Macbeth the King

by Nigel Tranter

Genres: Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

Across a huge colourful canvas, ranging from the wilds of Scotland to Norway, Denmark and Rome, here is the story of the real MacBeth. Set aside Shakespeare's portrait: read instead of his struggle to make and save a united Scotland. In this impressively researched and vivid portrayal, Tranter belies the popular perception of a savage, murderous ambitious king. Instead, he tells of MacBeth's struggle to make and save a united Scotland; his devotion to his great love, the young Queen Gruoch; the humane laws they fought for; the great battle they were forced to fight. And the terrible price they paid.

Release date: September 13, 2012

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 396

Sample

MACBETH MAC FINLAY: Mormaor of Ross, son of Finlay, Mormaor of Moray.

NEIL (NATHRACH) MAC FINLAY: Illegitimate half-brother.

THORFINN SIGURDSON, EARL OF ORKNEY: Son of the Princess Donada, MacBeth’s mother, by an earlier husband.

THORKELL FOSTERER: Viking foster-father of Thorfinn, and warrior.

GRUOCH NIC BODHE: Princess. Widow of Gillacomgain, Mormaor of Moray, grand-daughter of Kenneth the Third.

LULACH MAC GILLACOMGAIN: Son of above, truest heir to the Scots throne.

BETHOC NIC MALCOLM: Princess. Wife of Crinan, Mormaor of Atholl and Abbot of Dunkeld.

MALCOLM THE SECOND: High King of Scots, by-named Foiranach, or the Destroyer.

ECHMARCACH, KING OF DUBLIN AND MAN: A vassal prince of Malcolm’s.

DUNCAN MAC CRINAN: Prince of Strathclyde and Cumbria. Favourite grandson of the King. Later King Duncan the First.

DUNCAN MACDUFF, MORMAOR OF FIFE: Premier Scottish noble, Chief of Clan Duff.

CORMAC, THANE OF GLAMIS: Important noble and veteran soldier.

MALDUIN, BISHOP OF ST. ANDREWS: Ard Episcop, or senior bishop of the Celtic Church. Chancellor of the realm.

KING CANUTE, or KNUT: Self-styled Emperor of the Anglo-Saxons and Scandinavians, King of England and Denmark.

MALCOLM MAC DUNCAN: Illegitimate son of the Prince of Strathclyde by the miller’s daughter of Forteviot. Later Malcolm the Third (Canmore).

GUNNAR HOUND TOOTH: Viking captain.

INGEBIORG FINNSDOTTER: Wife of Earl Thorfinn.

MALMORE, ABBOT OF IONA: Co-Arb. Head of the Celtic Church.

MACDOWALL, LORD OF GALLOWAY:

CATHAIL, ABBOT OF SCONE: Keeper of the Stone of Destiny.

FARQUHAR O’BEOLAIN: Hereditary Abbot of Applecross and progenitor of Clan Ross.

LACHLAN, THANE OF BUCHAN:

MARTACUS, MORMAOR OF MAR:

HARALD CLEFT CHIN: Viking captain.

ROBARTACH, ABBOT OF IONA: Malmore’s successor.

EWAN, ABBOT OF ABERNETHY: High Judex or Justiciar.

CRINAN, MORMAOR OF ATHOLL: Father of King Duncan.

PAUL THORFINNSON: Later Earl of Orkney.

EDMOND, BISHOP OF DURHAM: Saxon prelate of the Church of Rome.

SVEN ESTRIDSON, KING OF DENMARK: Canute’s nephew.

ESTRID SVENSDOTTER: Mother of above and sister of Canute.

POPE LEO THE NINTH:

DONALD MAC DUNCAN: Elder legitimate son of King Duncan. Later King Donald Ban.

THE TALL, FAIR-HAIRED man stood on the high cliff-top amongst the wheeling gulls, grey eyes narrowed against the glitter of the sun on the wrinkled sea as he gazed south-eastwards.

“I count twenty-eight sail,” he said, in the soft, lilting Gaelic, which might have seemed to come oddly from so strong-featured a young man, so deep of voice and of such strange, quiet but withheld inner force. “His full strength, I think. Which must mean . . . retiral.”

