Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  They were led across the yard to the main north range, where another narrow doorway admitted to a dark stone-vaulted basement, which held a distinct chill. A straight and constricted stairway in the thickness of the walling mounted on their right, and up this they were taken. It gave access to a large hall on the first floor and here a different atmosphere prevailed. It was comparatively bright, lit by three larger windows facing south across the yard, each provided with a stone seat in the ingoing. And it was warm, with a fire smouldering on a circular hearth in the centre of the stone-flagged floor, which was the upper side of the basement vaulting, the smoke rising to escape through a hole in the blackened rafters of the roofing. This hall, indeed, furnished with table and chests and benches, skins on the floor and wall-hangings, was not dissimilar from that of any large hallhouse of clay-coated timber.

  Food and drink was laid out in plenty for the guests. There appeared to be no women about the establishment. Their host was very attentive. Somerled could have wished him less so, in view of the object of their visit.

  Endeavouring not to show impatience at the required polite small talk, refreshment over, Somerled sought to come to the point, but as pleasantly as he was able.

  “You, my lord, are aware of my position,” he said. “You named me Thane of Argyll—which implies that I am lord of all Argyll, under the High King of Scots as liege lord. I myself prefer the Celtic usage of Toiseach. But no matter, in this of the lordship the implication is the same. Of all Argyll.”

  Ewan inclined his head gravely.

  “Yes, then. But you, my lord, style yourself, I understand, Regulus or King of Argyll and the Isles. Forgive me if I am ignorant, but I do not perceive how there can be a sub-king in Argyll and also a thane or lord thereof. Responsible for it to the King of Scots.”

  “I understand your difficulty, Toiseach. But think that there need be no conflict in this matter. I am called Regulus or King merely because my father was so-called before me, and his father, Suibhne mac Hugh Anradhan. We are a royal line. But it is a style only. I seek no dominion over Argyll and have never done so.”

  “That is fair. So far as it goes. But it still holds problems. You are Lord of Knapdale and Cowal. Possibly could claim Kintyre also. And Knapdale, Cowal and Kintyre are the southern parts of Argyll. I am Lord of Argyll. The part cannot be as great as the whole. Therefore I must be your superior in this. Yet you are called king, and king cannot be inferior to thane or toiseach. You perceive my difficulty?”

  “As Lord of Knapdale and Cowal I accept your superiority, my lord Thane. But as Regulus and King I can accept only the superiority of my High King, David mac Malcolm.”

  “And there’s the rub! King David cannot have two lords responsible to him for the one lordship of Argyll. It must be one or the other.”

  “But I do not challenge your position or authority, my lord Somerled.”

  “Perhaps not. But it is implied. All Argyll is an entity, I cannot share it.”

  “But—forgive me if I point it out—you do not hold all Argyll, my lord. You have won back much—Morvern and Mull, Islay and Jura, Tiree and the other isles, Lorne and Appin and much more. Even part of Moidart and Lochaber, I am told, beyond Argyll. But you do not yet hold the south. So how can you be responsible for it to King David?” That was quite gently but firmly put. “Have you, indeed, yet made fealty to King David for Argyll? Any of it?”

  Somerled smiled at this shrewd thrusting by the so civil MacSween. “I plan to go to David when I can present to him all Argyll recovered from Norse domination,” he said. “I have not yet attempted the reconquest of the south parts. I esteemed it right to come to see you first. Since you are lord here at Knapdale. And in name, in Cowal and Kintyre. Where you have not sought to expel the Norse. Or others.”

  So there they were, down to realities at length, cards as it were on the table.

  “I am beholden to you for coming,” Ewan acknowledged. “What do you want from me?”

  “I want your goodwill, first,” the younger man said, tactfully for him. “I want you to accept me as superior over the lands of Knapdale, Cowal and Kintyre. And I want you to resign the style and title of King and Regulus. In return, I shall clear the Norsemen out of Kintyre, restore good order and authority in Cowal, and sustain you here under my protection at Knapdale. That, and assure you of my friendship.”

