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ground, for their legions to cross, in their fruitless attempts to dominate the Caledonians, as they called the Northern Picts. That it had been a sorry business was evidenced by their name for the Snow Dun hill, Mons Dolorum. Eastwards from it was the widening estuary, westwards stretched the endless swamp. Here, then, Malcolm the Destroyer awaited Canute Svenson the Mighty, in the most strategically significant location in the land. The attacker could only do so by first crossing that bridge and causeway.
    The Scots army had encamped in a vast crescent on the slightly higher ground above the marsh at the causeway-head, lapping up the skirts of the long rocky whaleback, sentinel, on the north side, known as Craig Kenneth—for the great King Kenneth MacAlpin had likewise fought a battle here a century and a half before. On the crest of this, the King and his commanders had formed their present headquarters, with a far-flung prospect all around save to the north, where the green Ochil Hills rose steeply. Only, today, the view southwards was less fair and distant than usual, obscured by great drifting palls of smoke.
    MacBeth, used to assessing numbers, reckoned that there might be some 8000 to 9000 men gathered there, a great host, but none too many if Canute brought anything like his full strength against them. He saw the banners of Fife, Strathearn, Lennox, Angus, Mar, Atholl and Moray amongst them.
    With some difficulty finding sufficient space for his men to encamp, MacBeth left them under Neil Nathrach, and with his thanes and lieutenants threaded his way through the lines and the evening cooking-fires and rode up the steep of Craig Kenneth by a twisting path. The higher they climbed, the more obvious was that great pall of smoke to the south.
    There was a clump of trees on the grassy summit ridge, and there the High King's Boar banner flew in the westerly breeze. A rough table had been contrived, and round this sat a group of men, about a dozen, while others stood around respectfully. All watched the newcomers' approach, and as they came up, all the sitters save two rose to their feet. Remaining sitting were an old man at one end and a young at the other.
    MacBeth and his party dismounted and strode forward to the table. He bowed to his grandfather.
    "Sire!" he said. And to the others, "My lords." That was all.
    The King was old, but only in years and wickedness. His person could have been that of a man thirty years his junior, upright, heavily-built and broad-shouldered, but without fat or flabbiness. His hair and beard were grey, but not sparse, his features handsome if long, his carriage carelessly proud. But it was his eyes that took and held the attention, hooded eyes but lively, strange, glittering, the most alive eyes MacBeth for one had ever seen in a man, with a life almost of their own. He was dressed unexceptionally, for war, in leather and scaled mail, with saffron kilt and shoulder-plaid, much less richly than many of his mormaors and thanes—but in that man's presence none would ever consider clothing of any importance. His great crested and crowned helmet was laid aside, but he wore a simple narrow circlet of gold around brows and hair.
    He held out an imperious hand. "MacBeth mac Finlay—greeting!" he said. "Last come—save one! But none the less welcome for that, grandson." He had a deep, vibrant voice with just the hint of a lisp.
    MacBeth dropped on one knee to take and kiss that firm, freckled, outstretched hand—and shut his eyes lest he would see scarlet blood on it as he did so.
    "I came so soon as I might, lord King. This is a far cry from Ross. I have brought twelve hundred. Another five hundred from my westlands follow, under the Thane of Gairloch."
    The King nodded. "Yes. You all I welcome, my friends. In this pass." He paused, as though perhaps the welcome might have been otherwise in different circumstances. "But where, grandson, is that other awkward brother of yours?"
    "Neil, sire, is