Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  So the position looked suddenly grim to Somerled. Henry Plantagenet of England was a thrusting, dominant individual and he possessed a large navy. If this situation was allowed to develop further, and Godfrey became a puppet of Henry, then the Isles kingdom was direly threatened, with menace from both south and north, great fleets in a position to menace it. There was only one brighter gleam in this suddenly murky prospect. The weak and rather pathetic King Malcolm of Scots was now returned from his adventure in France with King Henry, having taken part in the Battle of Toulouse and been duly knighted thereafter. Despite this, however, he had fallen out-of-favour with Henry, although he had ceded all Scotland’s rights in Cumbria and Northumbria to England in return for the Huntingdon earldom’s revenues. Presumably this was not enough for the Plantagenet, who would no doubt covet the illusory paramountcy over Scotland so desired by his predecessors. Indeed, almost the first thing Henry had done on his return from France was to order the enlarging, strengthening and garrisoning of the great Northumbrian castle of Wark, just over Tweed and a clear threat to Malcolm’s Rook’s Burgh, only nine miles off. In the circumstances Malcolm the Maiden, as he was now known, and his Normans, might well be looking for allies, to help contain Henry; and Somerled would be an obvious choice, with so limited a field. So there could be improvement on that flank.

  But none of this made unnecessary the taking of swift action against Godfrey. This time, despite the smaller fleet, it must be once-and-for-all, no more warnings and treaties.

  Sailing thus in September, there could be no hiding the approach of the Isles armada, with insufficient hours of darkness, so Godfrey would have warning. But at least he would have no time to send to Orkney or even Dublin for aid.

  Somerled might well be outnumbered by the Manx fleet, so was contemplating disembarkation and warfare on land. Thorfinn had said that he could raise four thousand men from the northern parts of the island. The ships would still be used, of course, to threaten Godfrey from the sea, but with much reduced complements.

  They had left Islay with the dawn and, with a favourable breeze, by late afternoon were within sight of the North Manx coast, still with over three hours of daylight ahead. Somerled had to decide whether to sail straight on openly and land his troops, so offering the enemy full information as to numbers of ships and men and some indication of strategy; or else to wait well offshore until nightfall and so make the landing under cover of darkness—which would give them the cover but also allow Godfrey more time to make defensive arrangements, assuming that word of the fleet’s coming would have been relayed by fishermen.

  In the event, no such difficult decision was called for. They were sailing southwards about fifteen miles off the east coast, and still not level with Ramsey where the landing was to be made, when coming up from the south to meet them they sighted another great fleet. Surprised, they could have little doubt but that this was Godfrey come out to challenge them—which must mean not only that he had been timeously informed but that he was reasonably confident of being victorious—which in turn would seem to imply that he believed that he had superiority in numbers and strength. It looked, then, as though his brother-in-law was not relying on any mere fishermen’s sightings but on much more detailed information—which indicated a spy or traitor in Somerled’s camp, presumably on Islay.

  But this was no time for dwelling on that. Now it looked like battle, and a swift decision on tactics. Soon they could count over eighty ships ahead, accounting for Godfrey’s confidence. Presumably he had gained aid, either from England or the Norse-Irish. This, then, was going to be a struggle indeed.

  Quickly Somerled made up his mind. He hailed Saor and his other commanders alongside his dragon-ship and shouted his designs and orders. They would divide into five flotillas of nine ships each, and fight in those formations. He had long admired the Norman cavalry tactics of tight arrowhead groupings, and believed that this could be translated to sea-warfare in certain conditions. Each of these nine-ship groups would act as a unit individually, but always with a concern for supporting others. They would each form up in the shape of a spear- or arrow-head, as close to each other as was practical for the oarsmen, the leader at the apex, and seek to retain that formation throughout, although individual ships would take turns in the most exposed and vulnerable positions. Protecting each other and backing-up their leader, they would be very difficult to assail and break-up. They would try to act as six flotillas but one fleet, concerned with an over-all strategy. It would admittedly make great demands on their seamanship and on the abilities and judgement of the leaders.