“Retiral, yes. Retiral, to be sure!” his companion agreed, without agreement. “With lesser men it might be called flight. But the Raven Feeder never flees. He but retires to Cromarty to rest himself!”

“You have an over-sharp tongue, Neil Nathrach. Hold it.”

“Yes, my lord Mormaor.” The speaker, holding the two shaggy Highland garrons, grinned wickedly. He was an extraordinarily different-seeming man to be so closely related to the other, slight, dark, wiry, quick and flashing-eyed, the dark Celt indeed, as against the fair. Nathrach meant serpent. Yet they had had the same father.

His half-brother stared out to sea wordless, assessing, deducing. He had a great gift for silence. But at length he spoke again.

“I see no pursuit. So the King bides at Inverness. Meantime. We need not sound the call-to-arms yet, I think. How say you?”

Neil Nathrach made no answer.

“You think otherwise?”

“I am holding my tongue, MacBeth mac Finlay.”

“Watch, then — or one day I shall cut it out.” That was said as softly as the rest, but flatly also. And the dark man’s mobile features tensed suddenly. He knew that the other was capable of doing it.

He swallowed, and found the horses in need of attention.

They stood on the summit of the South Sutor of Cromarty, the taller of the two towering rock bastions which guarded the narrow entrance to the Cromarty Firth, lofty, windswept, spectacular. Southwards, across the wide Moray Firth, the great land of Moray stretched from green plain to blue mountains, a noble prospect; eastward only the Norwegian Sea. And behind them their own firth opened to what was really a vast landlocked bay, at the head of which stood Inverpeffery, that the Vikings called Dingwall, capital of the mormaorship and province of Ross, one of the seven lesser kingdoms of Alba, or Scotland.

MacBeth — more properly Mac Beatha, Son of Life — was calculating again. He reckoned, at the pace Thorfinn was apt to drive his longships’ oarsmen, that they would make their landfall in well under the hour.

“Back to Rosemarkyn, Neil,” he said. “Tell Malduin mac Nechtan to stand down his companies, meantime. And to send word to Inverpeffery. A guard of five score at the boat-strand. To greet our guests. Take both horses. I shall not need mine.”

“Yes, lord.”

MacBeth looked after the other as he mounted and rode off, and a faint smile played about his firm mouth.

Soon he set off downhill, long-strided, the two miles to the small haven of Cromarty, or Sikkersand as the Norse, had it, in the jaws of the firth-mouth.

He had not long to wait before the first of the fleet of longships, the dreaded Viking host, appeared round the headland, driven fiercely by all but naked oarsmen, four to an oar, twenty-benched, the great single square sails above painted with the black raven symbol of Orkney, the high-beaked prows open-mouthed in savage menace. The first and largest vessel turned landwards, more a galley than a simple longship, with forty double-banked oars. It flew at its single, central masthead a great white banner bearing the spread-winged raven of the Earl Thorfinn Sigurdson, the Raven Feeder, of Orkney and Caithness, the most dreaded emblem but one in a score of kingdoms.

Only this one long, low vicious-looking craft turned into Cromarty’s haven, where MacBeth stood alone on the strand, backed at a respectful distance by a cluster of watchful and none too happy fishermen, whose every instinct was to flee from that raven symbol, rather than trust their lord.

The galley’s snarling-dragon prow had barely made contact with the shingle when an enormous man leapt down from between the ranked, colourful shields, into the shallows, and came striding ashore. The quiet waiting man was tall and well-built, but this newcomer made him seem of very modest size, the great golden helmet with the flaring black wings adding to the impression. Whereas MacBeth was dressed simply in a belted tunic of saffron linen, its lower half forming a knee-length kilt above bare legs and sandals, his only sign of rank a dirk-belt of solid gold, this other was in the full panoply of war, in the Norse fashion, black leather long tunic studded with metal scales as armour, breeches bound to the knee with leather strapping, golden earl’s shoulder-belt supporting a huge wide-bladed sword, bare hairy arms hung with bracelets of gold and bronze, the medals of his kind, white bearskin cloak hanging from one shoulder by a great jewelled clasp. This man, unlike most of his race, was dark-haired, black as one of his own ravens, with forked beard, down-turning moustaches and the hottest of pale-blue eyes.

