Queen Macbeth, page 9
I sigh. ‘My poor sweet boy. I’d been afraid for him ever since you . . . ’ I shake my head. ‘He was born a follower, not a leader. Without your example to learn from, he was lost.’
‘I’m so sorry. You’ll never understand how much I regret the time we spent apart.’
I take a deep breath. I want to think about the future, not the past. What I can change, not what I can’t. ‘Tell me about Caisteal Chiosmuil. Is Aife right? Isn’t that part of the King of Norway’s fiefdom?’
He kisses me. ‘It is. The raiders came a long time ago and settled there. Caisteal Chiosmuil’s a tiny isle in the bay. Three cottages and a small byre, freshwater wells and a wee pier. It takes a matter of minutes to row to the shore. We’ll be safe there, I promise you. It will be our new home. And if Aife and Eithne want to be more social – or more solitary – we can find them a place on Barra itself.’
If this is how my story is to end, I think I can bear it.
There was little dissent when the flames died down. Our people knew enough of Macbeth to take him at his word – or at least until he proved them wrong. Of course, there was grieving – Gille’s men had wives and lovers and children bereft. But Macbeth was canny enough to pay blood money. It didn’t hurt that his men gently reminded those left behind of Gille’s ruthlessness and cruelties, and the connivance of their men.
From the start, we made choices that led to peace and prosperity. Macbeth ruled by consent; he settled disputes with other Moravians and our neighbours not by warfare but by inviting them to parley. Always under the roof of the magnificent new hall he had built. It was grand enough by itself to inspire awe; and our war band were always in evidence in the background, kitted out in the best of gear, weapons and smiles gleaming.
Early on, the Mormaer of Fife, MacDuff, tried an incursion into our territory. Macbeth hung back, letting MacDuff think he was too nervous of failure to stand against him. Late one night, when the moon was dark, Macbeth’s men stole into MacDuff’s camp.
Half of his war band were dead or as good as before anyone even knew Macbeth’s men were on their ground. It was a short and effective skirmish, and that was the last we heard from Fife other than the occasional episode of cattle rustling. Cattle rustling is a kind of hobby to those Fifers, after all. They steal the beasts; we take them back. It follows the same broad rules as our dances.
Some say Macbeth should have killed MacDuff that night. But he knew that would only lead to another blood feud. And he knew what the outcome of a blood feud would be. Better that MacDuff’s sons and his wife fled south into the arms of Malcolm and his supporters, telling their tales of the terrible reach of Macbeth’s war band.
The only real threat to our reign turned into a unique opportunity for its expansion. Our distant kinsman Duncan had slaughtered his way to the throne of Alba, but that wasn’t enough to satisfy him. He wanted Moray. He moved against us, and we ended up facing his army in a bloody battle near Elgin. Macbeth killed him in single combat, so Duncan’s kingdom of Alba fused with our Moray. We called the joint kingdom Scotland.
Some of the defeated army tried to spread a rumour that Macbeth had murdered Duncan in his sleep, but there were too many witnesses on the battlefield for that story to grow legs. The former kingdom of Alba chose the road of friendship and unity because they saw the Moravians had more secure lives than they had.
We made our peace too with the Christians. And the Chaldeans. Not a pretence of peace, but a genuine commitment to working together. ‘Men have to believe in something,’ Macbeth said. ‘One superstition is as good as another. Our people like that their Christ suffered as we suffer. The monks make good mead and honey, and the books they make of their gospels are beautiful.’ And so we all became Christian, their churches and monasteries part of our compounds.
All of this only made Macbeth and me more popular. The women liked that there was much less fighting and more farming. So did the men. The occasional skirmish on our borders kept the war band sharp, but the casualties were few. Eithne’s skills grew stronger, so the outcomes for the wounded were better.
And me? I was content but not complacent. The better I came to know Macbeth, the deeper my love grew. Our passion never diminished either; we never lost sight of the joy of being lovers as well as partners and friends. My women, who had learned to live with anxiety for my fate and therefore theirs, relaxed. Ligach became the most skilled of all our weavers, teaching young women how to produce decorative and useful fabrics. Eithne’s physic garden grew larger and more varied, her ointments and medicaments more diverse and more potent. And Aife? Aife did what Aife did best, making herself unobtrusively invaluable. It wasn’t perfection, for there are always stones in the road. But we lived our lives the best we could.
