Macbeth and Son Page 13

  (Macbeth, Act I, Scene 1, lines 11–12)

  Luke decided he wasn’t going to think about what Mum had said now. He’d finish his homework then think about it tomorrow.

  Maybe.

  He looked back down at the notes on his desk. For the past couple of hours he’d been trying to write his talk on Macbeth on the computer. Tomorrow was Friday, and he’d spent so long trying to work out what to say that he hadn’t even started it till tonight.

  But it was just what Mrs Easson wanted. He’d shown how Macbeth was tricked by the witches into killing King Duncan because they’d told him he was going to be king instead; how a loyal man became a murderer, then had to kill more people just to be safe…

  All he had to do now was read it out tomorrow. It was finished. Done.

  He pressed Print, and waited while the pages floated out beside him.

  Who cared if it didn’t really happen like that? What was one more lie?

  He’d been trapped, just like Macbeth in the play. Trapped into pretending about the bike, trapped into cheating, trapped into going to St Ilf’s. Trapped into lying to Megan about Sam as well.

  What did it matter if he added one more lie to the pile, and lied about what an evil king Macbeth had been too, so he’d get a good mark?

  Time for sleep. At least the dream might come again, thought Luke, as he got ready for bed. Lulach happy married to Thora; Macbeth ruling a peaceful land.

  Luke lay down and reached over to turn off the light.

  Once again the dream came swiftly, as though the past had sucked him in. One moment he was a kid, falling asleep in his bed, and the next…

  He was in a tent. Someone was practising a drumbeat outside. And all around were the sounds of an army at night-time: some sleeping, others sleepless as they prepared for war…

  No! thought Luke. It shouldn’t be like this! This was supposed to be a good dream! Not a dream about war!

  But neither Lulach nor Luke could escape.

  It was late summer, the heather flowering on the hills. Winters were too cold for war: the snow too deep, the winds too harsh. And there wasn’t enough food in spring to feed an army. But in late summer, as the fields grew rich with harvest, the battlefields grew ripe with war.

  Tomorrow would be the Feast of the Seven Sleepers back home in Moray. But no one feasted here.

  Lulach lay in his tent and waited. It was a sturdy tent, as befitted the King’s tanist. He was lucky; most of the men slept with nothing but their cloaks to keep away the cold.

  Lulach had tried to sleep. Sleep had always been a refuge, ever since he was small. But not tonight. Sleep refused to come.

  Beyond the tent he could hear snores, grunts, whispers—all the noises of sleeping men. At least he had privacy in these last hours.

  It was the waiting that was the worst, he thought

  —then snorted. How could he know what was theworst thing in a battle? He’d never taken part in one.

  Almost to the last he had hoped that his stepfather would work out some trick—an alliance, perhaps, or an ambush, as he had all those years before when Thorfinn’s men attacked. But this was war, not a cattle raid.

  Malcolm, Duncan’s son, had ridden north again, with soldiers from the English king and the army of his uncle, the Earl of Northumbria. Malcolm, who cared nothing for Alba’s laws, who only wanted power, any way that he could grab it.

  The army of Alba had tramped down south. Now the two armies camped at each end of a wide glen, near enough to see the smoke from each other’s fires. But the enemy had far more fires than theirs. The English army was three times the size of Alba’s.

  When the sun rose, each army would line up, facing each other. And then they’d charge. And then…

  And then?

  Something moved outside his tent. A voice said softly, ‘Lulach?’

  Knut.

  ‘I’m awake,’ called Lulach.

  His friend opened the tent flap and stepped in. Outside, the grey night sky above the glen was beginning to turn pink. Lulach could even make out the hills around them and the occasional grove of trees. A world of shadows, after the peace of night.

  ‘Couldn’t you sleep either?’ asked Lulach.

  Knut shrugged. He pushed Lulach’s spare cloak off the chest that held his armour, and sat down. Lulach passed him his water bag. It was filled with Thora’s heather ale, the taste of home. Knut took a mouthful, then nodded his thanks.

