When Macbeth returned, Gille insisted he sit next to him. So I was perfectly placed to hear the first links in the chain of Macbeth’s plan fall into place. ‘You honour us with another rich feast,’ he began. ‘And every Moravian is proud to have an open-handed lord like Gille Coemgáin standing over us.’

  Gille nodded graciously. ‘As they should be.’

  ‘But, my lord, I have learned a practice on Mull that I believe has a true part to play.’

  Gille frowned. ‘Is this some monkish quackery they’ve fooled you with? I always said you listen too much to those self-righteous pricks.’

  ‘I take from them only what I find useful,’ Macbeth said. ‘When they do this with sincerity, it has good outcomes. When they do not . . . well, things don’t always turn out so well. Cousin, I want only the best start in life for your son – who is also my cousin. And this will cost you nothing.’

  That caught Gille’s attention. He only likes to spend when it brings him benefits. ‘So what is this nonsense?’

  ‘It’s simple. You must gather your men around you. Only your men, your whole war band. Bring them here to the hall. You come together to pledge your allegiance to the new babe, and to the clan. You give thanks for the birth and for Queen Gruoch, you ask for blessings on them and you toast the future. Then it falls to your key warriors to say something in praise of the house of Gille Coemgáin.’ Macbeth lifted his hands from his lap in a gesture that says, ‘That’s it.’

  ‘And this works?’ Gille’s tendency to suspicion was not so easily allayed.

  ‘I have seen it. If Lulach were my son, I would not hesitate. I would already have done it with my whole heart. It strengthens the clan as well as the child.’

  ‘Will the men support it?’

  Macbeth shrugged. ‘If you command it, they will support it. What do you have to lose? You spend an evening drinking and praising and calling down blessings on the clan. If it brings good luck, you win. If not?’ Another shrug. ‘There must be some among your men you suspect of insincerity. They can carry the blame.’

  Gille liked the idea of having ready-made scapegoats if he failed. I knew that would appeal to him. ‘So it’s really an excuse for a night’s drinking without the women?’

  Macbeth winked. ‘You have it, cousin. With the bonus that, if all goes well, you can take the credit.’

  Hook, line and sinker.

  One thing I would have said for Gille – once he made his mind up to do something, he threw himself into it. Before Macbeth and the other guests had left, he was already planning the gathering of his war band. He chose the date of the next full moon, believing that to be a good omen. He ordered the brewer to have a supply of the finest barley bree and strong beer on tap for the ceremony.

  Eithne came to me and told me that she was part of Macbeth’s plan. His herbalist had joined the war band for the birth celebration and the pair of them had discussed what had to be done. They knew that the drink might stupefy the men over time, but Macbeth needed something swifter and more reliable. So Eithne mixed her own version of dwale, a sleeping draught that’s a concoction of henbane, poppy and hemlock, flavoured with rosehip syrup to soften the taste and sit well within the bree and the ale.

  I did not ask Macbeth what he planned. If he was using me to climb to where his ambition pointed, I did not want to know. I wanted to be able to trust his motives. I wanted to believe in our love. I wanted nothing to stand in the way of our future.

  When the moon rose, the men walked into the hall, full of curiosity for the ceremony that lay ahead. All fifty of the Coemgáin war band filed in and settled down on their benches, jugs of beer and bree on the tables in front of them. None of them held back; warriors have to prove their prowess at drinking as much as fighting.

  The doors to the hall were closed behind them. As Macbeth had explained, this was a ritual for the men only. Time passed, and gradually the conversations inside the hall stilled. We could barely make out Gille’s raised voice. Out of the shadows crept a dozen dark figures. With silent stealth, they blocked the doors to the hall with bales of hay and wooden settles. They poured pitch over the kindling, then lit their torches and set fire to the barricades.

  Within minutes, the hall turned into a funeral pyre from hell. Wood and thatch were no match for fire and flame. At first there were screams, but not many, and not for long. As the inferno died down, Macbeth stood before the rest of the clan and delivered his message. ‘Gille Coemgáin murdered my father, Findlaich. Gille did it not because of anything my father did wrong, but only because he wanted to be Mormaer. He conspired with Malcolm to murder Findlaich and divide the kingdom between them. So now I have taken back the lordship that should have been mine. I am your new Mormaer. And you are my people, my clan. I promise you I will rule with fairness. There will be no more tyranny in Moray.’

