Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (40 page)

“You are not eager to fight, Thorkell!”

“You outnumber me. My men are weary with much rowing. Is it agreed? A bargain?”

“Not so fast! You have ten ships remaining. I could sink them all. Or I might take six. Leave you four. To take you away. Out of my Hebrides. Outer as well as these. To Ireland. Or Orkney. Or Iceland. Or back to your Norway. Or to Hell itself! But never again the isles. How say you to that, pirate?”

In only moments the reply came back. “Accept.”

It was as easy as that. Thorkell Svensson, surly now, agreed to go back to his ships, decant all his men into four of them, and sail off, leaving the rest—on Somerled’s sworn oath that they would not be molested as they departed.

The vessels each turned back to their own groups.

So presently four much-overladen enemy longships came rowing out from behind the islets, in file, to thread through the narrow gap in the Argyll line which the dragon-ship left open between itself and Saor’s craft. Men jeered and cheered and fists were shaken—but no physical obstacle was offered as the Norsemen headed northwards for the open sea.

Later, the victors found the six abandoned ships, oars missing but otherwise in fair order, run aground on the holms. More important, they found their own three missing craft, two also aground and one drifting abandoned, but the crews ashore and more or less unhurt.

Thus, with scarcely the loss of a man, Somerled MacFergus became Lord of Skye and all its appendages, a huge addition to his domains. More important perhaps, the Norse presence on this entire seaboard was eliminated. As vital could be the proof to all it might concern that Somerled was still the Mighty—in case there had been any doubts.

He set out to explore his new territories.

The dragon-ship was sailing south again, in fine weather, alone, with no single escort, so safe these years had become the Hebridean Sea, thanks to Somerled’s rule and dominance. The Norsemen kept their distance, Stephen was tamed and David’s Scotland was comparatively law-abiding. It was midsummer, the year was 1153, and the family were on their way to inspect progress at Saddail in Kintyre.

This business of abbey-building Somerled had found more difficult than he had foreseen. Although he had collected a number of stone-masons for his castle-building programme, now more or less complete, none of these had any experience in the elaborations and special skills of erecting abbeys and great churches; and he was determined that this monument to his kingdom and line should be no humble edifice but worthy of comparison with the shrines King David was putting up in such numbers, even though smaller. And of course there was no native tradition of fine stone buildings in the Highlands and Islands, where the Celtic Church had other ideas. So work had been held up time and again over these years. But fairly recently he had acquired a new monkish mason, who had been completing work on a chapter-house at Rushen Abbey on Man; and now, with summer upon them again, Somerled was taking his family on what was something of a holiday, to see how the work went and to plan further developments.

He had become very much a family man these last years, and gladly so. Ragnhilde’s fertility was as notable as her other excellences. She had presented him with two more sons, Ranald and Angus, to add to Dougal, and of course Anna, everyone’s pet. They were all aboard the dragon-ship, which in consequence presently much belied its name and style, seemingly more nursery-ship than leader of a war-fleet dreaded in all the Western Ocean, whatever its tough oarsmen thought—although its captain at least had no objections, for Gillecolm doted on the children. Now in his later twenties, and a big strapping young man physically, and an excellent shipmaster, in many ways he was still a child himself and clearly would be always. Somerled no longer felt embarrassed and uncomfortable with him, with three other fine and normal sons; indeed he had developed a real affection for his peculiar first-born. Ragnhilde had loved him from the first.

They had left Islay at sun-up, Finlaggan Castle there become their summertime home, and not rushing it, before noon were closing the Mull of long Kintyre, notorious for its difficult seas and tide-races. In consequence, Gillecolm was using the off-shore island of Sanda as breakwater as they made their broadside-on turn against the great Atlantic swell, when they came, as it were, face-to-face with a fairly large fishing-boat using the same tactics but in the other direction. There was nothing unusual about this, save that normally such craft would hastily and prudently keep their distance from all war-vessels; whereas this one, after a minute or two, actually turned to head towards them. Men in fact could be seen waving, as though urgently.

