They were family too, this ragbag of warriors. He would bring them through.
Aed, God bless and keep him, said: ‘I don’t like this over-much, Somerled.’
‘No.’
‘He’s a brave man, Mael Coluim. A good one, I’ve no doubt. But you’d have known how many they were. You would not have been complacent. You would have had the scouts out till their feet bled before going in blind to a battle.’
There were rumbles of assent around the fire.
‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ said Somerled. ‘Knowing the strength of them won’t mean there are any fewer of them.’
But he was uneasy as he wrapped himself in his cloak. Nervous. Above, the stars were hidden by clouds, and as he closed his eyes, the rain began to fall.
~~~
It was a low-lying land, this. Soggy underfoot, and the hills barely a hum on the horizon. No sight of the sea, either. A rotten place to die, thought Somerled, as he saw the army drawn up against them. At its centre, and on its flanks, were great horses – the breath blowing in clouds from their noses and the sun shining from groomed flanks. The men atop them, too, seemed all metal. They had no faces, just metal masks with broad noses and shaded eyes.
The horses stamped and pawed at the ground, as if anxious to be on the move, to deal out death and mayhem. Above them, their masters were still, ominously patient. The drawing of breath before the slaughter.
‘How can they move in that?’ asked Sigurd, his voice small.
‘They don’t have to move. We can’t get at them.’
‘Cowards,’ spat Ruaridh. ‘Sitting up there all coffined in metal, picking us off with great long sticks. If they got down and fought like men, we’d show them.’
‘Aye, but they won’t.’
‘Hack at the horses’ legs,’ said Aed. ‘If we get the bastards on the ground, we can murder them. They can’t move.’
‘We’ll stick ’em.’
‘Roast ’em.’
‘Spit ’em.’
The words were right, the snarling venom. But it seemed staged. As if it were expected. And looking sideways, Somerled saw Aed’s face. He was white behind his great beard, and his jaw was clenched. Oh Jesus, oh Lord. Aed was scared.
He must think. There must be a way. Oh God, here was the word rippling along the line. It was time to charge, to run. He screamed: ‘Argyll! Argyll!’
They screamed it back, and the deep, full-throated cry stiffened his legs, put some metal in them, and suddenly he was running with Aed at his side across the boggy ground. The mud sucked at him, the heather snagged him. Still he ran, his sword high. He looked up and saw the sky dark with arrows flying like angels’ darts towards the enemy. The scream as some hit home lifted him, gave him succour as he ran. The angels were with them, and St Colm Cille, flying at their shoulders as they ran towards the demons, the great snorting metal demons. Damn them. Damn them. I am Somerled. Horse-killer. Demon-slayer. Ring-giver. King of Argyll.
‘Argyll! Argyll!’
‘Argyll! Argyll!’
The demons were coming now, their hooves a thunder in the ground, which shook and trembled. But we won’t shake, he screamed. We won’t tremble. We will take you. We will send you back to hell.
Aed ran beside him, God set a rose upon his sword.
Around him he heard the screaming as his men gave themselves the fury. He heard the breath coming ragged and fast, and then he heard the scrape of metal on metal and the tenor of the screams changed, coming faster and louder, with edges that bled and cried.
The horses were upon them, and he whirled and bounced, looking for flesh, looking for his way in, looking for pink skin amid the blinding sheen. It was like a wave rolling over them, picking them up and flinging them down, churning them on the stones, keeping them under. He didn’t know how long it lasted. A minute? An age? Yet suddenly they were gone, and Somerled looked around at the tatters of his band. Oh God. Oh my God. The ones standing were reeling, white. Too many were lying. Too much blood pooled in the hoof-stamped ground. Ruaridh, not Ruaridh, his head split like a flower, the grey brains spattering his cheeks. All wrong.
‘To me!’ he shouted, as if in a dream. ‘To me! Argyll! Argyll!’
They came to him: the scared and the wounded and the merely confused. And behind them he saw a body of horse wheeling round to face them again, slowly, slowly, as if they were horses from the shadowlands, and their riders the ghouls.
