by Regan Walker
Withdrawing his blade, Somerled wiped it on the Norseman’s tunic. Then he turned to the boy, who still held his sword ready. “Who are you, lad, and where did you learn to fight so well?
The boy, tall for his age, ripped off his hat. Long tendrils of auburn hair fell nearly to her waist. Falling to her knees, the young woman said, “I am no lad, Lord, but your servant, Liadan MacGilleain.”
For once in his life, Somerled was speechless. She was a beauty by any man’s standard. And she had fought like a man, never wavering.
“It was my eldest brother who taught me to use the sword. Diarmad took our galley north to join your ships. My younger brother, Brian, fights here this day.”
Her eyes were a vivid gray, a likely source of her name, which meant gray lady. “You did well,” he told her. “If your brother, Diarmad, is half so skilled, I am glad he is one of my men.”
He started to walk toward the others when she called him back. “I would go with you when you sail, my lord. Because few believe a woman can be skilled with a sword, I could guard your back.”
“What is your age, Liadan?”
“Seven and ten summers, my lord.”
It was the age Somerled’s father had arranged his own brief marriage. Old enough to sire a son but too young to command men as he did now. He was tempted to put her off. She’d be safer on Islay once the pirates were gone. But she lifted his spirits, standing there proud and undaunted, her shoulders back, meaning every word. Doubtless, she would guard his back, but she would create problems among the men. “We will see,” he said, sheathing his sword.
Around him, he saw mostly dead or captured Norsemen. A few of his own had fallen along with a dozen brave villagers who had died defending their holdings and families. Women cried over their loss but the men still standing seemed pleased their village had been saved.
Some distance away, he saw Domnall standing over a cowed enemy—Sweyn Asleifsson on his knees.
As Somerled approached, the Norseman yelled, “Mercy!” Next to Sweyn lay his bloodied companion, Holdbodi Hundasson, still alive but badly wounded.
Somerled narrowed his eyes on his defeated foe. “Why should I show you what you did not show the people of Keills or Drimnin?”
“Give me my life and I will be gone from these shores never to return. You would not kill the right arm of the Earl of Orkney, would you?”
“I might.” Somerled did not trust the pirate but, for his word never to return, he would consider allowing him his life. Too, Sweyn could tell his master that pirates, if he had sent them, would no longer be allowed to prey upon Argyll and the Isles. “Order your men to drop their weapons and I’ll allow you to leave—on one ship. You must vow to never return to Argyll or the shores of Islay.”
Blood flowing from one of his arms, a beleaguered Sweyn said, “You have my word.” He then gave the order that saw the pirates’ weapons dropping to the ground, the sound of metal hitting metal echoing in Somerled’s ears.
Domnall arched a brow but did not question Somerled’s decision. Instead, he prodded the Norseman up. “Get moving!”
Sweyn helped his friend, Holdbodi, up and the two limped back toward shore. Somerled wondered if Holdbodi would live to see Orkney.
The rest of the wounded and captured Norsemen, now weaponless, were herded by Somerled’s men back to the ships.
When they arrived, Sweyn stared open-mouthed at his two remaining dragonships, a look of shock on his dirt-smudged face. He spit out an oath. “My warriors?”
“The pirates on one of your ships, unwilling to confront my men, sailed without you,” said Somerled. “Your third ship is now mine, along with your weapons and shields. You may leave on the remaining ship. Be certain to tell the Earl of Orkney that no invaders will be allowed in the lands of the Lord of Argyll, Kintyre and Lorne. Islay, too, is under my protection and will forever be a stronghold of our clans.”
Sweyn, his face twisted in a grimace, nodded once.
The Norse pirates climbed aboard their remaining longship. To Domnall, Somerled said, “Mark the ship so we will know if ever it appears again.”
Guarded by Somerled’s men, Domnall and Maurice lifted the carved dragon head free from the stem post and pitched it off the side of the ship. Then Domnall raised an axe and struck the bow keel post, chopping it off, so as to render the longship without a soul in the eyes of the Norsemen.
