Somerled, who only acted the king when strangers were present, and not always then, was digging into the wet patch and gaining assurance that it was indeed a fortunately-placed spring, when a man came running across the wet sands from the south shore, calling. He was a local fisherman and when they could hear his shouts his message was that there was a large fleet beating up into the outer loch, apparently from the south.
Somerled was both astonished and at a loss. Who this could be he had no idea; and what the situation called for, from himself, was equally in doubt. The fisherman could tell him no more than that there were a great many ships, a mixed fleet of galleys, longships and transports or merchanters, with no identifiable markings.
Somerled had to see for himself. He ran down the side of the mound, to cross the tidal sands whence the man had come, to the Doirlinn shore, and there promptly to clamber up the quite steep hillside to a viewpoint high enough to see seawards beyond the intervening point. He had to climb quite some distance, panting, before he was rewarded with the panorama of the wide outer loch.
There was no exaggeration as to the size of the fleet, nor the fact that at least some of the ships were heading in towards them in the inner loch. He counted between eighty and ninety vessels.
“Who is this? And what do they here?” he demanded. “Could they be Manxmen? Or Irishry? This is no Norse raid . . .”
“They are sending ships in to seek out what is here,” Saor pointed out.
“They will not see our two craft from out there.”
“Four ships only. And they sail in openly. This is no invasion. Forby, why invade Moidart?”
Leaving a couple of men to keep watch, they hurried down to the shore again and signalled for the dragon-ship to come for them, judging that they would be better aboard. If, in fact, they were assailed, and by overwhelming numbers, they could row their two vessels behind Shona Beg, beach them on the north shore and take cover in the woodlands there, with an infinity of empty country behind them.
When the four strange galleys came sailing up the inner loch and round the point into view, however, they displayed no aspect of hostility. Perceiving Somerled’s two craft lying there, the leading ship turned in towards them, leaving the other three lying off—clear enough indication that no assault was intended.
Eyeing the oncoming galley keenly, Somerled suddenly exclaimed. “On my soul—it is Malcolm MacEth, my good-brother! The Earl of Ross. There, in the stern. Save us—what brings him here? And with a fleet . . .?”
The galley drew alongside and the Earl Malcolm, waving, clambered over on to the dragon-ship’s stern-platform.
“Sorley!” he cried, hand out. “At last, I run you to earth. I have been seeking you all over Argyll! My salutations! I have been at Ardtornish and Tobermory and Islay and Mingary. From there they sent me here . . .”
“If you had sent me word, man. But . . . it is good to see you, Malcolm. It must be three years? Four? Is all well? How is my sister? And my young son, Gillecolm? I have been thinking to send for him. Now that I have matters here in hand. It is time. He will be eight years . . .”
“Gillecolm is well. As is my wife. He and Donald, our son, are notable friends. He asks if he is prince now, to crow over Donald. Since you call yourself king!”
“That—that is little more than a device, Malcolm. It serves a purpose. But what do you do in these parts? And whose great fleet is that, out there?”
“It is mine, man—mine. And three thousand men. All mine.”
“Sakes!” Somerled stared. “What is this? What are you at?”
“I am going to unseat David Margaretson—that is what I am at, Sorley! I am on my way to Morayland, there to rouse our folk. I am by rights Earl of Moray now—although David says that he has forfeited the earldom. But the folk will support me. All the North will. I have sure word. And more than the North—all Celtic Scotland.”
‘But . . . are you crazed, Malcolm? Your brother sought to do that, and failed. Died.”
“Angus made his mistakes, chose the wrong time. And was unfortunate. Even so, had he not been struck down, in the battle, and his people lost heart, he would have been King today.”
“That I doubt, man. But, for all that, he was more of a warrior than you will ever be, Malcolm! If he could not do it, why should you?”
“I tell you, had he not been slain at Stracathro . . .”
“What makes you attempt this now? You had no notion of it before. When last I saw you . . .”
