Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (12 page)

But the effort carried the Scot onwards, to cannon right into the wounded Viking. And Ivar Blacktooth was not finished yet, although grievously wounded. He still had another arm, and a dirk in its hand. He staggered and all but fell, with the dire shock, but raised that arm desperately, to plunge in his steel, before his opponent could pull himself free. The hand came down, the blow fell—but the dagger slipped harmlessly from nerveless fingers. At the Norseman’s back, Cathula MacIan withdrew her
sgian dubh
, gleaming blade now brightly red. Ivar slumped to the ground.

Somerled and the young woman stared at each other as the battle raged around them. Neither spoke.

Presently the man turned to rejoin the fray—but the fire had gone out of him and now his shoulder hurt grievously.

Their leader fallen, and out-numbered, the dragon-ship’s crew lost heart. They by no means broke and bolted, but their fury flagged and soon almost all were seeking opportunity to break off. Some splashed back to the ship, some sought to reach the other vessels, others ran off inland.

Jadedly now, Somerled turned his attention to the remaining boom-bound smoke-shrouded craft. He found that the first required no attention—Saor and his people, their other duties completed, were dealing with it, adequately it seemed. The smoke made it impossible to see what was happening with the others.

Pressing on, he discovered that the second ship’s crew had disembarked, in the main, but on the farther side, presumably having heard all the noise of battle on this eastern shore and deciding that they would be better off elsewhere. They would have to be left meantime. The third and fourth captains had recognised different priorities. They had a large proportion of their men over the side and hacking at ropes and timber with their axes, seeking to clear the two booms away behind them, no doubt so that they could follow the other three ships out to the open loch again, sternwards—these assailed in only token fashion by small numbers of MacInnes of Kinloch’s men, who were spread only very thinly along this shore. Somerled urged his people down to the attack here, although, being into the water, it was difficult and inevitably less than effective—this, of course, applying equally to the defence.

For a while thereafter, then, the entire struggle took on a strangely vague and almost subdued character, diffuse, dispersed, to which smoke, lack of enemy leadership and communications, plus sheer physical problems contributed. Indeed, for much of the time at least some proportion of the opposing forces were merely glaring at each other, through running eyes, across water, from various distances, an inglorious state of affairs.

Yet Somerled was not upset nor distracted—for these circumstances inevitably worked in his favour. The longer this continued the less likely were the Norse to rally and form any coherent front, their morale sinking.

He had to think of possible developments from the ships which had got away. Also the single vessel isolated in Kentra Bay. The latter probably would not represent much danger, in the circumstances; but the three in the outer loch might. Presumably they had not, as yet, sought to land men at the mouth of these narrows, or MacInnes would have sent word.

In fact, no contingency tactics were necessary. The fighting along the channel just gradually petered out. The surviving Norsemen—which was most of them, to be sure—appeared to come to the conclusion that nothing was to be gained by continuing with this scattered struggle against opponents unknown as to identity and numbers but who must seem to be everywhere, and had successfully carved up their fleet and disposed of their renowned chief. The smoke from the fires of the west bank was thinning away now and it became evident that there were comparatively few of Somerled’s force on that side. So thither the Vikings began to drift, into the cover of the smoke-curtained woodland, abandoning their confined ships. And soon the drift became a flood as the confused and leaderless Norse went streaming off.

“What now?” the wounded MacMahon demanded, panting. “How shall we take them now? Weary as we are.”

“We shall not have to, friend Conn. Or so I hope. Let them go. They can retire westwards along that coast for many empty miles, at no danger to us. And when they are some way along the shore of the outer loch, they will seek to be picked up by the three ships which went back there. Is it not what
you
would do? They will signal the ships, to come for them. And the shipmasters, I say, will be glad enough to see them and to go for them, seeking information. For they will know nothing of what is done here, how the others have fared—but they will fear ill. And they will feel guilt, I swear! For having cut free when the others could not. So—they will take these aboard. But I do not think that they will turn back to the attack. Indeed, I am sure that they will not. How think you?”

The older man nodded a bloody head. “That makes fair sense, yes. You believe that they will sail away, then? Leave all here?”