“The Son of Life himself — looking still as death! As ever!” this apparition cried, in a voice to match his appearance, mighty, harsh, yet in as good Gaelic as MacBeth’s own. “Smile, man — laugh, at sight of me!”

“May any man smile at sight of Thorfinn Raven Feeder?”

“Not any man, no. But you might, now and again. God’s Body — do I not fight your battles for you?”

“Do you, then? I thought that you fought only Earl Thorfinn’s.”

The giant came stalking up, and clasped a great hand on each of the other’s shoulders, to shake him bodily. “You got my messenger?”

“Yes. Inverness has fallen. And Gillacomgain is dead.”

“Dead, to be sure. Burned alive in his own hall. With half-a-hundred of his people. Barred in. And by his own High King.”

“And yours. And mine.”

“Yours, perhaps — not mine. I have none such.”

“You hold your earldom of Caithness of him. And Orkney of King Knut.”

“I hold both by my own sword-hand! That alone. As I hold the Hebrides.”

MacBeth shrugged. “So Gillacomgain is dead. I cannot weep for him. He and his brother slew my father and took Moray. But . . . burned to death! That was ill done.”

“Does Malcolm Foiranach do other than ill?” Even the Earl Thorfinn’s voice held a hint of something like dread at the naming of Malcolm the Second, the Destroyer, High King of Scots.

The other did not answer that. “So he has taken Inverness. Slain Gillacomgain of Moray. As he has slain all others who might heir his throne. Save three. Four, if you count a woman. So, he will come for me! And you. But your messenger said he is not marching on Ross? And he has not followed your longships. You did not fight with him?”

“Was I to fight Gillacomgain’s battles for him also? I, Thorfinn? I held to my borg and port at Torfness. Sent out watchers to Inverness, all over Moray. When I fight Malcolm mac Kenneth it will not be in any other man’s quarrel.”

“Not mine, then? The mighty Thorfinn folds his hands, and watches!”

“Yours and mine, brother, could be the same, in this. Is he not grandsire to us both?”

They eyed each other for a long moment, eyes level grey and hot blue, considering, so different yet with something akin, some basic character — for these too were half-brothers, unlikely as it seemed. Malcolm the Destroyer was old now, but none the less terrible — more so indeed, since he saw his end approaching and would leave the way made straight, before he went, for the grandson Duncan mac Crinan, on whom he doted. All others of the two royal lines must die, as so many had already died, that Duncan should reign undisputed. The High King had had only two daughters — Bethoc, who produced Duncan; and Donada, who married first the Viking Earl Sigurd the Stout, of Orkney and produced Thorfinn, then on Sigurd’s death wedded the Celt, Finlay mac Ruari, Mormaor of Moray, and produced MacBeth. Three grandsons of the High King — and the finger of death on two of them.

MacBeth nodded. “You have come here, for whatever reasons. And are welcome. What is your intention?”

“I shall stay with you a little time, Brother, here at Cromarty. To discourage our royal grandsire. He is the less likely to move into Ross, against you, if our united forces are here, waiting, than if I had remained on the Moray coast, at Torfness. He will learn of it quickly. He will not attack my Torfness, I think. It is too strong. We are ready for him. So, he will not long remain at Inverness. If he does not advance on you, he will retire, southwards. An old man, his own fireside will call him. And, when he retires, through the Mounth passes by God’s Blood, we shall have him! We go by sea, you and I, across to Torfness again. A forced march inland to the hills which he must cross. Surprise attack — and an end to Malcolm Foiranach! Who has lived too long already. And to Duncan his lap-dog, who is with him.”

“No.” That was quiet, but flat, final.

The earl frowned — and when he did so, he made a frightening sight. “I say yes! It is he, or us. Or you — for he will never take Thorfinn! This could be our great opportunity, man. As he struggles home to Fortrenn, through the passes. He would not look for it . . .”

