“In a day or two. To Eskmouth, in Galloway. I must go. Already I am delayed . . .”
Before the Countess left, Somerled was in one respect less concerned over his son’s arrival and in another, more so. He found himself to be more at ease and in sympathy with the boy than he had expected, more close to him. But that was also the trouble, the very closeness. Gillecolm, in fact, clung to him all too closely. Wherever he turned the lad was there, both lads until Donald left with his mother. Clearly Somerled was hero and paladin to his son as well as long-lost father, not to be let long out of his sight now that he had been found again. This was obviously going to create problems; but the man was loth indeed to seem to repulse the youngster in any way. The hope was that in time this too close dependence would lessen.
After the moving, indeed all but tearful parting with aunt and cousin, however, Gillecolm clung but the closer to his father, his only anchor in abruptly changed waters. The boy demonstrated a sort of dumb anxiety, like a dog which fears that it will be locked away. Somerled’s friends sought to help, Cathula in especial; but the lad was only marginally responsive, seemingly suspicious. He was young for his years, of course, and his mental handicap almost certainly emphasised by this drastic change in his hitherto sheltered life. Somerled’s forebodings grew, however much he felt for and cherished the son he had fathered.
In these circumstances he was more receptive, perhaps, than might otherwise have been the case, when a longship arrived at Ardtornish from the south, bearing a message from Olaf, King of Man. This was to the effect that his new abbey of Rushen, which he had built to the glory of God and in memory of his late wife Ingebiorg Hakonsdotter, was now completed and was to be consecrated by Archbishop Thurstan of York, on St. Barnabus’ Eve, the tenth day of June. Olaf hoped that his ally and friend, the King of Argyll and the Isles, would honour the occasion with his presence. He suggested that it might be wise, as well as suitable, that he should do so, if possible; for he understood that the Archbishop, as well as consecrating, intended to use the occasion to advance Bishop Wimund to be Bishop of the Isles, in addition to Man, no doubt for his own purposes, and his friend Somerled might have his own ideas about this, being of a different faith. This invitation came in the form of a letter penned by Olaf. But the longship’s master added a verbal message. The Princess Ragnhilde had asked him to say that she hoped very much that King Somerled would come.
Normally, to travel one-hundred-and-fifty miles and more to attend such an affair would scarcely have been considered. But this of Archbishop Thurstan and a new Romish bishopric of the Isles required some examination. Also, an excursion to Man might be helpful with regard to young Gillecolm, a distraction which could possibly widen the boy’s outlook and loosen this utter dependence on his father’s company. Somerled did not so much as admit to himself that the verbal message from Ragnhilde might be the true deciding factor. He agreed to go.
Cathula MacIan, however, although she was not informed about that postscript, was not to be misled about motives. When she heard that her lord actually proposed to sail all the way to Man for an abbey-opening, she was typically direct and scornful.
“You are not going there to see any archbishop, nor yet to talk about church matters, Sorley MacFergus!” she exclaimed. “You are going because of that chit of a girl, Ragnhilde. A child, young enough to be your daughter! I have not forgotten how you mooned over her, the great Somerled! I knew that you had not forgotten her either, and her whey-faced simperings. That is why you consider going to Man. You have been but looking for excuse.”
“You talk nonsense,” he said, but mildly enough.
“Do I, then? Do you think that I am a fool? Or blind? Can you say in honesty that when you have been lying with me of a night you have never wished it was that daughter of Norse pirates you had under you? I have seen you, felt you, watched your eyes . . .”
“You are a fool, Cat! If you believe that. In your bed, you are sufficiently potent to keep any man’s wits from straying, I assure you! Besides, the Princess Ragnhilde is not to be considered so. She is . . . different.”
“Princess—oh, yes! Different, indeed! No mere cot-woman nor ship-woman, but a female Viking, of a long line of cut-throat ravishers! Different . . .!”
He left her while still he had his temper under control.
They would sail in three days, calling on the way at Castle Sween in Knapdale, where old King Ewan MacSween was said to be sick, failing and wishful to see Somerled.
