The battle of carham, p.16
The Battle of Carham, page 16
part #2 of Earls of Northumbria Series
Wictred and the two Norse boys pulled out their swords and swung their shields around from their backs. Colby was too young to wield a sword but he was the proud possessor of a seax. The four ran silently towards the unwounded Scots. For a moment the enemy stood there and Wictred was afraid that they’d flee, but instead they charged towards them, yelling in rage.
The four scouts stopped once they were certain that the Scots weren’t about to flee and formed a small shield wall. The leading Scot, a giant of a man wielding a double handed axe, raised it intent on killing Wictred, but Colby darted in from the side and thrust his seax into the giant’s armpit. The man bellowed in fury but he was crippled; his left arm fell uselessly to his side and the axe dropped to the ground.
Colby tugged furiously to free his seax but he lacked the strength; it was stuck fast. Just as another Scot jabbed his spear at him, he dropped to the ground and rolled out of harm’s way. The boy still had a dagger and he ripped it free before cutting both the hamstrings of his attacker. The Scot screamed and fell on top of Colby.
By the time that Wictred had dispatched both the axeman and the man on top of Colby the two Norse youths had finished off the last few Scots. A minute later, having cut the throats of the wounded, the four returned to the captives. Unfortunately Wictred’s instruction to keep the last Scot alive had patently been ignored. The four scouts looked at the remains of the Scot, who can’t have any older than Colby, and felt sickened. It wasn’t caused so much by the gory body – a warrior didn’t last long if he was squeamish – but it was the fact that the mutilation had been carried out by a young woman.
Wictred had wanted to question the Scots boy and gave vent to his anger so fiercely that the women and children cowered away from him. Fortunately he realised that this wasn’t getting him anywhere. The rest of the forage party could return any minute to find out where the back of the column had got to and they had to get away from there. After hurriedly dragging the bodies out of sight and giving the women and children the Scots’ weapons, the scouts returned to their campsite whilst the former captives headed in the opposite direction. Wictred would like to have given them some food but they only had enough for the four of them for another three days as it was.
One thing he did learn before the two groups parted company was that the road the forage party were following led to Melrose and its monastery.
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Malcolm was getting impatient. He had been camped at Melrose, on the opposite bank from the monastery, for two days and so far there was no sign of either Owain the Bald or Findlay of Moray. He had few horsemen and those he had, apart from his own bodyguard, were mainly nobles and chieftains. However, he did have a score of scouts mounted on shaggy mountain ponies. He had sent them out both days to check the approaches to Melrose but they had failed to find anything.
‘You had better hope that your father has the sense to join me, boy,’ the king said to Macbeth, who was standing in front of the ornately carved chair that served Malcolm as a throne on campaign. ‘Or he’ll receive a present of your head in a basket.’
‘That’s hardly likely to make him a more loyal subject is it,’ Findlay’s son replied impudently, which earned him a punch in the stomach for his pains.
‘One more comment like that and you’ll not grow up to be a man whether your father turns up or not,’ Malcolm said angrily. ‘Get him out of my sight before I do something I might regret.’
Malcolm watched sourly as the two warriors who had been assigned to look after Macbeth pushed him roughly out of the tent. The king would never admit it but he was nervous. He had never forgotten the humiliating defeat that Uhtred of Northumbria had meted out to him at Durham a dozen years ago. He acted as if victory over Uhtred’s brother was a forgone conclusion in public but he was far from sure of that in private. He needed Owain and Findlay, not only to bolster his numbers, but to provide their experienced warriors. Many of his own army were youths who had never faced an armed man in anger.
The men of Moray hadn’t taken part in the ill-fated attack on Durham and Owain was bringing hundreds of Norsemen, or so Malcolm believed. He was well aware that Eadwulf wasn’t anything like his brother, Uhtred; indeed, his nickname of Cudel referred to his spineless nature. Nevertheless Malcolm was well aware that he had plenty of experienced ealdormen and thanes, including Uhtred’s son, Aldred.
