Summer Warrior (The Clan Donald Saga Book 1)

by Regan Walker

  As they sailed farther down Arran’s coast, the brown mountains turned into green rolling hills, broken only by stands of whitebeam trees. The weather on Arran being mild, patches of wildflowers still dotted the hills.

  They put in at Lamlash because of its good harbor and its long beach with both shingle and sand. Small boats were pulled up onshore, the kind used by local fishermen, though no men were in evidence.

  “The bay must be full of fish, Lord,” said Liadan, pointing to a flock of birds floating on the water. “The diver birds are reaping a rich harvest.”

  Somerled’s eyes were drawn to the flock of the great black and white birds repeatedly diving beneath the water to bring up their dinner of what looked to be cod and whiting. In the air above, gannets dove from great heights to compete for the same fish. He was reminded that those were the birds he was admiring on the Isle of Man the first time he had glimpsed Ragnhild riding her white horse.

  Heaving a sigh, he turned his attention to the isle before him.

  Arrayed along the shore was a village with smoke rising from hearth fires. Facing the village, across the bay, was the small Holy Isle, so named for the seventh century Irish monk who had once dwelled there.

  Behind the village rose cultivated slopes. Large stands of trees stood like guards on either side. Despite David’s steward, Fitz Alan, having pronounced the isle “unproductive”, Somerled did not find it so. While it was possibly true that much of the isle might be best left as pasture for cattle, by the look of it, the farmers here grew flax.

  The villagers came to meet them, their expressions curious. Aware he was often taken for a Norseman, Somerled introduced himself and told them a little of his background. As on Bute, they had heard of him. A few asked sharp questions. He had expected they would. He explained his purpose in landing on Arran. “We’ll not be a burden to you,” he told the men, “unless King David calls upon us to aid him. And you will not see the Norse returning.”

  “Aye, all know of the great Somerled who has given the Gaels their freedom,” said a man of middle years. “We are not unhappy to be under your protection. King David’s steward paid us little mind and we feared the Norse would return.”

  Women crept out to see the visitors, children hiding behind their skirts. Liadan was a subject of much interest as she was the only woman with them, so Somerled explained her presence as he had at Irvine. “Liadan is from Islay and we are taking her to her brother, who serves me in Morvern.” While that was Somerled’s intention, she would likely not see her brother until summer.

  Soon thereafter, the sun set behind the distant hills, making the day seem shorter than it ought to even in October. That night, the villagers cooked fish and roasted geese over an open fire, inviting Somerled and his men to partake. “’Tis very generous of you,” he said, accepting their invitation.

  “The fish are always abundant and the geese are plentiful this time of year,” one woman said. “We are happy to share.”

  After they ate, Somerled’s men shared stories with the villagers of their battles while the local people told him of life under the harsh rule of the Norse.

  “They despoiled our most comely daughters and killed any man who challenged them. We were treated like slaves to do their bidding and deprived of all our weapons, save for those we needed to clean fish.” The faces of the men were glum as they recited instances of abuse.

  “Aye,” said Somerled, “it was the same in Argyll. But now you are free to forge weapons to defend yourselves should you have need. All the men of the isles should be warriors as well as farmers and men who raise cattle. They must train to fight.”

  That night, they took shelter with the villagers who welcomed them into their homes. Liadan was the guest of one family with a daughter her age while the men slept in other cottages on the floor wrapped in their woolen mantles.

  Somerled was offered the bed of the village leader and declined. “I have slept in caves in Morvern, on my ship and on the forest floor in many other places. I will not take a good man’s bed from him. Grant me a space on your floor and I am content.”

  The leader nodded. “Aye, Lord. It shall be as you wish.”

  The next morning, he and his men rose with the dawn. Somerled walked to the shore and gazed east. The sun rising behind Holy Isle rendered the small island a dark silhouette. Visiting his new isles had been necessary but now he was eager to build.

  They broke their fast with bread the villagers offered them and shared the herring they had brought from the Isle of Bute.

