Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  So the six vessels had to crawl their way back through the islets again, out of Bracadale. By the time that they were into the open sea, Somerled reckoned that they had less than an hour till dawn, and sixteen or seventeen sea-miles to cover to Dunvegan Head. Most evidently they were going to be later than intended with their assault, however hard he made the oarsmen work.

  The coast here, cliff-bound and barren with the seas spouting whitely, took a major dog’s-leg bend at the blunt headland of Moonen; and it was whilst approaching this, still fully seven miles short of Dunvegan Head itself, that they began to see the paling of the sky to the east, behind the black loom of high land.

  Disappointing timing as this was, it did produce a certain advantage, in that just beyond Moonen was the quite small inlet of Loch Pooltiel, only a mile or so deep. And by the time that they passed the entrance to this it was sufficiently light to see in—and clearly there were no ships moored there, only some fishing-boats drawn up below a scattering of cabins. This was to the good.

  Dunvegan Head now towered before them, with enormous cliffs rearing to lofty hills close to the coast. Rounding the clenched fist of this, Loch Dunvegan opened, slanting back south-eastwards.

  It proved to be much deeper than Somerled had recollected, five or six miles of it, at least, nearly a couple of miles wide, open at first but with a shallow, islet-dotted head. It was too far to see what shipping there might be up there amongst the islets—and certainly too far for Saor to be able to see any signals from himself. Nothing for it but to turn in and sail up-loch, risky as this could be.

  They had to go a long way, probably four miles, before they could see details ahead—which worried Somerled, although there was no sign of any opposition. The islets in front were all low, fortunately, mere holms of rock and grass, so that they did not hide too greatly features behind. Two items stood out boldly—a circular Pictish broch, a beehive-shaped refuge-tower, on a bluff to the left; and right ahead on a steep knoll, the ramparts of an ancient fort, obviously the dun of the name Dunvegan. Around this were the typical sail-cloth awnings of the Norsemen, ten or twelve of them apparently.

  They did not perceive the ships, however, until they were level with the ruined broch, and then it was only masts which they saw, rising from behind one of the larger islets, the most southerly, five masts hitherto almost indistinguishable against the background of stone and whin-bushes. Five, only five—better by far than it might have been.

  Somerled gave orders for the signal-flag to be hoisted to the dragon-ship’s masthead. They could see no sign of Saor’s men but surely they would be in position long ere this?

  They were. The flag had not been up for long before the flood of men appeared, pouring over a lip of ground a little way behind the fort and awnings. They disappeared again almost as quickly, for clearly there was a dip in the land behind the dun. The tide of men did not reappear—so it was to be assumed that they were in contact with the enemy there, out of sight.

  Somerled debated with himself what to do. Should he land some of the ships’ crews to Saor’s aid? This was what he had intended, but with only five enemy craft involved apparently, would help be required? The Norsemen would have seen the Argyll vessels long ere this, surely, early in the morning as it was, and therefore would be expecting attack from the sea. They could not number many more than Saor had, if that—and would be taken by surprise over the landward assault. The chances were, then, that they would be very much on the defensive, and be apt to make a break for their longships. In which case, it would be wiser and more effective to wait for them out here, afloat?

  He held his ships about a quarter-of-a-mile from the island behind which the five masts showed, though somewhat doubtful. It was difficult, not being able to see what went on ashore.

  For what seemed a very long time there was no visible development at all, and Somerled was about to send in one ship to learn what was happening, when Gillecolm noticed movement. Not of men but of those slender sticks of masts. Three of them had begun to move, only three. They were edging southwards. Uncertain what this might mean, Somerled still delayed.

  In a minute or two, three longships came into view at the south end of the islet, sails still furled. They were moving only slowly, clearly with very few oars manned. The impression given was of scanty survivors very limpingly fleeing the scene. Somerled ignored the urgings of his son and others to dash forward to take them. Two questions struck him. If so few had escaped, why take three ships? Would it not have been more effective to use one vessel, all oars fully manned? Secondly, heading southwards like that would seem the less likely direction to take. There were no more islets to dodge amongst that way, whereas there were a dozen and more to the north. Moreover, as far as they could see this course could only lead them into the long southernmost arm of the loch, a dead-end, unless they turned sharply westwards round the islet, directly towards the Argyll ships—which they showed no sign of doing.

  As he watched, a notion came to Somerled. This did not make sense—therefore it could be only a decoy. Intended to lure him into that arm of the loch, after the escapers. And then? Why—the two other hidden ships would bolt out northwards, their route open, and so get away. It could be that.

  Gillecolm’s impatience was only enhanced when at last the figures of men reappeared on the scene, on rising ground to the south of the fort area. They were over half-a-mile away but it was apparent that they were wearing kilts—Saor’s people. Apparent too that they were trying to convey a message, waving plaids and pointing, pointing northwards. Somerled took it that they were confirming his own assessment, wanting him to know that the true escape attempt would be to the north and that these three going south was a device. Well, he required some to escape, to tell Thorkell, didn’t he? These Norsemen were playing his game for him. He moved now, leading his ships in towards the three false escapers now entering the long southern arm of Loch Dunvegan. Saor’s men visibly grew the more urgent, no doubt in frustration.

