Banquo's Son (A Crown of Blood and Honour Book 1) (30 page)

‘You are too young, lad, to understand the foolishness of such hopes.’ He whistled to his horse who came trotting up. ‘Miri always said you were from a royal household and to be none other than
Banquo’s
son and under our roof,’ he bowed. ‘It has been an honour.’ He mounted. ‘You’ve got a good heart, Flea, but a soft one.’ He
gathe
red the reins and looked down on Fleance. ‘You will regret that you let me live.’ He turned his horse around and cantered into the fog.

Fleance went over to the body of Macduff, dropped to his knees and let his sword fall. He had known in his head that war and fighting meant death. He had killed but he had not known or cared for any who fell under his sword. Macduff was dead and killed by one who thought nothing of fighting dishonourably.

His throat burned and the air seemed not to fill his lungs.

There was a hand on his soldier. ‘Sire?’

Fleance looked up. Two young soldiers stood beside him.

‘Stand aloft awhile. I must tend to him.’ After a moment, Fleance wiped away his tears and turned the old man over. Taking a cloth he removed the mud and soil from Macduff’s face and mouth and pulled down the lids over his eyes. ‘God rest you, my friend,’ he said. Two soldiers came forward. ‘The king has sent us to enquire as to your safety,’ one said.

Fleance stood up, his legs weak and his head pounding. ‘I am well but Macduff is dead,’ he said, his voice shaky. He tried to breathe deeply but still his chest felt tight. ‘Take him back to the camp and do so with respect and dignity for he was a mighty man and one Scotland will surely miss.’

He watched them wrap Macduff’s body in a large cloak and tie a rope around to keep it secure. Between the two of them, they hoisted the body onto their shoulders and grimly marched their sad cargo back to camp.

Fleance turned towards the direction Magness had gone. How could he have not known the extent to which his adoptive father would go to try to change Scotland’s fortune? Then he remembered the look of rage on Magness’s face when he fought Macduff. It had been a pointless fight, yet it had been fuelled by a desire for revenge and unshed grief. All those years Magness had stored up his resentment, but the death of Macduff had not made anything better. Their children were still dead and with the shedding of more blood came the cry for yet another score to be settled.

How could it be that he felt this way towards Magness, especially after all he and Miri had done for him? He shook his head. Rosie had been right that day in the stables. Things had changed. ‘Go, Magness,’ he said under his breath. ‘But if we should meet again, I will kill you.’

Then he followed the retreating figures of the soldiers, a heavy burden weighing on his soul.

Chapter Thirty-Two

F
leance did not want to return to the encampment; did not want to face the truth that the great Macduff was dead; did not want to answer Duncan’s questions. But most of all, he did not want to think on how he was so foolish as to be off guard.

If only he hadn’t been so caught up in what Magness was
saying
, he would have seen the rebel lying in wait.
I could have prevented Macduff’s death
, he thought, his heart full of grief,
if I had been a better soldier
.

The sound of Duncan arguing brought Fleance out of his thoughts and drew him into the tent to investigate.

‘It is not right that I stay back here while my men are being slaughtered on the field,’ Duncan was saying. At the sound of Fleance’s entrance, those gathered turned.

‘Fleance, what news?’ Duncan cried. ‘I am told Macduff is down.’

Fleance nodded. ‘Killed by a cowardly strike from behind.
A man
whom Macduff had once spared. I ran the dog through a
nd no
w he can face his eternal reward for all his evil and treacherous ways.’

‘Tomorrow, first light, I will set out with you, Fleance,’ Duncan said. ‘It is decided.’

Lennox and Preston began to argue. Duncan held up his hand. ‘We will not have our people whispering behind their hands that the king was too weak and fearful to face those who came against us.’ Duncan fastened his cloak. ‘Besides, who better to fight beside than this man,’ he said, putting a hand on Fleance’s arm. ‘You yourself have boasted of his skill.’ He dropped his hand and went to the door of tent. ‘The light has almost gone from the day and we see our men returning. Go, give them what comfort and aid they need.’ He swept out leaving Fleance with the others.

Lennox, Ross and Angus looked downcast. ‘I am sorry about Macduff,’ Fleance said. ‘I have not known him as you have but I respected him greatly.’

Lennox exhaled. ‘Our dear Macduff was the most animated among the thanes. We have ridden together and fought alongside each other for many years. Out of all of us, he was the one who suffered the most yet he would not allow his grief to crush him. He took that pain and converted it to righteous anger. It was an honour for him to lay the head of the tyrant at the feet of King Malcolm.’

They were silent, each man thinking of the Thane of Fife,
William
Macduff, whose cold body lay on a wagon to be taken back to his castle.

