Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (16 page)

Teviotdale widened notably beyond the town of Hawick and the Argyll party were the more impressed by the richness of the land, its fruitfulness, the size and numbers of its farmeries and granges, villages, mills and orchards, so very different from what they were accustomed to in the Highlands and Isles. It was harvest time here, mid-August—although it would not be so in Argyll for a full month yet—and everywhere folk were at work amongst the rigs of strip cultivation which clothed all the valley-floors and the gentle flanking slopes with their golden mantling; cutting, stooking, gleaning, leading-in on sleds. Notable was the number of monkish figures, by their habits, working the land; the Highlanders had heard that the Roman Church was strong on garnering the fruits of the land and turning it into wealth—which seemed to them a strange preoccupation for the religious. But it certainly seemed to enhance the countryside and no doubt aided the people. Somerled promised himself that when he could ensure reasonable security and peace in his own domains on the Hebridean seaboard, he would seek to encourage a like industry and productivity insofar as that very different land would allow. There were parts, he believed, where corn and fruits would grow well, level areas such as Loch Etive-side, Loch Fyne-side, Appin, Lismore, the Ross of Mull and best of all the flat isle of Tiree and much of Islay. He must learn more about cultivation of the soil, seeds, drainage and the like, whilst he was here in the South.

They followed the south bank of Teviot, mile upon plenteous mile, having to ford the major incoming tributary waters of Rule, Jed and Kale, as well as a host of lesser streams. Near each ford there was a village or hamlet, with mills and usually a hospice of monks, for the shelter of travellers, for payment—never had these travellers seen the like, so many people, so much preoccupation with work, so much evidence of wealth, so many acquisitive churchmen. It was all very different from their anticipation.

Impressed as they were, it was nothing to the interest and even excitement with which they at length set eyes on Rook’s Burgh, where their great Teviot eventually emptied itself into the greater Tweed. The last mile or so of land between the two converging rivers formed a narrowing peninsula, and this area was a remarkable sight indeed, wholly filled with buildings, cabins, houses, barns, sheds, pavilions, warehouses, churches, a vast jumble of roofs and gables, chimneys and spires, all in timber and clay and stone, more buildings huddled together than any of the visitors had ever before set eyes on. They had no towns in the West Highlands, only scattered townships; and although they had recently passed towns of a sort on their way here, Graitney at Esk-mouth, Langholm in Ewes-water and Hawick-on-Teviot, none of these compared in size and density of housing with this new Rook’s Burgh, the smoke of whose myriad fires hung above the area in a blue cloud. Out of this cloud rose, above the town, the royal castle, on the thrusting spine of rock which formed the final apex of the peninsula and which came to a sharp point where the two rivers met, a notably strong position, protected by cliffs and water on two of its arrowhead-shaped sides. The royal emblem of the Boar of Scotland, blue on silver, flew from great banners along its frowning ramparts. It all made Castle Sween seem like a toy fortalice.

Seeking not to be too much affected by what they saw, the Highlanders rode on.

They were met and challenged on the outskirts of the town by a clanking troop of mounted men in plate-armour, with the boar painted on their breastplates, led by a young knight in glistening steel, crested helmet and colourful heraldry, obviously a Norman, who demanded haughtily to know who they were and what they wanted at His Grace’s town of Rook’s Burgh.

“I am Somerled, King of Argyll, come to see David, King of Scots,” he was answered, just as haughtily. “Conduct me to his presence, sirrah.”

The knight looked a little offput. “First . . . first we shall have to discover whether His Grace will receive you,” he declared.

“He will receive me,” Somerled assured. “Unless he is a fool, as well as a boor. Your liege lord is no fool, I take it?”

The other all but choked, glared, found no words, and reined round his magnificent charger, his troop following suit in well-trained fashion, amidst much clatter. Taking this to be sufficient invitation, the Argyll party trotted after.

They threaded the narrow streets and twisting wynds of the town, seeking to hold their breaths against the stench of it, the folk all drawing heedfully aside to give the crown of the causeway to the imperious horsemen. They passed no fewer than four establishments which they took to be monasteries, by the tonsured and habited guardians—a very holy town, despite the smells. But then David mac Malcolm was known to be a very holy man, and founder of abbeys and churches innumerable. It was to be hoped that he would prove to be as reasonable as he was religious—which was not always the case.

