He runs his tongue across his briny lips and it’s as good as the best wine. This is beauty. This is power. And this is mine.
1156
SOMERLED
They head first to Coll, that fertile flat pebble in the sea. Their masts are almost taller than Coll’s highest hill. No one can miss them. No one can huddle into the side of a hill, eyes shut, pretending he is not there.
We must look like a host, like death, Somerled wants to say to Aed. There is space enough for just five galleys at the sand’s edge. The rest bob on the swell, sails furled, oars biting the water to keep them still.
Somerled jumps down into the thigh-deep waves, and the cold shock of it makes him gasp. He wades out on to the beach, slowly, his eyes focusing on the greeting party. A grey-haired man, backed by a dozen warriors. They are dressed as for war, but everyone standing there on that beach under the cold, dark sky knows that it is hopeless. Death or capitulation. The only possibilities.
Somerled strides forward, a smile sitting on his face. I would not trust this smile, he thinks to himself, and the thought spins the smile into a genuine one. The grey-haired man opposite him is confused, frightened by Somerled’s freakish good humour.
‘Well now,’ says Somerled. ‘And you are the Lord of Coll?’
‘Aye. Cathal,’ says grey-hair, shifting his weight from foot to foot.
‘I am Somerled.’ He watches the old man’s eyes widen in recognition. Fear.
‘This,’ says Somerled, waving to the man walking up the beach behind him, ‘is Thorfinn Ottarson. And this,’ he points to Dugald, who fixes his eyes on Cathal, ‘is your new lord. My son. Dugald. Lord of Man and the Isles.’
‘But,’ the man stammers. ‘But … we heard … I mean. Godred. Is he dead?’
‘Not yet,’ grins Thorfinn.
Somerled cuts him off. ‘Confusing, ain’t it? Here’s the easy part. Me and my men have been sailing, and we’re hungry. Feel free to feast your new lord.’
Cathal looks behind Somerled to the rows of warriors staring at him from above the planked sides of the galleys.
‘How many?’
‘Eighty birlinn is all.’
The old man closes his eyes, imagining, no doubt, his winter hoard ravaged, and his people reduced to quarter rations until spring.
‘Come, Cathal. At least it’s not eighty Norse longships,’ says Somerled, and the old man smiles weakly.
~~~
With not enough room to beach, most of the men spend the night on the galleys. Food and warmed ale is ferried out to them. Somerled wanders down from Cathal’s hall at midnight to watch the fleet dancing on the moonlit waves. A half-moon, now bright, now cloud-shrouded. A shining path picked out along the black water. The galleys drift in and out of sight with the meandering of the clouds. It is cold, but dry. They will be fine out there tonight.
Somerled pulls his cloak about his shoulders. Coming into the cold night from a hot fire sends his skin wild with goose bumps and shivers. He thinks of his son, Gillecolm, out there in the boat. Sharing a pot, sharing a cloak. Laughing at someone’s vice, someone else’s virtue. He thinks about how the laughter of your brothers can keep you warm on the coldest evening, keep you brave against the perils of dawn.
He turns back to Thorfinn Ottarson’s shrewd eyes and Cathal’s grudging smile. Behind him, songs and laughter drift across the water.
~~~
The next morning, the previous night’s soft regrets seem absurd. An affectation brought on by eating and drinking too much. He splashes cold water on his face, lets it prise open his hooded eyes.
Cathal is trying, failing, to hide his relief at their departure. Somerled studies his face with an internal smile as he says: ‘Your son, Cathal. Ragnar, is it? A fine lad. The child of a late love, I think?’
He watched last night as Cathal cradled his son in his gaze. The boy is about fourteen, with all that age’s lanky oscillation between arrogance and childishness.
Cathal brightens with Somerled’s praise. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘My first wife, God rest her, could not bear children. It was a great sadness. The boy is my only …’ He stops speaking, stops walking, turns to Somerled. In the unforgiving dawn light he looks ancient, a grave-hoverer.