“No. He is still High King of Scots. And I am Mormaor of Ross, and no rebel nor regicide.”

“Fool! He would crack you like a louse between his fingernails, mormaor, grandson or none! If he could lay hands on you.”

“He is still High King. Sits on the Stone of Destiny. And I am one of his lesser kings, as are you, for Caithness. We have sworn a great oath, brother. On that Stone. To cherish and support him. He may betray his oath. But I shall not. Not before I take it back, before a Council of the Kings, at the same Stone.”

Exasperatedly the big man glared at him. “You were ever an obstinate dolt!” he declared. “Why I waste my time and patience on you . . .?”

“Because you need me, hot-head! As, God knows, I need you, yes. But not to slay our mother’s father . . .”

Impatiently the other turned to look back at his ships, marshalled, sails down, oars holding gently against the tide-run, waiting there in the narrow mouth of the firth, the most feared and effective naval force in all the northern seas.

“You do not deserve my protection!” he all but snarled.

“Perhaps not. Will you sail away again, then? Back to Torfness, in Moray? Up to Caithness? To Orkney? Or the Hebrides? Or even to Ireland itself? The seas are wide — and none may stop Thorfinn Raven Feeder.”

“Fiend seize you . . .!”

“To be sure. But you came here for more than my protection, I think? Glad as I am to have it. How many men have you there? Which host you wish hidden in my firth of Cromarty.”

“Twelve hundred. Thirteen hundred. Heroes all.”

“No doubt. But too many for Rosemarkyn. I am presently at my summer hall there. Your hundreds must needs go up the firth to Inverpeffery. But, lacking your presence, can I let your sea-wolves loose on my town? Or must we leave Rosemarkyn and accompany them? To protect my people.”

“Devil roast you — you have an ill tongue in your head, Scot, Cruithne, Pict! Any other speaking so would never speak again!”

“I take advantage of your fond brotherly love, yes! But see you, I have my poor helpless folk to consider. Like lambs before your . . . protectors!”

“Thorkell Fosterer will go with them. To Dingwall. Or whatever you call it now.”

“Very well. Let us be on our way.”

“Praise be! I feared that we would take root here!”

The half-brothers turned and strode down to the tide-line. The dragon-ship was now closer inshore, indeed with its ferocious prow driven up actually on the shingle — the longships were built for this — and a gangplank reached down steeply to the beach. Thorfinn ran straight up, without pause, extraordinarily light on his feet for one so large; he was still a youngish man, of course, only in his thirtieth year, three years older than MacBeth, who climbed up less dramatically but ignored the other’s mocking hand held out to aid him on to the high prow platform.

Amongst the fierce, shaggy Norse throng who awaited them thereon, all bulls’-horned helmets, hide jerkins, steel plating, silver jewellery and bracelets, one squat, immensely broad man, with the longest arms and ugliest face in Christendom, stepped forward, grinning hugely.

“Greetings, lord,” he said. “You grow more like a man each time I set eyes on you!”

“And you like an ape, Thorkell!” But MacBeth grasped the other’s hand nevertheless. Thorkell Fosterer, Amundi’s son, was Thorfinn’s foster-father and chief lieutenant, no blood relation but one of the greatest fighters and most successful ladies’ men in all the North.

The earl eyed them both. “Which the greater fool I know not!” he barked. “My lord mormaor or this swineherd’s get from behind an Orkney peat-stack!”

There was a roar of laughter from the other Vikings.

“The Raven Feeder is always right,” Thorkell observed. “His size ensures it. But whose is the greater folly — the fool’s or he who relies on him?”

Thorfinn grasped MacBeth’s arm, and started to push through the throng. “Come and see another sort of fool.” He turned his head. “And you, Ape — get yourself to another ship, with most of these house-carls I must use for fighting-men. Take them, and the rest, to Dingwall. I go to Rosemarkyn with this sober brother of mine, for a little. He fears for his innocents at Dingwall. So, I charge you — do not burn all down. And rape only the women. Who will esteem you, I swear, for the attentions of real men Come, Son of Life.”