He paced about the large leather tent that served as his living quarters gnawing his lower lip as he tried to imagine what had happened to the armies of Strathclyde and Moray. His grandson and acknowledged heir, Duncan, son of the king’s eldest daughter Bethoc, entered at that moment and wondered whether to leave again before his grandfather became aware of his presence. From the look on Malcolm’s face, he wasn’t in the best of moods.
‘Well, what is it?’ Malcolm barked, annoyed at being disturbed.
‘I thought that you’d like to know that Findlay of Moray has been spotted in the Pentland Hills, lord king.’
‘The Pentlands? They’re what? The best part of forty miles away?’
‘I’m not sure of the distance but the scouts who found them said that it would take them at least three days to arrive,’ Duncan said.
‘And that’s if Findlay is in a rush to get here, which I doubt he is.’
‘At least we know he’ll reach us before we have to fight the Northumbrians. The latest reports say that they are still camped in the Cheviot Hills some forty or fifty miles away,’ Duncan said, trying to lift his grandfather’s spirits.
‘Um, but where’s Owain? Duncan, take as many scouts as you can find and ride west along the western valley of the Tweed until you find him. When you do, tell him to get a bloody move on. Clear? Off you go; you leave at dawn.’
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Wictred and his companions crested the hill above the monastery, which lay south of the Tweed at Melrose. They crawled on their bellies so as not to be seen against the skyline until they were in the shadow of the hilltop. Someone would have to know they were there to spot them now.
The Scots’ camp sprawled over the north bank and, judging by the number of tents, they estimated the enemy numbers at a little over two thousand: a little less than earlier reports had suggested. Colby sucked his teeth.
‘How in the name of all that’s holy are we meant to find one boy amongst that lot, let alone rescue him and escape without being killed?’
‘There are Benedictines from the monastery moving about the camp,’ Wictred pointed out. ‘We could disguise ourselves as monks.’
‘Apart from the fact that none of us have a tonsure,’ Kjetil pointed out.
‘That can easily be remedied,’ Wictred said with a grin, pulling out a sharp knife.
The monastery had not been pillaged by the Scots, but nevertheless it kept its main gates firmly closed and barred. The monks tending to the sick and injured left by the monastery’s postern gate but that was also kept locked when not in use. The four scouts hid in a nearby house, having tied up the elderly man and woman living there. Wictred hoped that someone would find them, but not until they were well away from Melrose. They waited until they saw a monk leaving through the gate and then pulled him into the house as he walked past. He too was bound and gagged after stripping him of his habit. It was a bit large for Wictred, the tallest of the four, but it would have to do.
They had passed the time shaving the crown of their heads with sharp knives and so Wictred, his disguise complete, undid the postern with the monk’s key and slipped into the monastery. He waited until two monks entered the timber building across the courtyard in front of him and then walked boldly towards the church. He intended to hide in there until dark and then try and find the store where spare habits were stored.
However, as he rounded a corner he bumped into a novice coming the other way. The boy was about Colby’s age and size.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, brother. I should have looked …’ the young novice began to say.
He didn’t have a chance to complete the sentence before Wictred clamped a hand over his mouth and dragged him into a narrow alley between two buildings. He held his knife to the novice’s throat and slowly removed his hand.
‘Cry for help and I’ll kill you. Don’t worry, I just want information.’
The boy nodded, his eyes wide with fear.
‘Where do they keep the spare habits?’
‘What? Spare habits? Why?’
‘I’ve no time to explain, just tell me.’
‘You’re with the Northumbrian army, aren’t you?’ the boy said excitedly. ‘Take me with you. I hate being a novice but my father insisted. I want to be a warrior and fight the bloody Scots.’
Wictred wasn’t sure whether to believe him, but the eager look on his face seemed genuine.
‘Very well, if you help us I’ll take you with us. Now show where the habits are kept.’
