Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “Nevertheless it was unwise, I think. It gives Henry excuse to say that you are in vassalage to him . . .”

  “For an English earldom only—which was mine by inheritance. My grandmother’s.”

  “Even so. Vassalage, I say, is to be eschewed!”

  The other looked sour and turned away. There was Ragnhilde on his other side, hitherto ignored. Finding nothing to say to her, Malcolm looked beyond her to Dougal, more to his taste presumably. But Dougal was in animated converse with Prince William, the High King’s brother. Perforce he had to turn back to Somerled.

  “Henry means war, I think,” he blurted out. “He builds up and strengthens the great castle of Wark, over Tweed from my Rook’s Burgh. Raises many men in Northumbria. He delights in war.”

  “And you desire my aid against him?”

  The younger man cleared his throat. “Yes—it would be an act of friendship, sir.”

  “It would indeed, since I have no quarrel with Henry Plantagenet.”

  “If he won Scotland, you would have!” That was the first touch of spirit displayed.

  “Perhaps. But I believe that I can defend my own kingdom. If I were to squander my strength aiding you, sir King, I might be the less able.”

  “No, no—I do not ask you to do great battle, King Somerled. It is but your ships . . .”

  “Ah!”

  “Yes, your ships, your fleet. With that of Man. Off the Cumbrian coast. A threat to Henry’s flank. He would not dare strike into Scotland, with such a threat. Although he has many English ships, they are wide-scattered. He has no war-fleet to match your longships and galleys.”

  “I see. So my longships, and my son’s, are to save you, and Scotland, from invasion?”

  “It would much help.”

  “No doubt, sir. But at much cost to me, and Man, and little to you, I think!”

  Ragnhilde put in a word, from the other side. “My lord Malcolm will, I am sure, have much to offer you in exchange—beyond merely his valuable friendship, husband.”

  “That is to be expected, yes,” Somerled agreed gravely.

  There was a pause.

  “I will do what I can,” Malcolm said, at length.

  “That is good.” Conversationally, the older man went on. “You have my sister and my nephew held prisoners in your castle of Rook’s Burgh, for one matter!”

  “Not prisoners, no. Not that. Guests, rather. Living at my charges. In fair comfort . . .”

  “Confined in your castle these long years, my lord King.”

  “Donald—he was in revolt against me.”

  “Because you held his father and mother hostage.”

  “I have pardoned the Earl Malcolm. Restored to him his earldom of Ross. Even now he acts in my name in Morayland. Dwells in the Priory of Urquhart there . . .”

  “With you holding his wife and son as hostage, so that he does your will. I do not name that pardon and restoration, sir.”

  “He might have joined these other rebellious earls, otherwise.”

  “Perhaps. But if your policy towards your ancient Celtic realm was, I say, wise and proper, none of these would be in revolt and you would have no need of hostages.” Somerled shrugged. “Whatever your policies, King Malcolm, I could not consider bringing my fleet to your aid, much less friendship, whilst you hold my sister and nephew close.”

  The other spread his narrow, womanlike hands and looked almost longingly over to where his senior Norman nobles sat watching, the Chancellor, High Steward, High Constable, Chamberlain, Knight Marischal and the rest.

  “I shall consider the matter,” he said, at length.

  “Do that, my lord. Also there is the matter of Arran and Bute. Although they are mine, your Steward’s people continue to trouble these islands. They raid there, steal cattle, take women, even demand rents. This must stop.”

  “I know naught of that, King Somerled. But will speak with Walter Stewart!”

  “Yes. I have driven the Norsemen out of my isles. I hope that I do not have to do the same with the Scots!”

  There was silence for a little, as they ate and drank. It was Somerled who resumed.

  “You say that Henry Plantagenet has summoned you to do fealty at Caer Luel. When, my lord?”

  “At Eastertide. When he is to be in the North.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “Nothing. I shall not go.”

  “M’mmm. I think that would be a pity.”

  “Why? you would not have me to agree to this?”

