Macbeth and Son

by Jackie French

  Lulach turned to Kenneth. ‘Where’s Knut?’ he asked urgently.

  Kenneth shook his head. His eyes were kind but full of sadness. ‘I’m sorry, lad.’

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Lulach again.

  Kenneth waved down into the glen. ‘Somewhere…’ he said.

  Lulach handed Kenneth his sword. He began to trudge down the hill, between the bodies.

  How did you know who was alive and who was dead? Open eyes, staring at the sky…Open eyes meant death. But others were sprawled among the heather, their faces to the ground.

  The world was all dying men and treeless hills. The sky was still bright. That’s the trouble with summer, thought Lulach hazily. The days are so long that night never comes.

  ‘Water!’

  Lulach kneeled. The boy was young. You needed to be twelve to join the army, but many boys lied about their age—or never knew it to begin with. Lulach held his water skin to the boy’s lips. He seemed unhurt, if you didn’t notice his blood-soaked cloak, the shadows in his eyes. Lulach beckoned to a stretcher party to come to the boy’s aid, then he walked on.

  And then he found him.

  Knut lay near the body of his horse. It was easy for a man on foot to cut a horse’s hamstrings, to bring it down. Horses never survived a battle long. An army needed many horses to replace the fallen.

  Lulach kneeled by his friend’s body. For a moment he thought Knut was dead. Then the bruised eyes opened. ‘Have we won?’ Knut whispered painfully.

  ‘Yes, my friend.’

  ‘Good.’

  Around them Macbeth’s men collected spears and hunted out the enemy wounded among their own.

  ‘I’m dying,’ breathed Knut.

  Lulach tried to find words of reassurance. But he owed his friend the truth. The blood that seeped onto the ground was black, not red.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  They had both made their confessions and been shriven before the battle—afterwards there were never priests enough. There was nothing Lulach could do now but wait with Knut until the end.

  There should be something you could say to a dying friend, thought Lulach. Words of love, or comfort. But his body and his mind were numb. Words wouldn’t come.

  So he sat there, Knut’s hand in his, till Knut’s breathing stopped. Even then he stayed there, too numb with grief to move.

  A thousand years later, Luke waited too, refusing to struggle out of his dream. Knut would never know that two sat with him, not one. It was all that Luke could do for Lulach. Lulach would do the same for him, he thought vaguely, if he had to sit like this with Patrick…

  ‘My Lord?’ It was one of the King’s guards. ‘The King wants you.’

  ‘I’m coming.’ Lulach placed Knut’s hand on his bloody chest. ‘Stay with him,’ he ordered. ‘I want his body taken home for burial.’

  It was the last, the only thing that he could do for his friend: to take him home.

  Home, thought Luke, restless on his pillow. I am home. I’m not really here…there…The smell of blood, the scream of a wounded enemy seeing a knife come down…None of it can touch me. I’m here in bed.

  Then suddenly the dream was gone.

  Luke half awoke. For a second he wondered where he was. Here or there; battlefield or bed?

  But he was home. He was safe.

  No—how could he be safe after a battle like that?

  But it was Lulach’s battle, not his…

  So that’s what it’s like, thought Luke, to fight for your country. To fight and win.

  Exhaustion claimed him—exhaustion from the battle, from living it, or dreaming it. He slept again. But his dreams were normal now: faces that vanished a moment after they arrived, things that didn’t matter flickering by.

  How long he dreamed like that he didn’t know. And then the chaos steadied. The world grew clear again.

  The other world, a thousand years ago.

  Time blurred.

  Somehow Luke knew that three years had passed for Lulach. Years of hunger, as once again the country tried to recover from the loss of so many men. Years of arming men for war and raising armies. Lulach was a man now, not a youth—a man who’d lived through three years of war.

  Because Malcolm had attacked again.

  No one had won this battle. Both armies were destroyed.

  The King knew that if Malcolm attacked again, with more mercenaries from Ireland, the battered Alban forces wouldn’t be able to repel them.

  They needed yet another army. And there was only one place where they would raise one, a place where every man was loyal to their mormaer. Moray. This time even the old and sick, the cattle herders in the farthest glens, were needed.