As his body twitched with fear, his mind kept snagging on a Latin phrase he must have read with Padeen. Testudo Romani. He shook his head, and the phrase kept thrumming behind his temples. He told it to fuck off, to stop clouding his thinking, and then at last he understood.
The Romans. Those wily old Roman sods.
‘Injured to the middle!’ he screamed. ‘Swine array and shields up and over. Swine array. Shields up and over.’ Aed got it, he understood, and threw men into the middle, cursing and swearing at the fear-spawned stupidity in their faces. Here they were, huddled together, close-packed, feet braced and arms tight, their shields like a canopy. Beneath them the ground trembled and shook. Trembled and shook. And they answered with their own tremble, and a rising stink of piss and shit. The smell of fear and blood.
The horses were on them. Hooves and jousts broke on their shields, scraped across with a sickening screech. They broke at one end, and men went down with screams and flailing arms, before their mates, understanding now, moved to fill the gap with shields and aching arms.
At last the noise and the trembling lessened. Somerled looked out beyond the shields and saw the horses moving off. There was one left, though. The last horse reared, brandishing its hooves and a milky belly. Its rider was laughing, a looping, hysterical shout of triumph. Somerled looked sideways at Aed, and saw the big man’s answering nod.
Together they surged out of the tortoise as the horse began to rear up again, and they ripped gashes in its exposed belly so that it fell sideways in a shower of blood and guts that caught Somerled in the eyes. As he wiped them, he saw Aed, sword poised over the fallen knight.
‘Wait,’ he said. But Aed had the look of one lost to the frenzy, so Somerled sprang forward and caught at his sword arm before it could begin its downward plunge.
‘Alive,’ he croaked, his voice lost with the screaming. ‘Hostage.’
Aed nodded, and kicked the knight once on his helmet, to bring a muffled screech of pain.
~~~
How strange, to pull off the head of a demon and find a boy. A small, dark-haired boy with down on his lip and pimples scraped raw by the pulling of his helmet.
‘Who are you, boy?’ Somerled demanded. They crouched behind a stone wall, seemingly alone in the expanse of heather. Only the distant sound of metal hammering metal betrayed their situation. There was something gloriously solid about the wall, something comforting in the thought of normal life happening here in this place of slaughter. Sheep corralled, cattle penned. Somerled fought to dispel the image of him and his men as senseless, bleating sheep.
He asked the boy again.
The boy looked up with frightened eyes, and babbled something.
‘What the fuck is he saying?’ said Aed.
‘Speak sense, boy,’ said Sigurd, very slowly.
‘It’s French,’ said a voice. Somerled turned to face it. Fergus’s nephew Brian. Somerled’s foster son.
The young man shrugged. ‘My mother was French. Taken in a raid down south.’
‘The first we’ve heard of it,’ said Sigurd.
‘Well, would you boast of it?’ This from Domnall, and Brian bristled. There was spikiness between Somerled’s original band and the later-comers. They growled at each other, and Somerled crackled with irritation.
‘Not now. Brian. Come here, boy.’
Brian listened, and talked to the boy in his own thick tongue, ignoring the whistles and nudges – half derision, half awe at his unexpected talent.
‘He says his father will kill us all.’
> ‘Oh aye, and who is his father?’ Aed scowled as he spoke, and the boy shrank a little deeper into his armour. Like a tortoise.
‘He says his father is Walter Espic.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘He’s a great lord in England, the boy says. A bosom friend of King Henry. Come to help David, our rightful king, against our evil rebellion.’
‘Oh he has, hey?’ Aed was getting more furious. Ruaridh’s body lay broken and unburied on a shit-strewn field.
Somerled put a hand on Aed’s arm.
‘Your father’s banner, boy?’
‘The fox and sparrow.’
Somerled stood up, cautiously peering over the top of the wall. There was a silence now, a silence deeper than the fury that had come before. It was unthinkable that Mael Coluim had turned the battle. It must be lost.
‘We need a volunteer,’ said Somerled, turning back to face them.
It could only be Brian. God grant he was as deep a thinker as he was a talker of tongues. Brave, at least. He stepped forward with a calm face, and two feet planted wide.
