Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “Precious Soul of God!”

  The lona project was distinctly overshadowed after that. The clerical deputation was still to go to Ireland to try to coax back Abbot Flaithbertach. But Saor MacNeil’s remit was much widened. He was to approach the High King Muirchertach, and such lesser kings and leaders as he could contact, to warn them that the warlike Henry Plantagenet was becoming dangerous indeed to the Celtic polity. If he could contemplate taking over Scotland and Man, Ireland also would not be beyond his ambitions, that was scarcely to be doubted. It behoved the Celtic peoples to unite against the threat. In the event of war, major war, could Somerled of the Isles rely on aid from Ireland? He would need it, against England and Scotland both.

  Back at Islay a few days later he found a courier awaiting him from Malcolm, King of Scots. The letter he bore was brief and to the point, wishing him well but requiring Somerled of Argyll and the Isles to resign all his lands, territories and titles to himself, as High King, preparatory to having them all re-issued in vassalage and fealty. This forthwith and by order, on pain of direst penalties.

  CHAPTER 23

  Undoubtedly it was by far the greatest fleet ever to sail out of the Sea of the Hebrides and into the Firth of Clyde. Somerled could not restrain a surge of pride and even emotion as he counted no fewer than one-hundred-and-sixty vessels, longships and galleys, as Gillecolm held the dragon-ship steady against tide and currents whilst they all turned the mighty thrusting headland of the Mull of Kintyre and into the more sheltered waters of the firth. The great majority were his own, of course, but there were over thirty from Man and almost as many from Ireland. And there was no subterfuge nor pretence here, all the ships were packed with fighting-men, a vast army of nearly twenty thousand. All would be required no doubt—but it made a heartening sight for the only man who could have assembled such a force out of the Celtic lands.

  As, safely past the dangerous cape, the armada headed eastwards to pass the southern tip of Arran, Somerled’s vessel swept on again with clanging gong and flashing oars, to put itself at the head once more. There were three other dragon-ships there now, besides Saor’s, one flying the banner of Dougal, King of Man, one that of Ranald, Lord of Moidart, his brother, the third that of the MacMahon, Conn’s chief from Fermanagh, in command of the Irish contingent. He was Somerled’s first wife’s brother and uncle to Gillecolm.

  In fine style they turned north round Arran and beat up firth, to pass between the Isle of Bute and the Cumbraes. All eyes tended to be on the mainland coast on their right, only some three miles off, the Stewartry of Renfrew and Cunninghame, the territory of Walter the High Steward, foremost of the Normans in Scotland, which must be their first target. But not yet, unfortunately.

  Dumbarton was the present destination, where the firth took its dog’s-leg bend eastwards and suddenly narrowed, Dumbarton with its great rock crowned by the ancient Pictish fort, capital of Strathclyde. Here there was a fine sheltered anchorage, fit to take their huge fleet; and here Somerled had arranged a rendezvous with the Earl Malcolm and an army to be raised by the northern earls. The place was on the wrong side of the firth for their purposes, but that could not be helped.

  Dumbarton received them only doubtfully, very naturally, most of the folk fleeing from their homes into the hilly lands behind the town. Somerled gave strict orders however that since this was to be their base there was to be no trouble, no harassment of the population. There was no sign of the earls’ army as yet. This day, the Eve of St. Blane, and the next, had been agreed for the rendezvous.

  They waited three days for the northern force, Somerled fretting—for of course their arrival at Dumbarton was all too obvious from the other, Renfrew, shore and all this delay would be giving time for a defensive host to muster and position itself. The High Steward’s main castle was at Renfrew town itself, some ten miles up Clyde. Somerled’s scouting parties informed him that there was much activity thereabouts, men assembling all the time, marching, training.

