They had inspected many possible sites for his abbey and noted three or four as distinctly possible. Ragnhilde, actually, would have plumped for somewhere on Islay itself; but Somerled had the strategic aspects in mind. He was concerned to place this establishment where it would do most good, attract most credit to his name and fame, and be safest from attack. He felt that it had to be sited on the mainland, for even on a large island like Islay few would ever see or hear of it save the islanders themselves. Also it would be the more endangered by Norse raiders. Many parts of mainland Argyll, to be sure, were more remote and inaccessible than the islands; these were ruled out. He kept coming back to the fact that this Kintyre was possibly the most likely of all, for extending as it did almost as far south as North Galloway and within sight of David’s Ayrshire coasts, it certainly would not pass unnoticed; and at the same time, for the same reasons, it was unlikely that the Vikings would venture much into these all but enclosed waters of the Firth of Clyde. Again, this east coast of Kintyre was notably sheltered from the prevailing westerly winds off the ocean, and fertile—hence the notable growth of trees, especially oak and ash, valuable for building. Here his monks could plant and harvest their crops and orchards in almost ideal conditions—to the increase of their wealth, and his. Moreover, there were many fair natural harbours. Lastly, this, with Cowal nearby, had come to Argyll only comparatively recently, in his deal with the late Ewan MacSween; and some concrete evidence of his possession would be no bad development. So, coasting down the Kilbrannan Sound, however lazy-seeming, he was keeping his eyes open.
So was Gillecolm. The birlinn boasted a small, high bows-platform for a lookout, and the boy had adopted this stance as his own throughout the voyage, from which he could survey the scenery and where he had proved quite useful frequently in watching out for reefs and shoals just below the surface, a constant hazard when they were, as today, skirting close inshore. Somerled suspected too, that he had chosen this position to get as far away from his infant half-brother as possible, of whom he was a little jealous.
Gillecolm it was who first spotted the dun on the cliff-top of the long headland in front, so well hidden and disguised amongst outcropping rock as to be scarcely noticeable. Somerled sat up at the boy’s call. These ancient ruinous Pictish duns, forts, were often valuable pointers to important features, for their Pictish forebears had been expert in their use of the land and its contours and resources. These duns were always placed in the best strategic sites of any area, usually had a hinterland nearby of fertile land for the growing of crops, and if on the coast, were fairly sure to have a landing-place, boat-strand or natural harbour conveniently close. In this search for the best abbey-site, such duns had frequently proved to be the best indicators.
Here this major headland projected almost a mile out from the rest of the coastline in a sort of southwards-turning horn, rugged and broken—so broken indeed that the dun turned out to be actually set on a detached islet, like a segment of the cliff severed from the rest, highly inaccessible—which set Somerled, at least, wondering. Why place a fort in such a difficult position unless there was something particularly worth guarding near-at-hand? But of which there was as yet no sign. He steered closer.
There was no access possible from the sea, that became clear. So the approach must have been from behind, from landward, by some sort of no doubt removable bridge, now gone. Which implied something behind and beyond calling for this protection, and worth going to the trouble of building this most awkwardly-placed fortification on the seemingly uninhabited coast.
They circled the sharp point of this steep islet, really only a dun-crowned stack, and discovered that the entire horn of headland was in fact a curving screen to hide a large and unexpected bay almost a mile deep and a similar distance across. None of Somerled’s present company knew this coast well nor could suggest an identity for the place. Yet it was very much a major feature. And at the head of the bay was much level land, open and green, some of it obviously cultivated and with a sizeable community of cabins with a hallhouse.
Somerled turned his birlinn in towards this.
It did not take many minutes before they could see folk fleeing away inland from the township, towards backing woodland, driving off such cattle as were sufficiently nearby. This reaction the travellers had experienced before, of course, with strange ships bearing down apt to mean Norse raiders—although they would have expected this Kintyre east coast to be free of such. Somerled’s rule had banished major Viking attacks and occupation, but hit-and-run raids from the Outer Hebrides and Skye and further north still took place.
