“Oh, I do not want war, either. Over me! But what can we do? I do not see you changing my father’s mind, Sorley—with these others here to threaten him.”
“If I could bring King David into this . . .”
“There is no time for that. They will have me shipped off to Orkney.”
“That must not be, no. I will think of something, lass—I must. Give me a little time to consider it all. My wits are awhirl at the thought of your love for me. I cannot think clearly of anything else. So wonderful . . .!”
That threw them into each others’ arms again and constructive thought into further retreat. But presently she pushed him from her.
“Go then, my love—go now. And try to think. Leave me—I but distract you. Let it suffice for tonight that we have found each other. I . . . I need to be alone also. Lest I act . . . unseemly! Go—and perhaps the morning light will show us a way for our love . . .”
Loth as he was to leave her, he kissed her and went.
He went back to his party’s quarters in a strange mixture of elation and desperation. He told them there merely that they would not be leaving first thing in the morning, as planned, that he had to have a further interview with Olaf. Then he took Gillecolm back to their lodging in the princess’s building and saw him into his couch in the garderobe.
He went back in his own chamber, the boy asleep, and very much aware that it was directly above that of Ragnhilde and that he was in fact separated from his new-found love by no more than a score of feet. He was undressing and seeking to put such thoughts firmly from his mind, to concentrate on their dire problem, when there was a light tapping on his door.
He went to open, and found Ragnhilde herself standing there. She put a finger to her lips and gestured towards Gillecolm’s wall-closet, and then slipped past him into his bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind her.
He gazed at her, as well he might. She was a sight to fire the masculinity of any man. Dressed in some sort of bedrobe trimmed with fur, although it was not wantonly open and revealing, nevertheless the division between her breasts was plainly to be seen where the material gaped a little, and as she moved into the room, the white of a bare leg gleamed briefly. Clearly she was wearing little or nothing beneath the robe. Her red-gold hair hung loose to her shoulders.
At his fireside she turned to him, and her face was flushed, her eyes seeking his urgently for reaction, both determination and apprehension evident in them.
“Sorley—hear me!” she got out, breathlessly. “Before you judge! This is not . . . as it seems. I assure you, not as it seems!”
“It seems to me—very—shall we say—acceptable!” he said, having trouble with his own voice.
“No! Not that. Oh, my dear—hear me. This is a device. I am not shameless, as I must seem. I confess that I could be—but, no. I came here thus, of a purpose.” She huddled herself more tightly in her robe. “Not the purpose you think. But to aid our, our cause.”
He opened his mouth to say the obvious, then closed it again and moved over to her. “Tell me, then,” he said.
“Yes. This, if you will agree to it, may serve us well. What we require. I can think of no other. If I am found here in your room, Sorley, thus. By my father. And others. Then I am compromised. It will be assumed . . .! You see? I will be esteemed . . . fallen! He cannot offer me to this Orkney earl, then. You—he will wish only for you to wed me. Is it not so?”
“Lord . . .!” he breathed.
“Oh, my love—you understand? It will oblige him to change. Hurt your repute also, I fear—but men are different in these matters. I think that it will bring us together, as nothing else will.” She gulped a little at the sound of that. “I mean . . . otherwise!”
Firmly he clasped his hands behind his back, to prevent them from reaching out to take her, so utterly and compellingly desirable was she. “Yes. It could . . . suffice. You are strong, Ragnhilde—as I must be! How is it to be achieved?”
“Thank God that you see it! Berthe is to act the betrayer. She will go tell my father. That I am with you here. Tell Affrica also. That woman hates me, and will see me humbled if she can! I am to beat on this floor, if she is to go. We can hear, below, movement in this chamber. Then . . . we wait.”
“You believe that it will serve? That they will come?”
“I know my father—or thought that I did, until today! Shall I beat on the floor?”
He nodded—and had to turn away, for when she stopped to thump on the floorboards, her robe sagged open, wider, and he could see that she was naked beneath.