Fleance roused himself. ‘I will take some time to check on men who have been hurt. Will you join me?’ he asked the thanes. Each nodded and followed him out leaving Preston behind studying the battle plan.

Fleance was surprised to see Rachel still on duty. A number of other women were also in the makeshift hospital, carrying bowls of water or piles of bloodied bandages. When the four of them came through the tent flaps, Rachel looked up and smiled. ‘A good
evening
to you, sires,’ she said, her voice without a hint of tiredness or despair. ‘Your fellows will be heartened to see you.’ She returned to her tasks, dressing the head wound of an old soldier, speaking quietly to him.

Once he had been down the rows of cots, he went to Rachel. ‘It has been a long day for you, Rachel.’

‘Aye, and for you and them. All of us are doing our duty.’

Fleance was amazed at her stamina and her calmness. Few women, especially of royal blood, he thought, would cope as well as she. He bowed his head. ‘We and the men are most thankful for your ministrations.’

She put her hand on his arm. ‘As are we for your fearless courage.’ A man’s cry took her attention and she was gone, moving quickly down the tent. Fleance watched her as she calmed down the young soldier. She, like her brother, was a gift to the people of Scotland: pure and kind of heart. Confident and sure of purpose. The sort of people the country needed.

The next morning, Duncan roused him. ‘Fleance,’ he said. ‘I wish to be in front of the men today. You will be by me.’

Their horses were ready and though Fleance missed the large comfort of Willow, he was pleased the old horse was safe back at Glamis. The time for battles was long over for his father’s horse. Instead, he rode a young mare, a quiet and strong creature – well suited to the needs of a battlefield.

Scotland had lost at least 8000 men and many of their horses. On the third day of the fight, the rebels began targeting the horses. By midday, Duncan called the cavalry back and commanded that this battle be fought man to man on foot.

However, after much pressure from his advisors, Duncan agreed he would travel into the field on horse but leave his steed with a soldier.

Fleance felt an extra burden with the king in his care. Not only would he be fighting for his own life but he now had to look out for Duncan. The young king was a competent fighter but had no battle experience. He had never killed a man nor had another’s blood on his hands.

They dismounted and handed their reins to the spotty-faced young soldier who, by his expression, appeared very relieved to have this responsibility on this day rather than go into the fray.

Duncan turned to his army who had walked behind them. ‘For Scotland!’ he shouted, punching his fist into the air.

The men roared back. ‘For Scotland!’

They marched forward, spreading out to left and right, the sounds of their weapons and stamping feet sending chills down Fleance’s spine. Such was the power of a collective strength.

In the distance, they watched the approach of the enemy and pulled their swords from their scabbards. Suddenly, there was a roar ahead and the rebels charged towards them.

All too soon, the enemy came upon them. Like the day before, Fleance had a companion at his shoulder as he fought. He quickly found a rhythm as he and Duncan made their way against those who came upon them.

Despite keeping an eye on his own foes, Fleance was mindful of Duncan’s efforts. Less fluid than many of the experienced soldiers, he still held his own against the enemy. However, he had just downed a man when Fleance cried out, ‘Behind you!’

Duncan spun around and brought up his shield just as a heavy sword came crashing into him. Using the shield as leverage, Duncan lifted up the man’s arm and thrust his own sword into his stomach. Then he pushed him to the ground.

There was no time to respond for another wave of fighters was upon them. At times they fought side by side; at other times, back to back – protecting and helping each other to gain victory and to stay alive.

About an hour into the battle, there was a lull in the fighting. The rebels retreated and Duncan held up his hand to stop his men from advancing. ‘Take our wounded back,’ he shouted. ‘We will consider our next line of offence.’

Fleance and Duncan walked among the fallen. There were more of Magness’s men than Scotland’s. In the distance, they heard another horn – different from any they had heard before. It came from the west and, when they looked, were dismayed to see another army advancing.

‘’Tis the Norwegians,’ Duncan said. ‘Give the signal,’ he cried. ‘Regroup and rearm.’ He turned to Fleance. ‘I fear it is now we will be truly tested.’

They had time to be refreshed with water and some small morsels of food but, by mid-afternoon, the fighting was at its most intense. Fleance was sore and bruised but not injured. He lost count of how many fellows he killed. This army brandished more axes than swords and called for a different type of fighting. Within an hour, his shield was dented and had sustained numerous
poundings
.

Again, like the morning, he and Duncan found a kind of rhythm in their fighting and, like a slowly turning wheel, they moved around and around, fending off those who came near.

Fleance dispatched two fellows quickly and then three others, their blond hair quickly reddened by the blood of their wounds. Behind him, he heard Duncan engaged in a fierce struggle. Each time there was a lull in his own battle, he looked around to see the young king fighting with a large fellow. But he had no time to aid Duncan for still the Norwegians came upon them.

