Canmore's blade dripped
with Macbeth's blood. The lifeless body lay still, motionless for
eternity. He stood over Macbeth's body, looking with satisfaction at the
gaping wounds. Mist gathered around his legs, enveloping him as it crept
across the hills, swirling in the sharp wind.
Moaning came from the
dying, echoing across fields of buttery yellow gorse and bluebells. He
dropped his sword on top of his foe, turned and staggered to a flowing
burn. His knees gave way as he knelt to wash the blood and gore from his
hands and arms, landing him on his belly; he smelled the peat in the
water. Claret smears colored the clear rivlet.
He staggered to his feet
and howled in anguish for the loss of his devoted friends, loyal lads who
knew not what changes in history they fought for, but who had given their
lives in his defense. Canmore stared somberly at the scene, hoping that
from this day forth, in the year of our Lord 1057; the memory would live
in the hearts of every Scot.
The death of Macbeth at
Lumphanan, Aberdeenshire, Scotland, ended the seventeenth year of reign of
the last Celtic king of Scotland. Soon the 'House of Canmore'
would begin its 200 year monarchy.
Aye, Malcolm Canmore
knew to fight
Born so and put to flight
Many a Viking, many a home-grown foe!
In that day, in that
Bloody kingship in its prime
Royal chambers warriors’ place to go!
Mattered little women
Battle measured manly pride
And blade worked its magic spell!
He slew Macbeth of
Usurping illegitimate claim!
None left the truth to tell!
Hopelessly lost, deed done
Doomed with mother’s marriage to Macbeth!
This dynasty a brazen
After snuffing Lulach’s heart
Ambitious rivals drew a craven’s breath!
By Mac McAnear