Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (37 page)

So that was it. This Ketil Left Hand was not quite such a craven as he had seemed. He had not entirely deserted his friends, merely sailed round Gigha to collect such of them as he could. Well, Somerled assessed, there was nothing that he could do about it. No point in trying to interfere, at this stage, even if there was time to muster his men for any assault. The probability that the enemy, when they had taken off as many men as they could, would attempt any further hostilities, was remote.

They waited, then, on the hilltop, for a while longer, and presently saw the two Norse ships cast off and pull out from the land, and head off south-westwards as for the open sea. They watched until the pair were mere specks on the horizon. Any Norsemen left on Gigha, now, would be dead Norsemen.

Satisfied, they returned to Ardminish and their own ships. Now, to do what they could for the surviving islanders. They would stay that night, possibly another night also, to assist, bury the dead and seek to help in the tasks of salvage and some reconstruction. And Somerled would arrange for further aid and for compensation hereafter—and promised vengeance.

Ragnhilde went to work as hard as any.

Somerled’s intended punitive expedition to Skye had to be delayed for quite some time, for war on a major scale broke out in these northern areas, complicated war in which he was not involved but which constituted a threat to peace in Argyll and the Isles. It all started in Ireland, where King Ronald of Dublin, the same who had been visiting Man when prince, shortly before succeeding to his father’s throne, was slain by one Ottar, grandson of a former king there. Thanks to the way in which all these Norse kinglets had links with one another and with the ruling house of Norway itself, this brought in that power, as well as setting much of Ireland in a blaze and involving Orkney and even Iceland also, some for, some against Ottar. So the Hebridean seaboard being geographically in the middle of the turmoil, it behoved Somerled to be very much on his guard, with his forces mobilised, in case he was unwillingly drawn in by having to protect his domains; for some of the combatants were apt to be tempted to do a little private raiding during lulls in hostilities. It was no occasion for a venture such as he had planned, especially as King Stephen was now at loose again and had driven the Empress out of England meantime, and might well decide to take a hand in the present upset, being the man he was—in which case David could scarcely remain unconcerned.

In the midst of all this, Ragnhilde bore another child, a daughter whom they named Anna.

It was almost two years later before Ottar was himself slain by the late Ronald’s brothers, and peace of a sort returned to this part of Christendom. Somerled was all in favour of peace; but he had this business to transact before he could really embrace it.

He had heard of Thorkell Svensson’s doings from time to time, and little good of them. Thorkell had made himself master of all Skye, or at least the coasts thereof, either driving out or absorbing other Norse raiding groups and bloodily subduing the local folk, making his main base at Loch Dunvegan, to the north-west of that great island, and from there terrorising far and wide, even to Lewis and Harris and the Outer Hebrides, and eastwards to the mainland coasts of Morar, Knoydart, Kintail, Torridon, Gairloch and northwards. Apart from the Gigha venture, by his minion Ketil Left Hand, and one or two nibblings at North Moidart, he had not turned southwards. Nevertheless, Somerled was of the opinion that there was not room on this western seaboard of Scotland for himself and Thorkell—especially as the latter had involved himself in the recent hostilities, by all accounts, and on the winning side, gaining some access of strength in the process. Better to seek to deal with him before he got any stronger. Moreover there were the savaged, ravaged lands to free from this blight, and nobody else appeared to be concerned to do so—although in theory most of it was part of David’s kingdom. He would act King David’s loyal vassal, then.

So, in the early summer of 1148, Somerled sailed with a score of ships. He had chosen the number carefully. There was something of a convention to be observed in such matters. A larger fleet than that was apt to signify war, real war, a threat to neighbouring and entrenched powers. The Nordreys and northern mainland seaboard, with the Outer Hebrides, was more or less accepted as within the sphere of influence of the Orkney earls—and since they were in name subject to the Norwegian throne, of the Kings of Norway also. Skye was just within that sphere, and Somerled certainly had no desire to challenge Orkney and Norway. Twenty ships would be about as many as the Lord of the Isles could be expected to take on a private venture out of his own territories without posing a threat to other great folk. Whether it would be enough to deal with Thorkell Svensson remained to be seen.

