Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (34 page)

So they said their farewells and parted, in enhanced mutual esteem.

The cuckoos were calling again, with their haunting promise of summer to come, and summer in the most hauntingly beautiful place in God’s creation this side of Paradise, the Sea of the Hebrides. In the narrow waters where the birlinn sailed in the early June sunshine, with only occasional dipping of the oars to aid the helmsman, the birds’ gently reiterated antiphon came drifting across the mere quarter-mile of coloured water from the wooded Kintyre shore, where tender young greens of every hue complemented the aquamarine, amethyst, azure and cobalt-blue of the sea over shallows of gleaming white cockle-shell sand.

Somerled himself steered, lazily watchful, while at his side on the stern platform Ragnhilde stretched at ease on a couch of deerskins, the wicker basket containing the precious, gurgling Dougal close by, a picture of domestic bliss. The oarsmen, a mere score of them on this smaller vessel, stripped to their kilts, murmured to each other, as relaxed as their betters; while, supposedly more watchful, the two escorting longships hung back a good half-mile behind.

It was a holiday indeed, celebratory and to be enjoyed, although with an objective, Ragnhilde’s reward and treat. She had quite fallen in love with this lovely and varied seaboard, its prospects and vistas, its character and colours; and when, after a none-too-easy labour, she had brought forth a fine and wholly normal son some five weeks previously, this had been her request to her relieved and delighted husband, to go sailing quietly in no haste through that complex labyrinth of land and water which made up Argyll and the Sudreys, when she and the child were fit for it, wheresoever the spirit moved her. Somerled was only too happy to agree; but being the man he was, had tacked on a suggestion of his own, namely that in their wayfaring they should look for a suitable and convenient site for a modest abbey. Such would please David, he pointed out—without actually emphasising that it would also enhance his own style and renown, serve as a thank-offering for this excellent son, and in due course provide a dignified resting-place for what, it was to be hoped, would be a long line of illustrious Lords of the Isles. If Olaf and Ronald of Orkney, not to mention the deplorable Fergus and even that Constable, de Morville, could build abbeys, in David’s wake, so could Somerled of Argyll. Ragnhilde smiled her own thoughts.

So, with June opening fair, they had sailed from Islay eastwards, round Jura and Scarba to view at a discreet distance the noted whirlpool of Corryvreckan, then on to the isles of Luing, Shuna and Seil, before turning southwards down the Sound to the secret sea-lochs of Knapdale, Sween and Mhuirich and Caolisport, Stornoway and Tarbert; and on to the gem of Gigha before skirting the long west coast of Kintyre, to turn the Mull and circle Arran of the mountains; then up through the Kyles of Bute to the Cowal lochs of Striven and Riddon and lengthy Fyne. Now they were heading down the eastern coast of sixty-miles-long Kintyre again, through the Sound of Kilbrannan, with the towering hills of Arran to leeward. Already it was calculated they had covered some five-hundred delectable miles in eight days, and after leaving Kintyre, if Ragnhilde was still so inclined, they would beat north for Colonsay, Mull, lona, Tiree, Coll, Eigg, Rhum and the rest. Somerled, although he did not admit it, was sometimes all but overwhelmed by the extensiveness and distances and far-flung ramifications of his island kingdom, especially by the problems of its defence.

They had inspected many possible sites for his abbey and noted three or four as distinctly possible. Ragnhilde, actually, would have plumped for somewhere on Islay itself; but Somerled had the strategic aspects in mind. He was concerned to place this establishment where it would do most good, attract most credit to his name and fame, and be safest from attack. He felt that it had to be sited on the mainland, for even on a large island like Islay few would ever see or hear of it save the islanders themselves. Also it would be the more endangered by Norse raiders. Many parts of mainland Argyll, to be sure, were more remote and inaccessible than the islands; these were ruled out. He kept coming back to the fact that this Kintyre was possibly the most likely of all, for extending as it did almost as far south as North Galloway and within sight of David’s Ayrshire coasts, it certainly would not pass unnoticed; and at the same time, for the same reasons, it was unlikely that the Vikings would venture much into these all but enclosed waters of the Firth of Clyde. Again, this east coast of Kintyre was notably sheltered from the prevailing westerly winds off the ocean, and fertile—hence the notable growth of trees, especially oak and ash, valuable for building. Here his monks could plant and harvest their crops and orchards in almost ideal conditions—to the increase of their wealth, and his. Moreover, there were many fair natural harbours. Lastly, this, with Cowal nearby, had come to Argyll only comparatively recently, in his deal with the late Ewan MacSween; and some concrete evidence of his possession would be no bad development. So, coasting down the Kilbrannan Sound, however lazy-seeming, he was keeping his eyes open.

