Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “No. But he told me that you were his lord, not the High Steward of Scotland. That Man ruled Bute and Arran.”

  “Does this trouble you, friend Somerled?”

  “A little, yes. For King David of Scots has granted me Arran and Bute, in place of the Steward.”

  “So many seeking to possess these poor islands. But I hold them.”

  “That is why I am here. We believed that the Norse held them—as they had held so much. But found that it was yourself. I was prepared to drive out the Norsemen. But . . . you are different.”

  “You fear that you could not drive me out, young man?” That was interested.

  “I could, I think. But I would not wish to do so. You and I are both vassals of King David. It would be unsuitable that we should fight. And over a grant of our liege-lord David.”

  “Is not the King of Argyll considerate?” Olaf observed, beaming.

  “Och, he is a lesson to us, just,” St. Malachy asserted. “God be praised for the likes o’ him!”

  Somerled bit his lip, frowning.

  “Heed him, father.” That was Ragnhilde from the doorway.

  “I do so, my dear—I do so. I but wait to hear King Somerled’s proposals, which he has come to put before me.”

  “My proposals are simple. Friendship.”

  It was the old man’s turn to look at a loss. “Friendship . . .?” he repeated, sitting forward.

  “Friendship, yes. No more, no less. Is it not sufficient?”

  Olaf wagged his head. “This is no proposal, young man.”

  “Is it not? Many, I think, would wish to have me their friend. And few, on this seaboard, their enemy! Ask your fellow-Norsemen.”

  “Are you threatening me, Somerled MacGillebride?”

  “How can you ask that? When I am offering you my friendship.”

  “In exchange for Arran and Bute!”

  “Also, your friendship for me, in return.”

  “I thought that you came to bargain, young man?”

  “I did. Consider. You require a friend such as Somerled of Argyll. This kingdom of Man is vulnerable. You must know that sufficiently well. Anyone can see it. And if anyone, then the Norsemen, the Irish Norse in especial. Or the English—these Normans are ever seeking new conquests. Or even Sigurd of Norway, who is said to be considering binding all the lands and territories held by Norsemen into one Norse empire under his sway—Canute’s dream. That is partly why I entered into firm friendship with King David—in case Sigurd thinks to try to take my lands back, and I can be assured of David’s aid. Can you? Are you more secure, on Man? As I sailed round your coasts, I could not judge it so.”

  The other fiddled with his bed-clothes. “I have no fears of Sigurd. My son Godfrey is in Norway even now, at Sigurd’s court.”

  “Sent for good reason, no doubt! Because you had heard this of Sigurd’s empire? But, other than Sigurd, you are vulnerable. If such as I could consider an attempt on Man, so could others. I say that friendship with me would serve you well. You are now wed to Fergus of Galloway’s daughter—again no doubt for good reason. Arran and Bute start where Fergus’s territories end. Then my lands of Kintyre, Cowal, Lorne, Moidart and the isles extend. Your entire eastern flank would be protected, since David I think would not let Cumbria be used against you—unless you displeased him!”

  “You are very concerned for me, King Somerled!”

  “I want Arran and Bute.”

  “Why? So greatly.”

  “Because they represent a weakness to my kingdom, a danger. If not in the strongest and most sure of hands. They are the postern-door to Argyll. Takeable from the sea, yet lying between Kintyre and Cowal. You do not greatly value them—or you would have left a large fleet protecting them and a more notable governor than this MacRoderick.”

  “So you would enter into a treaty of friendship with Man. How think you of this, St. Malachy? You, a seer.”

  “Och, och, my eyes are growing dim, alas—years upon years! But still I can see a little. Eight ships brought, just, when these might have been a hundred. A choice young man, whom your lass deems to be honest. And no gifts—myself, I am a sad doubter when gifts are brought, a very Thomas! How much do these islands he speaks of mean to you, my friend?”

  Olaf shrugged. “My sons took them from the Norse pirates.”

  “But your sons do not themselves occupy them?”

  “No. Would God that they did!”

  The Legate spread his hands, chuckled and said no more.

  “And you, Lord Wimund? You are Bishop and have pastoral care of these isles. How say you?”