  ‘What about the boy Lulach?’ It’s Angus, primed to ask the question.

  ‘I swear I mean no harm to Lulach. He has done me no wrong. I stand here today and name Lulach as my heir.’

  There’s a stunned silence, not least from me and my women. We’d known something momentous was coming; but we’d had no clue about the heirship. My eyes filled with tears; the smoke was a perfect excuse to cover my emotion. At that moment, I loved him all the more for taking guardianship of our son.

  His eyes met mine, and he inclined his head towards me. It was a promise I trusted.

  Another gruelling day at the fastest pace the horses could manage. I hear one of our captors say we’ll stop for the night at Onich. That makes sense. Malcolm is somewhere at the far end of the Great Glen. MacDuff will use the low-lying route to get us into my enemy’s hands as quickly as possible. Ironically, we’ll have to follow the north shore of a different Loch Leven. So far from St Serf’s Isle and yet no distance at all. It ties a kind of terrible knot.

  We’d been so near to safety. Two or three more days would have seen us on Mull, among loyal kinsmen. Malcolm could not, would not have touched us there. Instead, we’re prisoners with no prospect of rescue since nobody knows where we are or where we’re bound.

  At least the rain has stopped. The sun even broke through the clouds for a while, but there was no heat in it. Cold, stiff and sore, we could hardly move when we were hauled off the horses for a break. The three of us huddled together, nibbling on stale bannocks and stringy dried venison. We had no appetite, but Aife insisted we eat to keep our strength up.

  ‘How much longer?’ Eithne asked.

  Neither of us responded. We both had a rough idea of where MacDuff was planning to take us, and it would be a few days’ hard riding yet. The prospect was appalling.

  I’d had enough. I reminded myself that I was still a queen, whatever MacDuff seemed to think. I struggled to my feet and at once one of the warriors had his claymore at my chest. I held my hands up in a gesture of surrender. I insisted on speaking to MacDuff and, grudgingly, the man let me pass.

  MacDuff sat on a rock, gnawing a chicken leg. He looked up as I drew near. ‘Why are you bothering me, woman?’ he demanded.

  ‘Malcolm will not thank you for delivering three broken women. You would do well to remember that Macbeth and me, we ruled Moray for seventeen years. We kept the peace, we were beloved. I was their queen and their queen mother. Treating us like traitors will not win Malcolm friends in Moray. He will understand the importance of that, even if it’s beyond you.’

  He scoffs. ‘You think I should find a royal carriage around here?’ He waves a derisive hand at the empty landscape.

  ‘Untie us and let us ride. We can sit in front of your warriors. I give you my word that we will not attempt to escape.’

  ‘Your word? The word of a woman who’s been hiding behind the skirts of monks for years?’

  I stare him out. If he thinks about this for a minute, he’ll know I’m talking sense. We end up with a compromise. We can ride, but our hands will be loosely bound in front of us, not wrenched behind our backs. We’re still captive, and I’ve given my word, but at least the last miles to Onich are more comfortable.

  It’s dark when we arrive, and the men take shelter in the ruin of a byre on the shores of the loch. We’re consigned to what must have been a sheep pen or a pig sty further back along the inlet. We’re fastened together at the ankles, our hands bound inside sacks to prevent us untying our bonds. We’re not going anywhere; MacDuff is no careless fool, that much is clear.

  Once the waning moon has risen, it casts enough light for us to see the ghosts of our faces. If I look as drawn as Eithne and Aife, no one from Gille Coemgáin’s compound would recognise me. We are bedraggled and filthy as beldams. We smell disgusting too. All we need is a clowder of black cats to pass for witches.

  Eithne and Aife fall into a fitful sleep, Eithne mumbling nonsense as she often does. I am too restless, beyond weary, tormented by visions of Angus and Ligach’s last moments. I shift my position so I can stare down Loch Linnhe towards the sea. I came this way once, years ago, with Macbeth. He delighted in naming everything we passed – lochs, rivers, islands, mountains. This was the land where he’d grown to manhood. His father had spent much of his time in Ireland, but Macbeth and his mother stayed behind on Mull, Loch Linnhe his favourite fishing ground. His love for the island and its people was deep and abiding, and they loved him in return.

