by David Hewson
Such an action would require careful management. Succession was a perilous process, one Duncan treated with serious and measured care. By tradition, the Scots did not routinely pass the crown from father to son like the English, preferring instead to select from the lords among them a suitable king, chosen by the popular acclaim of his fellow thanes. It was, Duncan had decided, a dangerous and primitive practice, and not only because it left the nation in turmoil on the death of each monarch. The practice bred treachery and rebellion during a king’s lifetime, for if a monarch was nothing more than some elected lord, might he not be replaced—by force, if necessary?
He would change this primitive habit and the thanes would have to live with it. With victory behind him, he was strong enough to force his will upon them, placing the line of Scotland firmly in his family’s grip, a glorious jewel passed from father to son, by right, by God, by the sword, if necessary. There would be surprise, perhaps even resistance, but it would pass, and the mightiest clan lords—Macbeth and Banquo and MacDuff—would, with a little flattery and preferment, stand so strongly by him that none would dare voice their discontent. Their backing was the most vital and the trickiest to secure since, given the old ways, one of them might have considered the crown within their own reach. It would require craft, diplomacy, and no small play of secret cunning. But the path from beloved hero to drawn-and-quartered traitor was not so lengthy, and if one of those three should step an inch toward defiance, all the hellhounds of the state would rip their throats apart.
Then, with the throne secured, not just for himself, but also for his son, treachery such as MacDonwald’s would be stifled like a throttled viper chanced on in the heather. Scotland would know peace. Duncan could be done with sitting about in damp fields while lesser men hacked each other to pieces.
The guard at the tent flap stirred, his hand straying for the hilt of his sword. The king stiffened in his chair, listening.
“Quiet,” he snapped at Malcolm, who had resumed his whistling. His son shot him a baleful glance, then swung his legs over the edge of his bed and sat upright. He was good-looking, tall, and muscular, as his father had been at his age, if a little soft around the middle. But there was a hardness in his eyes and a sly, meticulous side to his nature. He never said or did anything without consideration. In practice that meant he rarely did much at all, but Duncan knew the value of caution, of deliberation. Impulsiveness was to be encouraged in warriors like Macbeth. It made them useful tools on the battlefield, though often of limited duration. Malcolm, like his father, was a planner, and that was a fine and useful talent in a king.
The guard stepped out. Duncan could hear running feet—the scout with word on Sueno’s demands. If they didn’t come to terms quickly, the Norse army would run into Macbeth, Banquo, and Cawdor, and how that encounter turned out would affect both those terms and Duncan’s secret plans for Malcolm. The king rose, the hem of his vast mail coat dropping around his knees like a dozen tiny bells. White-haired, with an ascetic, intelligent face, he became in an instant the man they wanted, a monarch, calm and open, all calculation and anxiety melting away as if he had put on a mask.
The scout came in, dropped to his knees, face to the ground, panting, out of breath.
“Well?” said Duncan. “You are disrupting time I would prefer to spend at prayer.”
Malcolm and Donalbain exchanged looks.
“My liege,” said the messenger, face still down, “the king of Norway has sent an emissary to negotiate the terms of your...” He hesitated.
“The terms of my what?” demanded the king, his eyes flashing.
“The terms of your surrender,” said the scout. “Sueno orders that you relinquish the Scottish throne to him and—”
He didn’t manage the rest of the sentence. Duncan kicked him hard in the side of the head, sending him sprawling. Had he been younger and more agile, the king might have pinned the scout to the ground. Instead, it was Malcolm who landed on him, squatting like a cat, a long, leaf-bladed dagger in one hand, his eyes bright and wide.
“Orders?” repeated Duncan, looming over the prone scout, who had turned his head away and was whimpering like a girl. “Sueno orders me to relinquish the crown?”
“I beg your highness’s forgiveness,” the scout managed. “I only wished to warn you of what his own emissary will say.”
