Kingsley Amis - Dear Illusion - Selected Stories

‘All this is seen. It is further seen, though ill remembered, that old Malcolm made over to Thorfinn, with the title of earl, two fiefs on the mainland, this as a means of restraining him, of placating any ambition he might nourish. The old man had not reckoned that, once on the throne, the foolhardy Duncan would try to recover those places by force of arms. Scotland ran with blood, much of it that of my own people, some of it my own blood; I carried a sword for my king as a commander of his armies. There seemed no end to be hoped for.

‘Then one morning thirteen years ago Thorfinn’s Norwegians burst upon the Scots from the rising sun at Burghead in Moray and cut them to pieces on the beach in ten minutes. Duncan fled and I and a party of my followers fled with him. Moray was my fief; by secret paths I led him to an abandoned fort at a place called Bothnagowan. There, on an August night, we seized our chance, a dozen of us, and surprised him as he lay asleep out on the rampart, and stabbed him to death with our daggers. With no delay I had myself proclaimed king and was crowned at Scone, made peace with my cousin Thorfinn, made him my friend. Indeed, he had been my friend before, he who always does what he has said he will do. And the Scots hung up their arms.

‘This too is seen by some. What is not seen, what is already forgotten, what is put out of sight is Duncan as he was. Comely I grant him, with a bright eye and a curved lip, very like my father-in-law, as my wife often noted; both men were descended from Malcolm I, dead these hundred years. However, in all else Duncan was a wretch, mean of spirit, vengeful, I think a little mad. No one was safe from his sudden rages. Wasteful and indolent. Unclean in his person — he stank under our knives, not only from fear. Not kingly. It is put out of sight that his nickname of the Gracious was a jest, a taunt.

‘Now Scotland is safe and at peace. This has not been customary. So fierce and prolonged have been her inner conflicts that, of her last nine kings, only old Malcolm my grandfather died in his bed. The future holds some hope. Having no issue I have taken as my son the fruit of my wife’s first marriage, young Lulach, a strong, honest boy of twenty-one. I mean him to succeed me. Duncan’s sons, Malcolm and Donald Bane, whom I generously spared, shelter in the household of Siward, the English earl of Northumberland, a cousin of their mother’s. They show no signs of moving to unseat me, nor can they ever contrive it while my friend and ally Thorfinn lives. Let them try and welcome. I will defend my country to my last breath.

‘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.

‘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?’