Macbeth the King (58 page)

MacBeth raised a hand that trembled, to point. He found speech of a sort. "So—it has come! At last. Birnam Wood comes to Dunsinane, indeed! This, then, is the end, my friend!"

The other eyed his monarch and comrade with anxiety and compassion mixed, and shook his grey head. "Not the end, no—never the end. Do not say it. A clever move, yes—Satan's own cleverness! But not the end, Son of Life."

"All my life I have awaited this," the King said, quietly now. "Scarce believing that it would ever come. Seeing not
how
it could happen. And now—this! My destiny has caught up with me, I think."

"No! No, I say! It is not destiny—only shrewd wits, cunning, trickery. All Scotland knows the saying about Birnam Wood. The enemy have but made use of this. Play-acting. That and clever fieldcraft. This disguise of birch boughs..."

A couple of scouts came running up the hill to them. Glamis had sent a number out, north-westwards, whenever he had realised what the moving woodland meant, at the same time as he had sent for the King. Now this pair gasped their findings. Cargill Wood was full of the enemy. All the Tayside woodland also. Their nearest advance parties were less than four miles away, at Kinnochtry, only a mile beyond the King's palace of Cam Beth. And the flag which flew just within the trees of Cargill Wood was the royal banner of Scotland, the Black Boar on silver.

"Ha—the accursed Malcolm mac Duncan himself!" Glamis cried. "We might have known. He has been reared on hate—and will have heard the Birnam-Dunsinane portent from childhood. But—how has he got there?"

"From the Clyde," the King said, flatly, heavily. "By ship to Alclyde. I had forgotten the Clyde. Marched up from Alclyde through West Lennox, by Loch Lomond, to Glen Dochart. Then east by Loch Tay and Atholl. His secret safe in Crinan's country! Clever—aye, clever. He has come to avenge his father's and his grandsire's blood!"

"Come—but he has not done it yet, by God!" the Constable exclaimed. "Highness—enough of this! Be of good heart. Be your own self. Play the King. The Son of Life is not beaten yet!"

"My old friend—stout to the end! There are some roads, see you, which reach a finish, some pitchers which will not mend. But—you are right in this. We shall not skulk. We shall die fighting, at least. Not tamely await our fate. Yes—enough of talk. But
...
what to do? What in God's good name to do now? Between two hosts?"

"There is but one course left to us. Break off the fight to the south. Recall all, here to Dunsinane. Make a stand, up on this hill-top. It is a strong position. They will not easily drag us down. Fight here. And hope!"

"Hope for what, Cormac?"

"Hope for aid. There are still many lords and chiefs in Scotland, with many men. Who could, and should, come to their king's aid. These invaders will seek a quick victory. Deny them that, and we may yet win out of this pass."

MacBeth shook his head and said nothing.

They sent out urgent messengers to Cowie, to the force at Buttergask, to the Normans and to the light horse, to break off all fighting whatsoever, and to return to Dunsinane with all speed and without any delay.

It was, of course, a race against time, with the King's forces wide and scattered. The light cavalry could be as much as four miles away by now, the Normans over two, the main foot hosts likewise—and the new enemy army, although much strung-out as yet, had its advance companies no further off. So much would depend on Malcolm's leadership—and so far he had shown himself to be a shrewd strategist, whatever else. If he did not wait for his full strength to come up, but perceived the retiral movement on Dunsinane and recognised his opportunity to intervene, he could possibly cut off some proportion of the returning Scots.

It was an agonising business to stand there, waiting and watching. Absolutely no sign of reaction from their own forces was evident for long—and all the time the enemy were drawing closer. The messengers themselves of course, had a long way to go. And breaking off hostilities was not necessarily something that could be achieved swiftly. Glamis and some of the others strode to and fro in their impatience; but the King, unlike his usual, stood unmoving, set-faced. His companions eyed him somewhat askance. This was a different man to the one they had known.

At length they could see movement from Cowie's force, a coalescing and the beginnings of retiral. Soon after, there were signs of the Buttergask contingent also, hitherto somewhat detached and out-of-touch. Unfortunately Malcolm would be able to see something of both these movements likewise, and would have no doubts as to the intention. At least the foot was on the way back. But what of the cavalry?