‘No,’ he says, flatly.
‘No? Well now, Cathal. The Maiden, in Alba, has just been knighted by the King of England. In France. Did you know that? The Continental style of things, I’m told, is for a boy to serve as a page to a great knight until he comes of age. The Maiden caught the notion from the English, I think. His head, they tell me, is full of chivalry. He is proud to be King Henry’s vassal. How absurd. Don’t you think? To pledge yourself to another man’s service when there is no need. On the other hand, if there is a need …’
He flicks his eyes across to Cathal’s son, who stands talking with Ranald. The boys are of a similar age. He can’t imagine what they find to talk about.
‘We have become such friends, Cathal. I would hate for us to fall out.’
‘Speak plain, Lord Somerled. Give me that at least. You want my boy as a hostage?’
‘Yes.’
‘And I have no choice?’
‘No.’
‘And if Godred comes and demands my allegiance back to him? And I give it?’
‘That, my dear friend, would be a very stupid thing to do.’
The man’s face falls in on itself. He is trying not to cry. Somerled feels an unexpected shard of pity. He crushes it, cursing himself.
They sail away, with the boy attached to Somerled’s own crew. His face is white, determined. As the old man standing alone on the beach cries his farewells, the boy turns away, fixing his eyes on the open sea.
~~~
So they hop, that winter, from island to island, taking hostages and hospitality. And more. He watches his younger sons strut. He watches them eye the women, flit off into the shadows before the feasting is done. He has his fill of women too. They are offered up to him. He has earned a reputation as a man with many women, which he finds entirely surprising. Yet they are there, the women, and losing himself in their bodies is a kind of forgetting and a kind of remembering.
The islands will be littered with their bastards, come the next autumn.
He enjoys showing Dugald his new sheep, showing the sheep their new shepherd. Until the muttering grows too loud for Somerled to ignore.
‘They want a fight,’ says Brian, quietly. They are beached on Jura, in the shadow of the Paps. It is bitterly cold, and wet. Dusk settles on them as they sit, morose and still. The water trickles under the stretched hides, vindictive and icy, seeking out any flesh that is still warm, still dry.
Brian is Somerled’s champion now. Less by brawn than by cunning. No one fights Brian if they can help it, even the big men who dwarf him. He is impossible to read, slippery. His closed, calm face is disquieting to those who go into battle screaming, signposting their feints and attacks with shifting eyes.
Somerled nods. ‘Of course they do. All this winter sailing, and no silver, no women.’
Brian makes an ambiguous noise.
‘Well then, few women. Patience, friend. It will come soon enough. He will come.’
‘And when he does, lord?’
Somerled looks at him, wishing he would unbend, just a little. Smile sometimes. He turns to Cathal’s boy, who sits in his shadow. ‘Fetch my sons,’ he says.
Soon, Dugald, Ranald and Angus come forward. Olaf was left behind with his mother, poor scamp, furious at his own youth. ‘All my sons, you idiot,’ he growls to the boy, who runs away and comes scampering back with Gillecolm.
‘Well, boys,’ says Somerled, looking at them. ‘What now?’
They are not used to being asked their opinion. Angus looks at his older brothers, who gaze at their father.
‘We are provoking Godred,’ says Ranald. ‘Waiting for him.’
‘Good.’ He gestures at them to sit by his fire. ‘And what will he expect when he comes?’
‘A fight,’ says Angus.
‘Clearly. Where? How?’
‘He will come by sea, and we will fight him at sea, of course,’ says Dugald.
Gillecolm says: ‘Your fisher spies are out, Father?’
Somerled nods, and explains to the younger ones that he has sent a fleet of curraghs down to Man, to spy on Godred.
‘But how will they find us?’ asks Angus.
‘Good question, boy. They know our intended route. We started north and are heading south; they are going the opposite way. It is entirely possible we will miss each other. But you should always try, when you can, to know more about your enemies’ movements than your enemy knows about yours.’