“His what?” Duncan said, caught off guard. “He brought an ambassador with him?”
“No, my liege,” said the scout.
“You’d better start making sense,” hissed Malcolm, “or I will slit you a new set of lips and we’ll see if they work any better.”
The tent opened again. It was the guard. His eyes flashed over the struggling scout, then returned carefully to Duncan’s face. Even so, he looked troubled, and not just by what he saw.
“Yes?” roared Duncan.
“Sueno, king of Norway, has sent...” The guard stumbled.
“His emissary?” Malcolm suggested.
“Indeed, sir,” said the guard. “But...”
“Fetch him, man.”
“But, sir...”
“Do as I say!”
The guard paused, gave a nod that might have been a bow, and stepped aside as Duncan turned back to his chair. In a booming voice, given as much to the field outside as the men in the tent, the guard announced, “The emissary from Sueno, king of Norway. The thane of Cawdor.”
Cawdor?
Duncan froze. For a long moment he stared at the ornate gilt throne that followed him about the land, an icon of his majesty. Then he turned slowly. Standing inside the tent, armored from head to foot, his face showing nothing beyond a crooked, knowing smile, was Cawdor, a man he’d known since both were bairns.
Kings die in two ways only, Duncan thought to himself. In battle, at the head of their failing troops, or through the artful, knowing treachery of friends. He’d seized the throne for himself decades before and always sworn he’d never face that first eventuality again. Yet the second, crueler end, lurked always in the shadows, unseen, unknowable, like a contagion waiting on its moment.
Cawdor had turned traitor. There was no one now to stop Sueno and his Vikings from pouncing on Macbeth and Banquo’s forces, however they fared against MacDonwald. The fight was lost. Those who had been loyal to the crown were as good as dead.
And so, thought Duncan, king of Scotland, am I.
“The castle’s a shambles,” Banquo grumbled.
“That it is,” said Macbeth. “Barely defensible.”
“I’m not sure you’re getting my point.”
“Which is?”
“That being a shambles was fine when we were the attackers, but somewhat disturbing if we’re the poor bastards inside.”
The news had grown worse with every passing hour. As Macbeth’s men took the slate castle on the scarp, Sueno’s men had crossed the loch, slaughtering the guards who held the narrow crossing below. The Vikings had now pitched camp at the foot of the hill. They were taking their time and seemed to know it was theirs to squander.
“Sueno shows no sign of moving toward us tonight,” Macbeth answered, gazing from the battlements down to the loch. “His men have marched hard. If they were mine, I’d grant them some rest before laying siege. It may be more than that. Perhaps he knows he’s safe. How long do you think we can hold them off?”
“A few days at the most,” said Banquo, spitting over the wall. “Probably less.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Time enough for Cawdor to get here,” said Banquo. “If we can hold them off till then...Only a fool camps by the shore. They’ve the cold loch at their backs and we may yet push them back into it.”
Macbeth scowled. “The Vikings are creatures of the sea. The ocean doesn’t scare them and neither, I’m afraid, does Cawdor.”
“He’s a good man,” said Banquo. “Not much experience as a warrior, I grant you, but he leads a mighty force.”
“I’m just not sure we can count
on Cawdor.”
The conviction had been growing since MacDonwald’s curious words before he died. They kept running round his head. Men lied, to others and to themselves at times. Traitors more than most. But that red-haired rebel knew something, and it wasn’t to Macbeth’s advantage.
“What?” said Banquo. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. Something MacDonwald said.” He caught Banquo’s eye. “Why did a thane, a lord we all thought loyal, turn traitor? What was this rebellion about?”
Banquo looked at him as if the question were stupid.
“We’re Highlanders, you fool. Since when did a fight need a reason?”
“There must be one. Even here.”
Those cryptic references, to Duncan and the crown, worried him. Macbeth was not a man for gossip, idle or otherwise. He preferred to be a good lord, to keep his tenants well provisioned and collect from them their annual dues. The chatter of the court bored him. If some secret plot were being hatched...