  Ewan MacSween was silent for a few moments, the others watching his fine features. At length he spoke.

  “The first two of your wishes, my lord Somerled, I grant, willingly. My goodwill and the superiority over the lordships. But this on the title of Regulus and King is a different matter. It is an inheritance, a rank and status inherent in my family. It is not something which I can, or may, discard like an old cloak. I am King and Regulus. Saying that I am not will change nothing. So your third request I cannot accept. I am sorry.”

  Somerled frowned and tapped the table-top with his finger-nails.

  The older man spoke again, thoughtfully. “It comes to me, my young friend, that we need not come to disagreement over this—which would be a pity. I recognise your problem and sympathise with you. Also admire you for what you have done. Even though I cannot give up my style of King. You claim that you, as Thane or Toiseach, cannot be accepted as superior whilst I retain that style, king being above these. But if you also were Regulus and King, how then?”

  “Eh . . .?”

  “Why not? The style usually given me is King of Argyll and the Isles. Argyll it is which concerns you. How if I remain King, but King of the Isles only? Whilst you are King of Argyll?”

  “But . . . but how could that be?” Somerled stared. “I am no king.”

  “You could be. In name, as I am. Who could stop it? It might serve you well, when dealing with others. My ancestor gave himself the style because he was of the royal blood. And married to a princess of the royal house of this Argyll. I believe that you, too, descend from that same royal house of Argyll. Moreover, if I mistake not, you have also the blood of the Irish royal house. Was not Conn of the Hundred Battles, High King, your remote ancestor? I am much interested in genealogies—an old man’s concern. And your mother, I think, was of the Norse line of Ivar and Echmarcach, Kings of Dublin. So your blood is sufficiently royal. Name yourself King and Regulus of Argyll, my friend, instead of Thane. None may prevent it. And I shall be King of the Isles—which isles is no matter. There are scores in Knapdale alone! You will therefore be the more important king, whilst I keep the style I was born to.”

  “Lord!” Somerled exclaimed, and turned to gaze at his companions. They looked as dumbfounded as he by this proposal. “I . . . I do not know what to say.” It was not often that Somerled MacFergus was at a loss for words.

  “Would it not solve our problems, my lord? You are undoubted superior of all Argyll, you have my agreement that you take over Kintyre and Cowal. I retain Knapdale under your overlordship, and also the style of King of the Isles. I have no heir, as you will know. So when I die you can be King of the Isles also.”

  Somerled moved, to pace to and fro over the skin-strewn stone floor. “This is . . . something which I have never thought on,” he said. “King of Argyll!” It was as though he savoured the phrase on his tongue. “And King David of Scots? What of him? What will he say to this new kingship?”

  “It is not a new kingship. There have been Kings of Argyll for these three generations. What can he say? It is merely a new holder of the kingship. With the consent of the old. He cannot say you nay, so long as you pay fealty to him as High King.”

  “Is it not for him to create such titles? He is Ard Righ, High King. Lesser kings, Ri, stem from him, surely?”

  “Not so. The Ri it was who chose the Ard Righ, elected from members of the royal house. No High King has ever created a lesser king, to my knowledge. The Ri were mormaors, now earls. But they succeeded, were not created. The High King confirmed them only, in their mormaorships and earldoms. But you would not claim to be an earl, any more
than do I. This style of Regulus or King is different. None who ever bore it were created. All assumed it or inherited it—Dalriada, Argyll, Dumbarton or Strathclyde, Fortrenn, Galloway, Man and the rest. None were so made by others. Why not yourself?”

  “I must consider . . .”

  “Do so, my friend. There is no haste. My house is yours.”