They jingled up a steep track above the houses, zigzagging to the ridge which bore the castle, but westwards of this. Along, eastwards they turned and came to a gap in the spine, high above the swirling Teviot, part-natural, part-artificial, sheer-sided and filled with water, being dammed at the ends. Across this a drawbridge was thrown, guarded by massive circular drum-towers and portcullis, lofty curtain-walls extending left and right. This was the only access to the fortress-palace.

They drummed across the bridge and through the gate-house-pend into a large forecourt beyond. Here their escort dismounted, the Highlanders stiffly did likewise, and as grooms came to take the horses, their knight disappeared. They were left, without further word, to kick their heels.

They had not long to wait, however. Presently the young Norman returned with Saor MacNeil, looking somewhat abashed, and an older man, good-looking and richly-dressed, in his early forties.

“I am Hervey de Warenne of Keith, Knight Marischal of this realm,” the last announced. “I greet you, on behalf of the King. Which is the so-called King of Argyll?”

“I am Somerled MacGillebride MacGilladmnan MacFergus of Argyll, Norman. Of older royal blood than your master, who is grandson of the miller’s daughter of Forteviot! Take me to him.”

The Knight Marischal raised his brows. “You speak rashly, sir!”

“I speak truthfully. I have travelled a long way, by sea and land, to speak with David mac Malcolm. I sent MacNeil of Oronsay here, to inform him. Now—where is your King?”

“At this present, he is at his devotions.” That was short.

“Devotions? At this hour! What do you mean? Is this a king or a monk?”

“Very much a king—as you will discover, sir!”

“It is but two hours past noon. Devotions?”

“His Grace is much troubled,” de Warenne declared stiffly. “Since the Queen died, he is sore stricken. He is not . . .”

“The Queen? Matilda of Huntingdon. Dead . . .?”

“Yes. Have you not heard? Queen Matilda died near a month ago. They were close. His Grace spends much time in prayer.”

“I did not know. I am sorry. No word of this had reached Argyll when we left. I would not have come at this time.”

“No doubt, sir. But since you are here, we must make the best of it. You and yours will be weary, requiring sustenance. Come—I will conduct you to quarters . . .”

The Knight Marischal led them through two inner courtyards, to reach the main range of buildings. Erected along a spine of rock, this castle could have no conventional shape or plan, consisting of strung-out towers and blocks linked by lower subsidiary works and wings, so that the whole was many hundreds of feet in length. Through halls and great apartments and along corridors of stone-vaulting, all seeming to teem with folk, they went, their Highland garb and tartans stared at. Eventually, in a lesser hall, comfortable with wall-hangings, woven carpeting on the stone floor such as Somerled had never before seen, mural garderobes and a fire on a wide hearth, de Warenne deposited them.

“Bedchambers are above in the tower, sufficient for all,” he said. “The wherewithal to cleanse yourselves is in the garderobes. Meats and wine will be before you shortly. And I shall inform His Grace of your presence when he comes from his chamber . . .”

“No need, Hervey—I am here,” a voice declared, to turn all heads. In the further doorway a man stood, of noble but ravaged features, of middle years and middle height, slender, almost emaciated, dressed in nondescript fashion but with a far from nondescript carriage and expression. His eyes were large and fine, his countenance sensitive—but there was nothing weak about the mobile mouth and firm jawline.

“Sire!” De Warenne bowed deeply, and perforce so did the others.

“I heard the arrival of newcomers. Are these our friends from Argyll?”

“One naming himself
King
of Argyll, Your Grace.” The Marischal distinctly emphasised the title.

“Ah—no doubt he has his reasons. I bid him, and you all, welcome to my house. Even though you find us in sore straits.”

“I am sorry, my lord King. I grieve for you in your great loss. We did not know. I would have delayed. I am Somerled of Argyll. And these are chiefs and great men of that kingdom.”

“I thank you.” David came forward. “Do I take it, Lord Somerled, that you have come from Argyll of a purpose to visit me? Only that?”

“I have, my lord David. A long road.”

“So I judged. Therefore, friend, you must have had good reason for making that journey. What, I wonder? Could it be that it concerns your good-brother’s brother, Angus MacEth of Moray, my nephew, who has recently fallen in the field, in revolt against me?”

