Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (28 page)

It became evident, as the meal proceeded, that this was to be no occasion for significant discussion of affairs. Olaf was genial, but applied himself to the business of eating and drinking, putting away an extraordinary amount for so diminutive a person. On Olaf’s other side, Thurstan merely toyed with his food and had nothing to say to anyone. On Ragnhilde’s left, Fergus sat, and certainly made no more attempt than did Somerled to engage in mutual converse.

The latter made no complaint. He had Ragnhilde to talk to, the provender was good and plentiful if fairly plain, and no confrontation appeared likely to develop meantime.

“Your son,” Ragnhilde said presently. “How old is he?”

“Fourteen years,” he told her. “I was wed young. At sixteen. To the MacMahon’s daughter. Bridget was younger still, only fifteen. The matter was arranged by our fathers—a convenience, just! She died at the birth of Gillecolm.”

“How . . . pitiful! Grievous. All wrong!”

“Wrong, yes. Mistaken, fated from the first—or so my father decided. The child was . . . not right. Lacking in some degree. My father saw it all as a curse on our house. He had lost his lands, then his wife, my mother—who was his strength—then this. He was a weak man—kindly but weak.”

“So you had to be otherwise? Strong—a fighter?” she commented.

“I grew up being told that fate was against our line. That he, and so the rest of us, were next to damned. Why, I could not discover. I was not told. I did not believe it, could not accept it. So . . .”

“So you proved that you were right and your father wrong! Somerled the Mighty. But you left your son behind!”

“I could not do otherwise. I had Argyll and the Isles to conquer. The Norsemen to defeat and drive out. No task to take a child on.”

“No. And now? What of Gillecolm?”

“I do not know. I must come to terms with him, with his disability. He clings to me, much needs me always. I find it difficult. But I am coming closer to him, understanding him better. We shall find a way.”

“He is gentle, and a little fearful, I think. But there is spirit there also. I see his father in him, somewhere, as well as . . . the rest.”

“You do?” He grasped her arm. “You do, in truth?”

“Yes. I perceive a kind of strength. Beneath it all. You will be proud of your son, yet.”

He gazed at her, realised that he was still holding her elbow, and releasing her, applied himself to his venison.

The banquet was succeeded by the usual entertainment, bear-dancing, juggling, wrestling and the like, scarcely calculated to appeal to senior churchmen. Olaf himself soon fell asleep; and since none might leave before their royal host, and Affrica was much preoccupied tonight with the Prince Ronald of Dublin, Ragnhilde presently rose and went to waken her father, indicating the restless prelates. Olaf was nothing loth to depart for his bed, and with some relief Thurstan, Raoul and Wimund got to their feet, the signal for other, lesser clerics to do likewise, in a partial exodus.

With the top table now reduced as to numbers, and restraint rapidly vanishing, Somerled found Fergus’s fleering gaze upon him.

“I had not thought to see you here, Islesman, at such a gathering,” he announced. “Have you become a belated supporter of Holy Church? I believed that you still prayed before standing-stones, the rising sun, and the like? Has your friend David converted you?” That was slurred over somewhat, the Earl obviously drink-taken.

“I pray as best I may—especially for patience!” he was answered shortly.

“You say so?
I
say that patience is apt to be the refuge of the weakling! Myself, I leave patience to others.”

Somerled did not answer. He certainly did not want to be involved in trouble with the Queen’s father, here in Olaf’s hall. He turned to Ragnhilde.

But Fergus persisted. “Your father, now—he was a patient man. And lost all. Take heed lest you go the same way, Islesman. I recollect how this patience held you back, you and yours, at yonder Cowton Moor in England! To my hurt.”

Somerled’s fist clenched. “You misremember, my lord,” he said.

“Not so. You retired, man, after the first assault. You pulled your Islesmen back. Then stood by . . .”

The younger man’s chair scraped on the floor as he rose abruptly. “I shall not bandy insults with you, sir, at another man’s table!” he got out. “I bid you a good night.” He made a sketchy bow in the direction of Affrica, and turned, to find Ragnhilde standing also. She took his arm, and together they left the hall.

“I am sorry,” she said, low-voiced. “That man is hateful! That you should have to suffer this in my father’s house! Perhaps, perhaps I should not have urged you to come?”

“Fergus and I mislike each other. And he is all but drunk.”

“Yes. But it was unforgiveable. You must also mislike Man and all to do with it.”

