There was wood about the place, a little scrub-oak and birch, also dry driftwood above the tidemark, and the Irish were for lighting fires and boiling a porridge of oats and roasting the venison, brought from the Isle of Rhum where they had left Thane Gillebride, Somerled’s father, and the other half of the expedition. But Somerled would not allow it, however welcome would have been a cooked meal as against raw venison or old smoked beef and oatmeal mixed with cold water, shipboard diet. He had not gone to all this trouble to hide their arrival in Morvern, to give their presence away by the smoke of camp-fires. But, since they had time enough, and it was necessary to keep these Irishry in as good a temper as was possible, he offered them a diversion. No doubt they all had seen a number of wild-goats on the small cliffs of Oronsay, as they waited? Those who felt so inclined could go goat-hunting for an hour or two and stretch their legs after the constriction of the galleys—provided always that they kept to the north side of the island where they would not be seen from the mainland. Not that Morvern was populous—indeed it was the least populated area of all Argyll and this north-western corner in especial had always been empty, but there could be cattle-herders out at the start of the summer shieling season or egg-gatherers on the mainland cliffs. Young goat’s flesh was sweet enough; and the warm fresh blood mixed with the oatmeal was better than water. Some small sport would do no harm.
So they awaited the evening. Somerled did not announce to the gallowglasses just how far they had to march. He was only too well aware of the problems of his situation, as to men as well as to task. These Irishmen were not his own, nor even his father’s, only lent to them by the MacMahon, chief of Clann Cholla, at the behest of the High King of Ireland—approximately four hundred men and four galleys. MacMahon was Somerled’s father-in-law and it was probably as much for his late daughter’s sake as in sympathy with the former Thane of Argyll that he agreed to provide these gallowglasses for an attempt to win back at least some part of Gillebride’s lordship, wrested from him more than a dozen years before by the all-conquering Norsemen, who now controlled all the Hebrides as well as much of the West Highland mainland of Scotland as they did Man, Dublin and some of the east of Ireland. It was all Somerled’s idea and project, his father less than hopeful—but then, the Lord Gillebride had never been an optimist and having waited a dozen years was quite prepared to wait longer. After sailing from Donegal Bay they had voyaged to the little-inhabited Isle of Rhum in the Inner Hebrides, where Somerled had left his father, unenthusiastic, with half the force, to make an attempt on the islands of Tiree, Islay and Jura, whilst the son essayed this hardly hopeful assault on mainland Morvern with his handful of doubtful Ulstermen, bonny fighters no doubt but here lacking involvement and conviction. He was going to require all his powers of leadership and control.
In due course the hunters straggled back, with three goats, none of them young and tender but made much of as symbols of prowess. Thereafter, Somerled informed all that they were going walking and by night, for their own safety. They would move as soon as the dusk came down.
There were grumblings and questionings but nothing sufficiently serious for drastic measures.
An hour after sundown they started off, leaving a dozen of the older men with the galleys, enough to get them afloat again at high-water if absolutely necessary. It was low-water now and they were able to cross to the mainland on wet sand and shingle at the east end of the island—Oronsay meaning half-tide island—and thereafter to turn away south-eastwards into the shadowy hills.
For the first four miles or so their route followed the boggy south shore of Loch Teacuis, a long and narrow arm of the sea, its mouth all but stoppered by the lumpish Isle of Carna. The gallowglasses were scarcely nimble walkers and it took two hours to get that far, with resentment beginning to become all too vocal. Somerled coaxed and jollied them on for another mile or more, then recognised that something more was required if he was to get his company the remaining four or five miles to Kinlochaline. There were many complainers, but one in especial, a heavy-built surly oaf whom his companions called Cathal Frog, was loudest, announcing that he was an oarsman and sword-fighter not a landloper or a night-prowler, and he had blisters on his feet. With others making a chorus of it, Somerled called a halt, but quite genially, and strolled back to the chief vocalist.
“Your feet, friend, pain you—as your voice pains me!” he said. “Let me see them.”
