Macbeth

by David Hewson

  He signaled, and the army began to move again, following him silently past the still, sad corpse and down toward the camp. As they reached the enemy tents, it was clear the guard was not a solitary sleeper.

  The entire army was insensible, or as near as made no difference. Even when the noise of fighting rang out, most of the Vikings failed to stir. Macbeth himself killed only two, both drunk with slumber and waving wildly with their spears and axes. It was barely a battle at all.

  Sueno’s army was counted later at more than seven hundred men. Half of them died that night, many as they slept. Macbeth—who preferred not to kill a man except in the hot blood of open combat—was unamused, but as Banquo reminded him, this was the way of warfare, especially for the Highlanders. Had the conflict gone the other way, the Scots would now be on their knees, sorry heads bowed, waiting for the ax to fall.

  “This was a mighty force,” he added. “Sleepy, I grant you, but more than we could handle had they been awake.”

  Those of ransomable rank were spared and bound, the better weapons claimed for plunder. The foot soldiers and any deemed a Viking slave through the oar blisters on their hands were taken to the loch and there lined up in a miserable, complaining line and beheaded like animals brought to slaughter. The lucky few died where they slept or in the foggy moments just after opening their eyes. There was probably a clansman or two among them, Macbeth thought. Not that there was time to look.

  “War,” shrugged Banquo, taking off his wolf’s-head helmet, wiping the blade of his sword. “No one said it was fair.”

  They found Sueno waking in a bath of tepid water in a tent beside a fire.

  Macbeth and Banquo walked in to see the king of Norway naked, shivering, fearful for his life. The man spoke in a language none understood. He was elderly, skeletal, with a ragged beard and mad, frightened eyes. Fergus the porter sneaked in behind to watch what happened.

  Sueno stumbled out of the bath, fell across the tent, tumbled hard against his traveling chest, hands grasping ahead of him.

  “If he finds a sword,” Banquo murmured, “king or not...”

  But the Viking’s fingers fell on something altogether different. A crown. Ornate gold, covered in jewels. He came forward on his bare knees and offered it to Macbeth, finding a few words the men there could understand.

  “Come!” Sueno bade him. “Gold! Take! Yours! Take!”

  Fergus was in front of him now, waving a small, sharp dagger, grinning, snarling.

  “My master’s worth a better crown than some scurvy mongrel foreigner’s.” He glanced at Macbeth. “Am I right, sir? After the battles we’ve won today, you could mount the throne of Scotland yourself.”

  The porter’s boot came up and connected with Sueno’s groin. The Norseman howled. The crown fell to the dank earth.

  “Shut up, Fergus,” Macbeth ordered. “And leave him alone. He’s an old man and a king. He’ll fetch a damned fine ransom, too. Let him get dressed.”

  Macbeth bent down, retrieved the gold circlet. It felt warm and precious in his hands. Still, he offered it to Sueno.

  “Take it,” the Viking murmured, terrified. “Do not kill...”

  The other two stared at Macbeth, waiting for an answer.

  “We’ll take what we deserve,” he said. “But your crown’s your own till Duncan says otherwise.”

  “Ach, Duncan,” the porter muttered. “Where is he?”

  As he moved, his purse chinked.

  “I hear it’s been a profitable evening for you, Fergus,” said Banquo, scowling.

  “I take no more than my share,” said the porter. He stabbed a grubby, skinny finger toward the Viking king. “This one doesn’t understand a single word you say. You want me to find someone who speaks this heathen tongue?”

  “Yes,” said Macbeth.

  Fergus wandered out, but he cast a long and greedy look at the golden crown before he did so.

  “That man of yours,” Banquo began, “is a low and vicious cur. But not without his uses.” He raised an eyebrow at his friend. “Or are you above such things?”

  There came no answer. Macbeth helped up the shaking, naked figure and cast a cloak around his shoulders. They would treat the Norse king half kindly, even with a little respect.

  That, thought Macbeth, wasn’t fair, either. That was politics.