  “No. But go, to disagree. In strength. Muster a great host. March south. Leave your host just north of Caer Luel. Go meet Henry. Then, when he talks of fealty, tell him . . . otherwise. He will perceive the message very clearly, I’ll warrant. Much more surely than if you merely stayed away. Especially if you had come to an arrangement with me, whereby my fleet, and Man’s also perhaps, lay offshore in Solway at the same time.”

  “You . . . you would do that, then?”

  “If my reasonable requirements were met, I would consider it, yes.”

  “I like that—yes, I like that. I shall speak with my lords . . .”

  “Speak this also with them, then, my lord King. Change your policy towards the Celtic North, to all your Celtic heritage. You have the most ancient throne in Christendom, a Celtic throne. Yet you, the Ard Righ, have all your Ri against you, your lesser kings who should be your shield and strong support. They cannot all be mistaken, nor traitors. Seek their goodwill then, not their enmity. Heed not only your Normans. Bind the North to your side by showing favour, not drawn steel. Show concern for your Celtic people, not scorn. Learn their customs. Even learn something of their language. You are Malcolm the Fourth. Your forebears Malcolm First and Second could speak none other than the Gaelic. Only Malcolm Third, Canmore, learned the Saxon and Norman tongues—to his cost! Do this, and you need fear no stab-in-the-back when you outface Henry. Indeed you might have a Celtic host to add to your army facing Caer Luel.”

  Malcolm was staring at him in next to astonishment; indeed Somerled himself found a certain surprise at his own sudden fervour and eloquence. He had not come prepared to say quite all that. He found Ragnhilde eyeing him interestedly too.

  The young High King wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We shall talk more of this,” he said, uncertainly. “Now we shall have the dancing bears from Muscovy.” And he signed for the entertainers to come on.

  In their chamber of the Blackfriars Monastery that night, Ragnhilde remarked on her husband’s unexpected advice-giving to Malcolm the Maiden, venturing her opinion that he was scarcely worth it all.

  “Perhaps not. But he is almost as a child,” Somerled told her. “I felt that he required some other advising than these Normans give him. I confess that I cannot greatly like him, but for his grandsire David’s sake, I spoke as I did. Whether he will heed me, who can tell . . .?”

  In the days that followed it seemed that Malcolm was at least prepared to listen to Somerled’s advice, although actually heeding it would be another matter, for he carefully did not commit himself. But he sought out the older man’s company much more frequently than was required in mere hostlike hospitality towards an important guest, asking many questions and initiating discussions. This clearly was contrary to the wishes of most of his Norman advisers. They coined the name of Somerled-sit-by-the-King for the visitor, and did not seek to hide their disapproval—save only for Hugo de Morville, the High Constable, now an ageing and obviously ailing man. He had ever been the most courteous and moderate of David’s importations.

  The Yuletide celebrations, although prolonged, were less elaborate and extravagant, in this semi-military court, than they would have been in normal circumstances; and since the Celtic peoples made more of Yule than did the Normans and Saxons, retaining much of the pre-Christian and sun-worship ceremonies and festivities concerned with the winter solstice, the New Year, the mistletoe, log and evergreen traditions, Somerled suggested that here was an excellent oppo
rtunity for the High King to go out and demonstrate some interest in his Celtic subjects, to observe and take part in some of the activities of the good folk of Perth and its surroundings. Without any real enthusiasm Malcolm allowed himself to be escorted to a number of the celebrations and thereby countered, to some extent, the sullen hostility of the local people to their monarch—for Perth, of course, was situated in the Gowrie area of Strathearn and since Fertech, Earl of Strathearn had been the moving spirit in the recent rebellion, Malcolm’s reprisals on this province and earldom had been the most harsh.

  Peacemaker was something of a new role for Somerled the Mighty, but he reckoned that Malcolm was a young man who could be led, essentially weak but not without possibilities. And the results might benefit himself and his Isles kingdom as well as the Scots people and monarchy.

  Twelfth Night over, and the weather worsening and growing ever more cold, it was decided that a move should be made before snows closed the Mamlorn passes. Besides, the Argyll contingent had all had quite enough of Malcolm and his Normans. But although real friendship remained no nearer attainment than when they had arrived, at least Somerled left with the promise that his sister and Donald would be released and that there would be no more raiding of Arran and Bute. In return, he would demonstrate with the combined fleets of the Isles and Man off the Cumbrian coast next Easter—but he did not commit himself to land a single man.