Behind him, the Scottish horn sounded and Fleance heard the heartening roar of fresh soldiers advancing. There was no time, however, to rejoice. They were in the thick of the fighting. Spurred on by the good news of more men, Fleance found more strength deep within himself. He stood and forced his enemies to come to him. Some charged. Some danced around him. All died by his hand.

Fleance had just killed the last soldier who came to him when, suddenly, there was an anguished cry. Fleance turned around to see that Duncan had fallen, his shield laid bare but his sword held forth towards his attacker. The man put his foot on Duncan’s shield and stomped down so that the king cried out in pain and let his own weapon fall.

The Norwegian soldier lifted his sword high to bring it down on his enemy but Fleance threw himself forward and knocked the man sideways. Both rolled over and leapt to their feet. ‘You will not take out my king,’ Fleance cried angrily.

The man before him uttered words Fleance did not know but he understood their tone – that of hate and anger. Fleance charged forward, the weight of his father’s blade propelling him so that he came up against this man’s own weapons. They pushed and cut and thrust and swung their swords against each other until Fleance gained an advantage by applying a swift move Macduff had taught him. Fleance kicked hard at his foe’s shin and then brought his knee up into the man’s groin. The foreigner cried out in pain, doubling over so that Fleance could bring down the sword on his enemy’s neck.

Fleance spun around to find Duncan. The king was on his feet but his left hand hung loosely at his side. ‘I am injured, Fleance. I can no longer fight.’

Only their men were left standing though, further off in the distance, Fleance saw soldiers still engaged in combat. The field was littered with bodies. ‘I will get you back to camp and then return to help finish this fight.’

As Fleance said this, there was another loud blast of a horn from the west. It went on and on and with it, the Norwegians retreated. The Scottish army ran after them but Duncan cried out: ‘Enough, men! Scotland is victorious. Send word. We have won this battle.’ Duncan’s face was pale and sweating.

‘We must get you to Rachel,’ Fleance said, ‘to look to your injury.’

Duncan nodded. ‘Aye.’ He held up his arm. Fleance saw the blue and black stains already bruising the skin. The arm was surely broken.

‘Rachel will mend you.’

‘Thank God we are done,’ Duncan said. ‘Too many dead and wounded.’

‘Indeed,’ Fleance said. He sheathed his sword and picked up Duncan’s. They walked towards the rise where their horses stood. He helped Duncan mount and then swung up on his own mare. Together they looked down upon the vast battlefield.

‘This is a sorry sight,’ Duncan said and Fleance heard the sadness in his voice. ‘May the wounds inflicted upon Scotland these past days heal quickly and without disease.’ He patted the neck of his horse. ‘We will gather up our dead and set them on the pyre. I will not have the wolves glut themselves on my fallen. Then, let us quickly back home to Glamis.’ Duncan looked at Fleance. ‘It seems, my friend, that our family will forever be in the debt of yours. First your father, now you. Ask anything of me and it’s yours.’

Fleance was suddenly quiet. ‘There is one thing I would ask . . .’ he hesitated.

‘Anything,’ Duncan said, ‘anything at all.’

‘I wish to take up your offer and return to Lochaber as thane . . .’ he hesitated again and glanced towards Duncan, ‘. . . with Rosie as my wife. I have asked much of her and she has always stayed true to me – even when I couldn’t fully confide in her. I love her with all my heart, Duncan. As my king I ask for your blessing in this.’

Duncan sighed. ‘Fleance, I envy you this.’ He grimaced and Fleance wasn’t sure if it was from his wound or something deeper. ‘To marry someone you love and who loves you, regardless of what duty asks of you – that is something, as king, I can never have. Perhaps if fate had been kinder to me and this crown had not been thrust on me with such haste I too could have found the way to marry the one I love.’

He looked at Fleance once more, then smiled.

‘You have my blessing, my friend,’ he said. ‘Go to Lochaber with your maid and be happy. But be prepared for many visits from your king. I will miss you, my friend, and I have got used to having you by my side these past months – it will be dull of an evening without your company.’

Fleance laughed. ‘You are more than welcome, my friend – you and your sisters.’

Though the grim task of removing their dead and injured continued, sounds of laughter and singing swirled around the encampment. Rachel had ordered wagons to shift the injured whose hurts would heal back to their homes and families to be tended by them. The next morning, she and two of her nurses planned to accompany the first group heading north.

She found Fleance and Duncan in the main tent. ‘I have come to say my farewells, brother, and to go ahead to prepare for your return.’

Duncan went to her and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I will not be delayed by much. God speed.’