  When, a few weeks before, Somerled had heard that King Malcolm Maiden was lying dangerously ill at Doncaster in Yorkshire, where he had gone at King Henry’s imperious command to deliver his younger brother David as hostage for Scotland’s good conduct, he had decided that this was the time to venture all in an attempt to bring Scotland under better government and to make an end of the Norman—and now English—control. The ruling party would be in some confusion, with the King away and said to be like to die, and with so many of the nobles and their sons gone with him—for Henry had demanded not only the Prince David as hostage but the sons and heirs of most of the Norman-Scots nobility also, for good measure; presumably he did not trust his new vassals, and with reason. So if ever there was to be a major assault on mainland Scotland, to put Malcolm of Ross or his son Donald on the throne of their forefathers, this was the time. It had all taken a while to mount, of course, with men and shipping to be brought from far and near, and weeks had passed, inevitably. King Malcolm might be dead by now—or recovered and possibly even back in Scotland; Somerled had had no recent news. But every day’s delay now could have serious consequences and this waiting for the northern earls was galling.

  On that third day, Somerled decided that he could wait no longer. He would commence the necessarily protracted business of ferrying his army across Clyde, and hope that the missing reinforcements would arrive during the process. The firth was a mere mile wide at this point, and it was a temptation just to carry his people over this short distance and land them on the opposite shore at Langbank where there was a boat-strand which they could see. But Somerled decided that, although this would greatly simplify the ferrying, it might well be inadvisable. The land on the south side of Clyde was fairly flat, fertile tilth and pasture for many miles, open and ideal ground for cavalry tactics, And, of course, heavy, armoured cavalry was the Norman speciality, with archery, in warfare; whereas Somerled’s host, brought by ship, was without horses. It might be foolish, therefore, to offer the enemy a possible battlefield conditioned in their favour. Somerled could choose to land where he would. Up near Renfrew town itself the terrain was different, still flat but marshy, broken up by the Black and White Cart rivers which entered Clyde there, and their tributary burns and ditches, with actual islands formed—which indeed was why the Steward’s castle was built there, on one of the islands, a strong defensive position which could not be assailed readily. Somerled had no intention of attacking Renfrew Castle itself, but if he could lure the Steward’s people into fighting in the surrounding marshland, their advantage in cavalry would be negatived and their heavily-armoured knights likewise.

  His scouts were sent prospecting, from fishing-boats, and informed him that there was a variety of fairly suitable sites to make a landing in the area west of Renfrew town; so, that third day, Somerled took to a small local boat and went up-river, to decide for himself. He had little difficulty in selecting the best place for his purposes, with a large army to land, especially in darkness, as he planned. The area was between Erskine and the larger of the mud-and-sand islands, which the fishermen called Newshot, about a couple of miles west of Renfrew Castle. There was here a reasonably firm strand for the landings, almost a mile of it, and level, wet-looking land behind, only roughly drained by stanks and ditches. Although unpleasant for fighting in, it would at least be less hard on Somerled’s lightly-armed fighting-men than on armoured knights.

  So, as the dusk settled on the land, the move from Dumbarton began. It had to be very carefully carried out, for the Clyde narrowed notably after about six more miles, and negotiating the remaining three or so in darkness would demand skill and caution, for the navigable channel was very restricted and fringed with mud-banks on which the longships could all too easily run aground. In these conditions the minimum number of ships was indicated, since they could not risk two sailing abreast, also the most skilful shipmasters, with local fishermen as pilots. So each vessel used had to be loaded with the maximum number of men, and to be rowed well spaced-ou
t. The same ships would return for further loads.

  Somerled went with the first batch. It was a fairly dark night, threatening rain—which was good for their secrecy but bad for navigation, making the selected landing-places difficult to locate, with landmarks non-existent. However, with almost a mile to choose from, with positions of varying suitability, the landings were effected, not without some confusion but with no disasters. At least there was no opposition. Leaving his lieutenants to supervise further disembarkation, he took Saor to go probing inland, rousing protesting curlews and peewits, to prospect for camping sites on firm ground.

  After much circling, back-tracking and ploutering through mire and bog, stampeding shadowy splattering cattle, they found a slightly elevated area around a farmery which one of the local guides named as Bargarran. They were fortunate in having the co-operation of many local fishermen—but of course these were Celtic folk also, with no love for the Normans.

