Summer Warrior (The Clan Donald Saga Book 1)

by Regan Walker

  When the arrows did not stop the mad rush of the Galwegians, the English archers began shooting at the lower extremities of the howling men. With moans and grunts, the first ranks fell under this fire but the Galwegians behind them leaped over their fallen comrades and rushed toward the English who could not fire their arrows fast enough.

  Ulric and Donald in the fore of the rush had fallen yet the men of Galloway rallied without them and kept up the attack. Some got through to break the line of English archers. Yet, for many Galwegians, if they survived the arrows, they were slashed to pieces when they reached the firm-standing Norman knights.

  The Galwegians might have been prideful and foolhardy but Somerled gave them credit for courage.

  As the other lines closed up, Somerled and his men drew closer behind Prince Henry and his mounted knights and the Saxon archers. Henry lowered his lance and shouted, “Attack!” The knights charged as one toward the English, breaking through their ranks as if they had been spiders’ webs. So deep did Henry’s knights penetrate, they dispersed the English knights that had been taken to the rear.

  Somerled saw his chance. When the Saxon archers with Henry began to run toward the opening the prince had created, Somerled blew once on his horn, sounded his war cry and ordered his archers forward but with this caveat: “Two men’s shields to cover one archer!”

  The ploy worked. The arrows of his archers made it through with only a few of his men hit while the Saxon archers, who were exposed, fell in great numbers.

  The English were quick to close up the rent in their lines created by Henry’s charge.

  Somerled blew twice on his horn, ordering his archers back. Except for covering the archers, neither his Highlanders nor the Lothian Scots had yet to fully engage. Somerled was loath to send them into the middle of the battle, which had devolved into a confused mass of men, bloodied from swords and spears. Except for a miracle, any man falling into the writhing mass of bodies was destined to die.

  David ordered the armored Scots forward only to have them fall on the blades of Norman knights who rammed their weapons through the Scots armor at the shoulder joint.

  Somerled watched as the Galwegians began another foray. The English, pushed in from all sides around their standard, were having difficulty staying upright. However, one English soldier, more clever than the rest, suddenly elevated a human head on his spear, shouting, “Behold the head of the King of Scots!”

  Of course, ’twas not David, for he and his guard were behind Somerled and his men but the ruse spread through the ranks of the Scots with great effect.

  The Galwegians, disheartened, began to flee, falling back on the Lothian Scots. When it was clear the men of Galloway would not charge again, the Lothian Scots abandoned the field.

  Somerled shouted to them that the king lived but, in the noise and confusion, none heard. He raised his horn, about to order his men into the fray, when King David shouted, “Stand your ground!”

  Somerled turned back to see a look of anguish on the king’s face. David was shouting, trying to rally his men and dispel the myth of his death but so great was the tumult, he could not be heard. His guards, crying of their concern for the king’s safety, brought forward David’s horse and urged him to mount.

  Bareheaded, David rode among the ranks of his army, continuing to try and stir his soldiers but to no avail.

  Compelled to retire from the field, David assumed command of his cavalry and covered the retreat.

  Somerled gave three blasts on his horn for “Retreat” and followed King David, ordering his men to protect the king’s back.

  The Scots were in full retreat.

  The battle had been intense but lasted only a few hours. By the time the mist cleared, the sun shone down on the bodies of fallen Galwegians, Scots, Saxons and Normans, lying bloody on the grassy field. Somerled, relieved his own men lived, thanked God there had not been more deaths.

  CHAPTER 17

  Carlisle, Scotland, 25 August 1138 A.D.

  SOMERLED FOLLOWED DAVID as he led the remains of his army to Carlisle, his expression gloomy, his words few. The sky above mirrored the king’s mood, gray and cloud-filled, but Somerled was grateful they’d had no rain. The weary battle march back to Carlisle would have been worse if their paths had been muddy quagmires.

  David’s spies had brought word on the first night that they were not being followed, which surprised them all. With that good news, the men looked only forward as they marched back to Scotland and not over their shoulders.