  Somerled asked them to let the other villages know that the isle was now under his protection, which they gladly agreed to do. “Aye, we’ll spread the word,” said an older man among them.

  Their leave-taking was warm, all things considered. Once strangers, they were now friends. The men and women, even the children, gathered on the shore to shout “Godspeed!” and wave to Somerled as his men rowed his ship away.

  THE RETURN TO DUNAVERTY BAY on Kintyre was a short one, owing to the wind from the south which allowed them good time. They arrived just before noon. Those coming to greet them were a smaller number than the last time.

  “Most of the men are in the woods cutting timber,” said Ruairi, coming to greet him. “Some are fishing. We did not expect you so soon.”

  “’Tis no matter,” he told Ruairi, “I will not be here long. I have much to tell you but, for now, come meet the stonemasons whose services King David has given us to help with our castle building.”

  Before they could move toward the masons, Ruairi’s children ran to greet Somerled. “Did you bring us anything, Uncle Somerled?” asked Ceana.

  He laughed. “Aye, a pretty riband for you to match your blue eyes.” The ten-year-old girl’s wide smile told him he had chosen well when he’d asked Maurice to fetch it while they were still in Irvine. “And for you, young master,” he said to Bran, “a wooden sword to practice with.”

  The boy grinned. “Really?” He looked around. “Where is it?”

  “Have no worry, Maurice will bring both your sister’s riband and your sword from the ship.”

  That said, Somerled was forgotten as the children ran toward his longship.

  The masons were introduced to Ruairi, who invited all into his home. Over a midday meal of trout and salmon, Somerled shared all that had happened. Everyone had something to say.

  “I liked David,” Somerled interposed between the comments of the others, “and I believe we shall do well together.” To Somerled, this had been the great success of the voyage to Irvine. He now had the respect of two kings, David and Olaf. He had only to secure his bride.

  “You gained much,” said Ruairi’s wife, Aileas, her light brown hair confined to one plait. “Two of King David’s fine masons and two isles!”

  The Master Mason, d’Harcourt, smiled. “As Lord Somerled has explained to me, there are many castles and much work for us.”

  “Aye,” said Somerled, “there is. This afternoon, I’ll take our two guests to Dunaverty Rock to see what they think of it. And tomorrow, when I sail to Islay, I want the Master Mason to travel north to the places we have in mind for other castles.” Turning to d’Harcourt, he said, “What say you to your partner remaining behind to design the castle here and help cut the stone?”

  “C’est acceptable, provided I have time to instruct Aubri in what is to be done.”

  Somerled nodded his agreement. “We will make sure you have the time.” To Ruairi, he said, “Since you are a MacInnes, I thought you might be the one to take d’Harcourt to Morvern.”

  Ruairi glanced at his wife. “Aye, I would like that if I can take my family.”

  Aileas’ face brightened at the prospect. “It would be good to see my family in Morvern and the children their grandparents.”

  The young ones looked from their parents to Somerled. “An adventure!” exclaimed Bran.

  “Then ’tis done,” said Somerled with a chuckle. “Will you stay here for the winter, Angus, to overs
ee whatever work our masons require?”

  “Aye, Brother. I’ll stay. A few months on land might be a welcome change.”

  “Domnall,” Somerled addressed his cousin, “I’ve a mission for you as well. I want you to take one of the galleys and sail north to check on the settlements in Argyll, and to ask if any Norse have been pillaging their shores.”

  His cousin shot a look at Liadan before replying. “As you wish.”

  “You might consider spending Christmas in Morvern,” Somerled added. “And then join me on Islay in the spring.” Later, he would remind his cousin that Liadan’s brother, Diarmad, had taken his galley to Ardtornish in Morvern. Should the lass be amenable, Domnall could seek her brother’s approval to court her. He would also have to carry the story of the battle on Islay and the sad news that Diarmad’s brother, Brian, had been slain by the raiding Norse.

  “Then you can look for me in early spring,” Domnall replied, his eyes on Liadan.