“Not all,” he said, and patted the hand on his arm. “By no means all! Think no more of it. Wherever Fergus and I met, there would be words, I fear. But . . . where are you taking me? Our lodging is the other way . . .?”

“I told you that I would seek to find you better quarters. For yourself. The castle is full to overflowing. But I have found a chamber that will serve.”

“There was no need . . .”

She brought him to a building of no great size, somewhat isolated from the others, and took him in and up the stairway, passing an open doorway wherein a young woman dipped them a curtsy. On the upper floor, she opened a door and ushered him into a smallish bedchamber, simply furnished but comfortable and smelling, by no means unpleasantly, of woman—as indeed did the rest of the building.

“It is small for a man, let alone for a king!” she said. “But it is better than where you were. It is Berthe’s room, my attendant. That was Berthe, below. She will share my chamber, meantime.”

“No, no. There is no need for this. I thank you—but I shall do very well where I was. I am used to less comfort of a night, in ship and on the march . . .”

“But not in
this
house! All is arranged.” She paused. “Your ship-woman? Shall I have her brought here? Is the bed sufficiently large?” That was levelly said.

“H’mm—no! Not so. I sleep alone. Cathula is, is an excellent shipmaster. As good as any man . . .”

“It would be a pity to, to deprive you.”

“I assure you—no! You must not think . . .”

“No? Very well. Then there is the boy. Will this small place here serve for him?” She showed him what was little more than a wall-closet just across the passage from his chamber. It was heaped with sheepskins and blankets. “It is no more than a garderobe, and he is a tall lad . . .?”

“Yes, yes—he will do very well there. A deal better than on the ship. You are kind, thoughtful. I shall go fetch Colm.”

Downstairs, she paused at the door where the young woman Berthe waited. “I bid you goodnight, King Somerled. This is my chamber.”

“Ah. So near. That is . . . pleasing. My friends call me Sorley. I would hope that you might do so.”

“You count me your friend?”

“I would count you more than that, lady.”

She looked at him thoughtfully, in the dim light. “Then sleep well, Sorley,” she said, and left him there.

In excellent spirits, considering how he had felt so recently in the hall, he went for Gillecolm.

The new abbey of Rushen, built in memory of Olaf’s former queen, Ragnhilde’s mother—who no doubt seemed the more dear in contrast with the new one—was sited some distance inland, at Ballasalla, on higher ground amongst low rolling hills. A large company assembled there, at noon, many more than the church would hold. Fortunately the weather was kind, and something of the atmosphere of a fair prevailed amongst the crowds thronging the greensward between the monastic buildings, which were not quite finished yet, and the church, with singing, even dancing, and chapmen and hucksters selling their wares. The principals mustered in the refectory, to make procession to the church behind a choir of singing boys. Apart from the boys, it was noticeable that the holiday atmosphere was much less evident within than without.

Even though Olaf was not greatly concerned with ceremonial and precedence, some order had to be arranged for the procession, posing the usual problems. The archbishop and two bishops, of course, led the way, followed by the other clergy in all their finery. Olaf himself came next, with Affrica and Ragnhilde immediately behind—his legitimate son, Godfrey, was still in Norway, more or less a hostage, apparently. The question was, who next? Was it to be the King of Argyll or the present queen’s father, neither of whom were desirous of walking together? The matter was solved, after a fashion, by putting Prince Ronald between them, so that they walked three-abreast. Then followed Olaf’s three illegitimate sons—who carefully avoided meeting Somerled’s eye—then the mass of the Manx nobles and chiefs, who presumably sorted out their own precedence.

So they marched, with varying expressions, behind the sweetly-singing choristers, through the admiring crowds, to the church. At least here there was no precedence problem about seating, since there were no seats. The clergy filled the chancel and the rest filled the nave, little order being possible, save that Olaf and his party were at the front.

When the singing stopped and the shuffling and talk was approximately stilled, Thurstan was commendably brief. In a surprisingly strong voice considering his frail appearance, he announced that, in devotion to Holy Church, out of a pious mind and in memory of the former Queen Ingebiorg, the most admirable King of Man had endowed and built this house, to the glory of God and the furtherance of His work on this island, in all time coming. He then launched into Latin, presumably a prayer but which, being beyond the comprehension of the majority present, quite quickly became so for the clergy also, owing to the growing murmur and chatter in the nave—to the glares of Bishops Raoul and Wimund. This over, Thurstan sketched the Sign of the Cross and muttered a few words over a large bowl of water on the altar, and turning, peremptorily summoned a waiting priest forward, to take the bowl, this individual at the same time handing the archbishop a spoon with a longish handle.