There was silence for a little. Then she spoke to his back, where he stood at the window.
“You do not think the less of me for this, Sorley?” Anxiety was evident in her voice.
“No. Never that. I esteem you the more. It is myself that I disesteem. I can scarcely keep my hands off you, woman!”
“That I can understand. For, I myself . . .!” She swallowed, audibly. “But we must restrain ourselves, my dear. We must start aright, together—whatever the, the appearances. That hereafter we can . . . respect ourselves. Is it not so?”
“Yes. Oh, yes. But it is damnably difficult. I am no saint, lass. A man of hot passions and temper. As you will find out, I fear. How long will they be?”
“Some time, I think. My father will be in his bed. Affrica—who knows? Perhaps she is drinking with the Earl Fergus. Perhaps in the Prince of Dublin’s bed! She is wanton. It may take Berthe time to bring them here.”
“Will Affrica then be so disapproving at the sight of you here? Since she herself . . .?”
“She will be moved with spleen, with delight! Not with offence. She has always mocked me as milk-livered, lily-pure, no true woman but a timorous halfling. Because I would not act towards men as she does. Now she will rejoice. To show my father that I am no better than she. And she will tell it to all!”
“And you accept all this? For me!”
“I would that it did not have to be this way—but yes.” She paused. “Do not stand over there, Sorley. Come, sit here beside me.” And she patted the bed.
“Sakes—think you that it will be easier so?”
“We shall help each other. See—I shall wrap this blanket round me. Is that better? More to your taste?”
“Saints of mercy—my taste, girl! My taste would be to, to . . . och, lassie—you do not know the sort of man you are taking to you!”
“I think that I do,” she said quietly. “Strong, too. Stronger than I am. I could only be doing with a strong man.” She patted the bed beside her.
He went and sat but did not touch her.
She reached a hand out from the blanket, to grip his arm. “Our time will come,” she assured.
“Time!” he all but groaned. “This, of waiting . . .”
“Time will aid us too, impatient one. You will see. For there is much to be resolved, beyond tonight, is there not? What of your shipmistress? The fair Cathula?”
“Umm.” He looked at her now, and quickly, temperature dropping sharply—as was no doubt intended. “Cathula MacIan will keep her own place.”
“No doubt. But what is her place, Sorley? She is your mistress, is she not?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Or she was. I have needed someone. But she is my friend also.”
“To be sure. And therefore the more dangerous to a wife! I warn you, King Somerled—I will not share you with her, or other!”
“No. You need not fear . . .”
“No? She is a strong woman, that one, and with much appetite, I think. And some allure. She will not give you up easily. I have seen how she looks at you. And at me!”
“She will keep her place,” he repeated. “She masters my dragon-ship, sits at my councils, makes a good companion. These will continue. But the other—no.”
“You say so now. She may say otherwise. And she is no light girl to droop when you frown.”
“She will do as I say. She will remain my friend—that is all. You will be
my wife, my queen and my love.”
“Love, yes. You do not love her?”
“No. Not love—never love. I like her, admire her, but . . .”
“And enjoy her!”
“That also, yes. But . . . there will be no need for that hereafter.”
“Although you have not tried me yet! But I will hold you to that, Sorley MacFergus.”
“You need not fear, I say . . .”
“I do not fear. I am a king’s daughter and do not fear that I can hold my own with such as Cathula MacIan. It is you that I warn.” But she smiled as she said it. “Do you still want me?”
Tight-lipped he nodded.
“Then we shall do very well, I think. I . . .” She stopped. “Listen! Did you hear? Yes—they come! Sooner than I thought. Oh, Sorley—this will be bad. I, I . . . you must help me!” For a moment or two she seemed almost to give way to panic; then, as he put an arm around her, he felt her steady and straighten up. “Now . . .!”
Voices sounded clearly outside; and then without any knocking, the door of their chamber was thrown violently open. Framed therein were Olaf, a cloak over his night attire, Affrica, Ronald of Dublin and, shrinking behind, the girl Berthe. They stared in.
