by Regan Walker
He counted five, three just pulling up at the water’s edge, their sails doused, their dragon-carved stems boding ill for the people who lived farther down the coast. Counting shields, they numbered more than two hundred.
The sea was calm, as if nature herself was unaware a massacre had just taken place to the north. Somerled’s heart burned within him, a furnace of rage. He wanted the waters to roar, to cry for vengeance on the heathen dogs.
Behind him were the forests in which he had hunted. Gathered around him was his group of one hundred men, MacInneses from Morvern, archers from Argyll and Irish mercenaries from Antrim, who had heard of his plan to retake Argyll and joined the cause. They were stout-hearted men yet still too few to take on so many Norsemen armed with swords, axes and spears, many clad in mail and conical helms.
The Highlanders and Islesmen wore tunics of linen or wool over tight-fitting trews or hosen, their tunics secured at their waists with belts. Their feet were clad in soft leather boots. Around their shoulders, some wore woolen mantles. A few, like Somerled and his brother, wore leather armor. None wore mail. It was costly and rare in these parts. All carried weapons but not all had steel swords at their waists.
No matter the odds against them, Somerled wanted those ships and he wanted justice for the lives cut short at Drimnin.
On either side of him, Angus and Domnall drew close. “What can we do against so many?” inquired Angus, staring at the dragonships.
Somerled considered what to do as he watched the raiders unloading from the dragonships to swarm on the beach like flies. Shorebirds circled above, diving for discarded scraps as the raiders paused to eat. Likely they intended to sort what they had gained in the raid before taking the next village.
“We must make them believe they face a great force,” said Somerled. “When they are scattered and running, we will attack, more ruthless than they.”
“And how might we do that?” asked Domnall. Somerled knew his cousin did not ask because he doubted it could be done; he only wanted to know how Somerled would do it. His men had learned from the battles won thus far to trust him. His methods might be unusual but, against so many Norse, he had to be clever. Always outnumbered, they had gained the three longships they had now by stealth, not greater numbers. In such a manner, he had stalked the wild boar and the deer in the woods of Morvern. Now he stalked the Norse pirates.
Over his shoulder, he sighted a herd of black long-haired cattle grazing nearby, as yet undisturbed by the Norsemen on the beach below. An idea came to him.
“Take the men and kill enough cows for hides to cover all the warriors except the archers. Be careful not to make noise to cause the raiders to look up. Bring the hides to me and I will tell you what shall be done.”
Somerled was a man content with silence, broken only by the sounds of God’s woodland creatures and the conversation of a good friend. But he had been their choice of leader and that required voice.
His men returned with the hides, and he told them, “First, you will move around the hill, allowing yourselves to be seen wearing whatever you have on. Then, wearing the skins, the long hair side out, you will march around the hill again. When that is done, turn the hides inside out and march across the hill one last time.”
His captains hesitated only a moment before nodding and moving to carry out his order.
From the top of the rise, he watched the Norse. Of the raiders who had already landed, one shouted, pointing up the hill, drawing attention to Somerled’s men repeatedly circling. Since the two ships still in the water had not come ashore and of the three that had, only two had fully disgorged their raiders onto the beach, he knew the Norse were rethinking their intended course of action. To them, Somerled’s men would appear as three well-armed divisions of warriors.
When his men had completed the last round, Somerled rose and with the sound of shuddering steel, slid his sword from its scabbard and held it high. Gripping his shield tightly in his other hand, he shouted in Gaelic. “Be of good courage, men. Remember your loved ones the Norse have taken from you and those they have slain this day. This is our land we fight for! Our lives we defend!” Then, roaring out his war cry, he leaped from the top of the hill and rushed like a fast-moving gale down to the beach.
A screaming tempest of deadly blades and spears followed in his wake, his men shouting the revenge they would claim that day, the justice they would dispense. In his mind, Somerled saw the faces of the fathers, mothers and children lying dead at Drimnin and the boys whose parents were lost to them forever.
