Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (18 page)

They were sailing in formation, eight ships, a mile or so off the eastern shore of the Isle of Man, with its long and dire rampart of cliffs and stacks and screes, against the feet of which the seas boiled whitely. Somerled had been careful as to the number of vessels he had brought, leaving almost forty others in Rothesay Bay of Bute, over one hundred miles to the north. He calculated that eight was approximately right, enough to establish his dignity but not enough to seem to pose any real threat to the King of Man. At Rothesay, the Bute capital, he had not had to fight for possession, as he had been prepared to do; but he had learned that before he could take over his new-granted territories of Bute and Arran he would have to settle with Olaf of Man who, although himself a vassal of David of Scotland, apparently exercised dominion over these islands, belonging to the High Steward or not. Such was the state of the western seaboard of Scotland. Somerled was bold and could be rash; but he was not prepared to challenge the power of Man. Not just yet, at any rate.

They were nearing the southern end of the thirty-three-miles-long island when they saw the first of the Manxmen, two longships a couple of miles ahead, their sails bearing the curious three-legged emblem. These kept their distance, obviously sent out to watch and shadow.

Well past a prominent headland which Conn named as St. Sanctan’s Head—Man appeared to be a great place for saints—MacMahon, peering half-right, declared that he thought that was St. Michael’s Isle almost directly ahead. It did not look like an island from here, being fairly close inshore. But that long low line of small cliffs beyond it must be the southernmost peninsula of Man, Langness. If so, the hidden bay he had spoken of would be just west of St. Michael’s. They should turn in shortly.

If the others tended to doubt Conn’s memory, for there was no sign of any sizeable bay, at least there were a scattering of houses to be seen now above the cliffs and coves, inlets and reefs—although still nothing to suggest that this Man was the densely populated and prominent little kingdom which it was known to be. So far, in the thirty-odd miles they had seen little evidence that it was any more populous and important a place than was, for instance, the Isle of Jura in their own Argyll.

It was not until they were almost up with St. Michael’s Isle, fearsomely ringed with skerries, that they began to perceive that what had seemed to be merely a small bay of that island was in fact the opening to something much larger, this impression added to by a jutting point at the other side, which proved to be on the mainland of Man. Steering further over, westwards, to avoid approaching this gap directly, suddenly they saw within—and all was abruptly, astonishingly, transformed.

A deep, round basin appeared, almost a mile deep, probably, and after this narrow opening, widening to almost as much, all backed by gentler green slopes and woodland, the first they had seen, this rising ground dotted plentifully with houses and cabins of stone and timber. But it was the bay itself which constrained the attention, being so full of shipping that scarcely any water was visible from outside—longships, galleys, birlinns but also heavier trading vessels, barks, carracks and fishing-craft, all neatly drawn up in ranks and groupings. At a guess there must have been at least one hundred vessels there, a concentration larger than any Somerled had ever seen, the more extraordinary after the empty waters they had sailed through.

He was impressed, although he did not say so. Although it was quite a decision to take, he ordered the dragon-ship to turn and sail directly in.

He led his squadron into the crowded bay, all alert for the first sign of trouble or assault, Somerled wondering whether there was going to be room for his eight ships. But proceeding down a narrow central channel, watched by silent men on some of the flanking craft, they came presently to an area left open at the head of the bay, not visible from the sea. Here a stone jetty thrust out. Only one vessel was berthed at this, a great dragon-ship even larger than Somerled’s.

Manoeuvring his own ship to the other side of this jetty, and leaving his other craft to look after themselves, he disembarked, his party after him, not waiting for any guidance or permission. No hostile moves were apparent around them, only a wary watching—although it was to be seen, now, that the central channel had been closed behind their last vessel by the two longships which had shadowed them.

On land, quite large numbers of folk had appeared, to eye the newcomers. But nobody came forward to greet them. There was a notable lack of welcome, but no real atmosphere of tension.

Somerled turned to MacNeil. “Tell them,” he said.

Saor stepped forward, hand high. “Greetings to all here,” he called. “I, MacNeil of Oronsay, announce that the great and potent Somerled the Mighty, King of Argyll, comes to visit the good King Olaf of Man. Let all rejoice!” If that held mockery as well as flourish, few there would perceive it.