As they drew near, a young man richly-dressed, it appeared, and no fisherman, could be seen as principal waver. It was Gillecolm’s keen eyes, or perhaps some instinct, which identified him.

“Donald!” he cried. “It is Donald.”

Somerled certainly would not have known his nephew, now a slender handsome figure, for it was over ten years since he had seen him, then a mere youth. But Gillecolm was sure—and the waver certainly seemed eager enough to join them. No doubt he recognised the great galley-device painted on the dragon-ship’s sail and the personal standard of the Lord of the Isles.

As the great and small craft came together, the young man shouted. “My lord! My lord Somerled—it is I! Donald—Donald MacEth. Well met, Uncle—well met!”

When they had aided him aboard and dismissed the hired fishing-boat with suitable payment, amidst incoherent greetings, with Gillecolm all but weeping with joy, introductions to Ragnhilde and the children, it transpired that Donald was in fact on his way to see Somerled and this fortuitous encounter the more fortunate—for haste was essential it seemed, with every day vital. This came out in something of a gabble. He was afraid that he might be pursued.

“Pursued?” Somerled exclaimed. “You mean that you are in flight? That you have left your father and mother, at David’s court? Fled?”

“Yes—it was necessary. They are in danger, great danger. We all were. I had to come to you. Nowhere else we could turn . . .”

“But why? What danger? Malcolm—he has not been plotting again? Against David?”

“No, no—not that. David is dead. Did you not know?”

“Dead? David the King! Oh, no—not that! The good David . . .”

“He died weeks ago. In late May. At Caer Luel. He is now buried at Dunfermline. And all is now changed. We are in much danger . . .”

“David! He was my friend. Gone—dear Lord, David gone! How? How did he die?”

“He had been failing. Ever since his son Henry died, last year. He seemed to lose all taste for living. He ate little, spent his days brooding and in prayer. While his Normans grasped the power. Now they have the young King and his two brothers in their hands, David’s grandsons, and all is lost. Malcolm, now King, is but sixteen years, and weak, feeble.”

“All changed indeed, to my sorrow. But not all lost, lad. You say that your father is in danger? Even your mother?”

“The Normans have always hated him. They would have had him slain, long ago. David and he became friends—they were uncle and nephew—and the Normans resented it. Now, they have the power, with the young King their puppet. They can do as they will.”

“Your father is one of the Seven Earls of Scotland, one of the
Ri
who appoint the King, grandson of Malcolm the Third and Margaret. They would not dare to harm him now, after all these years, and insult the people of Scotland?”

“The Frenchmen care nothing for that. They have him, and my mother, in close confinement now. There was talk of slaying him. We decided that I should escape from Rook’s Burgh and come to you for help.”

Somerled stared at him, mind busy.

“What can you do?” Ragnhilde asked unhappily.

“I must think. This changes all. My oath of fealty was to David—him only. I am no longer bound by it. I must do something. I cannot leave my sister and her husband to their fate at the hands of their enemies. I never loved these Normans—nor they me. Hugo de Morville was the best of them, the Constable. What of him, Donald?”

“He is our friend, I think. But only he. The Marischal, the Steward, Bruce, Comyn, Baliol, Soulis, Lindsay and the rest, are against us.”

“What do you want my husband to do?” Ragnhilde demanded.

“I do not know, lady,” the young man admitted. “But something. He is strong, powerful. All the North would heed him. Most of the other earls, weak crew as they are. Something is possible, surely. Who else can we turn to?”

“I shall think on it,” Somerled said. “We go to Saddail, where my new abbey is a-building. There I shall decide . . .”

Somerled’s initial action, with speed essential, could only be in the nature of representations, threat and ultimatum inferred. He would send urgent message to the new young King of Scots, Malcolm the Fourth, declaring that he was no longer vassal to the Scots crown, since his allegiance had been personal to David; demanding good and fair treatment for his good-brother and sister, the Earl and Countess of Ross; requiring assurances of their welfare; and if these were not forthcoming promptly, promising that he would use armed force, rouse the North, indeed all Celtic Scotland, against the alien power presently surrounding the throne—although he would pray God that this would not be necessary. He would also approach his goodsire, Olaf of Man, for similar action.