  Now, as Luke dreamed, Lulach galloped north with the King and his guard. This time the north would rise against the enemy.

  This time, maybe, they’d win.

  The track was muddy, and there were trees and mist around them. The air smelled of distant snow, but Lulach was hot from hard riding. The sweat ran down his back and under his leather jerkin. They’d reach the monastery of Aboyne tonight, before crossing the mountains to their own lands.

  The horses were panting, their breath white in the cold air. The King raised a hand, then pulled his own horse around. ‘We’ll stop here awhile!’

  Macbeth had aged, Luke realised, as he watched the King lead his horse over to a well just off the track. His red hair was flecked with grey, his face creased with weariness and trouble.

  The well stones were covered in moss. Above them bare crags rose grey as the clouds. The air was thick and still.

  Lulach dismounted. One of the guards pulled up the bucket from the depths of the well. The King drank first, then Lulach. The horses would drink later, when they were cooler. Cold water now might give them colic.

  Lulach gulped the water gratefully. It tasted of ancient rock and soil.

  There were oatcakes in his saddle bag, and cheese. One of the guards pulled out a slab of dried fish.

  ‘You and your fish farts can ride behind me, then!’ joked one of the younger guards.

  The King gazed at the sky. ‘Storm before nightfall,’ he said with a frown.

  ‘We’ll be at the abbey by—’ began Lulach.

  But Kenneth interrupted him. ‘My Lord!’ He pointed urgently down into the mist.

  Then Lulach saw them too: riders, far below them, galloping hard, a flash of helmet and armour. Then they vanished again, into the trees.

  ‘Malcolm’s men,’ said the King flatly. Men on horseback were rare. Men with swords and armour even fewer.

  Lulach felt a cold certainty settle into his bones. ‘Malcolm couldn’t defeat the King in battle,’ he said. ‘So he’ll ambush him where no one can see.’

  Facing your foe in battle was honourable. But only a coward or a criminal ambushed an enemy.

  ‘How many?’ asked the King crisply.

  ‘I counted four,’ said Lulach.

  ‘I’d say ten,’ said Kenneth. ‘More, perhaps.’

  Lulach stared at the trees below, but their branches hid the riders. Could the King’s party escape? he wondered. Their horses were tired. But the English horses might be tired too.

  Kenneth made a quick assessment. ‘We’re safer meeting them head-on than having them at our backs. My Lord, you and the lad go across country, with two guards. I’ll lead the rest to intercept them. That’ll give you time to get away.’

  ‘No,’ said the King softly.

  ‘But my Lord—’

  ‘I won’t send a man to any battle that I won’t face myself. You and Lulach head across country. Make for Aboyne as we planned; they’ll give you sanctuary there.’

  ‘Father!’ protested Lulach, then hesitated. What could he say? ‘No, this is too dangerous’? The King knew the danger as well as he did. ‘You ride to the Abbey and let me fight in your place’?

  He met his father’s eyes—tired eyes, the eyes of a man who had done his best, done better for his people than any k
ing before him.

  But it had not been enough.

  And the King was right. If they both died, Malcolm could seize the throne before an election could be held. But if the King was murdered here today, every man in Alba would rise to fight for his son.

  His father smiled. He hugged Lulach quickly, then stepped back. ‘God go with you, my son,’ he said quietly. ‘Look after Alba and her people. Tell your mother…’ He paused. ‘Tell her…’

  What? thought Lulach. Praise her for her duty, her loyalty? Praise her for the years she has spent governing Moray in your place, while you have led the country?

  But instead the King said softly, ‘Tell her that in her I’ve had my earthly joy.’

  The King strode to his horse and mounted swiftly. Within seconds his horse’s hooves were pounding down the track, his guard following behind.

  Kenneth swung himself into the saddle. The unscarred half of his face was grim; the scar blank, as it always had to be, emotion burned from it. But these days Lulach hardly saw the scar.

  ‘Hurry, my Lord!’ Kenneth urged.

  Lulach nodded.

