‘Moray! Moray!’
A woman ran up to them, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands. It steamed in the frosty air. She thrust it at the Mormaer.
‘For you, my Lord!’ she yelled. ‘Fresh baked!’
It was an oaten bannock, hot from the firestone. The Mormaer broke off a piece and ate it, smiling down his thanks, then passed the rest to Lulach and his wife.
Lulach tasted it. It was gritty and sour. The oat flour must have been old and full of weevils. But it was the best the woman had to give.
Lulach had wondered if King Duncan’s subjects would hiss at them, or hurl the contents of their chamber pots at the man who had killed their king. But these people didn’t mourn for Duncan. Instead they cheered the man they hoped would be their next ruler.
That morning, at the guesthouse where they’d stopped for the night, Lulach had heard his stepfather practising what he’d say to the assembled chiefs.
‘Duncan gave you war and hunger,’ the Mormaer had recited. ‘Black fields, with nothing to harvest but ruined hopes. I will give you peace.’
And he would, thought Lulach, as they rode between the cheering crowds. The Mormaer always kept his word. Surely the Council of Chiefs would see that too?
The chieftains and church leaders argued for three days, while the candidates waited in the monastery guesthouse, carefully polite to each other.
There were many candidates, but only two who really had a chance of being elected: the leaders of the two most powerful clans in Alba. The Mormaer of Moray and the new Mormaer of Atholl, King Duncan’s brother. Thorfinn had been right.
King Duncan’s father, the Abbot of Dunkfield and the former Mormaer of Atholl, had been lobbying the Council to vote for Duncan’s brother. Duncan’s son was too young to stand for election.
But Alba had had enough of Duncan’s clan and their wars. On the third day the herald called out the name of the Mormaer of Moray.
Lulach stood at the front of the crowd on Boot Hill with his mother. She wore her best yellow gown today, with a red cloak and scarf. There were tears in her eyes; the tears she hadn’t let herself shed in the years of terror and sorrow fell now, from happiness, as they watched the Mormaer stride up to the ancient Stone of Destiny, Lia Fáil, his head bright in the sunlight, his face intent and sure.
The new king put his hands upon the golden sandstone rock. His voice was strong and clear. ‘I swear by my honour and by Almighty God to defend the Commonweal of Alba. I swear to defend the happiness of her people.’
One by one the clan chieftains stepped forward and pledged allegiance to the new high king. Each carried a little soil from their homeland in the bindings of their boots. They emptied it into a small mound, then yelled the new king’s name so loudlythe ravens rose in a thick cloud from the battlements and squawked in protest at the noise.
‘King Macbeth!’
‘Macbeth MacFindleach! All hail!’
‘Macbeth! All hail our King Macbeth!’
‘All hail, Father!’ cried Lulach, and heard his mother laugh beside him. It seemed right to call him ‘Father’ now.
The new king grinned. He swung Lulach up onto his shoulders so that all the crowd could see him.
‘Wave, my son!’ he urged him.
Lulach waved. The crowd roared their approval. ‘Moray! Moray! Macbeth! Macbeth!’
This is how it should be, thought Lulach. This is right.
No!
The dream shimmered as Luke struggled to wake up. This wasn’t right! It couldn’t be!
Suddenly the dream released him. Luke sat up panting, as though he had been running, not lying there asleep.
Not Macbeth!
That couldn’t be the Mormaer’s name! Macbeth was a murderer! How could he use Macbeth’s name in his dream? Duncan, yes, even the three witches…but not Macbeth!
Luke lay back down. He had to think of another name for the new king. Arthur, maybe, or Jason. Did they have Jasons way back then?
He had to go back to sleep, he had to dream it right!
The King’s
A woman ran up to them, a cloth-wrapped bundle in her hands. It steamed in the frosty air. She thrust it at the Mormaer.
‘For you, my Lord!’ she yelled. ‘Fresh baked!’
It was an oaten bannock, hot from the firestone. The Mormaer broke off a piece and ate it, smiling down his thanks, then passed the rest to Lulach and his wife.
Lulach tasted it. It was gritty and sour. The oat flour must have been old and full of weevils. But it was the best the woman had to give.
Lulach had wondered if King Duncan’s subjects would hiss at them, or hurl the contents of their chamber pots at the man who had killed their king. But these people didn’t mourn for Duncan. Instead they cheered the man they hoped would be their next ruler.
That morning, at the guesthouse where they’d stopped for the night, Lulach had heard his stepfather practising what he’d say to the assembled chiefs.
‘Duncan gave you war and hunger,’ the Mormaer had recited. ‘Black fields, with nothing to harvest but ruined hopes. I will give you peace.’
And he would, thought Lulach, as they rode between the cheering crowds. The Mormaer always kept his word. Surely the Council of Chiefs would see that too?
The chieftains and church leaders argued for three days, while the candidates waited in the monastery guesthouse, carefully polite to each other.
There were many candidates, but only two who really had a chance of being elected: the leaders of the two most powerful clans in Alba. The Mormaer of Moray and the new Mormaer of Atholl, King Duncan’s brother. Thorfinn had been right.
King Duncan’s father, the Abbot of Dunkfield and the former Mormaer of Atholl, had been lobbying the Council to vote for Duncan’s brother. Duncan’s son was too young to stand for election.
But Alba had had enough of Duncan’s clan and their wars. On the third day the herald called out the name of the Mormaer of Moray.
Lulach stood at the front of the crowd on Boot Hill with his mother. She wore her best yellow gown today, with a red cloak and scarf. There were tears in her eyes; the tears she hadn’t let herself shed in the years of terror and sorrow fell now, from happiness, as they watched the Mormaer stride up to the ancient Stone of Destiny, Lia Fáil, his head bright in the sunlight, his face intent and sure.
The new king put his hands upon the golden sandstone rock. His voice was strong and clear. ‘I swear by my honour and by Almighty God to defend the Commonweal of Alba. I swear to defend the happiness of her people.’
One by one the clan chieftains stepped forward and pledged allegiance to the new high king. Each carried a little soil from their homeland in the bindings of their boots. They emptied it into a small mound, then yelled the new king’s name so loudlythe ravens rose in a thick cloud from the battlements and squawked in protest at the noise.
‘King Macbeth!’
‘Macbeth MacFindleach! All hail!’
‘Macbeth! All hail our King Macbeth!’
‘All hail, Father!’ cried Lulach, and heard his mother laugh beside him. It seemed right to call him ‘Father’ now.
The new king grinned. He swung Lulach up onto his shoulders so that all the crowd could see him.
‘Wave, my son!’ he urged him.
Lulach waved. The crowd roared their approval. ‘Moray! Moray! Macbeth! Macbeth!’
This is how it should be, thought Lulach. This is right.
No!
The dream shimmered as Luke struggled to wake up. This wasn’t right! It couldn’t be!
Suddenly the dream released him. Luke sat up panting, as though he had been running, not lying there asleep.
Not Macbeth!
That couldn’t be the Mormaer’s name! Macbeth was a murderer! How could he use Macbeth’s name in his dream? Duncan, yes, even the three witches…but not Macbeth!
Luke lay back down. He had to think of another name for the new king. Arthur, maybe, or Jason. Did they have Jasons way back then?
He had to go back to sleep, he had to dream it right!
The King’s
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