To Somerled’s eyes, the position was in fact hopeless. He did not see how the Scots were going to improve on the situation. They would go on dying uselessly on the heaps of the already slain until they were exhausted—or, hopefully, until the archers ran out of arrows. Then, no doubt, the fresh and unbloodied Norman chivalry would at last sweep down upon them in their armoured might and it would become little more than a massacre, complete defeat. For the life of him he could see no strategy which might change this and give them any sort of victory.
Presumably a similar recognition had been dawning upon David and his lieutenants back at the Scots base. He had sent part of the reserve to reinforce certain sectors of the battle, but most evidently no major breakthrough was being effected. Even as Somerled sought to make up his mind as to whether there was anything that he could usefully do in a desperate effort—as perhaps race his men east-about round to the rear of this hill, in the hope that it might be more assailable from behind, and so a diversion might be created—the blare of David’s trumpets rang out, sounding the recall. On and on the trumpeting shrilled, and for the first time a great roar rose from the English host, a triumphant shouting as they recognised the message.
As though the fog of war had not been sufficiently demonstrated already that day, the confusion which followed almost equalled what had gone before. Retiral was not achieved swiftly nor coherently. Not all, indeed, were prepared to retire, and were forced to do so only when they found themselves isolated and their flanks exposed by the retiral of others. Some, on the other hand, were only too glad to withdraw and did so in haste and disorder. Fortunately the actual configuration of the ground was a help in this, in that the enemy hill resembled an island, from which the tide could ebb away almost naturally.
That it was all not much worse, to be sure, was aided by the attitude of the English. The fear was that at this stage they would go over to the attack. But throughout, their strategy had been defensive, and successfully so. It would have taken strong and aggressive leadership to reverse that posture now, when thankfulness to have survived, and won the day, after a fashion, against superior numbers, undoubtedly would be the natural reaction. Moreover those mail-clad knights, the elite of the army, were used to fighting on horseback and were presently unmounted—and their heavy armour would in itself be a dissuasion from any chase. The English, then, stood firm, as they had done all along; they could well have anticipated that this was only a temporary withdrawal and regrouping, anyway, and that the attack would be resumed. The more responsible of the Scots leadership heaved sighs of relief.
Somerled, by the nature of things, was one of the first leaders to arrive back at the base. All around David were much too busy and preoccupied to indulge in debate, argument and blame over the débâcle, at this moment; but clearly one over-riding transgression was held to be largely accountable—and undoubtedly, to the High King’s added sorrow and distress, it was his son’s responsibility. The cavalry, under Prince Henry and the Earl of Fife, had failed hopelessly in their duty. Apparently, just when they should have swung in, on the right wing, to aid Fergus’s Gallowegians, a horsed force of the enemy had appeared from behind the hill. Henry and Fife had turned, necessarily, to deal with this; but having indeed won this cavalry tussle and broken the English array, the two young men had made the grievous mistake of forgetting their obligations towards the Scots foot and gone chasing off after the fleeing enemy horse. Where they had gone none knew, but they still had not returned.
Censure and castigation however must wait. Meantime the Scots leadership was fully engaged in the difficult business of gathering and marshalling the retiring fighting-men, exhausted, dejected or unruly and protesting, getting them into columns of some sort and marching them off the field northwards. The wounded, and there were large numbers, had to be attended to in some degree and aided on their way, the dead and stricken inevitably had to be left where they had fallen. And all the time the English waited watchfully on their hill.
David himself would not quit that sorry scene until he was assured that all was in as fair order as was possible in the circumstances, and a strong rearguard organised—of which the Argyll contingent was a prominent part. When at length the High King allowed himself to leave, still with no sign of his son or the cavalry, it was to turn in his saddle and look back.
“God forgive me,” he said, set-faced. “I drew the sword in vain. And leave behind those who had to pay the price. God in Heaven forgive me!”
These were the words of a caring and noble man. But in a way, even these were ill-judged. For they were quickly repeated throughout the dispirited host and so helped to perpetuate the superstitious notion that Almighty God had been very much involved against them, that the disaster was a judgement on the Scots for having attacked Holy Church and the Consecrated Host borne aloft on that standard—in what became known as the Battle of the Standard. This constituted a grievous burden on morale, and came to affect almost all, from highest noble to humblest footman, out of all proportion to the military reverse. For after all, in fact it was no great defeat. The Scots army marched off the field intact and unpursued, and still greater in size and might than the enemy. They had merely failed to take, at considerable cost, a strongly-defended position. Nevertheless, the aura of fate against them was strong as the host faced the long march back to Scotland.
