Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “At this present, he is at his devotions.” That was short.

  “Devotions? At this hour! What do you mean? Is this a king or a monk?”

  “Very much a king—as you will discover, sir!”

  “It is but two hours past noon. Devotions?”

  “His Grace is much troubled,” de Warenne declared stiffly. “Since the Queen died, he is sore stricken. He is not . . .”

  “The Queen? Matilda of Huntingdon. Dead . . .?”

  “Yes. Have you not heard? Queen Matilda died near a month ago. They were close. His Grace spends much time in prayer.”

  “I did not know. I am sorry. No word of this had reached Argyll when we left. I would not have come at this time.”

  “No doubt, sir. But since you are here, we must make the best of it. You and yours will be weary, requiring sustenance. Come—I will conduct you to quarters . . .”

  The Knight Marischal led them through two inner courtyards, to reach the main range of buildings. Erected along a spine of rock, this castle could have no conventional shape or plan, consisting of strung-out towers and blocks linked by lower subsidiary works and wings, so that the whole was many hundreds of feet in length. Through halls and great apartments and along corridors of stone-vaulting, all seeming to teem with folk, they went, their Highland garb and tartans stared at. Eventually, in a lesser hall, comfortable with wall-hangings, woven carpeting on the stone floor such as Somerled had never before seen, mural garderobes and a fire on a wide hearth, de Warenne deposited them.

  “Bedchambers are above in the tower, sufficient for all,” he said. “The wherewithal to cleanse yourselves is in the garderobes. Meats and wine will be before you shortly. And I shall inform His Grace of your presence when he comes from his chamber . . .”

  “No need, Hervey—I am here,” a voice declared, to turn all heads. In the further doorway a man stood, of noble but ravaged features, of middle years and middle height, slender, almost emaciated, dressed in nondescript fashion but with a far from nondescript carriage and expression. His eyes were large and fine, his countenance sensitive—but there was nothing weak about the mobile mouth and firm jawline.

  “Sire!” De Warenne bowed deeply, and perforce so did the others.

  “I heard the arrival of newcomers. Are these our friends from Argyll?”

  “One naming himself King of Argyll, Your Grace.” The Marischal distinctly emphasised the title.

  “Ah—no doubt he has his reasons. I bid him, and you all, welcome to my house. Even though you find us in sore straits.”

  “I am sorry, my lord King. I grieve for you in your great loss. We did not know. I would have delayed. I am Somerled of Argyll. And these are chiefs and great men of that kingdom.”

  “I thank you.” David came forward. “Do I take it, Lord Somerled, that you have come from Argyll of a purpose to visit me? Only that?”

  “I have, my lord David. A long road.”

  “So I judged. Therefore, friend, you must have had good reason for making that journey. What, I wonder? Could it be that it concerns your good-brother’s brother, Angus MacEth of Moray, my nephew, who has recently fallen in the field, in revolt against me?”

  Somerled blinked. This sorrowing, noble-seeming devotionalist could still aim a shrewd thrust, it seemed.

  “Not so,” he declared. “I was much against that ill-conceived venture. As was my good-brother, Malcolm of Ross. My concern here is quite otherwise.” The time did not appear to be propitious, at this stage, to divulge the true reason behind his visit.

  “Ah—then I am the better pleased. No doubt we shall learn why we are thus honoured, then, in due course!”

  “Is it not sufficient that I come to pay my respects? And to inform your Grace of what transpires on the north-western seaboard?”

  “To be sure. I am suitably rebuked!” David inclined his head. “My good friend Hervey of Keith, the Marischal, is looking to your comfort. Any requirements or wishes he, or my Chamberlain, will attend to, on my behalf. You have but to ask. Refreshment will perhaps . . . inspirit you! Afterwards we shall talk further.” Without formality, he turned and went whence he had come, de Warenne at least bowing deeply to his back.

  The monarch gone, the Marischal turned almost hotly on Somerled. “I cannot congratulate you!” he exclaimed. “That was no way to behave before the King of Scots. His Grace was too patient! Hereafter, I charge you, be more respectful, sirrah!”