  Somerled nodded. “Good. Maurice and Liadan will sail with me to Islay.” He had no intention of having her sail to Morvern with his cousin, however noble Domnall might be. He was still a man in love.

  When the meal was finished, Somerled thanked Aileas and took the trail that led to the top of the great rock jutting into the sea, the two masons and their servant following in his wake.

  “The foundation will be sure,” said d’Harcourt, “but getting the stones up here will take much effort. I will think on the design before we depart tomorrow.”

  The next morning, Somerled sailed for Islay with two longships and seventy men. He had recruited all those willing to winter on Islay and construct the timber hall and lodge. A few were good carpenters, even galley builders.

  Ruairi wanted another day to prepare to sail north with the stonemason.

  Somerled’s instructions were that, when Ruairi finally sailed, he was to begin with Ardtornish. “Mayhap it will be a timber castle for now, built on the remains of the old hill fort, but a stone castle will follow. You and the Master Mason will be the judge.” The wind-swept point that overlooked the Sound of Mull was strategically important to Somerled’s plans. From there, he could control the sea lanes giving access to Morvern and Moidart as well as the main routes to the Hebrides. “And make sure the mason sees Ewan MacSuibhne’s castle in Knapdale. For certes, Ewan will want to meet d’Harcourt.”

  “Are you certain you do not wish to take the mason to Ardtornish yourself?” asked Ruairi with a skeptical look.

  “Nay, I must go to Islay. I want to see the timber hall and outbuildings standing by winter.” In truth, he wanted to do both but the timber castle on Islay could be completed long before the other castles. Should he win Ragnhild’s hand, he would need a place to bring his bride.

  CHAPTER 11

  Loch Indaal, Isle of Islay, late October 1137 A.D.

  THE AFTERNOON SUN broke through the clouds above Islay, turning the waters of Loch Indaal silver as the southerly winds drove Somerled’s longship toward the northern shore of the great sea loch.

  Thousands of white-faced, black-throated Barnacle geese that, a moment before, had been resting on the water took to the air. So great were their numbers, they darkened the sky as their loud clamor of calls sounded over the loch.

  A short while later, Somerled and his men reached the sand and beached their longships.

  Maurice, who had commanded the second ship, waved to Somerled as he climbed down to the sand, the wind blowing his ebony hair across his face.

  Somerled’s men took in the sail and he jumped down from his ship, excited for what lay ahead.

  “Between fish, geese and deer, feeding the men will present no problem!” shouted Maurice above the raucous cries of the geese flocking above.

  “Aye,” Somerled shouted back, “we will work hard but eat well.”

  Once the men had gathered onshore, some of the geese resettled themselves onto the water and Somerled addressed the men. “We will camp at Findlugan’s Loch tonight and, at first light tomorrow, we’ll begin cutting timber, enough oak for the buildings we need. I am hoping the villagers in Keills will lend us carts and their garron ponies to haul the wood. I want to see the first buildings standing by December so we will have shelter for the winter months.” On Islay, it was not likely to freeze at night, even in the coldest months, but the air would be chilled as they entered November and colder still in the months that followed.

  “I can speak to the villagers,” Liadan offered. “After what you did for them, they will be most willing to help and some have good carpentry skills.”

  “Aye,” said Maurice, “’tis a good plan, lass.”

  They followed the ancient path leading inland to Findlugan’s Loch, the bright yellow gorse on either side lighting their way.

  They arrived at the secluded loch, its serenity disturbed only by curlews, geese and a golden eagle soaring overhead. The rays of the sun, shining through breaks in the cloud-filled sky, were reflected in the rippling waters. At the edge of the loch, reeds swayed with the breeze. To Somerled, the place felt ancient, as if Findlugan himself still walked the grass-covered earth.

  While the men set up camp, Somerled walked with Maurice and Liadan to the loch’s northern shore where he had first glimpsed the two islands. Beneath his boots, the soil was soft and loamy. “See the large island?” he asked them, pointing to the swath of green jutting out of the water close to shore. “The one with the remains of a hill fort on it?”

  “Aye,” said Maurice, “and a smaller island not far from it.”