The Argyll flotilla reached St. Michael’s Bay of Man the day before the consecration ceremony. So far the excursion had been a success. Young Colm was excited and happy—after all, aboard ship he had his father close at hand all the time; and the voyage down through the island-dotted and most colourful sea in the world, in fine weather, could scarcely fail to delight. Cathula, although subdued, had made no more outbursts. Somerled had said that she could remain behind at Ardtornish if she so disapproved of this Manx visit, but she had elected to play her accustomed role of master of the dragon-ship, at which she was notably proficient. The Castle Sween interlude had been moving, distressing after a fashion but eminently satisfactory after another. Ewan was obviously dying, well aware of it, and anxious that Somerled, in taking over his lands and nominal kingdom, should do so in trouble-free style and with full respect for his chieftains and people, as according to their compact of seven years before. They had parted with a good understanding, the old man reassured, Somerled confirmed in a large increase in his territories and influence, to which he had little doubt that David, as overlord, would agree.
Landing, as before, in the basin-like bay of St. Michael, again full of shipping, they were faced with the same problem of lack of transport to Rushen Castle. Olaf should surely establish some pool of horses here, available for visitors. Would old Archbishop Thurstan also have had to tramp the two miles? Not that it was a long nor taxing walk, but most surely it lacked suitablity.
Oddly, they had reached almost the same spot in the forest of Langness, in their progress, where they had been harried by the huntsmen, when again they were approached by a hard-riding company, with at least one of the personnel the same. It was Ragnhilde Olafsdotter come hastening, with a party of grooms and spare horses.
For long moments Somerled—and not only Somerled—stared at her as she drew up her snorting mount and sat looking down at them. It was almost three years since he had been here and in that time this daughter of Olaf’s who, whatever his denials, had got between him and his sleep many a night, had changed from a girl into a woman. Flushed as she was with fast riding, red hair blown, breathing disturbed and disturbing, she nevertheless had exchanged her aspect of youthful charm and piquancy, tinged with a kind of permanent anxiety, for a serenity and poise which complemented her sculptured loveliness of feature and colouring. That her figure had burgeoned also did not go unnoticed.
“My lord King—greeting!” she smiled, panting a little. “I rejoice that you have come. When news was brought that your ships had been sighted, I made haste to meet you. Had you sent word, I would have been at the haven.”
He found difficulty in answering her, just then. “No need,” he got out. “You are very good, kind. And very fair. I too rejoice.”
“Thank you.” They eyed each other for moments and then, as she moved in her saddle to dismount, he strode forward, to lift her down—and in no haste to release her.
The others watched, with varying expressions.
When she stirred, he schooled himself to the civilities, turning.
“All here you know, I think—save this, my son. Here is Gillecolm. The Princess Ragnhilde, lad.”
Wide-eyed she looked from man to boy and back again. “Son!” she said. “You did not tell me that you had a son. And, and . . .” She left the rest unsaid.
“Did I not?” he said flatly. “He was in Fermanagh. In care of my sister. Now he is with me. Come, Colm—your respects to the princess.”
As the boy hesitated, sh
yly, she searched his face for a moment, then stepped over to reach out for both his hands.
“Colm, is it? Colm Somerledsson, the well-favoured! We shall be friends, I think.” She kissed his cheek, but with a laugh, to spare him embarrassment. “Myself, I favour handsome young men!”
He flushed, but those vague, unsure eyes took on a momentary sparkle. His father’s gleamed also.
“Good!” Somerled exclaimed. And again, “Good. Colm is tall, for fourteen years. He will be a bigger man than I am, before long. You remember Saor? And Conn? And Sir Malcolm? Also this Cathula, who masters my ship?”
“Who could forget? I greet all kindly.”
There were too few horses for all to ride singly, so some of the party mounted behind the grooms. Somerled was going to take Gillecolm up pillion on his beast when Ragnhilde beckoned the boy to ride with her.
“Will you ride front or shall I?” she asked.
He mumbled something, but eagerly climbed into the saddle first, to bend and help her up behind. He was used to horses.