  So a line was plotted out through and around the pools and runnels and mires, from the landing-place to this chosen area, and thereafter the long and trying process of leading the gathering army from one to the other commenced, this whilst the selected longships ferried back and forth from Dumbarton with fresh loads.

  By grey dawn the task was almost completed and by sunrise a vast encampment spread itself over the Bargarran pastures and meadows, seething like a cluster of ant-hills, busy, colourful, all banners, tartans and glinting steel—and all in plainest view of the town and castle of Renfrew, a mere two miles away, where another army was assembling, although not quite so evidently, in the built-up area. Up and down the Clyde, meantime, the entire Isles fleet sailed and rowed in a mighty show of naval strength.

  Somerled waited, now—indeed he slept in his sail-cloth tent.

  They waited, not so much for the missing Celtic earls, who still had not appeared, as for reasons of tactics. Somerled’s immediate purpose was to engage and defeat any mainland army which might oppose him—and which here, presumably, would be under the command of the High Steward himself, on his own doorstep. He had scores to settle with Walter fitz Alan. He was not at present concerned with winning territory or capturing towns and castles. And undoubtedly if he could coax the enemy into these marshes and muddy flats, he was much more likely to defeat them than on higher and firmer ground—and if by any chance he lost the fight and failed in his efforts, his ships were waiting there to evacuate his people. Admittedly the Steward would be able to perceive all this also, and therefore be reluctant to commit his troops and heavy chivalry to such an unrewarding battle-ground; but Somerled was confident that he would, eventually, relying on his conviction that the proud Norman would not be able to resist the challenge there so blatantly under his very nose, of what he would no doubt describe as a barbarian rabble come to sit in his private lordship below the windows of his castle. It would be very hard for a great lord and commander to remain inactive in these circumstances, before his own army and townsfolk, especially such arrogant conquerors as the Norman leadership, assured of their own military superiority. The Steward would not be able to wait for very long, Somerled calculated—whereas he could wait, now, more or less indefinitely, expecting his reinforcements. Feeding his great host would be his major problem, but these lush meadows and pastures were strewn with cattle, and already much of the Bargarran stock was roasting on spits over the camp-fires.

  So Somerled waited, and slept.

  Gillecolm wakened him in the early afternoon. A deputation was approaching from the direction of Renfrew, under a white flag and the gold, blue and white banner of the Steward.

  It was not Walter fitz Alan himself who came but a party of young Norman knights in splendid armour and heraldic bearings, finely mounted—although they had to dismount and clankingly lead their beasts before they could win through the soft ground to where Somerled awaited them, which much spoiled the impression. There also proved to be a couple of clerics with the group, in rich robes.

  Their spokesman introduced himself as Raoul de Carteret, principal esquire to Walter, High Steward of Scotland and Lord of Renfrew and Cunninghame. He also indicated that one of the clerics was Herbert, Bishop of Glasgow. The Lord High Steward had sent them to enquire who it was who came thus with so great a host of armed men to his peaceful domains, and why?

  “I think that your master the Steward knows very well who has come,” Somerled answered. “Who else could land a score of thousand fighting-men anywhere he chose on the Scottish coast but the King of Argyll and the Isles—with the aid of his son, the King of Man, to be sure? I do not doubt that the Steward knows why, also. I am here because King Malcolm, on the advice I would guess of the Steward and his ilk, has broken his word to me and mine, threatened me, and demanded my attendance in vassalage. I attend—but not in vassalage!”

  De Carteret glanced at his companions. “Whilst not accepting such statements, my lord King Somerled, I am to ask what is your intention here? What do you want?”

  “That, sir, is simply told. I am come to right a great wrong. Not only to myself and my kin but to this ancient realm of Scotland. King Malcolm, by making himself vassal to King Henry of England, has betrayed his own kingdom and nation and forfeited all right to the position of High King of Scots. I have come to put a better man, of the ancient and indeed more senior line, on the throne he has betrayed. That is all. Is it sufficient?”

  There was an appalled silence. It was the Bishop who broke it.