  There was something like chaos for a short time after the gist of all this was announced and commanders sought and found each their eight satellites and marshalled them into position, amongst much confused shouting and manoeuvring. However, with Somerled and Saor in their dragon-ships acting rather like sheep-dogs, the tangle was sorted out fairly expeditiously. Then the five flotillas were ordered to form a line, abreast, each about five hundred yards apart, with the two dragon-ships and the remaining craft comprising a smaller wedge in the centre. The resultant front therefore extended over a mile-and-a-half. Whether it looked more impressive and formidable than did a solid mass of shipping was a matter of judgement.

  The enemy had, of course, drawn considerably nearer. At first they displayed no evident reaction to their opponents’ dispersal. Then they began to spread out—and Somerled nodded to himself in satisfaction.

  Soon the oncoming fleet formed an extended front considerably longer than that of the Isles, but not in any groups. So the two armadas drew together.

  As they came close it could be seen that while most of the enemy vessels bore the Manx emblem, a number had the Plantagenet leopards painted on their sails. So the story about an English connection was true.

  The eventual clash was head-on and dramatic, neither side wavering nor swerving aside further than was necessary to avoid the shearing-off of oars. But despite the dramatics and flourish of that first encounter, there was little damage done on one side or the other, all driving past each other and on in brave style but little actual contact, primarily concerned for their rowers. But if this might seem feeble, something of a failure in tactics, it was not so—not on Somerled’s part, at any rate. For in those few minutes the situation was transformed. As they emerged and proceeded onwards, the Manx fleet, from being a unity, a coherent front under central control, was abruptly chopped up into seven or eight portions of varying strengths, as it were fragmented.

  What happened then was salutary. The Isles groups knew more or less exactly what to do, each behind its leader; whereas the enemy was now scattered, each ship practically on its own or at least without either central or immediate leadership for the moment. As a result, there was hesitation, indecision, no over-all strategy. And such was required, and at once.

  For the Isles flotillas acted in concert, swinging round, some right, some left, in as tight turns as was possible for groups of nine, and went driving back upon the opposition ships in their ones and twos and clusters. And these, of course, were immediately at a grave disadvantage, however effective they might be as individual units. They lacked direction, any unified plan of action to deal with this strange attack, and although they much outnumbered their adversaries, by the nature of the move the ships actually borne down upon by the Islesmen were outnumbered one, two, three or four to nine. Moreover, those in clusters were apt to get in each other’s way in trying to take avoiding action or in swinging round to face the assault from behind.

  This time the oar-shearing process was not to be evaded by not a few of the enemy. Some were rammed by the flotilla-leaders with their knife-edged prows, and blazing torches were tossed into others. There was no attempt at boarding, however, for that would have broken up the arrow-head formations. The Isles flotillas swept on and round again.

  That second phase had hit the Manxmen hard. No fewer than eleven ships lay at least temporarily crippled, two actually sinking from
stove-in timbers. And what was almost more important, the remainder of the enemy fleet was more scattered and far-flung than ever.

  Somerled recognised that they could not expect to repeat this manoeuvre so successfully with the surprise of it gone. But whilst the consternation, alarm and lack of effective central control lasted, they might risk another attempt—indeed his commanders were obviously intent on doing that without any signal from him. The groups swung back, admittedly more raggedly than before, and went thrashing down on new targets.

  This attack was only a little less effective, nine enemy vessels being left wallowing helplessly.

  Somerled beat and beat on his gong, and other commanders took it up. This was the signal for individual action, individual flotillas, that is, not ships. The arrowhead tactics had proved even more successful than he could have hoped, so far, with a score of the enemy out-of-action, their fleet strewn far and wide and their morale almost certainly badly affected.

  Now it was wolves-amongst-sheep tactics, with the flotillas dashing off in all directions after the far-flung Manx vessels. Somerled’s own group went seeking the only dragon-ship amongst the enemy, presumably Godfrey’s, with a small cluster round it, which had so far avoided contact.

