Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (39 page)

But there was no need. The loch-mouth was wide, well over a mile, and when the Norse ships came into view they were far over to the other, western, side, and so at a poor angle for seeing in behind the Lampays. Moreover they were all very evidently concerned only with what was in front, driving in in tremendous style in a positive curtain of spray from lashing oars—which could not but restrict rearwards vision. They were in notably close order, too, not strung out in file, making a most impressive naval phalanx. Thorkell Svensson was clearly intent on major vengeance.

Still no signal, from the look-outs, of Conn’s coming.

Somerled waited until the Norse ships were fully halfway up the loch and then gave the command to move. They pulled out north-about round the island and into the open loch-mouth, leaving the look-outs on their height—for because of the towering Dunvegan Head there was no prospect westwards from sea-level. They drew out into mid-loch, well apart, to be the more evident.

At first there was no obvious reaction and Somerled wondered whether to sail in up-loch some way, to draw attention to themselves—for the sake of Saor and the others on the six vessels hiding amongst the loch-head islets, who must by now be feeling distinctly alarmed at the dimensions and determined aspect of the Norse threat. But then there was some apparent development, a change in the compact enemy formation, which presently was seen to be six long-ships breaking off, to turn in a wide arc and to head back northwards.

Six to three—better than seventeen to three, at least. And this would considerably aid Saor. Somerled signalled for his two escorts to close in again on the dragon-ship, for mutual support. They would make as difficult a hedgehog as possible for those six to dispose of.

They were awaiting the onslaught in close order when Gillecolm’s strange but very keen eyes once more proved their worth. Reaching for his father’s arm, he pointed. Their two look-outs back on the highest Lampay had abandoned their hiding posture. At about a mile’s distance they were difficult to see clearly but apparently they were dancing about and waving something, perhaps clothing or a whin branch. Whatever they were at, there could be only one reason for their excitement—Conn’s fleet must be in sight from there, and not too far off, to account for the urgency.

This assumption caused Somerled to change his tactics abruptly. No sense in engaging in a desperate fight against odds if this was unnecessary. There would be plenty of fighting hereafter. He ordered his three ships to turn and head seawards—but not too fast to discourage the Norsemen and cause them to turn back.

They had over a mile northwards to go before they could see seawards of Dunvegan Head—by which time the pursuers were less than half-a-mile behind and coming on hard. Then, as Somerled was beginning to doubt whether he had rightly interpreted his look-outs’ signs, with the sea westwards still open, empty, shouts turned his head to leeward. There, close in under the soaring cliffs, came Conn Ironhand and his fleet, hugging the coast, and not a mile away, having been almost too good at keeping themselves out of sight of the Norsemen. With an explosive exclamation of thankfulness, Somerled’s mind switched to the task of coping to best advantage with a dramatically altered situation.

He restrained the impulse to turn in towards the oncoming Conn, but in fact ordered increased speed and continued to head off westwards. If Conn swung over to join him on this course it might not spoil anything. The prime necessity was to entice those six Viking ships further out, so that Conn could drive across behind them and cut them off.

Conn could have no inkling of these circumstances, of course; but with the Vikings behind so close now, it should very quickly become apparent what was happening.

For a few tense minutes the situation seemed to remain unaltered, all three groups continuing on as though unaware of developments. Then Conn’s fleet could be seen to be dividing. Four vessels swung out further north-westwards, towards Somerled’s trio, the other ten heading straight on, north-eastwards.

“Thank God—he has his wits about him!” Somerled exclaimed, “He has seen them and guessed aright.”

It took a little while for the Norsemen to perceive their danger, in the eagerness of their pursuit. When they did, there was swift, all but frenzied, reaction. With a mighty splashing of oars the six ships started to wheel directly round, to make a dash back whence they had come.

Somerled’s three promptly did the same.

Now, suddenly, it became a race indeed, Conn’s ten to close the gap of the loch-mouth, the Norse to get through first, Somerled and the other four to catch up. Fortunately for the Argyll force the enemy had come just too far out of the loch to be able to get back in time.