  Somerled was not concerned with them, however. He was watching those two remaining masts. In a short while indeed he would be in a position to see behind the islet, to observe what went on. He did not have to wait that long. He saw the masts beginning to move, and northwards—and then he noted that, unlike the three, these had hoisted sails—for of course they had the benefit of the southerly breeze. It was all as he had calculated. He gave them a minute or two to win a lead and then, for the looks of the thing, detached two of his own craft to turn back to pretend to try to head them off—but on no account to catch them.

  He ordered Maguire onwards with his three remaining vessels, after the first trio—which they would no doubt find abandoned, in due course, up in the loch’s narrows—and himself turned the dragon-ship in, to make a landfall where the five had lain behind the islet.

  There, presently, he met his foster-brother, well content with the morning’s work.

  Saor had perceived the developing situation and now made no criticism, for once. His own activities had been successful, his four hundred achieving near-surprise of the Norse camp. He reckoned that there were less than three hundred of the enemy altogether, and the struggle in the hollow behind the dun had been little more than a token resistance, with their main concern undoubtedly the Argyll ships behind. Not a great many of the Vikings had been slain before the rest broke and bolted over the ridge for their own vessels. He had not realised the significance of their escaping ruse at first.

  Dermot Maguire was soon back, declaring that he had come up with the three longships about a mile up the inlet, where it shallowed, deserted by the skeleton crews who had decamped inland amongst the low wooded hills, probably no more than fifty men altogether. He had not attempted any pursuit; these would be no danger.

  Look-outs on the dun reported that the two escaping vessels were now well out towards the open sea, at speed, and the supposed pursuers had turned back.

  So far so good. The question now was how long until, hopefully, they
might expect Thorkell Svensson back? The Uists, North and South, and Barra, at the south end of the outer isles chain, lay variously between twenty-five miles and forty-five miles to the west and south-west. It would take those two ships some five hours, tacking, to get to all but North Uist, against a south-westerly wind. Then they would have to find Thorkell, who could be anywhere in a very large area. And Thorkell would have to reassemble his raiding bands—which might take some considerable time if they were spread over the island-chain. So they could take it that Thorkell could not be expected back at Dunvegan in less than, say, fifteen hours at the earliest, more probably somewhat later. Which would bring them to at least midnight. First light next morning, then.

  Meantime they had much to do.

  Sunrise saw most of them in place and Somerled’s dispositions made, as far as was possible. Assuming that all went as foreseen—and Thorkell did make a return—today’s engagement would be in two distinct actions; and the first would be the more difficult almost certainly. With only one-third of his total force, he had to cope with the Norsemen until Conn and the rest came up. They would be much outnumbered and so must employ delaying tactics. This would have to be a sea-battle, for best use of his resources, and should preferably be fought within the confines of Loch Dunvegan itself. So he had disposed his ships—nine now, with the captured three, and plenty of men to man them—as best he could. The main loch was between four and five miles long by about one-and-a-half broad, and fairly regular, with no deep bays or inlets until its islet-dotted head. So there was not a great deal of choice as to strategic manoeuvre. There were two small islands right at the mouth however, the Lampays, close to the eastern horn. Somerled had stationed himself, in his dragon-ship, and two other vessels, in the narrow channel behind these, with the rest of his ships hidden amongst the islets at the head. From here he would be in a position to move out for an over-all view of the scene; could seek to block the loch-mouth if there should be any break-back on the enemy’s part before Conn’s fleet appeared; and would be well placed to take charge of his main force when it did arrive. Saor commanded at the loch-head.

  The wind had dropped overnight and day dawned quiet and grey—save for the glow of fires landwards, although these were fading now and the pall of smoke thinning, for they had made merely a token burning, to be visible on the night sky from the outer islands. The local people had been, as usual, only moderately enthusiastic over their delivery, cowed and apprehensive, as well they might be. The women who, as ever, had been found at the Norse encampment, were resigned, apathetic.

  So the Argyll men waited as the light grew stronger. Somerled had lookouts posted on the highest point of his islands, which was not very lofty.

  The hours passed, and these failed to make any signal.

  By mid-forenoon Somerled was growing concerned. Would Thorkell fail them, after all? Would he perhaps decide to write off Skye and stay in the Outer Hebrides? Surely not, with these generally considered to be the preserve of the Orkney pirates.

  It was nearly noon before the look-outs sent their first signal—sails in sight to the west. Half-an-hour later they were able to sign down the numbers of the ships approaching—seventeen. This would be Thorkell.

  The mood of waiting changed dramatically now. None required to have pointed out to them the initial dangers for Somerled’s people, in especial those on the three craft out here at the loch-mouth. If they should be spotted early on, hiding there, then their chances of survival were not great—although they might just make their escape out to the open sea. Somerled sent a man up to warn the look-outs to lie very low on the skyline.

  Presently signals indicated that the leading ships of the fleet were entering the loch. There was no indication that Conn’s force was in sight.