  He assessed his visit to St. John’s Town of Perth as having been worthwhile. Ragnhilde was not so sure.

  CHAPTER 22

  lona, the small jewel of the Hebrides, basked in the summer sun, and if there was a spot more fair on such a day in all his colourful and far-flung domains, Somerled did not know of it; the gleaming white sands, the lichened rocks and skerries, the greens and amethyst and azure of the water, the multi-hued seaweeds, the fertile, verdant cultivation rigs and cattle-dotted pastures, the scattered whitewashed cot-houses and the splendid high crosses, brown-stone and carved, of the saints and kings, all must delight the eye of even the least perceptive of observers. Only the shattered, fire-blackened and ravaged shell of the abbey itself affronted, although there had been many partial patchings and repairs from time to time; but only temporarily, superficially, the scars not to be hid. The Norsemen had not been back now for many a long year, but the centuries of fear were not to be overcome quickly; and the Columban Church was scarcely in good and confident heart.

  It was this state of affairs which had finally brought Somerled to lona, this fine June. He had long felt guilty over the situation. This was the heart and centre of Scotland’s ancient Celtic Church, from whence all the land had been Christianised by Columba and his Brethren—and it lay in the midst of Somerled’s kingdom of Argyll and the Isles. He had endowed and erected his fine new abbey of Saddail, in Kintyre, but he had done nothing about this vital shrine of the faith. Last year had been the twenty-first anniversary of their marriage, and Somerled and Ragnhilde had decided that something must be done about lona. So here they were.

  They sat out in the forenoon sunshine, actually on the stepped plinth of St. Martin’s Cross, from which the Street of the Dead, a causeway of stone, led to the Relig Oran, the burial-place of the kings. Forty-eight Scots kings, no less, were reputed to lie there, Malcolm’s ancestors in the main, along with seven Kings of Norway and four from Ireland. Nearby was the later chapel, built by Margaret, queen and saint, David’s mother, it was thought as something of a plea for forgiveness from the Celtic Church which she had so sternly brought low, in favour of her Romish one—now also damaged by the Vikings.

  “Flaithbertach must be persuaded to return here,” Somerled declared, not for the first time. “Until he comes, nothing here will prosper as it should. You, Abbot Augustine, do very well, none would say otherwise. You bear the burden nobly. But you are not the Co-Arb, head of the Columban Church, whose place this is. Flaithbertach is that, for better or worse. And so long as he remains in exile, Columba’s successor, his Church and faith will not flourish.”

  “We have sought his return from Ireland many times, my son,” the Abbot assured. “But he does not come. We cannot make him come.”

  “Why should he refuse? It is safe now. Since I took over the Isles no Viking raider has come to lona, nor will. Peace prevails here now. There is no reason why he, and all the precious Columban relics, should remain at Derry. They, and he, belong here. They were only taken to Ireland for safety from the Norsemen.”

  “I do not think that it is all of Flaithbertach’s wishing, my lord King,” Dubhsith the lector put in. “It is said that the High King of Ireland, Muirchertach O’Lachlan, is against him returning. Why, I do not know . . .”

  “Then Muirchertach must be told otherwise. The Irish Celtic Church is sister-church to our own. But only that. They have no authority over the Columban Church. Muirchertach, and Flaithbertach also, must be told so.”

  “Perhaps if you were to build up this abbey again, as you did Saddail, this Flaithbertach might be coaxed to come and see it,” Ragnhilde suggested. “And once here, he might be prevailed upon to stay.”

  “Would you not require the Co-Arb’s permission to rebuild the abbey?” Augustine asked. “It would be a great and godly act of faith, my son—but you would require the authority of the Church, I think.”

  “That may be so. Then we shall seek to achieve both these purposes. We shall send to Flaithbertach at Derry, asking him to return, and gaining his authority to rebuild the abbey. Aye, and if necessary, deal with King Muirchertach too. An embassage from myself. You shall go, Abbot Augustine. And friend Dubhsith with you. I shall send you in one of my ships, with an escort . . .”