  “Respectful, Norman? I respect David mac Malcolm very well. Did I not tell him that I came to pay respects? But I do not grovel! I am, thank God, my own man. And King of Argyll. By the same token, Sir Marischal, I could ask that you show more respect to my kingship!”

  The other was spared having adequately to answer that by the arrival of a file of servitors with meats and wine. In the stir and clatter of setting down this provision, he took his departure a deal more stiffly than his master had done.

  When they were alone, some of Somerled’s new chieftains turned on him, also of the opinion that his attitude to King David was too strong, and unlikely to forward their cause.

  Mouth full, he shook his head. “I think not. I have given him warning that I am not easy to deal with—always good policy if you have a bargain to strike. That one will not fail to perceive my message. He knows what is important and what is not. Nor will he take offence at what does not injure him.”

  Certainly, later, when they were summoned to a private chamber in the King’s own tower, they found David still courteous and unruffled. He could scarcely be called affable, but then he was a man in deep mourning for a wife deeply loved. He was seated at a table, with three other men, de Warenne again, another Norman whom he named Hugo de Morville, no doubt some relative of the High Constable who had won Stracathro, and a cleric introduced as John, Bishop of Glasgow, Chancellor of the realm. There were benches for Somerled and three of his group, opposite, the others having to stand behind.

  “I trust that you are now rested and refreshed from your journeying, my friend,” the monarch said. “I shall be interested to learn what are your intentions and desires. But first, my Lord Somerled, this of title and address. I hear that you are naming yourself King. Will you enlighten me?”

  “To be sure, my Lord David. I am King and Regulus of Argyll, an ancient style and designation.”

  “H’mm. I know of the Lord Ewan, one of my vassals, who so styled himself. On what authority I am less than clear.”

  “Ewan MacSween, yes. We are kin, at some distance. He is now naming himself King of the Isles, only. I have taken over Argyll, and Ewan has resigned that style to myself.”

  “Ah. A private arrangement! Yet Argyll is part of my kingdom, friend Somerled.”

  “As is Man—yet there is a King of Man. And Argyll was wholly in the hands of the Norsemen, these many years. I have recovered it—or most of it.”

  “I have heard of your prowess,” David nodded. “I congratulate you and admire. But conquering Norsemen scarcely makes you a king, does it? Your father formerly held the style of Thane of Argyll, I understand?”

  “What makes a king, my lord? Other than being your father’s son. A sharp sword and a strong arm. That, and the will. Nothing more, I say. My father is dead. He was content to be an exile, dispossessed. Your father was not. He took the sword and slew King MacBeth. And made himself a king. There is your answer.”

  Into the murmuring of his supporters, David spoke. “I see. But there is a difference, is there not? My father, Malcolm, was the son of King Duncan. Yours was but son of the previous Thane.”

  “He was lawfully born, at least!”

  The scrape of de Warenne’s bench on the stone floor was loud, as he half-rose to his feet. “Sire, this is intolerable!” he exclaimed. “This man’s insolent tongue should be cut out!”

  The monarch raised a monitory hand. “Quiet, Hervey. The Lord Somerled has come a long way to say this. No doubt for a purpose. We must let him say it. Besides, it is true. My grandsire, King Duncan,
did omit to wed my father’s mother. The omission seemed never to trouble Malcolm!” He turned back to Somerled. “So you claim, my friend, that a sword makes the king? That may be true also, sometimes. So long as another king with a longer and sharper sword does not dispute the issue!”

  “That is so, Your Grace.”

  “Good. I am glad that you agree. You believe, therefore, that I should accept you and your kingship in my Argyll? Why?”

  “Because it is in your interests to do so. Only so can you keep Argyll within the kingdom of Scotland.”

  “You mean that you might otherwise take it out of Scotland? What of the longer sword, then?”

  “That longer sword might at the time be fully employed! And nearer here than Argyll and the isles. As it has been, but recently.”

  “Ah. So you consider that there might be another threat to my kingdom and throne? But . . . Angus MacEth is dead.”