  Arriving in Carlisle, David let loose his fury as he addressed his men, who he considered responsible for so many deaths. After a scathing rebuke, he exacted an oath from the survivors that they would never again desert him in war.

  Embarrassed, and mayhap shamed by their actions and too hasty retreat, the army fell into fighting amongst themselves, Scot attacking Saxon, Norman attacking Norman and the Galwegians angry at all for the loss of so many warriors, including their chiefs.

  Somerled’s army of Highlanders and Islesmen did not share in the self-flagellation of David’s men. They had listened to their chiefs and to Somerled and were happy to be alive and headed home. A few of his men had taken English arrows but his healers had been tending them from the first night they made camp. Somerled gave thanks when he was told all would live. For himself, he was just glad to be able to return to his son and the woman he loved.

  With the stone keep of Carlisle Castle rising above them, Somerled walked with his brother among their warriors camped on the banks of the River Eden. “I did not think ’twas possible,” said Angus, “for us to return unscathed.”

  “Nor did I,” replied Somerled, “but then it never occurred to me most of my men and I would never enter the battle. Only the cowardice of David’s soldiers put the army in retreat, delivering us.”

  Somerled had been with King David twice since they arrived at Carlisle and each time he appeared haggard and worried. The cause was not difficult to discern. They had yet to hear from Prince Henry and Somerled knew the king feared his heir was dead. As a father, Somerled felt for the king who loved his son.

  The next day, Somerled had gone to see King David to seek his approval for their departure, when a great clamor arose outside in the bailey. He and the king went to the nearest window and looked down. There, sitting atop his horse with a dozen mounted knights behind him, was Prince Henry.

  “Thank God!” exclaimed David and rushed down to the keep’s entrance where Henry and his knights were dismounting. Somerled followed for he wanted to hear how Henry escaped.

  Embracing his son, the king pulled back to look into Henry’s face. “You are well? You are whole?”

  “Aye, Father. But the losses—”

  “I know, my son. Too many. But God bless you. How did you survive so many English knights?”

  By this time, a crowd had gathered, murmuring in amazement that Henry was here, for all were anxious to learn what had happened.

  “Once we broke through their lines, we pursued their knights who had been taken to the rear of the English lines. Soon, we were surrounded by the enemy. Many of our knights and their horses fell to Norman blades. Some were taken prisoner and must be ransomed. When I saw our army withdrawing, I told my men to throw down their banners and follow the English Normans that turned to pursue you. We looked like the Normans in our mail and helms. In the confusion, none suspected we were Scots.”

  “God has answered my prayers,” said the king. “Tonight, we will celebrate your return.”

  That night, there was feasting and revelry in Carlisle and the king smiled as he entertained his nobles, notwithstanding the great losses of the battle. It was the first time Somerled had seen the king happy since they had left the battlefield. Perhaps it was just relief, for he had only the one heir and Prince Henry was much loved.

  As the evening drew to a close, Somerled rose, thinking to find his companions and seek his tent. To David, he said, “With your permission, Your Grace, I wo
uld take my Highlanders and my Islesmen home on the morrow.”

  “Aye,” said David. “You have done what you could. I would ask no more. Godspeed to you.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace. If I might ask, where do you go from here?”

  King David stared straight ahead, a slight smile on his face. “I will take what is left of my army and go north to Wark on the Tweed. I’ve a mind to raze Walter l’Espec’s castle to the ground as I failed to do earlier. It will give my men something to look forward to instead of this constant bickering amongst themselves. And then I must turn my attention to negotiating terms of peace with Stephen.” Shifting his gaze to his son, who was drinking with his knights, David added, “I will not allow Stephen to keep Northumberland, which is properly Henry’s. I may not have won the battle but I will yet have my way in this.”

  Somerled bowed as he took his leave, never doubting that David would salvage a great deal out of his defeat.

