As the fleet drew near it could be seen to be led by a great dragon-ship similar to Somerled’s own, flanked on either side by one of Saor’s escorts, these longships identifiable from the rest by the prominent diagonal red crosses which barred their black raven device on the sails. Somerled strode down to the beach, followed by his available leaders and a few local chieftains, where a small boat waited to take them out to his own dragon-ship, anchored further out in the bay. He had chosen this as the venue rather than the hallhouse, for various reasons—the effect of having to talk terms on one of the Norsemen’s own captured proudest vessels was worth emphasising; also the fact that this must limit the numbers who would accompany this Thorkell; and that from here, at deck-level, it would be not so apparent that many of the Ardtornish fleet were sham, in the centre.
Aboard, they waited.
As arranged beforehand, when the Norse leader’s craft drew close, the two escorts suddenly shot ahead, to come and place themselves one on either side of Somerled’s vessel, hulls touching. This meant that Thorkell could not board his enemy’s ship direct but must step down on to one of the lower longships, cross it and then climb up on to the dragon-ship—all productive of effect.
This sequence duly developed, Saor MacNeil shouting that the Norsemen must be alarmed indeed to have come in such force. They all hoped that this was a true interpretation of the situation.
When Forkbeard duly appeared, admittedly he evinced little sign of alarm or despondency, a big, hot-eyed man, his long, thin and divided yellow beard notable, wearing a great raven-winged helmet, scale-armour, rusty but bare arms all but covered with gold bracelets. Backed by a fierce-looking group of warriors, armed to the teeth with battleaxes, maces, swords and daggers, he frowned down at MacNeil and his intervening craft, but recognising realities, gestured forward and jumped down on to the lesser vessel’s stern-platform, stamped across it, ignoring Saor, and, brushing aside the helpful hands held out to him, hoisted himself up on to the dragon-ship. His supporters, very much hung about with their weapons, made heavier going of it.
“Greetings, Thorkell Svensson!” Somerled said, in the Norn. “I welcome you to Ardtornish, since you come in peace.”
“I come prepared for war!” the other growled.
“Perhaps. But you come, nevertheless! Being, I am assured, a wise man. We have much to discuss.”
“Have we, Scot? You must teach me, then. I am not accustomed to discussing, save with my sword-hand!”
“I will gladly teach you, this and aught else. But if you prefer swords, Norseman, I can pleasure you, as gladly. I can raise this whole country against you. But that is a slow and clumsy way to solve any differences between us. When we could do it here and now, in a few words. Do you not agree?”
The other did not commit himself, but turned to his lieutenants. “Do we require to talk to this man?” he asked.
He got his answer, of course, in vigorous negatives.
“I think that you do,” Somerled went on, easily. “Or you would not be here. And with all these assembled, from so many coasts. You are come because, although you speak of the sword, you doubt whether you can meet me in war and can hope to win—as none of your fellow-Norse have been able to do. So you hope by this meeting to learn the style of me, to search out if I have any weaknesses, and perhaps to strike a bargain for your own advantage. Is it not so?”
The silent, glum row of faces was sufficient answer.
“I asked you to come because I might be willing to come to terms with you instead of fighting you. Not because I cannot outfight and beat you, as I have done the others, but because I have more to do with my time than merely fight. My father is rightful lord of this Argyll and I have to govern and rule it for him. You, now, neither govern nor rule, only pillage and destroy. So I would have you out of my Argyll. And I am willing to pay for you to go.”
“Pay . . .?”
“Pay, yes. Not in gold or the like. But in freedom from my dispute and enmity. Leave my domains, leave Argyll—aye, and Moidart and Lochaber also. There is all the North for you—Knoydart, Skye, Kintail, Lochalsh, Torridon and the rest. Go there, and I shall not trouble you. Others may, but not I!”
“You said pay. That is not payment.”
“I say that it is—excellent payment. You gain much. You no longer need fear my hostility—and none other on these coasts appears to be challenging you. What matters it to you whether you do your raiding from Knoydart or Skye instead of from Mull or Islay? The land matters nothing to you, only what you can steal from it! Go steal elsewhere, then—there is plenty of land on this seaboard, hundreds of miles washed by the Hebridean Sea, further north. Go steal there—with my blessing!”