They landed and found it to be a pleasant place indeed, south-facing and sheltered from all the winds that blew. A wide gentle valley with a stream that was almost a river probed into the low wooded hills behind. Strips of oats grew and there were fruit-trees, whilst cattle and sheep dotted the surrounding slopes. Blue woodsmoke curled up from many of the houses, but no occupants issued therefrom.
Somerled made for the larger hallhouse but found it empty like the rest, although poultry clucked around its open doorway. He sent some of his men to enter the flanking woodland, to shout aloud that all was well, that it was King Somerled their lord come visiting, and that no harm would come to any.
Eventually a group of people appeared, led by a tall old man, all still wary. The sight of Ragnhilde with a baby in her arms seemed to reassure them however, and Somerled was at pains to proclaim his identity and goodwill.
The old man proved to be MacKay of Carradail, this being his community of that name, which Somerled had heard of vaguely. He hastened to offer simple hospitality and explained their alarm. This entire coast had been visited and terrorised by four raiding Norse longships only a month previously, with much slaughter, rapine and pillage.
Somerled expressed his distress and concern at this and promised that he would try to learn who were the culprits and to take appropriate steps—however little consolation this might bring to the victims. Ragnhilde asked much about the district and its surroundings, obviously taken with the place; and presently she was suggesting that this was as good a site as any they had seen for their abbey, with fertile land and excellent pasture, much wood and a river, a sheltered haven and people to support the monks and aid in the building. Her husband agreed with all that but had his doubts nevertheless. He felt that it was all just too open and vulnerable. Perhaps the word of this recent Viking raid affected his judgement—although, to be sure, that could happen anywhere. He declared that he would prefer somewhere less wide open from the sea. An abbey built in this river-mouth would be all too obvious to raiders sailing the Sound, and might well draw the Norsemen. And yet this Kintyre east coast was ideal, from other aspects. He asked old MacKay if he knew of other fertile, sheltered but more secure and secret places where a religious house might be established and its community flourish in peace?
The other spread his hands. Where was safe from the heathenish devils, he asked? Nothing was sacred nor secure. But there was a place not far away, he mentioned, a patrimony of his own, which certainly had escaped hitherto, being hidden from the Sound although quite close to the shore. It was called Saddail, another five miles down the coast, where the Saghadail Water reached the sea and where his second son lairded it. Because of the twistings of the river and wooded bluffs at the mouth, the little community of Saddail was not visible from seaward or any indication of settlement evident. Yet half-a-mile inland its valley opened out fairly and there was much good land.
Thanking their host for his hospitality and help and promising vengeance, if possible, on the Norsemen, they took their leave.
Having been directed to it, Saddail was easily found—although it would almost certainly have been missed otherwise. A small headland, also crowned by a dun, hid another south-facing bay, but this one much less wide and deep than Carradail’s. That a river entered here was not obvious, owing to the configuration of the land, wooded hillocks masking it effectively. The birlinn leading
, when the ships probed their way in, Somerled found that, round the first bend, although it became too shallow for navigation, there was a sort of basin to hold their vessels, already quite out-of-sight of the Sound. Three or four small fishing-craft were beached here, but no cabins or houses.
Disembarking, he took a small party inland by a wide track which followed the bends of the brawling stream through woodland, amongst more slopes and bluffs. Then, in a bare half-mile, the trees thinned and a pleasant green vale opened before them, a placid, gentle place in the afternoon sunlight, more than a mile of it at a guess, by half that in width before the low wooded hills began to close in again. A little township with a single larger house nestled at the foot of this, with a mill, barns, cattle-pens and fruit-trees beyond, a scene of peace and well-being. Ragnhilde exclaimed with pleasure at the sight.
So small a party did not arouse undue alarm and there was no hurried flight from the township although neither was there mere than a very cautious welcome. On enquiry, Donald MacKay proved to be away hunting, but his young wife, infant in arms, received them somewhat abashed although she was soon put at ease by Ragnhilde, with baby-talk.
