Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (30 page)

“You laugh! You do not believe me! You think that I am but a weak, foolish girl? I tell you that I will not be used so.”

“No, no. Yes. To be sure. I rejoice at it. I do, indeed. More than, more than . . . I can say. But, if your father insists, it will be difficult.”

“Difficult, no doubt—but not impossible. If he can be persuaded against his own daughter, he must be persuaded again, otherwise.”

“You know him better than I do. I wish you well.”

“How well do you wish me, King Sorley?”

He searched her eager features. “More than I can say, woman,” he told her, again, deep-voiced. “For when I heard what your father said, back there, I all but cried out. Cried that it could not be, must not be! That I would not permit it. In my folly, I all but shouted it out, there before them all.”

“You did . . .?”

“Aye, Ragnhilde, I did indeed. You see, I could not bear the thought of you given to another. God help me, I wanted you, want you, for myself! Ever since the day when first I saw you, I have wanted you, dreamed of you, longed for you—aye, needed you. I, I . . .”

“You mean this, Sorley? In truth. You are not cozening a foolish woman?”

“Mean it, lass? I mean it more than I have ever meant anything. Why do you think I came to Man, again? Not because of this of the bishopric. I could have fought that from Argyll. But because
you
asked me to come. I told you. Because I would see you again. Because I hoped that, somehow . . .”

He got no further just then. She launched herself bodily upon him, into his arms, part-laughing, part-sobbing, in gasping incoherence.

“Oh, Sorley, Sorley!” she cried. “My dear, my heart! I, too . . . oh, my love! I, too! Hold me—oh, hold me fast. I . . .”

His lips first closed then presently opened hers and their breathless, stumbling words gave place to a true and basic eloquence which had nothing to do with speech, a communion of lips and hands and persons which left little unsaid and promised more, much more.

In time Ragnhilde remembered Berthe, and after some tentative adjustments managed to insert a finger between her lips and his, and nodded towards the open garderobe. Reluctantly he relinquished her and drew a little way apart but still held her by the arms.

She recovered speech first. “How good, good! Oh, I am glad. Why did you not tell me, before. I hoped and hoped, but could not be sure.”

“I have had little opportunity, girl! I had to, to feel my way. I dared not be too bold, at first, lest I offend. I could not tell how you felt. You were kind, gracious, but . . .”

“Am I so fearsome? Somerled the Mighty did not dare! Are all the tales false? But—save us, my dear, what does it matter now? Now that we both know. That we are for each other. We
are,
Sorley—we are for each other? Always?”

“Always,” he assured, and kissed her again.

“Then we must make plans,” she declared. “We shall have to act quickly.”

He nodded. “Yes. I will speak with your father in the morning. Delay our sailing.”

“But that will serve nothing, Sorley. He will not heed you. These others have persuaded him.”

“You yourself said that he must then be persuaded otherwise.”

“Only actions will persuade him. I meant that I would go, run away, leave Man. And still I shall do so. With you, my dear. You must take me off with you. In your ship. When you sail.”

He stared at her, mind racing.

“That is it. You will go early, as you planned. I will make my way to the haven secretly. None will know. Berthe will come with me. That is what we must do. In the morning.”

He wagged his head. “But—lassie! That may not be the best way. Would not serve us to best advantage. It would get you away, yes—but not to your good repute. Nor to mine. We must do better than that . . .”

She had drawn back. “You do not want me on your ship? You are not so eager? Repute! You shrink from it . . .?”

“No! It is not that. On my soul, Ragnhilde, the thought of you, gone away with me, together, makes me all but lose my wits! But . . . not quite, my dear. We must
use
our wits, not lose them! See you, girl, I want you, want you for my wife, my queen. Not my, my paramour! As do you, I swear. But this has to be done decently. I am a king, now, and you a princess. We cannot run off like any pirate Norseman and his woman! We require your father’s agreement . . .”

“He will not give it. How can he, having made his announcement? He has thrown in his lot with England and the churchmen.”

“I am not so ill a match for his daughter—King of Argyll and the Isles. Is that so much poorer than the Earl of Orkney?”