Thorkell stared at him, hot eyes searching. “How do I know that you will do as you say?” he demanded. “That you will not come chasing after me where we may go?”
Somerled tried to keep the elation out of his voice. With those words spoken he knew that he had won Mull and lona and possibly much besides.
“None have ever had to question the word of Somerled MacFergus!” he declared. “I give it here, before all these. Go, and stay, north of Moidart, and I shall not trouble you. If the time should come, one day, when I too require to come north, I shall give you due warning. I cannot say fairer. Is it a bargain?”
There was silence for a little as the Vikings eyed each other. Then Thorkell said, “I can speak only for myself. I cannot give you all this Argyll. Others there are, on Jura and on Lorn and Kintyre . . .”
“I know it. But you will serve for a start! I would advise therefore, that you do not delay in your sailing north! For these others may follow you, hungry for new territory and spoil also.”
That appeared to register. There was some muttering.
“Whilst you consider the matter, there is refreshment.” And at a sign, whisky and ale, oat-cakes and honey, were brought to set before the visitors.
As they partook, arguing amongst themselves, Somerled scanned their fleet. It was lying hove-to in the outer part of the bay, with the remaining four of the Scots escort vessels patrolling back and forth to prevent any too close approach to the sham Ardtornish assembly.
Cathula came to speak low-voiced. “These Vikings, so bold and brave, but make believe, to save their faces, in this talking now. They will do as you say.”
“So I think also.”
“You are very agile with your tongue, my lord Sorley! As well as with other parts! But you have bought your peace at others’ cost. Not these Norsemen’s.”
“How so?”
“The folk of Knoydart and Skye and the rest. Will they have cause to thank you for this day’s fine talk? A prey to these pirates.”
“I have nothing worsened their state. They have always been a prey. Think you that these robbers infest only Argyll? All this Hebridean coast is plagued with them. I have heard that Skye in especial is bad. So sending more Norse there will only cause them to fight each other, to squabble with the Norse already there over the pickings, like the black corbies they paint upon their sails! The Skiachs will suffer no more than they already do.”
“You will convince yourself that you are their benefactor, next!”
“It may be, one day. When I have Argyll safe won. You would hear that I did not promise these Vikings that I would never come after them? Only, that if I did, I would give them due warning.”
She eyed him curiously. “So—you intend to win more than Argyll before you are done, do you?”
“I did not say so,” he returned shortly.
Presently Thorkell Forkbeard seemed to decide that appearances were adequately maintained. He beckoned to Somerled.
“I shall go to Skye,” he announced abruptly. “We had thought of it, ourselves, in any case. We have had a sufficiency of Mull. But—who knows, we may return!”
“In that case, I shall be here to welcome you!” Somerled said pleasantly. “But meantime, we shall not tread on each other’s heels. It is agreed?”
“Yes.”
“That is well. It will save much trouble for us both, I think. And tell any of your Norse friends whom you may see, that I am ready to conclude a like agreement with them.”
“I cannot speak for others.”
“No. But you can warn them. Warn that I intend to restore all Argyll to my father’s rule, at whatever cost. And thus that their trade would be more profitably pursued elsewhere!”
Thorkell glared, with sheer hatred in those pale eyes, but said nothing.
“How soon, my new-found friend, will you find it convenient to leave for Skye and the north? If I can aid you in any way, shipping, escort, you must call upon me . . .”
“A curse on you, Scot—I need no aid from such as you! I shall go when I am ready, and not before.”
“To be sure. Then I must not delay you. I wish you good sailing. And may Skye treat you as kindly as you treat Skye!”
If that sounded like dismissal, the Norseman had little option but to accept it. Without another word he swung on his heel and strode off, to jump down on to MacNeil’s vessel and cross it to his own, his supporters in a scowling bunch behind him, all clanking and gleaming steel.
“Escort our friends out of our waters, back to the open sea, Saor,” Somerled called. “They are on their way, bless them!” That was in the Gaelic.