A few questions put and a quick survey decided Somerled that they were unlikely to find a better place for their abbey. He even selected a possible site, back from the river on a sort of low platform of land above an incoming burn, amidst tall old trees. Here nothing would do but that he must pace out dimensions for church and main monastic building, basing his measurements on what he had inspected at Olaf’s Rushen and David’s Holm Cultram, only a little doubtful over the thought that these, and all others that he had seen, were Romish establishments whereas his own would be a Columban one—and the Celtic Church did not go in for these great stone abbeys, contenting itself with modest timber-and-turf hutments and cabin-like sanctuaries within palisaded ramparts, which they called cashels, even though these were usually in the care of abbots. However, there was no real reason which he knew of why the Columbans should not have a handsome stone edifice, to the glory of God—and to be sure, of its founder—and he, Somerled, could lead the way, as in other matters. He already could visualise the Abbey of Saddail, dedicated perhaps to Saint Brendan, after whom the nearby Sound was called, rising majestically out of this grove of trees in the quiet valley, the noble, indeed royal resting-place of a long line of Kings of Argyll and Lords of the Isles to come, the serried tombs of his successors a place of pilgrimage. It was all a most excellent conception, he pointed out more than once.
They stayed the night at Saddail, informing a less than enthusiastic Donald MacKay, when he returned, of the honour being done him and his little community. The abbey would much advantage him, it was pointed out, providing additional wealth, amenities and prestige, as well as occupation for his people. And, to be sure, worshipping facilities.
In the morning they sailed on southwards, to round the Mull of Kintyre.
Once again it was young Gillecolm who drew attention to the situation, pointing away northwards, from his roost in the bows. Smoke, he called, much smoke, far in front. There was a change in the weather, the sun gone, and they were sailing up towards the Sound of Jura in fine style before a freshening southerly wind, the rowers able to rest on their oars. It looked as though it might rain.
Sure enough, now that they looked, there was billowing grey-brown smoke rising, some miles ahead—which would have been more evident in sunlight and clear skies. It seemed to come from within the mouth of the Sound, which must mean that the fire was on the Isle of Gigha or its satellite, Cara.
As they drew closer it became obvious that the smoke emanated not from one but from several fires, the breeze soon rolling it into a single great cloud; and that it was on Gigha, that picturesque and pleasant green place which had attracted Ragnhilde on their way south. Fires of such size and number were, to say the least, unusual, especially at this time of the year. Somerled grew concerned.
Gigha was a comparatively small member of the Inner Hebridean archipelago, only some seven miles long by a mile or so in breadth; but fertile and quite populous, situated a couple of miles off the Kintyre west coast and sheltered somewhat from the ocean winds by the bulk of Islay some fifteen miles to the west. Its havens and landing-places, like most of its housing, were almost all on its east, and up that side the birlinn led. When they drew near enough the first fire to recognise that it was a burning cot-house, their fears were confirmed.
“Raiders!” Somerled exclaimed. “Accursed raiders again! Dear God—are we back to that! Who dares? In my isles!”
“The same Norsemen who raided Carradail?” Ragnhilde wondered.
“It could be, yes. MacKay said four ships—although they could have been only part of a larger force.”
About one-third of the way up the east coast was the main bay of Gigha, and the harbour and township, called Ardminish. It was apparent that the greatest volume of smoke was rising from thereabouts.
Somerled was in a quandary. What to do? He was in no state for engaging any large number of raiders, not equipped for fighting and accompanied by his wife and baby. He had the two escorting longships behind, but they were not manned for war, with only their rowers and crewmen, some one-hundred-and-twenty in all. In the birlinn he had some forty more. And he had none of his veteran leaders with him on this holiday cruise. The Norse longships, manned for raiding, would carry up to one-hundred-and-fifty on each vessel. So the probability was that they would be outnumbered four to one. And surprise could be ruled out, their approach almost certain to have been observed.
As they rounded the islet which formed the south horn of the Ardminish bay, sure enough, there lay four Norse longships at the head of the bay, with most of the township behind in smoking ruin.
“I should have built a castle here,” Somerled exclaimed. “But I cannot have one on every island. There are scores, hundreds. Those ships are guarded. And we can see men moving around the township, watching us for a certainty. We cannot move in and try to capture or destroy those ships. Yet I cannot just sail away . . .”
“Can you not get help?” Ragnhilde asked.