The Normans should have been reached and be returning by now; but there was no hint of them. Sir Hugo must have pressed on into the foothills further than intended. In that closer country, the courier might even have difficulty in finding them.

The enemy to the north and west were now abandoning their birch boughs and massing openly in menacing array in the Kinrossie-Cairn Beth area. Even as the watchers gazed, they saw a substantial proportion of the host begin to march south by east. Horsemen appeared at the head, to lead.

Glamis groaned aloud. "They are seeking to join MacDuff. And to cut off our people as they do so. Saints in heaven—where is the cavalry?"

MacBeth made no answer.

The race now was between the retiring Scots and the advancing Northumbrian front which could get between them and Dunsinane Hill. It looked as though the Buttergask force would make it without much difficulty; but it would be touch-and-go for Cowie's people.

Then a shout intimated the sighting of the Normans, still only on the braeside behind Balgray. At the lumbering pace of their heavy destriers, they would never reach Dunsinane before the enemy front intervened. Almost at the same time the first of the light horse appeared, more than a mile to the east, from behind

Pitmeudle Hill. There was just a chance that
they
might be in time to clear Malcolm's advance.

As they watched, however, they saw the eastern group change direction. Instead of heading straight down and across the low ground for Dunsinane, the light cavalry column suddenly swung away almost due westwards. Clearly they had seen the Normans and their predicament and were going to join them.

"Fools!" Glamis cried. "Now we shall lose them all!"

But the King seemed otherwise affected. He drew himself up from his heavy, slumped stance; as though with a return of decision. Turning, he called for his horse. Also for a dozen horsemen to accompany him.

"Highness—what is this? What do you intend?" the Constable demanded. "You are not...you are not...?"

"I am going, yes. God forgive me, it required these others to show me my duty! I may be able to save them. Or some of them. Instead of skulking here."

"This is folly! What can you do that they cannot do without you? You are the King, not some captain of horse..."

"
Because
I am the King, I go, man. You can do all that is needed here, Cormac. I must show that Scotland is still in the fight. I have a son out there, with Cowie. Would you have him see his father hiding here while his friends die? I brought these Normans to Scotland. Half of them have already died for me." He turned. "Now—my royal banner. The Boar. All must know that it is the King."

"I say that you will throw all away. You will be slain, with those others. To none effect..."

"If I am to die, friend—as I think I am—I choose to die fighting. Enough. If I fall, Lulach is King of Scots. If you can, and live to do so, aid him, Cormac. For he will need much aid. Even to rule only the Northern kingdom perhaps. But, never fear. I will bring yonder cavalry back, if I can."

He mounted, beside an unknown young man who proudly held aloft the Boar flag. There were nearer thirty than a dozen volunteers to ride with him—and would undoubtedly have been more had there been horses for them there on that hilltop.

Glamis stepped forward, to reach up and grasp his monarch's forearm tightly, features working strongly, but wordless. For moments they eyed each other. Then MacBeth kicked his beast's sides and rode off downhill, the banner close behind, his party following.

Directly for the Normans they dashed. It meant cutting right across the enemy line of advance towards Cowie's retiring force; but it seemed probable that they would just manage it. Malcolm had no cavalry, as such, although some of the leaders were mounted, no doubt on garrons stolen
en route,
since coming by sea to the Clyde it would not have been practicable to bring horses. It looked as though the King would reach the Normans at just about the same time as would the light cavalry from Pitmeudle.

Spurring hard, they passed diagonally across the front of Cowie's force, no more than half-a-mile off—and a little group of the mounted leadership detached itself and came racing to join them, the slender figure leading undoubtedly Luctacus. MacBeth did not know whether to weep or to rejoice. But quickly his attention was involved elsewhere. At this point they were much nearer to the enemy front than to Cowie's, and a ragged but continuing shower of arrows came at them, from the English archers. It was at extreme range and no damage was done. But it was a grim omen for later.

Presently the King found Luctacus at his side. They reached out hands to touch, for a moment, and rode on without slackening pace.

The other cavalry reached the heavily-trotting Normans just before the royal party. All cheered the King as he rode up.

It was no time for cheering, any more than for talk and explanation.

"Three wedges," MacBeth called out, without preamble. "Two hundred each. To support each other. Myself, Prince Luctacus and Sir Hugo command. One hundred light horse to ride with the Normans. Quickly!"