  “I say, Lord King, that these islands must remain in the nurture and care of Holy Church, with no return to the Columban heresy. That assured, I see no great ill in this. Not that I fear this King’s ill will, but rather King David’s. It would be unwise to risk David’s ire—if he has indeed granted these islands to King Somerled.”

  “So-o-o! It seems, my young friend, that I am advised towards discretion. I shall give you my answer later. But first, tell me—what of this of Holy Church? Of Rome and the Columban Church. I am sure that this will also interest the Papal Legate here.”

  Somerled spread his hands. “I am no churchman. If the folk of Arran and Bute now worship according to the Roman rite, I for one would not seek to change it. Myself, I worship otherwise—but that is of no matter. All men should worship as they will.”

  “As I say, a choice young man!” Malachy O’Moore nodded. “We live and learn, just.”

  “So—we shall see you later, Somerled MacGillebride MacFergus—if you will honour my table below. Hilde—escort our friends . . .”

  The interview over, Ragnhilde took them back to their quarters.

  “Thank you for saying nothing to my father about my brothers’ behaviour,” she said quietly, to Somerled. “I think that you will find that your journey here has not been fruitless.”

  “It could not be that, in any event, since I have met you here, lady!” he said gallantly.

  Cathula snorted.

  In the evening they were summoned to the same hall in which they had eaten previously—although now it seemed a different place, packed with folk, torches lit, a great fire blazing on the central hearth, tables groaning with meats and drink. There was little ceremony, indeed almost pandemonium prevailed, men shouting and laughing, women skirling, hounds barking, musicians playing, servitors hurrying hither and thither. The fact that King Olaf was present in person appeared to make no difference—but then the Norse had odd ideas about kingship.

  There was no raised dais in this hall, but a top table stretched at right angles to the others at one end, and in the centre of this Somerled was ushered into a place between Olaf and Queen Affrica. He would have preferred to have been on the other, left, side of the King, where the little Legate sat next to Ragnhilde, even though the less honourable position. The three bastard sons sat together further left still, in a noisy group, carefully not looking as the Scots party was shown in. Cathula was disposed near them, with Saor and her brother—but she would have little difficulty in looking after herself.

  Seen on his feet, Olaf Morsel was even tinier than he had seemed in bed, with very short legs, making even Bishop Malachy look sizeable, his clothing now a curious mixture of bed and day wear. His wife wore the lowest-cut gown Somerled could recollect having seen at table, although her figure scarcely justified it.

  The provender proved to be hearty rather than imaginative, salmon, wildfowl, venison and beef, washed down with vast quantities of ale, wine, aquavit and whisky. The noise increased as the meal went on, conversation difficult.

  Somerled was surprised at how much food and drink Olaf managed to put away—he had that other by-name of Olaf Buttered-Bread, to be sure—although Affrica only toyed with her share. At one stage of the repast, his host, pressing more wine upon him, further shouted—but without any evident significance—that friendship was an admirable exchange for islands. No more appeared to be for
thcoming. It was as simple as that.

  Presently, after much yawning and belching, Olaf announced that he was tired and was going to his bed. Without more ado, he rose and tottered off to the door and out, nobody appearing to pay the least attention. Somerled was the only one to rise—although, when they perceived it, his own party followed suit.

  However, despite all this lack of formality and seeming respect, it became apparent that the King of Man’s presence had in fact had more influence on the company than it might have appeared. For quickly thereafter the tone and tenor of the proceedings commenced to change noticeably. Noise redoubled, although this had scarcely seemed possible. Horseplay began, scuffling broke out, the King’s three bastards very much the ringleaders. The Queen appeared far from censorious, approving rather—indeed she moved along the bench closer to Somerled, in frank appreciation, to fill up his goblet, actually rubbing herself against him. Evidently intent on speech, she had to come closer still, to be heard, so that he was looking down the front of her gown, with no great delight, her lips almost at his ear.

  “The woman you have with you—is she your concubine?” she screeched.

  Frowning, Somerled chose his words. “Cathula MacIan is shipmaster of my dragon-ship.”

  She smiled disbelievingly and patted his arm. “How . . . convenient! When seafaring. A man of good appetite. A man after my own heart, I think.”

