Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (27 page)

Landing, as before, in the basin-like bay of St. Michael, again full of shipping, they were faced with the same problem of lack of transport to Rushen Castle. Olaf should surely establish some pool of horses here, available for visitors. Would old Archbishop Thurstan also have had to tramp the two miles? Not that it was a long nor taxing walk, but most surely it lacked suitablity.

Oddly, they had reached almost the same spot in the forest of Langness, in their progress, where they had been harried by the huntsmen, when again they were approached by a hard-riding company, with at least one of the personnel the same. It was Ragnhilde Olafsdotter come hastening, with a party of grooms and spare horses.

For long moments Somerled—and not only Somerled—stared at her as she drew up her snorting mount and sat looking down at them. It was almost three years since he had been here and in that time this daughter of Olaf’s who, whatever his denials, had got between him and his sleep many a night, had changed from a girl into a woman. Flushed as she was with fast riding, red hair blown, breathing disturbed and disturbing, she nevertheless had exchanged her aspect of youthful charm and piquancy, tinged with a kind of permanent anxiety, for a serenity and poise which complemented her sculptured loveliness of feature and colouring. That her figure had burgeoned also did not go unnoticed.

“My lord King—greeting!” she smiled, panting a little. “I rejoice that you have come. When news was brought that your ships had been sighted, I made haste to meet you. Had you sent word, I would have been at the haven.”

He found difficulty in answering her, just then. “No need,” he got out. “You are very good, kind. And very fair. I too rejoice.”

“Thank you.” They eyed each other for moments and then, as she moved in her saddle to dismount, he strode forward, to lift her down—and in no haste to release her.

The others watched, with varying expressions.

When she stirred, he schooled himself to the civilities, turning.

“All here you know, I think—save this, my son. Here is Gillecolm. The Princess Ragnhilde, lad.”

Wide-eyed she looked from man to boy and back again. “Son!” she said. “You did not tell me that you had a son. And, and . . .” She left the rest unsaid.

“Did I not?” he said flatly. “He was in Fermanagh. In care of my sister. Now he is with me. Come, Colm—your respects to the princess.”

As the boy hesitated, shyly, she searched his face for a moment, then stepped over to reach out for both his hands.

“Colm, is it? Colm Somerledsson, the well-favoured! We shall be friends, I think.” She kissed his cheek, but with a laugh, to spare him embarrassment. “Myself,
I
favour handsome young men!”

He flushed, but those vague, unsure eyes took on a momentary sparkle. His father’s gleamed also.

“Good!” Somerled exclaimed. And again, “Good. Colm is tall, for fourteen years. He will be a bigger man than I am, before long. You remember Saor? And Conn? And Sir Malcolm? Also this Cathula, who masters my ship?”

“Who could forget? I greet all kindly.”

There were too few horses for all to ride singly, so some of the party mounted behind the grooms. Somerled was going to take Gillecolm up pillion on his beast when Ragnhilde beckoned the boy to ride with her.

“Will you ride front or shall I?” she asked.

He mumbled something, but eagerly climbed into the saddle first, to bend and help her up behind. He was used to horses.

As they rode on side-by-side, the girl said to Somerled, “I am glad that you came. And brought this one.”

He did not usually lower his voice when he spoke. “I came because
you
asked me to.” The others behind were not to hear that.

She eyed him quickly. “Then I am the more glad. But I hoped that you might come. Feared that you might not—the great Somerled to come to a churchmen’s assembly, the consecration of an abbey! And one not of your own faith.”

“It will be the first that I have attended,” he admitted.

“Yes. But this is intended to be more than but a Church gathering—much more. I thought that you ought to be present.”

“M’mm. Is that so?” The man sounded less than elated. He had hoped that her concern for his presence might have been more personal.

“King Stephen of England’s hand is behind this,” she went on. “It is aimed against King David. And you said that you were friend to David. My father is not sufficiently strong to withstand both England and Holy Church. And Earl Fergus of Galloway, also, the Queen’s father . . .”

“Is that man here?”

“Yes, more’s the pity. I do not trust him.”

“Nor I. This is unfortunate. We are scarcely friendly! But—both he and your father are vassals of David of Scotland.”

