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The Death of a King
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men had hardly time to hand the king the precious water when a rider burst
forth through the foliage, rain water dripping from his soaked apparel,
steam enshrouding himself and the frothing beast which he reigned in to
a slippery, sliding standstill. The words came stammering out as the figure
dismounted in that excitable way known only to men traumatized by events
about to overtake them. "My Lord the road is cut, they are all around"
the voice exclaimed as the crowd drew in around the rider. Macbeth stretched
his body to its full height and with an exhausted sigh was heard to say
"that's it then, we stand or fall here and may God be with us."
The mutterings seemed to evolve into groans as the word spread through what remained of the royal army. These, some 3-400 men, were the leftovers of the faithful who had followed Macbeth all of seventeen years apart from the Frenchmen to whom the king had given refuge not that many years past. The rest were either dead or had deserted to the Atholl cause. The chances of breaking through to Forres and reinforcements was now gone and as the air of despondency spread through the ranks the rain soaked figures set about preparing the best defense possible for this was going to be another bloody event. |
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Malcolm, known as Canmore, rode through the village with his entourage, the rain spattering off the metal of their helmets and shields, the clinking of metal against metal and leather, thinking to himself of the consternation he might endure should the murderer escape his clutches once more. How many times had he cornered this usurper king only to be beaten or outsmarted. Of course it was not the genius of Macbeth but the stupidity of these Northumbrian peasants who called themselves soldiers and those mercenaries who only looked after themselves who were at fault. At least he had faithful Macduff by his side and such men were like gold. "Don't worry Sire, his encampment is within distance and he won't escape this time" shouted Macduff as he spurred his horse forward. "I would feel a lot better if this rain would give up for should we have to give battle our archers will be useless," retorted Canmore. |
Macbeth assembled what he had available around the ancient Peel, that defensive position from times long since gone but deemed useful to his requirements this day. With the trees around his rear and the slippery ground to his front Macbeth felt the advantage was his although it would all depend on how many of them there were. What bowmen he had would surely be rendered useless in this downpour but so would theirs. "Never really liked the bow anyway" was this Celtic monarch's attitude for it was not the true way to fight. Better the long broad blade for slashing and hacking or the axe of the Norseman that was becoming quite popular, for dispatching ones' opponent, just as Torfinn had demonstrated against his men on not a few occasions. "I wish he were here right now" thought Macbeth, "I wonder what the rogue is doing now," as he pondered the possibilities of the coming battle. |
Canmore could hardly restrain himself on the news he was now hearing. A rider had just confirmed that Macbeth was making a stand and the road was cut for any retreat. This was what he had been waiting for, the news that once more was the chance to get even. Would this be the day, the final day of retribution for all the years of miserable failure, first by his grandfather Crinnan, then by himself as to the overthrow of the man who usurped his throne. As he struggled to mount his beast the rider called out that the army was already assembling in battle ranks to the front of Macbeths' defensive wall. He hauled himself into the saddle and moved off towards the field in what appeared to be one motion, spurring the animal onto even greater endeavour. "This blasted rain could ruin everything," he cried as he pushed the beast through the files of men advancing across the sodden ground. |
From behind the wall of stakes and shields Macbeth surveyed the closed ranks of men advancing towards him. Providing the archers were hindered by the rain, the chances looked quite encouraging, for the greasy ground was already making footing uneasy for the oncoming spearmen. Just one good volley from the Moraymen would break up this first attack before the strings stretched out of use and of course the use of horses on this ground was out of the question, so it really would be down to the slashing and hacking after all. This gave our hero a great uplift for in combat of this nature his men were unsurpassed. "Bring them on and once more we'll show them how Moraymen fight" he cried. His moral raised and his demeanor regal, the men around him seeing this took heart and hands tightened on weapon grips with firm determination and bows were strung at least for one volley. Swords and axes, spears and arrows would reap a harvest this day. |
Macduff and company had a hard task restraining Malcolm Canmore as he had by now dismounted and was trying to hustle through the ranks to get to the fore of the advance. "Let it be, my Lord" yelled the Thane of Fife. "Let the men do their work knowing that their king is safe, for our archers are about to get at least one volley off before the real work begins." "Get them started then, get them started", Canmore screeched with a voice almost hysterical. On the order, the rows of bowmen unleashed their deadly missiles up and towards the figures behind that wall of wood. For what seemed an eternity the only sound was of the rain and a faint whistling until the groans and screams roared out as iron, flint and wood hit their target. Of the wall one or two gaps appeared for a while, only to be closed up again just as quick. First blood to Canmore. Now it was the turn of the real men. |
All around him Macbeth could see the result of those arrows as some of his invaluable soldiers lay dead, dying or wounded. He knew in his heart he couldn't afford this situation as he ordered his own few bowmen to fire. "Pray that they can't loose off any more volleys," was the word to the Frenchman standing by his side. By this time some elements of the enemy foot had engaged his left flank with that thud only soldiers know. The sound of metal on metal, screams and cries grew in volume as more and more men engaged. The enemy was now dragging at the stakes with rope, opening up gaps in the wall into which the trickle of bodies was about to turn into a flood. The weight of numbers meant a continuously shrinking wall as men grappled, slashed, stabbed and throttled one another. |
Canmore watched reluctantly as his men forced the foe into an ever-decreasing circle. "What if he gets away?' he roared "I don't want him to escape, I want him taken alive", the words echoing in the ears of those around. Macduff gave orders that Malcolm was not under any circumstances to be let loose on the battlefield. He personally would seek out Macbeth and finish the thing, but Canmore had to be held in safety. Fife launched himself into the mass of bodies standing or fallen, searching right and left for the man he once admired if nothing else, for he was always an Atholl man and never had any truck for Moray. All around the screams and cries were increasing as the fighting decreased for the Moray line was by now in total disarray and some were in the throes of making an escape if only they could. Gradually Macduff fought his way forward to where Macbeth was last spotted, for he knew that by the number of Northumbrian dead he was sure to find the king. By now the prisoners were being shuttled back to the rear and it wasn't to be long before the cry went up that Macbeth himself, wounded and overpowered, had been captured. Macduff pushed through the throng of now cheering soldiers to find the king being held down by a group of bloodied men. Oh how he wanted to end it there and then but he had assured Canmore that the privilege would be his. |
Macbeth, fighting like a man possessed was seeing his world evaporate as his best followers fell under the Atholl swords. Slowly but surely his strength was being sapped under the onslaught. His Frenchmen were all either dead or wounded and perhaps it would be better for them were they dead, and his Moraymen were now so few as to the advisability of staying on was to be surely killed one way or the other. The dead around the king were now more of a hindrance than an advantage for movement was almost impossible and so it was to be in that situation Macbeth was lunged to the ground by force of numbers. Fighting pain and man together was too much for the monarch and his body fell limp in that moment of defeat. With great endurance through the blows still being inflicted by the victors he was dragged over body and ground to where Malcolm Canmore had come. Through the alternate numbing and pain, his head was arched back on the stone, to see his conquerors standing over his person, and, as his hair was pulled so as to reveal his neck suddenly there was blackness….. |
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