Macbeth the King (59 page)

It took time to extricate his friends—which did not include Sir Hugo, who was nowhere to be seen. And by the time that the sorry remnant of 600 had won clear for the moment, that cordon between them and Dunsinane Hill was considerably stronger. MacBeth eyed it, and shook his head. His tired, weakened survivors would never break through that. The only possibility was to hurry off, round to the north and east, through the gap which still remained between MacDuff and Malcolm's barrier, and hope to get behind, to Dunsinane that way.

Even as he summed up the chances of this, he saw two horsemen making exactly that semi-circular journey but in the reverse direction. Flogging their garrons unmercifully for maximum speed, these bore down on the King's battle-worn group. Not to waste any precious moments, MacBeth headed his people towards them.

One proved to be none other than the Mearnsman Thane of Cowie.

"Highness!" he shouted. "A message from my lord Constable. He says that you will never win through to Dunsinane now. He says not to try it. He says to ride. Escape. He pleads with you, lord King. To ride off, down Strathmore. While you still can. Ride for the North-East. For Moray and Mar. Assemble the North. Then come back to aid Dunsinane. He will seek to hold out there."

It was, of course, sound advice. To do just that had been one of the first things that had occurred to MacBeth after he had recovered from the shock of Birnam Wood. But it would have meant deserting Glamis and these others. Now, if he could not get back to the hill top fort anyway, that no longer held. But it still went against the grain.

"Can
they hold out? For so long?" he demanded hoarsely.

"He says they will try. It is a strong position. There is plenty of food, and good wells."

"Aye. But..." The King drew a deep breath. This was no time for debate or indecision. He had to think of this faithful cavalry remnant. Not just Glamis and those others. Aye, and to think of Luctacus too, his son. He owed the lad his young life, did he not? And the Normans?
They
could not flee to Moray. But they could still ride fast enough to escape pursuing foot.

He made up his mind, without further delay. "So be it," he said. "Form up. Round the Normans. We leave, my friends—we leave. We have done our best. God be with Glamis—and with us also!" He pointed north-eastwards, for the gap of half a mile which still existed between the enemy fronts, down Strathmore. "Come. You also, Cowie. As fast as our Norman friends can ride.

The crowned King of Scots left the field of Dunsinane to the usurper—and only just in time.

At Blair in Gowrie
the King said goodbye to his Normans, or what remained of them. Where he was going, and at the pace he must ride, was not for them and their lumbering mounts. He left with them, as guides and guards, the least mobile of the other survivors, the wounded, the oldest, those with the poorest horses, indeed the majority of the company. These would head directly northwards into the hills, by the narrow twisting glen of the Ericht, under the son of the old Thane of Rattray, past Cally and into the remote strath of Ardle, to lie low in its fastnesses meantime. With a mere forty or so companions MacBeth rode on eastwards down Strathmore. Behind them, some three miles off, near the levels of Stormounth Loch, they could see mounted pursuit, in no large numbers meantime but sufficient to keep their flight under observation and to constitute a continuing threat. The King did not think that these would digress, to follow the slower party up the Ericht, but would rather pursue him down the main open strath, where they could keep him in sight. To try to ensure that they did, he kept his royal banner unfurled, at his side. They would not see it, of course, at that range, but no doubt would question local folk to learn which way the King had gone. It was the least that he could do for those he was leaving.

After that, it was only hard and steady riding.

Men and beasts were desperately weary, once again, of course; but so, they hoped, would be their pursuers. It was early evening, and if they could keep ahead until darkness, they would hope to find somewhere secret to lie up and rest.

It was never pitch-dark of an August night; but after midnight, in the Brechin vicinity, the fugitives were so exhausted that a halt had to be made. In woodland country where their move would be unseen, they turned off northwards into the lonely foothills of Menmuir, and in the quiet hidden valley of the Water of Cruik, where there was pasture' for the garrons, more or less collapsed with fatigue. They were unlikely to be found before daybreak.

Tired as the others, MacBeth did not sleep. His grazed thigh hurt him, but that was not the cause of his wakefulness. He believed that he would have plenty of time for sleeping hereafter.