From the rise above, his fifteen archers loosed their arrows, following his orders to pick off the leaders and strongest of the pirates.
With shock still on their faces, the Norse raiders fell dead on the beach.
Somerled slashed his way through shield and skin, ripping wildly into the raiding party, delivering death to the first to face him.
He fought for his slain father and the fallen MacInnes chief; he fought to restore his family’s ancestral lands; he fought for the people of Argyll, long subdued under the Norsemen’s blades; he fought for the village of Drimnin. And, in the remotest part of his mind, he fought for a red-haired vixen he would never know unless he proved himself worthy against the Norse menace.
Using the edge of his shield, Somerled dashed out a Norseman’s teeth and with the might of a madman, he laid low the warrior whose glazed eyes spoke of his death. Then, in front of the enemy fleet and his own men, he tossed aside his sword and shield and yanked his dagger from his waist. With a great show, he carved the dead Norseman’s heart from his chest and flung it toward the enemy ships, shouting in Norse, “And so will be all of you if you darken these shores again!”
At his order, his men did the same to the pirates they had killed, flinging their foes’ hearts at the floating longships. So wildly did Somerled’s grim gift enthrall his warriors, they tore into the raiders with strength beyond their own, bathed in their enemy’s blood.
Seeing the hearts of their companions torn from their chests, the Norse raiders who were left standing fled the beach for their ships. Many drowned in their mail coats. Three of the five dragonships made it away from that crimson shore. The rest had not enough crew for the oars and fell under the fury of Somerled and his men.
The Norse warlord who led the pirates stood on the main longship, his hands fisted on his hips. His long sun bleached hair hung in greasy strands, a woven band holding them from his eyes. His face reflected his great anger. On his chest shimmered a large piece of gold jewelry, catching the sun. No matter his harsh demeanor, as the Norseman watched the ruin of his landing party, he must have decided discretion was the wiser choice. He shouted an order in Norse to his warriors to row for the open sea.
Somerled heaved a sigh of relief as the Norse in the remaining longships pulled at the oars with all their might. As they set out to sea, the war song of Somerled and his warriors called to them from the blood-soaked beach.
Angus, wiping the blood from his face, came up to Somerled. “What made you think to rip out their hearts?”
Somerled liked not the grisly gesture but it had been necessary. “They are no Christians. As pagans, they had to believe we were more vicious than they, else they would not have fled as they were more than twice our number.”
“The show worked,” said Angus, shifting his gaze to the blood running from Somerled’s upper arm. “You are wounded, Brother.”
Only then did Somerled feel the pain of his wound. “’Tis nothing. Scratches from the pirates; they did not stop me.”
Somerled gave his brother a wide smile as he wiped the blood from his face. He had successfully fought back the Norse raiders who had, with greater numbers, defeated his father and killed the MacInnes chief. He and his men had dispensed justice for Drimnin and added two longships to their growing fleet.
He felt as if destiny had taken him by the hand and was leading him forward.
“Lord,” one man said approaching Somerled, “shoul
d we roast the dead cattle for the evening meal?”
Surprised at the manner of address, he nodded, “Aye, the men will be hungry. Put the beasts to good purpose, and the men not needed for that task shall return with me to Drimnin to bury the dead.” The man and his companions raced up the hill, eager for the meat they would dine on this night. They had not eaten so well in some time.
Somerled and Angus walked among their warriors still on the beach. Only a few of his men had been badly wounded and they were being tended by ones who had a talent for healing. Another half dozen sported wounds that were slight in nature.
“We found the girls,” said Domnall coming toward him with two young women in tow, their faces still showing fright but also relief at being rescued. “They were tied in the bow of one of the ships left behind.”
Down the hill ran the two boys from Drimnin, shouting their joy. “Deidre!”
The girl, who had the same dark coloring as her brothers, opened her arms and swept the two lads into her embrace. “Thank God you live, little brothers,” said Deidre, hugging them tightly. Tears streamed down her cheeks. “I thought never to see you again.”
