by Regan Walker
Liadan scanned the room. “’Tis bare. The women of Keills could do much to make this a more welcoming space.”
Duncan spoke up. “They have already helped a great deal to make the lord’s lodgings comfortable. There, you will find a large bed with a goose feather cushion, warm furs and pillows.”
In his mind, Somerled envisioned Ragnhild spread out across the large bed, her long red hair strewn across the pillow, waiting for her lord. He sighed, hoping the vision would, one day, be reality. For now, he must be concerned for his men. “Are there lodgings for my men besides the floor of the hall?”
“Aye,” said the smith, “we are building them but they are not quite finished. And we thought to have a guards’ house on the shore of the loch.”
“A good idea,” said Somerled.
“Have you food?” asked Liadan, gazing at the bare table.
“Aye, we do,” one man spoke up. “Geese cleaned and ready to roast over the fire and fish caught this morning. The women of Keills brought us apple tarts and root vegetables.”
Somerled’s stomach rumbled when Liadan asked about dinner. He had been hungry even before the long walk from Loch Indaal. Likely, his crew was as well.
“I assure the men eat well,” said Duncan with a hint of pride.
“You are a good man,” said Somerled, patting the smith on the back. “Tell us what we can do to help.”
“I’ll get the men started with dinner and, while the geese are roasting outside, I want to show you the other buildings.” With a look of satisfaction at all they had accomplished, Duncan said, “I think you will be pleased, my lord.”
“I am already pleased. And I am eager to join the men in finishing all we planned. It will soon be time to gather the chiefs.”
CHAPTER 14
The Isle of Man, January 1138 A.D.
CHRISTMAS AND NEW YEAR’S had come and gone with only a few days of frost and much celebration yet, despite this, Ragnhild’s mood had been more subdued than in past years. Not even the Feast of Epiphany was as gay a celebration as it had been before, at least not for her. One man’s absence cast a gray pall over all, much like the sky overhead.
The antics of young Godred, her half-brother, who was now two and walking on unsteady feet, never failed to cheer her, however. And Abbot Bernard’s message of hope at Epiphany had been a comfort, as was his friendship. They played chess by the fire on days with much rain and he read to her from the Gospels.
Both Earl Rognvald, whose attention was apparently still given to his cathedral building according to his message, and Uchtred of Galloway sent her gifts she had not expected.
Rognvald must not have forgotten her hair as he had sent her an exquisite comb carved from antler bone and embedded with silver. Uchtred had sent her a book adorned with beautiful pictures and colors telling a story of King Arthur. His accompanying message expressed the hope he would be there in the spring to read it with her.
They were splendid gifts but neither touched her heart like the browband Somerled had brought her for Fairhair. How could he know a gift for the horse she loved would be more treasured than a gift for herself? She could put away a comb and place a book on a shelf, but the browband Fairhair wore was before her eyes every day—a constant reminder of Somerled’s thoughtfulness and a constant reminder of the man himself.
Clever man.
The short days and often dismal weather kept her inside. But whenever the sun broke through the clouds, she and Fairhair left the castle grounds to ride across the hills to her favorite place where she would gaze at the stormy Irish Sea and wonder about the golden warrior who had come one summer and taken her heart with him when he sailed away.
Isle of Islay, late April, 1138 A.D.
SOMERLED WALKED among the yellow wildflowers blooming on the hillside nearest the loch, letting his fingers trail through the tall grass. It was that glorious time of year when, though still cold, the light was brilliant, the geese were feeding on new grass, preparing for their long journey north, and the midges were yet to arrive. That in-between, gentle season.
On the loch, new sights and sounds replaced the departing geese. At dawn, male thrushes sang for their mates. In the muddy shallows, mating frogs made their presence known with their low rumbled croaking. Water lilies at the edges of the loch gave bloom to delicate flowers. The osprey that lived in the trees fished for trout. And a stately gray heron, hunched over the water, silently watched for fish or mayhap a frog.
All around him, the isle had stirred to life from its winter sleep, making him wonder if Ragnhild was greeting the spring with thoughts of the future.