When this became apparent and the Norsemen saw that they were going to clash with the ten, in desperation they turned again. Somerled’s ships were only a few hundred yards from them.

It was a dramatic moment, the six and three face to face at close range. Somerled, for one, did not hesitate. Straight at the group of Norsemen he drove the dragon-ship.

It was, of course, a question of nerve—and the Norse were already to some extent unnerved, seeking escape. Someone had to take avoiding action—and it was not the dragon-ship. At the last moment two of the enemy vessels veered away left and right, to avoid a crash.

Somerled made swift assessment, and grabbing the steering-oar from Gillecolm, swung hard over, to starboard, shouting to his rowers. Those on that side promptly raised their long dripping oars high—they were well-trained in this manoeuvre—and the leeward men pulled the more strongly. Down on the right-hand Norse the dragon-ship smashed—and before the enemy rowers could be warned to raise their oars.

It was bloody havoc. The bows of the larger ship sheered down the side of its victim like an axe through brushwood, the long oars snapping and splintering, tossing, spearing and mangling their handlers in indescribable butchery. In mere moments that fine ship was a reeling, reeking shambles of screaming men, yawing round helplessly.

As the dragon-ship scraped viciously past, Somerled, grim-faced, ordered his starboard oars to be lowered again, and pulled his vessel round in the tightest of turns. Ignoring the temporarily crippled craft, he drove on for the nearest Norseman, which was in circling battle now with one of the Argyll escorts. Preoccupied with this, its shipmaster delayed too long in drawing off and saving his oars. Down on this vessel’s starboard side the dragon-ship bored—and although the impact was less terrible here, and the carnage less—for the stern facing oarsmen could see the menace bearing down on them and some raised oars in consequence, unordered—much damage was done and the longship meantime spun round out of control.

Shouting and signalling to the escort’s master to deal with this, Somerled swept on.

But now the four detached craft from Conn’s fleet were coming up, and with the ten behind swinging in on them, the remaining Norsemen wisely decided that the odds were altogether too great, broke off and headed desperately for the open sea. The second escort managed to corner the last one between itself and the oncoming four, and seeing its position as hopeless, this craft yielded tamely. But the other three looked like making good their escape.

Somerled, seeing his ships swinging off in pursuit, banged on Gillecolm’s great gong urgently, to draw attention, and went on banging, signing to all to give up the chase and close in on him. He was worried about Saor and Maguire.

Leaving his escorts to cope with and put skeleton crews on the three disabled enemy ships, he rowed to meet Conn.

It was, by any standards, an impressive array of ships which drove up Loch Dunvegan, no fewer than twenty now—for to Somerled’s three and Conn’s fourteen were added the three captured craft, although these were scarcely in fighting trim, with their surviving crewmen working reduced oars under threat from their captors. They would make a daunting sight for Thorkell and his people at the loch-head—whose ships would now number only eleven.

The question was, how many of Saor’s six survived?

Even as they drew fairly close to the maze of islets, it was difficult to perceive and assess what went on there. Ships and masts could be seen shifting and straggling amongst the holms and skerries, but there was no distinguishing who was what, nor any pattern discernible. There would
be
no pattern, to be sure, Saor’s obvious tactics being to double and dodge and hide, avoiding actual conflict as far as possible until reinforcements came up. How successful he had been remained to be seen—but at least there was still much movement in process, which would imply that the situation was still fluid.

In the circumstance, Somerled came to the conclusion that an attitude of confident superiority was called for meantime, instead of plunging head-long into more action—since he certainly had no ambitions to get involved in all that dodging and scurrying amongst the islets. There was that low headland jutting out on the east side, on which the ruined broch sat, a fairly modest feature in itself but narrowing the loch there considerably; which was no doubt why the broch was sited there. At this point the loch was little more than half-a-mile wide, and barely a mile from its head. If he could block that . . .?

Even twenty ships solidly take up nothing like half-a-mile of water, of course; but ranked in a single line, each could be near enough to its neighbours to ensure that no approaching vessel could win through without a struggle. Somerled so ordered.