If there was any drawback to the security of our kingdom, it was that our son never had the chance to learn to be a leader of men. Lulach was softer than his father had ever been; he’d never had the need either to fight or to persuade. Macbeth did his best to train him in combat, but it was clear to me that the boy didn’t see the point. Macbeth tried to hide his disappointment. But I could see it and tried to make it up to the boy.
Almost ten years after we had unified Moray and Alba, the abbot of St Serf’s Isle in Loch Leven arrived with half a dozen of his monks. Macbeth made him welcome not with a grand feast but with a private dinner showing the best of our fine larder. Meat, game, fish, cheese, sweetmeats and three kinds of bannock. The monks ate like men half-starved.
‘Your creation of Scotland has brought peace to our lands,’ the rosy-cheeked abbot said, folding his hands over his rounded belly.
‘From which we all benefit,’ I said. ‘Men, women and children.’
He looked surprised at my contribution. I supposed those nuns he encountered had little to say for themselves. I’d heard many of them had taken vows of silence; that was one way to deal with the pompous and the arrogant. ‘Indeed, my queen,’ he agreed, a little stiffly, before turning to Macbeth. ‘We wanted to suggest something to mark your time as King of Scotland.’
Macbeth raised his eyebrows. ‘What did you have in mind? There’s not much that we lack here.’
‘My lord Macbeth, you are rich in worldly goods, and your generosity is well known. But it never hurts to make provision for what comes after.’
Macbeth exchanged a look with me, one corner of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly. ‘That’s an interesting notion, abbot. Though there is no way to demonstrate how effective that’d be.’
Not in the least disconcerted, the abbot inclined his head and said, ‘That’s where your faith comes in.’
‘What did you have in mind, abbot? Have we not been generous enough to St Serf’s already, endowing the land and supplying the stone for your monastery?’
‘You misunderstand me,’ he said, almost huffy. ‘I had in mind a pilgrimage. To Rome.’
A stunned silence. None of us had expected that. ‘That’s madness,’ Aife broke in from the far end of the table. ‘It’s hundreds of miles away. Dozens of days of riding. Hundreds, maybe. You can’t leave the land for that long, my lord.’
The abbot tutted. ‘My lady, there is more than one way to travel. It takes less than three weeks by sea.’
‘That would still mean we’d be gone for at least two months,’ Macbeth said. But I could see the faraway look in his eyes that I was accustomed to whenever a difficult dream offered itself up to him. I’d seen it first in Eithne’s herb garden years before, and I couldn’t complain about where that had taken me.
He changed the subject, but I knew the abbot had planted a seed that would grow into a fully-fledged plan. That night, our love-making was fierce and wild, and it was no surprise to me that afterwards he said, ‘I should like to see Rome. I’ve heard it takes the breath away. And two months is not so long.’
‘Dare you leave our lands for two months?’
‘I can leave the MacNeil as regent. The men respect him, and even MacDuff would hesitate to go against him in the field, I think . . .’
His words pierced me. ‘Do you not trust me to stand in your place?’
He looked astonished and let out a great guffaw of laughter. ‘You would be with me, Gruoch. At my side. Did you really think I could leave you behind on such a great endeavour?’ He rolled back on top of me, gripping my shoulders tightly. ‘Do you not know me at all? How could I bear to be separated from you again?’
And it no longer seemed such a bad idea.
Rome was a revelation to us. From the moment we landed in the bewilderingly busy port of Ostia, I felt we’d stumbled into a dream. There on the quayside we came face to face with our cousin Thorfinn, Yarl of Orkney and Macbeth’s man in Caithness. We knew he’d planned to make a pilgrimage to Rome, but he’d left months earlier and we’d had no word since.
The two men fell into each other’s arms like long-lost brothers. ‘Where have you been all these months?’ Macbeth demanded, holding him at arm’s length. The only change in the familiar giant black-haired Viking was that he’d become as sun-browned as the local Romans; except for his prow of a nose, which glowed red as a fire-coal.