“Eh . . .?” Cathal Frog blinked.
“These feet, man. That pain you. Show me.”
The man drew back, doubtfully.
“Saor—I wish to consider these painful feet. See to it.”
Grinning, MacNeil acted swiftly. He slipped behind Cathal Frog, flung an arm around his neck and with an expert explosion of strength heaved him backwards off his feet. As the man sprawled, Somerled stepped forward, stooped and jerked off first one filthy rawhide brogan, then the other, and tossed them to Conn MacMahon, then grabbed up both ankles high so that the gallowglass, for all his burly weight, hung like a sagging hammock between the two Scots. “So—feet of a sort, yes! Faugh—how they stink!” He peered close, in the half-light. “I see corns, the dirt of ages, scabs—but no blisters. Still, far be it from me to disbelieve an honest man. This sufferer shall ride. Lest he should hold up men with better feet. Saor—on my back with him. Up, I say!” And he dropped the legs and turned round, arms wide.
MacNeil promptly hoisted the protesting man to his feet, stamped on the bare toes by way of warning, and heaved. Somehow he got him on to the other’s back, and Somerled reached round to grasp the legs firmly, and then started forward.
“Come!” he shouted, into the noisy laughter of the company. “Now we shall make the better time.”
Cathal Frog struggled, of course, causing his lordly bearer to stagger. But the grip on him was strong. Moreover, Saor MacNeil’s drawn dirk was a potent reminder of realities.
The march resumed.
Cathal Frog clearly was at a loss, however much of a fool he felt. He probably could have freed himself, at the cost perhaps of a few pricks of that dirk-point. But without his brogans he would have been able only to hobble along feebly, and look as ridiculous as he did now. And he was well aware of his companions’ change of attitude, all suffering from a warped sense of humour.
Somerled kept it up for the best part of a mile, despite the rough going and poor light, before, breathing heavily and stumbling frequently, he set his burden down.
“I swear your feet are better than mine, now!” he asserted. “Soon you will have to be carrying me, Cathal man! Conn—give him his brogans.”
After that, and the cheers of the gallowglasses, he had no more trouble with reluctant marchers.
There were two more lochs after Teacuis, one small, one larger, and then a short and winding little pass, not high, before the main central north-south glen of Morvern was reached, that of the Aline River, more than half-way down. Here they had to go more cautiously, for little-populated as this Morvern was, it was in this valley and along the southern hore that most of the folk lived. Indeed, within a mile or so of their entry was the main village of the great peninsula, the clachan of Aline—which they must avoid. The folk would probably be friendly enough, for they were Somerled’s father’s own people; but they would be terrified of the occupying and all-conquering Norsemen, and not without cause. The word was that the Vikings themselves did not use the village, save for the supply of women and food, preferring, as always, to remain close to their longships, at Kinlochaline, the head of the three-miles-long sea-loch. Norsemen were never happy far from their piratical ships.
It was not difficult to skirt the clachan, for most of it was on the other side of the river. Dogs scenting them and barking were a risk, but in the prevailing circumstances, nobody was likely to come to investigate, in the middle of the night, what could well be a prowling Viking. Nevertheless, Somerled took a route which contoured amongst wooded slopes fairly high, the gut of the valley a well of shadow b
eneath.
There was a narrow throat or wooded defile of over a mile between clachan and loch-head and it was possible that the Norsemen might have a watching-guard therein. So, awkward as it was, they still kept to the steep high ground, amongst fallen pines and outcropping rock—although keeping quiet the progress of two hundred men on such terrain was not easy. Whether there were sentries below they had no means of telling, but they gained no impression of alarm roused.
At length they could sense rather than perceive the wide opening of Loch Aline. Somerled called a welcome halt whilst he considered the situation. It was all guesswork, to be sure—but informed guesswork. Part-Norse himself, he knew how Norsemen thought, acted and reacted. Kinlochaline, down there, all agreed was their headquarters for Morvern, central, and enabling them to dominate the important Sound of Mull, key to the Inner Isles, and much of the Firth of Lorn also. They might be away, of course, hosting—or some of them; but not all, for a presence here would remain. If he could destroy that presence, it would be a major step in his purpose.