  “Malcolm, his brother, is not.”

  “I see. But you told me, earlier, that Malcolm was much against this recent rising? As were you.”

  “So I advised him, yes.”

  David nodded. “So, if you advised him differently again . . .?”

  “I would not wish to do that, Your Grace.”

  “If Angus of Moray was beaten, with great loss, and slain, why not Malcolm of Ross?”

  “Malcolm might have better allies.”

  There was silence for a little. The Chancellor-Bishop spoke. “The Earl of Ross is a vassal of the crown, my lord. And more than a vassal, one of the Ri, or Seven Earls of the King’s Council. Have you considered that to urge or counsel such to rise in arms against the High King, even to suggest it, could be construed as highest treason?”

  “In another vassal of the crown, perhaps, Sir Priest.”

  “And you are not that?”

  “Not . . . yet.”

  “So—we come to it,” David said. “At length. You do not consider yourself to be my vassal, although Argyll is in my realm of Scotland. But you might be. If I accepted your kingship and conquest of Argyll. Is that it? Is that what you have come here to say?”

  “Only partly, my lord King.”

  For a moment the monarch seemed to lose his carefully nurtured patience and calm. His fists clenched and he leaned forward over the table. “There is more, then? What more? Out with it, man.”

  Somerled was the more assured, reasonable. “Bute and Arran, my lord King. These islands, although not part of Argyll, belong under its sway, by any true judgement. They are in the lee of Kintyre. Indeed, in wrong hands, they constitute a threat to all southern Argyll. The Norse now dominate them.”

  “So . . .?”

  “If I free them of the Norse, I would wish them added to Argyll.”

  “You have a notable appetite for lands and territories, sir! Have you not already sufficient? These have a lord, as it is.”

  “Who does nothing. Like Ewan MacSween. Lord only in name. There is grave weakness along all those coasts, amongst the Scots, a failure of the spirit. Has been for long. And for sufficient reason.”

  “You mean, because of the Norse invasions?”

  “I mean, Lord David, because they have had no aid and support over the years from the King of Scots, their liege-lord!”

  Not a few there drew quick breaths at that, on both sides of the table. De Warenne glared, stirring.

  David, however, had recovered his calm. “You speak very plainly, my lord,” he said.

  “Would you have it otherwise? It is truth. Not your Grace to blame, to be sure—before your reign. But your royal father and brothers, in especial Edgar, abandoned all the Highland West and its folk. Malcolm even gave the Hebrides to King Magnus Barefoot of Norway. My father paid the price, losing Argyll. Others likewise. Now, I win it back. Without your aid.”

  “Then, no doubt, you will win back Bute and Arran also. Whether I grant them to you or no!”

  “Perhaps. But I do not seek to win them for another lord. Who may continue to do little to hold them.”

  “These are great and extensive lands, Arran in especial. Held by my High Steward . . .”

  “With all respect, my lord King—not held! Granted to, by charter—that is all. If the Steward held them, I would not now be seeking them. Who sits in Rothesay Castle? Not Walter fitz Alan, your Steward, but one MacRoderick, keeper for the King of Man! By passing the lordship to me, under your suzerainty, you will gain much, and your Steward will lose nothing which is not already lost to him. Is it not so?”

  The monarch glanced round at his supporters, and shrugged. “All this will have to be considered,” he said, after a moment. “I cannot give you any answers now. Enough for the moment. You will join me in the great hall presently, for repast and entertainment?” Clearly the audience was at an end.

  The Highland party rose, bowed and left.

  “How, think you, will David respond to all that?” Saor MacNeil asked, as they made for their own tower. “You did not spare him!”

  “Nor did I injure him. All that I said was honest, and he will know it. He will do as I have asked.”

  “Are you so sure?” MacFerdoch, Abbot of Glendochart, demanded. “After such mauling, he will hardly love you.”

  “I do not ask that he loves me—although I would not be sorry if he did. I ask only that he faces the facts. And I judge that one will do so. For he is an honest man, I think. Indeed I hope that he will, for more than my own cause. I have a notion that he could be a man after my own heart, that David mac Malcolm, and I would be happy to call him my friend.”