  ‘I’ve got some bread and cheese,’ offered Lulach.

  ‘I’m not hungry.’

  They sat in silence. What did you say just before your first battle?

  Finally Lulach said lightly, ‘You could have been safe in your abbey this morning if you hadn’t become my equerry.’

  Knut looked surprised, as though he had never thought that fate would lead him anywhere but here. ‘What do you mean? We have to fight.’

  Fighting for a just cause doesn’t mean you wouldn’t rather be somewhere else, thought Lulach. If he were honest, he’d say he would rather be back at the Hall with Thora and his mother, helping with the harvest. Anywhere, anything but this. But he said nothing.

  ‘When this is over,’ said Knut softly, ‘I’m going to ask the King to release me from his service.’

  ‘Not back to your abbey?’

  Knut smiled. ‘No. I’m not meant to be a monk. But I’ve had enough of being an equerry too. Even yours. There’s a girl, Kenneth’s granddaughter, Alianna. Do you know her?’

  Vaguely, thought Lulach. Short girl, dark hair. He nodded.

  ‘I’ll have had my share of glory when this is over,’ said Knut lightly. ‘I want to marry, watch cattle on the hill, raid my neighbour’s herd when I get bored.’

  I wish I could do the same, thought Lulach. But he just smiled.

  ‘Do you think the King’s plan will work?’ asked Knut at last.

  ‘Of course,’ said Lulach automatically.

  Would it work? he wondered. It was their only chance.

  The camp was stirring now, men calling to each other. Lulach and Knut went outside.

  Mist hung over the hills like a linen tablecloth. Somewhere above the mist it was summer. But this morning, summer seemed as far away as peace.

  Misty light began to invade the camp. Men put their armour on—the few who had any. Boys ran about, shouting with excitement at the prospect of their first battle. Horsemen polished their doubleedged, sharp-pointed claymores, and foot soldiers cleaned their daggers on the spikes of their shields.

  The men lined up, ready for battle. There were jokes, insults for the English in general and Malcolm’s men in particular, boasts about the number of enemies each man would handle. There are three English soldiers for every one of ours, thought Lulach. Do we have a hope of winning?

  He glanced at the King, joking with one of his men. Macbeth planned to use strategy instead of might today, just as he had so long ago when he burned the boats of Thorfinn’s men.

  Would it be enough?

  Macbeth mounted his horse—an old one, steady, but with sufficient stamina to last the day. Lulach rode on his right-hand side, Kenneth on his left.

  ‘Men of Alba!’ The King’s words echoed across the valley. Suddenly the army was silent. ‘We are fighting for our homes, our loved ones! This land gave us our lives. Now we give it back our hearts and blood. What is a man if he can’t fight for what he loves? And whenever each of you faces the enemy today, say, as I will do: “My feet are on my native soil! I strike this blow for Alba!”’

  ‘For Alba! For Macbeth!’ The cheers were so loud Lulach was sure the English army must hear them.

  Someone yelled, ‘And bum cheese to the English!’ Laughter mingled with the cheers. The men waved their claymores joyfully in the air.

  What are we really fighting for? wondered Lulach. Why is it so important to have one king rather than another? Macbeth was a good king, yes, but it was more than that.

  Law, he thought. We’re really fighting for Alba’s
law. Our right to elect our king instead of have an invader make himself king by force. But how many men would cheer if I called out, ‘We are fighting for our laws!’

  It’s strange, he thought, looking at the men and boys around him. It’s almost as though these men are going to a feast, they seem so eager to engage the enemy.

  But not him. Nor, he thought, the King. If Macbeth had enjoyed war the country wouldn’t have had so many years of peace.

  The army began to march up the nearest hill into the mist: one long straight row of foot soldiers, with the King and his guards and the other horsemen behind. The rocks threw shadows on either side, crouching like misshapen sheep in the first of the morning light.

  The white air clung to Lulach’s skin, but below them it was clear. He could see the English army down in the glen. So many, he thought. The English had hired men from Ireland too. Malcolm not only had more troops—he had more horsemen too. A man on horseback could kill a hundred foot soldiers. Please, thought Lulach, let the King’s plan work.