‘Ask the boy how they signal a truce in their country. Bring this Walter Espic. Tell him that if you do not come back whole, hearty and fuck-ugly as you are now, we will slit his son’s throat – slowly.’
Brian conferred with the boy, whose eyes grew wide as he worked out which way the tide was going.
‘Christ with you, Brian,’ said Somerled, as the young man set off, his hand clutching at the cross they had cobbled together.
Christ with us.
~~~
The light was failing as they saw Brian coming back, a clanking troop of knights at his back. He ran ahead and vaulted over the wall.
‘The fat one’s his dad,’ he said.
‘Well done, boy,’ said Somerled. ‘I’ll see you right when we get back.’
‘If,’ growled someone, but Brian’s face was lit, and he looked at Somerled with something approaching adoration.
Somerled cleared his throat.
‘Sigurd. If they play dirty, take the boy as far as the river as a shield, then slit his throat and run for it. Aed. Brian.’
The big man nodded, and they stood, waiting for the whistle of arrows. The air was still.
Close up, Walter Espic was indeed a fat man. Wobbling chins slapped over the neck hole of his armour. Small dark eyes watched their approach.
‘Looks like a badly stuffed sausage,’ whispered Aed, and Somerled swallowed a laugh.
‘Greetings,’ he said. ‘I am Somerled, King of Argyll.’
He listened to Brian translating, and they exchanged pleasantries that seemed absurd out here on this cold, corpse-filled field.
‘He asks, how does he know it’s his boy?’
Somerled called to Sigurd. ‘Show him the boy.’ The boy stood, his head hanging with the unbearable weight of the shame, his hair straggling down about his face.
‘He says your leader Mael Coluim is bound and captive. Your army is dead or scattered.’
‘Say, and yet I have captured your queen.’
The big man’s eyes flickered sideways at this, to a man Somerled had noticed standing a little apart. A slight, white-faced man, with an air of authority. Someone of quality, by the gold dripping off him.
‘He says, what do you want?’
Somerled pulled his thoughts back to this Walter Espic.
‘I want Mael Coluim to stay alive, and free passage for me and my men.’
‘Alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘Alive, perhaps. Free, no.’
The little man’s eyes flickered sideways again, to be rewarded by a nod. God help me, thought Somerled, but a captive Mael Coluim suits me. I’ll have done my duty by Brigte, but I can turn my eyes west, where they belong.
‘And free passage. How will you guarantee it?’
The man’s head rose, and he fixed his small black eyes on Somerled.
Brian stumbled. ‘He’s, um, swearing at you, Lord Somerled. Says he is a knight of the realm of King Henry, and you, you …’ He tailed off.
‘No matter, boy, I get it.’
They stood for a moment, deadlocked.
Then a voice behind in faltering Gaelic, and the slight man walked forward.
‘You have my leave, and my word, Somerled. And perhaps, before you go, we can talk.’
‘And who are you?’
‘I am David,’ he said.
~~~
‘What is he like?’ Eimhear’s voice was a whisper. They lay close, noses nearly touching.
‘Formidable,’ said Somerled. Beyond the curtain he could hear low snoring, deep breathing. Little Sigrdrifa, one year old now, had a cold, and she grunted and coughed in her sleep. He heard the hiss of the fire’s embers, and the shuffling of cows’ feet. He heard his mother’s sleep whistle, a sound that ran through his life like a thread. Christ, but it was good to be in a bed and not sleeping out; to know that he would not get wet, or cold. Most of all to know that she was here. If he put his hand out, like that, it touched her real, living skin and not the phantom he conjured on dark nights on the hillside.
It had been a long, hard march home. They had lost all their gear. Of the twenty that were left, five needed carrying. They had known that every step took them closer to breaking the news, to bringing the dark tale into that beloved glen where the women waited, not knowing that most of their men were not coming home.
A new sound now – someone weeping. Brigte, perhaps. Her face had tightened to a skull when he told her about Mael Coluim’s capture. Oh Lord, help her. He would not think of it now. Concentrate on Eimhear’s soft skin, her hand pushing his hair back from his face, soothing him like a child.