They sped up the Hebridean Sea, before a fresh south-westerly, in fine style and fairly compact formation, with some fifty-odd miles to go. Somerled’s dragon-ship had a new shipmaster, none other than his own son Gillecolm, now changed from youth into young man. He was still lacking in certain mental qualities and awareness; but amongst the compensatory abilities he had developed a marked proficiency in the art of boat and ship handling, apparently largely instinctive. His father, surprised and gratified, had given him every opportunity to advance this useful talent, first his own fishing-boat, then control of the family birlinn, then one of the lesser longships. But this was the first occasion for him to be actually mastering the dragon-ship itself, and Somerled would nowise have risked it had he not been present himself on the stern platform, with his watchful eye. In fact, Gillecolm was there largely at Cathula MacIan’s own pleading. She had been responsible for much of the youth’s expertise, taking a close interest in his development when she perceived his aptitude. And when, perforce, she had to give up the vessel’s direction, for sufficiently compelling reasons, he was her nominee as successor. So now Cathula was left behind at Ardtornish with her new-born son—for a year or so before she had been wed to Saor MacNeil, a peculiar marriage which neither pretended was any love-match but which had its own advantages and suitabilities, as well as conveniences, for two very tough and redoubtable characters—and was in fact working out well, within its limits. None doubted that Cathula’s heart was truly Somerled’s; but since he was now unattainable this arrangement had to serve. Saor’s attitude tended towards wary admiration, very good for that headstrong and normally disrespectful individual.

With the Isle of Muck to starboard and Eigg and Rhum ahead and the blue mountains of Skye just appearing like jagged teeth on the northern horizon, Somerled sent Saor ahead, with his own and one other longship, to try to discover the situation on and around Skye. The rest of the fleet would meantime hide in Loch Scresort where they were unlikely to be discovered, for Rhum was little more than a cluster of mountain-tops and but scantily inhabited. They would wait there until Saor returned, spending the night in its shelter.

Although passing the island often, Somerled had not been back here, to land, since that day when he found his father ill at Kinlochscresort and he had all but come to blows with Malcolm MacEth. So much had happened since then. He told some of it all to Gillecolm, but could not assess whether his son was really interested or taking it in, although he seemed to listen dutifully, even gratefully—but the look in those strange eyes was far away, as so often when he was not actually engaged in some chosen activity.

They had longer to wait than anticipated; indeed Somerled, becoming concerned, was considering sending out another vessel or two to try to learn what had happened when, just after noon the next day, Saor’s two ships came into Loch Scresort, and from the south, oddly.

The news they brought was complicated, good and not so good. Saor, after a preliminary discreet survey of the southern Skye coasts, without perceiving anything significant, had put into the great isle-dotted Loch Bracadale, midway up the west coast, where his craft could skulk inconspicuously behind any of the many islets. They had seen no sign of Norsemen there, and in the evening dusk had landed at Ullinish, a small township on the Skye mainland, hidden behind the island of Wiay. There, after with difficulty convincing the local people, MacAskills and MacFingons, that they intended them no harm, they learned much of the current situation on Skye. Although Loch Bracadale was a good score of sea miles south of Loch Dunvegan, from its most northerly inlet, called Loch Vatten, it was only four miles over the hills to Dunvegan itself—so the Ullinish folk were all too well aware of what went on at Thorkell Svensson’s base. Indeed, normally there were three or four longships stationed in Loch Bracadale itself, not at Ullinish but at Harlosh to the north; but these were away meantime, hosting as the Norse term was. Thorkell was, in fact, off on the first major raiding expedition of the summer season, it was believed to Barra and the Uists, with over a dozen ships.

Somerled naturally received this news with mixed feelings.

But there was more. Slipping out of Loch Bracadale again at first light, Saor had proceeded northwards, hugging the dangerous coast, to try to discover what numbers of Norsemen had been left behind at Dunvegan, and if possible when Thorkell might be expected to return. They had not so discovered, for off Loch Pooltiel, just short of Dunvegan Head, they had been surprised by three Norse vessels emerging from that loch to challenge them. Saor indicated, typically, that he could have dealt with these three without any difficulty but that the stramash might have attracted the attention of others and so spread alarm. So—in Somerled’s interests, he pointed out—he had turned tail, greatly as this was against his own inclinations. Pursued, so as not to give away the presence of the Argyll fleet at Rhum, he had headed off south-westwards as though making for Canna or even Tiree, and eventually shaken them off. It had all taken time . . .

