Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

“Yes, lord—natural sons of the King. Three. The Lords Logmann, Ranald and Harald.”

  “So! And mannerless churls all! Is this the style of Olaf, then? Uncouth, ill-bred indeed, inhospitable. Is that the Kingdom of Man?”

  “No, lord—King Olaf is not so. He is mannerly, fair-spoken. Of good Christian quality . . .”

  “But spawns ill-natured bastards, it seems!”

  Their guide shrugged and sighed over the lapses of princes. “These are . . . unfortunate,” he conceded. “Those lawfully begotten are otherwise. His true son, Godfrey. And the Lady Ragnhilde. The King was long sick, unable to control these young lords. They run wild . . .”

  “Then they will not run wild again, with me!” Somerled turned to MacIan and MacFerdoch who were dusting themselves down in frowning offence, apparently unhurt but muddied from a puddle. “You are none the worse? Save in your feelings? Keep your wrath for later, then! Now—how much further to this Rushen Castle, Sir Priest?”

  “A mile, no more, Sire . . .”

  “Do I thank you for knocking me down and near flattening my person, my lord King?” Cathula asked, as they moved on. “I take it that it was kindly meant?”

  “Better than being trampled by hooves,” he asserted. “You are not hurt, in truth?”

  “My breasts may be a mite tender. For kissing! That is all. If such still interests your Highness—after feasting your royal eyes on the Lady Ragnhilde!”

  “What do you mean—feasting my eyes!”

  “I saw how you looked at that chit of a girl, Sorley MacFergus! You will know her again next time you meet, I have no doubt. Her eyes, her hair, her face, her person! You missed nothing of that one!”

  “You have an ill tongue in your head, Cathula MacIan—as I have remarked before!”

  “I also have good eyes—even if they are not green! And I have learned about men, to my cost.”

  “But not when to hold your peace, woman!”

  “That one will not hold her peace either, I think! But then, she is a king’s daughter and I am a king’s harlot!”

  He frowned and increased his pace.

  They emerged from the forest and scrub presently and came to cultivated land above another bay, a vastly larger bay than St. Michael’s, fully a couple of miles wide and the same in depth, but clearly shallow this, littered with rocks and shoals making it unfit for navigation save by small craft. All the far side of this bay was dotted with houses, a large township at the mouth of a fair-sized stream. And standing apart from the town on the near side of the river, and quite close to the tide’s-edge, rose a peculiar long straggle of buildings, of various sorts, some stone, some plastered with clay, some painted timber, high and towering or low and squat. Had all not been surrounded by a ditch and rampart of earth, this last topped by a high wall, irregular in outline, it could have been taken for another village or detached suburb of the town, rather than what the priest declared was the castle of Rushen. The Norse, of course, had never been true castle-makers, nor indeed greatly interested in the art of building—save shipbuilding, at which they were the acknowledged experts. Man had been Norse now for over two centuries—at least as far as the overlordship was concerned, although the folk were still of Celtic stock.

  To reach this strange castle, which clearly covered many acres of land, they did not have to go as far as the town—which the priest said they would have to have done had they taken the cart-road. Here, having pointed out to them a gatehouse of sorts and gap in the glacis, he asked to be excused further attendance. In lordly fashion Somerled presented him with a silver coin.

  There appeared to be no guards at this gatehouse and the newcomers wandered inside, accosted by none. Nothing could have been more unlike King David’s fortress-palace at Rook’s Burgh. There were people about, but although these stared at the visitors, none enquired their business or even spoke.

  “These are strange folk,” Saor MacNeil declared. “They make us as welcome as a visitation of the plague—yet none challenges us either. All those ships, these townships, yet we walk in here with none asking what we do or who we are.”

  “It is a kingdom mismanaged, I think, by all the signs,” Somerled said. “It could be ripe for taking over.”

  “Ha! Do you have designs on Man, then? As well as Arran and Bute?”

  “Do not be a fool, man! This is a sub-kingdom of Scotland now. Olaf pays fealty to David—as do I. Unless David himself gave me Man, I could not take it. It is others who might esteem it worth trying for—England perhaps. Or the Irish Norse. Or Sigurd of Norway himself.”