Somerled, for one, felt no such weight of divine wrath, having only the scantest respect for the authority of the Romish church. He had done his duty by David and was now concerned to get his people back to Argyll with all speed, to resume a life and reality to which all this was in the nature of an irrelevance. Fortunately he was no longer tied to Fergus. That man had survived the battle, although wounded, and with his force greatly depleted. He chose to return homewards through the west country and Cumbria detached from David’s main army—no doubt, as most guessed, in order to spoil the Cumbrians en route and so to reach Galloway again at least much richer if lacking something in manpower. Somerled, whose Highlanders were much lighter of foot and quicker at covering ground than the generality of the Scots force, obtained David’s permission to make his own way northwards at speed, since he had so much further to go.
It was scarcely a joyful parting; but if Somerled’s respect for his High King’s military prowess had suffered a declension, his regard for him as a man had not diminished. After all, David’s reputation was not as a warrior-king but as an able monarch, lawgiver and man of peace. That would remain.
PART TWO
CHAPTER 11
It was a celebration. Aros, on the Isle of Mull across the Sound from Ardtornish, was the first of Somerled’s new Norman-style castles to be completed. His great conception of protecting his Argyll kingdom against Norse and other attack, and at the same time to more firmly establish his own hold on these far-flung territories, by setting up this network of strongholds at strategic points, deserved and indeed required to be noised abroad. So the prominent from far and near were summoned to Aros, on its lofty promontory above the bay, this breezy day of May, to admire and take note. Feasting and jollification was the order of the day, on the face of it; but few present were in any doubts as to the serious purpose behind it all. The Lord of the Isles intended to be, and to remain, just that—for although he did call himself King of Argyll on occasion, more or less to keep that title valid, he, like others, thought of himself essentially as Lord of the Isles, a much more meaningful identification.
In mid-afternoon the proceedings were interrupted by the arrival in the bay of a strange ship. They had observed this vessel sailing down the Sound of Mull earlier in the day, noting it particularly in that it was of an unusual type for these waters, neither longship, birlinn nor galley, but a heavily-built merchanter of distinctly foreign aspect; in fact, Somerled had sent one of his captains after it, to enquire, since it was possible that it might be making for Ardtornish, across and further down the Sound, still the main seat of his lordship. Anyway, he made it his business to know
what most of the traffic through his seaway was up to. Now his longship had returned with the stranger, into Aros Bay already crowded with shipping.
Somerled was applauding a wrestling-match on the grassy platform of the rock-summit before the castle drawbridge and gatehouse, when he perceived that two of the people being led up from the shore were women. As they came closer, it was also evident that of the others two were boys, or youths in their early teens, noticeable amongst the armed escort.
Suddenly Saor MacNeil, beside his foster-brother, gripped his arm, gazing towards the newcomers. Somerled stared, in turn, and then, drawing a quick breath, strode off in the direction of the oncoming party.
A few yards from him, the visitors, panting a little from their climb, halted, scanning his features keenly, almost tensely.
“Elizabeth!” he cried. “You—Bethoc!”
“Aye, Sorley—Bethoc, your sister,” one of the women answered. “I rejoice that you still remember me! It has been so long.”
There was undoubtedly criticism in that, but he went to embrace her. “My dear, long, yes. Too long. But here is joy! Surprise, indeed. Welcome to Argyll, at last! It is years . . .”
“Years, yes. Over many years, Sorley. You did not come. It is none so far to Fermanagh . . .”
“No. But I have been . . . occupied. So much to do here, Bethoc, to establish, to build. A whole kingdom to set up. I had hoped that you would come to me . . .”
“You had a son to visit—not only a sister!”
“Aye.” He drew back a little, his expression set, strained a little. He turned, to look at the two boys—and was appalled to find himself looking from one to the other, for the moment wondering. Then, of course, the thing was clear—and the old stab at the heart was there again. They were both good-looking, well-built lads, but the one, fair-haired and blue-eyed where the other was dark, was the taller, broader and finer-featured, features not unlike Somerled’s own. But there was a difference, something about the eyes and the set of the jaw, a vagueness of the one and a blurring of the other, an essential weakness which was not to be hid and was emphasised in this moment of emotion by a twitching at the corner of a slightly slack mouth.
“Gillecolm!” Somerled went to his son, to enfold him in his arms. “Laddie, laddie—the size of you! Save us—here’s a marvel! Colm mac Sorley—almost a man grown!” As he exclaimed it, the pain at the heart grew the sharper—for Gillecolm mac Somerled MacFergus would never be fully a man. The boy had been born just slightly lacking in his mental faculties, the tragedy of his young father’s life, responsible perhaps for much of what that man had become. Not a few had said that it was a pity that the child had not died with the MacMahon girl-mother who gave such difficult birth to him—although Somerled had steadfastly refused to admit to such a wish. Here was the answer to many a question.
Gillecolm gulped and mumbled something into his father’s chest, embarrassed, unsure. Still holding him, Somerled looked at the other boy, his nephew, and reached out to clasp his shoulder.
“So, Donald—you too, twice the size I last saw you. A fine support for your mother, I warrant. Two brave heroes to be.” He raised his eyes to their mother and aunt. “You have raised these warriors well, Bethoc.”