“The time is ripe. David is much occupied with Northumbria. King Henry of England is sick, dying, they say. There is going to be great trouble in that land, since he leaves no son. David is pledged to support the succession of the Empress Maud, the daughter of Henry and of David’s own sister. But Stephen of Blois, Henry’s nephew, is also claiming the throne, as grandson of the Conqueror. There will be war. David has always claimed Northumbria, as part of his late wife’s inheritance—her father was Earl there. He claims it for their son Henry. So, in this broil, he seeks to put himself in a good position to take Northumbria if this Stephen wins the day, as seems likely . . .”
“Yes, yes—I know all this. But think you that David will be so engaged in Northumbria that he will be unable to defend his own kingdom? I say that this is folly.”
“Henry may die any day—and then David will move fast. Southwards. I have to be mustered and ready, in Moray, to move as fast as does he! I tell you it is a notable opportunity. Moreover, there is the Church—the chance to bring back our Celtic Church to power. Rome is in disarray—this scandal of the two Popes, Innocent and Anacletus. The Romish Church is at war with itself, some for Innocent, some for Anacletus, many not knowing where to turn. Scotland could have her own Columban Church again. Many abbots and bishops have urged me to move. I tell you all the North, hating the Margaretsons and their Normans, and disavowing the Roman Church, will rally to my banner, I am assured.”
“Who so assures you? Who has urged you to all this, man? Beyond a few churchmen?”
“Many. Earl Colban of Buchan. Melmore of Atholl. Fergus of Galloway . . .”
“That snake! He has betrayed David more than once. Has married Henry of England’s bastard daughter, now . . .”
“Perhaps so. But he could aid me on to the Scots throne.”
“No man can trust Fergus.”
“He could bring in Man. His daughter is now Olaf’s queen . . .”
“Olaf will not rise against David—that I swear! He is bed-bound and seeks only peace and quiet.”
“He has sons, of much spirit I am told. Fergus has influence with them. The Manx fleet is great . . .”
“These are all but dreams, Malcolm. Merest hopes. You will require more than these to win a kingdom . . .”
“You won one, with less! With you aiding me, Somerled, we shall win Scotland. And then . . .”
“Me! Ah, no—not so, Malcolm. This is not for me, at all . . .”
“But, Sorley—surely you will come in? Surely you, of all men, will not fail me? I have relied on you.”
“I am sorry—but no. This is something that I cannot do, man. I have taken an oath of allegiance to David. I am his vassal, now. As are you, indeed! Forby, I esteem him my friend. I cannot take up arms against him.”
“But . . . you are my wife’s brother! I was relying on your fleet to assail the South-West and Clyde for me. David can mean but little to you.”
“I cannot, will not, do it, Malcolm. An oath is an oath. And David is making a good king.”
“When I am King, you will wish that you had aided me. See, Sorley—surely I can persuade you? What do you want? I will give you anything, in reason, in my kingdom. You have but to ask it.”
Somerled shook his head.
“I have come far seeking you. Much out of my way. With this great fleet of ships. I would not have believed that you, that you . . .” Malcolm also shook his head. “It is not like you. You, the fire-eater . . .!”
“I have eaten suffici
ent fire, and meantime digest it! But it is not only that. I have cast my lot with David. I shall not betray him. Whoever else does.”
“I do not betray David. I am his elder brother’s son. Also I am King Lulach’s daughter’s son—of the older line. By both tokens I should have the throne.”
“Nevertheless, Malcolm, David has been accepted by your fellow Ri, the mormaors and earls, and crowned on the Stone of Destiny. He is the King. My duty is to him, not to you. Indeed, instead ofjoining you, it could be my duty to inform him of this danger!”
“You would not, by God!” The other stared. “I . . . I would not permit it. I tell you, you will not do that! I will stop you, I promise you. Silence even my wife’s brother, if I must!”
“You would go so far, my deer-hunting good-brother? Have you it in you, I wonder? So great a change. You say that this is not like me. What of you? What has changed Malcolm MacEth into so fierce a warrior?”