Somerled sprang to his feet, in wrath and embarrassment—and did not have to adopt either emotion for the occasion. Half-undressed as he was, he undoubtedly looked the part of guilty lover disturbed.
“What is this!” he exclaimed. “How dare you! Fore God, here is an outrage . . .!”
But it is to be doubted whether any heard him. They were gazing past him, with varying expressions of shock, astonishment and frankest prurience. Olaf raised a trembling finger to point.
Somerled turned momentarily. Ragnhilde had also started up from the bed—and in doing so had managed to let her blanket fall to the floor and at the same time allowed the top folds of her robe to drop. She had caught it at the waist and was hastily stooping to retrieve the blanket. But meantime all her upper parts were completely bare—and a most delectably improper sight she made as she leaned forward, one arm reaching out, full and shapely breasts free, white shoulders gleaming under the cascade of her hair, her face upturned in agitation towards the intruders.
“Look at her!” Affrica all but screeched. “Bitch! Hellcat! Harlot! See the virtuous Ragnhilde now!”
Somerled did not require to act any role. He strode to the bedside, snatched up another blanket and draped it over her, straightening her up. He kept an arm round her protectively. With the other, he pointed.
“Go!” he commanded. “Leave us. Leave us, I say!”
Olaf found his tongue. “Hilde! Hilde!” he quivered. “My child! Dear God—Hilde!” There was hurt and bewilderment more than wrath in that.
“Father!” Ragnhilde got out. “Father—I love him!” That was no mummery either.
“Love him! Love—hear her!” Affrica cried. “He came but yesterday. She loves him, she says! Somerled the Mighty! Lusts after him, I say . . .”
“Silence!” Olaf exclaimed, with some access of strength. “Hilde—how could you do this? How shame yourself? And me? I would not have believed . . .”
“The more fool you then, old dotard!” his wife burst out, working herself into a sort of frenzy. “Why think you she brought him to this her house? Put him above her own chamber? Away from his own people. I tell you, she is no better than a trull!”
“Enough, woman—enough, do you hear! Begone—begone, I say.” Olaf pointed back whence they had come, an imperious gesture, odd in so small a man so weirdly garbed. “And you, Hilde—cover yourself. Aye, and go to your own chamber. No—not there. Go to my chamber.” He turned to Berthe. “Girl—take the princess to my house. Forthwith. As for you, sir,” he swung back on Somerled, “I will deal with you in the morning. Aye, in the morning.”
The younger man inclined his head, unspeaking.
Ragnhilde hitched her robe and blanket securely around her, shook her hair free, and touched Somerled.
“Goodnight, my love,” she said quietly. “I am not sorry—regret nothing. I . . .”
Her father snatched at her and hurried her away.
Somerled closed the door behind them—then opened it again and went to look into his son’s closet. The boy had slept soundly through all. Back in his own room, the man went to stare out of the window into the summer dusk, seeing nothing.
It was late in the forenoon before the expected summons to Olaf’s apartments came. Somerled went in some apprehension, not out of fear of an angry father but in anxiety as to the outcome of Ragnhilde’s device. He had not been convinced of its efficacy last night; he was less so in the morning light.
He found Olaf alone, in an anteroom off his bedchamber. There was no sign of wife nor daughter. The two men eyed each other in silence for a little, two sub-kings of such very different character, calibre and appearance.
“This is a hard matter,” Olaf said, at length. “Unhappy. Ill to deal with. I am much troubled. I am greatly fond of my daughter.”
“As am I, sir.”
“You?” The small man frowned. “How can you say that? After last night. You have abused her. Abused my house and hospitality also. Have you no shame?”
“No.” That was simple as it was blunt.
The older man searched his face. “You put me to much difficulty. As well as make ruin of her name. She is promised to Ronald of Orkney. Now . . .!”
“I think that she was not promised to Orkney for long! She knew nothing of it. Was it not all hatched up between you and these churchmen? None so long ago? I swear that the Earl Ronald will get over his disappointment as swiftly!”