  A short while later, Somerled stepped onto the deck of his galley and experienced a rush of relief. Angus, too, must have felt the same for he greeted Somerled, saying, “’Tis good to be leaving, aye?”

  “Indeed, it is, Brother.” Somerled waited until his men were assembled on the banks of the River Eden or standing on the decks of their galleys and longships, and then he began to speak.

  “Brave men of Argyll and the Isles!” he shouted to the more than one thousand men arrayed before him. Their conversations ceased as they looked up. “You have proven your courage and your loyalty in coming to my call. For that, I am grateful. And I thank the Almighty for answering my prayers, for you live to make old bones. Your chiefs are bold men; you can be proud of them. I look forward to their helping me build castles that will forever guard the sea lanes and a fleet of galleys to keep the Norse from our shores.”

  “Aye, Somerled, we are with you!” cried one chief.

  Shouts of “Somerled! Somerled!” followed, their voices echoing off the river bank and the walls of the castle rising above it.

  “Godspeed!” Somerled yelled back. His eyes misted over. He loved every one of them.

  Their fleet of nearly forty galleys and longships that had dotted the River Eden for weeks were now pushed into the river like giant seals sliding off a rock. Once in the water, applying their great strength and skill, the men rowed hard for the mouth of the River Esk where it emptied into the Solway Firth.

  Somerled’s galley led the others, his spirits rising as he smelled the open sea and felt his soul being restored.

  Sailing southwest in the Solway Firth with Galloway off the starboard and the Isle of Man coming into view off the larboard, Somerled’s thoughts turned to the Princess of Man. He longed to see her, to look into her emerald eyes, yet he would not leave his fleet nor could he delay his men’s return.

  Immediately behind him were three other ships, a galley commanded by Ruairi and two of the longships they had acquired from the Norse, one commanded by Domnall and one by Maurice. Ewan had told him he would find his own way back to Knapdale.

  “We sail to Kintyre?” asked his brother.

  “Aye, to Dunaverty where I would see the progress being made on the castle. There, we will leave Ruairi ere we sail to Islay. I want to visit Keills where I hope to commission the first of our galleys. Then we will gather Liadan and sail north.”

  Angus nodded and gave the orders to the crew.

  Somerled stood at the gunwale, gazing toward the Isle of Man, thinking of Ragnhild. He would send her a message letting her know her prayers had been answered. He said his own prayer, asking God to let him be the one to claim not only her heart but the woman herself.

  The Isle of Man, August 1138

  THE DAYS OF AUGUST were waning. Ragnhild felt it in the morning chill and the early twilight that descended on the isle. She rose in the dark each morning. Though she was tempted to remain under the furs until sunlight poured into her chamber high in the keep, Cecily was quick to remind her she could not.

  “’Tis nearly eight, my lady. Did you not wish to break your fast with the king before going to the stables? The queen will still be abed but King Olaf is already afoot.”

  Ragnhild stretched her arms and yawned as she sat up and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “I suppose I must. Father will expect it.”

  “And young Godred will be looking for you,” Cecily reminded her. “He scarce leaves his nurse ere he is asking for his Aunt Hilde.”

  Ragnhild smiled to herself as she thought of her half-brother, Affraic’s young son. The small dark-haired boy looked more like his mother than the king. The child had an uncommon proclivity to activity, never silent, never still. “All right. You persuade me.”

  Cecily held out Ragnhild’s sapphire woolen gown and helped her into it, pulling the laces tight. Then her handmaiden replaited her hair as she stood at her window looking out toward the Irish Sea.

  The rising sun cast a soft glow across the horizon. Cumbria lay on the other side of the sea and she wondered if Somerled was still there, if he still lived. She could not accept that he had died in battle yet there had been no word from Scotland of King David’s invasion of Northumberland. Surely it is over by now.

