Macbeth the King (35 page)

Thorfinn eyed him up and down, frankly. "You wear well, Brother," he admitted. "Even though your famed moderation in all things is...evident."

"If you mean that I am not a Norse bull of heifers' delight, I shall not contest the matter. But I have heard no complaints from such as might be concerned! And I have sired more lawful offspring than you have. If fewer bastards!" He panted a little in the heat.

The other grinned. "To be sure, Little Brother. Come, sit on this bench. And cross your legs if you would feel happier...!"

Thorfinn went to pick up one of a row of wooden buckets of water, and threw its contents over a railed-off area of large flat stones, a sort of paving at one side of the chamber, to produce an explosion of steam in dense clouds—for the slabs were fiercely hot, with oven-like fires beneath, responsible for the smoke outside.

A door opposite their own opened and the women came in, Ingebiorg leading in something of a rush, and giggling like any serving-girl. But that was the only resemblance to any serving-girl. She was as naked as the men, a large, satisfying, substantial and mature woman, with great thrusting breasts, heavy but not gross, a generous belly over a large and darker triangle than might have been expected from her blonde colouring, strong round white buttocks and massive thighs. Had she been less tall and altogether Junoesque, the effect might have been less pleasing, less essentially right, a mother-figure indeed but an undeniably desirable one still, and making basic demands on any full man fortunate enough to see. MacBeth was sufficiently appreciative, not to say stirred—although a little surprised that she kept her head bent and even in that steamy twilight could be seen to be flushing pinkly at face and throat, moreover with hands uncertain as to employment. But head down or not, she could be seen to be eyeing MacBeth intently.

Oddly enough, that man's real surprise was with his own wife. He would have been quite prepared for her to have refused to take part in this performance, this display, traditionally Norse as it was; or if not refusing, to have insisted on wearing some modest covering. But no, she was as unclothed as Ingebiorg, yet otherwise totally different—and not only physically. Gruoch walked in slowly, calmly, head up without being held in any way defiantly, without giggles or evident embarrassment, completely assured it seemed in being herself. As indeed she had reason to be, perhaps, for she was very lovely, of body as of face. She had had five children, yet at thirty-five she showed little sign of it. Slenderly built still, her neck and legs were long and heart-catchingly turned, her breasts shapely, modest compared with Ingebiorg's but firm and with large and dark aureoles, her stomach not flat but smoothly rounded. But it was her bearing as much as anything which impressed, engaged the attention, the proud but unprideful way she held herself, the confident carriage of shoulders, the unhurried, graceful walk. The pride was MacBeth's as he looked at her, a glow of sheer satisfaction and acclaim. Here was a queen indeed.

Thorfinn's swallow was audible, his throat-clearing eloquent. It was not often that that man was at a loss for words. Gruoch glanced over at him briefly, almost enquiringly—but only for a moment, for like Ingebiorg, her regard was concerned with MacBeth.

He rose from his bench. "Mere mortal men were never so privileged," he said quietly, but with a half-smile for each of them to take away histrionics or pomposity from his words.

"Do we deserve these, Thor? I think not. You do not, at any rate!"

"Adroitly put, husband!" Gruoch commented. "I wonder that you have the wits for it, or for anything, in this heat."

Ingebiorg raised her head, looking from one man to the other, keeping her hands clasped in front of her now. "My great bear has lost his tongue," she said, her voice gaining its old confidence. "I never thought to see it. You, it must be, Gruoch my dear—for I have never achieved the like! Good-brother—I see that you are well-named, Son of Life."

"I have lost nothing!" Thorfinn declared loudly. "As I will demonstrate in due course. And you should have seen this one when he was given that name—a red, squalling brat, like a lobster without claws."

"We develop our claws as time goes on," the King observed. "But I had not thought to come here to be boiled! Can you cool it down, Thor?"

His brother, instead, took the opportunity to throw another bucketful of water on the hot stones, producing still more steam, gesturing towards the bench. Rather thankfully they all sat down, the women in the middle.

It was easier to sit side by side. Soon they were able to converse more or less naturally if less than vigorously while they sweated. The men took it in turn to empty the buckets on the stones.