  “You . . . you speak the words of a madman—of a shameless heretic! How dare you to threaten the Lord’s Anointed!”

  “I dare, clerk—oh, I dare! If the Lord’s Anointed betrays his people and his coronation oath, then he must needs expect more than threats.”

  “Watch your words, sir, I charge you—if you do not want God Almighty to strike you down where you stand! Scoffer, savage, spoiler of the innocent, enemy of Christ’s Holy Church!”

  “All that, Priest? I scarce recognise myself!”

  “Do not think to mock me, miscreant! You vaunt yourself—but the power from on high will bring you low, that I promise you! You, who have ravaged and defiled the lands and people of my see of Glasgow.”

  “Defiled? I had occasion, once, if I mind aright, to punish certain ill-conditioned folk from your Glasgow who were raiding my lands of Bute and Arran. Is it that to which you refer?”

  “Think not to hide your shame behind such hypocrisy, sirrah!” The elderly prelate was quivering in red-faced choler. “You, or yours, came from your outlandish islands to Glasgow, the holy burgh of St. Kentigern, and wasted its substance, assaulted its godly citizenry, sullied its sanctity and proclaimed that your heretical and barbarous faith was superior to that of the one true Holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church of Rome . . .”

  “Scarcely superior, Priest, only more ancient, more in accord with the Gospels and more native to this land. After all, your Kentigern was a saint of the Celtic Church, was he not?”

  “I charge you, do not utter that blessed name from your idolatrous lips, wretch! Or Almighty God and all His saints will assuredly punish you—this I swear! I have called upon the Blessed St. Kentigern, from before the High Altar, to avenge the injury done to his beloved shrine and foundation. And he will, Somerled the Impious—he will . . .!”

  De Carteret coughed. “My lord Bishop’s, h’m, intervention is understandable,” he said. “But we are here in the name of the High Steward. To enquire your purpose, King Somerled. And to express his concern at the large numbers of your company come landed unbidden on his soil . . .”

  “Also to spy out my situation and dispositions, I think?” That was quite pleasantly added.

  “M’mm. You mistake, my lord. The Steward invites you to come speak with him. So that it may be that any differences between you can be resolved in peaceable fashion . . .”

  “That is . . . judicious of the Steward! But, if he wishes speech with me, why send you, sir, and this bishop, to talk? To the King of Argyll and the Isles. Why did
he not come, himself? He has known me, after all, these many years.”

  “I . . . ah, that is not for me to say, sir. No doubt my lord had his reasons. I am but his esquire and servant . . .”

  “Precisely! Should I send my cup-bearer or sagaman to speak with the High Steward? Tell him that if he comes, I shall be pleased to talk with him—but that I scarcely see talking as any answer to my purposes! And tell him that if he waits until tomorrow, he will also have the Earls of Ross, Strathearn, Fife, Angus, Mar and Buchan to talk with—to his further guidance!”

  Eyebrows rose at that. “I shall tell my lord so,” the Norman said thickly.

  “Do that. I shall await his reply.” Somerled turned away.

  The deputation, less assured-seeming than when they had come, retraced their winding steps through the marshland, Bishop Herbert still muttering anathemas.

  “Why tell them that the earls would be here—when they may not, a curse on them?” Saor MacNeil asked.

  “To try to make the Steward attack before they come. And before he may be fully ready. Attack us here, where we have chosen the ground. The sooner we have this battle, the better for us, I think.”

  “Aye, perhaps. Those young Normans were peering, searching-out, spying the land and our numbers and quality, all the time that you were talking.”

  “I know it. That is why they were here. And why that bishop was given so long to rant. I wonder what Walter fitz Alan will do?”

  “He can scarcely mount an attack before nightfall, now.”

  “He will not attack in the darkness, I swear. To put his heavy cavalry and armour into this soft ground at night would be folly. Above all, they must see where they are going or they will be hopelessly bogged. And his archers need light to see their targets. He will attack at first light, I think. But likely that one will try to lure and lull us into unreadiness, carelessness, first. Send some message, perhaps, to make us believe that there is no danger for the moment . . .”