So was Gillecolm. The birlinn boasted a small, high bows-platform for a lookout, and the boy had adopted this stance as his own throughout the voyage, from which he could survey the scenery and where he had proved quite useful frequently in watching out for reefs and shoals just below the surface, a constant hazard when they were, as today, skirting close inshore. Somerled suspected too, that he had chosen this position to get as far away from his infant half-brother as possible, of whom he was a little jealous.

Gillecolm it was who first spotted the dun on the cliff-top of the long headland in front, so well hidden and disguised amongst outcropping rock as to be scarcely noticeable. Somerled sat up at the boy’s call. These ancient ruinous Pictish duns, forts, were often valuable pointers to important features, for their Pictish forebears had been expert in their use of the land and its contours and resources. These duns were always placed in the best strategic sites of any area, usually had a hinterland nearby of fertile land for the growing of crops, and if on the coast, were fairly sure to have a landing-place, boat-strand or natural harbour conveniently close. In this search for the best abbey-site, such duns had frequently proved to be the best indicators.

Here this major headland projected almost a mile out from the rest of the coastline in a sort of southwards-turning horn, rugged and broken—so broken indeed that the dun turned out to be actually set on a detached islet, like a segment of the cliff severed from the rest, highly inaccessible—which set Somerled, at least, wondering. Why place a fort in such a difficult position unless there was something particularly worth guarding near-at-hand? But of which there was as yet no sign. He steered closer.

There was no access possible from the sea, that became clear. So the approach must have been from behind, from landward, by some sort of no doubt removable bridge, now gone. Which implied something behind and beyond calling for this protection, and worth going to the trouble of building this most awkwardly-placed fortification on the seemingly uninhabited coast.

They circled the sharp point of this steep islet, really only a dun-crowned stack, and discovered that the entire horn of headland was in fact a curving screen to hide a large and unexpected bay almost a mile deep and a similar distance across. None of Somerled’s present company knew this coast well nor could suggest an identity for the place. Yet it was very much a major feature. And at the head of the bay was much level land, open and green, some of it obviously cultivated and with a sizeable community of cabins with a hallhouse.

Somerled turned his birlinn in towards this.

It did not take many minutes before they could see folk fleeing away inland from the township, towards backing woodland, driving off such cattle as were sufficiently nearby. This reaction the travellers had experienced before, of course, with strange ships bearing down apt to mean Norse raiders—although they would have expected this Kintyre east coast to be free of such. Somerled’s rule had banished major Viking attacks and occupation, but hit-and-run raids from the Outer Hebrides and Skye and further north still took place.

They landed and found it to be a pleasant place indeed, south-facing and sheltered from all the winds that blew. A wide gentle valley with a stream that was almost a river probed into the low wooded hills behind. Strips of oats grew and there were fruit-trees, whilst cattle and sheep dotted the surrounding slopes. Blue woodsmoke curled up from many of the houses, but no occupants issued therefrom.

Somerled made for the larger hallhouse but found it empty like the rest, although poultry clucked around its open doorway. He sent some of his men to enter the flanking woodland, to shout aloud that all was well, that it was King Somerled their lord come visiting, and that no harm would come to any.

Eventually a group of people appeared, led by a tall old man, all still wary. The sight of Ragnhilde with a baby in her arms seemed to reassure them however, and Somerled was at pains to proclaim his identity and goodwill.

The old man proved to be MacKay of Carradail, this being his community of that name, which Somerled had heard of vaguely. He hastened to offer simple hospitality and explained their alarm. This entire coast had been visited and terrorised by four raiding Norse longships only a month previously, with much slaughter, rapine and pillage.