Presently Thorfinn announced that they had had enough of heat, and that too much would serve them nothing—although his wife suggested that more of it might help to take some of his shameful belly off him. He led the way through another doorway into a much cooler chamber, which was both a relief and sufficient contrast to cause a quick shiver. Here, although there was no steam, were more if smaller buckets of water. MacBeth was interested when his brother picked up one of these—but received a major shock when the water was suddenly tossed over his shrinking person. For, although in fact luke-warm, by contrast to the present heat of his body it seemed as cold as though he had involuntarily plunged into the sea. His gasps were drowned in Thorfinn's laughter, as that man grabbed another pail, to serve Gruoch in the same way. At least she had this warning, although even her poise scarcely stood up to such treatment, as her uncontrollable squeal evidenced. However, Ingebiorg retaliated on her husband, and thereafter there was something of a free-for-all as they sluiced each other down until all the buckets were empty. And after the first douche, and with the leaping about, the impact was much less unpleasant.

If the cold splash had been a shock, what succeeded was as unexpected. Taking down one of a set of bundles of slender birch-twigs, like besoms, from a shelf, Thorfinn began to belabour his wife with it, across shoulders and rump and thighs, chasing her round the apartment uttering ferocious yells—until she
in
turn grasped one for herself, and still being basted, turned on MacBeth to treat him likewise; whereupon her busy husband switched his attentions to Gruoch. This treatment too, after a swipe or two, proved to produce quite a pleasing and stimulating sensation. The besoms were made out of the very tips of the birch-twigs, feathery and light, and the application was more of a stroking and sweeping than actual beating. The effect was to set the blood racing and tingling, after the induced terpor of the steam, giving a real feeling of well-being and arousal—although perhaps the business of belabouring naked bodies of the opposite sex might have contributed. The two tyros were made quickly aware that this sort of thing, if allowed to go on for long, could have unpredictable results.

Thorfinn had not finished with them yet, for flinging open the outer door of this chamber, he ran out into the night air to hurl himself down in the snow and roll about in it, bawling. But this last the others, even Ingebiorg, drew the line at—more especially as now not only the old attendant but sundry other Vikings were standing there admiring. Leaving the earl to his rolling, they discreetly withdrew to their respective dressing-rooms to resume their clothing. Undeniably they felt much braced and enlivened by the entire exercise. Ingebiorg confided to her sister-in-law that a large proportion of the Orkney population tended to be conceived after just such exercises.

Thorfinn made the same point when he came in for his own clothes, suggesting to his brother that if he felt the miles back to Spynie as productive of too much delay, in the circumstances, he could provide a bed for them here in the Borg with the greatest pleasure. MacBeth acknowledged the thoughtfulness, but gratefully declined. There was something about his own bed, he asserted...

That night's varied exertions led, in the morning, to the activities of Saint Stephen's Day, with the pageantry for the first Christian martyr, the retaliatory Stoning of the Devil, carried out at the nearest ancient standing-stone or stone-circle, the procession to church thereafter and finally the distribution of the martyr-cakes, each with its dab of red dye, by the King and principal men—from the legend that the stones hurled at Stephen, when spattered with his blood, fell to the ground as little loaves of bread for the faithful.

Two days later was Childermas, or Holy Innocents' Day, always something of a riot, when the children not only dressed up as their elders and betters but for the day were invested with a certain amount of domestic authority—with predictable results. Young Cormac and Eala became King and Queen for the day, Erland ruled the Vikings, and the youngest Keledei novice reigned as Abbot. Perhaps wisely, it was the tradition that no work was started that day, no undertaking commenced. However, just as a reminder, not only of what it was all about but what conditions would revert to on the morrow, Childermas always started with a whipping for the youngest member of the household.