No response was apparent amongst the onlookers.

“An unmannerly folk,” Somerled commented. He raised his voice. “Who is chiefest here?” he demanded.

Although men amongst the crowd facing them looked at each other, none made any move, nor spoke. They were a mixed lot, villagers, seamen, fisher-folk and not a few who looked as though they might be Norsemen.

“Very well.” Somerled waved the others forward and started off, up towards the waiting throng.

The crowd parted before them. Ignoring them now, as though they did not exist, he marched on and through, men close enough to touch on either side. Behind him Saor and Cathula led half-a-dozen others, including MacIan of Uladail, the young woman’s half-brother. Dermot Maguire remained with the ship. The unforthcoming crowd turned and followed on, at a distance.

Stalking ahead, Somerled made for a stone building, part-way up the hill, unlike any of the others there, warehouses, sheds, cabins or typical Viking-houses, in that it was much longer, single-storeyed, with roundheaded windows. He guessed it to be a church, a Romish kirk. He had seen two or three of these on his visit to Scotland to see King David. The Celtic Columban Church did not go in for such buildings, preferring open-air worship, and using modest beehive-shaped cells and huts for their cashels and shelters for portable altars, fonts and the like. But Man would adhere to the Roman rite, at least as far as its Norse aristocracy was concerned. At the east end of this long building, the gable was surmounted by a cross; but at the other end, a smoking chimney.

Somerled was spared the indignity of having to knock and wait at the west-end door, presumably to the presbytery-house, for a priest in a brown girdled habit, head tonsured on the crown, appeared therein as they approached.

“Sir Monk—I am Somerled of Argyll. I come to speak with Olaf Godfreysson of Man. None here appear to have any wits or courtesy. Have you? Can you direct me where to go to find the King?”

“To be sure, my lord. I . . . I greet you . . . in the name of God.” That last sounded doubtful.

“I thank you. Where do we go, then? Likewise in the name of God!”

“I will take you, my son,” the priest said, presumably enheartened by this sign of piety. “It is not far. Scarce two miles, if we go over the hill and by the shore. To Rushen, the King’s house.”

“Two miles! Lord—do all his guests have to walk two miles to see Olaf Buttered-Bread?”

“If they are known to be coming, he usually sends horses, my son.”

“The Lord Somerled is usually called King rather than son, Sir Priest!” Saor said grinning. He turned to his foster-brother. “Do we wait for horses then, my lord King?”

“I prefer to stretch my legs than endure such company, man! Come.”

“Permit that I get my staff, Sire . . .”

The priest leading, they set off, amidst grumbling from some of the party. The crowd behind made no attempt to follow now. At first they followed a well-defined road westwards, flanked by warehouses, barns and the like, which appeared to lead to a low pass in the gentle hillsides here. But soon they turned off, to the left, to climb rather more steeply into woodland, but still by a path. Conn declared that they were here crossing the neck of the long Langness peninsula, which extended for almost three miles southwards.

The change from populated country to scrub woodland and heath and small rocky outcrops was sudden and dramatic. Their track probed and wound, sometimes in open glades and brackeny slopes but more often in dense greenwood. It seemed an odd way to go seeking the King of Man. “Does this lead to your castle?” Somerled demanded of the priest. “Surely there is a better way than this.”

“It is the shorter way,” he was told. “Since Your Highness seemed loth to walk. The road, the other road, takes a longer route, for carts and the carriage of goods. To the Castle Haven of Rushen. This cuts off a corner.”

It was whilst crossing one of the glades, green and open, with the less energetic of the company already complaining that surely they had covered more than any two miles, that there was an interruption, an eruption. A trampling, crashing sound, and the sudden baying of hounds, in the woodland to their half-left, turned all heads. Out from the thickets there bounded a tall, heavy-antlered stag, shaggymaned and mud-coated from wallowing, which dashed across the grassy glade at an angle, apparently scarcely perceiving the walkers. As it leapt on into the further trees, an arrow could be seen to be projecting from its rump.

“A hunt! And a fine beast!” Somerled exclaimed. “A score of stones, at the least.”

“Yes—this Langness is the King’s hunting-forest, lord.”

“If it holds beasts like that then Olaf is to be congratulated . . .”