Somerled blinked. This sorrowing, noble-seeming devotionalist could still aim a shrewd thrust, it seemed.

“Not so,” he declared. “I was much against that ill-conceived venture. As was my good-brother, Malcolm of Ross. My concern here is quite otherwise.” The time did not appear to be propitious, at this stage, to divulge the true reason behind his visit.

“Ah—then I am the better pleased. No doubt we shall learn why we are thus honoured, then, in due course!”

“Is it not sufficient that I come to pay my respects? And to inform your Grace of what transpires on the north-western seaboard?”

“To be sure. I am suitably rebuked!” David inclined his head. “My good friend Hervey of Keith, the Marischal, is looking to your comfort. Any requirements or wishes he, or my Chamberlain, will attend to, on my behalf. You have but to ask. Refreshment will perhaps . . . inspirit you! Afterwards we shall talk further.” Without formality, he turned and went whence he had come, de Warenne at least bowing deeply to his back.

The monarch gone, the Marischal turned almost hotly on Somerled. “I cannot congratulate you!” he exclaimed. “That was no way to behave before the King of Scots. His Grace was too patient! Hereafter, I charge you, be more respectful, sirrah!”

“Respectful, Norman? I respect David mac Malcolm very well. Did I not tell him that I came to pay respects? But I do not grovel! I am, thank God, my own man. And King of Argyll. By the same token, Sir Marischal, I could ask that you show more respect to
my
kingship!”

The other was spared having adequately to answer that by the arrival of a file of servitors with meats and wine. In the stir and clatter of setting down this provision, he took his departure a deal more stiffly than his master had done.

When they were alone, some of Somerled’s new chieftains turned on him, also of the opinion that his attitude to King David was too strong, and unlikely to forward their cause.

Mouth full, he shook his head. “I think not. I have given him warning that I am not easy to deal with—always good policy if you have a bargain to strike. That one will not fail to perceive my message. He knows what is important and what is not. Nor will he take offence at what does not injure him.”

Certainly, later, when they were summoned to a private chamber in the King’s own tower, they found David still courteous and unruffled. He could scarcely be called affable, but then he was a man in deep mourning for a wife deeply loved. He was seated at a table, with three other men, de Warenne again, another Norman whom he named Hugo de Morville, no doubt some relative of the High Constable who had won Stracathro, and a cleric introduced as John, Bishop of Glasgow, Chancellor of the realm. There were benches for Somerled and three of his group, opposite, the others having to stand behind.

“I trust that you are now rested and refreshed from your journeying, my friend,” the monarch said. “I shall be interested to learn what are your intentions and desires. But first, my Lord Somerled, this of title and address. I hear that you are naming yourself King. Will you enlighten me?”

“To be sure, my Lord David. I am King and Regulus of Argyll, an ancient style and designation.”

“H’mm. I know of the Lord Ewan, one of my vassals, who so styled himself. On what authority I am less than clear.”

“Ewan MacSween, yes. We are kin, at some distance. He is now naming himself King of the Isles, only. I have taken over Argyll, and Ewan has resigned that style to myself.”

“Ah. A private arrangement! Yet Argyll is part of
my
kingdom, friend Somerled.”

“As is Man—yet there is a King of Man. And Argyll was wholly in the hands of the Norsemen, these many years. I have recovered it—or most of it.”

“I have heard of your prowess,” David nodded. “I congratulate you and admire. But conquering Norsemen scarcely makes you a king, does it? Your father formerly held the style of
Thane
of Argyll, I understand?”

“What makes a king, my lord? Other than being your father’s son. A sharp sword and a strong arm. That, and the will. Nothing more, I say. My father is dead. He was content to be an exile, dispossessed.
Your
father was not. He took the sword and slew King MacBeth. And made himself a king. There is your answer.”

Into the murmuring of his supporters, David spoke. “I see. But there is a difference, is there not? My father, Malcolm, was the son of King Duncan. Yours was but son of the previous Thane.”

“He was lawfully born, at least!”

The scrape of de Warenne’s bench on the stone floor was loud, as he half-rose to his feet. “Sire, this is intolerable!” he exclaimed. “This man’s insolent tongue should be cut out!”