  The enemy were now in a strange situation. There were still more of them than of their tormentors but they were in no position to bring their superiority in numbers to bear. Not only was there no direction from Godfrey, nor any means of conveying it, but clearly no general and accepted method of coping with the revolutionary Isles strategy was developing. Some shipmasters evidently saw their best chances in huddling together in groups large or small, others in keeping their distance and acting alone. But whichever way they chose, the basic concept was most obviously the same, defensive, avoiding defeat by the Islesmen’s extraordinary aggressive onslaughts. Which, of course, was in itself next to an admission of defeat.

  In fact, Somerled’s commanders much preferred the huddled and grouping reaction, since this gave them more worthwhile targets, something to smash into and which could not so readily dodge and twist away as could individual ships.

  So the great harrying started, a savage, merciless business of charging and smashing and wheeling and boring in again, desperately wearing on the Isles oarsmen, although they were apt to be sustained by success and victory. This became less applicable as time went on, not only because of the rowers growing ever wearier but because the enemy learned not to stand and fight, or at least try to do so, in groups. More and more it became a matter of individual craft darting and swerving away from those dire wedges of destruction—and this applied equally to Godfrey’s dragon-ship which Somerled’s group tried consistently to bring to battle.

  The situation, indeed, became less and less satisfactory for the attackers, and Somerled was seriously considering whether he could somehow contrive to change strategy so as to try to drive the enemy towards the land where they might be able to pen them up against the shoreline and give them no room for this dodging and circling, thereafter to revert to the wedges. He was debating how to do this when Gillecolm grabbed his father’s arm and pointed, pointed with three jabs of his finger, grinning. After a moment or two, Somerled saw what his strange son had perceived. Three enemy craft, not together, were not exactly hull-down but very far away, two heading in a northerly direction and one easterly, not dodging nor circling. It could only be flight. These were off, had had enough. And once that started . . .

  Clearly, in a little, Gillecolm was not the only one to notice this defection; some of the enemy were perceiving it also. The young man, crowing, was able to point again and again. Others here and there were following suit and breaking off the profitless encounter. The complaint was becoming infectious.

  But now Somerled was ignoring his son’s gleeful indications. For it became evident that Godfrey’s dragon-ship itself had been smitten by the need to be elsewhere. It was drawing away from its neighbours and, having half-as-many oars again as they had, was able to do so quite quickly. It began to distance itself, eastwards.

  Somerled, frowning, signalled to Saor to take over command of their wedge, and ordered Gillecolm to speed off after Godfrey’s vessel.

  But now the effect of all the dashing and smashing and wheeling became apparent in Somerled’s crew. They could by no means match the speed of Godfrey’s oarsmen, who had had nothing like such strenuous demands made upon them hitherto. It did not take long for Somerled to perceive that he had no chance of overhauling the other dragon-ship. The only thing that he could do, he decided, was to try to head off the other vessel from making any southerly turn in its easterly course, as it would have to do if it was making for any of King Henry’s ports. By maintaining a course well to the south of the other, that ought to be effective.

  Whether indeed Godfrey had intended to make for England, or was merely fleeing in the direction most open and available, was not to be known. But fairly soon he reacted on Somerled’s course by swinging away northwards. As the Islesman followed suit, the Manxman maintained the new course, and steadily drew ahead. Presently, going fast, the other was miles away and still heading north. That satisfied Somerled. Godfrey could go lick his wounds in Orkney or Norway—not England. He turned his own ship back, south-westwards.

  By the time that he got back to the former battle area, it was to find it all over. Godfrey’s flight had clearly been the last straw and it had become a case of general exodus. Like Somerled’s own crew, the other Isles rowers were all too weary to engage in any purposeful chasing of the departing Manxmen. Only his own fleet and the many crippled enemy vessels remained on the darkening scene.

  It had been an extraordinary and unprecedented victory and at the most insignificant cost to the Islesmen. They had, of course, suffered a few damaged ships, crushed prows and splintered timbers, but had not actually lost a single craft. Casualties amongst the men were minimal, although exhaustion prevailed. A new dimension in sea-warfare had been introduced.

  Somerled ordered an unhurried move to Ramsey Bay as night fell.

