Summer Warrior (The Clan Donald Saga Book 1)

by Regan Walker

  Shouting his war cry, Somerled slid his sword from its scabbard and leaped onto the closest Norse ship with his shield in one hand and his sword in the other. His brother and his men followed on his heels, all except Maurice, who stayed behind to guard the women.

  Somerled slammed his shield into a pirate’s head, dazing him. With the moment given him, Somerled slashed upward, across his opponent’s body and then downward. The pirate gripped his bleeding belly and fell to the deck.

  More pirates, wielding axes and blades, scrambled onto the dragonships, taking the place of their fallen comrades.

  Somerled confronted them with gleaming sword, delivering death. Blood splashed onto his tunic and face as he cut them down. At one point, he had to sweep his sleeve over his eyes to better see.

  All around him, men clashed with their swords, axes and spears as the battle raged across the decks of the dragonships. Shouts in Norse and moans of the wounded surrounded them. The dead or wounded pirates were forced over the side into the water.

  Olaf’s mail-clad warriors cut down many Norse who, except for those who had been standing guard, wore no mail.

  Somerled scanned the waning battle, pleased to see they were prevailing. Angus was holding his own and Domnall on his other ship stood tall. Diarmad, a fierce fighter, was covered in the blood of his victims.

  Bodies soon littered the decks of the dragonships, which became slippery with blood.

  For the moment, the fighting was confined to the decks of the enemy ships but Somerled worried it might spill over onto his galley where the women stood in the bow. His fear was realized when, looking back over his shoulder, he glimpsed two pirates charging toward Maurice.

  Maurice, an experienced swordsman, could handle one, but Somerled worried about the other, a hulking brute of a man who attacked Liadan with a vengeance.

  Somerled crossed back to his galley and confronted the pirate fighting the gallant lass from Islay. “’Tis me you will fight, Pirate!”

  The Norseman turned and tried to buffet Somerled with his shield. Somerled kicked out at the pirate’s groin with his boot and the pirate bent over, groaning, but did not fall. Knocking the pirate’s shield to the deck, Somerled moved in with his sword, blocking the sword of the Norseman until he saw an opening and thrust his sword deep into the pirate’s belly. He crumpled to the deck.

  From the shore, Somerled heard his name shouted and turned.

  Sweyn Asleifsson.

  A faint smile formed on Somerled’s face. At last.

  “Somerled, you dog! Because of you, Rognvald banished me from Orkney. Today, I will have my revenge and your head!”

  Seeing Maurice finishing off the other pirate, Somerled climbed over the lashed gunwales back to the dragonship.

  Wielding his axe, Sweyn climbed aboard the Norse ship and rushed forward, knocking his own men out of the way to get to Somerled. He raised his sword, his eyes narrowed on the man whose time it was to die.

  RAGNHILD HAD NEVER BEEN in the midst of a battle but when Somerled called for bows to be readied she did not hesitate. When he gave the command to loose arrows, she had settled her bow next to Maurice’s shoulder and fired into the charging Norsemen. At her side, Liadan, too, sent arrows into the chests of the pirates.

  Ragnhild had been gratified to see them fall for she remembered the stories of their killing, raping and burning. The few children who had escaped were now orphans, left to mourn alone. She was glad when her father and Somerled had discovered the den where the pirates made their dragonships. Best to destroy them in their nest like the vermin they were.

  She had never seen Somerled fight, never witnessed his command of his men. It was a sight she would never forget. His orders were quickly obeyed, as he fought alongside his men with sword and shield. It was clear why the Gaels named him their champion. He rose above others as his powerful arms wielded his sword with swift efficiency, slicing through the Norse pirates as if he were harvesting wheat. His fair hair, held back by braids on either side of his face, allowed her to mark him when the fighting grew intense and close. Never did he falter or lose his footing, never did he fail.

  She pressed her lips together and blinked back tears to think such a valiant warrior was hers, a warrior who was fierce with his enemies yet tender with her.

  Silently, she asked God to let him live that they might have a lifetime together.