  King Duncan stood in the thin light of dawn, his cloak drawn tight around his shoulders, considering his options while the priest concluded the Latin prayers with which the court habitually began the day. These rituals bored him—today more than most—but he had long since decided that such things were important. It had been an endless night, talking, bargaining, pacing around each other like dogs thrust into the pit, Duncan with his wary, demoralized thanes, Cawdor smug and amused, with four of Sueno’s housecarls standing grimly behind him.

  He had courted the thane of Cawdor, encouraged the lord’s fawning praise. But he’d never liked the man, he realized. Cawdor had always been too pleased with himself, too opulent of dress, too quick to command every room he entered. Duncan had felt a petty kind of contempt for him, never dreaming that arrogance might turn to treachery. He should have squashed him when he had the chance.

  But now there was nothing to be done. Thanks to Sueno and his army, Cawdor had him backed into a dismal corner. The night’s deliberations were little more than a show for the Scottish thanes, pretense at a defiance he could not possibly deliver in the field. Cawdor knew all this, which was why he stayed so affable, joking with the lords he had betrayed, toasting them with his cup while they stamped and bellowed like bulls.

  Tamed bulls. They all were. Duncan, too.

  Lennox, Ross, and MacDuff had begun the night full of high indignation and threats. But even they could see that, with the Vikings behind him, Cawdor held all the cards. The man would soon bore of this posturing and Duncan would hand over the crown and country to be divided as Sueno saw fit. And that last was a crucial detail. No one had threatened Duncan—not yet. They wanted his help, a peaceful abdication. There would be baubles offered: a coastal retreat, perhaps, a few thousand acres of his own with a profitable town under his lease, and a mountain or two of grazing land. As well as a place at Sueno’s right hand, of course. The Viking wanted a kingdom, one he could run from across the cold North Sea. And that would be Scotland’s future, to be nothing more than a vassal state for foreigners, run by Cawdor, with Duncan playing second fiddle to the thane whose betrayal had brought his monarchy to an end.

  This was a moment for diplomacy, not threats, for biding time and stalling his enemy with lengthy negotiations. Duncan had wielded power too long to abandon it easily. He knew this country and its people in ways Sueno did not. He understood what the men, those still loyal to him, now thought of Cawdor, too. A little sly procrastination might extend his options.

  And there’s always England, he thought.

  The pious king in London, Edward, “the Confessor” they called him, had left the Scots alone for most of his reign. Even so, he would not be happy with Sueno and his Vikings squatting on that porous border from Berwick to the Irish Sea. There might be a lever there if he could find a way to lean his weight upon it...

  Complaining of tiredness, Duncan had asked that they break for private discussions. Now, with the priest’s morning office concluded, he sat silent outside his quarters, watching a bright cerise dawn break over the eastern hills. Some shunned him already, making their dejected way to Cawdor’s camp a short way opposite. Duncan could cross that short space and slit Cawdor’s throat—or rather send some suicidal fool to do it for him. Though that would satisfy his pride, he knew it would bring Sueno down upon them. This endless and circular talking, however maddening, was at least preferable to that.

  If only he had seen Cawdor for what he was sooner. If only there existed a talent to read the heart of a man through his face...A king could surely use that.

  Malcolm emerged from his tent, yawning and stretching. Duncan gave him the smalles
t nod and his son came to stand silently beside him, considering the day.

  “Did sleep grant you visions of a way out of this bloody farce?” Duncan muttered, his voice low and wry, his eyes fixed elsewhere.

  “Can’t say it did,” said Malcolm.

  “We can’t keep talking forever,” his father answered. “I’d give my right arm for Macbeth and that madman Banquo. The two of them would listen to this cant for an instant, then tear Cawdor’s tongue straight from his head.”

  “True,” said Malcolm. “But they’re not here. So give Cawdor what he wants. Be amenable. The thanes, for all their bluster, know your hands are tied. We may live to revenge ourselves for this indignity. For now, concede to their demands. You have no choice. Sueno will not stay long, and when he leaves...”