As they rode on side-by-side, the girl said to Somerled, “I am glad that you came. And brought this one.”
He did not usually lower his voice when he spoke. “I came because you asked me to.” The others behind were not to hear that.
She eyed him quickly. “Then I am the more glad. But I hoped that you might come. Feared that you might not—the great Somerled to come to a churchmen’s assembly, the consecration of an abbey! And one not of your own faith.”
“It will be the first that I have attended,” he admitted.
“Yes. But this is intended to be more than but a Church gathering—much more. I thought that you ought to be present.”
“M’mm. Is that so?” The man sounded less than elated. He had hoped that her concern for his presence might have been more personal.
“King Stephen of England’s hand is behind this,” she went on. “It is aimed against King David. And you said that you were friend to David. My father is not sufficiently strong to withstand both England and Holy Church. And Earl Fergus of Galloway, also, the Queen’s father . . .”
“Is that man here?”
“Yes, more’s the pity. I do not trust him.”
“Nor I. This is unfortunate. We are scarcely friendly! But—both he and your father are vassals of David of Scotland.”
She nodded. “King David is perhaps less than fortunate in all his vassals! What is planned, I think, is for Bishop Wimund to be made Bishop of all the Isles. Under Archbishop Thurstan’s sway from York, of course. When that is done the Archbishop will claim that he is spiritual overlord of Scotland, from Galloway to Orkney. He claims that already, to be sure, saying that there is no archbishop nor metropolitan north of York. But now he will have a diocese of Scotland to which he has appointed the bishop, right up to the Isles of Orkney—where already there is a Catholic bishop.”
“I see, yes. So that is it! I see, too, lady, that you have wits and understanding, in this matter, much beyond mine. How is all this to aid Stephen and hurt David?”
“Do you not see it? The English kings have always sought to claim paramountcy over Scotland. If their archbishop, York, can show that he is spiritual overlord of Scotland, a way is cleared for his master, the King.”
“Such claim would carry no weight, surely? David would but laugh at it. The Romish Church prevails in his realm, yes—thanks to his mother, Margaret. But his bishops are not appointed from England and pay no service to York or Canterbury. As for the Isles and the Hebrides, no Roman churchmen are there and the Columban Church prevails.”
“But once Rome has a bishop there, it can claim spiritual authority, in name. And if that authority is resisted, York can appeal to the Pope in Rome. And if the Pope supports his archbishop—as he would be like to do—then all Roman Catholic monarchs and princes have a right and duty to support the Papal edict. By force of arms, if necessary.”
“Lord . . .! You, you credit this?”
“It is what I have heard discussed in my father’s hall. Or in his bedchamber!”
“But . . . if Stephen could not successfully invade Scotland before—as he could not, at Berwick-on-Tweed—how shall this advantage him? The fact that he has the Pope’s blessing and command will not add to his armed strength.”
“Surely you must see! Now it would not be Stephen alone. But others. Other Catholic princes would have excuse to invade, the excuse they may seek. Norway. Norway ever seeks to gain lands—I heard you tell my father so, when last you were here. Sigurd Half-Deacon is dead. But King Ingi Cripple his son is no less greedy . . .”
“The Norwegians would not think to take over Scotland!”
“No—that is for Stephen. But your Isles and Argyll—that could be Ingi’s reward.”
“Save us, lassie—all this, out of a new bishopric!”
“The bishopric would be but the start of it. And there is not only Norway and the Danes. The Norse-Irish of Dublin are Catholic too and would be glad of pickings. They ever seek to control Man itself—which is why my father considers taking a part in all this, to save his own small kingdom. King David could be faced with a great alliance—the more so since he fought against Holy Church at that battle in England, of the Standard.”
Wonderingly, Somerled stared at her, behind his son. “So this is why you wanted me to come!”
“Partly, my lord King. Was I foolish?”
“A mercy—no! But—why? Why this concern for my island realm? And for King David? Against your own father’s interest?”