“Your duty’s to Scotland and to yourself...”
“Why?” Banquo asked. “What did you hear?”
“Nothing. All the same, let’s presume we’re on our own. That we should not expect help from any quarter: Duncan, Cawdor, God himself.”
“Then that changes things.”
“It does,” Macbeth agreed.
He turned to look down into the yard, now bustling with troops and supply carts. He called to a skinny, narrow-faced servant who was pissing against the side of his barrel-laden wagon. Fergus was his name, a vile thing, but one of his own. Reliable in the way that untrustworthy men were to the lords they served. A creature for the tasks his master would prefer stayed secret—spying, connivance, and a little bribery. Even the most honest of thanes had need of a villain from time to time.
“How much food and drink is there?”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” said the man, looking cross and crafty.
Banquo gave Macbeth a quizzical look. “You know this one?”
“One of mine,” said Macbeth under his breath. “Every farm has its weasel. In this case, he’s a porter with a mouth on him. But the man’s got a talent for finding things where others fail. Though...” He shrugged. “It’s best you don’t ask their provenance.”
Banquo coughed into this hand and pointed to another across the yard, the silver-bearded Cullen, busy tallying weapons. “I thought that was your right-hand man. A good sort, too. I like him.”
“Cullen’s a loyal, decent servant. Honest. A man with scruples.”
“Ah.” Banquo rubbed his nose and winked. “Scruples are admirable in principle. But in times like these—”
“You’ve got a question or what?” the porter below shouted up at them.
“How long will the food last?” Macbeth replied.
“A few days,” he said, and patted the wagon. “A week if you only feed the healthy ones. After that...” He shrugged, then shifted from foot to foot as if he might fall over. “There’s a village yonder and a few scraggy sheep on the hills. Not much else but weeds and mekilwort and we won’t live long on that.”
Mekilwort. Macbeth’s wife, Skena, was no stranger to herbs and potions. Sometimes the apothecary even asked her advice. She was from the south and knew this common winding vine as belladonna. Deadly nightshade.
“That’s a medicine of a kind, I think,” Macbeth said out loud.
The porter gave him a knowing grin. “A medicine? Right. You’re a smart one sometimes, lord,” he said. “It is. Not one to feed an army, though.”
“It grows here?”
“The castle grounds are infested with the stuff. The berries are everywhere.”
Banquo looked interested. “I don’t know which looks craftier,” he said. “You or your skinny porter down there. What’s on your mind, eh?”
“How many barrels of beer are left?” asked Macbeth.
“Twelve,” said the porter, checking the wagon. “Not enough to keep out this cold night, that’s for sure. If we’re still alive in the morning, I’ll find a village and get us more.” He rubbed his fingers together, grinning. “It’ll take a little cash, mind.”
“Open the barrels,” said Macbeth. “All of them.”
“You’re going to let the men drink knowing that we’ll be having breakfast with Sueno’s cutthroat Vikings?” asked Banquo, aghast. “What is this? A wake for the living? For surely we’ll be dead tomorrow. Dead with hangovers, which may be doubly painful...”
“It’s not for us,” Macbeth cut in. “Fergus, set a guard on the wagon and send some of the kitchen staff to gather the weed.”
“Fine,” said the man below with a sigh.
Macbeth laughed at Banquo’s bafflement. “Belladonna, man. Does the name mean nothing?”
“I leave gardening to women and servants!”
The porter was still listening, and he was quicker. His face went white and his hands went to his cheeks. “Not the beer!” he cried. “Sweet Jesus! Not the beer!”
An hour later, when the rain had finally stopped, the porter drove his wagon south with much spitting and cursing. Banquo watched him leave, then turned to Macbeth.
“You’re sure about this?”