In took a little while for any reaction to become apparent ahead. But gradually it was evident that centrally amongst those islets ships were coming together, concentrating. Sails were of no use to any in these close waters, so that it was not possible to identify them from the painted symbols thereon, whether Norse raven or Argyll galley. But since the assembling group was soon larger than six, these were obviously the enemy.

Thorkell seemed to be at a loss as to what to do. At least, the Norse concentration remained more or less stationary behind a central scatter of low holms. Other vessels appeared here and there, now, on the move, presumably Saor’s. Two of these, presently, came dashing out from the extreme eastern corner of the maze, not far from the broch-headland itself, towards the waiting line. As they drew close, one proved to be Dermot Maguire’s ship.

He came straight to the dragon-ship, to shout that the fleet had been the devil’s own time in arriving, that they had been hunted like deer, that one of their vessels was stranded on a reef, that another had been captured, by the Norse. He did not know where Saor was.

Somerled directed him, and the other newcomer, to take place in the line. Then he signalled the entire array to move slowly forward.

He reckoned that, although the loch widened again a little, they could move a quarter-mile closer to the enemy, and with the two extra craft could still block the channel effectively.

The aspect of creeping menace, twenty-two ships, must have been alarming for the waiting foe—of whom there appeared to be only ten in the group.

Then another longship appeared scurrying out of the north-eastern corner, and quickly identified itself as Saor’s own. Somerled was much relieved to see his foster-brother safe, but cut short the shouted exchange. He ordered Saor to take the dragon-ship’s place in the centre of the line, and he himself moved on, closer to the enemy, alone.

As he saw it, Thorkell had only two options now. He could come out and fight, outnumbered more than two-to-one; or else he could beach his ships and flee inland, or try to put up a fight at the fort. He believed that the Vikings would choose the first, cherishing their ships as they did. In these close waters it would be a dire struggle, but some of the ten might possibly make good their escape. His present approach was to challenge them to attempt just that.

He ventured to within half-a-mile of the enemy behind their screen of skerries, hoping to coax them out—for the dragon-ship, larger than the others, could be taken to contain the opposing leader. He was not taking any very great risks, however, for with half-as-many oars again as the general run of longships, he could probably out-row any attack.

His move did achieve a reaction—but not what he had looked for. One Norse craft detached itself from the rest and came rowing slowly round the reefs towards him.

So Thorkell thought to parley—unusual choice for a Viking? And yet, of course, once before this one had come parleying, to Ardtornish.

The Norseman advanced only so far beyond the islets, fairly evidently seeking to ensure that he could scuttle back to cover if need be. Somerled moved forward to within hailing distance.

He took the initiative. “Is that Thorkell Svensson, the pirate?” he shouted. “I, Somerled, ask it.”

“I am Thorkell, yes,” came back. “What do you here, far from Argyll?”

“I come for
you
, Thorkell! I warned you, that day, to keep away from my territories. Yet your barbarians savaged my Gigha. Now, you pay.”

“That was mistaken, Somerled. Ketil Left Hand made mistake . . .”

“Mistake, yes.
I
make no mistakes, ravager, wrecker! Nor will you, again. This is the end, Thorkell.”

There was a pause. “We need not fight,” came across the water, at length.

It was Somerled’s turn to ponder.

“We can come to terms,” Thorkell shouted, further.

“Terms? What terms can
you
offer, man? I hold you in the palm of my hand.”

“Many men will die, if we fight.
Your
men.”

“Many have already died. Women and children also. At your hands.”

“There need be no more, King Somerled. If I leave here. These isles.”

“Nor if you are dead!”

“I will not die easily, I promise! And kill you first, if I may! So consider.”

“I hear nothing to consider.”

“If I give you all Skye, at no cost? For always. Is that nothing?”

“It is not yours to give.” But Somerled paused again. “You
would
come back. As you came back to Argyll, to Gigha.”

“No. I swear it. I will not come back. Nor any of mine.”