  The worst danger would be when the incoming craft were well into the loch, and if any of their crews looked back—and, of course, the oarsmen did face the stern; if they were to raise their eyes half-right, then there could be the possibility of catching sight of the three hiding vessels. Somerled had his rowers with oars poised, ready to pull off the moment he gave the order, seawards.

  But there was no need. The loch-mouth was wide, well over a mile, and when the Norse ships came into view they were far over to the other, western, side, and so at a poor angle for seeing in behind the Lampays. Moreover they were all very evidently concerned only with what was in front, driving in in tremendous style in a positive curtain of spray from lashing oars—which could not but restrict rearwards vision. They were in notably close order, too, not strung out in file, making a most impressive naval phalanx. Thorkell Svensson was clearly intent on major vengeance.

  Still no signal, from the look-outs, of Conn’s coming.

  Somerled waited until the Norse ships were fully halfway up the loch and then gave the command to move. They pulled out north-about round the island and into the open loch-mouth, leaving the look-outs on their height—for because of the towering Dunvegan Head there was no prospect westwards from sea-level. They drew out into mid-loch, well apart, to be the more evident.

  At first there was no obvious reaction and Somerled wondered whether to sail in up-loch some way, to draw attention to themselves—for the sake of Saor and the others on the six vessels hiding amongst the loch-head islets, who must by now be feeling distinctly alarmed at the dimensions and determined aspect of the Norse threat. But then there was some apparent development, a change in the compact enemy formation, which presently was seen to be six long-ships breaking off, to turn in a wide arc and to head back northwards.

  Six to three—better than seventeen to three, at least. And this would considerably aid Saor. Somerled signalled for his two escorts to close in again on the dragon-ship, for mutual support. They would make as difficult a hedgehog as possible for those six to dispose of.

  They were awaiting the onslaught in close order when Gillecolm’s strange but very keen eyes once more proved their worth. Reaching for his father’s arm, he pointed. Their two look-outs back on the highest Lampay had abandoned their hiding posture. At about a mile’s distance they were difficult to see clearly but apparently they were dancing about and waving something, perhaps clothing or a whin branch. Whatever they were at, there could be only one reason for their excitement—Conn’s fleet must be in sight from there, and not too far off, to account for the urgency.

  This assumption caused Somerled to change his tactics abruptly. No sense in engaging in a desperate fight against odds if this was unnecessary. There would be plenty of fighting hereafter. He ordered his three ships to turn and head seawards—but not too fast to discourage the Norsemen and cause them to turn back.

  They had over a mile northwards to go before they could see seawards of Dunvegan Head—by which time the pursuers were less than half-a-mile behind and coming on hard. Then, as Somerled was beginning to doubt whether he had rightly interpreted his look-outs’ signs, with the sea westwards still open, empty, shouts turned his head to leeward. There, close in under the soaring cliffs, came Conn Ironhand and his fleet, hugging the coast, and not a mile away, having been almost too good at keeping themselves out of sight of the Norsemen. With an explosive exclamation of thankfulness, Somerled’s mind switched to the task of coping to best advantage with a dramatically altered situation.

  He restrained the impulse to turn in towards the oncoming Conn, but in fact ordered increased speed and continued to head off westwards. If Conn swung over to join him on this course it might not spoil anything. The prime necessity was to entice those six Viking ships further out, so that Conn could drive across behind them and cut them off.

  Conn could have no inkling of these circumstances, of course; but with the Vikings behind so close now, it should very quickly become apparent what was happening.

  For a few tense minutes the situation seemed to remain unaltered, all three groups continuing on as though unaware of developments. Then Conn’s fleet could be seen to be dividing. Four vessels swung out further north-westwards,
towards Somerled’s trio, the other ten heading straight on, north-eastwards.

  “Thank God—he has his wits about him!” Somerled exclaimed, “He has seen them and guessed aright.”

  It took a little while for the Norsemen to perceive their danger, in the eagerness of their pursuit. When they did, there was swift, all but frenzied, reaction. With a mighty splashing of oars the six ships started to wheel directly round, to make a dash back whence they had come.

  Somerled’s three promptly did the same.

  Now, suddenly, it became a race indeed, Conn’s ten to close the gap of the loch-mouth, the Norse to get through first, Somerled and the other four to catch up. Fortunately for the Argyll force the enemy had come just too far out of the loch to be able to get back in time.

  When this became apparent and the Norsemen saw that they were going to clash with the ten, in desperation they turned again. Somerled’s ships were only a few hundred yards from them.

  It was a dramatic moment, the six and three face to face at close range. Somerled, for one, did not hesitate. Straight at the group of Norsemen he drove the dragon-ship.

  It was, of course, a question of nerve—and the Norse were already to some extent unnerved, seeking escape. Someone had to take avoiding action—and it was not the dragon-ship. At the last moment two of the enemy vessels veered away left and right, to avoid a crash.

  Somerled made swift assessment, and grabbing the steering-oar from Gillecolm, swung hard over, to starboard, shouting to his rowers. Those on that side promptly raised their long dripping oars high—they were well-trained in this manoeuvre—and the leeward men pulled the more strongly. Down on the right-hand Norse the dragon-ship smashed—and before the enemy rowers could be warned to raise their oars.