The problem was, of course, who to send to deliver this message? To a monarch, it could not be any humble courier but somebody substantial. But with the urgency of the situation there was no time to send back to Islay or Ardtornish or elsewhere in his far-flung domains for suitable personages—in which he was notably weak anyway. The only people he had brought along on this trip, other than the family, were Farquhar MacFerdoch, Abbot of Glendochart, and the Romish priest from Man, Wilfrith, who now acted as his secretary and Ragnhilde’s chaplain—brought because they could be helpful with the abbey-building. Farquhar was no true cleric, of course, only a hereditary abbot of the Columban Church, a secular figure, custodian of the staff, bell and altar of St. Fillan. But he had the title and was a chieftain in his own right, and Somerled had appointed him nominally responsible for much of the abbey project. The priest Wilfrith was really of more use in this, to be sure, knowing more about real abbeys, having been trained in one.

Somerled had little choice, then, but to send Farquhar MacFerdoch to the Scottish court as his emissary. He could send Wilfrith too; as a true Roman cleric he could, as it were, speak the language the Normans understood—Ragnhilde suggesting that he call himself Prior of Saddail for the occasion, as sounding better. Somerled toyed with the idea of sending back Donald with them, but recognised that he might well be seized and held as valuable hostage—after all he was in the direct line of the old royal house.

So the pair of very reluctant envoys were primed with instructions for their mission, with half-a-dozen of MacKay of Saddail’s men as escort, and sent off in the dragon-ship for Eskmouth on Solway, from whence they would make their way to Rook’s Burgh. They were promised that a longship would be sent to pick them up again in perhaps one week’s time, so that the dragon-ship could return here as required.

None pretended that it would be a pleasant embassage.

All this cast something of a shadow over their Saddail stay, but for the children’s sake they made the best of it. Donald was impatient that they should be wasting precious time on stone-masonry and the like when his parents were in dire danger, but admitted that he did not know what better they could be doing in the interim. They had to wait for reaction from Rook’s Burgh before they could decide on any further moves. Anyway, they had to await the dragon-ship’s return.

Their abbey had progressed far enough, however slowly, to begin to be quite impressive, the cruciform church building furthest ahead naturally and the cloister-garth and monastic outworks little more than foundations as yet. Impressive for its site and situation, that is, rising out of the Highland wilderness, for compared with the great Lowland abbeys it was hardly that. The church, with its double rows of octagonal pillars partially decorated with intricate Celtic carving of interlacing design, and mythical animals, after the fashion of the renowned high crosses, had not yet reached wallhead and roof-level, and was one-hundred-and-thirty-six feet long by twenty-four wide, the transept measuring seventy-eight feet, the narrowness of it all emphasising the length and height. There had been an argument about the level of the chancel flooring, Wilfrith wanting it raised two or three steps above nave and transept, Somerled and Farquhar contending that there was no tradition in the Columban Church of the clergy being raised higher than the other worshippers; however the priest pointed out that the increased elevation also assisted visibility by the congregation of what went on at the altar, and a compromise was reached of raising by one step. The cloister-garth had to be on the south side, on account of availability of level land on the platform site, the cloisters themselves being modest in size, fifty-eight feet square, with the abbey-well enclosed. Their monk-mason, a lay brother of the Cistercian Order from Wales, named Idris, had a team of only eight local men to assist him. Somerled offered more but was told that further untrained hands would be of little value. Skilled stone-carvers were what was required, for the decorative work. It was too soon for the woodworkers, although many would be required eventually.

The visitors were duly gratified, if a little disappointed at the apparent slowness of progress. They tried to help where they could but found their efforts little appreciated by the dedicated workers, and were quite prepared to call a halt when, on the third day, the dragon-ship returned. The fact was that the adults at least had their thoughts preoccupied elsewhere. They did not long delay their embarkation thereafter, to head back for Islay.

At Gigha, where a couple of longships were now permanently stationed, they called in, and sent one of these to collect Farquhar and Wilfrith at Eskmouth on Solway.