Sweyn glared at Somerled from the deck of his longship, his men pulling the wounded aboard while casting fearful glances at the maimed keel post.
Somerled returned the pirate’s harsh glare. “You should not have come, Sweyn. I have not forgotten Drimnin, nor do I forgive you the lives you have taken. I showed you mercy where you rendered none. But I say this, if you return to these shores, your life will be forfeit.”
Without another word, the bedraggled pirates took to the oars, rowing south toward Ireland. “He does not return to Orkney?” asked Angus, joining him to watch the departing ship’s sail rise.
“Oh, he may go to Ireland for a short while, licking his wounds, but I doubt not he will return to his den in Orkney to whine to his master.”
“Ireland will be none too glad to see him,” offered Maurice.
“Do we sail for Kintyre?” asked Liadan, coming out of nowhere to stand beside Somerled.
Amused, he asked her, “And how do you know that is our destination, lass?”
“I listened to your men talking,” she said, raising her head proudly. “If you allow it, I would be your spy, my lord. I am very good at listening behind doors.”
Somerled chuckled, doubting not she spoke truth. He looked around, seeing no man near her. “Did your brother give his permission for you to sail with us?”
She clutched a small bundle to her chest and averted her gaze, wiping away the tears that began to flow down her cheeks. In a small voice, she said, “My brother Brian died this day.”
Somerled was truly sorry for her loss. “Your brother is a hero then and will be celebrated as such. And what of your parents?”
“Gone to Heaven, my lord,” she said, looking up at him, her gray eyes pleading.
“Well then,” said Somerled, “there is nothing for it but to take you with us.” To Angus, he said, “What think you of our new crew?”
Liadan’s eyes grew bright at his acceptance of her wish to accompany him.
“Why not?” said Angus. “It is clear she will serve no other. But you will have to keep her close, else the men will compete for her attention. She is a bonny lass.”
“If they try anything with her,” said Somerled, giving Liadan a smile, “they will get a knife in the gut. And it will not be mine. I have seen her fight.”
“Do we depart for Kintyre?” asked Domnall, his expression one of concern.
Aware of his men’s fatigue and the waning day, Somerled said, “Nay, the tide will soon change and not in our favor. Besides, we may be able to offer aid to the people of Keills. Tomorrow morning will be soon enough and the tide will be running south through the sound.”
Somerled left a small contingent of his men with the ships and set off on the short return trip through the woods to Keills, his warriors and Liadan falling into step behind him.
They arrived on the fertile plain that was home to the village to see the men piling the bodies of the Norse pirates at the far end to be burned. “We have come to help where we may,” Somerled told a man who approached them.
“Aye, we could use some.”
“Shall we send some of the men off to hunt deer for the evening meal?” asked Maurice.
Somerled nodded. “For certes, the villagers would appreciate it. The herds would be culled by this time.”
Maurice gathered a group of his archers and headed off to the hills.
Somerled dispatched the rest of his men to help where they could while he and Angus went to the chapel. “I want to see what damage the Norse raiders have done.”
With Liadan at his back, where she seemed most conte
nt, Somerled and Angus headed toward the old stone chapel. A graveyard with stone slabs stood off to one side. He glanced at Liadan. “Are your parents buried here?”
She nodded, silent and somber.
He patted her shoulder, much as he would one of his men. “We’ll see your brother laid to rest beside them ere we leave.”
Liadan looked up at him with grateful eyes, the color matching the brooding sky. “Thank you, Lord.”
In the chapel, the altar remained intact but the pirates had taken whatever had stood upon it. “Likely, we’ll find the vessels scattered where they dropped them.”
“I can find them,” Liadan volunteered.
“A holy task, lass. See it is done and then find us when we stop to eat.”
Somerled watched the girl hurry toward the center of the village, still wearing the attire of warrior. “It is best she be about some task without time to agonize over her loss,” he said to Angus. “There will be time to mourn when we say the words over her brother’s grave.”
“Aye, and a sad day it will be.”
