lord. And lady! Since it must be one or the other, it had better be yourself. It is possible that Lulach might have the first claim. But he is only a child. He could not hold Moray. For many years to come. You, I say, are the tanist—the nearest in blood best fitted to hold the inheritance together. It is a wise system."
"I could be captain. Hold the mortuath for Lulach."
"Better to be mormaor yourself, lord. If my lady will agree? At least until the Lord Lulach is of full years. Men, I say, would be less like to assail Moray if it was yours than if it was a child's. And you but captain. The Earl Thorfinn, your half-brother. I think that he would not seek to take your mortuath. But he might think to take Lulach's, who is no kin to him."
"Aye. So there we have it! It is the Earl Thorfinn you fear. And I am the best guard against my Viking half-brother. Is that it?"
Cawdor was silent.
MacBeth looked round the group. "Were it not for Thorfinn Raven Feeder, someone else might be sitting Mormaor of Moray now, I think! With your blessing. Who? You, Urquhart? You, Cawdor?"
Throats were cleared, heads were shaken. Major discomfort reigned.
Conal of Lovat—who of course could have had no ambitions for the mortuath—found words first. "Hugh of Cawdor is right, lord," he asserted earnestly. "You should be mormaor. Your Ross protects Moray on the north. The Earl Thorfinn, if it is yours, will protect it on east and west, from the sea..."
"And in the south? Crinan of Atholl and Gartnait of Mar. Do they love me? Crinan, father of Duncan!"
"My lord." Urquhart recovered his voice. "The Lord Crinan does not desire Moray—that is clear. When you were sick, like to die, we feared invasion. We approached Crinan. But he did nothing. He has...enough. If Duncan, Prince of Strathclyde, desired Moray, would he not have taken it, when he was here? With the King. Forby, he is gone courting the Northumbrians to wed the Earl Siward's sister, they say. So he is too busy. And his father will not contest your taking of the mortuath, I swear. As for Gartnait of Mar, he has no concern in the matter."
"I see. So, when you thought me dying, you would have handed over the mortuath to Crinan or Duncan, with no thought for Lulach here, the rightful heir!"
"Not so, lord. But..." Helplessly Urquhart shook his greying head.
MacBeth decided that it was enough, the lesson sufficient. "So be it," he said. "You all would name me as mormaor? Here, before these many witnesses. Above all others? That is your considered advice? You, Urquhart?"
"Yes."
"You, Cawdor?"
"I do."
"You, Lovat?"
"To be sure, my lord. That I have held, from the first."
"Very well. If the other thanes of the mortuath think as you do. And if my good wife agrees. I shall accept the Mortuath of Moray. Until Lulach shall be of age to hold it himself. Do you agree, my dear?"
Gruoch nodded. "I do. It is best so."
"Good. We shall sound the other thanes. In a progress. All of us." He paused, to let that sink in. "It is understood?"
Only one voice was raised, that of his own Farquhar O'Beolain of Applecross. "And if the King disapproves? Will not confirm?"
"My grandsire may not greatly love me, my friend. But he is a man much concerned with realities. What he cannot alter, he accepts with what grace is in him. This, I think, he will accept—since he can do no other. Lacking traitors in the camp!"
That pause was pregnant.
MacBeth rose, and assisted Gruoch to her feet.
Later, in the spider-hung guest-house, handed over for their exclusive use, Gruoch chid MacBeth gently.
"You can be as hard a man as any, I have learned this day."
"Would you have had me otherwise? It got the matter settled to good effect."
"Oh, yes. To excellent effect! But—so sly, so cunning!" She smiled, however. "When it was to be that Morgund who was the cunning one."
"That one has less wits than he is given the name for, I think. Hugh of Cawdor has more, it seems. Although I would trust neither of
"I could be captain. Hold the mortuath for Lulach."
"Better to be mormaor yourself, lord. If my lady will agree? At least until the Lord Lulach is of full years. Men, I say, would be less like to assail Moray if it was yours than if it was a child's. And you but captain. The Earl Thorfinn, your half-brother. I think that he would not seek to take your mortuath. But he might think to take Lulach's, who is no kin to him."
"Aye. So there we have it! It is the Earl Thorfinn you fear. And I am the best guard against my Viking half-brother. Is that it?"
Cawdor was silent.
MacBeth looked round the group. "Were it not for Thorfinn Raven Feeder, someone else might be sitting Mormaor of Moray now, I think! With your blessing. Who? You, Urquhart? You, Cawdor?"
Throats were cleared, heads were shaken. Major discomfort reigned.
Conal of Lovat—who of course could have had no ambitions for the mortuath—found words first. "Hugh of Cawdor is right, lord," he asserted earnestly. "You should be mormaor. Your Ross protects Moray on the north. The Earl Thorfinn, if it is yours, will protect it on east and west, from the sea..."
"And in the south? Crinan of Atholl and Gartnait of Mar. Do they love me? Crinan, father of Duncan!"
"My lord." Urquhart recovered his voice. "The Lord Crinan does not desire Moray—that is clear. When you were sick, like to die, we feared invasion. We approached Crinan. But he did nothing. He has...enough. If Duncan, Prince of Strathclyde, desired Moray, would he not have taken it, when he was here? With the King. Forby, he is gone courting the Northumbrians to wed the Earl Siward's sister, they say. So he is too busy. And his father will not contest your taking of the mortuath, I swear. As for Gartnait of Mar, he has no concern in the matter."
"I see. So, when you thought me dying, you would have handed over the mortuath to Crinan or Duncan, with no thought for Lulach here, the rightful heir!"
"Not so, lord. But..." Helplessly Urquhart shook his greying head.
MacBeth decided that it was enough, the lesson sufficient. "So be it," he said. "You all would name me as mormaor? Here, before these many witnesses. Above all others? That is your considered advice? You, Urquhart?"
"Yes."
"You, Cawdor?"
"I do."
"You, Lovat?"
"To be sure, my lord. That I have held, from the first."
"Very well. If the other thanes of the mortuath think as you do. And if my good wife agrees. I shall accept the Mortuath of Moray. Until Lulach shall be of age to hold it himself. Do you agree, my dear?"
Gruoch nodded. "I do. It is best so."
"Good. We shall sound the other thanes. In a progress. All of us." He paused, to let that sink in. "It is understood?"
Only one voice was raised, that of his own Farquhar O'Beolain of Applecross. "And if the King disapproves? Will not confirm?"
"My grandsire may not greatly love me, my friend. But he is a man much concerned with realities. What he cannot alter, he accepts with what grace is in him. This, I think, he will accept—since he can do no other. Lacking traitors in the camp!"
That pause was pregnant.
MacBeth rose, and assisted Gruoch to her feet.
Later, in the spider-hung guest-house, handed over for their exclusive use, Gruoch chid MacBeth gently.
"You can be as hard a man as any, I have learned this day."
"Would you have had me otherwise? It got the matter settled to good effect."
"Oh, yes. To excellent effect! But—so sly, so cunning!" She smiled, however. "When it was to be that Morgund who was the cunning one."
"That one has less wits than he is given the name for, I think. Hugh of Cawdor has more, it seems. Although I would trust neither of
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