  Liadan’s auburn hair, freed from her plait, blew about her face as she spoke. “The people of Islay say the larger island once was home to Findlugan and his monks.”

  “All the more reason I would build a great hall here and places for the chieftains to lodge.” Then he thought of Ragnhild and her love for the abbey on the Isle of Man. “And we’ll be needing a chapel.”

  “We will need a timber path over the reed beds,” said Maurice.

  “Aye,” Somerled said, agreeing. “We can lay it on the muddy ground between the island and the shore where the water is at its most shallow depth.” From the first time he had sighted the islands in the loch, he had begun to form pictures in his mind of what his headquarters would look like. And, one day, he would bring horses to the isle. If he gained Ragnhild as his bride, she would want her proud Fairhair to accompany her here.

  That evening, when the men finished setting up camp, Somerled took advantage of the abundant geese, sending some of them off to hunt in the grassy areas around the lake where the birds fed incessantly.

  The sun was beginning to set, casting brilliant streaks of amber across the sky. Somerled used the remaining light to study the drawings he had made for the buildings they would construct. The hall and its kitchen would come first, then other lodgings and finally a chapel.

  An hour later, between the loch’s shore and their camp, a dozen fires sprang up to fill the air with the smell of roasting fowl.

  Somerled sat on a rock, staring into the flickering flames as the dripping meat juices caused the fire to hiss. Behind him lay the chill of the oncoming night and their tents. In the distance, he could hear the cries of the roosting geese.

  Islay soothed his soul, for he was a creature of the Highlands and the Isles as much as the golden eagle. This was home. His spirits soared as he thought of the grand task ahead, the passion that consumed him. Surely God was leading him, for he’d oft been protected from his enemies and gifted with wisdom not his own.

  The dawn saw a gray sky though Somerled was thankful no rain fell. Before breaking their fast, his men had already felled several trees. He left Maurice in charge of the effort and, with Liadan and a few of his men, headed east for the village of Keills.

  When they arrived, Somerled looked around, pleased with what he saw. All had been put to rights; no sign remained of the pirate attack. The villagers rushed up to greet them. It was obvious Liadan had been missed as the women embraced her and
inquired of her wellbeing.

  Smiling effusively, she told them, “I have been to Kintyre and to Irvine in Scotland to meet King David!”

  Duly impressed, the women chatted away as Somerled turned to greet the men who approached him. “Welcome, Lord Somerled,” said a powerfully built Gael dressed, like many of the others, in belted tunic and leggings. His long hair and beard were black, making him look formidable. “I am Duncan MacEachern, the smith.”

  Shaking the smith’s hand, he said, “I come to ask for your help, for I would build a headquarters for the clans at Findlugan’s Loch.”

  “Aye, that is to the good,” said MacEachern, “and we can help see it done.”

  By the time they set off for the loch, Somerled had with him several village men, including those skilled in carpentry. The blacksmith insisted on coming along, giving Somerled some story about making sure his men had sufficient arrowheads. Somerled thought the smith was intrigued by the prospect of construction on the island in Findlugan’s loch.

  “Has there been any news of raiders on Islay since we left?” he asked MacEachern as they walked along.

  “Nay, none here and the word from the other parts of Islay is that they have gone.”

  That night around the fires, they discussed all they would do on the islands in Findlugan’s Loch as well as things to come. When the wind picked up, they damped down the fires with peat and Somerled, drawing his cloak more tightly around him, talked of the future. “The battles are not over and we must remain vigilant lest the pirates return with a vengeance. Until our strongholds rise from the land, our galleys and longships must keep the sea lanes safe from the pirates.”

  “Aye,” said one of the villagers. “We have heard tales of the pirates attacking to the north of Morvern.”

  Somerled had heard the Norse pirates built dragonships on Skye but, despite their presence, he believed the Gaels were winning. “One day,” he said, staring into the fire, “the descendants of the ancient Dalriada warriors will again have a home that is their own, a place where they will forever be free and seas on which to sail our hundreds of galleys.”