Somerled’s mind was busy, his commendation less than enthusiastic. He questioned his foster-brother as to the features of land and water in the Bracadale area, and this of Loch Pooltiel. He knew Loch Dunvegan, but only slightly.

What was it to be, then, Saor demanded? Follow Thorkell to the Outer Hebrides? Attack Dunvegan without the main Norse force—which would leave Thorkell still as much of a menace as ever? Or postpone the venture?

Certainly not postpone, Somerled declared. No, it was attack, and here in Skye. Hunting for the enemy at Barra or the Uists would be a doubtful strategy and risk giving Thorkell warning. The aim should be to capture his bases here, but allow escapers to get away to inform Thorkell and so, hopefully, bring him back with his force and so to defeat and punish him on his own ground.

Saor agreed that this would be the ideal proceeding. But
would
Thorkell come back, when he heard that a great force was waiting for him? After all, it was not territory that these Norse were interested in, but pickings, rape, slaughter. They had found Skye a convenient base, yes. But rather than face a superior enemy in possession of Skye, would they not rather sail off elsewhere and choose some other base? There was plenty of land, to the north, or even in the outer isles themselves.

Somerled nodded but pointed out that if Thorkell did not know that it was a large force that awaited him, thought that it was only a minor attack, say half-a-dozen ships, would he not return then, in his wrath? The strategy, then, was to send the tell-tale escapers hurrying westwards with false tidings. Use only a few vessels at this stage, with the majority kept in reserve, out of sight. The problem was—how many men and ships had Thorkell left behind? Saor had seen three, at this Pooltiel. But he had not seen into Loch Dunvegan itself. There might be more there, probably were. What was the sort of minimum force which would be needed to deal with these?

Nobody could help Somerled there. He went striding up and down the Kinlochscresort beach, alone, to think the thing out.

He came back presently, mind made up. Thorkell was said to have more than twelve ships with him—if this was an accurate account. He was a powerful Viking, but no prince, and so was not likely to be able to muster much more than a score of vessels at the most. Which would mean that he could not have left behind more than seven or eight, if that. There might, indeed, be little more than the three already seen.

So here was the plan. They would sail tonight, no more than six ships—but these each carrying more than the usual number of men, leaving the other fourteen craft hidden here. In the darkness they would make for Loch Bracadale and disembark many of the men there, to cross the hills to Dunvegan. Then the six ships would sail on northwards, round to Loch Dunvegan, to make a joint attack by sea and land—but allowing escapers. Then they would do some burning, as at Moidart, to help the effect—and wait. Conn Ironhand would remain in charge here at Rhum, with lookouts posted on the mountain-tops. When they saw the Norse ships returning, they would make smoke signals—it would look merely as though Rhum also was being harried—and this would warn them on Skye. Conn would then be ready to sail out, behind Thorkell’s fleet, to aid in their defeat. Was it understood? Could any improve on it?

Even Saor could find no fault with that. The thing was accepted.

They waited until dusk, then, which was later than they would have liked, in the northern early summer, and transferred some hundreds of men from the ships to be left behind. They had set out with almost two thousand, and now Somerled took almost half of them, without leaving the rest actually undermanned. Heavily-laden, the chosen five followed the dragon-ship eastwards along Loch Scresort, to turn northwards into the wan, murky relics of the sunset.

Time was vitally important now, for even this half-dark would not last much more than five hours. They had at least twenty miles to go to the mouth of Loch Bracadale, and once within that loch they would have to go very slowly, to avoid in the darkness all the islets and reefs with which it was strewn. Somerled wanted to be able to look into Loch Dunvegan by sunrise, if possible—which would demand hard going. So it was all hands to the oars, the gongs beating fast on the night air, a strange, urgent, yet eerie sound, phosphorescent spray flying. They had plenty of rowers admittedly and fortunately fresh wind persisted from the south-west.