He and his men had completed the headquarters at Findlugan’s Loch and the Islesmen returned to their plowing and seeding of new crops. But, for Somerled, there were castles to build, a fleet of galleys to construct and Norse pirates to hold in check. He could not remain in one place.
To Liadan’s great joy, Domnall had arrived the day before, bringing news of Norse pirates pillaging the coast of Moidart in the far north of Argyll. Remembering their conversation, Somerled knew he must soon leave Islay.
“When word reached us at Ardtornish of the attacks,” said Domnall, standing with Liadan and Gillecolum just outside the new hall, “I gathered two ships of warriors and sailed after them. We fought them on Moidart’s western shore and chased them north.”
“Was Sweyn Asleifsson one of them?” Somerled asked.
“I did not see him. That is, he was not among the dead. The pirates still alive after the battle did not stay long enough for us to sort them out.”
Liadan swept her gaze over Domnall. “Were you hurt?”
He smiled at her concern. “Nay, just a scratch here and there.”
“What about the Morvern men?” asked Somerled. “Did we lose any?”
“Aye,” said Domnall with downcast eyes. “Two. Others were wounded but there is a healer at Ardtornish who is tending them.”
“Was my brother, Diarmad, among them?” asked Liadan, giving Domnall an anxious look.
“He was among those fighting but not among the wounded. ’Twas his galley that sailed with me, bringing some of the warriors.”
Liadan nodded, sighing in relief. “He is my only brother now.”
“Aye, lass,” said Domnall. His tone was caring, so unlike the warrior Somerled knew. “But take comfort Diarmad is well.”
Somerled cast Domnall an assessing gaze, wondering if he’d spoken to Liadan’s brother about his sister’s future. There would be time for them to talk later. “What you say makes me think we should always have a healer with us. We will soon leave here and sail north. We can ask for volunteers along the way. Mayhap an older healer has a young apprentice he has trained who is willing to sail with us. Or, there might be warriors among us who are learned in tending wounds.”
“Aye, ’tis needed,” said Domnall.
“I know a little of herbs and poultices for wounds,” offered Liadan.
“You do, lass,” said Somerled, “and I thank you for treating my arrow wound. ’Tis now healed.” Not wishing to discourage her, he did not mention he would be loath to take her into battle.
Later, after dinner, Somerled drew Domnall outside to ask if he’d spoken with Liadan’s brother about her.
“I did,” replied Domnall. “He was warm to the idea but asked me to wait until next year when he hoped to return to Islay. He told me, quite directly, that I could use the year to woo her.” Then chuckling, he said, “I thought it best not to hit my future brother-in-law so I agreed and told him I would watch over her even though she sails under your protection.”
“Does Diarmad know she has declared herself my guard?”
“Aye, he found it amusing. He knows his sister well. In truth, he was the one who taught her how to use a sword.”
“It was good he did,” said Somerled, “or she might not have survived the battle at Keills.”
Two days later, Somerled sent a messenger to Kintyre to let his brother know he wa
s leaving Islay for Morvern and, once there, would send Ruairi south so that Angus would be free to join Somerled. On his way north, he planned to stop in Knapdale at Castle Sween to visit Ewan MacSuibhne. Somewhere north of there, Somerled expected he would catch up with Goubert d’Harcourt, his Master Mason, and see what his thoughts were on the construction of the castles.
It was yet another bright spring morning when Somerled and his companions, Domnall, Maurice and Liadan, along with his son, Gillecolum, bid farewell to Duncan MacEachern.
The smith assured Somerled he would take care of the headquarters on Loch Findlugan. “Worry not, Lord. All will be ready when you return.”
Knapdale, Argyll
THEY SAILED TWO GALLEYS out of Loch Indaal, Somerled’s and the one Domnall had taken north. With every hour he had sailed, he thought of the distance his travel was putting between him and Ragnhild. But his mission required it and he hoped she would understand.