“I but seek what is mine. And must avenge my brother. I will not allow you, or any, to stay me . . .”
“Never fear, man—I shall not send word to David. Even if I should. I wager that he can fight his own battles, that one. But I would counsel you to think well on this, Malcolm. For if you fail, as Angus failed, it will not be just a crown that you lose, but your life, your all.”
“You talk like that—you, Somerled Norse-Slayer! Counselling caution, back-drawing in others—but never for yourself! No—all is in train. Moray and the North are being raised to my cause. Angus and the Mearns will join me. Thereafter all Scotland.”
“As you will. I cannot wish you well in this, Malcolm. But I wish you a safe outcome . . .”
So, disappointed, disgruntled, the Earl of Ross took leave of his brother-in-law there behind Shona Beg and sailed back to his fleet.
“I doubt if that one will be Malcolm the Fourth!” Saor commented. “But, if so, you may have cost us dear, King Sorley!”
“What is cost, foster-brother . . .?”
CHAPTER 10
The summons from the High King reached Somerled on the island of Islay, scarcely convenient. It came by a weary messenger, a Clan Alpine Mac-an-Leister, who had had to travel thus far fast. King David requested the attendance of his friend and vassal, King Somerled of Argyll, at Rook’s Burgh in the Middle March, with his fullest strength and at all possible speed—as simple as that.
Questioned, Mac-an-Leister said that it was to be invasion of England. King Henry dead, Stephen of Blois his nephew had usurped the English throne in place of the Empress Maud, Henry’s daughter. David had vowed to support Maud, his own niece—as once indeed had Stephen himself—and so was going to march into England to encourage the English nobility to rise against the usurper. David was a man of peace, but was always prepared to put his promises into practice. Now that the abortive rising of the Earl of Ross was safely over and done with, the King could move south with an easy mind.
Somerled was by no means eager. It was early summer of 1138 and a busy time in the Highland year, with the hay to cut and dry. Not that he need concern himself with hay-making and the like, of course; but it was no convenient time to take away the bulk of his manpower, the winter feed for whose cattle depended on a good hay-crop. For himself, he was supervising the building of his new castle of Finlaggan, on an islet in the loch of that name, on Islay; and lacking his supervision the work would suffer. But he was not the man to fail the High King, at his first call. Especially with his unwise brother-in-law Malcolm a condemned prisoner in David’s hands.
If his participation and contribution was to be of any use, there was no time to be lost. Men had to be summoned and collected from a vast area, to muster at a convenient centre. Ardtornish, on the Sound of Mull, would be best. Even with the utmost speed it would take many days to assemble a major force from all of mainland and island Argyll—but presumably David Margaretson had thought of that.
So the couriers were sent out in all directions, as far north as Eigg and Rhum and Moidart, as far south as Kintyre and Bute and Arran, as far west as Tiree, whilst Somerled himself sailed back to Ardtornish, dropping off messengers to rouse Mull in the by-going, to assemble the necessary flotilla.
It was ten days later before he was able to depart, with twelve hundred men in eleven ships, with instructions left behind for the onward despatch of a further contingent when it should be assembled from the more distant territories and islands.
They sailed southwards down the coasts of Nether Lorne, Knapdale and long Kintyre, to turn the Mull thereof and cross the mouth of the Firth of Clyde making for that of Solway. Once again they made their landfall at Eskmouth, near where Galloway and Cumbria joined. It took them almost four days to march the twelve hundred across the watershed of Lowland Scotland, sixty-five miles, by Eskdale and Teviotdale to Rook’s Burgh—for this force, of course, was not mounted.
Any fears that they might be too late were dispelled long before they got that far, by meeting many other groups and contingents of armed men, although none so large as themselves, all heading in the same direction. These tended to look askance at the fierce-seeming, dismounted Highlanders in their kilts and plaids and barbaric jewellery. Most of the other parties were Borderers, mounted on the hardy, long-maned horses for which these parts were famed, and would go to make up the light skirmishing cavalry of the King’s host.