There was some inevitable delay and confusion. But the King could not, would not, wait.

"Son," he cried, to Luctacus. "Your wedge and mine. Side by side. Despard slower, behind. To back us, aid and exploit."

"Aid what?" Luctacus shouted back. "Do we not ride for Dunsinane?"

"Not yet!" his father said grimly. He pointed with his sword over to the north-west. "Yonder the bastard Malcolm flies my royal banner. I want it. And him."

As what was being commanded dawned upon the hearers, there was a moment's hush. Then the cheering broke out again, hoarse, savage. The King nodded, expressionless.

"Arrows," he said. "Many archers. The danger. Your shields.

Ride down the archers first. Ride as for Dunsinane. Then, at my sign, wheel round and at them. You have it? Come!"

That first charge achieved complete surprise at least, the three horsed companies, two and one, seeming to be doing the obvious and spurring for the security of the hill-top fort. When, ahead of the first ranks of the Northumbrians, they suddenly swung at right angles and hurled themselves directly upon the enemy, the latter were quite unprepared. With only some 400 yards to go there was little time for any defensive regrouping. With the range rapidly shortening, the archers admittedly were offered an easy target, and some of the Scots and their horses fell. But bowmen unprotected themselves made notoriously vulnerable and unhappy targets for charging cavalry, and those thus imperilled broke and bolted. The two wedges were able to drive a deep salient into the enemy front therefore, before their impetus failed and they had to swing away left and right—whereafter the third and slower wedge moved heavily in to prevent the English from quickly reforming. Nevertheless, the penetration was not nearly deep enough to win anywhere in the vicinity of the other Boar banner, which remained prudently towards the centre of the host.

Circling back, MacBeth and his son met again, with their formations, approximately where they had commenced their charge, and hastily reforming, drove in again without delay, this time diverging as they advanced, to pass on either side of the still-battling group under Sir Hugo. Again they were successful in probing deeper into the enemy mass and causing major havoc and casualties. But inevitably they themselves lost a few more men and garrons. Sir Hugo's unit, being less swift and making better targets, lost more, at least amongst the one hundred or so light horse attached, for the Normans themselves were heavily armoured and better protected.

Perceiving this, the King, in his second retiral, sent orders for these attachments to leave the Normans and return to his own and Luctacus's formations.

So that was the pattern of the battle for three more charges. But the enemy, recovering from their surprise, adopted alternative and more mobile tactics, widening their front, fanning out to north and south to send horns to outflank the killing-ground the Scots were establishing. Also they gave their bowmen protective screens of spearmen, and in consequence much increased their effectiveness. The Scots casualties rose.

The nearest that MacBeth penetrated towards the usurpers' standard was about a hundred yards. So far the King had escaped injury at the apex of his wedge, save for a spear-thrust scrape on his thigh.

Then, on the frustrated return from that sally, he perceived the threat, such as had been at the back of his mind all along, taking actual shape. MacDuff's force had rallied, regrouped, and was now bearing down upon their rear. And, fortunately or otherwise, Cowie's people had managed to reach the safety of Dunsinane Hill, so they were no longer in any position to help.

Hastily he made his decision. Waving to Luctacus and pointing, he signalled him to continue with his sweeps, in conjunction with the Normans, meantime. He himself led his now much depleted squadron directly south-eastward against the oncoming MacDuff.

At least he made a real impact on that man's array before the charge lost its momentum and he had to pull round and out again, scattering the enemy for the moment and halting the advance. But again with loss, so that as he disengaged and cantered back, a swift count showed him that he had only about seventy of his augmented 200 remaining. The horses undoubtedly had suffered the most heavily.

But concern at this was swiftly superseded by a more urgent anxiety. Malcolm had pushed forward his left or north wing, so that now it constituted a barrier between the Scots cavalry and Dunsinane, narrow as yet but growing. If that barrier was not quickly breached, MacBeth could never win back to his base. Moreover, he saw that Luctacus and Despard now, like himself with but shadows of their former numbers, appeared to have become bogged down, lacking the third wedge. He had to go to their rescue. But clearly this warfare could not continue. He had shot his bolt, he recognised all too clearly, and losses, weariness, overwhelming odds, would end all before long.