Sailing south out of the great sea loch, they turned east, rounding Islay, before heading north into the Sound of Jura. Some distance into the sound, with Somerled’s galley in the lead, they entered Loch Sween, the narrow sea loch in Knapdale where Castle Sween was located.
He watched as the castle came into view. There was none like it in Argyll, a stone fortress built in the Norman fashion, reminding Somerled of Castle Rushen on the Isle of Man.
The hillsides of Knapdale were green with spring, like those on Man when he’d first glimpsed Ragnhild, yet Somerled was keenly aware no jewel-eyed princess would be galloping over them on her white horse. He ignored the longing that rose in his heart and prayed she would still be unwed when he was in a position to claim her.
As they beached the galleys on the small swath of sand just south of the rocky ridge on which the castle rested, he noticed two other galleys. Ewan had more than these two but mayhap the others were on voyages. He hoped Ewan was not on one of those ships.
Somerled, his son, and his companions climbed the hill where he was pleased to find Ewan standing at the arched castle entrance. “I am glad to find you at home.”
“I was expecting you. Recognized your red sail from afar. ’Tis about time you paid me a visit.” With a nod toward Maurice, Domnall and Gillecolum, Ewan said, “Good day to you all. To Maurice, he said, “I have not seen my fellow Irishman for some time.”
“I’ve been busy about Somerled’s work,” said Maurice.
Ewan nodded. “From all I hear, your mission to drive the Norse from Argyll never ends.” To Somerled, he said, “Your French mason has come and gone.”
“Was it a good visit with him?” Somerled asked. He was anxious to know if the stonemason had endured his sea travel and was still enthusiastic about the castles.
“Aye. We talked much about what he was to see. I will tell you about it over some ale and cheese.” It was only afternoon but Ewan loved to eat, as his round belly and full cheeks attested. His shaggy red-brown hair framed what was a perpetually cheerful face. Older than Somerled by a decade, Ewan loved to entertain his Highland friends. His wife, Mary, was always accommodating. Having the only stone castle in Argyll, and being on the route to the north, they often received visitors.
Somerled then introduced his son to Ewan, who was delighted to meet him. “I like having lads about and my son, Michan, who is your age, will be happy for your company. And the lady?”
“It may be difficult for you to believe,” said Somerled, “but this young lady is sister to Diarmad MacGilleain, one of my galley captains. She guards my back.”
“And spies for Lord Somerled,” put in Liadan with a canny smile.
Domnall frowned.
Ewan raised a brow. “Spy, is it?”
“And a good one, too,” said Somerled.
“I know your brother,” Ewan told Liadan. “So, ’tis not hard to believe what you say. Diarmad’s sword is never unsheathed except he draws blood.” To the five of them, he asked, “Are you all well?”
As they walked through the gate to the castle’s inner bailey, Somerled answered for them. “Aye, we are and eager to visit the sites for the castles. Will you come with us?”
Ewan grinned. “I was hoping you’d ask.” It had been Ewan’s idea that he should help oversee the construction of Somerled’s castles so his willingness to accompany them came as no surprise. He would help Somerled find the best places to locate fortresses to guard the sea lanes and make sure the castles were placed as they should be.
Ewan gestured them to the door of the great hall and, once inside, led them to a trestle table where food and ale were being set out. “Tell your men the kitchens will have food for them and they can bed down in the great hall if you are staying the night.”
“If that is an invitation,” said Somerled, “we accept,” taking a seat with the others.
Just as Somerled was lifting his ale to his lips, a woman swept into the great hall, her dark hair in two plaits hanging beneath her cream-colored veil held down with a simple fillet of gold. The crimson tunic she wore was long and flowing with flaring sleeves.
“Ah, Mary is here. Come, love. Our friends have arrived.”
“Good day to you,” she said, crossing the hall to their table, her brown eyes sparkling. Mary was not beautiful but handsome with her long dark plaits. By the looks she gave her husband and those he returned to her, Somerled was convinced she and Ewan were much in love. A pang in his heart reminded him of his own love, now far to the south.