But this appreciation from a keen sportsman was short-lived. Preceded by bounding, long-legged, shaggy deer-hounds, a scatter of horsemen burst out from the woodland on the same line as the stag but spread over quite a wide front. Shouting and beating at their animals’ flanks, they thundered across the open glade, perhaps a dozen of them, colourfully-clad. Three were much in the lead, young men these, all with reddish-yellow hair streaming, and astride fine mounts. Because of their placing as they emerged from the trees, two of these, to follow the disappearing stag’s route, found the walkers on the road directly in their line. Without pause or the least drawing aside of their beasts to take avoiding action, these spurred on straight for the Scots party.

“Save us—they are going to ride us down!” Saor cried, as it became clear that the huntsmen were not going to swerve. “Fiend seize them . . .!”

Somerled, swiftly judging which direction to move to avoid being struck, began to jump, then remembered Cathula at his back, and jerking round, grabbed her bodily and all in the same movement flung himself and her aside. Only just in time. A grinning horseman pounded past within a yard of tnem, as they stumbled and fell, the young woman undermost, and the ground shook to the beat of the horse’s hooves as they collapsed on it. At the other side, Farquhar MacFerdoch, Abbot of Glendochart, was spun round by the second laughing huntsman and cannoned into MacIan of Uladail so that both lost their balance and fell also.

“Precious soul of God . . .!” Somerled gasped in an explosion of wrath—before solicitude for the woman beneath him overcame even that elemental fury and he picked himself up, to raise her in some concern. She was winded, her bosom heaving, but otherwise apparently unhurt, although she could not find her voice at first.

A female voice did speak, however, to lift the man’s head. Another of the hunters was there beside them, had reined up, a young woman, a mere girl in fact, who was looking down at them a trifle anxiously.

“You are not hurt?” she was asking. “That was not well done. I am sorry.”

“By all the Powers—it was
not
well done!” Somerled burst out. “A God’s name—what oafs are these? What way is that to behave? Ridden down like dumb cattle . . .!”

“I am sorry. It was unfortunate, yes. I . . .”

“Unfortunate!” Somerled found that he was almost shaking Cathula in his ire. He swallowed and sought to restrain himself, aided undoubtedly by the fact that he was glaring up into a very lovely, piquant young face of delicately-chiselled features, fine greenish-grey eyes and flaming red hair. Moreover the expression was disarmingly sympathetic. “This, this lady might have been sorely injured,” he ended, rather feebly.

The girl’s eyebrows rose. Clearly she had not perceived that Cathula was a woman and no mere youth—after all, her hair was no longer than that of most of the men and she was dressed as they were, in saffron kilt and shirt with long, calfskin, sleeveless jerkin, wearing belt and dirk. Admittedly her breasts were prominent and shapely, far from masculine, but Somerled had his arms round her, largely masking them.

“Lady . . .! I did not see it. I am the more sorry. They, they would not know . . .”

“Does that excuse them, the ruffians?”

“It is no matter—I am well enough,” Cathula got out. “And it was no fault of this girl.”

“No. But . . .” He shrugged. “Who are these people? I do not intend to forget them!”

“They are my brothers—my
half
-brothers. I make apology for them. They are too . . . spirited. And the hunt further rouses them. I am Ragnhilde. If you require aid, remedy, succour, name my name at Rushen. Ragnhilde. I bid you good-day. And to you, lady.” Nodding her red head, the horsewoman heeled her mount onwards after the disappeared hunt. Two attendants, who had halted with her, spurred on behind.

“Lord—a piece, that one! Not more than seventeen years, I swear—yet sure of herself. Ragnhilde, she said—a Norse name.”

“She is the Lady Ragnhilde Olafsdotter, the King’s favourite child,” their priest informed, in some agitation. “This was . . . unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate again! Save us—I would call it otherwise!” But Somerled’s tone was more thoughtful than angry now. “Olaf’s own daughter? Then, the others—half-brothers, she said?”

“Yes, lord—natural sons of the King. Three. The Lords Logmann, Ranald and Harald.”

“So! And mannerless churls all! Is this the style of Olaf, then? Uncouth, ill-bred indeed, inhospitable. Is that the Kingdom of Man?”