He led the way down from the fighting-platform and along the boarded walk-way between the tiered rowing-benches, where the brawny oarsmen, many stark naked, sprawled at ease after their exertions, amidst a powerful smell of sweat and rampant masculinity. Their quips and ruderies, as the earl and mormaor passed, were lusty and uninhibited — for the Norsemen were not great respecters of persons — Thorfinn at least giving back as good as he got. Then, at the decked-in cavity beneath the high stern-platform, the big man paused, stooped to peer in, and shouted, “Come out, woman. We have company.”

A faint stirring, after a moment, in the dark, cavernlike interior, and two persons came slowly to the entrance, a young woman holding by the hand a curly-haired child of perhaps two years. The little boy looked frightened and hid behind his mother’s skirts. But the woman certainly revealed no signs of fear, concern, or even interest. Holding her head high and proudly, she ignored Earl Thorfinn, glanced briefly at MacBeth and then looked away along the lines of leering, unclothed rowers, calm, expressionless. But she held the child close to her side.

MacBeth drew a long quivering breath. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever set eyes on, dark of hair and eyes, of lovely chiselled features, alabaster skin and with a superb figure. Tall, holding herself like any queen, she was clad richly, but her clothing torn and peat-stained.

“The Lady Gruoch — it can be none other!” he exclaimed. “Princess, I, I greet you. I . . . am sorry.”

She inclined her dark head, unspeaking.

“What does she here, on your ship?” he demanded of his brother.

“Ask her. She asked to be brought to you. The saints know why! She escaped Malcolm’s grasp, with Gillacomgain’s brat — how I have not learned. Some of my people found her, and brought her to me at Torfness borg. I offered her comfort, refuge, even my bed! Oh, yes — it may be almost time for me to think of taking a wife, even, and raise sons! But she would have none of me. A fool-woman! I do not wonder that she refused Duncan the Palsied, who seems to have sought her. But Thorfinn is another story!” The giant shrugged. “But, no — she must be brought to MacBeth mac Finlay. God knows why women so lack judgment!”

That man raised an open hand to the woman. “I am honoured,” he said. “We met but once, lady. When we were both but children. You may not recollect. But I have heard much of you. And, I swear, you are more beautiful even than they told me!”

Gillacomgain’s widow eyed him levelly. “I remember you. And have heard you reputed as honest,” she told him quietly, in a voice softly Highland as his own, melodious after the harsh and jerky Norse enunciation. “I had to go to someone. For the child’s sake.”

“Yes. Welcome, then, to Ross, Princess. You will be safe with me.”

Thorfinn snorted.

“Yet . . . my husband slew your father. And took Moray, which should have been yours. And this is his son.” That was said in the same even, almost impersonal tone.

“Even so. We are cousins of a sort. And that was a dozen years back. You were not concerned.”

“I am, was, Gillacomgain’s wife.”

“Yes. But . . .”

“More important, she is Bodhe’s daughter, King Kenneth, of blessed memory, his grand-daughter,” Thorfinn interrupted cynically. “Sole heir of that royal line, since Malcolm Foiranach murdered her brother. Let none forget it. Malcolm and Duncan do not, it is clear. That is why Gillacomgain was burned in Inverness. And, hopefully, this woman and child with him! We shall not hide what that means by polite words and small talk.”

There was silence at that, for a little. It was stark truth which had to be faced. Gillacomgain, Mormaor of Moray, had died, not because of his many sins but because he was married to this Gruoch nic Bodhe mac Kenneth, with better claim to the high throne of Scotland than had Malcolm himself, or any of his grandsons. She had escaped him, but nothing was surer than that he would try again. For this child at her knee should be King of Scots, whether she ever was queen or no. And if MacBeth, of Malcolm’s own line, was endangered before in the road of Duncan’s succession, he would be infinitely the more so if he sheltered the Princess Gruoch.

This knowledge in all their minds, they looked away. The fleet was on the move again, this dragon-ship also, heading westwards now into the calm waters of the great landlocked basin of the firth.