  “What is there to consider, then?” Saor MacNeil raised a half-mocking hand. “Hail, O King! Hail!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Somerled drew rein, to gaze down the long, fair vale of the Teviot, and behind him his party were thankful to pull up also, stiff and aching in their saddles. Islesmen and West Highlanders did not tend to be good horsemen, getting little practice; and this was their second day of riding. Not for the first time they cursed the King of Scots for choosing to spend most of his time at such a God-forsaken spot as Rook’s Burgh Castle, where Teviot joined Tweed on the East March of the Borderland, so far from the sea, or at least their Western Sea. They had come as near to it as they could in the ships, to the head of the Firth of Solway at Esk-mouth, and there hired these wretched horses. That was over forty miles back. They had passed the night at a monkish hospice of the new Romish Church which the late Margaret and her sons had imposed on mainland Scotland, dedicated oddly to St. Paul now, although formerly to the good Celtic St. Bride, right up on the watershed between the West and Middle Marches of this Lowland Scotland. Another twenty-odd miles, they were told, and downhill now following this Teviot, and they would reach journey’s end. They had sent Saor MacNeil ahead, to announce their coming.

  “It is a green and fertile land,” Somerled commented. “But why does David dwell here, on the very edge of his realm? Northumbria is English now—it can be only a few miles to the south. It is strange.”

  “He loves the English—or at least the Normans. Perhaps he likes to be near them?” put in Sir Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy.

  “They say that he does not trust his good-brother, King Henry of England, and fears that he might seek to take these southern parts from him. And so keeps watch here.” That was Farquhar MacFerdoch, Hereditary Abbot of Glendochart.

  “More like it that he does not love the people of the North and the Highlands, despite his father’s blood, and chooses to live as far away from them as he can!” Fingan MacFingan of Dunara suggested. “Since he is no warrior and leaves the fighting to others!”

  “David is no craven, from all that I have heard,” Somerled said. “He brought Galloway to heel and ruled Cumbria strongly, for Henry. De Morville, his High Constable, won the Battle of Stracathro for him against Angus of Moray—but that was because Angus chose to march in his attempt on the throne, whilst David himself was away in London. He is not to be blamed for that.”

  Further back in the group Conn MacMahon said something about those who never did any fighting being ever loudest at condemning others for cowardice. Frowning, Somerled rode on.

  He had been having difficulties with the two very different and distinct sections of his present party, from the start. He had felt it advisable, especially in view of his new style and status, to bring south with him some suitably chiefly supporters, however recent their adherence, since Hebridean shipmasters and Irish gallowglass captains, effective though they might be otherwise, scarcely enhanced the dignity of the King of Argyll appearing before the monarch of them all. Unfortunately the said fighting-men did not approve of the new lairdly ones, and vice versa.

  Teviotdale widened notably beyond the town of Hawick and the Argyll party were the more impressed by the richness of the land, its fruitfulness, the size and numbers of its farmeries and granges, villages, mills and orchards, so very different from what they were accustomed to in the Highlands and Isles. It was harvest time here, mid-August—although it would not be so in Argyll for a full month yet—and everywhere folk were at work amongst the rigs of strip cultivation which clothed all the valley-floors and the gentle flanking slopes with their golden mantling; cutting, stooking, gleaning, leading-in on sleds. Notable was the number of monkish figures, by their habits, working the land; the Highlanders had heard that the Roman Church was strong on garnering the fruits of the land and turning it into wealth—which seemed to them a strange preoccupation for the religious. But it certainly seemed to enhance the countryside and no doubt aided the people. Somerled promised himself that when he could ensure reasonable security and peace in his own domains on the Hebridean seaboard, he would seek to encourage a like industry and productivity insofar as that very different land would allow. There were parts, he believed, where corn and fruits would grow well, level areas such as Loch Etive-side, Loch Fyne-side, Appin, Lismore, the Ross of Mull and best of all the flat isle of Tiree and much of Islay. He must learn more about cultivation of the soil, seeds, drainage and the like, whilst he was here in the South.

  They followed the south bank of Teviot, mile upon plenteous mile, having to ford the major incoming tributary waters of Rule, Jed and Kale, as well as a host of lesser streams. Near each ford there was a village or hamlet, with mills and usually a hospice of monks, for the shelter of travellers, for payment—never had these travellers seen the like, so many people, so much preoccupation with work, so much evidence of wealth, so many acquisitive churchmen. It was all very different from their anticipation.