The boys nod, solemn. He notices that Cathal’s son has crept closer to listen, trying to shrink himself into a shadow.
‘What will happen when we meet?’
‘We will smash him.’ Ranald snarls it, like a parody of a warrior. His brothers nod.
They are young; he will forgive it. He looks at Gillecolm.
‘Well, Father. He has longships, at least the five he brought from Norway. Probably, from what Thorfinn says, around twenty-five.’
Somerled nods his encouragement. ‘Go on.’
‘Our birlinn are smaller. Rightly smaller,’ he says quickly. ‘Longships do not suit the jagged coast here. Ours are handier, more navigable. The stern rudder makes for tighter, quicker turns than the longships’ steering oar.’
‘But,’ says Somerled, looking at Dugald.
‘Their longships carry more men. Four or five times more,’ says Dugald.
‘So what is our best tactic, in a sea battle?’
The boys are silent.
‘Snapping hounds,’ whispers Cathal’s son, Ragnar.
‘Quiet,’ hisses Dugald.
‘Shh. The boy is right. If we board them one by one, they will have us. Too many men. We must be as snapping hounds to a stag. Harry them, hassle them. Attack in pairs, in threes. Men pouring in from both sides.’
The boys nod, wide-eyed. Dugald looks towards Ragnar. Something vicious in his expression unsettles Somerled. He will keep Cathal’s son close tonight.
‘So it would be best to meet them when we have the wind. If they are to leeward, we can play with them,’ says Gillecolm.
‘And?’
‘A narrow space. So our ability to turn and twist counts for more.’
‘A place like?’
‘Here.’ This from Ranald, who is rewarded with a smile. ‘The Sound of Islay.’
Somerled nods his agreement. ‘If they have the wind, we will run before it, weather Jura and think again. If we have it, we will bleed them. Let them think they are hunting us. Let them think they have the longer sword.’
They settle in on the beaches, ready to wait. But just the next day a fishing curragh comes spinning into sight. Its sail is stretched taut, its heel pronounced. Over the waves comes the sound of calling. ‘Godred is coming. Godred is coming.’
1156
SOMERLED
Fear is a dry mouth. Fear is a tight-clenched fist. A rising of hackles to remind a man how like an animal he is, no matter how precious he values his soul.
Fear is a bittersweet freezing of time, a maw stuffed with exquisite detail: the exact shrillness of the gull’s cry, the sheen on the water that sends the grey sea into a sparkle of silver.
Ahead, Godred. His oars spread in banks that dip and catch, pull and rise in perfect harmony. Regular as a song-beat. Dip, catch, pull, rise. Dip, catch, pull, rise. The dragons’ eyes snap red, their jaws stretching in a roar of challenge, of fury. They plunge towards the sea, rise again screaming. How long their necks! How high the tumblehome of the longboats’ ribs! How large of mast, how bulging of beam are his enemy’s galleys!
They pull towards him, against the tide, against the wind. They swoop across the water, tossing the sea aside.
Around him, his men are busy. They are still under sail, the wind with them, pushing them on to those giant beasts ahead. He envies them their tasks. Small but necessary distractions. They ready the spears, checking they will not catch as they pull them from their homes along the thwarts. Near him, the slingshotters gather, picking over the stones that lie in the galley’s belly.
Gillecolm, at the rudder, frowns his concentration. He looks up at the fat curve of the sail, across to where the nearest neighbour draws wind, a little too close for comfort. He sees his father’s gaze, and throws it back with a smile.
All is in hand. His armour is on; the light-worked mail from Denmark, set with gems that catch and keep the sunlight. He sparkles when he walks, and he thinks himself ridiculous. But it is expected. He reaches down to the sword at his side, feeling, as always, for the imperfect catch in the metalwork. Will he ever learn that this is a new sword, precious beyond measure but somehow depressing in its perfection?