“What do you mean?”
Somerled reckoned that perhaps he might be going too fast. “The news will reach Orkney, no doubt. I suppose, however, that Ronald may forgive the . . . indiscretion?”
“God’s Death, man—do you think that I can send her to Orkney now? After this? All this castle, and town no doubt, are ringing with the shame of it already. All Man by nightfall. It will reach Orkney, yes. Can I offer Ronald my daughter, soiled by another man? He seeks a wife to bear him sons. Not your son!”
Somerled’s heart leapt. Was it going to work, then?
“There may be no such,” he said, carefully—and not liking the sound of it.
“Damn you—do not trifle with me, Somerled MacFergus! This is no time for light cozening. What are you going to do?”
“Me? I . . . ah . . . I do not know.”
“You do not? Then I do, man! You will marry her, not Ronald! Do you hear? That is what you will do. You have made your bed—you will lie in it!”
“Ah,” Somerled said, seeking to keep his voice level.
“No ahs or doubts. I insist. I will not have my daughter misused, and then abandoned. Marry she will, and quickly. You have ruined what I had planned as well as her good name. Now you will make good the ill done—or some of it.”
He cleared his throat. “Do Ragnhilde’s wishes not enter into it?”
“She, she is reconciled to it. She will do as she is told. This time. But . . . it must be done discreetly. With care.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes. It is difficult. The Archbishop, these bishops. This will not please them. They will be much disquieted, disappointed. When they hear.”
“They have not heard yet, then?”
“I hope not, I have given straightest command that they be not told. They go tomorrow.”
“Must you please these churchmen?”
“I must, yes. Holy Church is . . . pressing. But it is Stephen also. He desires this of Orkney.”
“Do not tell me that Stephen of England concerns himself with the marriage of your daughter to the Earl Ronald!”
“He desires that Orkney adheres to his cause. He requires Orkney’s fleet. This of the marriage is to aid in the alliance.”
“Devised by the Norman Raoul, for a wager!”
Olaf brushed that aside. “It is important, therefore, that
the bishops do not hear of this, meantime. Once they are gone . . .”
“I see it. But once they, and Stephen, learn of it—what then?”
The older man took small strutting strides back and forth. “If you, Somerled, would agree to this of the bishopric of the Isles, there would be no need for the Orkney fleet. And therefore for the marriage.”
“Ah! So that is it! But no, my friend—no Romish bishopric. Marriage, if you will. But no creeping into Scotland by that door!”
“It would save much trouble. No need for this alliance.”
“Whose alliance? Yours or Stephen’s? Has it not come to you, Olaf Godfreysson, that instead of alliance with Orkney, you will now have alliance with me? Also with many longships. And closer at hand. Forby, David of Scotland likewise. Return to your due allegiance to David, with myself as your goodson, and you may snap your fingers at Stephen and his bishops.”
The other rubbed at his wispy, greying beard. “But Holy Church . . .?” he said. “The Pope . . .?”
“The Pope is far away. And with much else on his mind, I vow! And his anathemas, or Thurstan’s will break no bones, on Man! Whereas David, with my fleet, is very near-at-hand. Could break bones a-many!”
“I must think on this, man . . .” Olaf took another turn of his chamber. “But, the marriage. This must be done circumspectly. You must leave today, as you said. Sail off in your ships for a day or two. Sail round Man, if you will. Then, when the bishops are gone, tomorrow, return. To wed. Quietly and in some haste. You have it?”
“What of Wimund?”
“He returns to York with Thurstan, meantime.”
“And Fergus?”
“They sail in his ship. He brought them from Galloway and will take them back.”
“And Ragnhilde? She will be here when I return? She will not, perhaps, be on her way to Orkney? Or elsewhere?”
“A plague on you, no! I tell you, she is of no use to Orkney now. You she must wed. And at the soonest. I am not waiting for months, for you to come back, when she begins to show! She will be here, and awaiting you.”
Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) Page 24