She nodded. “King David is perhaps less than fortunate in all his vassals! What is planned, I think, is for Bishop Wimund to be made Bishop of all the Isles. Under Archbishop Thurstan’s sway from York, of course. When that is done the Archbishop will claim that he is spiritual overlord of Scotland, from Galloway to Orkney. He claims that already, to be sure, saying that there is no archbishop nor metropolitan north of York. But now he will have a diocese of Scotland to which he has appointed the bishop, right up to the Isles of Orkney—where already there is a Catholic bishop.”

“I see, yes. So that is it! I see, too, lady, that
you
have wits and understanding, in this matter, much beyond mine. How is all this to aid Stephen and hurt David?”

“Do you not see it? The English kings have always sought to claim paramountcy over Scotland. If their archbishop, York, can show that he is spiritual overlord of Scotland, a way is cleared for his master, the King.”

“Such claim would carry no weight, surely? David would but laugh at it. The Romish Church prevails in his realm, yes—thanks to his mother, Margaret. But his bishops are not appointed from England and pay no service to York or Canterbury. As for the Isles and the Hebrides, no Roman churchmen are there and the Columban Church prevails.”

“But once Rome has a bishop there, it can claim spiritual authority, in name. And if that authority is resisted, York can appeal to the Pope in Rome. And if the Pope supports his archbishop—as he would be like to do—then all Roman Catholic monarchs and princes have a right and duty to support the Papal edict. By force of arms, if necessary.”

“Lord . . .! You, you credit this?”

“It is what I have heard discussed in my father’s hall. Or in his bedchamber!”

“But . . . if Stephen could not successfully invade Scotland before—as he could not, at Berwick-on-Tweed—how shall this advantage him? The fact that he has the Pope’s blessing and command will not add to his armed strength.”

“Surely you must see! Now it would not be Stephen alone. But others. Other Catholic princes would have excuse to invade, the excuse they may seek. Norway. Norway ever seeks to gain lands—I heard you tell my father so, when last you were here. Sigurd Half-Deacon is dead. But King Ingi Cripple his son is no less greedy . . .”

“The Norwegians would not think to take over Scotland!”

“No—that is for Stephen. But your Isles and Argyll—that could be Ingi’s reward.”

“Save us, lassie—all this, out of a new bishopric!”

“The bishopric would be but the start of it. And there is not only Norway and the Danes. The Norse-Irish of Dublin are Catholic too and would be glad of pickings. They ever seek to control Man itself—which is why my father considers taking a part in all this, to save his own small kingdom. King David could be faced with a great alliance—the more so since he fought against Holy Church at that battle in England, of the Standard.”

Wonderingly, Somerled stared at her, behind his son. “So this is why you wanted me to come!”

“Partly, my lord King. Was I foolish?”

“A mercy—no! But—why? Why this concern for my island realm? And for King David? Against your own father’s interest?”

“I believe that my father’s true interests are not being served in this. That he is but being used as a mere cat’s-paw, and will be cast off when he has served his turn. Then Man itself swallowed up. I believe that he is mistaken. Affrica and Fergus and Wimund have persuaded him. But they have not persuaded me.”

“Aye,” he said, nodding. “I perceive that you have grown into a woman indeed since I left here three years back, lady. God be praised that you chose
my
side in this matter!”

“I think that I chose my own side, Lord Somerled. You happened to be on it!”

Silenced, he rode on, thoughtful indeed.

When they came to Olaf s ramshackle castle, the Argyll party, coming late and unheralded, had to occupy only inferior quarters, with the place full to overflowing. Ragnhilde apologised but said that she would try to find Somerled himself some better room. There were a lot of churchmen in evidence.

Olaf, never one for ceremony, came to their crowded lodging in person, presently, to receive his guests. He was affable but a trifle uneasy, presumably aware that he had a delicate path to tread.

“Welcome to Man again, my young friend,” he greeted. “It is good that you could come. You have been to war, I hear, since last we saw you? Not your own warring, this time, but David’s. A costly venture, I am told.”

“War is generally costly, I fear. You, I think, Olaf Godfreysson, seldom go to war, if ever. Unlike Fergus, you did not go, nor send men, to David’s venture into England!”

“I chose the wiser part, as was proved. I swear that Fergus now wishes that he could say the same! You also, perhaps?”