Somerled expressed his distress and concern at this and promised that he would try to learn who were the culprits and to take appropriate steps—however little consolation this might bring to the victims. Ragnhilde asked much about the district and its surroundings, obviously taken with the place; and presently she was suggesting that this was as good a site as any they had seen for their abbey, with fertile land and excellent pasture, much wood and a river, a sheltered haven and people to support the monks and aid in the building. Her husband agreed with all that but had his doubts nevertheless. He felt that it was all just too open and vulnerable. Perhaps the word of this recent Viking raid affected his judgement—although, to be sure, that could happen anywhere. He declared that he would prefer somewhere less wide open from the sea. An abbey built in this river-mouth would be all too obvious to raiders sailing the Sound, and might well draw the Norsemen. And yet this Kintyre east coast was ideal, from other aspects. He asked old MacKay if he knew of other fertile, sheltered but more secure and secret places where a religious house might be established and its community flourish in peace?

The other spread his hands. Where was safe from the heathenish devils, he asked? Nothing was sacred nor secure. But there
was
a place not far away, he mentioned, a patrimony of his own, which certainly had escaped hitherto, being hidden from the Sound although quite close to the shore. It was called Saddail, another five miles down the coast, where the Saghadail Water reached the sea and where his second son lairded it. Because of the twistings of the river and wooded bluffs at the mouth, the little community of Saddail was not visible from seaward or any indication of settlement evident. Yet half-a-mile inland its valley opened out fairly and there was much good land.

Thanking their host for his hospitality and help and promising vengeance, if possible, on the Norsemen, they took their leave.

Having been directed to it, Saddail was easily found—although it would almost certainly have been missed otherwise. A small headland, also crowned by a dun, hid another south-facing bay, but this one much less wide and deep than Carradail’s. That a river entered here was not obvious, owing to the configuration of the land, wooded hillocks masking it effectively. The birlinn leading, when the ships probed their way in, Somerled found that, round the first bend, although it became too shallow for navigation, there was a sort of basin to hold their vessels, already quite out-of-sight of the Sound. Three or four small fishing-craft were beached here, but no cabins or houses.

Disembarking, he took a small party inland by a wide track which followed the bends of the brawling stream through woodland, amongst more slopes and bluffs. Then, in a bare half-mile, the trees thinned and a pleasant green vale opened before them, a placid, gentle place in the afternoon sunlight, more than a mile of it at a guess, by half that in width before the low wooded hills began to close in again. A little township with a single larger house nestled at the foot of this, with a mill, barns, cattle-pens and fruit-trees beyond, a scene of peace and well-being. Ragnhilde exclaimed with pleasure at the sight.

So small a party did not arouse undue alarm and there was no hurried flight from the township although neither was there mere than a very cautious welcome. On enquiry, Donald MacKay proved to be away hunting, but his young wife, infant in arms, received them somewhat abashed although she was soon put at ease by Ragnhilde, with baby-talk.

A few questions put and a quick survey decided Somerled that they were unlikely to find a better place for their abbey. He even selected a possible site, back from the river on a sort of low platform of land above an incoming burn, amidst tall old trees. Here nothing would do but that he must pace out dimensions for church and main monastic building, basing his measurements on what he had inspected at Olaf’s Rushen and David’s Holm Cultram, only a little doubtful over the thought that these, and all others that he had seen, were Romish establishments whereas his own would be a Columban one—and the Celtic Church did not go in for these great stone abbeys, contenting itself with modest timber-and-turf hutments and cabin-like sanctuaries within palisaded ramparts, which they called cashels, even though these were usually in the care of abbots. However, there was no real reason which he knew of why the Columbans should
not
have a handsome stone edifice, to the glory of God—and to be sure, of its founder—and he, Somerled, could lead the way, as in other matters. He already could visualise the Abbey of Saddail, dedicated perhaps to Saint Brendan, after whom the nearby Sound was called, rising majestically out of this grove of trees in the quiet valley, the noble, indeed royal resting-place of a long line of Kings of Argyll and Lords of the Isles to come, the serried tombs of his successors a place of pilgrimage. It was all a most excellent conception, he pointed out more than once.