  “Then Cawdor will murder us all at the slightest opportunity,” said Duncan, the words like a weight in his mouth. “He’ll watch like a hawk and find excuses. Or invent them, anyway. I would.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Malcolm. “So when he’s absent, we make sure he’s got good reason. Old alliances might be reforged. Caithness and Angus will stand with us. So will MacDuff, Ross, Lennox, and Menteith.”

  Duncan turned to his son and asked, “ ‘With us?’ ”

  “With you,” Malcolm answered carefully, his eyes steady. “Cawdor may force their hands, but he won’t rule their hearts. They still believe in the throne of Scotland. Which is rather what got us into this mess in the first place, isn’t it?”

  “And you?” said Duncan.

  “I am your majesty’s most faithful servant,” said Malcolm, with the smallest hint of a smile.

  “And his son,” said Duncan, “which makes you dearest to my heart.”

  “And your only hope of dynasty,” said Malcolm, the amusement still there.

  “I did this for you, ingrate!” Duncan roared, whipping the back of his hand across his son’s face. Malcolm’s head snapped back, his cheeks colored.

  He flashed his father a vicious look, then touched his lip where it was cut and bleeding.

  “Your violence should be directed at your enemies, Father,” he said. “Not me.”

  Duncan hung his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, then grasped Malcolm’s shoulder, ignoring the way he flinched. The men on the far side of the fire had followed every moment.

  “Forgive me,” he said, embracing his son. “It’s been a long night, and so much seems lost.”

  “Mislaid, for a time only,” said Malcolm, wiping his mouth. “It may yet be recoverable. With patience.”

  Shouts came from the edge of the camp, and the clear drumming of horse hooves.

  Duncan looked quickly about as soldiers blundered out of their tents, belting on their swords. His personal guard gathered round him hastily, spears and targets hedging him in. They seemed fewer than the night before. The stillness of the morning was lost in a rush of panic and confusion. This, he thought, is how defeated kings who never take the field will always come to die.

  A lone horseman rode, barreling into the camp. He was a young man, his face vaguely familiar, though smeared with mud and blood.

  “I come with news of Macbeth and Banquo!” he shouted.

  The tension broke like an overdrawn bowstring, and in its place came dread and weariness. They had all known this was coming, but hearing the details of it, and in earshot of Cawdor with his Viking housecarl escort, was no way to start this difficult day. It would discomfort the men and end all negotiation. With a flash of anger, Duncan wondered if he had missed his opportunity. It was one thing to offer Sueno help before the final defeat was confirmed, quite another to do so afterward. He had been foolish to let the argument go on as long as he did. He saw MacDuff, Ross, and Lennox standing at the edge of the circle, dithering already, and he hated them for the swaggering, pointless defiance with which they had taken up the night.

  “They’re victorious!” shouted the rider. “MacDonwald is dead, and his force destroyed. Sueno’s army was surprised last night and his army routed utterly. The Viking king himself is captive and already offering ransom for a boat back home, with his tail between his legs.”

  There was a silence in which no man breathed. Then, as the cheering began, the horseman slid down and recounted the victory in such great detail even Duncan came to believe him.

  “Thanks be to God,” said Duncan, crossing himself piously, but unable to keep the flicker of a smile from his lips.

  Cawdor listened, horrified, his arrogant face bloodless and full of fear. In the moments that followed, he regained something of his old composure, though it was bleak and without hope. His housecarls were disarmed and dragged away. The thane stood where he was, unbelting his sword and leaving it where the scabbard fell. His eyes met Duncan’s and held them, his lips twisted in a self-deprecating smile.

  “I could have killed you and all your kin last night,” the man said with a shrug. “I wanted a pact, not slaughter. That’s worth something, surely.”

  Duncan peered at him and said not a word.

  “It was about the throne,” the thane added. “Not you.” His voice began to break. “Monarchs serve their people, and the people choose them. That’s how it’s always been!”

  The king blinked, but no other reaction showed in his face. “Malcolm,” he said, his gaze still on Cawdor, aware that silence had fallen again and all eyes were on him. “Take this traitor’s chain of office. The crown of Scotland is full of forgiveness for the iniquities of its people. Only that most grievous sin against the crown, against the state, lies beyond its mercy. Take him, my son, and show him justice.”