All that is left is for him to stand here at the prow, looking confident, trying to stop the rumbling of his bowels by effort of will alone. He fancies himself propelling the galley forward by the power of fart, and imagines telling Eimhear the joke. He turns his face to the front as he laughs, so the men will not see it.
The boy is there, tucked into his shadow as usual. Somerled keeps him close. He cannot quite tell why. The boy sees him smile.
‘Ragnar. Frightened, boy?’
The boy pauses, looking into his face.
‘Yes.’
Somerled grins. He likes the boy’s honesty. He likes his serious freckled face. He lifts him up, shows him how to wrap his arms and legs around the otter’s neck, holding him there just in case. He used to do this with Gillecolm. Before the premature death of the boy’s childhood.
Ragnar laughs as he rises and plunges, part of the breathing of the boat up here, the glorious inhale and exhale that sends her onwards. Somerled brings him down at last, worried that it is too cold. What a thing to worry about, when there are Man spears with the boy’s runes carved on the shaft. Still, the January air is vicious. The boy wraps wet red hands inside his cloak.
‘They have stopped rowing, Lord Somerled.’
Somerled looks past the otter to Godred’s crew, oars pressed down in the water to keep them still.
‘So they have. Do you know what they’re about, boy? Have you fought a battle at sea before now?’
The boy shakes his head. Looks up at him with innocent eyes. Jesus, thinks Somerled. Those eyes will lose their innocence before today is done. Lord keep him safe, though.
‘Well. They are grappling together, do you see?’ The boy looks out across the water to where, one by one, Godred’s boats are lashing themselves together. Two, then three, then four. Five. Like a floating raft.
‘Think of the tafl board, Ragnar. The point is to take out the king. So they put the king in the middle of the raft to keep him safe.’
‘Will we do the same, lord?’
‘No. Their advantage is in size. Ours is in numbers. See how not all of them are joining the raft? The smaller ones will take us on, while we make for the raft and try to take it boat by boat. Like peeling an onion. The Otter will hover about the back, however. If they take me, we are done.’
It sounds so simple, like that. So cold-blooded. As if tactics and the directing of galleys were a matter of fireside humming and hawing. As if every decision were not washed in blood.
The priest comes forward now. He is ugly, this fellow, the broad plane of his forehead emphasized by the shaved tonsure. Somerled can’t remember his name, but moves aside for him. The smell of incense mixes with the salt air and spills upwards in grey smoke.
He has a low, rich voice, this priest. The warriors stop their work and listen, standing still and quiet. Behind him, beyond the otter’s head, the screaming dragons are drawing near.
Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.
Somerled whispers the words. He thinks of St Patrick, who faced down a king with this prayer as his only breastplate. He thinks of the boy he once was, who sang his own poem in his head as the dragons closed in.
~~~
It begins with a shower of stones and arrows. From where the Otter bobs, behind the thicket of galleys, they can watch death raining on the lead ships. It is like sitting dry on a sunny bank, watching a summer squall across the sea. Somewhere in that dark, sharp squall is his son Ranald. Rocks and arrows are raining down on his dear head, seeking to crush that skull Somerled once cradled in the palm of his hand.
Dugald stands next to him, chafing at their safety.
‘Easy,’ says Somerled. ‘We will be in it soon enough. No reason to let the bastards catch or kill either of us. The whole enterprise would be lost before it started.’
‘Easy for you, Father. You have proved yourself five hundred times over. I have not. This is my birthright we are fighting for. And Ranald is …’
He stops, the sentence trailing off.
They watch in silence as the ships begin to meet. Godred’s free longships are surging forward, clustering defensively around the rafted ships at the centre. Somerled’s birlinn stick in their pairs. He watches the first attack. One birlinn to the bow of the longship, one to the stern. The biggest, the strongest board first. One at each side, simultaneously, to split the longship’s defence. The longships want to close beam on, so their bigger oars can destroy the little birlinn and their men can jump in numbers from the high gunwale on to a deck still reeling from the blow.
The Winter Isles Page 25