Page 132 of Highland Queen

“All right. I will send word to Thorfinn. He is going to come.”

“That’s highly unlikely.”

“No. The angels told me he would come. You see them?” Macbeth said, pointing.

I followed his gaze. When I shifted my vision and looked with my raven’s eyes, I saw something.

“Will you send word to Thorfinn for me?” Macbeth asked.

“Macbeth, Thorfinn is embroiled in his own troubles. And he just had a son.”

“Ask him.”

“All right,” I said with a sigh then rose.

“And Gruoch?”

“Yes?”

“Will you write to Elspeth?”

“I already have.”

“Thank you.”

Saying nothing more, I left him there. What was there to say? There was no use in arguing with a madman.

As requested, I sent a rider to Thorfinn. I then asked the bishop to make plans for Macbeth’s pilgrimage. With those tasks done, I went back to work. With the flare-up in the south extinguished, and Siward’s army defeated, Siward withdrew. My spies informed me that he had barely raised enough money and men to ride north again. Rumor was that Crinian had made promises that had come to nothing—just like Crinian himself. I didn’t expect to hear from Siward again any time soon.

Macbeth stayed as he was. While preparations for his departure to the continent had been made, Macbeth refused to go until we heard from Thorfinn. While I took his words as the raving of a madman, I was surprised when riders approached one day bearing Thorfinn’s standard.

I went to the yard to discover the jarl there. I could scarcely believe my eyes.

“Thorfinn?”

He laughed. “I figured there was no sense in sending a messenger. I would just come myself.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I’m going to Rome, of course. My ships are ready to take us whenever Macbeth is ready. Where is my king?”

I sighed.

“Ah,” Thorfinn said simply.

I motioned for him to follow me. We wound up the steps of the castle to the third level. “I say, what a grand edifice. Dunsinane is a sturdy old boat,” Thorfinn said.

“And ancient to its roots.”

“As is the wood around it. I’d swear I heard sprites whispering to me.”

“Your guess isn’t far off. But you must tell me, how is Injibjorg and your son?”

“Both are well. And you—please forgive my wife, but your secrets are safe with me—how is yours and Banquo’s daughter.”

I nodded. “Aelith. She is with Banquo in Lochaber.”

“Macbeth wrote that Banquo was ill.”

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