How to find them in this light, or lack of it? No fires or even embers glowed. Almost certainly they would be near the loch-head, where their longships could be beached most effectively with the tides. Which side of the river? The far side, probably, the same as the clachan for convenience, there being no bridges. He would require to ford the river, therefore.
The main question was—to wait for daylight to discover the Norse position, or to risk going down now and trying to find it in the dark? There were probably more than two hours left before dawn. Was there any alternative to these courses? It was many years since he had been here, as a boy, years of exile, but he thought that he could recollect two or three huts, salmon-fishermen’s huts, where the river entered the loch and their nets could trap the fish at their runs up and down. If these were still there, the fishermen might tell where the Vikings were.
He decided to chance it. He ordered a silent descent of the hill.
Silence was only approximate, but they reached the river at length where it began to shallow to salt-water. There they picked their way across without too much difficulty, if with muttered cursing at the slippery stones underfoot and the chill of the water. Leaving the company there in Saor MacNeil’s charge, Somerled went onward, southwards, alone, following the river-bank, carefully.
It was further to the estuary than he had calculated. Then he stumbled over the stakes of salmon-nets, stubbing his toes. These stakes were not old, with netting still attached; so at least it looked as though the fishermen were still active. He came to the first hut soon thereafter, but found it broken down and abandoned. There was another, however, close enough for him to hear a dog growling. He decided that it would be wiser not to creep and crawl. He made for the sound, walking normally—but he drew his dirk.
At the black gape of an open doorway where a rough, old blanket hung, with the growling rising menacingly, he thumped on the hut timbers.
“God save all here,” he called, quite strongly. “A friend calls—no Norseman. A friend, I say.”
There was a pause and then some whispering. A distinctly hesitant voice spoke. “What friend? At this hour? Who speaks?”
“A friend in your need perhaps. Quieten your dog.”
The authority in that command may have had its effect, for another voice spoke, and the dog sank its rumbling a little. “What do you want?” this other said.
“I mislike Norsemen and would know where they are, friend.”
“You will have no difficulty in finding Norsemen, to my sorrow! They are everywhere.”
“Yet—you sell them your salmon?”
“They take our salmon, God’s curse on them!”
“Good! Then you will help me teach them to pay! Where are they, these robbers of honest Scots? The nearest?”
“Who are you, who comes in the night?”
“My name is Somerled. Somerled MacGillebride MacGilladamnan MacFergus. Is that sufficient for you?”
“MacGillebride? And MacFergus? Not, not . . .?”
“But, yes. Son of Gillebride himself, rightful lord here. Rightful lord of all Argyll.”
There was silence then as his unseen hearers, simple men, digested that. Then two of them materialised out of the gloom.
“Where, then?” Somerled insisted.
“Not far, lord,” the more vocal of the pair said. “A half-mile, no more. There is a lesser river comes in from the east—the Ranich. A bit of a bay is formed. They are there, at Achranich.”
“This side of the river, or that?”
“The far side, lord. But it is not deep. What do you intend?”
“Slaughter!” he answered simply.
“Ha! You, you have men?”
“Some two hundred. Enough? How many of the Norse?”
“Twice that. Or there were. They come and go.”
“Fair enough odds, given surprise. Will you guide us?”
“Surely. When?”
“Now. Before daylight. Or when I have fetched my people. Wait for me.”
Somerled hastened back, to bring his company along, the Irish all eagerness now that they scented action. The fishermen were ready, elderly men, their lurcher dog tied up. They carried their clubs for stunning the salmon—which was encouraging.
Skirting the mud, shingle and seaweed of the loch-head strand, they moved round to the eastern shore. Presently they came to the second river-mouth, smaller but productive of a little bay at an angle to the loch, hidden. And therein they could just make out the dark shapes of the beached longships, four or five of them so far as they could discern.
“Are these guarded? And where is their camp?” Somerled asked.