“No, foolish one—it is not that. It is this of alliances and statecraft. He is committed to Thurstan and Stephen and Fergus and this Raoul. The Orkney fleet is necessary to them. No doubt they threatened him with English invasion here if he did not aid them. And Papal anathema, perhaps—for he is much concerned for his immortal soul these days. You must see it. He will not heed you.”

“I could threaten too. Threaten to assail Man . . .” He paused, as another thought struck him. “This running off, Ragnhilde, without your father’s consent, could cause much trouble. For us, but for others also. It could, indeed, bring on war. Nothing would be more likely to bring the Orkney fleet down upon the Isles, or the Manx fleet up, than for me to run off with the Earl Ronald’s promised bride. He would have to do something—insulted before all.”

“Then—you will yield me up? For fear . . .?”

“No, woman—no! But somehow we must get Olaf’s agreement. If Olaf consents, Orkney’s quarrel would not be with
me
. You must see it, my dear. There must be much that I can offer your father, in exchange. For he will not truly desire war, I think. Any more than do I. I have done much fighting, and do not shrink from it. But to force large war upon my kingdom, against the combined fleets, with England eager to take the pickings . . .”

“Oh, I do not want war, either. Over me! But what can we do? I do not see you changing my father’s mind, Sorley—with these others here to threaten him.”

“If I could bring King David into this . . .”

“There is no time for that. They will have me shipped off to Orkney.”

“That must not be, no. I will think of something, lass—I must. Give me a little time to consider it all. My wits are awhirl at the thought of your love for me. I cannot think clearly of anything else. So wonderful . . .!”

That threw them into each others’ arms again and constructive thought into further retreat. But presently she pushed him from her.

“Go then, my love—go now. And try to think. Leave me—I but distract you. Let it suffice for tonight that we have found each other. I . . . I need to be alone also. Lest I act . . . unseemly! Go—and perhaps the morning light will show us a way for our love . . .”

Loth as he was to leave her, he kissed her and went.

He went back to his party’s quarters in a strange mixture of elation and desperation. He told them there merely that they would not be leaving first thing in the morning, as planned, that he had to have a further interview with Olaf. Then he took Gillecolm back to their lodging in the princess’s building and saw him into his couch in the garderobe.

He went back in his own chamber, the boy asleep, and very much aware that it was directly above that of Ragnhilde and that he was in fact separated from his new-found love by no more than a score of feet. He was undressing and seeking to put such thoughts firmly from his mind, to concentrate on their dire problem, when there was a light tapping on his door.

He went to open, and found Ragnhilde herself standing there. She put a finger to her lips and gestured towards Gillecolm’s wall-closet, and then slipped past him into his bedchamber, closing the door quietly behind her.

He gazed at her, as well he might. She was a sight to fire the masculinity of any man. Dressed in some sort of bedrobe trimmed with fur, although it was not wantonly open and revealing, nevertheless the division between her breasts was plainly to be seen where the material gaped a little, and as she moved into the room, the white of a bare leg gleamed briefly. Clearly she was wearing little or nothing beneath the robe. Her red-gold hair hung loose to her shoulders.

At his fireside she turned to him, and her face was flushed, her eyes seeking his urgently for reaction, both determination and apprehension evident in them.

“Sorley—hear me!” she got out, breathlessly. “Before you judge! This is not . . . as it seems. I assure you, not as it seems!”

“It seems to me—very—shall we say—acceptable!” he said, having trouble with his own voice.

“No! Not that. Oh, my dear—hear me. This is a device. I am not shameless, as I must seem. I confess that I could be—but, no. I came here thus, of a purpose.” She huddled herself more tightly in her robe. “Not the purpose you think. But to aid our, our cause.”

He opened his mouth to say the obvious, then closed it again and moved over to her. “Tell me, then,” he said.

“Yes. This, if you will agree to it, may serve us well. What we require. I can think of no other. If I am found here in your room, Sorley, thus. By my father. And others. Then I am compromised. It will be assumed . . .! You see? I will be esteemed . . . fallen! He cannot offer me to this Orkney earl, then. You—he will wish only for you to wed me. Is it not so?”

“Lord . . .!” he breathed.