‘How so?’
He told her of the king’s poise, his air of a man who expected to be obeyed instantly. A man slow to smile, quick to take offence. He told her of David’s vision, expanded over a shared meal in his tent.
‘He says that all the land, ours included, belongs to him. We are just his vassals. The king owns everything, and we must pay him for the privilege. It’s how they do it in the south, apparently.’
‘I hope you told him to shove his vassalage somewhere dark.’
‘I did not. We lost, remember? I had only his word that we would get home.’
He remembered the king’s eyes above his wine cup – glittering and hard. How the passion vibrated in his voice as he talked of wrenching Scotland free of its past, of turning Gaelic eyes towards Jerusalem. He had talked of the rules of knighthood, of the new codes of chivalry that would guide Scotland’s nobles in this new time. And Somerled, to his shame, remembered nodding while his heart screamed, this is not my vision. Yours is not my God.
‘The terms of peace demand that we pay him a tribute, a cain. And he will leave us alone.’
‘But think himself our master.’
‘He can think what he likes.’
She moved away slightly, and he felt the air between them shiver.
‘Listen, Eimhear. My band was destroyed. His horses are unbeatable. I have scarcely enough men left to attack a chicken shed. And Fergus tells me that Olaf Crovan is letting it be known that I am his enemy. My raids are a thorn in him. If he comes for us, if he even learns of our weakness, everything I have done will be destroyed. Gillecolm’s future will be destroyed. We need space. We need time. To regroup, to refinance, to find new men.’
One of the parts of her he loved the best was her ability to sway to a reasoned argument. Most people valued face over reason, he thought, but not her. Sure enough, she slipped closer to him in the darkness, pushing her head into his chest.
‘Any new songs, my summer heart?’
‘Perhaps I should write one about you. Beautiful, wild, disobedient.’
‘Careful. I’ll bite next time.’
‘Witch.’
‘There are no songs about women. Unless we’re to be rescued, or married off, or killed.’
‘True, the heroes are men.’
<
br /> ‘Why?’
‘Because we do the fighting.’
‘And fights are the only proper tales for the bards?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, I shall never be in a song then.’
‘No, fierce one.’
‘Unless …’
‘Unless?’
‘If something happened to you or the children. Something treacherous and dark. I would fight then. I would make the heavens flinch from my fury.’
‘Shh, fierce one.’
‘Yes. Well, I shall drift on as I am, no doubt.’
‘And are you happy?’
‘Happy? Yes. I suppose so. When you’re not here, though, Lord, sometimes I am so bored. It’s the endlessness of it. You cannot imagine.’
‘No.’
‘And you have such purpose in your life. Such meaning.’
‘Hey, fierce one. Not so long ago, you claimed my life was meaningless.’
‘I did so. Well, these are deep mysteries. Only a fool sets their mind to one answer and stops questioning.’
‘Do fools even ask the questions?’
‘You confuse foolishness with stupidity, my summer heart.’
‘And luckily, we are neither?’
‘Mostly. Would you prefer a stupid, docile, flexible wife?’
‘No. Well, mostly not.’
‘Fool. Lucky we never got around to a proper wedding.’
‘A handfasting is good enough. And who else would put up with you, woman?’
‘Fool. Still, I forgive you. And I am here.’
1135
EIMHEAR
I could hear birdsong, and little Sigrdrifa’s constant chatter. I pressed my shoulders back on to the rock, closing my eyes to the sun. A calm, unruffled loch. No midges, miracle of miracles. The languid joy of a warm day after a long and bitter winter.
‘I see bird. Bird, Mamma, bird. I see bird. Dadda, look, bird. My like bird.’
I listened in to her monologue sometimes, to check no response was required. I let the stream of it wash over me, and I smiled so fiercely it hurt.
‘Gil, look, bird. My want swim. My want swim.’
‘It’s too cold.’ Gillecolm’s voice was exaggeratedly gentle with her. I drifted, all silence and love.
The Winter Isles Page 17