‘I took the land route,’ Thorfinn said. ‘I travelled down through Saxony. I spent time making friends with the Holy Roman Emperor. Henry is a shrewd man; who knows what his intentions are towards the English? But it will do us no harm to have an alliance with him.’
Macbeth clapped him on the back. ‘You never rest, Thorfinn. It’s good to see you, man!’
Thorfinn had already secured rooms for us and our men by the Pons Antonius bridge across the river Tiber, near the Capitoline Hill. We travelled across the city in a cart on a miraculously flagged road, wondering at the sights and sounds and smells of a city that made our compound shrink to insignificance by comparison. Everywhere stood mighty stone buildings, some of them in a parlous state of disrepair, others with impressive pillars and carvings. Statues seemed to spring from the very pavements. Everywhere there was hustle and bustle, the constant buzz of conversation and the cries of hawkers and tradesmen. I had never seen anything like it.
We soon learned how easy it was to tell where people stood in society by the quality of clothes they wore. From senators to slaves, each rank was clear. We were hopelessly overdressed, our wool and animal skins far too warm for the sunny climate. We had to buy some tunics and robes to avoid heatstroke.
At first, we were shocked at the idea of slavery: the notion that one human could own another was foreign to us. But we soon understood that the Romans found our clan system equally bewildering.
The food was as alien as the social divisions. Everything came slathered in sauces, flavoured with alien spices and herbs. Aife and Eithne would disappear for whole days and return with jars of oil and strange sauces that filled our mouths with unfamiliar sensations. We ate all sorts of fish and seafood we’d never seen before. But what truly overwhelmed us were the sweet fruits and candied nuts that filled platters at the end of meals.
We also discovered on our first evening that beer was unthinkable. ‘Barbarian,’ the taverna owner exploded when Macbeth asked for a jug of ale to cool him down in the heat. We had to learn to enjoy wine at every meal, mixed with water and yet more spices. It was no hardship . . .
Thorfinn was our enthusiastic guide, and together we explored the ancient city as well as performing the sacred offices required of a pilgrim. Towards the end of the second week, the word came that we had secured an audience with the Pope himself.
I had been hearing about Pope Leo IX for days. He’d been the bishop of a frontier town, so he’d had to deal with attacks on his province. As well as being a warrior, he’d had to be a diplomat, and also to shepherd his flock through famine. ‘Sounds like one of us,’ Macbeth had said. ‘A man of peace who knows how to handle a sword.’
‘Not exactly like us,’ Thorfinn slung back at him. ‘He’s a stickler for celibacy.’
‘Aye, but only for the clergy,’ I said. ‘Not for red-blooded men like you.’
The Lateran Palace, where the Pope lived, was on the other side of the city from our lodgings. We passed through gardens, through markets, past street stalls selling food and drink, clothes and sandals; it felt as if we were passing up and down all of the seven hills that they say Rome is built on. The more I saw of the city, the more I wanted to see.
The palace itself must be one of the wonders of the world. I didn’t have the words to describe it then, and I still don’t. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of the room where we met with the Pope, by its mosaics, its paintings, its gold and silver caskets for various relics of saints. (Not that I believe in the magical powers of bits of dead bodies; I leave that to Eithne!) One hall even had a massive fountain in the middle, indoors. I began to understand how small was the world Macbeth and I had fought to make our own.
Pope Leo himself did not live up to his palace. Underneath his rich red and gold robes, I could see he was a slight figure of a man. His features were fine, his eyes bright, but it was hard to read his expression since the lower half of his face was covered with a thick grey beard. He seemed to have no idea who we were or where we had come from. He blessed us in Latin, and we stooped one by one to kiss his foot. I thought Thorfinn would refuse, but at the last moment he bent and touched his lips to the papal slipper.
We were ushered out almost before we could catch our breath. I felt no sudden surge of spirituality, no sense of being more blessed than I had been before. Even Eithne was apparently unmoved by the encounter. All I felt was respect for a man who had managed to rise to such a position of power and to hold on to it. Later, when the men had gone out drinking, I asked my women what they had made of it. Eithne pointed to a large leather bag filled with roots and seeds for plants she’d never seen before. She’d made friends with local apothecaries, some from as far away as Jerusalem and Marrakesh. ‘I’ve learned so much,’ she said. ‘But I’m wearying for home now.’