The other girl smiled at the scene before her, but Somerled saw only despair and sadness in her eyes. Did she have a sister or brother lost to the raiders’ axes? Likely so. “There are no others?” she asked hopefully.
The older boy shook his head balefully. “Nay, Lucia, only us.”
Her expression was pained and her body rigid as if she were making a great effort not to give in to hysteria. When her tears flowed freely and she looked to collapse, the other girl bore her up.
The bittersweet reunion caused Somerled to shake his head in sorrow. “I am sorry we did not arrive sooner.”
“You did what you could,” said Deidre. Then casting a glance at the blood-soaked bodies on the beach, she said, “You avenged our kin.”
“Know this,” said Somerled, “you will all have a home with the MacInneses. Good men and their wives.”
As the Drimnin youth slowly climbed up the hill, leaving the dead Norse to be piled up and burned by his men, Somerled continued his walk among his warriors still on the beach. On the faces of all were smiles like he had never seen before, the smiles of free men. They had not fought for the kings of Ireland, Scotland or England. They were Highlanders and Islesmen who had fought for their people and the lochs, glens and bens that held their hearts.
His heart swelled in his chest.
They had wanted Somerled to lead them and so he would, not just to free them from the Norse, but to secure for them a kingdom independent of the foreign powers surrounding them. A place where their children and their children’s children could thrive.
To his men who were not among the wounded, he said, “We will wash the blood of the defeated from us and then go to Drimnin to bury the slain.” A large group broke off from the others and, once they had washed in the waters of the sound, followed him up the coast to see to the somber task.
When the deed was accomplished, he and Domnall led the men south, back to the top of the rise.
As they approached, Somerled’s mouth watered at the smell of the cattle being roasted. He had not eaten all day save for the stale bread and smoked fish he’d had that morning. “I am reminded that I must pay the farmer for his cattle. I would not take from our own.”
“Aye, Somerled, I will see it done,” said Domnall. With a grin, he added, “In addition to the girls, we found gold beneath the boards in the two longships we recovered.”
“See if the MacInnes man who took the boys will take the girls. Whoever agrees to raise the Drimnin children should receive some of the gold.”
Domnall nodded and went about the task.
When the meat was cooked, Somerled, his cousin and brother sat with him in front of the blazing fire and feasted on thick slices of roast beef.
“The men are calling you the Thane of Argyll,” said his brother. “You have earned the title and, by rights as our father’s eldest son, it should be yours.”
Somerled wiped the meat’s juice from his mouth. That the men had called him “thane” pleased him but there was yet more to reclaim before he would feel comfortable with the title “Lord”.
His mouth hitched up as he considered his younger brother. “If I be the Thane of Argyll, then you are surely now Chief of the MacInnes.”
Angus smiled sheepishly. “The men have spoken of it.”
“Good.” Somerled gazed across the Sound of Mull as the sun drifted low in the sky turning a blood red, the ominous hue reflected in the glistening waters of the sound. He hoped it would keep the superstitious Norse from their shores. “Tomorrow, we retrieve our other ships and go to Mull where the rogue Norse still prey upon our people.” And then with a smile, he added, “We have need of more of the enemy’s longships for our many warriors.”
Domnall slapped him on the back. “Aye, Cousin, more ships!”
Somerled now had five longships and two galleys. Enough for his men but, if they were to reclaim all that the Norse had taken from them, they must fight more battles where they would gain more ships. Ships that could defeat the Norse dragonships.
In the back of his mind, he had a thought to build a fleet of galleys and an idea about how to make them turn more quickly. “I’ve an idea to replace the steering board on the right side of the ships we have with a moveable stern rudder. ’Twould render them more maneuverable. In a close sea battle, our galleys would be faster.”
“Aye,” said his brother, “’tis a worthy idea.”
“It has not been done before,” said Domnall, “but I can see how it might work as you conceive.”
