Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (42 page)

The more he thought on it, the better this seemed. The messengers accordingly went out all over Argyll and the Isles, to muster—not full mobilisation but sufficient to produce a major force.

All July, then, the west was mustering, from Skye down to Kintyre, from Tiree and Coll to Appin and Lochaber, for the show of strength—in no great hurry, for the longer it took the more certain the news of it reaching the desired quarters. Shipping assembled in the Sound of Mull from every port and haven on a thousand miles of seaboard. Also provisioning went on, on a large scale, for this host would have to be fed, in idleness, for some considerable time probably, certainly not living off the land where they were going, to the hurt of their own people. Somerled foresaw it all as something in the nature of a holiday for large numbers of men—and therefore to be planned very carefully if it was not to get out-of-hand. He had seen sufficient of what idle soldiery could do on David’s invasion of England prior to the Battle of the Standard. Womenfolk, indeed, were to be taken along—to spare the local females somewhat—the first time Somerled had permitted camp-followers, however respectable.

So, at the beginning of August they sailed from Ardtornish, a huge fleet of almost one hundred vessels, the greatest concentration of shipping these parts had ever seen, to head southwards down the Firth of Lorne. Admittedly quite a large proportion were not longships, nor fighting-ships at all, but transports and cargo-carriers and scows bearing cattle and meal. But it made a brave display, led by the two dragon-ships—for Saor, Chamberlain of Argyll, now had his own, thanks to Thorkell Svensson, with Cathula acting his shipmaster once more. Ragnhilde and her children were there, and many other families. They were bound for Arran.

Once again they coasted down Nether Lorne, Knapdale and long Kintyre, to round the Mull and enter the wide Firth of Clyde. They turned north thereafter, for a short distance, to the southern end of the Isle of Arran.

Somerled had selected Arran with some care. It was not the mainland, as Donald desired, but it was in clear view of the Ayr and Renfrew coasts of Lowland Scotland, a mere dozen miles off. So the fleet’s presence could not pass unnoticed. On the other hand, it was an island and so could not be approached and assailed by surprise. It was a large island, a score of miles long by ten wide, and so could bear this ‘invasion’ better than a smaller area, and next to the Mull of Kintyre itself, a barren and inhospitable place, it was the nearest to Man of all his domains. Also, this southern end was only a short distance across the Kilbrannan Sound from Saddail and the abbey.

They made a landfall at Kiscadale on the great bay between the headlands of Largybeg and Pennycross and set up a vast sailcloth encampment, after the Norse fashion, stretching along the sandy shore. Somerled had brought altogether about six thousand people, so that much organisation and settlement was called for; yet all must be prepared to reembark at short notice. He hastened to reassure the island community and to gain their co-operation. He set up watching-posts at strategic points and made adequate commissariat arrangements. Then they settled down to wait, relying on the local fishermen to ensure that the word and threat of their presence was carried to all whom it might concern.

The waiting was not in idleness—Somerled saw to that. Indeed he contrived it all as fully and as carefully as any of his military campaigns, well aware of the problems and dangers of slackness. Feeding in itself was a major preoccupation, of course, and many men always involved in hunting and fishing especially, as well as in more humdrum foraging. Arran was mountainous, and rich in deer and game, its rivers in trout and salmon—although sea-fishing produced the major supply. To help compensate for their large-scale presence, numbers of men were allocated to local chieftains and lairds to help in building work, wood-cutting, peat-digging and harvesting activities. Games and sports and competitions were devised, almost daily, and entertainments for the evenings. The time passed, with only minor problems.

Somerled and his family, with some of their closer associates, spent much time at Saddail.

The local Arran fishermen were useful in gathering as well as disseminating news, being enjoined to learn all they could from their mainland and Manx counterparts. In due course, tidings were forthcoming, some interesting. There were the expected reports, on the effects of this concentration of shipping and men at Arran, on various quarters, states of emergency promptly developing in the Steward’s lands of Ayr and Renfrew especially, the Bishop’s burgh of Glasgow in much alarm and all the Clyde basin aroused. On Man presently they learned that King Godfrey had assembled his fleet at St. Michael’s Haven and was standing by. The Galloway folk were more restive than ever, always eager for trouble; and there were rumours of great movements of men in the North. All this was satisfactory and to be anticipated. But other news reached them, less expected. First of all, there was what almost amounted to a famine in mainland Scotland, touched off by an animal pestilence which had struck down huge numbers of cattle, draught oxen, horses and sheep, in the vital breeding months and so affected not only the beef and mutton supply but gravely interfered with the tilling of the soil and was now reflected in a disastrous harvest. This had not crossed the Firth to Arran, fortunately, but it was seriously upsetting life in Scotland as a whole.