  “But—my lord King! No, no—not me, I pray you!” the Abbot exclaimed. “I am too old for such travel . . .”

  “Nonsense, man! My ship will carry you from door to door. The Abbey of Derry is on Lough Foyle, a sea-loch. It has to be you, to speak of lona with Flaithbertach. Saor MacNeil, my chamberlain of Argyll, will accompany you, to speak with the High King, if necessary. It will be a pleasure for you, just. To see Columba’s old abbey of Derry . . .”

  “Visitors!” a voice said, behind them. Gillecolm, ever keen-eyed, was pointing. “A galley and a longship.”

  They all turned to look. A couple of vessels were beating up the narrow sound between lona and great Mull, obviously making for the sheltered landing-place at St. Ronan’s Bay. The longship’s sail bore Somerled’s own device. The other craft flew a large banner.

  “Can you see what banner is that?” Somerled demanded.

  “It is red and white. A white lion, on red.”

  “Ha—that is Ross! Now, what? Could it be my good sister . . .?”

  It was not the Countess of Ross who landed from the galley, under Conn MacMahon’s escort, but her husband the Earl Malcolm. And he came grim-faced.

  The brothers-in-law had not seen each other for years. Malcolm was looking a deal older—no doubt Somerled was also, but not to the same extent, for he remained very fit, active and vigorous for his fifty-odd years. They eyed each other uncertainly, Malcolm perhaps a little uneasy over his welcome, Somerled fearing trouble, for the earl never seemed to be the bearer of good news.

  “You are alone, Malcolm?” the latter asked, after greetings. “Bethoc—she is not with you? Nor Donald?”

  “I left Bethoc at Urquhart. She is less than well. Captivity has told on her—as on us all. And Donald is prisoner again. In Stirling Castle this time, not in Rook’s Burgh. In worse state, God damn them!”

  “But—he was to be freed, pardoned. They both were.”

  “Aye—but only to be retaken. No doubt my wife also would have been held again, but she came straight north to me in Moray. Donald lingered in the south, foolishly, and was seized.”

  “In Heaven’s name—why? I bargained for his liberty.”

  “Your bargain was but a poor one, then! To bargain with the Normans is a profitless folly!”

  “I did not bargain with the Normans. I
bargained with the High King of Scots.”

  “It is not different. He is a weak fool and is wholly in their hands.”

  Somerled clenched his fists.

  “There is more than that—a deal more. Malcolm has given his sister Ada in marriage to Florence, Count of Holland. And for dowry has given the earldom of Ross—my earldom!”

  The other stared. “Lord—that cannot be true! He could not do that. Give away your earldom—one of the ancient Celtic lesser kingdoms of Scotland. To the Hollander.”

  “He has done it. He has declared it forfeit to the crown, and myself with it; and vested it in his sister, as marriage portion. Now he drives out all the chiefs and lairds and landed men of Mar and Moray and Ross, replacing them with Normans and Flemings.”

  “Is the man run crazy-mad?”

  “They say that he is determined to break the North. Or his Normans are. To pull down all the Celtic earldoms. And so starts with mine.”

  “This is beyond all belief! What has come over him? When I spoke with him two Yules back nothing was said of this. We were in agreement. I was to aid him against Henry of England, as indeed I did, the next Easter, when I sailed my ships to the Cumbrian coast . . .”

  “Henry! He has come to terms with Henry—is now in Henry’s pocket, in fact. He has sworn to be his man. Has renounced all Scotland’s claims to Cumbria and Northumbria . . .”

  “But why? Why?”

  “I know not. He had a secret meeting with Henry early this year. This damnable treachery is the result.”

  “You are sure of all this, Malcolm? It is not mere tales and hearsay?”

  “It is all true. And here is more truth for you, Somerled. Henry Plantagenet has received your wife’s brother, Godfrey the Black, at his court, after some treachery in Norway. Received him with honour, making much of him. Hails him as King of Man, and his vassal. Has even had made for him a costly suit-of-armour—horse-armour also. And a charger to carry him. He has promised to aid Godfrey to recover Man—and Malcolm has agreed to aid in this.”