“They encamp just across the river. Beyond the trees—you can just see the trees, there. As to the ships, I know not.”
The other fisherman spoke. “I cannot think that they will guard their ships. Not now. They are so sure of themselves, Satan burn them! Men may sleep aboard them . . .”
“Aye. Then we shall make them the less sure! Conn—take forty men. Half-a-dozen to each ship. Each with flint and tinder. I want those vessels ablaze. Even if it is only their upper works. Nothing will so upset Vikings as to see their longships in trouble! But—give us time to surround their camp. If you are caught, and have to fight, see that some light the fires, any sort of fires. At all costs. You have it?”
“Aye, lord. How shall we know when you are ready?”
“A small fire of our own. Our friend here says that there is woodland. A few sticks and dead brackens. When you see it. But, Conn—your fires. Not too fierce, see you—unless you must. For we could use those longships. Gear, shrouds, cordage—anything which will burn . . .”
They parted company and the fishermen led the main party down to the river, to wade across near the mouth. Oddly enough, although smaller and narrower than the Aline, the Ranich was deeper here, though still it did not come above men’s waists. Beyond, they were quickly into scattered oak-scrub woodland, on rising ground.
“Their camp is on a flat just after the last trees,” their guide informed.
“Hutments, or in the open?”
“They sleep under spread sails, spare sails. On posts.”
“And guards here?”
“I know not. We keep our distance. But . . . there will be women, from the clachan.”
“Aye—always that! Well, then—here it is. We surround the camp. When I wheeple like a curlew, we move in slowly, all together. If we are discovered, we rush in. I see no possibility of stratagems. And no quarter! They offer none. Donal, and you, Cathal Frog—see you to a signal-fire for Conn. When I wheeple. You all have it?”
Swords and dirks were being drawn now. No questions were asked.
Saor MacNeil took half of the remaining one-hundred-and-fifty or so, to work around to the far side of the unseen encampment, with one fisherman, whilst Somerled marshalled the rest into a semi-circle. They had no need to insist on the necessary silence now.
> Somerled was wondering whether the others would be in position and awaiting his signal, when a scarlet gout of flame shot into the air behind them, casting an eerie, flickering glow. He cursed. That only could be one of the longships, tarred cordage and sail-cloth no doubt, fired prematurely, possibly the attackers discovered. There were cries, shouts, thin but clear on the still night. Unless these Norsemen were all heavy sleepers indeed, some must hear that.
He whistled, high and trilling, the yittering call of the curlew, thrice repeated. Then he waved on the men flanking him, right and left, to set the curving line in motion—although already some were creeping forward.
It made a strange, grim advance, silent, menacing, if less even and regular than the leaders would have wished. They did not see their target at first, for the night is darker before the dawn and there were whin-bushes and small birch here and there to confuse in the half-light. In fact, they heard the Norsemen before they saw their camp—and realised that they were not quite on the right line. Somerled tried to swing his wavering crescent further to the right.
The noise was of individual cries at first, merging into a confusion of shouting. It was hard to tell how far ahead, anything from two to four hundred yards perhaps. Somerled frowned—surprise was going to be no more than partial, it seemed. Time to hasten, to run. He raised his short stabbing-sword high and broke into a trot.
They saw the first figures now—and it was the growing conflagration behind at the ships which highlighted them in a ruddy glow. Possibly the same glow would outline themselves, the attackers?
At the sight of actual men, enemies, stumbling out from the shadows of what were presumably the sail-cloth awnings, the gallowglasses threw discipline and silence to the winds, Somerled’s control abandoned. Dashing, leaping, yelling fiercely, they surged forward, weapons gleaming evilly in the firelight.
As an assault what followed was a shambles in every sense. Somerled had said that he saw little opportunity for stratagem; but he had scarcely visualised such chaos, blind fury and ungovernable savagery. There was no order, no method, nothing but blood-lust let loose—and certainly no mercy. Somerled was scarcely proud of this first blow struck for his inheritance—although he had little time to dwell on the matter.
Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) Page 2