Banquo had donned his helmet with the wolf’s head grinning above it, fangs forever bared. The pelt came from a Viking he’d killed, one of the strange and merciless monsters they called the “berserkers.” No other Scot owned such a prize or, if they did, would dare to wear it in Banquo’s presence.
“No,” said Macbeth. “But more sure of it than I am of Cawdor.”
Or Duncan, he thought.
They’d found a local woman in the kitchen who knew of belladonna. A single berry might save a man from a spasm. Ten could kill him, half that for a child. The barrels of beer were vast, the calculation difficult. Too much poison and the men would taste it. Too little and at best they’d suffer a sore head. If the encounter could be resolved through single combat with Sueno or his champion, Macbeth would have been the first to volunteer, but this was war. He knew that steel and sinew and raw courage were not always the surest way to victory, even if he didn’t like the alternatives. He left the woman to work out how many berries to add to each barrel, and when she came later to explain her decision, he waved her away, not wanting to know the details.
Now he stared into the deepening twilight and caught the shapes of three figures on the side of the fell that tumbled down toward Linnhe. Spies? He doubted it. These forms were too still, too obviously watchful. And though it was a good way distant and difficult to tell, he had the strange feeling that they were women.
The porter returned as sour as when he left, but none the worse for his excursion. The Norse guards had swallowed his drunken tale of mistaking their camp for Macbeth’s as easily as they would now consume the generous barrels of beer laced with soporific belladonna.
Macbeth gave the order after the moon rose. The men were tired and skeptical. It was a measure of their faith in him, Macbeth thought, that they got to their feet at all.
Banquo roared with laughter at the audacity of the plan, and though he had raised various objections and refused to be entirely persuaded, he had finally grinned and shrugged as if this were one more boyhood prank.
The army fell in and marched as close to silence as they could. They saw no sign of the enemy till they crested a long wooded ridge. Then, by the waterside, emerged the fires of Sueno’s camp. Banquo led his company to the east, while Macbeth cut round to the north, each following the other’s movements in the bright light of the moon. Macbeth could not say if they had been seen or if the enemy was waiting for them. But in his bones, he thought they went undetected. The camp was too quiet.
Finally, his lead scout raised a warning hand and pointed. The whole silent company shrank into the hillside and froze.
Ahead on a raised tussock stood a helmeted figure with a tall spear, silhouetted against the sky.
Slender black clouds scudded across the stars. The weather, for th
e moment, would be kind to them.
The man closest to Macbeth unslung a bow and nocked an arrow in its string. Macbeth stilled him with a touch and crept forward, stooping in the tall grass. He drew his sword silently, his eyes on the black shape of the watchman, trying to see which way the man was looking. A rough path of bent grass stalks, dark and gleaming with the day’s rain, led right to him. Made by deer, probably, thought Macbeth, though his mind prickled at the memory of the three strange figures he had glimpsed on the hillside. The idea unsettled him and he stopped, glancing down to make sure there was nothing underfoot that would give him away.
When he looked up again, he was unsure whether the silhouette had moved or not. It was certainly motionless now, but for all he knew, the guard was staring right at him, trying to ascertain what he was seeing in the moonlight, poised to plunge that long spear into Macbeth’s heart.
He took a careful breath, made one more step, and stopped. The man had made a sound. Macbeth hadn’t caught the word but was sure the Viking had grunted something in an unknown tongue. A demand for a password? Macbeth did not move, but his grip on the sword tightened. He was about to spring forward when the noise came again, and this time he knew it for what it was.
Half propped against his spear, the Viking slept there standing, snoring like a pig.
It was all he could do not to laugh aloud. Macbeth rose silently and drew his knife. He moved close enough to smell the ale on the guard’s snores, then moved behind him, the blade raised to his throat. There was foreign lettering stamped on the man’s helm, a prayer, perhaps, or a family motto. Macbeth focused on the unreadable words, clamped his hand over the snoring mouth, and drew his knife across the Norseman’s throat in one clean cut.
