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rebellious grandson of mine, Thorfinn Sigurdson, would but come, as commanded, and bring his longships into the Scottish Sea, I could make a sea-borne descent on the Lothian coast, behind Canute. And both give him pause and bring relief to the people. That is what I have been waiting for."
    "Thorfinn is a treacherous Viking barbarian!" Duncan declared. "I said that we could rely on him only to fail us!"
    "Thorfinn is his own man. And a better man than you, Duncan Ilgalrach!" MacBeth told him.
    "Quiet, dolts!" the King snapped. "Thorfinn Sigurdson is my man, for Caithness and Sutherland. And he had best remember it. I gave him that mortuath, as a bairn. I could take it back."
    It was on the tip of MacBeth's tongue to question any man's ability to do that; but he thought better of it and changed the subject somewhat.
    "For a landing on the Lothian shore, could not MacDuff supply sufficient vessels?" he asked.
    "I have only slow and unarmed fishing-craft. Canute will have his own longships—he always has. Attacked, these would be as Iambs before wolves," Duncan MacDuff, sixth Mormaor of Fife and Fothrif, was a red-faced, bull-like young man, short of neck. His peninsular domain of Fife was almost an island.
    "When you have finished teaching us our business, grandson, perhaps we may eat?" Malcolm said, and waved peremptorily to the waiting servitors, who had been about to present a meal of cold meats and ale when the Rossmen arrived.
    As a grandson of the King, and one of those in line for the throne, MacBeth as of right took a seat near the head of the table—not too close to the monarch, for comfort's sake, but a goodly distance from Duncan mac Crinan, whom he loathed. With his so evident unpopularity with the King, there was no competition to sit beside him on the part of his fellow mormaors; but Glamis, one of Angus's thanes, came. He was a man of middle years, and one of the most renowned of Malcolm's generals, and so of sufficient independence to follow his own line somewhat and sit where he would.
    "Greetings, MacBeth," he said. "Your father was my good friend. I rejoiced that Gillacomgain got his needings."
    "You were there, friend? I cannot think it well done, nevertheless."
    "The burning?" The other shrugged mailed shoulders. "It was not done prettily. Or as I would have it. But he is better dead. The Lady Gruoch—what of her?"
    "She is well," he was told briefly. "And safe."
    The other eyed him. "Aye," he accepted.
    The King was watching them. Perhaps he could lip-read. "The woman Gruoch?" he said. "You hold her?"
    "I give her shelter, sire. Only that."
    "Shelter is as good a word for it as other! But—watch how you tread that bird, cockerel! She is dangerous."
    MacBeth rose, pushing back the rough bench and all but unseating his neighbours. "Lord King!" he jerked. "That lady is fair. And virtuous. And has suffered. If you miscall her, I must leave your table."
    "Ha—so that is the way of it! Hush, man—sit down and eat your meat." Malcolm, grinning, pointed a leg of lamb at his grandson. "Be not so delicate of skin! I but jested. Save your heat for Canute. Sit—and teach Glamis there how to fight battles!"
    "That I would not think to do, sire."
    "Forby, I agree with the Lord MacBeth. We should have sent a force across the bridge."
    "The more fool you, then! Am I surrounded by fools? There is only one way to deal with Canute. Thank you your God that I know how to do it."
    None might controvert that, and the meal progressed in more subdued fashion.
    MacBeth excused himself as soon as he might, and went back down to his own folk. As far as was possible he would seek to keep his distance from his grandsire and his entourage.
    Next day they watched Canute's main array arriving, hour after hour, company by company, some horse but mainly foot—for though this was in name an English army, it was Danish led, with many Norse contingents from the Danelaw and Northumbria; and the Norsemen were not really horsemen.
    It was