The boy said that his name was Osric and he started to chatter excitedly until Wictred told him to shut up in no uncertain terms. Osric led him to a small hut next to what he said was the refectory. Unfortunately the door was locked and it was in full view of anyone crossing the courtyard in front of the church. However, it was a wattle and daub building.
Wictred chipped away and at the mixture of dried mud and straw that made up one of the infill panels at the rear of the hut until he’d made a hole big enough for Osric to slip though. A minute later he re-emerged pushing several black habits through the hole ahead of him. Wictred selected three that he thought would roughly fit his three companions and pushed the rest back into the hut. The next problem was reaching the postern gate carrying the habits without arousing suspicion.
‘Why don’t we wear them?’ Osric suggested.
Two minutes later a slightly more rotund Wictred locked the postern again and returned to the house where the others were hiding. He introduced Osric as the other three clambered into their habits. Then the novice noticed the trussed up monk sitting in a corner. With a cry of glee he went over and kicked the monk hard between the legs. The man emitted a muffled cry of pain through his gag and doubled up on his side.
‘I take it you have a grudge against him?’ Hakon asked with a grin.
‘Let’s just say it’s wise not to let him get you on your own, the old pervert.’
Wictred smiled in relief. He was devout and hadn’t liked trussing up a monk. Now he felt much better about it.
‘Have you been into the camp?’ he asked Osric as they sat down to a meal of bread and cheese – all they could find in the old couple’s house.
‘Once, to accompany Brother Irwyn. He’s our herbalist and I was tasked to carry his basket of potions, remedies and ointments.’
‘Did you see a boy of about thirteen, a noble’s son who would probably be escorted?’
Osric shook his head and then stopped.
‘Wait, there were lots of boys around, of course, servants and the like; even many of those carrying weapons looked to be quite young, but there was one boy washing down by the river and three bored looking warriors on the bank who appeared to be waiting for him.’
The four scouts looked at each other. That sounded if it might be Macbeth. They had no description of him, other than the fact that he was nicknamed the Red.
‘What did he look like?’ Wictred asked.
‘The most noticeable thing about him was his long red hair,’ Osric replied. ‘Of course, there were many men and boys in the camp with various shades of hair from ginger to dark bronze, but this boy’s hair was what drew my attention to him. It was bright red.’
‘That sounds as if it’s probably our boy. I don’t suppose you saw where he went after he had bathed?’
‘No, but I did see him later.’
‘Where?’
‘In King Malcolm’s tent.’
‘Really? Is that where he’s living?’
‘I suppose so. Brother Irwyn was treating the king’s grandson, Duncan, for a rash. He did so in an area off the main tent and there were two beds in there. The boy with red hair was sitting on the other bed.’
A smile of triumph crossed Wictred’s face. What had seemed an impossible mission now looked as if it had at least some chance of success.
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Macbeth was bored and fearful at the same time. He had been treated well as a hostage, but then he had expected to be as the king’s grandson. However, he had nothing to do all day in camp. It had been slightly better when the army had been on the move as he was allowed to ride, even if his escort had held a leading rein tied to his horse’s bridle. For the last three days they had been camped waiting for the two other contingents to join them and there was nothing to occupy his time.
The fact that there was no sign of his father wasn’t good. He might be Malcolm’s grandson, but the king had two other grandsons and Macbeth was convinced that he would carry out his threat to behead him if his father failed to join him before the forthcoming battle.
That night he retired to bed as usual after he had eaten. His cousin Duncan and the rest of the nobles would continue drinking and telling bawdy stories for several hours yet and, as the tent’s internal walls did nothing to attenuate sound, he wouldn’t be able to sleep until Duncan stumbled in drunk.
Usually his cousin would ignore him and collapse on his bed before commencing to snore loudly. On other occasions Duncan would insist on regaling Macbeth with stories that the boy had already heard through the tent’s walls.