Thus equipped, the pair of them started off on a perambulation of the church, commencing at the altar itself, moving to each side of the chancel, down to the font, the crossing, the transepts, and splashing water from the bowl, with the spoon, in liberal fashion on the stonework, whilst the choir gave voice again and a monkish acolyte followed them round with a piece of chalk, to mark crosses where the water had struck.

This finished, back at the altar, the priest with the bowl was signed to kneel; and dipping a finger into what remained of the water, Thurstan anointed him also, on the brow, declaring that he, Ivo, was hereby ordained and inducted Lord Abbot of this newly-consecrated abbey, and all within its discipline, with the full power, authority and anathemas of Holy Church to bind and to loose, to save and to condemn. Amen. Arise, Ivo, Abbot of Rushen.

The new abbot then took up the bowl once more and with the choristers forming up again, to lead the way, the clergy paced down through the thronged nave and out into the sunshine, to the cheers of the waiting multitude. There Thurstan proceeded around the exterior of the building, spooning more water at specific points, the main west doorway, the east gable buttresses, the chapter-house entry and so on, again all being marked with the chalk for the masons hereafter to carve consecration-crosses thereon.

Back at the decorative west doorway, the Abbot Ivo announced that Mass would be celebrated by the Lord Bishop of Durham at the newly-consecrated altar—but it was noticeable that only a limited number of the former congregation trooped inside after the churchmen, Somerled and his people amongst the abstainers, the word being that only the senior clergy themselves would partake.

The women also remained outside, and Somerled found his way to Ragnhilde’s side, where she talked with a distinctly stiff Cathula MacIan, who had young Gillecolm by the arm.

“Thus far we survive—without being swept away in a flood of holy water!” he commented. “What now?”

“I fear, my lord King, that your testing is yet to come,” Ragnhilde said. “There is to be refreshment in the refectory. I should think that it will be there that this of the Isles bishopric is announced, since nothing has been said hitherto.”

“And your father’s attitude to this? He has said nothing of it to me.”

“No. Nor will he, I think. He is not happy, but has been persuaded. He does not wish to offend King David. Nor yourself, indeed. But he fears others more.”

“So he will side with Thurstan, who acts for Stephen?”

“And for the Pope and the Roman Church,” she added.

They moved across to the refectory, through the holiday crowd.

The celebratory Mass must have been distinctly modified, for there was only a short interval before Olaf and the prelates arrived and were led to the laden tables, the new Abbot Ivo acting as host now. He was another Norman, d’Avranches by name, and related to the Earl of Chester.

There was little formality here and Somerled shared a table with his own Argyll folk, served by the monkish brethren.

Presently the abbot rose. “Sire. My lords spiritual and temporal,” he announced, ignoring the ladies. “My lord Archbishop has a matter of great moment to pronounce upon. It is my very great privilege that he has chosen to declare it here, in our new abbey. It concerns us all, in some measure, and represents, I am sure, a further step in the working out of the purposes of Almighty God. My lord Archbishop.”

Thurstan made his announcement sitting. “There has long been a grievous failure in the rule of Holy Church in these kingdoms,” he said, in a level, almost matter-of-fact voice very different from the sonorous tones he had used in church. “The Scotland of King David is now within the fold of Christ’s shepherd and vicar-on-earth, His Holiness of Rome—however unworthy that monarch. As has long been the realm of England, with Wales, and of course this kingdom of Man, like much of Ireland. Only the one area remains in spiritual twilight, lacking the care and oversight of the Holy See and its servants, of whom I am the humble representative in this the North. That area is the Hebrides and Western Isles, your neighbour. This failure it has now been decided to amend. A new diocese of Holy Church has been created, the Bishopric of the Isles, Sudreys and Nordreys, which, reaching up to the Orcades, will complete the embrace of the true faith in these northern regions of Christendom. As first Bishop thereof I have appointed your own good father-in-God, Bishop Wimund of Man, who will meantime care for both sees, as Bishop of Man and the Isles. His task will be a heavy one, but of great opportunity in God’s service. I commend him to the prayers and thankfulness of all here.”