“I do. None will be in any heart to take up the battle again, against unknown numbers in a burning land, after what will seem to them a sore defeat. They will have been told that we have ten ships but not know that we are but four hundred men. With only the three overcrowded craft, will they challenge us again? They will go, I say—and we can leave them to do so—for we are in no state to seek more fighting, our own selves.”

“And what of that one ship which won into the bay?” Cathula asked.

“That we must now go to find out . . .”

It did not take them long to discover the situation of the scout vessel. They could see it, presently, drawn up on the shingle at the head of Kentra Bay, apparently deserted. And when the lame MacGilchrist met them from the township, he informed that its crew had beached it there and hurried off overland in the direction of Loch Shiel. There they would find their dead comrades and three empty longships, at Ardshielach. What they would do then was any man’s guess.

“My guess is that they will sail off, in one of the ships, up Loch Shiel and hope to escape us in some fashion. Or else go on overland, by Acharacle and Salen to Loch Sunart,” Somerled said. “Certainly they will not return here.”

That was accepted. But a small party was sent to ascertain.

With his tired, battered and somewhat bemused people trickling back in twos and threes and small groups, many well endowed now with Norse booty and golden armlets, to compensate for wounds and bruises, a messenger arrived from Dermot Maguire to report that the three vessels in the outer loch had moved into the western shore and taken off many men there. He, Dermot, had made a display of his own craft, but had not felt strong enough to venture close. The enemy had then sailed off seawards and were still going, heading north-westwards, not south, presumably for Knoydart or Skye.

“So—you were right in this also!” Cathula commented. “You must have a Norse mind, I think, to so well judge what they will do. I shall be warned!”

“I misjudged Ivar Blacktooth. And would be a dead man now, but for you, Cathula MacIan.” Somerled answered, deep-voiced. “I thank you.”

“It was but one debt paid,” she said, levelly.

“Nevertheless
my
debt is the greater—for my life. I shall not forget.”

“Your shoulder hurts? Let me see it. I shall find something to rub on it . . .”

“It is nothing. It will be stiff for a couple of days, that is all. A small price to pay for what is gained.”

“Others have paid more.”

“Aye—but that is war. We have suffered but lightly, however. Less than I had looked for, thank God. The enemy likewise, indeed. For they are defeated and gone but have left only small numbers of dead and dying behind. I have not counted them but cannot think that there can be one hundred bodies. Out of a thousand. Cheap victory, cheap defeat! And what have we gained? Moidart largely cleared—like North Mull. The threat to Morvern lifted. Six more longships, in good order, won—nine, if these on Shiel are counted. Much booty and gear. And best of all, repute. Repute for defeating Norsemen. Repute to rouse the spirit of our own down-trodden folk on all this seaboard, in all Argyll and Lochaber. That is what I seek—that
I
shall not have to do all the work of clearing and cleansing this land of the invader. That, lass, that is the gain that I seek.”

“The Vikings will not always tamely dance to your fiddle, Lord Sorley,” she said. “They will gather their wits and their hardihood and strike back. You cannot win always by guile and trickery.”

“I know it. But I have made a start, see you . . .”

The dragon-ship thrust its proud prow steadily north-westwards through the colourful but quite rough waters of the Hebridean Sea, Cathula MacIan beating the gong with rhythmic precision to maintain a regular speed. The great vessel was by no means being driven flat-out, with a new crew not yet entirely used to the feel of its length and weight and sixty-four oars. Besides, there was no hurry. The two escorting longships, although undermanned, were quite able to keep up. The oarsmen sang to the pulsing beat of it, a gasping, repetitive refrain almost coughed out on each deep breath, a strangely dramatic, even barbaric sound.