“Pray God I have not raised them to be warriors and heroes! I have had sufficient of such in our family,” the Countess of Ross and Moray said. “We are on our way, even now, to visit that other fallen hero, Donald’s father, in his captivity.”
“Ah—so that is it? You go to Malcolm.”
“Yes. Since it seems that he cannot come to us. I am still his wife. David has sent for us. No doubt for his own purposes. But . . . I could not refuse. Malcolm left it to my choice. It was not easy—to go into perpetual captivity . . .”
“You mean—it is not just a visit, then? You intend to stay? With Malcolm.”
“I am his wife. And Donald is his son. Perhaps it is Donald whom David wants, in truth? That there be no more attempts on his throne, by the MacEths.”
“M’mm. It may be so. But David is a fair and honest man. There will be concern in it, too, for Malcolm and yourself, I think. He much loved his own wife. He would not wish you to be parted for all time.”
“Does such concern enter into the thinking of kings?”
“This king is different, Bethoc—that I have found out. He can act the good-hearted man as well as the monarch. The very fact that he spared Malcolm’s life shows that, when the others were clamouring for his death. And this of perpetual captivity is none so ill. Malcolm lives as one of David’s close household—as his nephew, indeed. Even, he accompanied us on the invasion of England.”
She shrugged. “We shall see . . .”
The celebratory proceedings continued and the newcomers were drawn in, in some measure, the two boys at least appreciative.
In the early evening they sailed back across the Sound to Ardtornish.
Later, relaxed, in the lesser hall there, the boys bedded down, brother and sister watched the sun sink behind the mountains of Mull, in the company of Somerled’s close companions, Saor, Conn, Dermot and Cathula. Presently Somerled asked,
“What caused Malcolm to attempt to unseat David, Bethoc? I could not understand it. He was never a fighting man. He loved hunting and ease, not kingship. He could not win—I told him so . . .”
“It was the MacMahon, your goodsire, who persuaded him. At the behest of the High King, Muirchertach. They say that it was the English King Stephen’s doing, behind it all. To cause trouble in Scotland, so that he himself might take and rule there. The Irish High King sorely requires Norman help against the Norse. This was part of the price.”
“So that was it! I might have guessed.”
“That Stephen is a craven, I say. He gets others to fight his battles for him,” Saor commented. “The sorrow that it had to be the Earl Malcolm.”
“I tried to dissuade him,” the Countess said. “But he can be obstinate. And he owed much to the MacMahon, of course—who provided ships and men, as ever. Moreover, Malcolm wished to avenge his brother Angus. It was a sorry business—he was made a sacrifice, just. Can you wonder if I have no love for kings?”
“David you will find . . . different. You will fare none so ill at Rook’s Burgh, Beth. It is a fair place in a fair land. In David’s house, I swear, you will live better than at Enniskillen.”
“Perhaps. I am not sorry to leave Fermanagh. Since our father died, it has not been the same. And with Malcolm gone, I have been the less welcome there. I had even thought of coming to you, Sorley—although you did not ask me!”
Uncomfortably, he stirred. “I should have done, yes. There has been so much to do . . .”
“I would have thought that at least you would have sent for your son.”
He spread his hands, wordless.
“I have carried the responsibility sufficiently long, Sorley. I love Colm—he is a gentle, amiable lad, warm of heart, but easily hurt. He says little but his wits are sharp enough in some matters. He and Donald are very close. But now that he is growing apace, he needs a man’s guidance, his father’s. So I have brought him to you. I shall miss him—but this is best, now. I cannot take him into this captivity.”
From the moment they had arrived, Somerled had recognised that it must come to this. Yet even so, his reluctance could not be hid.
“Yes,” he said.
She looked at him, as did Cathula. The men looked out at the sunset.
“Your son,” the Countess added, deliberately.
“Yes. To be sure. He must stay.”
“What else?” she asked. And when he did not further respond, went on. “You have put this off over-long, Sorley. The boy deserves better of you.”
“Yes, yes. I know it. But you must understand, Bethoc—it will not be easy. Living as I do . . .”
“Easy? It has not been easy for me, either. Is it ease that you seek—Somerled the Mighty, Norse-Slayer, Lord of the Isles, King of Argyll? All this you have done, a
chieved—and you say that it will not be easy. To take your own son to you.”
He rose abruptly and went over to the window, to stare out at the gathering night. “You make it sound so simple. It is not. Colm is not . . . as others. He requires much heeding, care. Which I will find it difficult to give him. I am but seldom here, at Ardtornish. I am a man with much on my mind. It is, in the main, a woman’s work, is it not?”
“Perhaps you should find yourself another wife, then?”
He turned, partly at Cathula’s sudden hoot of laughter, and stared from one woman to the other. Saor came to his rescue.
“Sakes—there are some cures worse than the disease!” he observed, grinning.
“I . . . we shall make do,” Somerled said shortly. He came back to the fireside circle. “When do you sail, Bethoc?”
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