MacBeth sank down on one bare knee before the shrinking child, holding out a hand. “This small one is a fine fellow. He will be a stout support for his lady-mother one day. How is he called?”

“Lulach.”

“Lulach mac Gillacomgain mac Maelbride mac Ruari! As I am MacBeth mac Finlay mac Ruari. So we are kin, you and I, young one. I greet you!”

“Where are you taking us?” the mother asked. “To Inverpeffery?”

“No. To Udale Bay only. Then we ride over the ridge of this Black Isle to my summer house of Rosemarkyn. There is no safe anchorage for ships there, on that southern coast. All save this craft will go on to Inverpeffery.”

“And . . . the King?”

“We keep close watch. All along my Ross border. Never fear — we shall not let him lay hands on you.”

“Is he not the kind one!” Thorfinn mocked. “The gentle MacBeth. Watch him, woman!”

It was only a few miles to Udale, a sheltered bay on the south shore of the firth, where the dragon-ship disembarked its important passengers. Save for one other vessel, the main fleet rowed on for a further ten miles, to where Strathpeffer opened off the firth to probe into the hills, and the province of Ross had its seat. At the township of Balblair, above the Udale anchorage, MacBeth borrowed sturdy Highland garrons to carry his party across the high spine of the great peninsula of Cromarty, known as the Black Isle, seven miles to Rosemarkyn.

* * *

The hall-house of the mormaor at Rosemarkyn stood on a terrace above the shore, at the foot of a steep lofty bank, part cliff, part sand hill, pockmarked with holes in which darting martins had their nests and over which jackdaws swooped and squawked. It was a long, low building of timber covered with clay, inside and out, to seal the draughts and prevent the danger of fire, reed-thatched, two storeys in height save in the centre where the great hall itself rose right to the smoke-blackened roof-trees. The wings flanking the hall contained many chambers, a small private hall, armoury, sleeping accommodation and storerooms. The kitchens, bakehouse, brewhouse and servants’ quarters, with the stables and byres, lay across a cobbled yard at the back, dug into the side of the bank, a deep draw-well in the yard’s centre. Orchards lay right and left. The house was commodious, unassuming but pleasant. It was no dun, no rath, or fortified dwelling, and Thorfinn jeered at it as totally undefendable. But MacBeth pointed out mildly that he looked to his people for defence, not to walls, ramparts and palisades. Certainly, all around were the cothouses and cabins of his clansfolk; if they could not protect him, walls would avail little. Besides, it was only a summer residence, for the sea breezes, the boating and fishing, the swimming and hawking. Although it looked directly across the Moray Firth, near where it narrowed at Chanonry Ness, to the Inverness plain, Strathnairn and the Laigh, as no other of his houses did — which was why he was here now — it was no place for warfare. The churchmen, who knew a pleasant spot when they saw one, had been long established here, the old Irish saints under Moluag making this their base in Ross nearly five centuries before. Indeed, the name meant the Monastery of Ross.

The good bishop thereof sat, well-placed, at MacBeth’s table now, comfortably liquored, amiable.

Unlike the new southern and English fashion of dais-table on a platform at the head of the hall, with the other tables running at right angles to it below, MacBeth maintained the old Highland custom of all eating at the same lengthy board, with himself, his kin and guests, in the centre and facing each other. They all sat relaxed now, the woman having retired early, to be with her fretful child.

Thorfinn, sprawling on MacBeth’s right, the bishop on his left, yawned cavernously. “You must show some sign of life in the matter, Son of Life,” he declared, slurring a little. “Hopeful inactivity . . .” He had some difficulty with that phrase. “Hopeful inactivity will avail nothing. You have her in your house. All Scotland will know it by tomorrow. Malcolm the Destroyer will know it before he sleeps tonight.”

“What of it? And you brought her to me.”

“Only because she asked it.”

“I shall do as I told her. Give her refuge, for so long as she requires it. I can do no less.”

“You can do a deal more. And will be expected to do so. By herself, who knows? She is a notable card in your hand. To play.”

“And If I do not seek to play the cards? Leaving that to you!”