  Their horses cantered up the hill, their hooves striking sparks against the rock. His father had kept him safe, again…

  His father…

  Memories came crowding in. The day his father was crowned king, hoisting him up onto his shoulders.

  His father in battle, putting his shield and body in front of the sword that would strike his son down.

  His father…not the King…

  Suddenly Lulach pulled on his reins. The horse jerked around.

  ‘My Lord!’ yelled Kenneth.

  ‘I’m going back!’ shouted Lulach.

  ‘But the King ordered—’

  ‘And now his tanist gives you other orders! Follow me!’

  Back down the hill they galloped, into the trees again, back to the track, their hooves thundering against the ground.

  Lulach could hear the clash of swords now. Then he and Kenneth were on them.

  Four, ten…no, fifteen invaders, one horse dancing free, its rider already on the ground. They must have hoped to catch the King unawares, rather than fight his bodyguard.

  Fourteen of the enemy, then, against twelve of them. We can do it! thought Lulach, as he added his yells to Kenneth’s and waved his sword above his head. This is our home ground; the land will give us strength…

  There was no fear now, no confusion.

  Each battle is easier, thought Lulach, urging his horse towards the King.

  And then there was no time to think. His body took over, and his sword arm—thrust, parry, thrust again—his horse, thank God, steady beneath him, unfazed by the clash of battle…

  One guard down, blood welling at his neck. Two of the enemy crumpled on the ground. The guard had sold his life dear. A scream as another horse stumbled—theirs or the enemy’s, Lulach couldn’t tell.

  Slash, parry, slash again, sparks rising as iron smashed into iron.

  The sound of hooves again: one of the enemy, galloping away. A second following, and then a third…

  We have them on the run! thought Lulach triumphantly, as his opponent twisted at his reins and galloped off.

  The King sat straight in the saddle, his eyes wide. Safe! thought Lulach exultantly.

  Then the King’s mouth opened. Blood flowed out, bright as a bird in the morning.

  ‘Father!’

  But the King no longer saw. He fell from the saddle, his fingers still clasping the reins. Then the fingers opened. The King lay upon the ground, a knife between his shoulder blades.

  Lulach leaped down and stumbled towards him.

  ‘The coward!’ cried Kenneth hoarsely. His scarred cheek had been slashed open. Blood flowed freely onto his shirt, but he made no sign that he felt it. ‘He must have stabbed him from behind.’

  Lulach said nothing. He kneeled at the King’s side.

  ‘Father!’ he whispered.

  The King stared unseeing at the sky. But his lips moved. ‘Tell them I did my best.’ And then, so soft it almost wasn’t there, ‘Remember me.’

  Had he really heard it? The blue eyes were sightless now. There was neither breath nor life.

  The King looked smaller suddenly. It was his strength that made him large, thought Lulach blankly.

  ‘Should we go after them, my Lord?’ cried Kenneth.

  ‘No,’ said Lulach. ‘They’ll make for the border now.’

  ‘But we must avenge the King!’

  I have been a boy, thought Lulach. Now I must be a man.

  The guard waited for his orders. Not just the guard, he realised, but all of Alba. They’re mine to care for now.

  ‘There’ll be revenge,’ said Lulach slowly. ‘But not today. Not when we’re tired, and they can ambush us again.’

  Sweat blurred his sight. Blood dripped from his forehead. Years of battles stretched in front of him, against an enemy who could afford to pay anyone who’d fight for gold.

  ‘You were a king of peace and plenty,’ Lulach whispered to the man on the ground. ‘You’ve left me to be a king of war.’

  How could he bear it?

  Chapter 26

  Lulach

  My name’s Macbeth.

  (Macbeth, Act V, Scene 7, line 7)

  How could he bear it? Luke struggled desperately to wake up.

  ‘No!’ He tried to form the words, but his lips were numb. He had to wake up! It couldn’t be like this! He had to escape—into daylight, the modern world with Mrs T’s muffins on the table and the smell of coffee.

  But the dream held him tight.

  The scene blurred around him. The voices faded, the scents of blood and metal. The trees vanished.

