‘That all this is true I, Macbeth, King of Scots, swear on my honour.’
Indicating to the scribe that his formal statement was finished, he went on in a different tone, ‘There remains the heavy matter of the killing of Duncan. It was done more Scottico, not in malice, it was done for Scotland, not for my advancement, it was done as an execution, not as a wanton slaying, but it was murder. If I am to bear the blame…’
In an oddly irritating gesture he fumbled with the crucifix at his breast. I told him briskly.
‘Of that you and I will speak in private, your majesty, at a later hour.’
Macbeth gave a slow nod, his thoughts on old wrongs and enduring hazards. It was more than half to himself that he said, ‘Already they are telling one another that my gentle Gruoch had a hand in Duncan’s death, when in truth she was in my castle at Dunkeld, over sixty miles away. If it were not for this record, who could guess what might be believed of me in centuries to come? That I took innocent lives, that I murdered my friend, murdered children, that I consorted with witches and saw visions, that I — how to put it? — supped full with horrors.’
Here he turned briefly to his man Seaton and in a strange language spoke what I took to be some words of courteous apology for subjecting him to so much incomprehensible talk. The fellow gave a grunt of oafish surprise and faltered out a few harsh, graceless syllables, staring vacantly as he did so. Poor, poor King Macbeth; if that was his chosen associate, what must his daily company at home have been like? I would forgive him his murder; indeed, to have confined oneself to a single such lapse in a country like Scotland, assuming the impression I had formed of it to be even moderately fair, indicated commendable restraint.
There were, of course, other considerations, other than the obvious diplomatic ones. A man likes to show mercy whenever possible. Then, at our private audience early that evening Macbeth relieved me of what might have been an awkwardness by tactfully producing unasked a quantity of gold and suggesting that I should devote it to pious purposes of my own choosing. And, when all is said, one soldier is bound to feel a certain kinship with another. It was with a full heart that I pronounced him absolved and wished him a safe return, and I allowed him without reluctance to keep the dainty crucifix he seemed so attached to.
The next morning Hildebrand came to me with Macbeth’s story written out fair. ‘Evidently, Lord, a considerable person.’
‘More so than his position calls for. I hope for his sake he sits as securely as he appears to believe.’
‘Time will show.’
‘Time will show many things of greater moment than the devices of a Scottish desperado, however engaging.’
‘Is your highness instructing me that this is not to be put into the permanent archive?’
‘We agreed to keep it as sparse as possible. Extract whatever is needed.’
‘As your highness pleases. I hope you feel your time was not wasted.’
‘It was most diverting, and we have the man’s goodwill.’
‘True, Lord. And now some news of your captains. Five are confined. Valerian died by his own hand before he could be secured. Frederic is believed to be at large in the Emperor’s domain. I have somebody competent at work.’
‘Let the matter be settled and over. It seems well it should be done quickly.’
HISTORICAL NOTE
Macbeth (‘fair, yellow, tall’) first visited Rome in the year 1050. This visit, unlike his second three years later, is vouched for by documents. In 1054 his armies were defeated near Scone by those of Earl Siward, but he continued on the Scottish throne another three years. Then his ally Thorfinn died, and shortly afterwards Malcolm Broadhead murdered him. Macbeth’s stepson Lulach became king, but after a few months Malcolm murdered him too and took the crown, ruling as Malcolm III. Macbeth and Lulach were buried in the island of Iona, the ancient resting-place of the Scottish kings.
The health of Pope Leo IX had been shattered by his captivity and he died the following year, 1054, though not before he had proceeded with the excommunication of the Patriarch of Constantinople, thus making final and permanent the split between the Western and Eastern Churches. He was canonized as St Leo in 1087.
Hildebrand became Pope Gregory VII in 1073 and also achieved sainthood.
MASON’S LIFE
‘May I join you?’
The medium-sized man with the undistinguished clothes and the blank, anonymous face looked up at Pettigrew, who, glass of beer in hand, stood facing him across the small corner table. Pettigrew, tall, handsome and of fully moulded features, had about him an intent, almost excited air that, in different circumstances, might have brought an unfavourable response, but the other said amiably,
‘By all means. Do sit down.’
‘Can I get you something?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you,’ said the medium-sized man, gesturing at the almost full glass in front of him. In the background was the ordinary ambience of bar, barman, drinkers in ones and twos, nothing to catch the eye.
‘We’ve never met, have we?’
‘Not as far as I recall.’
‘Good, good. My name’s Pettigrew, Daniel R. Pettigrew. What’s yours?’
‘Mason. George Herbert Mason, if you want it in full.’
‘Well, I think that’s best, don’t you? George… Herbert… Mason.’ Pettigrew spoke as if committing the three short words to memory. ‘Now let’s have your telephone number.’
Again Mason might have reacted against Pettigrew’s demanding manner, but he said no more than, ‘You can find me in the book easily enough.’
‘No, there might be several… We mustn’t waste time. Please.’
‘Oh, very well; it’s public information, after all. Two-three-two, five—’
‘Hold on, you’re going too fast for me. Two… three… two…’
‘Five-four-five-four.’
‘What a stroke of luck. I ought to be able to remember that.’
‘Why don’t you write it down if it’s so important to you?’
At this, Pettigrew gave a knowing grin that faded into a look of disappointment. ‘Don’t you know that’s no use? Anyway: two-three-two, five-four-five-four. I might as well give you my number too. Seven—’
‘I don’t want your number, Mr Pettigrew,’ said Mason, sounding a little impatient, ‘and I must say I rather regret giving you mine.’
‘But you must take my number.’
‘Nonsense; you can’t make me.’
‘A phrase, then — let’s agree on a phrase to exchange in the morning.’
‘Would you mind telling me what all this is about?’
‘Please, our time’s running out.’
‘You keep saying that. This is getting—’
‘Any moment everything might change and I might find myself somewhere completely different, and so might you, I suppose, though I can’t help feeling it’s doubtful whether—’
‘Mr Pettigrew, either you explain yourself at once or I have you removed.’
‘All right,’ said Pettigrew, whose disappointed look had deepened, ‘but I’m afraid it won’t do any good. You see, when we started talking I thought you must be a real person, because of the way you—’
‘Spare me your infantile catch-phrases, for heaven’s sake. So I’m not a real person,’ cooed Mason offensively.
‘I don’t mean it like that, I mean it in the most literal way possible.’