  A few of the pirates began to cross over to Somerled’s galley where she and Liadan stood behind Maurice. When two attacked at once, Ragnhild feared for her life.

  It was then Somerled ran back to his galley, attacking the giant pirate like a maelstrom, his silver blade slashing and blocking the pirate’s thrusts. With a rapid stroke, Somerled gutted him.

  Suddenly, an axe-wielding, muscled pirate boldly shouted Somerled’s name from the shore. She shuddered as she recognized Sweyn Asleifsson, the gold Thor’s hammer still displayed on his chest. His lank brown hair, bleached from the sun, was longer than when he appeared in her father’s court but his beard and roughened features were the same.

  As Sweyn climbed onto the Norse dragonship, Somerled tossed Ragnhild a smile and crossed back to the deck of the Norse ship to meet the challenge.

  The fighting subsided as all turned to watch.

  Swaggering with confidence, Sweyn circled Somerled, who turned, keeping the pirate in front of him. Tossing his shield aside, Somerled drew a long dagger from his belt. With knife in one hand and sword in the other, he faced his enemy, his gaze fixed and determined.

  Ragnhild inhaled sharply, her eyes never leaving him.

  Sweyn lunged.

  Somerled gracefully moved aside, avoiding the axe’s blade.

  Sweyn swung his axe in a large arc, aiming at Somerled’s head.

  Somerled jerked his head aside and let out a loud sigh. “Let me know when you mean to fight, Sweyn, for this game you play is becoming tiresome.”

  Sweyn’s face turned an angry red.

  She suspected it had been Somerled’s intention to raise the pirate’s ire to make him grow reckless. She remembered him as a dishonorable hothead, the one who had accosted her in her father’s stables.

  Somerled brought his sword down, the blade close to Sweyn’s chest. The pirate tried to move out of range but tripped over a body. At once, Somerled was on him, kicking his boot heel into the pirate’s belly, sending him reeling back.

  Sweyn managed to remain standing. Gripping his axe, he took up his shield and raised it before Somerled.

  Somerled brought his sword down on the round wooden disk, the blow so forceful the shield gave a loud crack, cleaving in twain.

  The Norse pirates who had been watching backed away with stunned looks. Their necks were quickly under the blades of Somerled’s men.

  Ragnhild glimpsed fear on Sweyn’s face. He threw away what was left of his shield and regained his footing, pulling a knife from his waist.

  Like a golden lion attacking his prey, Somerled unleashed his fury on the Norseman, defeating every swing of Sweyn’s axe and the short thrusts of his blade.

  Silently, Ragnhild cheered.

  Somerled forced the pirate to the gunwale.

  She glimpsed a plea in Sweyn’s eyes. Somerled must have seen it, too, for he said, “I have twice granted you mercy. There will be none this time.”

  On Sweyn’s face was a look of horror as he attempted to shrink back from Somerled. But there was nowhere to go.

  Somerled tossed his short blade aside and, gripping his sword hilt with both hands, whirled in a circle. With great force and a single stroke, he severed the pirate’s head. It flew out and rolled, blood spurting over the deck.

  Straining to see from where she stood on the galley, Ragnhild glimpsed Sweyn’s gold Thor’s hammer, gleaming in the sun where it lay on the bloodied deck of the dragonship.

  Her gaze flew to Somerled. He was unharmed, thanks be to God.

  At Somerled’s command, the Norse pirates, who were under the blades of Somerled’s men, had
their throats quickly slit. The few who escaped this death jumped into the water and fled to shore with Somerled’s men in hot pursuit.

  When the decks were cleared of dead pirates, the wounded of Somerled’s and her father’s men were taken to Domnall’s longship where a healer could tend their wounds. Only then did Maurice allow Ragnhild her freedom.

  Ahead of her, Liadan ran to Domnall, who had come to inquire of her wellbeing. His arm was bleeding but nothing more serious was apparent. Liadan embraced him. “You live!”

  “Aye, lass. And does that make you happy?”

  Liadan swiped at his shoulder. “Of course, you oaf!”