“Oh, my love—you understand? It will oblige him to change. Hurt your repute also, I fear—but men are different in these matters. I think that it will bring us together, as nothing else will.” She gulped a little at the sound of that. “I mean . . . otherwise!”

Firmly he clasped his hands behind his back, to prevent them from reaching out to take her, so utterly and compellingly desirable was she. “Yes. It could . . . suffice. You are strong, Ragnhilde—as I must be! How is it to be achieved?”

“Thank God that you see it! Berthe is to act the betrayer. She will go tell my father. That I am with you here. Tell Affrica also. That woman hates me, and will see me humbled if she can! I am to beat on this floor, if she is to go. We can hear, below, movement in this chamber. Then . . . we wait.”

“You believe that it will serve? That they will come?”

“I know my father—or thought that I did, until today! Shall I beat on the floor?”

He nodded—and had to turn away, for when she stopped to thump on the floorboards, her robe sagged open, wider, and he could see that she was naked beneath.

There was silence for a little. Then she spoke to his back, where he stood at the window.

“You do not think the less of me for this, Sorley?” Anxiety was evident in her voice.

“No. Never that. I esteem you the more. It is myself that I disesteem. I can scarcely keep my hands off you, woman!”

“That I can understand. For, I myself . . .!” She swallowed, audibly. “But we must restrain ourselves, my dear. We must start aright, together—whatever the, the appearances. That hereafter we can . . . respect ourselves. Is it not so?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. But it is damnably difficult. I am no saint, lass. A man of hot passions and temper. As you will find out, I fear. How long will they be?”

“Some time, I think. My father will be in his bed. Affrica—who knows? Perhaps she is drinking with the Earl Fergus. Perhaps in the Prince of Dublin’s bed! She is wanton. It may take Berthe time to bring them here.”

“Will Affrica then be so disapproving at the sight of you here? Since she herself . . .?”

“She will be moved with spleen, with delight! Not with offence. She has always mocked me as milk-livered, lily-pure, no true woman but a timorous halfling. Because I would not act towards men as she does. Now she will rejoice. To show my father that I am no better than she. And she will tell it to all!”

“And you accept all this? For me!”

“I would that it did not have to be this way—but yes.” She paused. “Do not stand over there, Sorley. Come, sit here beside me.” And she patted the bed.

“Sakes—think you that it will be easier so?”

“We shall help each other. See—I shall wrap this blanket round me. Is that better? More to your taste?”

“Saints of mercy—my
taste
, girl! My taste would be to, to . . . och, lassie—you do not know the sort of man you are taking to you!”

“I think that I do,” she said quietly. “Strong, too. Stronger than I am. I could only be doing with a strong man.” She patted the bed beside her.

He went and sat but did not touch her.

She reached a hand out from the blanket, to grip his arm. “Our time will come,” she assured.

“Time!” he all but groaned. “This, of waiting . . .”

“Time will aid us too, impatient one. You will see. For there is much to be resolved, beyond tonight, is there not? What of your shipmistress? The fair Cathula?”

“Umm.” He looked at her now, and quickly, temperature dropping sharply—as was no doubt intended. “Cathula MacIan will keep her own place.”

“No doubt. But what
is
her place, Sorley? She is your mistress, is she not?”

“Yes,” he admitted. “Or she was. I have needed someone. But she is my friend also.”

“To be sure. And therefore the more dangerous to a wife! I warn you, King Somerled—I will not share you with her, or other!”

“No. You need not fear . . .”

“No? She is a strong woman, that one, and with much appetite, I think. And some allure. She will not give you up easily. I have seen how she looks at you. And at me!”

“She will keep her place,” he repeated. “She masters my dragon-ship, sits at my councils, makes a good companion. These will continue. But the other—no.”

“You say so now. She may say otherwise. And she is no light girl to droop when you frown.”

“She will do as I say. She will remain my friend—that is all. You will be my wife, my queen and my love.”

“Love, yes. You do not love her?”

“No. Not love—never love. I like her, admire her, but . . .”

“And enjoy her!”

“That also, yes. But . . . there will be no need for that hereafter.”

“Although you have not tried me yet! But I will hold you to that, Sorley MacFergus.”

“You need not fear, I say . . .”