Somerled heaved a sigh. “’Twould be sadder if we’d not come.” In the distance, he heard the bellowing of the red deer harts, reminding him the rutting season was upon them. At least the Norse invaders had not stopped the cycle of life on the island.
A few hours later, what work they could do was done. The light was beginning to fade as fires were lit and the deer taken in his archers’ hunt had been set to roasting over the flames. Both the villagers and Somerled’s men, including those guarding the ships, would soon feast on venison.
They sat around the fires, warming themselves against the chill. Somerled drew his woolen mantle around him as the flames sent sparks rising into the night air. His mind drifted to the scene at the chapel where the pirates had shown little respect for the center of the villagers’ worship.
Islay had been a place of faith in the tradition of Columba for centuries and Somerled revered its past. “It occurs to me,” he said to himself as much as to his men gathered around him, “Islay would be a worthy place to base our Kingdom of the Isles.”
Liadan scooted closer. “Lord, there is a long loch in the moorlands not far from here, named for St. Findlugan, the Irish monk. Near the shore is an island that St. Columba is said to have visited.”
“An island within an island,” Somerled muttered, liking the sound of it. “But so far from the sea?”
“Nay, not far,” she said. “’Tis a few hours’ walk from there to the great sea loch Indaal where you could beach more than a hundred longships and galleys.”
Somerled ran his hand over his well-trimmed beard. The idea of a hundred galleys and longships bringing the clan chiefs to a safe place where they could deliberate matters of importance greatly appealed. He would need such a place if the kingdom he envisioned drew chiefs from all the Isles and the coast. “At dawn, I would see this loch you speak of.”
“Aye, Lord, I can take you there,” said Liadan.
The Isle of Man
RAGNHILD’S EYES LIT WITH PLEASURE at the small emerald leaves embroidered at her wrists and on the hem of her gold silk gown. “The embroidery is exquisite, Cecily.” The fabric had been a gift from a visiting noble, the bliaut the one she would wear when she was presented to David, the King of Scots.
Cecily, Ragnhild’s handmaiden, smiled, her dark hair making her blue eyes more striking. “I thought the small green leaves would be a reflection of your eyes, my lady.” Only a few years older than her mistress, Cecily was skilled with a needle and thread. More than her skill, Ragnhild valued her friendship. There were few women on the isle who could be a close companion to Olaf’s daughter. Affraic had her women who came of an afternoon to stitch with her but their gossip left Ragnhild wishing for more interesting conversation. Cecily provided a worthy friend but not always the conversation Ragnhild longed for. Mayhap she would find it at King David’s court.
The shimmering gown hugged her curves until it flared out at her hips to form the full skirt. The long sleeves were tightly fitted to the wrist where they joined graceful folds of silk reaching nearly to the floor. Her long red hair hung loose beneath the circlet of gold on her head from which hung a transparent silk veil flowing down her back. “I have never been to King David’s court. I do hope my appearance will bring honor to my father. I wouldn’t want him to be seen as less by the Scots.”
“Worry not, Mistress. You are a king’s daughter and will outshine their women.”
Just then, the king appeared at her door. “I have something for you, my beautiful daughter.” For a moment he looked sad, as if remembering a time past. “It was prized by your mother. Ingibiorg asked me to give it to you when you were a woman full grown, which you are.”
Her father handed Ragnhild a small velvet bag, embroidered with silver thread in a scrolling Norse design. She turned it over letting its contents spill into her hand. She inhaled sharply at the singular beauty of the necklace she had not thought about in years. “I remember my mother wore this once when I was a child.” In the center of the necklace of onyx beads hung a gilded cross, its arms equal. At the center of the cross was an onyx stone.
She met her father’s thoughtful gaze. Though a daughter of a king, Ragnhild rarely wore jewelry, but she would proudly display this beautiful reminder of her mother. “I will treasure it always.”
Cecily came alongside her to admire the necklace. “’Tis a rare piece of fine workmanship.”
Ragnhild was glad her mother had left her no pagan symbol but an emblem of the true faith. “Thank you, Father.”