  Impressed as they were, it was nothing to the interest and even excitement with which they at length set eyes on Rook’s Burgh, where their great Teviot eventually emptied itself into the greater Tweed. The last mile or so of land between the two converging rivers formed a narrowing peninsula, and this area was a remarkable sight indeed, wholly filled with buildings, cabins, houses, barns, sheds, pavilions, warehouses, churches, a vast jumble of roofs and gables, chimneys and spires, all in timber and clay and stone, more buildings huddled together than any of the visitors had ever before set eyes on. They had no towns in the West Highlands, only scattered townships; and although they had recently passed towns of a sort on their way here, Graitney at Esk-mouth, Langholm in Ewes-water and Hawick-on-Teviot, none of these compared in size and density of housing with this new Rook’s Burgh, the smoke of whose myriad fires hung above the area in a blue cloud. Out of this cloud rose, above the town, the royal castle, on the thrusting spine of rock which formed the final apex of the peninsula and which came to a sharp point where the two rivers met, a notably strong position, protected by cliffs and water on two of its arrowhead-shaped sides. The royal emblem of the Boar of Scotland, blue on silver, flew from great banners along its frowning ramparts. It all made Castle Sween seem like a toy fortalice.

  Seeking not to be too much affected by what they saw, the Highlanders rode on.

  They were met and challenged on the outskirts of the town by a clanking troop of mounted men in plate-armour, with the boar painted on their breastplates, led by a young knight in glistening steel, crested helmet and colourful heraldry, obviously a Norman, who demanded haughtily to know who they were and what they wanted at His Grace’s town of Rook’s Burgh.

  “I am Somerled, King of Argyll, come to see David, King of Scots,” he was answered, just as haughtily. “Conduct me to his presence, sirrah.”

  The knight looked a little offput. “First . . . first we shall have to discover whether His Grace will receive you,” he declared.

  “He will receive me,” Somerled assured. “Unless he is a fool, as well as a boor. Your liege lord is no fool, I take it?”

  The other all but choked, glared, found no words, and reined round his magnificent charger, his troop following suit in well-trained fashion, amidst much clatter. Taking this to be sufficient invitation, the Argyll party trotted after.

  They threaded the narrow streets and twisting wynds of the town, seeking to hold their breaths against the stench of it, the folk all drawing heedfully aside to give the crown of the causeway to the imperious horsemen. They passed no fewer than four establishments which they took to be monasteries, by the tonsured and habited guardians—a very holy town, despite
the smells. But then David mac Malcolm was known to be a very holy man, and founder of abbeys and churches innumerable. It was to be hoped that he would prove to be as reasonable as he was religious—which was not always the case.

  They jingled up a steep track above the houses, zigzagging to the ridge which bore the castle, but westwards of this. Along, eastwards they turned and came to a gap in the spine, high above the swirling Teviot, part-natural, part-artificial, sheer-sided and filled with water, being dammed at the ends. Across this a drawbridge was thrown, guarded by massive circular drum-towers and portcullis, lofty curtain-walls extending left and right. This was the only access to the fortress-palace.

  They drummed across the bridge and through the gate-house-pend into a large forecourt beyond. Here their escort dismounted, the Highlanders stiffly did likewise, and as grooms came to take the horses, their knight disappeared. They were left, without further word, to kick their heels.

  They had not long to wait, however. Presently the young Norman returned with Saor MacNeil, looking somewhat abashed, and an older man, good-looking and richly-dressed, in his early forties.

  “I am Hervey de Warenne of Keith, Knight Marischal of this realm,” the last announced. “I greet you, on behalf of the King. Which is the so-called King of Argyll?”

  “I am Somerled MacGillebride MacGilladmnan MacFergus of Argyll, Norman. Of older royal blood than your master, who is grandson of the miller’s daughter of Forteviot! Take me to him.”

  The Knight Marischal raised his brows. “You speak rashly, sir!”

  “I speak truthfully. I have travelled a long way, by sea and land, to speak with David mac Malcolm. I sent MacNeil of Oronsay here, to inform him. Now—where is your King?”