He said he would act sentry for the first spell, over-ruling all half-hearted protests.

As he sat amongst his snoring, groaning, twitching companions, he had, at last, time to think, long and sombre thoughts. Why was he thus flogging himself on, he asked? What was he fleeing from? Destiny and fate were not to be outrun, outwitted, eluded. He was going to die, and soon, he had little doubt. He would indeed, he thought, welcome death at the last. Hopefully to be with Gruoch again, dear Gruoch. And with Thorfinn. And others. If God had mercy on a man whose hands were stained with blood as his were. Why then was he straining thus, against the inexorable tide of fate? Why had he not just flung himself into the heart of the battle, back there at Dunsinane, and ended it all, quickly, cleanly—he who was not afraid of death? What strong urge still drove him on? The mere habit of fighting to the end? Of survival?

It was more than that, he decided. He was the King, and he still had his responsibilities. To his realm, his people, his family. So long as he breathed. It was that, he decided, that forced him on northwards. For Moray. Would Farquhar be back from Orkney yet? He had lost track of days. And Cormac and Eala. He had to try to get young Luctacus home. And muster all Moray and Ross and the North. Lulach too—he could not love him, but he was Gruoch's son and the next monarch. He had to do what he still could, for Lulach's heritage. Although how that young man could ever withstand this Malcolm, even in the Northern kingdom, was not to be known. Farquhar and Luctacus would help him—if they were given the chance. It was
his
duty to provide that chance. And there was Glamis and his beleaguered force to rescue, back there. There was no lack of responsibility, then. Reasons in plenty for him to hang on to his life to the last. Fate might not be cheated, but it might possibly be used. He would, as it were, make a bargain with fate...

Still he did not sleep, but somehow easier in his mind, he sank into a dreamlike state, eyes open, one part of his mind still on the alert for any alarm, the rest of it if not at peace at least accepting. He did not wake any relief watch.

They were on their way by dawn, stiff and hungry but somewhat rested.

Instead of following the direct route for the North, MacBeth had decided that since they had this hidden start in Menmuir, he would take the more remote and little-used route up through the mountains, by Glen Esk and the Fir Mounth. It was by no means the shortest or quickest road, indeed the most difficult, but it might well confuse the pursuit. It meant however that Cowie and a few others, from Angus and the Mearns, would be turning away from their home areas. So they parted company there in the misty dawn, and with a mere thirty or so companions, the King set off across the foothill country for Edzell and the mouth of Glen Esk, while the others rode due eastwards. At this stage numbers were of no advantage to MacBeth; indeed, the fewer mouths to feed the better.

The North Esk's glen was wild and fifteen miles long. They rode up it, gaining what food they could at lonely farmeries and summer shielings. They saw no sign of any pursuit as the morning progressed. By mid-day they were at the glen-head, at Loch Lee. Here they had to turn off up the Water of Mark, almost due northwards, heading for the mighty bulk of Mount Keen which towered ahead filling all the prospect. Glen Mark was even rougher than Glen Esk, empty, desolate, steep-sided, vast cliffs overhanging, the drove-road sketchy indeed, often waterlogged, sometimes washed away. Progress became very slow. After a few miles they were thankful to turn off it and climb out of the narrow trough, to keep due northwards and to start their 1600-feet climb that was to take them, in only three miles, up over the lofty shoulder of Mount Keen itself. This was the famed Fir Mounth track, the highest pass in the eastern Highlands, impassable for most months of the year. MacBeth had chosen it for that very reason, that the pursuit would be unlikely to think that it would be used. They had to walk their horses much of the way up that grim ascent.

Within 600 feet of the summit of Mount Keen they halted to rest, on the very roof of Scotland, amongst the racing cloud-shadows and the drifting deer-herds, the grouse rising from the brilliant purple of the heather on every hand, the prospects breathtaking. War and battle and the petty ambitions of men seemed utterly remote and irrelevant up here, and the younger members of the party for a little threw off anxiety and preoccupation with the precarious future. If the King did not, he was scarcely to be blamed.