She said what we all felt. The following morning, Macbeth announced that he and Thorfinn were going to Ostia to arrange our voyage home. We’d fulfilled our duties as pilgrims, we could assure the abbot we’d been blessed by the Pope, and we’d enjoyed the wonders of Rome. We had arrived in a spirit of utility, not faith, and we left in the same state.
A few weeks later, the MacNeil was waiting at the gates of the palisade to welcome us. ‘Stands Scotland where it did?’ Macbeth enquired.
His regent bowed. ‘Aye, my king. Even stronger. The harvest’s in and it’s a good one. Our borders are secure, and all’s well.’
So we settled back into our familiar patterns. Rumours reached us from the south that Siward, the Earl of Northumberland, was restless and determined to expand his territory. Macbeth summoned more of his young men to the war band and spent long hours training them in how to fight an enemy on land we knew best. But it soon transpired that Siward’s ambitions lay elsewhere. His men moved south and west of his fiefdom, to shires that lay under the rule of other Scandinavian lords. And we slept easy in our beds again.
More fool us.
The sunset splashes colour across the western sky as we sail into the harbour where Caisteal Chiosmuil stands sentinel. I soon learn that sunsets are always the best part of the day here, the sky filling with pink and gold and blue and purple and all the shades between.
The birlinn drops anchor by the short pier and we climb ashore. Macbeth told no lies when he described the steading, though the three cottages are more substantial than I expected. The byre too is twice the size of the one we called home on St Serf’s Isle.
‘What do you think?’ Macbeth asks, a trace of worry creasing his brow. ‘Can we be happy here? One cottage for us and our servants, another for Aife and Eithne and her potions, and the third for those who will work the land.’
With a pang of sorrow, I think that Ligach and Angus should have been the tenants of that third cottage. But I put my regrets to one side and raise a more immediate concern. ‘But Vikings? Can we trust them? Will they trust us?’
‘Our old friend Thorfinn has cleared a path for us; he holds sway here. They hate Malcolm even more than we do.’
We walk up to the houses. Built from solid granite blocks, they each have four rooms; it’ll serve us well. I worry that we might not find enough to occupy us, then comes a stab of guilt. All those years I longed for Macbeth to come back to me, and now I’m wondering if he’s enough for me. I hear Ligach’s mocking voice in my ear: ‘For shame, Gruoch, you lucky besom.’
Aife bounds across the threshold of the smallest cottage. ‘Come and see, Eithne. It’s even better than we had before Lumphanen.’ Eithne follows her, though without her usual ardour. I’m sure she’ll recover her energies once she’s established a proper physic garden and moved past the fear that has so distracted her since we fled St Serf’s, and her anguish at the loss of Ligach.
Coming together with Macbeth has been a fresh dawn. This new life on Caisteal Chiosmuil is like a reawakening after a second sleep. The time apart that felt at first like a gulf has gradually shrunk to insignificance and we are closer than ever before. I can almost forgive the torture of believing him dead for the joy of finding him alive.
I wish I could say the same for Aife and Eithne. They spend more time apart than they do together. Eithne is preparing the soil and planting the seeds she kept on her person after we made our escape. She’s not bitter about the irreplaceable botanical treasures she lost when MacDuff abandoned our baggage, and she works tirelessly to build her store of ointments, tinctures and herbal cures. Word of her skills spreads quickly, and soon the Norse come across the harbour to seek her help. They’re brusque and nervy at first, but they soon settle. But Eithne’s eyes are haunted by what she can’t unsee. And I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her cast the runes.
Aife’s interests lie elsewhere. She has made friends on Barra, both among the men and the women. She’s learned the best places for hunting and fishing, and she spends most of her days filling our larder with fresh meat and fish, or curing and smoking what she has brought home. Lately, she’s taken to hunting with Eivar, one of the Norse women. It’s good to hear Aife laugh again.