  Still unchallenged they had come to an inner space—it would be absurd to call it a courtyard, more like a small village-green, with grass growing amongst the outcropping rock of a low ridge where three cows were tethered and poultry pecked around. A woman with a milking-stool was making for the cows, and her Somerled hailed.

  “Can you tell us, friend, where in this rabbit-warren I will find King Olaf?”

  “Och, he will be in his bed, just.” This was no Norse maiden.

  “Ah! His bed? Is he sick, then?”

  She shrugged. “Who knows? He likes his bed.”

  “I see. And where do we find this royal bed?”

  “The tall house, yonder.” She pointed with her stool.

  The building indicated seemed little different from others they had seen, if somewhat larger, a fairly typical Norse hallhouse, clay-covered, with a high-roofed hall in the centre and a double-storey wing at each end. Entering this, they found nobody about the spacious, untidy hall with its rush-strewn floor, long tables and smoke-blackened timbers. They could smell cookery however, and following their noses to a kitchen in one of the wings, they enquired of the King from half-a-dozen scullions busy therein. They were told curtly that the Lord Olaf was asleep and was not to be disturbed.

  Somewhat at a loss, the visitors debated. Saor declared roundly that they should go wake the old man there and then—it was mid-afternoon, was it not? MacFerdoch the Abbot agreed; but Cathula pointed out that few men she had known were at their best and kindest when rudely awoken from sleep—and they had come to bargain, she understood? Her half-brother for once agreed with her, suggesting that they should seek out whoever was in charge of this ramshackle establishment, as was only civil, even if civility seemed to be little regarded here.

  Somerled nodded. Addressing one of the cooks, he asked whom they should see meantime? Was there a chamberlain? Or a steward?

  The man looked blank at such titles, but announced that it was a hunting day and therefore there was nobody about the place. No, he had no idea when the hunters would return.

  Swallowing his hot temper, Somerled recollected the young huntswoman’s parting words. “The Lady Ragnhilde said that we should seek refreshment and solace here. In her name. It would seem hard to come by!”

  “The Lady Ragnhilde? You have seen her?”

  “Yes. Less than an hour back. Hunting.”

  It was extraordinary the difference that name made, in this situation. It was like a key to open the door of attention and service. The scullions were changed folk. If the good lords were friends of the Lady Ragnhilde they must come through to the hall. There they would eat and drink their fill, whatever they would have. Come, come . . .

  They found themselves almost feted instead of ignored, ushered to table, handsomely fed and wined, more servitors appearing all the while and nothing too much trouble.

  “This Ragnhilde appears to be queen here,” Saor observed, belching approvingly. “But did I not hear that Olaf had married again? So there should be a Queen of Man other than this girl?”

  Somerled nodded. “My father heard, just before we left Ireland, that Olaf was wed again. To Affrica, daughter of Fergus of Galloway. Fergus himself cannot be much more than forty years. So this Affrica must be a young wife for Olaf, who is past sixty. Perhaps that is why he keeps to his bed of an afternoon!”

  Sage heads nodded at that, with leering glances at Cathula. She was oth
erwise concerned.

  “Who, then, was the former queen? The mother of this girl?”

  “She was Ingebiorg, daughter of Earl Hakon of Orkney. Who was himself grandson of Thorfinn Raven-Feeder the Mighty, King MacBeth’s half-brother.”

  “So—she is wholly Norse, then. I could have guessed it!”

  Somerled eyed her thoughtfully. They were still at the table, well-satisfied and pique forgotten on the whole, when the young woman in question arrived in the hall, still in her hunting clothes, glorious hair windblown, and another woman with her, not greatly older apparently. They came over to the table.

  “I heard that you had come,” Ragnhilde said. “You are being well cared for? Are suitably refreshed?”

  Somerled had risen, as perforce had the others, save for Cathula. “I thank you, yes, lady. Your name worked the miracle! From lepers, we became as honoured guests!”

  “Lepers . . .?” She stared, then shrugged. “If you will tell me your names I will present you to the Queen—Queen Affrica, here.”