  And here we are, a score of miles up the loch, so close and yet so far. My heart is sore; I doubt now whether I will ever set foot on Mull again.

  As I stare, I imagine a moving dot on the horizon. I picture a high wooden stem breasting the water ahead of the single russet sail of a birlinn, a dozen oars helping its progress up the loch. I know it’s a hallucination; there will be no rescue for us.

  And yet . . . the more I gaze down the loch, the more real the fantasy war galley appears. But even if I’m not dreaming, the birlinn can have nothing to do with us. No one knows where we are or where we’re heading.

  I turn away, hoping sleep might finally take me. But now the snoring of the two men set to guard us is a loud counterpoint to Eithne’s muttering. That Aife can sleep through it all is nothing short of a miracle.

  When I swivel back to face the loch, I’m shocked to realise the birlinn is no ghost ship. It’s much closer now, its sail swollen with the wind, the oars pulling in careful rhythm, barely splashing the surface. Her crew knows what they’re about, that’s clear.

  As they draw nearer they change course to head into Kentallen Bay, bringing the boat round behind where we’re camped. It’s as if I was willing them on, the force of my desire like a magnet. Nobody else seems to be awake; whatever lookouts MacDuff has posted are insensible. It’s not surprising, after the hard riding of the last couple of days.

  And now they’ve dropped anchor close to shore, maybe half a mile up the beach from us. They silently ship the oars and I think I can make out bodies soundlessly slipping over the sides and into the shallows. I put my hand over Aife’s mouth and shake her awake. She starts, eyes wide in fear. I turn her head in the direction of the birlinn and she struggles free, her expression bewildered.

  Now the shadow shapes are heading down the shore, dark against the fringe of pale sand that lines the bay. As they draw closer, I struggle to my feet. If they’re pirates, so be it. I’d rather be their captive than a pawn in Malcolm’s kingdom.

  They draw level with us, their faces blackened with soot. In the same instant, Aife and I both recognise the dead man leading the birlinn band.

  It must be a delusion, brought on by the delirium of grief.

  He creeps towards us, flanked by a pair of raiders. Aife’s grip on my arm is like steel. My head is spinning, and it takes all my restraint not to scream my madness at the darkness.

  And still the snores reverberate in the night.

  But not for long. The raiders separate, their knives gleaming in the moonlight. Two swift slices across two throats, a long low gurgle and it’s all over for our guards.

  Now the leader turns to me, a ragged smile splitting his dark face. I’d know him anywhere. Macbeth has murdered sleep.

  Aife yelps and I clamp my hand over her mouth. Meanwhile Macbeth’s men are cutting us free, Eithne finally waking and looking up with a smile on her lips, as if this is what she’s been waiting for. I step into my husband’s arms and close my eyes in blessing, tears running down my face. None of this makes any sense, and I do not care.

  There’s no time for explanation or reunion. Macbeth sweeps me into his arms and the other two shepherd Aife and Eithne back to the shore. The rest of his crew escort us to the birlinn. Getting us aboard is much noisier than the landing had been, and as we push off from the shore, there are the sounds of alarum from the byre. Still, we’re under way now, the sail raised and the oars manned. By the time MacDuff and his men have realised what’s happening, we’re moving out of the bay. A few of their arrows hit the high side of the hull, but they’ve been loosed from too great a distance and they bounce back into the sea.

  And we’re off, down Loch Linnhe towards the Sound of Mull. I’m dazed, beyond words. Beyond understanding. Eithne sits with her back to the mast, arms around her knees. ‘I told you we had to go all the way west,’ she said conversationally. ‘I kept seeing Macbeth.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Aife demands.

  ‘I thought Gruoch would be angry. Because, you know, we all thought he’d died at Lumphanen.’