“Ewan has been awaiting your arrival for a sennight,” said Mary, “ever since the hillsides broke into full bloom.”
Somerled set down his ale and introduced Mary to Gillecolum and Liadan. Like Ewan, Mary had met both Domnall and Maurice before.
“You’ve a fine looking son,” she said, smiling at Gillecolum. “My son, Michan, is around here somewhere. You should meet him.” Then with a glance at Liadan, “I did not know you traveled with a young woman.”
“Liadan is sister to Diarmad MacGilleain,” Ewan explained to his wife.
“Ah,” said Mary, “that handsome young man with a quick wit. He has the same auburn hair.”
Liadan smiled. “I hope to see him when we reach Ardtornish.”
Somerled was pleased with the girl from Islay. While Liadan had lost her parents and younger brother and been separated from the remaining one for some time, still she could smile. He glanced at Domnall whose eyes were fixed on the auburn-haired lass. Liadan laughed at Domnall’s stories but, whether she felt more than friendship for Somerled’s cousin, he could not say.
They dined with Ewan and his family that night. Somerled was glad to see Ewan’s son and Gillecolum had become fast friends.
The next morning, Somerled explained his intention to stop at Jura and Lorne as well as the Isle of Mull before setting their course for Ardtornish Point on the north shore of the Sound of Mull in Morvern.
Mary kissed her plump husband and, with the dark-haired Michan, by her side, wished him Godspeed. Ewan waved to his wife and son and climbed aboard Somerled’s galley as they departed the shores of Loch Sween, taking advantage of the southwesterly winds.
Ardtornish, Morvern, May 1138 A.D.
IT TOOK THEM a fortnight to reach Morvern with their visits to Jura, Lorne and Mull where Somerled spent time with the villagers, inquiring into the status of the settlements and the families. He wanted to share his plans with the people and ask their opinions. Having ploughed the fields and sown their crops, the villagers were hard at work weeding and pruning and planting new apple and pear trees. Still, they took time to meet with their lord and his men.
The conversations were lively and his presence was greeted with enthusiasm. It was gratifying to know that, while they may have local chiefs, they still considered him their lord, the one who had united them against a common foe.
As he left Mull, his parting words reminded all, as he had on Jura and in Lorne, that they must keep sharp their fighting skills. “In the next years, we will still fight to maintain the freedom
we would pass on to our children.”
Heads nodded and one man said, “Aye, Lord, we never forget. Every man jack here can wield a sword and a bow. We keep the smith busy.” Somerled did not doubt the truth of it. Like him, most carried swords and daggers and their bows were always close to hand. The archers of Argyll were renowned for their skill.
Once they left the coast of Mull, they pressed on, sailing north, finally entering the Sound of Mull between the Isle of Mull and Morvern. On the north shore of the sound, they pulled up their galleys on the narrow strip of shingle at Ardtornish Point where there was already a galley resting on the shore.
Somerled jumped down from his galley and stood gazing up at the timber castle rising from the grass-covered promontory above him.
Gillecolum joined him to ask, “Is that the castle?”
“Aye, though not quite what I was expecting.” He had hoped to see the beginning of a stone edifice but, for now, timber would have to do. Mayhap the mason had even suggested timber first with stone to follow.
A white-tailed sea eagle flew overhead, a fish in its bright yellow beak. Somerled and his son stopped to watch, the wind blowing their hair around their faces. “Come on,” urged Somerled, “let’s see it from the top.” Together, they scrambled up the hill.
His companions, slower to act, trailed behind them.
At the top of the rise, he paused and, with his back to the castle, looked across the sound.
“What’s that land, Father?” Gillecolum asked.
“The Isle of Mull.” The long shape of Mull was silhouetted against what was now a cloud-filled sky. The blue-gray waters of the sound surrounded the point where they stood on three sides.
To the west and running inland was Loch Aline, where, at the headwaters, he had been fishing for salmon in the River Gear Abhain when the men of Clan MacInnes had come for him. To Somerled, it seemed a very long time ago, for much had transpired since that auspicious day.