  There was another smell now, salt. The scream of seagulls, sea spray upon his skin. A deck heaved under his feet. Somewhere, sailors were singing as a lone piper played.

  Where was he? What had happened? Where was the King?

  And then he knew.

  This was the King’s last voyage, as they carried his body across the sea to his final resting place, with Alba’s other leaders on the holy isle of Iona.

  The wind blew from the island, bringing with it the song of dead kings.

  ‘Remember me…’

  ‘We won’t forget you, Father,’ whispered Lulach. ‘They’ll sing of you for a thousand years.’

  Were the clouds weeping too? The mist came lower and lower still.

  But it wasn’t mist, Luke realised. The dream, the ancient world, was vanishing.

  The story had ended.

  His dreams had begun when Lulach’s father died. Now they would end with Macbeth’s death. Whatever happened to Lulach, somehow Luke knew that the dream would never come again.

  Chapter 27

  Luke

  The day almost professes itself yours,

  And little is to do.

  (Macbeth, Act V, Scene 7, lines 27–28)

  It was a shock to find himself in his bed in the silent house.

  ‘Please don’t end it yet!’ Luke begged. He wanted to see the funeral, the nation weeping for their king, the holy rites on the cold island, the mourning…

  ‘It’s my right!’ he whispered. ‘I was there. I was with you. I saw it all!’

  But he was a thousand years and half a world away.

  They did remember you, he thought. Lulach was right. You were remembered for a thousand years.

  But as what? Not Macbeth the hero. Not Macbeth the ruler of Alba’s golden age, with his wife, the calm, the dutiful Queen Gruoch. They remember you as a coward and a villain, and your wife as a mad and scheming woman with bloody hands.

  Lies, thought Luke. The world remembers lies.

  Lies matter, he told himself. How could I ever have thought they didn’t?

  His pyjamas were wet with sweat, as though his body had fought those ancient battles too. He lay shivering for a moment, then got up. Dawn was a blur through the curtains.

  ‘Lies killed you,’ he said to
the dead king. ‘Malcolm lied. King Edward lied. They lied and said you had no right to the throne, because you were elected, not the son of a king. The English changed your history.

  ‘Now all that’s left is a lie too.’

  Why me? he wondered. Why did the dream come to me?

  Because I’ve been thinking about lies? Because I wanted a stepfather like Macbeth, a man I could admire? Or was there something more?

  There was no way he could go back to sleep. He dressed quickly, then went out to the kitchen.

  Sam was already there. He gestured at the kettle. ‘Like a coffee? I’m just having a quick cup before I head out to the airport.’ He grinned. ‘I reckon I’ve just got time to get down to Sydney, get the make-up on and start talking. Let’s hope there’s no hold-up with air traffic control.’

  ‘What if there is?’

  Sam shrugged. ‘I’ve prerecorded stuff. Not as good as doing it live, but it’ll do.’

  ‘Sam…please can you help the Fishers?’

  Sam put down his coffee. ‘Luke, I explained—’

  ‘But you can try! Please! Please, Sam.’

  Suddenly he was so angry it was almost impossible to speak. Why couldn’t he have had a stepfather like Macbeth, someone who had the courage to do what was needed no matter what cost to himself? But instead he had Sam, more like Malcolm than Macbeth—Malcolm the liar, Malcolm the thief, just like Sam had stolen Mum and their lives and the farm. And now he knew what to say.

  ‘Some things are important! Some things are worth fighting for!’

  Where had the words come from? Megan, or his dream? It didn’t matter. They were his words now. ‘What sort of person can’t fight for what he loves?’

  Sam looked at him strangely. ‘It means that much to you?’

  ‘More than anything,’ said Luke passionately. And it was true. ‘Megan would be great on TV. She really knows how to say things…’

  Sam sipped his coffee. Thinking of another excuse, thought Luke. But, to his surprise, finally Sam nodded. ‘Luke, I can’t promise anything. But if it means so much to you—well, I’ll see what I can do.’

  It was all he was going to get. But somehow Luke knew that he really meant it. Sam would try.