Sipping ale from his goatskin, Somerled sat back and stared into the fire, seeing the future as he imagined it. Around him, his men ate and drank, speaking in low voices.
His thoughts on the day were mixed. They had not been able to spare Drimnin but they had rescued a remnant and obtained justice for the others. One by one, he would retake the coastal lands and the isles of his forefathers. As the people were being freed of the Norse yoke, he would turn his attention to the isle that had never left his mind—the Isle of Man.
CHAPTER 4
Castle Rushen, Isle of Man, autumn 1137 A.D.
BOISTEROUS CONVERSATION erupted in Olaf’s ears. His chieftains and their wives and his full contingent of warriors packed the hall and filled the trestles. There were a few guests as well, visitors from Orkney sent by Earl Rognvald to assure Olaf of the earl’s continued interest in an alliance and his daughter’s hand.
Torches flamed in sconces set into the stone walls and candles burned on the trestles and high table, giving the great hall a warm glow. The fire flickering in the hearth added heat to the large space though Olaf suspected it would not be a terribly cold night.
Spirits were high and lighthearted frivolity prevailed as the farmers congratulated themselves on producing a great crop of barley, oats and rye. The monks had brought a goodly supply of ale to make hearts merry and roasted meat from the island’s cattle filled hungry bellies.
Minstrels added to the pleasant evening with their flute, lyre and wooden lurs. Olaf had enjoyed the music in King Henry’s court and had insisted they have similar bards and minstrels at his court on Man.
With his wife on one side, his daughter on the other and Godred, his young heir, asleep above stairs, Olaf was content, at war with no one, save possibly the Norse renegades that preyed on Skye and the Northern Isles under his lordship.
Olaf inclined his head to get a better look at Abbot Bernard, sitting on the other side of the princess. The priest had come at Olaf’s invitation to share in the celebration. It made his daughter happy to include him and the man of God was well liked and generally good company.
More than a year ago, Olaf bid Godspeed to Earl Rognvald as he departed, telling him to return the following spring if he was still of a mind to have the princess as his bride. The earl’s absence since then had lifted Ragnhild’s spirits. Tho
ugh his wife, Affraic, would have it otherwise, Olaf was in no hurry to marry off his daughter, more especially after Abbot Bernard had told him the Norse pirates were in retreat. Perhaps he might not need the earl’s strength to keep the raiders at bay.
When spring came and flowers bloomed across the isle, a messenger arrived from Orkney with Rognvald’s missive telling Olaf that he had not lost interest in the princess but the affairs of Orkney would keep him occupied for some time. Olaf smiled to himself. After all, Earl Rognvald had to make good on that promise he’d made to the people of Orkney to erect a great cathedral. His delay in returning to Man was not inopportune.
Ragnhild was an intelligent voice among his advisors, one he did not want to lose. None could argue with the way she kept his household, nor the tapestries she and her late mother had made that graced his hall. More than Affraic, Ragnhild was a gracious hostess to his guests. The queen was content to let the princess manage the servants and attend their guests. As he thought about it, he sighed. One day, he would have to let Ragnhild go yet it did not have to be soon.
“Abbot Bernard,” Olaf said, leaning across his daughter to address the priest, “Did you send the message to your fellow priest on Lismore asking about that Gael? The one you told me was chasing away the Norse raiders from the coast and the Isles?”
“I did, Sire. Somerled is the Gael’s name and, at your direction, he now has your invitation to come to Man.”
“Sumarliðr,” said Olaf, letting the sound roll off his tongue. “A Norse name.”
“He is rumored to have a Norse mother,” the priest continued, “but he fights for the Gaels in Argyll as one of them.”
“A Norse-Gael?” Olaf asked. He should not be surprised. There were many pairings of Norse and Gaels as the Norse settled in Ireland and the Hebrides. His own ancestors had been some of those.
The abbot nodded. “’Tis said he is wily and bold, a leader of men. And his fame spreads with the number of dragonships he has acquired from the Norse pirates he has vanquished.”