“’Tis an unusual cross,” he said. “Likely acquired by your grandfather Earl Hakon from a Byzantine merchant.” As he made to leave, he turned. “Attend to your packing, Daughter. We leave two days’ hence.”
When he had gone, Cecily said, “The onyx will look wonderful around your neck when you wear this gown. ’Tis said King David, though he be your father’s age, is handsome of face and now widowed yet still young enough to sire more children. You will not go unnoticed by him.”
“I don’t want to marry a man my father’s age, Cecily, not even the King of Scots. Besides, they also say that he loved his wife, Matilda, and like his mother, Queen Margaret, David is pious. Perhaps he does not wish to wed again. He already has his heir.”
“Well, you need not consider the Scots king. At his court there will be other men who would gladly seek the hand of the beautiful and wealthy Princess of Man.”
Ragnhild gazed out the arrow slit in her chamber to the blue sea beyond, pondering her handmaiden’s words. Her mind filled with questions. If many nobles flocked to King David’s court at Irvine, might her father seek to barter her hand anew or was he set on the Earl of Orkney? Her own mother had been the daughter of one of Orkney’s earls so Olaf had before sought their alliance through marriage.
Into Ragnhild’s mind came the face of Lord Somerled, the golden warrior who had never been far from her thoughts since the day he left Man. Could a man desire more than her physical appearance and her father’s wealth? Was Somerled such a man?
CHAPTER 7
Dunaverty Bay on the Mull of Kintyre
SOMERLED SIGHED his relief as the wide beach at Dunaverty Bay on the southern tip of Kintyre came into view. The setting sun cast streaks of gold and copper onto the land and the sea. Where the waters receded from the shore, the wet sand appeared like sparkling gemstones. After the gray clouds and mists of Islay, the azure sky streaked with gold lifted his mood from the somber leave-taking following the burials at Keills.
The only bright spot had been his dawn walk to the hidden loch named for St. Findlugan. There, autumn had painted the bracken on the deer-covered hills brown but there were vast areas of greensward at the base of the gently sloping hills that circled the loch.
Wild geese and ducks inhabited the shores, including sheldrakes with their striking black and white plumage and red bills. Golden eagles soared above the loch’s silver waters causing him to ra
ise his eyes to the cloud-filled sky.
As he had gazed at the loch, he imagined a great hall rising from the island nestled close to shore. There, the clan chiefs could gather to deliberate great matters. He had walked along the shore of the loch that morning, experiencing a great peace. In the distance, he had seen the mountains on the neighboring Isle of Jura called the Paps, so named because of their shape like a woman’s breasts. At the northern end of the loch, there were two ancient standing stones, reminding him that centuries ago, the ancients had lived there.
His stronghold on Loch Findlugan would not require a stone castle, for it would be easily defended. And its purpose would not be to protect the sea lanes but to shelter the center of his lordship. It would be a fine spot for a redheaded princess to race her horse without concern for invaders. A lump formed in his throat as he considered the future that might be. A future he very much wanted.
Somerled’s musing came to an end as his crew’s singing ceased and they rowed hard for the Dunaverty shore. He glanced up at the familiar cliffs rising on the left side of the bay now reflecting the golden sun. He did not look long at those cliffs for the other side of the bay held more interest for him. There, a large headland jutted out from shore ending in the huge Dunaverty Rock.
The craggy outcropping would serve well as the foundation for the castle he would build that would guard the sea lanes in this part of his kingdom.
Somerled’s warriors, who had remained on Kintyre, had beached their galleys and longships in the wide crescent of sand, their colorful shields decorating the rails.
As his longships met the sand, men came running to meet him with shouts of welcome. Gaels, Scots and Irishmen still formed the ranks of his warbands. At the sound of the men rushing forward, shorebirds scurried out of the way and seals, resting on the rocks nearby, raised their heads in inquiry.
When they first came to Dunaverty Bay, his men had camped onshore but now they lived in a settlement of thatched cottages they built for their families who would join them. The castle would be the eventual home for many.