  Ragnhild and Maurice hurried to where Somerled stood on the pirate ship, talking to his brother, Angus, and her father, who thankfully appeared whole. She smiled at her father as she passed him and ran into Somerled’s welcoming arms.

  “I am covered in pirate blood,” he protested.

  She held him fast. “I care not, for I am thanking the Almighty you live.”

  “Very well,” he said, pressing her tight to his chest. He smelled of blood and sweat but, those smells would pass. Now that he was hers, she would not be letting him go.

  “Your killing of Sweyn was quite a show,” said Maurice. “’Twill be the subject of the bards’ songs for many a year.”

  “Aye, and you know I did it only for that reason.” Ragnhild felt the laughter rumble in his chest.

  “I wonder how many other pirates build ships on Skye’s hidden shores,” asked Angus, casting a glance at the shore. In the distance, the Black Cuillin Hills loomed over all.

  “Well,” said her father, “I know one who will no longer be on Skye. I killed the MacLier this day. Perhaps on another day, we will see if there are more but I am content with today’s harvest. Some of our men are wounded but we’ve no dead as far as I can tell. It helped that most of the pirates did not wear mail.”

  “And we outnumbered them,” said Somerled. “Too, I discovered long ago that Sweyn would, in the end, act the coward and plead for mercy.”

  “I am in debt to you for your ships and your men,” said her father, “and for protecting my daughter.”

  “’Twas the least I could do,” he said, looking into her eyes. “After all, Ragnhild will soon be my bride.”

  Her father cast her a disappointed glance, shaking his head. “And to think you could have married an earl.”

  Ragnhild smiled. “Why would I wed an earl when I can marry a king?”

  CHAPTER 20

  The Church of St. Mary, Rushen Abbey, Isle of Man, 1 January, 1139 A.D.

  RAGNHILD GAZED UP at the tall door of the church, the sun’s light on this crisp morning falling across the oak wood. Years ago, when she had first met Somerled, she was drawn to him but had not envisioned such a day. Yet, in God’s good time, it had come to her.

  Glancing at the man to whom she would soon be wed, she rejoiced at God’s favor, for He had given her a golden warrior, a leader of thousands, whose wisdom and intelligence were prized by all. His people, who would soon be her people, now dominated Argyll and the Southern Isles and, unlike so many, lived free.

  As she had told her father, she was truly marrying a king and their children would inherit a kingdom unlike any other, one not bound to Scotland, Ireland, England or Norway, except by alliances of its own making. Not even her father, standing with their guests, could say so much, for he was bound to Norway.

  Abbot Bernard smiled and beckoned them closer.

  Somerled took her hand and led her forward. With few words, the abbot asked if each gave their consent to this union. Somerled turned to face her and smiled. “I will.”

  When it was her turn, Ragnhild gazed up into his clear blue eyes. “I will.”

  She had always thought Somerled a handsome man. She had seen him garbed in royal apparel to meet two kings; she had seen him covered in other men’s blood and smelling of sweat; and she had seen him wind-blown and browned from the sun. Until now, he had never allowed her to see him clothed with a mantle of love. But it was there in his eyes when he turned to her and began to speak.

  You are now blood of my blood, and bone of my bone.

  I give you my body, that we two might be one.

  I give you my spirit, ’til our life shall be done.

  With tears of joy falling down her cheeks, they exchanged rings of gold that would forever mark them man and wife. From this day onward, except when she was alone with Somerled or their family, Ragnhild would wear a veil covering her hair, indicating she was a married woman.

  Abbot Bernard blessed them and prayed for their union, their children and their life together, and for the legacy they would leave. The ceremony was brief, after which, they entered the church for Mass.

  And then the celebration began.

  SOMERLED HELD RAGNHILD’S HAND tightly as they stepped from the church into the chilled morning sun. Loud cheers erupted all around them as the people of Man and Galloway and Somerled’s friends gathered to wish them well. Most, he assumed, admired him for gaining a great alliance and a large dowry. The message of congratulations from the King of Scots hinted at such. Few knew he had been long in love with the jewel-eyed Princess of Man. If they wanted to think him canny for the marriage, it mattered little to him. That Ragnhild was his bride and would share his bed and his life mattered more.