“How can I? The west coast of Kintyre is little populated, open to the ocean. The nearest haven of Islay is fifteen miles away. To go there, raise a sufficient force from parts of the island, and win back here would take all day. By which time these would be gone, belike. Yet there is nowhere nearer. Castle Sween is even further. And I doubt if I could find sufficient men and craft there.”
“Can you parley with them? Tell them who you are and that you will follow and destroy them unless they stop savaging this poor place . . .?”
“What heed would they pay? And seeing me little protected, they would probably rejoice to slay me—whatever they might do to you! No—that is not the way . . .” He was only part attending to her, the rest of his mind active, considering, recollecting the conformation of this island, assessing. It was some advantage that they had been here only a few days before and, with Ragnhilde so taken with Gigha, they had spent most of a day on the island exploring it. So he could visualise the features of the place.
She saw the calculating look in his eyes. “You plan something, Sorley? What?”
“I do not know. I wonder . . .? It is but a notion. But it might just serve. At least to distract them, drive them away . . .” He paused, to point. “See, men hurrying down to the ships. We could have done nothing there. They may row out, to challenge us . . .”
“Will you wait for them?”
“No. Not with you and the child and Gillecolm aboard, by God! That is not the way.”
“What, then . . .?”
“We flee!” he answered grimly. “Or seem to.” Having slowed almost to a standstill, in the mouth of the bay, his escorts had come up with him. He raised his voice to shout to them, and to point, northwards.
“Follow me. All speed. Seem to flee. Close inshore. Keep near.” And to his own oarsmen and crew. “Quickly. Your fastest. Off with us, as though we take flight .
. .”
So off the three Argyll craft raced, oars flashing and spray drifting on the breeze, up the broken and indented east coast of Gigha in seemingly craven haste. Soon Ardminish Bay was hidden behind. Although Somerled watched, no Norse ships issued therefrom to give chase.
They had some four miles to go to the northern tip of Gigha, and for most of the way they would be hidden by the cliffs and low hills of this more rocky and much higher end of the island. For the same reason, it was little occupied and given over to moorland and rough pasture, so that there was little at this northern sector to attract raiders and no fires smoked here—which was as Somerled had guessed. At the narrow northernmost headland, still close inshore, he swung the birlinn round in a tight curve, ordering the sail to be lowered—for now they were heading southwards into the wind. Close behind, the two longships did likewise, all oar-work now. Unless the Norse had sent someone up to the top of Creag Bhan, the highest hill of the island, it was highly unlikely that they could have seen them for the last miles, or observed this latest manoeuvre. They rowed on down the western coast.
After passing a hammer-shaped penisula, they came to a wide shallow bay, over a mile across and littered with reefs and skerries. They skirted it cautiously. Now they were rowing through acrid smoke-clouds blown northwards—but this would help to hide them. At the far end of this bay there was a kind of indented lagoon, reasonably clear of reefs, with Creag Bhan rearing lumpishly behind. Into this Somerled steered, Gillecolm watching for rocks. In here the ships would lie hidden, he hoped, certainly there seemed to be no house in sight when the billowing smoke cleared occasionally.
He summoned on to the birlinn the two other shipmasters—one of whom happened to be the Manus O’Ryan who had greeted him on the Isle of Rhum and who had remained with him since—and the steersmen likewise, the nearest to leaders he could raise. He told them his plan. He would land here, with as many men as he could take, leaving only the absolute minimum aboard to handle the ships, with only a few oars used. The Norsemen, who it was hoped would assume that they had fled the scene, would almost certainly disperse again in bands to continue their looting and burning sport; and it would be his endeavour to stalk them, unobserved, and to pick them off group by group, if possible. The ships would remain here meantime, in case the attempt was unsuccessful and they had to retire and be taken off quickly. If all seemed to be going reasonably well, then he would send a signal, and the ships should sail back round to the east side of the island, to lie off Ardminish Bay again, and so add to the concern and alarm of the Norsemen, who would not know that they were almost empty and would be apt to assume that there were at least two forces attacking them. They were not to seek to come ashore at Ardminish unless signalled by himself to do so. And, of course, Queen Ragnhilde’s and the child’s safety were to be ensured at all costs.
Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) Page 27