  None saw fit to comment on that.

  They certainly had no cause to complain over the quality of their royal host’s hospitality and entertainment that night. A banquet was produced, remarkable for its variety as well as abundance, at such short notice, with Somerled in the place of honour at David’s right hand; and this followed by excellent diversion, with singers and minstrels, dancers and jugglers, sennachies and storytellers or sagamen—who presumably were domiciled here in the town of Rook’s Burgh. It made a lively and enjoyable evening, even if the monarch himself could scarcely have been in a mood to enjoy it to the full.

  Next day a deer-hunt was arranged for the visitors, in the nearby Forest of Jedworth, part of the vast Ettrick Forest which covered so much of the Middle March. Despite his strictures towards Malcolm of Ross over a preoccupation with the deer, Somerled was very fond of hunting—when it did not interfere with more vital matters. He enjoyed the challenge of the chase; moreover, as a kind of token warfare, it helped in time of peace to maintain men’s fitness for real action. David himself did not accompany them and the hunt was led by Hugo de Morville who, with de Warenne, appeared to be one of the High King’s closest associates; fortunately he was less hot-tempered and more amiable than the Marischal. Somerled distinguished himself by spearing a fierce and massive boar—only to discover afterwards that in this royal forest the boar, the royal emblem, was reserved for slaying by the royal family only. Needless to say it was de Warenne who in due course pointed this out.

  Tired after a long day’s sport, no serious discussions were initiated that night. Somerled was not concerned at such delay, although some of his people were. King David, for dignity’s sake, required a certain amount of time to elapse before he could decently concede victory, he asserted.

  In the morning, however, with no sign of the monarch and no summons to his presence nor any recreation or pastime organised for the visitors, they became distinctly uneasy and Somerled began to wonder, even though he endeavoured not to reveal his doubts. They were brought meals in their own tower but otherwise left severely alone. But in mid-afternoon there was some commotion in the courtyards, obviously the arrival of a quite large party; and about an hour later they received the awaited call to the same plain royal chamber as before.

  They found David flanked by his three aides as previously but with another, a tall, stooping hawklike man of middle years, whose great beak of a nose and tight lips were
in part belied by great liquid dark eyes almost like a woman’s.

  “Greetings, my Lord Somerled,” the monarch said. “I hope that you have not wearied in my house? Here is my friend, Walter fitz Alan, High Steward of this my realm.”

  So that was the reason for the delay, the summoning of the Steward from wherever he roosted. No doubt it was significant—but could bear more than the one interpretation.

  Somerled inclined his head but made no comment.

  “I have told the Lord Walter of your . . . contentions, sir. But come, sit, and we shall discuss further.”

  “I believed that discussion was finished, my lord King, and the time come for decisions,” Somerled said levelly. But he and his party seated themselves.

  “Allow me to state again your proposals, my lord—and correct me if I mistake,” David went on easily. “You wish that I should accept your occupation of Argyll and the other lands which you have taken from the Norsemen; to acknowledge you as Regulus and sub-King of Argyll; and you desire me to permit you to recapture the islands of Bute and Arran and thereafter, if successful, to add them to your lordship of Argyll—although these already belong to the High Steward. These are your . . . requirements?”

  “Yes. Save that I do not ask to be permitted to recapture Bute and Arran. I intend to do so. For the rest, it is correct.”

  “I see. Tell me, then, why do you ask my agreement first, if you intend to take these islands anyway?”

  “I do not ask your agreement, Sir King. I ask only for a grant of these lands in my name, a mere paper, a charter—if I can take them. If not, and the Norse retain them, neither you nor the Steward have lost anything.”

  “But why these? You asked no grant nor charter for the rest!”

  “Because these islands lie close to your Lowland shores, within sight and striking distance of your Ayr and Renfrew coasts. None other of my lands do so. You could, or your Steward could, seek to take them back from me after I had ousted the Norsemen. I would not wish to be for ever defending them against you. So I would have a charter, bearing your royal signature—which I believe you would adhere to.”