  He drew away, in noticeable fashion, but said nothing.

  She followed him. “Your wife died, did she not?”

  “Sadly, yes.” He looked along the table and saw Ragnhilde watching, beyond the Legate, who was sitting back with his eyes closed. “Your father, Madam—I heard that he was at odds with King David?”

  “Oh, some small matter.” She offered him her own goblet to drink from, since he neglected his.

  “I have had sufficient, I thank you . . .”

  Bishop Wimund aided him by rising, bowing stiffly in the direction of the Queen and himself, more deeply to the unseeing Legate, and stalked off.

  Somerled took the opportunity to rise also, disengaging with difficulty, so close was the Queen. “With your permission, Madam, I also will retire. It has been a long day. It is long since I slept.”

  “Come, Somerled—they call you the Mighty, do they not? Do not tell me that you are so weary that you must seek bed to sleep in! I esteemed you more lusty than that!”

  It went against the grain for that man to reject any lady’s so frankly offered favours, but in present circumstances he felt that he could do no other.

  “I regret to disappoint. But as your lord’s guest, I feel . . . constrained.” Misliking the sound of that himself, he did not wonder at the sudden constriction of brows and lips, until he perceived that the Queen was looking past his shoulder. He turned, to find Ragnhilde at his back.

  “Do you wish to withdraw, my lord?” she asked. “I fear that the further entertainment may not please, perhaps.” She looked from Affrica, expressionless, back to where one of her half-brothers was now standing amongst the debris of the table-top and hauling up one of the serving-wenches, her clothing already in disarray.

  “Yes. I thank you. I was telling the Queen that my couch beckons. I have dined all too well . . .”

  “Then I will conduct Your Highness . . .”

  “I am sure that King Somerled and I can find our own way back to our chamber unaided!” That was Cathula, who had come to join them.

  “No doubt. But it is my duty to accompany His Highness, in my father’s house,” the younger woman said quietly.

  “Perhaps it is mine!” Affrica put in.

  Somerled looked from one to the other of the three women. It was to Cathula that he spoke. “Tell Saor that he and the others should stay, if so they wish.” To the Queen he bowed. But he took Ragnhilde’s arm. “I am honoured,” he said. “Come, then . . .”

  The Papal Legate appeared to be asleep.

  “You obtained what you came for, my lord King?” the girl asked, as they stepped out into the night air.

  “I did. Thanks perhaps, in some measure, to yourself?”

  “I could say only a word. But I am glad. You will perceive something of my father’s problems.”

  “I perceive also that he has a notable daughter, whatever his sons may be!”

  “I do what I can. And my true brother, Godfrey, is very different . . .” At the door of his quarters she paused. “I wish you a good night, my lord. For how long do you stay with us?”

  “I must leave in the morning. I left my eight ships at your St. Michael’s Haven. And my fleet awaits me at Rothesay Bay, in Bute.”

  “So short a visit. I am sorry.”

  “So am I. But . . . now that your father and I are in friendship and league, there will be other meetings . . .”

  Cathula came, with MacFerdoch. “The others wait,” she reported. “More fools them! We are better in our bed, my lord, you and I!”

  Without another word, Ragnhilde turned and left them.

  “A plague on you, Cathula MacIan!” Somerled exclaimed. “You . . . you find your own bed this night!” And he stamped into the house.

  In the morning they did not have to walk the miles to St. Michael’s Haven, Ragnhilde providing horses and accompanying them herself. They took leave of Olaf, genial in his bed, and got a cheerful farewell and some sort of benediction from St. Malachy, who seemed to find life unfailingly amusing, and Old Satanicus, the Devil, a foe with whom it was a pleasure to deal. There was no sign of Olaf’s bastards.

  On the road back to the haven, Ragnhilde was quiet, reserved; but when they came to say goodbye at the quayside she seemed genuinely affected, although she kept glancing over at Cathula. For his part Somerled found the parting moving, and assured her he would be back. He was not usually concerned over the presence of others, but on this occasion he felt much inhibited, for some reason. The actual leave-taking was somewhat abrupt.