  The mist rose suddenly, like a sheet pulled off a bed. Now the sky was a soft blue. Too gentle for a battle, thought Lulach. War should be fought on stormy days.

  The English army could see them now too. They began to line up in their usual ‘war hedge’, three rows deep. The first row of soldiers carried shields and spears in front of them. They wore strange helmets, leather caps that covered their noses as well as their hair, so that they looked like a line of brown-headed beasts.

  The second row was swordsmen, with more rows of swordsmen behind. The enemy horsemen were assembled on either side.

  A piper’s first doubtful notes floated up from the glen, and then the full skirl of the pipes.

  The enemy began to march up the hill towards the army of Alba.

  The King raised his voice, though not enough for the English to hear. ‘Wait till they are halfway up the hill! No one move until you see the signal. Remember the plan!’

  It was a good plan, thought Lulach. Force the English to come up the hill towards them. They’d be puffed, and it was hard to send spears uphill. Much easier to slash at an enemy below you.

  Yes, it was a good plan. But would it work?

  Lulach could hear the English drumbeat under the piper’s song. Battered a, battered a, battered a tent, battered a tent, battered a tent…

  It suddenly occurred to him that this might be the day he’d die.

  ‘You’ll be right, lad,’ called Kenneth, as if he could read his thoughts. Beside him Knut fingered the hilt of his claymore.

  Steadily, almost silently, apart from the pipes and drumbeat, the English climbed up the hill. Their horses skittered at its steepness. The soldiers were already panting in their armour.

  Closer…closer…

  Lulach could see their faces now beneath their helmets, hear the beat of their feet…

  ‘Start the chant,’ ordered the King.

  Kenneth began it, then Lulach and Knut joined in. The sound ran down the Scottish lines.

  ‘Out! Out! Out! Out!’

  Out of our country, thought Lulach. Out of our lives.

  ‘Out! Out! Out!’

  The King punched the air, the signal that meant ‘Charge!’

  The Alban foot soldiers began to run, each man holding his shield with its sharp point in front, his claymore high, his dirk behind his sword. Each man screamed defiance at the enemy.

  Suddenly a hail of spears flew up from the English lines. But most went wide or failed to reach the Albans. The rest fell harmlessly against their shields. The English soldiers weren’t used to sending spears uphill.

  ‘Out! Out! Out! Out!’

  Suddenly a hail of rocks rained down on the English. The army of Alba might not have as many spears as the English, but rocks were free, and easily thrown downhill.

  You couldn’t hear the enemy piper now, only the yells of the Alban army. The rain of rocks was finished. Down, down, down the foot soldiers ran…

  Lulach pulled at his reins, as his horse tried to join in the charge. ‘Steady,’ he whispered, as much to himself as the horse.

  Could they really win? It seemed impossible, so few against so many.

  All at once the armies met, the flying Highlanders surging down the slope into the English troops, who were labouring uphill. Lulach watched as the first English line went down, skewered by the points on the Alban shields.

  And then the second line collapsed, bludgeoned by the claymores, which swept down onto their necks, their shoulders.

  Two lines gone…then screams, as the Highland daggers met the third line of English soldiers.

  For a moment the black image of his father’s body flashed into Lulach’s mind. This was what war meant. Agony. Death.

  Then the image was gone, as the excitement of the charge captured Lulach too.

  The big English horses were stumbling on either side, unable to find their footing.

  The King yelled, ‘Now!’ The Alban horsemen charged, the stocky Highland ponies sure of foot. Their riders screamed the challenge, their swords whirling above them and onto the horsemen below.

  Lulach yelled with the others. Fear had vanished. This was how to outride, outfight, an English army. The enemy troops scattered into chaos.

  But even chaos needed to be fought.

  The world changed. A moment before, Lulach had seen the whole glen, the hills around. He had been conscious of the wider world as well: the enemy England; the land of Alba, safe for now under its rule of law.