“You drive a notable bargain!” Cathula said. “I must remember, if I have occasion to make trade with you!”
“Ah, but I do not bargain with women. I am but as clay in their fair hands!”
“That we shall test, one day . . .”
CHAPTER 6
“I would not wish to be coming here in war,” Somerled said, gazing about him. “This Knapdale could be a sore trap, with all these shallows, dead-end lochs and tangle of islets. I can see why the MacSweens roost here undisturbed and even the Norsemen leave them alone. Why, in this back-water of the Sudreys they have sat secure for so long, feeble folk as they are.”
“Until Somerled MacFergus came along!” Saor MacNeil said.
“I wish them no ill.”
“Only desire what they have!”
“I seek the welfare and unity of this seaboard, man. You know that. Ewan MacSween represents weakness, a back-door into Argyll. Which I cannot afford to leave unlocked.”
“Yet you have just said that Knapdale is secure,” Cathula MacIan pointed out. “A trap that even the Norse leave untouched. How then is it a weakness to you?”
“Because, although this of Knapdale may be secure enough, what lies behind it is not. Across Loch Fyne.” As he spoke, Somerled’s eyes were busy, scanning those dangerous waters, ready to command the helmsman to changes of course. “Ewan is lord of Cowal as well as Knapdale, that great mainland domain. He does not control it, leaves it to riot and despoliation. But it remains his. And he acknowledges David, King of Scots, as monarch. I fear that David, a strong king it seems, once he is more settled on his new throne, will surely turn to put Cowal to rights. It is on the edge of his earldom of Lennox, a source of weakness to him, as it is to me. He must in time deal with it. And it is part of Argyll. I want it, first!”
“As I said,” Saor nodded. “Somerled, the mighty Lord of Argyll, desires what Ewan MacSween has. And will have it! Was I wrong?”
Somerled’s open hand jerked out, to clench and quiver only an inch or two from his foster-brother’s too outspoken lips, in a gesture eloquent of simple threat at which the other recoiled, no word spoken. Then his eyes were back to scanning the dangerous waters.
MacNeil took a great breath and turned away, aware of somehow greater dangers than offered by mere waters.
Cathula MacIan, who could be outspoken also on occasion, and was by no means always the peacemaker, sought now to lower the tension.
“Is that not this Castle Sween which I see now?” she asked, pointing. “Yonder grey pile, a mile or more. On those rocks beneath that long scarp. I think . . . yes, I think that I can see the masts of shipping below. One Conn’s longship, no doubt.”
Somerled, effectively distracted from MacNeil at least, gave a quick glance, and nodded. “It can be none other. There is no similar Norman castle on all these coasts. Another reason why Ewan sits so secure. I am interested in that castle. I have long wished to examine one . . .”
The dragon-ship and two escorts had rounded the southern end of the Isle of Danna, the detached tip of the long, wooded peninsula of Knapdale, which itself was no more than the northern horn of the vastly greater peninsula of Kintyre, the longest in Scotland, reaching southwards seventy miles from Nether Lorne, to form the most southerly portion of the Hebrides, although no island. Somerled had never ventured thus far south previously. But with Lorne and Islay, Tiree and Jura now his, at least for the time-being, Knapdale, Kintyre and Cowal, the remaining portions of the huge province and thanedom of Argyll, beckoned. He was not the first conqueror to discover that once the conquering has started it can be difficult to halt the process and cry enough.
They were now in the shallow sea-loch of Sween or Suibhne, with all its tributary lochs and inlets, channels and sandbanks, a navigator’s nightmare; so that man was more tense than usual, for to run his fine dragon-ship aground, on such a mission, and under the eyes of that castle, would be a humiliation indeed. He had no local pilot. The fact that Conn MacMahon, sent ahead the day previously as herald, had presumably managed the approach, would make any mishap the more distressing.