  Macbeth joins us in time to hear this. ‘I’m sorry for the lie. I was grievously wounded at Lumphanen, near death when they carried me from the battle. The MacNeil had me taken to one of his strongholds on Skye. The word spread that I hadn’t survived.’ He smiles, the familiar crooked grin. ‘Being dead kept me alive. You can’t kill off a dead man.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us?’ Aife demands, fierce as ever. ‘We would never have betrayed you.’

  He shakes his head and sighs. ‘I was very ill for a long time. Too ill to make decisions. Then, I didn’t want to put you in danger. Your honest reaction added weight to my version of events. If anyone had doubted that, you could have been taken hostage. I needed to wait till Lulach was secure on the throne, then we could have been reunited on Mull. Before that, letting Malcolm know I was alive would have been signing a death warrant for all of us. That snake believes I’m the only man capable of dethroning him. And besides, I was in no fit state to mount a raid, never mind lead an army,’ Macbeth admits. ‘I almost died twice after I nearly died on the battlefield.’

  ‘Did you have a good apothecary?’ Eithne asks.

  ‘The second-best,’ he says, bowing to her. ‘Now, you must make yourselves comfortable. We have a long sail ahead of us.’

  ‘Surely not?’ Aife points in the vague direction of Mull. ‘We’ll be there in no time.’

  Macbeth shakes his head. ‘Mull will be too dangerous for us for some while now. I have found a new sanctuary for us. The MacNeil has come to our aid again. Tonight we sail for Caisteal Chiosmuil.’

  ‘Where’s that? Is it in Ireland?’ Aife asks.

  ‘It’s a fort in the mouth of Barra’s harbour.’

  ‘I’m none the wiser,’ she complains.

  Macbeth grins. ‘It’s at the bottom of na h-Eileanan an Siar. The Western Isles. We’ll be safe there.’

  ‘But that’s Viking territory now! How—’ Aife again.

  ‘Later, Aife. Rest now.’ My heart sings to hear that firm tone in Macbeth’s voice. He’s lost none of the power of command that made our reign so peaceful. He steers me away from the other two and we find a space at the stern.

  Now the shock has passed, a different emotion is raging through me. ‘You let me believe you were dead. How could you be so cruel? My heart broke. My spirit nearly broke. If I hadn’t had my women at my side . . .’

  He pulls me into his arms. ‘I was trying to save your life, Gruoch. When I was well enough to understand what was being said, the MacNeil told me you were in sanctuary with the Chaldean monks. Nobody knew where to find you. My heart was breaking too. Without you . . . No chance to protect Lulach, to advise him . . . I failed you both.’

  I push away from him. ‘You succeeded in that at least. Not a day passed when I didn’t suffer the pain of loss. Not a day has passed without my mourning your absence. Lulach would still be alive if you’d been there to steer his course.’

  He nods, shame in his eyes. ‘I know. And not a day will go by when I don’t reproach myself for all you’ve suffered. I can’t bring my boy back. I can’t make it up to you. I can’t change the past.’ He lifts his head, his expression beseeching. ‘I still love you with every beat of my heart, Gruoch.’ A crooked half-smile. ‘And I did rescue you.’

  In spite of my determination to make him suffer something of my pain, I can’t help myself. Macbeth is still the only man I have ever loved. And it feels as if I am condemned never to escape that. ‘How did you know where we were?’

  ‘Angus.’ He sighs. I’ve already told him how we lost Angus and Ligach. ‘He was the best of men. He had an arrangement with the son of the farm at Loch Leven. On the word from Angus that you were on the run, heading for Mull, the lad took off on their fastest horse and made for the MacNeil. He knew the time had come for me to resurrect myself, so he sent their fastest birlinn for me. We worked out which route you’d likely take. It was pure luck that we caught up with you at Onich. Our plan was to make camp at the head of the loch and wait for you to turn up. I didn’t know MacDuff had captured you. Though I’d have welcomed the chance to take him on, Gruoch. It was him that nearly did for me at Lumphanen, not Malcolm. I’ve been ready for a return bout for a few months now.’

  I stop his mouth with a kiss. ‘I forbid it, Macbeth. All I want now is a peaceful life with you. No more battles. No more loss. I beg you.’

  He pulls me closer. ‘I’m so sorry about our son.’

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10