess, both this side of the causeway and that, promptly changed MacBeth's and Gruoch's minds as to suggesting that the visitors should stay at Spynie instead of Torfness. The
Dorus Neamh
was only a moderately-sized house, no palace, and no suitable establishment for a Viking horde.

Arms wide, Thorfinn came striding up, his costume making no concessions to the weather—although behind him Inge-biorg was like a blonde snow-goddess, largely wrapped in polar-bearskins. He all but felled his brother with the heartiness of his greeting, shouting his joy.

"Son of Life—a sight for saints! Sober as one of your own judices, by God, Yule or none! And sprouting grey hairs, on my soul! An old man before your time, hey? To look at you, who would say that you were the Raven Feeder's saviour!"

As, choking from that drastic embrace, MacBeth sought breath to protest, his brother flung him away and stepped over to pick up Gruoch bodily, raising her high and stamping around with her, bellowing nonsense. Even the Queen's habitual serenity was put to the test, as her children, and many of the Orkneymen, hooted and chortled their glee—although it was the children's turn next to be manhandled.

Ingebiorg kissed MacBeth uninhibitedly, pink cheeks cold but red lips warm. "His foolishness grows with his belly!" she confided. "It is good to see you, after so long. A woman's thanks for what you did for us all."

"I marched across Scotland. Sailed some boats from here to there. It will tax even Thor to make a saga out of that!"

But Thorfinn did not fail to try. He was vociferously grateful, for him, if just slightly mockingly so, over the Galloway expedition ; and though he did not equate it With his own activities, he insisted that it was an integral part of the whole notably successful enterprise; moreover MacBeth's cockleshell shoal was both the greatest bluff and the greatest joke since the man Noah sailed his ark. He had a new skald, one Arnor, he announced, who would make a worthy epic out of the entire affair—or hang!

Ingebiorg had changed little with the years, and seemed to thrive on motherhood. The son Paul was now twelve, the same age as Farquhar, but big-boned and loose-limbed where his cousin was compact, neat, contained. The second son, Erland, at ten, was stocky, ruddy, solemn as an owl, unlike his contemporary Luctacus who, although slight and pale, bubbled with high spirits. As for the little girl, young Ingebiorg, who for some reason appeared to be known as Lug, she was like a butter-ball, all fair, plump amiability and dimples. Cormac and Eala took her over there and then amidst elemental mirth.

Even though they resiled from the notion of putting up all Thorfinn's company at Spynie, at least they could provide a repast for the multitude, in the greater hall; and as this was being prepared, and the ale flowed, the visitors' Yuletide gifts were produced and handed out, to much exclamation and excitement—an extraordinary and diverse collection ranging from gold and silver plate and jewellery—little of it Norse in origin and some distinctly ecclesiastical—to skins and garments of seal and wolf and bear and arctic fox, from Muscovy blankets and Eastern rugs to small swords and axes for the boys, and even a live brown bear cub, amiable and cuddlesome, for Cormac and Eala, which Thorfinn declared could be taught to dance—but which Gruoch, unlike her offspring, viewed with misgivings. The Scots offerings were much less dramatic, although a pictorial tapestry with a design of longships and ravens, worked by Gruoch's own hands, probably represented more care and thought than all the rest put together. But the guests, who were clearly better givers than receivers, did not seem to notice any discrepancy, in their hearty enthusiasm for their own contributions.

The meal, understandably, was somewhat delayed in appearing, with raiding of ice-houses and game-larders necessary to provide for so many, Gruoch having to calculate numbers, plan expedients and instruct servants while continuing to play the gracious hostess and grateful present-acceptor—her husband blissfully unaware of any stress or crisis. To help fill the interval and possibly to reduce the noise, MacBeth proposed that Thorfinn should give them some account of the battle with Rognvald, of which they were agog to hear. His brother declared strongly that he did not feed hounds in order to have to bark himself, and called upon Arnor Earl's Skald to earn his bread, amid loud and impolite encouragement.

A husky, hairy young man, far-out kinsman of the Earl, was pushed forward, reluctant—and was seen to be blushing delicately beneath all the hair. He produced from a satchel the tools of his trade, an ornate dagger and a small, simple, three-stringed lyre. With these, he took up his stance before one of the two great log fires of the hall, and waited patiently, or perhaps apprehensively, for the advice and contumely to die down.

"The Raven Feeder and the Three Black Crows," he announced throatily.

The title at least was well received. The raven, in Norse mythology, was a renowned and noble bird, familiar of the gods; whereas the crow was a scavenger, three crows an obscenity.

It took a little while for the rhymer to get into his stride, and at first the twanging of the three notes of his instrument the most positive part of the performance. But eventually, in self-defence, he had to assert himself, and presently he acquired a degree of confidence and fluency. Words began to pour forth, with only rhythmic punctuation from the strings.

It was quickly clear, to MacBeth at least, why his brother had preferred that the skald should tell the story. From the first, the build-up for the Raven Earl, his might, his fame, his courage and his wisdom, was tremendous—and such as a modest man might hardly emphasise himself; and that of the Three Crows, the Earl Rognvald, the Goden Hjalmar of Iceland and King Magnus, correspondingly shameful. He told how the trio of scavengers had cast covetous eyes on the Raven Feeder's territory and banded together with other like slammerkins from other parts to harry and seize and steal. Twing-twang-twong went the strings.