So Somerled, acting his own shipmaster, had little opportunity to scan the great stone castle which loomed ever more prominently before them on its rocky knoll above the tide—although he could not prevent himself from ever taking quick glances at it from his watching for shoals and banks, skerries and reefs. Castle Sween had been built late in the previous century by Suibhne, son of Hugh Anradhan, brother of the King of Ulster, High King of Ireland, who had wed a princess of the house of Argyll, gaining Knapdale and Cowal with her, and then calling himself Regulus or sub-King of the Isles. It was not quite clear as to which High King he was sub, his Irish brother, the King of Scots, or even the King of Norway who also claimed overlordship of the Hebrides. Probably it was to the King of Scots, for he had erected this great stone castle, undoubtedly with Norman guidance which only that monarch could have supplied to him, the first and still the only such Norman-type stronghold in the West Highlands, and to all intents impregnable. Here his grandson Ewan MacSween still permitted himself the empty title of King of Argyll and the Isles, something that Somerled found hard to swallow, even though Ewan made no least attempt to enforce any major authority, semi-royal or otherwise.
As, crabwise, dodging the shoals of low-water, they won close enough to Castle Sween, on the east side of the loch, to perceive a clear channel into the haven, Somerled could relax and hand over to Cathula and the helmsman. He considered the massive building more carefully. It was simple enough as to plan, merely a great rectangle, externally perhaps ninety feet by seventy, with walls, obviously very thick, rising to some twenty-five feet, with squared buttresses at each angle, the whole cunningly grafted on to the living, uneven rock-base of the bluff as though growing out of it. Clearly there was a parapet-walk along the wallhead, for men could be seen pacing there; and no doubt there was a courtyard within. The walling was pierced with loopholes and narrow slit-windows. There was no keep nor tower. A single arched entrance opened at ground level on the south front, protected by a ditch cut in the rock and a drawbridge. Some cabins and hutments festooned the slope below the long, high escarpment behind.
“A stark, harsh place,” he commented. “But strong. Well might the Norse leave it alone.”
“To dwell there might be like to live in a prison,” Saor said.
“Perhaps there is more of comfort within than appears from here.”
They had both forgotten their spat of wrath.
In the haven, formed by a mere re-entrant of the cliff below, two birlinns and Conn’s longship lay amongst a cluster of fishing-craft. A long flight of steps,
cut in the rock, led down from the castle. At the head of this stair a group of men stood watching, Conn Ironhand’s massive figure prominent amongst them.
Skilfully Cathula insinuated the dragon-ship through the clutter of boats, to draw up beside Conn’s craft with as much flourish as the constriction permitted. Somerled had two pipers to play them ashore in suitable fashion, and led the way.
Regulating their pace to that of the blowing musicians, they mounted the steps. An elderly spare man, grey and of delicate features, stepped forward to greet them.
“Welcome to my poor house, Lord Thane of Argyll,” he said carefully. “I have heard much of you.”
“And I of you, Lord Ewan of Knapdale and Cowal.” That was equally careful. It was important to try to establish attitudes towards styles and pretension right away. The other had been accurate enough in naming his visitor Thane of Argyll, although it was not a title he chose to use. His father had in fact died soon after his return to Ireland, so Somerled was now lawful head of his house. For himself, he was not going to acknowledge MacSween as any sort of king, since that would imply a superiority to himself.
The other did not press the matter. “I never knew your father, but was saddened by his misfortunes,” he said. “He was younger than am I and his early death grieved me.”
“You are kind, generous,” Somerled admitted. “I thank you. These are Saor MacNeil of Oronsay, Dermot Maguire out of Fermanagh, MacInnes of Kinlochaline and Cathula MacIan, all friends of mine.”
“Then may they be mine also. Come—my hall is yours for so long as you wish it.”
They followed their courteous and rather sad-faced host, who seemed to be so at odds with his frowning stone fortalice, round the side of the castle, over the drawbridge and in at the sole entrance, by a narrow, dark pend through the tremendously thick walling, ten feet and more. Within, they found the expected courtyard open to the sky, cobbled and with a well in one corner. Lean-to buildings lined the internal walling, two-storeyed on the longer lateral north side, reaching up to parapet-level, single-storeyed to east and west. Armed men looked down upon them from the parapet-walk.
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