  “Ah, yes. We shall be honoured indeed.” He bowed, but scarcely low. “This is Cathula MacIan from Kinlochaline. Her brother MacIan of Uladail. Saor MacNeil of Oronsay. The titular Abbot of Glendochart. And Conn MacMahon from Fermanagh. Myself, I am Somerled of Argyll.”

  The quick intake of breath at the last was eloquent, as the girl blinked, glanced quickly at her companion, and then back.

  “Somerled? You, you . . .?” She swallowed. “You tell me, you say that you are the great Somerled? He who, who . . .?”

  “I am the King of Argyll, yes. Although great is scarcely the word to use, lady, I think.”

  “But—why did you not say so? Why did you not tell us? Back there . . .”

  “I was otherwise engaged, you will recollect? Concerned with more vital matters. Picking up myself and my friend here. Regaining breath. You must forgive me if I was remiss!”

  She wagged her head helplessly. Then remembered the required formalities. “My lord King, here is Queen Affrica, wife of my father. Madam—the King of Argyll.”

  Somerled smiled and bowed again, slightly more deeply. “I congratulate King Olaf to be so blest in his ladies!”

  The other young woman had not spoken hitherto, but her eyes had been busy, bold, calculating eyes. She inclined her head.

  “I have heard much of the Lord Somerled,” she said. “Seeing him, I think that I may not be disappointed.”

  “I seek never to disappoint, Madam—in especial, ladies!”

  “Then we should fare very well.” This Affrica was a very different creature from her step-daughter, obviously. Fairly plain-featured, dark, lean of build, she had an almost hungry look to her. She might have reached her twentieth year but looked a deal older than that in experience. Somerled’s congratulations to Olaf were less than honest as regards the Queen.

  “My friends . . .” he said, and they all bowed, Cathula on her feet now.

  “You come to Man to see my father, my lord?” Ragnhilde asked.

  “Yes, lady. It appears that he sleeps!”

  There was a brief tinkle of laughter from Affrica.

  “He has been unwell, has suffered much ill-health,” the younger woman said. “But he will be happy to see you, I am sure.”

  “I hope so. When he awakes.”

  “You have come far, King Somerled?” the Queen asked.

  “Far enough. But more than rewarded by my reception! So . . . heartening!”

  Ragnhilde cleared her throat. “I shall go to prepare suitable lodging for Your Highness. You will be weary from journeying.”

  “And I to change clothing,” the Queen said. “No doubt I stink of horse and sweat!”

  “Impossible, Madam . . .!”

  The ladies left. But in a few moments Ragnhilde was back, alone.

  “My lord,” she said, urgently, low-voiced. “I would beseech you, of your kindness, to spare my father. He has had much of trouble, sickness and . . . disappointment. If you would forbear to complain to him of my half-brothers’ behaviour? It would much distress him. He has enough to bear. It is much to ask—but I would be grateful.”

  “Why, yes—since you ask it. But I would wish a word with those young men.”

  “To be sure. I have already spoken with them. No doubt they will express their regrets. They are headstrong, grieve our father. Today they were much in wine. Because the Saint was here it was an especial hunt. It was much delayed, because of him—and waiting, they drank.”

  It was Somerled’s turn to blink. “Forgive me if I am stupid. But . . . saint? Drank? I fear that I do not take you . . .?”

  “It is St. Malachy O’Moore. You will surely have heard of him? My lord Bishop of Armagh. The great healer and seer. He has been to Rome, and is on his way home to Ireland. As Papal Legate, no less. He dearly loves the hunt, strangely. He is a strange man—but very holy, to be sure.”

  “Aye? I have heard of Malachy O’Moore. Who has not? He is here, on Man?”

  “Yes. He had been at King David’s court, in Scotland. Curing the Prince Henry of sickness. He returns to Ireland, but calls here with a message for my father from Pope Innocent. The hunt was arranged for him—but he delayed long. Perhaps at his devotions. My brothers were impatient and, waiting, drank deeply. So . . .”

  “I see. Did the saintly huntsman get his stag?”

  “Yes. He was in another part of the forest. With the Queen and our Bishop Wimund.” She sighed a little. “It is all . . . difficult. But, I thank you, my lord King, for your forbearance. I will now see to your quarters. And inform you when my father will see you . . .”