“I did not see it as a choice, man. I swore to be David’s vassal. When he called, I had to answer. You felt otherwise?”

“I see my first duty to my own people, my friend. Do not you?”

“To be sure. But a ruler must look ahead. Further than this month or this year. If he can. There is the longer view, for small kingdoms—as I think you do not fail to perceive on occasion. And an oath is an oath.”

“I took oath to cherish Man first! But—no doubt we shall speak of this further hereafter. Tonight we feast in my hall. And tomorrow we consecrate my abbey. There is duty to Almighty God also, is there not? David, the abbey-builder, would agree with that, at least!”

Guest and host eyed each other assessingly.

The banquet that evening got off to an awkward start, and the fault was undeniably Somerled’s. An usher had been sent to their quarters to bring the Argyll party to the hall. When they arrived, it was to find Olaf, Ragnhilde, Wimund and two of the King’s deplorable sons already seated at the top table—but sundry other seats vacant. Somerled was no stickler for ceremony and precedence, any more than was Olaf; but sojourn at David’s court had taught him a little. He quickly counted the empty spaces near the centre of the King’s table, and came to the conclusion that there were places left for a further six principal guests. Since none of his own party would so rank, apart from himself, that meant that there were five others still to come. These would no doubt include Queen Affrica presumably. But also Archbishop Thurstan and Fergus of Galloway. If he went and sat down now, it would mean waiting for the Archbishop and Fergus, possibly even having to stand when the former appeared, especially if he was with Affrica. Such would imply that he recognised some precedence and seniority—which the King of Argyll was by no means prepared to concede. Somerled stood just within the hall doorway, raising a hand to halt his companions. Any waiting they would do there.

Up at the head of the hall, Olaf beckoned them forward.

Somerled chose to misinterpret the gesture, bowed to his host, but stayed where he was.

Their usher agitatedly urged them on.

When Olaf’s second wave produced no movement, Ragnhilde rose from her place and came down between the crowded tables in the body of the hall, to them. She was looking beautiful, all in simple white tonight. All watched.

“My father’s greetings, my lord,” she said. “Will you come to table? You are to sit beside myself.”

“In that I rejoice, lady,” he answered. “But, by your leave, I prefer to bide here meantime.”

“But . . . why? And where is your son?”

“Colm is left at our lodgings. He mislikes large gatherings. As to why I wait here, the last who enters ranks highest. I do not give place to this archbishop. Nor yet to Fergus. In this, or other matter.”

“Ah—I see. We do not greatly consider such formalities here. But . . . perhaps you are wise. I shall wait here with you. I cannot think that the others will be long. It will be Affrica—she has little notion of time.”

So they stood, Olaf shrugging and lesser folk staring, as the musicians played.

A stir behind them heralded the arrival of Affrica, on her father’s arm, followed by a youngish man, heavily-built and sullen-looking, whom Ragnhilde murmured was Ronald, son to the King of Dublin. At the entry of the Queen all must stand, save Olaf himself.

She was handsomely clad—if that word would apply to a pearl-seeded gown which left so much of her unclad—but nothing would make her person or face handsome, although she possessed a sort of urgent magnetism. Fergus was richly-dressed and smiling—although when his glance reached Somerled the smile faded for the moment.

Affrica smirked at him, however, and as still he waited and she and her father passed, spoke briefly.

“The mighty Somerled—who wearies of a night!” She had not forgotten.

He inclined his head but his eyes sought Fergus’s. “Daughter and father of a like . . . flavour!” he said.

They swept on.

The Archbishop was not far behind. Thurstan was a frail, elderly man of quite noble appearance but thin, and with a somewhat sour expression. He did not so much as glance at Somerled. He was followed by another prelate of a very different aspect, bullet-headed, close-cropped, with an underhung jaw and beady eyes—Raoul, the Norman Bishop of Durham.

As these moved in towards their places, Somerled bowed to Ragnhilde and offered her his arm. Together they paced in the wake of the churchmen. So, in the end, the King of Argyll was in fact the last to reach his seat, between Olaf and his daughter. The rest of his party were disposed at a special table over on the left. All sat, after Thurstan pronounced a brief Latin grace.