  By the time she had finished eating and greeting young Godred, the sun was warming the land. Bundled in a warm woolen mantle, she set off for the stable, eager to greet Fairhair, who whinnied as she entered. As he chewed on a large chunk of apple from the first of the season’s crop, she slid his bridle over his head. Her eyes focused on the browband Somerled had given her, the Celtic scrolling on black leather. “A worthy adornment for so handsome a horse, a gift from my love, a king in his own right.”

  Fairhair ate the rest of the apple from her hand then nudged her shoulder as if asking for more.

  “Nay, no more, for we ride while the weather is fair.” And, with that, she allowed the groom to saddle the palfrey and assist her into the saddle. She rode out of the castle bailey into the cool morning air, planning to greet the farmers that were harvesting winter grain and beginning to plant for the spring.

  A few hours later, she returned and, once Fairhair was back in his stall, she went into the great hall to reach her hands toward the hearth fire to warm them. As she spoke to her father, giving him a report on the harvest, the castle door opened and a man she recognized as one of Lord Fergus’ guards hastened inside.

  He bowed before the king and handed him a rolled parchment, sealed with red wax. “A message from Lord Fergus, Your Grace.”

  Her father invited the man to sit. “There is ale if you are thirsty,” he said, gesturing to a flagon and tankards sitting on a nearby table.

  “Thank you,” said the messenger and poured himself ale.

  She watched with interest as her father broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. A minute later, a frown crossed his face. “The news is not good.”

  Her brows rose in anxious inquiry. “What is it, Father?”

  “Fergus speaks of a great battle north of York in a place called Northallerton. Thousands were slain on the Normans’ swords and lances. Many of Fergus’ men were killed with English arrows, including the leaders of Fergus’ army. Alas, King David retreated in defeat.”

  Ragnhild’s hand rose to her chest as if to hold in her rampaging heart. “Does he speak of Lord Somerled?”

  “Nay. He only mentions King David’s wrath at being deserted by so many of his soldiers and his joy that Prince Henry managed to survive.”

  “Lord Somerled would never desert the Scots king.”

  Her father gave her a sympathetic look. “’Tis possible he no longer lives, Princess.”

  Her father handed her the message and she read it twice, searching for any clue as to the fate of her brave warrior. Would Fergus have spoken of Somerled if he had died? Or, only if he lived?

  She sank onto the bench in front of the crackling fire, staring into the flames. She knew her father could force her to marry another, but she could no longer guard her heart. For some time, she
had known she would love no other man save Somerled. Had God answered her prayers? Did her love yet live?

  Dunaverty Bay, the Mull of Kintyre, late August 1138 A.D.

  SOMERLED’S GALLEY SLID over the sand as the four vessels arrived at Dunaverty Bay. The sunset over his left shoulder cast its golden rays across the waves crashing onto the foot of the great headland jutting into the sea. His gaze was drawn upward to the huge rock that would become the foundation of his stronghold. Already, large stones were piled a few feet high.

  The construction of the castle had begun.

  Loud female shouts called his attention back to the beach. More wives had joined his men, taking up residence on Kintyre, and they now rushed forward to embrace their returning husbands.

  “None were lost!” Somerled yelled as he met the crowd of women and children and the older sons and few men left behind to guard them.

  “Is it true, Lord?” asked Ruairi’s wife, Aileas. Ruairi had his arm around her and their two children were hugging their father’s waist.

  “Aye,” said Somerled, jumping down to the sand, “though King David was none too pleased at the Scots who deserted him and fled.”

  “The Scots ran away?” asked eight-year-old Bran, incredulous.

  “Aye, lad, when a clever Norman raised a man’s head on a pike and claimed it was the king’s. The deception had its intended effect.”

  The boy curled his lip and his face took on a grimace as if smelling something foul. “Dirty trick!”

  The men who had remained behind with the French stonemason to work on the castle came forward to welcome Somerled back. With them was Aubri de Mares, d’Harcourt’s assistant mason who he had left in charge of the castle’s construction.

  “I see the castle is rising,” Somerled said to the grinning de Mares.