He lay awake cursing the revellers and wishing them all to Hell when he there was a brief lull and he thought that he’d heard a noise coming from the rear wall of the tent. He strained his ears but the brief lull in the racket from next door came to an end. He thought that the noise he’d heard was probably the scampering of a rodent. He hated rats and the thought of the damned things biting his face whilst he was asleep gave him the horrors.
He got up and picked up one of his shoes with which to hit the animal before moving stealthily towards the other side of Duncan’s bed. He dropped his shoe and nearly yelled out loud when a young monk appeared in the space between the bed and the tent’s outside wall.
‘Quiet!’ the novice warned, not that they were likely to be heard above the carousing nobles. ‘We are here to rescue you and take you to your father.’
‘He sent you?’
‘Not exactly. I’ll explain when we’re away from this place. Get dressed as quickly as you can.’
There were numerous questions Macbeth wanted to ask, but he did what he was told and a minute later he and the monk crawled under the bottom of the tent wall. It was still twilight but it wouldn’t be long before darkness descended. When he emerged there was another monk crouched outside the tent.
‘Well done, Osric. Macbeth, my name is Wictred. I’m a housecarl serving Lord Aldred, the Thane of Duns. He has tasked us with taking you to your father.’
‘Why would you do that?’ Macbeth started to ask but Wictred cut him off.
‘Talk later; we need to get out of here fast. Put this on and put the hood up to hide your hair.’
He handed him Colby’s habit. He and the two Norse youths had already gone back to the horses. A group of monks all together would have looked suspicious; besides, if it all went wrong at least someone could go back and tell Aldred.
Wictred and Macbeth walked back towards the ford across the river that led to the monastery whilst Osric followed at a distance. They were nearly at the perimeter of the camp and Wictred breathed a sigh of relief. It proved to be a trifle premature.
‘You there, monk,’ a voice called in heavily accented English. ‘I’ve got a boil on my arse. Can you lance it and put something soothing on it?’
Wictred stopped; to have continued walking, ignoring the request for help, would have immediately aroused suspicions. He stood there wondering what the devil he was going to do.
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Findlay, Mormaer of Moray, lay in his tent deliberating over the options facing him. Taking his only son hostage had been a stroke of genius on Malcolm’s part. He pretended to be indifferent to his son’s fate, but the truth was that he loved Macbeth and would do almost anything to save his life.
He was also conscious that he trod a tightrope as mormaer. He had succeeded his brother, Máel Brigti, to become mormaer but Máel had two sons, Gillecomgan and Máel Coluim who had been too young at the time. Now they were young men who were plotting to depose Findlay so that Gillecomgan could become mormaer. If he defied the king, Malcolm could well decide to help his nephews achieve their desire.
However, he didn’t see why his highlanders should be asked to lay down their lives to help Malcolm expand his kingdom to the south. When he had called the muster there had been considerable discontent. It was understandable due to the threat from the Norse who had captured Caithness and Sutherland and who were now in a position to invade Moray.
Some of the pressure from the Norse had been reduced when Sigurd the Stout, Jarl of Orkney, Shetland, the Hebrides and Caithness, had been killed four years previously fighting against Brian Boru at the Battle of Clontarf near Dublin. His sons divided his lands between themselves with Einar taking Caithness and Sutherland. He was a bully and taxed his people heavily so he quickly became unpopular. Findlay doubted that they would follow him in any attempt to invade Moray, but he couldn’t be certain.
Had he but known it, he needn’t have had worried about a Norse invasion. Einar had other things to worry about. He was in conflict with Thorfinn, the youngest of Sigurd’s sons who had just reached fourteen and who was now demanding a share in his father’s realm.
Findlay had only brought eight hundred men south with him, the remaining part of his army staying in Moray to defend it if needs be. He was accompanied by his two nephews just in case they were tempted to raise a rebellion in Moray in his absence. However, he was well aware that taking them with him was not without its own problems. Gillecomgan and Malcolm mac Máel Brigti were busy sewing dissention amongst his men and some had already deserted to return home. Findlay worried that the trickle could become a flood the further south he went.