Then came word that the Earl Duncan of Fife had died. This was of importance, for Fife of course was the senior of the Seven Earls, and Duncan the leader on whom Donald most relied to stir up the others. This was bound to affect and delay Donald’s plans.

Lastly came the news that King Stephen had died in England—and this was highly relevant to the present position in Scotland. For he had been much tamed these last years—but now was to be succeeded by Henry, Duke of Normandy, the Empress’s son. Maud herself had died some years earlier, and her agreement with Stephen was that he should have her throne for his lifetime only, but thereafter her son would wear the English crown as Henry the Second. And this Henry was known to be a spirited, hot-tempered and ambitious young man—just the sort of king Scotland feared on the English throne. The Scots Normans were bound to be considerably perturbed and to start looking south—for although all English-born, David’s importations from his long years as a hostage with Henry the First, they had carved power and possessions for themselves in Scotland and were as much against English domination as were the indigenous Scots.

Altogether, then, it looked as though there was unlikely to be any major trouble for Somerled and the Isles for some time to come, the Normans being preoccupied, famine prevailing and Donald’s cause for the moment almost certainly held up.

With the autumn gales imminent, therefore, Somerled ordered a return home. Most of his people left Arran quite reluctantly, the general verdict being that it had all been a pleasant interlude. Whether it had been unnecessary, in the circumstances, abortive even, was impossible to tell; but it certainly had done no harm and would serve to warn all that Argyll and the Isles were not to be trifled with. And it had probably had a restraining effect on Godfrey the Black.

Somerled’s assessment proved to be accurate, and so far as Argyll and the Isles were concerned there was a fairly prolonged period of peace, or at least absence of immediate threat, two years in fact, the rest of 1154, all 1155 and much of 1156, good years for the MacFergus family, with the children developing apace—Dougal now in his sixteenth year, Anna in her fifteenth, Ranald thirteen and the youngest, Angus, eight. They were a great joy to their parents and to Gillecolm, who made himself almost their slave, his need to serve as great as his need for personal affection. It was strange how Dougal already seemed the elder of the two, a quietly reliable youth with a capacity for taking pains. Anna was going to be a beauty, dark, unlike her mother and father, vivacious and attractive, an outgoing personality. As indeed was Ranald, although his was a boisterous irrepressible nature which was going to take a deal of disciplining. Whereas young Angus was as yet diffident, sensitive, but with a streak of obstinacy which seemed at odds with the rest of him. None had the least taint of Gillecolm’s trouble, happily. All treated the eldest of the family rather like a beloved dog—except when he was acting shipmaster, when they accorded him entire respect.

The summer of 1156 was over, uneventful save in domestic matters, and the royal family of the Isles had moved back to Ardtornish for the winter when, one day in October, a single strange longship came down the Sound of Mull, its sail painted with the three-legged emblem of Man. It brought a visitor to see Ragnhilde, and to a lesser extent Somerled, a fierce-looking character, pure Viking in appearance, of middle years, great down-turning moustaches and a hot eye, by name Thorfinn Ottarsson, called Oak-Hewer, one of the foremost of the Manx chieftains.

Despite his looks, Ragnhilde greeted him warmly, even embracing him. “How good to see you, Thor, after so long,” she exclaimed. “A joy!” To Somerled, she said, “You have heard me speak of Thorfinn Ottarsson, Sorley—one of the oldest of my friends. As a girl he often aided me when I needed aid, did Prince Thorfinn.” Apparently he was entitled to that honorific, since he was a son of Ottar, one of the Norse Kings of Dublin.

“Prince Thorfinn’s name is known to me,” Somerled agreed. “Did you not lead the van of Godfrey’s host at the victory of Cortcelis, last year?”