  “Father has prepared a great feast for us,” she said as they walked back to the castle, the boisterous crowd following.

  “My men will appreciate that.” Already, Angus, Maurice and Domnall, walking beside Liadan and her brother, were smiling and waving to them. Gillecolum walked apart, beaming at them, for he was glad of the marriage and had told them the night before that it was time he had a mother.

  “You know what Gille and I look forward to, my lord?” she said in teasing manner.

  “Tell me.”

  “We hope for peace so there will be no more sad goodbyes and no more hasty utterances of “Godspeed”.

  “Aye, we will be together now.” Then in offhand manner, he asked, “Do you know what I look forward to?”

  “I can guess,” she said with a sly smile. “’Tis tonight when we escape to my chamber.”

  He chuckled. “Already you know me well. Yes, but not just this night, my love. It is all the nights we will share for the rest of our lives.”

  She glanced down at the ring on her finger, happy God had brought Somerled through wars and battles to this day. Then meeting his gaze, she echoed his words, “For the rest of our lives.”

  EPILOGUE

  On the shores of Loch Findlugan, Isle of Islay, Spring 1147 A.D.

  RAGNHILD WATCHED, amused, as Dougall, her eldest son, fairer than his two younger brothers, chased after the frog loudly proclaiming its ownership of the lily pad to which it had leaped. Close behind him, as always, Ranald, just one year younger and redheaded like her, circled around to grab the frog from the shallow water into which it had escaped at his coming. Angus, her youngest with the dark blond hair of his namesake, looked longingly after his older brothers but they were sometimes reluctant to include him.

  In the years of peace since her wedding to Somerled, their family had grown, along with her husband’s many castles and his fleet of galleys.

  Dougall chased after Ranald and the look on Angus’ face spoke of disappointment as he tried to follow. “Careful, Angus,” she warned. “The water is deeper there.” Being only three, his short legs would not carry him far.

  Somerled stepped behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. “Do not worry, my love, our boys will find their way. And Gillecolum is ever watchful of them.”

  She knew she should not worry for her husband spoke the truth. Gillecolum, standing on the shore not far away, acted the older brother to all three of her sons. Nearing the age of twenty and good with a sword, he was a hero to his half-brothers and close companion of his father.

  “Did I tell you the news of Rognvald?” asked her husband.

 
“What, pray tell, has he done now?”

  “He is taking fifteen longships and going on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem.”

  “I cannot imagine the earl doing such a thing, unless it is penitence.”

  “Aye, it might be, though ’tis said he’s making a great show of it.” Somerled slipped his hands to her belly, swollen with his child. “Do you think this next one might be a girl?”

  “Could be. For certes, I am carrying the babe differently.”

  “I promised your father that after the child is born, we will bring the brood to Man. Did I tell you that when I first asked for your hand, it was one of my pledges that he would see his grandchildren often?”

  She placed her hand over his. “He should have granted you your request then, for he is glad now that you were my choice and is pleased he has three grandsons who can inherit his isles, especially in light of the difficult child Affraic’s son, Godred, has become.”

  “I suppose you are right. Reserves are always a good idea, although our sons will have many lands to carve up between them without Olaf’s isles.”

  Ragnhild sharply inhaled as her youngest son stumbled climbing out of the loch.

  Gillecolum, as tall as his father and with the same fair countenance, swept Angus up in his arms. “Come, little one. I have another game we can play, one you will like.”

  Angus giggled with glee.

  Ragnhild watched her adopted son carry her youngest toward Fairhair where he nibbled on grass at the edge of the loch.

  Once they visited her father, they would return to Islay to greet the chiefs who would gather after the autumn harvest.

  She turned in Somerled’s arms, unable to get close for the babe in her womb. “Have I told you that I love you, my lord?”

  “Aye, but I will gladly hear it again.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE