Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (17 page)

The monarch raised a monitory hand. “Quiet, Hervey. The Lord Somerled has come a long way to say this. No doubt for a purpose. We must let him say it. Besides, it is true. My grandsire, King Duncan, did omit to wed my father’s mother. The omission seemed never to trouble Malcolm!” He turned back to Somerled. “So you claim, my friend, that a sword makes the king? That may be true also, sometimes. So long as another king with a longer and sharper sword does not dispute the issue!”

“That is so, Your Grace.”

“Good. I am glad that you agree. You believe, therefore, that I should accept you and your kingship in my Argyll? Why?”

“Because it is in your interests to do so. Only so can you keep Argyll within the kingdom of Scotland.”

“You mean that you might otherwise take it out of Scotland? What of the longer sword, then?”

“That longer sword might at the time be fully employed! And nearer here than Argyll and the isles. As it has been, but recently.”

“Ah. So you consider that there might be another threat to my kingdom and throne? But . . . Angus MacEth is dead.”

“Malcolm, his brother, is not.”

“I see. But you told me, earlier, that Malcolm was much against this recent rising? As were you.”

“So I advised him, yes.”

David nodded. “So, if you advised him differently again . . .?”

“I would not
wish
to do that, Your Grace.”

“If Angus of Moray was beaten, with great loss, and slain, why not Malcolm of Ross?”

“Malcolm might have better allies.”

There was silence for a little. The Chancellor-Bishop spoke. “The Earl of Ross is a vassal of the crown, my lord. And more than a vassal, one of the
Ri
, or Seven Earls of the King’s Council. Have you considered that to urge or counsel such to rise in arms against the High King, even to suggest it, could be construed as highest treason?”

“In another vassal of the crown, perhaps, Sir Priest.”

“And you are not that?”

“Not . . . yet.”

“So—we come to it,” David said. “At length. You do not consider yourself to be my vassal, although Argyll is in my realm of Scotland. But you
might
be. If I accepted your kingship and conquest of Argyll. Is that it? Is that what you have come here to say?”

“Only partly, my lord King.”

For a moment the monarch seemed to lose his carefully nurtured patience and calm. His fists clenched and he leaned forward over the table. “There is more, then? What more? Out with it, man.”

Somerled was the more assured, reasonable. “Bute and Arran, my lord King. These islands, although not part of Argyll, belong under its sway, by any true judgement. They are in the lee of Kintyre. Indeed, in wrong hands, they constitute a threat to all southern Argyll. The Norse now dominate them.”

“So . . .?”

“If I free them of the Norse, I would wish them added to Argyll.”

“You have a notable appetite for lands and territories, sir! Have you not already sufficient? These have a lord, as it is.”

“Who does nothing. Like Ewan MacSween. Lord only in name. There is grave weakness along all those coasts, amongst the Scots, a failure of the spirit. Has been for long. And for sufficient reason.”

“You mean, because of the Norse invasions?”

“I mean, Lord David, because they have had no aid and support over the years from the King of Scots, their liege-lord!”

Not a few there drew quick breaths at that, on both sides of the table. De Warenne glared, stirring.

David, however, had recovered his calm. “You speak very plainly, my lord,” he said.

“Would you have it otherwise? It is truth. Not your Grace to blame, to be sure—before your reign. But your royal father and brothers, in especial Edgar, abandoned all the Highland West and its folk. Malcolm even
gave
the Hebrides to King Magnus Barefoot of Norway. My father paid the price, losing Argyll. Others likewise. Now, I win it back. Without your aid.”

“Then, no doubt, you will win back Bute and Arran also. Whether I grant them to you or no!”

“Perhaps. But I do not seek to win them for another lord. Who may continue to do little to hold them.”

“These are great and extensive lands, Arran in especial. Held by my High Steward . . .”

“With all respect, my lord King—not held! Granted to, by charter—that is all. If the Steward
held
them, I would not now be seeking them. Who sits in Rothesay Castle? Not Walter fitz Alan, your Steward, but one MacRoderick, keeper for the King of Man! By passing the lordship to me, under your suzerainty, you will gain much, and your Steward will lose nothing which is not already lost to him. Is it not so?”

The monarch glanced round at his supporters, and shrugged. “All this will have to be considered,” he said, after a moment. “I cannot give you any answers now. Enough for the moment. You will join me in the great hall presently, for repast and entertainment?” Clearly the audience was at an end.

The Highland party rose, bowed and left.

“How, think you, will David respond to all that?” Saor MacNeil asked, as they made for their own tower. “You did not spare him!”

“Nor did I injure him. All that I said was honest, and he will know it. He will do as I have asked.”

“Are you so sure?” MacFerdoch, Abbot of Glendochart, demanded. “After such mauling, he will hardly love you.”

“I do not ask that he loves me—although I would not be sorry if he did. I ask only that he faces the facts. And I judge that one will do so. For he is an honest man, I think. Indeed I hope that he will, for more than my own cause. I have a notion that he could be a man after my own heart, that David mac Malcolm, and I would be happy to call him my friend.”

None saw fit to comment on that.

They certainly had no cause to complain over the quality of their royal host’s hospitality and entertainment that night. A banquet was produced, remarkable for its variety as well as abundance, at such short notice, with Somerled in the place of honour at David’s right hand; and this followed by excellent diversion, with singers and minstrels, dancers and jugglers, sennachies and storytellers or sagamen—who presumably were domiciled here in the town of Rook’s Burgh. It made a lively and enjoyable evening, even if the monarch himself could scarcely have been in a mood to enjoy it to the full.

Next day a deer-hunt was arranged for the visitors, in the nearby Forest of Jedworth, part of the vast Ettrick Forest which covered so much of the Middle March. Despite his strictures towards Malcolm of Ross over a preoccupation with the deer, Somerled was very fond of hunting—when it did not interfere with more vital matters. He enjoyed the challenge of the chase; moreover, as a kind of token warfare, it helped in time of peace to maintain men’s fitness for real action. David himself did not accompany them and the hunt was led by Hugo de Morville who, with de Warenne, appeared to be one of the High King’s closest associates; fortunately he was less hot-tempered and more amiable than the Marischal. Somerled distinguished himself by spearing a fierce and massive boar—only to discover afterwards that in this royal forest the boar, the royal emblem, was reserved for slaying by the royal family only. Needless to say it was de Warenne who in due course pointed this out.

Tired after a long day’s sport, no serious discussions were initiated that night. Somerled was not concerned at such delay, although some of his people were. King David, for dignity’s sake, required a certain amount of time to elapse before he could decently concede victory, he asserted.

In the morning, however, with no sign of the monarch and no summons to his presence nor any recreation or pastime organised for the visitors, they became distinctly uneasy and Somerled began to wonder, even though he endeavoured not to reveal his doubts. They were brought meals in their own tower but otherwise left severely alone. But in mid-afternoon there was some commotion in the courtyards, obviously the arrival of a quite large party; and about an hour later they received the awaited call to the same plain royal chamber as before.

They found David flanked by his three aides as previously but with another, a tall, stooping hawklike man of middle years, whose great beak of a nose and tight lips were in part belied by great liquid dark eyes almost like a woman’s.

“Greetings, my Lord Somerled,” the monarch said. “I hope that you have not wearied in my house? Here is my friend, Walter fitz Alan, High Steward of this my realm.”

So that was the reason for the delay, the summoning of the Steward from wherever he roosted. No doubt it was significant—but could bear more than the one interpretation.

Somerled inclined his head but made no comment.

“I have told the Lord Walter of your . . . contentions, sir. But come, sit, and we shall discuss further.”

“I believed that discussion was finished, my lord King, and the time come for decisions,” Somerled said levelly. But he and his party seated themselves.

“Allow me to state again your proposals, my lord—and correct me if I mistake,” David went on easily. “You wish that I should accept your occupation of Argyll and the other lands which you have taken from the Norsemen; to acknowledge you as Regulus and sub-King of Argyll; and you desire me to permit you to recapture the islands of Bute and Arran and thereafter, if successful, to add them to your lordship of Argyll—although these already belong to the High Steward. These are your . . . requirements?”

“Yes. Save that I do not ask to be
permitted
to recapture Bute and Arran. I intend to do so. For the rest, it is correct.”

“I see. Tell me, then, why do you ask my agreement first, if you intend to take these islands anyway?”

“I do not ask your agreement, Sir King. I ask only for a
grant
of these lands in my name, a mere paper, a charter—if I can take them. If not, and the Norse retain them, neither you nor the Steward have lost anything.”

“But why these? You asked no grant nor charter for the rest!”

“Because these islands lie close to your Lowland shores, within sight and striking distance of your Ayr and Renfrew coasts. None other of my lands do so. You could, or your Steward could, seek to take them back from me after I had ousted the Norsemen. I would not wish to be for ever defending them against you. So I would have a charter, bearing your royal signature—which I believe you would adhere to.”

“Thank you!” That was curt. Then David mustered a faint smile and turned to the tall man. “You hear that, Walter? How you are esteemed! Does it alter your decision?”

The Steward shook his head, wordless.

“Very well. The Lord Walter has agreed to resign to me Arran and Bute in exchange for new lands to be transferred to him in Galloway and Dundonald of Kyle. My Lord Somerled, in return for my acceptance of all this, you are prepared to become my leal vassal, to take me as your liege lord and to accord to me your full and strong support at all times, as honest vassal should?”

“I am, my lord David. And more than that.”

“More . . .?”

“I would take you for my friend,” the younger man said simply.

Gasps and exclamations from all the company, astonishment, alarm, even outrage, writ large on faces. But not on David of Scotland’s face. He sat staring at Somerled for a few moments, expression strange, then rose and leaning across the table, held out his hand—clearly not for any ritual gesture of fealty which would have required a different attitude and would have been difficult above that board, but to be shaken by the speaker.

“Well said, Somerled my friend, King of Argyll!” he exclaimed.

For once Somerled MacFergus found no words.

They stood thus for a little, and all others must stand likewise, holding each other not only in the normal handshake but each leaning to grasp the other’s forearm with the left hand. Then, as their grips relaxed, Somerled stepped back, eyes still on David’s, to stride round the table-end to behind the High King’s chair, sank down on one knee.

Again David held out his hand, this time differently, palm vertical, and the other took it between his own two, in the age-old token of homage and allegiance.

“I, Somerled, take you, David, to be my liege lord,” he intoned. “I swear by Almighty God to be your man, for the lands I hold of you in this your realm. And I vow to support you, with all my powers, from this day forward, in your royal and right causes and endeavours. Before these as witness, I, Somerled MacGillebride MacFergus, have spoken it.”

“And I, David of Scotland, take you, Somerled, to be my man, of heart and hand and military service, to trust and sustain you at all times. Be faithful, as shall I. Arise, King of Argyll.”

So it was done. The watchers looked with varying expressions at the two men who stood together smiling, so suddenly in evident harmony and accord after all the warfare of words. Enthusiasm seemed to be confined to the two principals. It was going to stick in many throats to call Somerled king. But the High King was doing so, and his subjects could do no less.

The Highland party left Rook’s Burgh the next day for Esk-mouth and their ships. David and Somerled parted firm friends.

“This place would not be difficult to defend, at least,” Somerled said grimly, gazing shorewards. “Perhaps they rely on all these cliffs and rock and reefs? Or are they all asleep? Or drunken? I had thought that we would have had fifty longships or galleys sniffing around us by now.”

“They must know that we are here,” Cathula MacIan said. “Therefore they conceive themselves to be in no danger from us. The King of Argyll’s emblem on our sails is sufficient to reassure all!” That verged on the disrespectful.

“Perhaps Olaf Morsel has shrunk away still further, until he has become invisible!” Saor MacNeil suggested. “They say that he grows smaller every year.”

Somerled ignored this further example of humour. “He may yet surprise us. I am not prepared to be fooled, even if you are. You, Conn, have been here before, you say. It is your notion that the Manx fleet is like to be at this south end of the island?”

“Aye, lord. There is a deep and fair haven, in a notable bottle of a bay. It is not to be seen, behind St. Michael’s Isle. It is large enough and secure enough, facing almost due north, to be sheltering a hundred ships and more. There will be Olaf’s fleet—for his castle of Rushen is nearby, they told me. There is another bay beyond, on which the castle stands, but it is shallow, tidal. Venture into this St. Michael’s Bay unbidden and you would be trapped.”