  By and large, Man welcomed the Islesmen. The North was already conditioned by Thorfinn and his friends to accept them as deliverers; and the South had suffered so much at Godfrey’s hands as to hail his departure with relief and be prepared to see any successor as a possible improvement. Ragnhilde had been well-loved on the island, and her son was received with fairly general goodwill. Godfrey’s minions and supporters quietly absented themselves, although angry islanders captured some and made them pay for their sins; and there was considerable sacking and burning of the houses and lands of such folk, as was inevitable after a period of tyranny and oppression. Ragnhilde’s illegitimate half-brothers had disappeared, but their properties suffered. Many of the defeated Manx longships turned up in remote havens around the island and were left abandoned by their discreet crews.

  On Thorfinn’s urging, no time was lost in proclaiming Dougal mac Somerled MacFergus as King of Man before a hastily-summoned and distinctly reduced Manx High Council at Rushen Castle. Dougal was still not enthusiastic but went through the motions; and thereafter, with his father and Thorfinn, made a tour of the island, showing himself and receiving fealties. All this took nearly three weeks—by which time word reached Man, via the Outer Hebrides, that Godfrey Olafsson had gone to Orkney but sailed on soon thereafter for Norway, whence he had come.

  With this news, Somerled decided that he could risk a return to his own kingdom and Ragnhilde. Dougal, who would have liked to accompany him, leaving Thorfinn and the Council to govern Man in his name, at least until he was a little older, was persuaded to stay on a while longer—for Somerled was anxious that it should not appear as though he himself had taken over Man as an appendage of his island empire, with his son as a mere puppet. He took pains to emphasise that his only concern with Man, apart from his wife’s son’s inherited interest, was that it should remain a good neighbour and not become a base to be used against his own kingdom, by any.

  He sailed
for Islay in mid-October, Gillecolm electing to remain with his half-brother meantime.

  CHAPTER 21

  Ragnhilde loved Saddail. Her favourite home in her husband’s wide-scattered domains was undoubtedly Finlaggan of Islay, that fair green island in the sapphire sea; but in autumn, as now, Saddail was even more lovely. This was because Islay, like most of the isles, lacked the rich woodlands of the mainland, and at this season the colours at Saddail were breathtaking, the crimsons and golds and russets against the dark green of the pines, all glowing against the backcloth of the browning purple of heather, a vivid tapestry which never failed to enchant. On this occasion, however, she could have wished that there was a little more colour on the man-made scene—as there would have been on Man or anywhere else where the Romish Church prevailed. The Islesmen’s Celtic Church no doubt had many virtues, but it certainly lacked colour and flourish. Its abbots and priests and serving-brothers all looked alike in either sober black or plain off-white girdled habits, lacking even a relieving stole or scapular, much less the glorious copes, chasubles, dalmatics and other vestments of the Roman clergy. For such an inauguration as this, surely, they could have risen to something a little more joyful and celebratory. As it was, her own chaplain Wilfrith provided all the clerical colour to the scene, and though active at the moment, he was officially only a mere spectator. The laymen, to be sure, were in their multi-hued best, in tartans and plaiding and dyed leather and furs, Somerled himself magnificent in cloth-of-gold doublet and kilt, instead of the usual saffron, under a polar-bearskin half-cloak lined with scarlet silk—although Dougal was quite the most resplendent of all, and made deliberately so as King of Man, even though normally he cared not how he dressed. Gillecolm, Ranald and Angus were notably fine for the occasion—as indeed were Anna and herself for that matter, and Cathula too—for this surely was a great and memorable day, the consecration and opening for worship of the first true abbey of the Columban Church, other than lona itself, even to be built in Scotland. So-called abbeys or cashels, monastic steadings under abbots, or earthen ramparts and beehive-shaped cells and hutments, were common-place of course; but a towering stone minster and shrine, with cloisters and oratories and all the rest, after the Romish fashion, was something new in Highland Scotland. Which made it a pity, in Ragnhilde’s estimation, that the officiating clergy could not have found something better then drab, stained and tattered habits to celebrate in.