  “That young woman appears to have too much on her mind for her years,” Somerled observed, when she had gone. “She it is who orders this house, it seems, not the Queen. She who comes back, concerned for Olaf, not that Affrica. She who will bring us to her father.”

  “The priest said that she was old Olaf’s favourite,” Saor pointed out.

  “She will do nothing which she does not choose to do, that one,” Cathula asserted.

  Presently they were conducted, by a servitor, to another house within that wall, not dissimilar to this one, which appeared to be wholly at their disposal—although it was no palace. And there, later, Ragnhilde herself came to escort them to her father’s presence in his chamber in one of the wings flanking the hall. She was dressed now in a simple blue linen gown which went well with her colouring and did no injustice to her burgeoning figure.

  They found Olaf still in bed, but sitting up and not obviously ailing, a cherubic-featured little man, almost beardless, red hair turning grey, but bright-eyed, not at all the sad-faced invalid Somerled had pictured. He was not alone, two companions sitting one on either side of the great bed: a small, wizened gnome of a man, elderly with a face like a monkey and a birdlike manner, dressed all in rusty black; and a smooth, plumpish cleric with pale protruberant eyes and an expressionless face, richly robed, youthful-seeming to be a prince of the Church.

  Olaf waved genially. “You are Somerled, Gillebride’s son?” he greeted. “Welcome to my house and kingdom. We have heard much of you, some of it to your credit! I once had words with your father. They tell me that you are a very different man.”

  “As is Olaf Godfreysson!” That was promptly returned, equally smiling. King Godfrey Crovan the Pale had been a great warrior and catholic in his slayings.

  “Ah yes, yes.” The little eyes twinkled. “To be sure. Come closer, friend—come closer. This is the new Papal Legate to Ireland, the Lord Bishop of Armagh, who honours my house meantime. And here is our Bishop of Man, the Lord Wimund, an Englishman.”

  “I fear that I am less holy, my Lord Olaf. I can only offer you the Abbot of Glendochart—and he only inherited that title from his father! But I greet these bishops with due respect, although I am no Roman. These are my friends . . .”

  Presentations over, Olaf was not dilatory in coming to the point—only, he addressed the little gnome of a man. “And what can t
he King of Argyll want with the King of Man, think you, St. Malachy? Which of our territories does this young man covet, do you suppose? He has a great appetite for lands, I hear.”

  Somewhat taken aback by such bluntness, however genially expressed, Somerled had to quickly revise his own approach. The Irish oddity gave him opportunity.

  “Ha—this one comes to bargain, my friend. He brings only eight galleys when he could have brought a hundred! He does not be announcing his coming, whatever—and brings no gifts, it seems. So he thinks to outwit you as he tried to outwit David Margaretson. Och, it is a fine young man—just fine!” All this bubbling out in a wheezing chuckle, with the Papal Legate ending by slapping his black-robed thigh.

  More wary than ever, Somerled sought to adjust to this new dimension. Clearly he was not going to pull any wool over these two pairs of elderly eyes. He glanced at Ragnhilde, who had not left the room but had taken up her stance near the door.

  “I would not dream of trying to outwit the noble Olaf—even if I could. Nor yet your good self, my lord Bishop. My poor wits are insufficiently sharp for such trade. I but come with some honest proposals to put before Your Highness.”

  “Well said, young man. My daughter said that she esteemed you honest—after a fashion. Too rare a virtue—eh, Bishop Wimund?”

  That very different prelate inclined his head but did not commit himself.

  “I thank the Lady Ragnhilde. You must judge my honesty by my proposals.”

  “We shall, friend—we shall.”

  “Who could say fairer, at all?” the Legate nodded, rubbing his hands. “A young man to heed, to cherish!”

  “You desire to hear my suggestions now, King Olaf? At this time? In this . . . company?”

  “When better, friend? The company is good.”

  “Yes. As you will. I come to speak of Arran and Bute.”

  “To be sure. Where you left your fleet, in Rothesay Bay.”

  “M’mm. You are well informed, my lord. Yes, where I left my fleet. I spoke there with the Keeper of Rothesay Castle, one MacRoderick—your keeper, he declared!”

  “Ah, yes the good MacRoderick. He would not trouble you, with your one hundred longships!”