Hogmanay, of course, infinitely more ancient than Christmas, its origins lost in the pagan rites of sun-worship, with the seeing of the old year out and the new in, was celebrated with unrestrained enthusiasm by the visitors, ably assisted locally, a process which extended itself seemingly indefinitely. So that, by Up Halie Day, or Epiphany Eve, when at last the prolonged marathon of nominally holy festivity finished, a kind of prostration was beginning to assail not only the weaker brethren. But not the Norsemen apparently. Thorfinn throughout had frequently referred to the fact that they would be missing the Up Helly A festival in his native isles, expanding on its excellences. But in default of this, the Burning of the Clavie at the Borg-head of Torfness was the next best thing on Up Halie Night, and this year it must certainly be graced by the royal presence. MacBeth had attended this extraordinary affair before, but Gruoch, Ingebiorg and the young people had not. Somewhat weary of excitements, he agreed. His brother was, after all, celebrating a major victory and delivery.

The proceedings commenced at a hillock at the landward end of the Torfness peninsula on a night of squally winds, sea-spray and sleet-showers, amidst a strong smell of melting tar distilled from pitch-pine. Great crowds were gathered, despite the weather, not only from the Norse town's folk but local people from as far away as Elgin and Forres. This year's distinguished visitors produced an extra large attendance and comparable enthusiasm. The affair was divided into two distinct parts, one major and wholly Norse, one very minor and of Celtic origin.

As to the first, nobody present could inform the newcomers the real reason behind it all—although there were many far-out guesses—save that it all obviously stemmed from the early Scandinavian fire-worship and associated tests of manhood.

First of all, on the hill-top, a small barrel was ceremoniously filled with hot, liquid tar from a smoking cauldron on a large bonfire—quite a hazardous undertaking in itself, from splatters of the boiling stuff and the need to all but stand in the fire to cope with the cauldron. Then, to ringing cheers, the barrel was hoisted on to the top of a sturdy five-foot pole, where an iron crib for it was fixed, and set alight. The pole and flaring Clavie as it was called, heavy and awkward as it was, then was handed over to a young Viking who, surrounded by a shouting group of his fellows, set off at a staggering run down the hill, with it held approximately upright, and on into the town. The crowd streamed after.

Up and down the dark, narrow streets of Torfness this strange procession paraded, egged on by the onlookers. It was most evidently a dire test of the young men's strength, stamina and courage, for the thing was not only unwieldy and a great weight but giving off intense heat, and worse, its jerky progress inevitably showering down burning and melted tar on the bearer and those close by. The youths wore helmets, but even so their hair was often on fire, and the scalding splatters must have burned their skins agonisingly. Bearers ran until they fell exhausted, or in such a burning state as to be incapable of holding the Clavie upright, when it was grabbed by a companion, and the mad, shambling race continued without pause—and no concern or sympathy lavished on the fallen, even it seemed by their nearest and dearest, so caught
up
in the fierce excitement were all.

After every part of the town had been visited, the still-blazing tar-barrel was carried out to the ships which could be reached in the harbour or drawn up on the boat-strand, fishing-boats, trading-craft and longships all, a still more dangerous proceeding involving climbing the sides of the vessels and leaping from deck to deck, yet keeping the Clavie more or less upright, the burning tar unspilled. Casualties came in rapid succession now, amidst yells and screams, but always more young men were eager for the task, to prove their manhood. They left a trail of small fires, as well as their injured, behind them.

The available ships all visited, the reeking, flaring trophy was carried up to the top of the eminence at the extreme tip of the ness, known as the Doorie, and there set up on a cairn, provided with a socket for the pole. As the exhausted runners, who had been able to finish the course, lay around gasping and writhing, the crowds gathered and cheered and sang and drank. And presently, with seemingly strange nonchalance and entirely changed attitude, at a given signal, the youths seized the still-burning Clavie once more and went to toss it over the cliff-like slope, where it went rolling and bounding down, to fall and shatter in blazing fragments on the tide's-edge rocks below. And now, many of the crowd, men, women and children, went scrambling down the steeps after it to try to grab one of those flaming embers to take home in triumph, cherished trophies, assurers of good luck, specific protection against witchcraft.

At this abrupt end in anti-climax, Gruoch was not alone in demanding, a little breathlessly, what it all signified, especially this last contemptuous finale.

None could adequately enlighten her, although Thorfinn suggested that it represented man's triumph over fire, turning it from master to servant.