“I did so—although Godfrey has forgotten that!” the other said. “As he has forgotten much else, a curse on him!” Recollecting that he spoke in front of Godfrey’s sister, he spread great hands. “I am sorry, Hilde—Queen Ragnhilde. But he is become a sore affliction, is Godfrey Olafsson. A man possessed of the Devil, I think! He is making his name hated in Man.”

She shook her head unhappily. “It is sad, grievous. Why he should behave so, I do not know. But then, I scarcely know him. I thought that he was for fighting foreign wars, now? This of Dublin . . .?”

“Aye—what came of the Dublin venture?” Somerled asked. “We heard that he had gone to make himself King of Dublin. And won a great victory, at this Cortcelis. We were . . . relieved that he concerned himself with Ireland not threatening my Isles. Yet he has come back to Man, leaving Dublin . . .?”

“He won the victory, yes—or
I
, and others, won it for him! But then he learned that it was not only Muirchertach, High King of Ireland, whom he had to beat but the Norse kings, of Meath and Leinster and Munster and the rest. These, some kin of my own, misliked Olaf Morsel’s son coming to take
their
Dublin. So they warned him off. He was not strong enough to fight them all, and Muirchertach. So he came home to Man. And now inflicts his spleen upon his own people.”

“Why? What ails him . . .?” Ragnhilde wondered.

“He wants all for himself. He covets every man’s lands and wealth and power. He has already dispossessed many—myself with the rest. I tell you . . .”

“
You
? Godfrey has dispossessed you, Thor?”

“That is why I am here. To speak for others, as well as myself.
Godfrey
must be dispossessed of his throne. Before Man itself bleeds to death, God help us!”

They stared at him.

“It has to be. This cannot go on. Everywhere there is talk of revolt, of sending to the new English King Henry for aid to unseat Godfrey. He is a fighter, is young Henry—but if he comes to Man, he will stay. Man will become but an English province.”

“
That
must not be!” Somerled said grimly. “On my doorstep!”

“No. But Scotland is of no use, a boy-king in the hands of Normans who care nothing for Man. And who fear attack from their North. And Orkney and Norway are Godfrey’s friends. It has to be you, King Somerled.”

That man looked at his wife.

Following that glance, Thorfinn turned on Ragnhilde. “You, Queen, must see it? If you have any love for the Manx land and people. Godfrey must go, and Man have a new king on Olaf’s throne. And there is only one, lawfully-born, whom Man would accept. Olaf’s brother Harald had those three sons who slew your father. Godfrey slew them all. Olaf had no other lawful issue, but Godfrey and yourself. And you have sons. Man needs your eldest son, for king.”

She gulped. “Dougal? Oh, no!”

“Who else? Godfrey must go, all are agreed. If King Somerled does not aid us, it will have to be England. And an end to Man’s independence.”

“What of the Norse-Irish? Will they not help?”

“They are at constant war with the true Irish—Muirchertach, the High King and his lesser kings. You know that. Muirchertach smarts from his defeat at Cortcelis and the death there of his brother. The Norse kinglets will not leave all, to come to Man.” Thorfinn turned to Somerled. “
You
must see it, my lord King?”

“Aye. I see it. But this requires thought, much thought.”

“Think you then, my lord. And you, Hilde. For Man’s very life is at stake.”

Later, in their own bedchamber, Somerled and Ragnhilde thought indeed, and talked late into the night. And as their talk developed it became Somerled seeking to persuade his wife that what Thorfinn proposed was right, wise, even inevitable. For Man, for their son, for Argyll and the Isles. They just could not afford to have a tyrant, who called himself also King of the Hebrides, threatening from the neighbouring island kingdom—and still less could they contemplate the English sitting in Man, a still greater threat. Godfrey was unmarried, so Dougal, his nephew, was already lawful heir to his throne—they could not shut their eyes to that. And Man deserved a better monarch than Godfrey the Black.

Ragnhilde perceived all this but could not get over the horror of her husband and son going to war against her brother, her young Dougal a mere pawn in this game of power.

They eventually slept, with the matter still unresolved.

The very next day a new aspect of it all opened before them when, unheralded, Donald MacEth, now being styled Earl of Moray, arrived at Ardtornish. He came as eager for action as was Thorfinn Oak-Hewer—Somerled’s action. The time was ripe, he declared, over-ripe. They must strike, and strike soon, or all might be lost for good. Henry of England, the new man, was showing his claws.