“You must, man. You cannot help yourself. That Gruoch and her son are the keys to Scotland. Hands will be outstretched to grasp them. Not only Malcolm’s and Duncan’s. So long as you hold them, you must fight for them.” He drank deeply. “Either that or cast them from you.”

“Where should I cast them?”

“I will take them again, if you wish. I am a Mormaor of Scotland and a grandson of the King, God damn him, equally with you! I could play this card, likewise.”

“She rejected your offer.”

“Women have been known to change their minds. Or have them changed for them!”

There was a pause.

“More important than the Lady Gruoch, there is Moray.” That was Neil Nathrach from across the table. “Has it escaped your lordly notices that there is now no Mormaor of Moray?” As a son, albeit illegitimate, of the former Mormaor Finlay, he was entitled to make the point.

“Until Malcolm Foiranach appoints one, Serpent!” the earl said.

“Aye. But Moray, lord, will not just tamely accept any camp-follower of the King. As a Morayman, I know. We are not the easiest folk to manage. And it is the greatest mormaordom in Alba.”

“So?”

“The High King will not find it easy to find a man. Too many who might have suited he has already slain. And until he does, Moray is wide open to MacBeth mac Finlay!”

“You have the glimmerings of sense, now and again, in that black snake’s head of yours, Bastard! Is it not what I am saying? In part.”

“Wed the Lady Gruoch, claim Moray in her name, her son’s and our father’s — and march in. And perchance this Viking might support you — at a price!” Neil Nathrach was no kin to Thorfinn.

“Careful, Ill-Begotten!” the big man rumbled.

MacBeth eyed the amber contents of his goblet. “You are generous with your advice, both of you,” he observed. “So concerned for my future. And hers.”

“You need the advising. Sitting there when you should be up and doing.”

“Doing what, Orkneyman? Where?”

“Go you up to her, man. Take her. Here and now. She will scarce be surprised, since she has thrown herself upon you. Take her. Wed her after, if you so wish. But show her, and all men, who holds Gruoch nic Bodhe now. And the brat. That is what matters. And there is more than Moray at stake.”

“God be good — she was but widowed yesterday! Do you take me for a brute-beast?”

“Better now than later. I say that she must expect it. Had she not asked for you, I would have had her, myself. Every day will make it more difficult for one so lily-livered as the Mormaor of Ross! Women need firm handling, like horses or hounds. They take advantage, else.”

“Hear Thorfinn Raven Feeder, the great woman-handler! Save us — she is a princess of the line of Alpin! And the finest woman in Scotland!”

“The more reason . . .”

“No. She sought my protection, not my arms and loins! She shall have it, while she needs it. Say what men will. You hear, Malduin?” He turned to his seneschal, sitting next to Neil. “The Lady Gruoch will receive every courtesy of my house. And the child. At all times. Until I tell you otherwise. Neil, you will behave towards her better than your usual! Keep your tongue between your teeth! You hear me? Now — enough of this. Have the fiddlers to play, Malduin . . .”

* * *

For the present, the threat to the North was past. King Malcolm’s army started out on its long march south. Crinan of the Hounds, Mormaor of Atholl, Hereditary Abbot of Dunkeld and Primate of All Scotland in the Celtic Church, Malcolm’s son-in-law and father of Duncan, was left in charge of Moray, and was unlikely to seek any major trial of strength with MacBeth and Thorfinn.

There were still two months of the hosting season, and the Vikings’ feet, or rather their sword-hands, were itching for more exciting and profitable voyaging. Thorfinn was for off, north-abouts. He would leave a stand-by force at Duncansby, his Caithness base, which could be with his half-brother in a day, at need. The longships sailed from Inverpeffery, much to the relief of the inhabitants, dropped MacBeth and Neil Nathrach at Udale, and headed for the open sea, a headache for others.

At Rosemarkyn, the Lady Gruoch had spent most of the warm summer days out of the hall-house, up in the deep wooded ravine behind, where the Rosemarkyn Burn came rushing, in a series of cascades and shady pools, from the upland. MacBeth went seeking her, presently, alone.

He found her in a green glade beneath the soaring crags and scaurs, sittin