Rook’s Burgh itself was one vast armed camp, the town swallowed up within a spreading tented and pavilioned city which spilled over both Tweed and Teviot and filled the haughlands beyond, endless rows of idling men and tethered horses, with the blue smoke from innumerable camp-fires rising everywhere.
The newcomers discovered that there had been dramatic developments in the situation since David’s messenger had brought them their summons. Before any large proportion of this present host had assembled, King Stephen himself had sought to settle the issue by invading Scotland. For surprise, he had brought his main English-French force by sea to Berwick-on-Tweed, Scotland’s greatest port, no more than twenty-five miles east of Rook’s Burgh, and from there marched up Tweed. David, caught without any large army, had devised and executed a masterly stroke, with great daring. With only a few hundred light horse, Normans and Borderers, he had made a night dash down the south bank of Tweed to Berwick, passing unseen the huge area lit by Stephen’s camp-fires on the north side; and at the estuary-bay of Tweedmouth had put his men on many fishing-boats, to row out in the darkness to all the anchored English fleet, whose crews were in the main roistering in Berwick town. They had set every ship on fire, with little effective opposition. Then, riding back westwards along the north side of the river, they had descended upon and ridden down, stampeded Stephen’s sleeping camp, in the Coldstream area, just before dawn, creating extraordinary panic and havoc—unconventional warfare and scarcely chivalrous by knightly standards, but exceedingly effective. The bewildered and sleep-heavy English had broken and run before the pounding, trampling cavalry, bolting at first for Berwick and their burning ships and then streaming away southwards into Northumberland, Stephen and his demoralised nobles well to the fore. The usurper was now thought to be somewhere in the Durham area.
They found the High King in the camp, conferring with his leaders. He greeted Somerled warmly, almost affectionately.
“So, my friend, you have answered my call. And speedily, as a friend should, despite Argyll being so far away. More speedily than many nearer, and owing greater service! And you have brought a notable array, I see—a potent addition to my host.”
“Twelve hundred, Sire—with more to come, when they win in from the Isles. I hastened, fearing that you would have marched already.”
“We march in two days’ time. Many others, besides yours, will have to follow on. I have forty thousand assembled here now—so you will perceive that the King of Argyll, with his twelve hundred, has served me better than have many of my lords.” And David looked around his lieutenants, meaningfully.
“I have no horsed chivalry for Your Grace.
But my broadswords and gallowglasses will fight where horse cannot go.”
“That I well believe. And I shall need their aid, I think. For although we gave Stephen of Blois a sore head there at Coldstream those weeks back, I learn that he is gathering much strength at Durham and York, with too many of the English lords forswearing their allegiance to Maud. And Holy Church is supporting him—or, at least, the Archbishop of York is, shame on him! So I must needs strike a blow for the Empress, as none other seems to be eager to do. Ah—here now is your friend the High Steward, who yielded you Bute and Arran—at a price . . .!”
Walter Stewart came up, unsmiling. “So we are honoured by the presence of Malcolm MacEth’s good-brother!” he commented, thinly.
“King Somerled has brought twelve hundred, Walter. Despite his foolish good-brother. That compares none so ill with your numbers, if I recollect?”
The other frowned but said nothing.
“I much regret Malcolm’s folly and defection, Sire. What was his fate? I have not heard.”
“His fate is to be ever near but not on the throne he sought to win!” David answered, smiling. “But he will become accustomed to it in time. Already he scowls less!”
“Near? Scowls less? I do not understand . . .?”
“His Grace is over tender of heart,” the Steward declared. “When MacEth was captured, instead of execution for highest treason, he but made of him a perpetual prisoner in the royal house. Nursing a viper to his bosom, I say! Wherever the King goes, Malcolm goes. Living mighty well, when he should be under the sod!”
A growl from others standing by most evidently indicated approval of the Steward’s sentiments.
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