A couple of miles of the high plateau and they began to drop down into the north-facing glen of the Tanar Water, and quickly descended to the vast pine-forests of Deeside, lovely wilderness of ancient and mighty Caledonian firs growing wide-scattered out of tall heather and blaeberries, alive with deer and game. The sense of security engendered by these far-flung forests was comforting—and dangerous.

They spent the night there amongst the pines of Glen Tanar, having covered over thirty of the roughest miles in the land. MacBeth was well aware of the insidious dangers produced by the feelings of remoteness and present safety. The enemy would guess that he would be making for Moray, his home and patrimony, where he could raise fresh armies. And to reach Moray, they would know well that he had to cross the great east-west divide of the Dee valley somewhere, whichever mounth route he took. He had chosen the most difficult, to shake off pursuit, and had succeeded in so doing. But other of the routes could have been more speedy. If whoever was in command of the pursuers knew the land well—MacDuff for instance, or any of his traitorous colleagues—he could conceivably, by taking the Cairn o' Mounth route or even the Slugan, have reached the Dee ahead of them. Then, by sending teams to watch the mouths of the various passes, where they opened into the great strath, they might pick up the fugitives once more. Deeside was miles across, fairly open especially on the north side, populous and cultivated land much of it, part of Martacus's mortuath of Mar. It would not be easy to cross unobserved.

There was little pasture for the garrons in the forest, so the beasts would be less strong the next day.

They moved off again through the shadowy glades well before dawn, to reach the low ground at Craigendinnie, ford the Tanar there and within a mile cross the Dee itself at one of the few fords available, below the isolated hill of Craig Ferrar on the north side where there were a couple of small islets of shingle and a major shallowing. The practicable crossings could all be watched—so the King was anxious to cross before daylight. The nearest alternative ford to the west was at Dinnet, three miles, and to the east at Aboyne, the same distance. In the event although they perceived no picket or any living soul, they might well have been seen by hidden watchers and word sent to their enemies. MacBeth's companions, even Luctacus, tended to be scornful of such fears; but the King remained wary. He knew what
he
would have done had the situation been reversed.

Once across, they were in Cromar, with a dozen miles of this South Mar territory ahead of them until the next great hurdle of the Don. If only Martacus had been there, the situation could have been transformed. But Martacus and his aimed men were far away in the South, seeking to hold the line of the Forth—if they had not already been overwhelmed. The quickest route to the Don from this ford was due northwards by Braeroddach Loch to Tarland, then through the Leochel Hills; but this was too open and exposed for fugitives fearing discovery. Instead MacBeth swung away north-eastwards, avoiding the cashel of Saint Machar, to reach the wooded valley of the Tarland Burn in the Coull area, with its precious cover.

The dazzle of the rising sun in their eyes was their undoing. While still on the high ground of Balnagowan Hill, they were trotting along a narrow deer-path in single file through the heather, when Luctacus suddenly shouted, pointing. Down on the lower ground, barely a mile away, was a troop of horsemen heading in their direction, the early sunlight glinting on their armour. They must have been in view for some time, but even now the fugitives had to screw up their eyes to see them.

They were not necessarily enemies admittedly, but it had to be assumed that they were, as they were coming from the east. Possibly they had been informed of the crossing at Craig Ferrar ford. There was not much choice of action. The newcomers were in a position where they could cut off the King's party before it could reach the shelter of the Coull woodlands. To avoid them, all MacBeth could do was to turn at right angles and ride northwards over the crest of this Balnagowan Hill, on, on beyond, where for a little they would be out of sight. But it was still open country and they would not be hidden for long.

This they did, cursing. But as they pounded down the fairly gentle slope beyond, MacBeth saw nothing to give him hope of escape. The land sank ahead, bare.

He panted to Luctacus, "How many of them? Did you see?"

His son shook his head. "I did not count them. More than we are, I think. Forty or fifty, perhaps."

"We have fought worse odds! They will not expect that we turn back. See—round the base of this hill we have just crossed. They will come that way, to head us off. We would be hidden until they were almost on us. A surprise. Then fight through them, to reach the woodlands below."