Somerled paced the high stern-platform, between the girl and the helmsman, humming the simple but almost hypnotic cadence, eyes on the jagged blue outline of the shadow-slashed mountains of Rhum ahead, each with its remarkable halo of parasitic cloud above. He frowned thoughtfully as he hummed, judging, assessing. He was a great assessor, that young man. He would wait to call for maximum effort and increased speed until they were well up the east coast of Rhum, for they would not be seen from inside Loch Scresort there before that, however soon they were spotted by look-outs, and there was no point in wasting energy and effort for no purpose. Meantime he would sail close enough past the islands of Muck and Eigg, on the way, to consider their usefulness or otherwise, for the future. Eigg, he was told, had considerable good tillable land, unusual in the Hebrides, which might serve well as a granary in a properly exploited lordship.

The Cuillin mountains of Skye, named after Cuchullin, a semi-legendary ancestor of his own, were piercing the horizon far ahead with their purple fangs, when he decided that it was worth demonstrating his new style and status for the benefit of beholders on Rhum—assuming that they were still there and not off on some venture of their own. Almost half-way up the dramatic island’s cliff-girt east coast, Somerled nodded to the young woman.

“Now! Show them the worth of us!” he called.

Her tawny hair blowing in the wind, Cathula brought down her club on the gong with a mighty clang which shattered the rhythm of the pulling and chanting, and jerked up all the oarsmen’s heads. Then she recommenced her beating but now with an increased pace, slight at first but building up, as the long, heavy sweeps were forced by urgent muscles into the changed pulse of the gong, ever quickening. The singing died into mere regimented gasps and grunts as men bent and strained and cursed, and the dragon-ship’s speed increased and went on increasing. Spray began to rise like mist, both from the surging prow and the flashing oars, so that soon only those on the high bow and stern platforms could see beyond the curtains of their own making. In the stern, the smell of male sweat grew strong, pungent.

It was not all just simple gong-beating for Cathula MacIan. She had to watch the helmsman all the time, for as well as the normal idiosyncrasies of the Hebridean Sea, he had to contend with the down-draughts and swirling winds coming off the fierce and lofty mountains of Rhum, Askival, Hallival, Trollaval, Alival and the rest, which could play havoc with the steering, the sail-work and even the rowing. The sail-handlers had to be considered also, and Somerled likewise, who was acting as his own shipmaster. But the girl appeared to have an instinctive flare for it all, and clearly the crew now had confidence in her judgement.

So in spectacular fashion the great ship swept round the jutting southern headland of Loch Scresort, which was really just a deep U-shaped bay, and which provided the only reasonably sheltered haven of an island nine miles long by six wide. Their escorts were lagging behind now. Somerled stared eagerly ahead.

The bay was over a mile deep, and at its head was the usual township and hallhouse. Four longships and some smaller craft lay there—amidst obviously urgent activity.

“Four!” he exclaimed. “Only four—I had thought to see better than that! Others may be off on some ploy. But . . .”

“They make ready to receive us,” the helmsman commented. “Busy, they are!”

“Aye—belatedly. Enemies, we could have surprised them. This is not as it ought to be.”

“Your fine flourish wasted!” Cathula said. She had much slowed down the beat of her gong.

Somerled had been unable, as yet, to change the emblems on the sails of his newly-acquired vessels. The galley was the device of his house of Argyll, and in due course all his ships would sail under that symbol. But for the moment he had had to content himself with painting a great red cross over the black raven device of the Norsemen, in the hope that this would stand out with sufficient significance.

Whether or not the people at Kinloch-Scresort perceived or understood this, they could not tell. But obviously they did realise that the one dragon-ship, and two ordinary longships trailing a fair way behind, coming openly into the loch, were unlikely to represent any threat. Men could be seen, on anchored ships and on shore, watching, many men.

As they drew near, Somerled peered, to scan those waiting ranks keenly, searchingly—but was disappointed. The young woman watched him consideringly, as she slowed down the oarsmen.

As their stem ran up on to the weed-strewn shingle and sixty-four oars were raised vertically in impressive style, well rehearsed, Somerled leapt down on to the beach, to shouts, as the watchers recognised him.

“Ha—Manus!” he called. “Greetings—greetings to you all! My father—he is here?”

“I salute you, Lord Somerled,” Manus O’Ryan answered. “It is good to see you. Your father is here, yes—but he is sick. Sorry I am, but he is sorely sick.”