  It was as the dragon-ship drew away from the jetty, with Cathula efficiently ordering the oarsmen in the quite complicated process, and Somerled staring back at the single slight figure who stood beside the horses watching them go, that Saor MacNeil made his comment.

  “Given a year or two, that creature will be bed-worthy indeed! I swear the thought has not escaped you, Sorley MacFergus!”

  He should have known better, been prepared to dodge, at least. His foster-brother’s fist caught him on the side of the head and he was spun round against the helmsman almost toppling them both, to the danger, momentarily, of the ship’s steering.

  Even Cathula MacIan held her tongue thereafter.

  CHAPTER 9

  Somerled paced out the uneven platform of greensward and stone for the third time, counting, calculating, frowning. “It will be a tight squeeze,” he announced. “The shape will be uneven. But I think that it will serve. Just sufficiently large. I make it four-hundred-and-seventy-two paces around. One-hundred-and-forty paces in greatest length, north to south. Less wide at the north than this south end, forty as against one-hundred-and-ten—as much difference as that. With something of a bite out of it yonder, at the cliff. If we brought the stonework lower there, part way down the cliff, that would help. I do not think that the shape being irregular would greatly signify. It is much the best site.”

  The others, sprawling on the grass in the warm sunshine, made no comment, looking scarcely interested. This had been going on for an hour.

  “It commands the head of this inner Loch Moidart, the mouths of both the rivers, Shiel and Moidart, as well as this shallow bay of Doirlinn,” he went on. “Forby, there is this wet hollow here—if I mistake not, this is a spring welling up through the rock. Water we must have. And there is stone nearby, to quarry—over there on the mainland shore. This would ease the work. I think that we should have it here.”

  “As good as any,” Saor said, yawning.

  “Yes. We shall not find better on Loch Moidart. See—go down to the tideline and gather me driftwood. To drive in as s
takes. To mark out the lines of it. Then we shall cut the turf. That the builders make no mistakes.”

  Saor passed on the command to the lounging oarsmen. He was much too great a man, Chamberlain of Argyll, to go gathering driftwood sticks.

  “Where will you find masons, in Moidart?” Cathula asked, toying with sea-pink flowers. “You cannot expect herders and fisherfolk to build you castles. It will be long before this one, or others, will be more than a dream, I think.”

  “Not so,” he said. “These folk can hew and carry stone. Cut and fetch timber. Clear the site. Lay the foundations. Then, when my master-mason comes, they can work to his orders. He will go from site to site, showing them how. It will take time, yes—but greatly less time than if all was left to skilled masons . . .”

  They were on the top of a mound, a knobbly knoll of grass and outcropping rock which rose like the stopper of a flagon in the centre of the tidal narrows at the head of Loch Moidart, the north-east head not the south-east at Kentra Bay. This was the place where the Norse of Ivar Blacktooth had had a small base, behind Eilean Shona, which Dermot Maguire had been sent to destroy, four years ago now, at the Battle of Moidart, if so it could be called. The mound, some one-hundred-and-twenty feet high, was in fact a tiny island, called Eilean Tioram, drying out at low-water, and with an excellent sheltered anchorage between it and Shona, where at least a score of longships could lie, although only Somerled’s dragon-ship and one escort lay there now. Its base no more than a few acres, the summit narrowed to an uneven little plateau, part grass, part rock, of the measurements Somerled had called out. It was on the small side, admittedly, for a castle, and of distinctly unusual outline, for every inch of the ground would have to be utilised; but its other advantages were evident.

  This was the furthest north of Somerled’s ambitious scheme to bind together, encircle and protect his new kingdom with a chain of strongholds, not after the Celtic ramparted-fort style nor yet of the Norse stockaded hall-house type, but stone keeps within high curtain-walls after the Norman fashion, as at Castle Sween and David’s Rook’s Burgh, on a smaller scale. He had already chosen sites at Duart and Salen on Mull, Dunstaffnage in Lorne, Mingary on Sunart—and hereafter intended to prospect others in Islay, Jura and other islands, and in Kintyre and Cowal. His friends saw all this as a folly of grandeur, but he reckoned that these strongholds would well repay their cost and trouble in serving notice on marauders and raiders to keep out of his domains.