  Now the world narrowed. All he knew was the weight of his claymore, the strength of his shoulders as he twirled it high above his head. He had trained for this with Kenneth ever since he was a lad. Now it almost seemed as though the sword moved by itself.

  Slash down on one side, then the other. A man on horseback has the power of a hundred men on foot.

  Slash, and slash again…

  How can you explain your first battle? Even if you’ve grown up in a land where most men have been to war, you can never understand it until you’ve fought in a battle yourself.

  Slash, and slash…exhilaration grows with every enemy you kill. Each enemy down means one more moment you’ve survived.

  But which are the enemy? The English wear their leather caps but it is still difficult to tell one man from another in the confusion. You give the battle cry again, and hear the men around you echo it, so you know that they at least are yours.

  Slash, and slash…Impossible to yell the battle cry again. Breath is too precious to waste on a yell. Most of the English horses have been driven back. But there are still a few who’ve manoeuvred through the Alban ranks, their riders slashing at the foot soldiers below.

  The smell of blood, of metal as swords clash…

  Screams of agony—so many that after a while they are just one scream from a thousand mouths, till suddenly your horse steps back onto a dying man…

  Clash, parry, clash…You fight the man in front, always fearing the man behind. That’s why you fight back to back with someone you trust…

  Knut, heaving at his sword, was panting behind Lulach. Was this what they had dreamed of all those years ago, as Kenneth showed them how to wield a broadsword?

  Suddenly another English horseman struck Lulach from the side. Lulach felt the blow on his left shoulder, saw the enemy lift his sword again…

  And suddenly the horseman vanished. The King’s horse was next to him, the King’s shield protected him. Then it was gone, no longer needed. Lulach turned to meet another foe.

  ‘I will not yield, To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet…’

  Who said that? thought Lulach vaguely. Was it the King?

  Clash, parry, clash…

  ‘And damn’d be him that first cries, “Hold, enough!”’

  Clash, parry…

  So much noise! thought Luke, half waking a thousand years away. How can I sleep?

  But he didn’t want to sleep. Not if sleep meant he had to live through this. It’s n
ot fair! he thought. It’s bad enough that things like this happened once, without bringing them back to life! Let the battle go! Please, let it pass!

  And then it did.

  The dream sucked at him once again. But now the battle was over.

  He had survived.

  Across the glen Lulach could see the remnants of the English army running for the hills. The ground was littered with bodies: dead and dying men, horses that heaved and struggled but would never rise again. There was blood everywhere, brighter than the heather, darker than the grass.

  Lulach’s horse was gone, cut from under him—how long ago he couldn’t tell.

  But they’d won.

  It was a shock to Lulach to find himself still alive. Even more of a shock to realise that he could stop now, that no swords were slashing at him, no knives were stabbing at him. That he had space to look around, that he didn’t have to fight every second to survive.

  His arms hurt from wielding a sword, and he had a gash on one shoulder. His muscles screamed. His ears still rang with the sound of sword blows. But the clash of swords had gone. The field was silent, except for the moans of the dying.

  A horseman cantered up to him, stepping between the bodies. ‘Lulach!’

  It was the King. His saffron cloak was stained with blood, but he seemed uninjured except for a gash on his cheek. He rode a different horse; Kenneth must have brought him another when his first horse fell. Or was this horse his third, or fourth?

  ‘You’re all right?’ asked the King anxiously.

  Lulach nodded, almost too tired for words.

  Another man on horseback approached. Kenneth, his half face dripping sweat. ‘An incredible victory, my Lord!’ Only one side of Kenneth’s face could show emotion now, but it glowed with triumph.

  The King shook his head, gazing out at the ruin of broken bodies upon the field. He spoke almost without emotion. ‘You never win a war like this. You only win a battle, for a time. Some things must be fought for over and over again.’

  Lulach looked around. Only three of Macbeth’s guards still had their horses. Perhaps some had given theirs to the King. Tiredly he began to work out who was safe, and who had died…

  But they’d won, they’d won. Impossible to think of anything more, except…