  Cawdor’s gaze flickered and he opened his mouth as if to speak. But as Malcolm tore the silver chain from his throat, he seemed to change his mind.

  “Bind him,” Malcolm barked at Lennox, and as they did, he drew his long, narrow dagger and considered his reflection in the blade.

  “I never liked the men of Perth,” the old witch moaned. “They reek of herring, bacon fat, and smoke.”

  There was lightning over the distant western sea and, not long after, the low, heavy moan of thunder. Merciless sheets of howling icy rain ran across the hillsides. Unmoved by the storm, the women had scattered separately through the heather like wild animals, before meeting at a cairn of rough, dark granite hewn into strange shapes by wind and time. There, they had, by chance, encountered a stranger on the path, a sailor, one of several messengers sent from the king to the troops in the field.

  “He brought good news,” the young one said. “Be grateful.”

  “Good, bad,” said the hefty witch. “What difference does it make?”

  They sat around a lively wood fire, meat turning on spears of gorse over the flames, snatching at the flesh as it cooked. Close by stood the only path through the low deciduous woodlands that ran along the southern bank of Loch Oich toward Aberchalder. No one would pass without their noticing.

  “Knowledge may be the difference between success and failure,” the coltish girl intoned. “It’s more fitting to cast an incantation for that which a man desires than that which he abhors.”

  She glared at them and wondered, Why bother? Did they ever understand? Even in the shady, inchoate place that was the beginning? The years had reduced them to their pots and potions, chants and prayers, the mistaken belief they might achieve anything, if only the right substance or incantation could be found. They were, in their own eyes, little more than kitchen maids tending the bubbling cauldron of fate.

  “To take a good man and find the minuscule seed of darkness within him...to turn chastity to lust on a whim...the loyal to traitors...sway the incorrupt to venality...exchange love for hate.” She munched on the morsel in her hand and found the burned taste unappealing. “Therein lies true magic. The unmasking of the hidden self below the surface, the skull beneath the skin.”

  The old one sat in a heap on the ground, stabbing the fire back to life with her crutch from time to time, mumbling a few disjointed words. Morose
as ever, the giant gnawed on a fatty morsel, then belched toward the embers.

  The girl’s naked leg and siren cry had lured the sailor into a dark cave, there to be stuck and poked with burning sticks until he told all. Through Macbeth’s valor Duncan was triumphant, primped up with all the vainglory that was the privilege of those who won the battle without risking a single hair of their own heads. Against the odds, Macbeth had snatched victory from the hungry mouth of defeat, taking the Norsemen by surprise as they waited, drugged and drunk, believing no man alive would fight them with so small a band of warriors. Sueno had thought his foe would wait for reinforcements and knew they would never come. So, in his lazy leisure, he had taunted the Scots and fortune herself, believing he could put off till the morrow the slaughter he might so easily have had today.

  Macbeth was brave, foolhardy almost, taking the Vikings in their sleep as they dreamt of plunder and women. Just a single Scot had died. The invaders counted their losses in hundreds. Sueno himself and all his surviving generals had been taken prisoner and would be conveyed to the coast for a punitive ransom that would keep the Vikings at bay for a while at least and add more riches to Duncan’s rich and private coffers.

  Now the king was returning to Forres in the east, victorious. Three enemies vanquished—the rebel forces, the traitor at their head, and the Vikings. And not so much as a bruise on his royal frame.

  Rebellion and invasion had consequences, foreseen and unexpected, always. There would be a shuffling of the baronial order, the lazy losing favor, the treacherous their heads. And the king would be stronger, richer, more venal than ever, all the while presenting to the world the face of a white-haired saint on first-name terms with his Almighty.

  The sailor had spoken most freely once they had removed his toenails. Duncan’s cruel and ambitious nature was, she learned, common knowledge, even among lowly men. Yet still they persisted in the illusion of his sanctity, preferring to believe their monarch a holy paragon rather than recognize his rank corruption and let its stain fall upon themselves.