“I believe that my father’s true interests are not being served in this. That he is but being used as a mere cat’s-paw, and will be cast off when he has served his turn. Then Man itself swallowed up. I believe that he is mistaken. Affrica and Fergus and Wimund have persuaded him. But they have not persuaded me.”
“Aye,” he said, nodding. “I perceive that you have grown into a woman indeed since I left here three years back, lady. God be praised that you chose my side in this matter!”
“I think that I chose my own side, Lord Somerled. You happened to be on it!”
Silenced, he rode on, thoughtful indeed.
When they came to Olaf s ramshackle castle, the Argyll party, coming late and unheralded, had to occupy only inferior quarters, with the place full to overflowing. Ragnhilde apologised but said that she would try to find Somerled himself some better room. There were a lot of churchmen in evidence.
Olaf, never one for ceremony, came to their crowded lodging in person, presently, to receive his guests. He was affable but a trifle uneasy, presumably aware that he had a delicate path to tread.
“Welcome to Man again, my young friend,” he greeted. “It is good that you could come. You have been to war, I hear, since last we saw you? Not your own warring, this time, but David’s. A costly venture, I am told.”
“War is generally costly, I fear. You, I think, Olaf Godfreysson, seldom go to war, if ever. Unlike Fergus, you did not go, nor send men, to David’s venture into England!”
“I chose the wiser part, as was proved. I swear that Fergus now wishes that he could say the same! You also, perhaps?”
“I did not see it as a choice, man. I swore to be David’s vassal. When he called, I had to answer. You felt otherwise?”
“I see my first duty to my own people, my friend. Do not you?”
“To be sure. But a ruler must look ahead. Further than this month or this year. If he can. There is the longer view, for small kingdoms—as I think you do not fail to perceive on occasion. And an oath is an oath.”
“I took oath to cherish Man first! But—no doubt we shall speak of this further hereafter. Tonight we feast in my hall. And tomorrow we consecrate my abbey. There is duty to Almighty God also, is there not? David, the abbey-builder, would agree with that, at least!”
Guest and host eyed each other assessingly.
The banquet that evening got off to an awkward start, and the fault was undeniably Somerled’s. An usher had
been sent to their quarters to bring the Argyll party to the hall. When they arrived, it was to find Olaf, Ragnhilde, Wimund and two of the King’s deplorable sons already seated at the top table—but sundry other seats vacant. Somerled was no stickler for ceremony and precedence, any more than was Olaf; but sojourn at David’s court had taught him a little. He quickly counted the empty spaces near the centre of the King’s table, and came to the conclusion that there were places left for a further six principal guests. Since none of his own party would so rank, apart from himself, that meant that there were five others still to come. These would no doubt include Queen Affrica presumably. But also Archbishop Thurstan and Fergus of Galloway. If he went and sat down now, it would mean waiting for the Archbishop and Fergus, possibly even having to stand when the former appeared, especially if he was with Affrica. Such would imply that he recognised some precedence and seniority—which the King of Argyll was by no means prepared to concede. Somerled stood just within the hall doorway, raising a hand to halt his companions. Any waiting they would do there.
Up at the head of the hall, Olaf beckoned them forward.
Somerled chose to misinterpret the gesture, bowed to his host, but stayed where he was.
Their usher agitatedly urged them on.
When Olaf’s second wave produced no movement, Ragnhilde rose from her place and came down between the crowded tables in the body of the hall, to them. She was looking beautiful, all in simple white tonight. All watched.
“My father’s greetings, my lord,” she said. “Will you come to table? You are to sit beside myself.”
“In that I rejoice, lady,” he answered. “But, by your leave, I prefer to bide here meantime.”
“But . . . why? And where is your son?”
“Colm is left at our lodgings. He mislikes large gatherings. As to why I wait here, the last who enters ranks highest. I do not give place to this archbishop. Nor yet to Fergus. In this, or other matter.”
“Ah—I see. We do not greatly consider such formalities here. But . . . perhaps you are wise. I shall wait here with you. I cannot think that the others will be long. It will be Affrica—she has little notion of time.”
Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) Page 21