This all arranged, the company set off unhurriedly in the wake of the Norsemen, up Glen Gour and into the empty hills. It was nearly noonday.
No need to detail that long tramp across the hills of Ardgour and Sunart. It was not enjoyable for weary men, but on the other hand it was not any ordeal, with no great pressures upon anyone and the tensions of the last days slackened. Now and again they caught glimpses of the Norsemen in the distance—and it was desirable that they themselves should be seen to be following—but in the main, each party was out-of-sight of the other in that wild, upheaved country.
Glen Gour ran for some five miles north-westwards through increasingly high and rugged mountains and then petered out amidst a chaos of soaring peaks which formed the watershed and through which a lofty, steep and narrow pass penetrated. Two or three stony miles of this and Somerled decided that he had asked enough of his Irishmen. It was an inhospitable spot in which to spend the night but he reckoned that his people were sufficiently tired not to care. They had brought beef with them and though there was no woodland here now, there were plenty of whitened bog-pine roots for fires. That the Norsemen ahead might see these fires or their reflections and realise that their pursuers had halted, did not matter; probably they would be relieved and call a halt likewise. He posted sentries, however, well ahead in the defile. For the rest, full bellies and sleep, at last.
There were no alarms. Morning brought reports from the sentries that about a mile further the ground began to drop steadily, and that the lower ground beyond could be seen to be much wooded, with in the distance a large loch, no doubt Shiel. The Vikings could be seen, well down towards the woods, and still moving westwards.
Fairly soon after this the man Murdoch turned up from Sallachan, having been walking since dawn. He brought word that the six enemy ships had indeed returned in mid-afternoon, had not been long in assessing the situation and, without descending upon the township, had hurriedly departed down Loch Linnhe as though making for the Sound of Mull. There was no sign, as yet, of their own four craft.
Somerled was satisfied. The fleeing Norsemen to the west would surely not come back, now, over these harsh mountains, but would proceed on to Loch Shiel to join their fellow-countrymen in Moidart—and that represented a challenge, but for the future, not today. Those in the ships were presumably bound for Mull or Nether Lorne—or even for Kinlochaline, where they would get another shock. The chances of any counter-attack meantime were small. He would get back to Sallachan, then, and hope that their decoys would arrive there fairly speedily. If they did not, there would be nothing for it but to return over these mountains again, making across-country for Oronsay and Carna at the mouth of Loch Sunart, where they had left their original two vessels. It was a pity that they had had to burn those ships at Sallachan . . .
So far as he could tell now master of Morvern, Somerled gave the order to retrace their steps.
Their four decoy-ships they found awaiting them at the township bay.
CHAPTER 3
The din was beyond description and Somerled cupped his ear. “Speak up, man,” he shouted. “I can hear only a word in three!”
“Then quieten your Irish savages!” the other exclaimed. “This is beyond bearing!”
“My Irish savages have bought your freedom and welfare, MacInnes. And you did nothing to earn it. Mind it! They deserve their amusement.”
The older man frowned. “Living under the Vikings is hard . . . I say, living under Vikings is hard, desperate,” MacInnes of Killundine declared. “If you have not been after suffering it you cannot understand. There was nothing that I could do . . .”
“So say all here. Yet if all had united, or most, and taken your courage in your own hands, you could have driven out these Norsemen. For you much outnumber them.”
“It is not so easy . . .”
“I did it, in three days. With two hundred Irish. How many men are there able to bear sword, in Morvern? Fifteen hundred? Two thousand?”
“But they are not at one—not at one, I say. MacCormick and MacIan are enemies of MacInnes, see you. The clans do not make common cause, MacFergus. I cannot . . .”
“Then they will do so, hereafter, by God! Or I will hang a few MacCormicks and MacIans and MacInneses and see if that will unite them—if only against myself!” Somerled cried, jumping up from his bench, transformed in an instant, as he could be, on occasion. “And call me lord, man. I am Lord of Morvern now and will be Lord of Lorne and of Mull and of Kintyre, aye of all Argyll, one day. So lord me, MacInnes—so that you get used to it!”
“Yes, lord . . .”
They were carrying on this difficult conversation in what had been the courtyard of the ruined hallhouse of Ardtornish, near the mouth of Loch Aline overlooking the Sound of Mull, and which was the ancient duthus or capital messuage of the entire lordship of Morvern. Learning from the Norse, they had spread captured Viking sails, erected on poles, as awnings over the yard and against the broken walling, to give some illusion of cover from the elements; and beneath this, celebratory feasting—by no means the first—was proceeding, with the gallowglasses in highest spirits and voice. There were local people there also, but these were considerably less vocal, more restrained in their merrymaking. Music of a sort, produced by bagpipers, added to the uproar, in the interests of dancing—although the dancers in the main seemed to prefer their own bawled and breathless singing, which evidently gave spice to the jigs and reels, the wording to be suitably emphasised to the women and girls present in case they missed the allusions. Captured Norse ale and spirits, and the Scots uisge beatha or whisky, flowed freely, and whole bullocks roasting over fires outside provided an ongoing sustenance for those who still had any capacity left to stomach it.
The occasion was an especial one, a summons to all the native chieftains and landholders, or tacksmen, of Morvern, to come and greet the son of their hereditary and undoubted lord, the Thane Gillebride MacFergus. Most had come, in the main somewhat doubtfully although there were one or two enthusiasts. But there was precious little goodwill and converse between them, however respectful they might seem towards Somerled himself.
It was nine days after the Sallachan affair and there had been no further encounters with the Norse invaders meantime. They had seen the occasional Viking longship, but these had kept their distance, usually clinging close to the Mull shoreline. Presumably the word had gone round that a large and powerful force had taken over Morvern and, until the Norse had gained fuller information and gathered their own strength, they were unwilling to try conclusions. It was a help that these pirate bands were themselves apt to be far from united and often in acrimonious competition for territories and prizes; indeed they were by no means all truly Norsemen, although all of Scandinavian extraction, including Danes, Icelanders, Orkneymen, Manxmen and groups from Dublin and the Norse colonies in Ireland.
Somerled, who had been sitting at a laden trestle-table on a roughly-made dais, or slightly-raised platform, made of decking from damaged shipping, left the MacInnes chieftain and jumped down, to push through the riotous dancers. He had had his eye for some time on a young woman who stood out from the others there like a swan amongst geese, but a lively and far from decorous swan, a tall, well-built, big-breasted creature with a loose mane of tawny hair which she kept tossing back as she cavorted. Most of the women present, from the townships and fishing villages, were distinctly shy, embarrassed, co-operating with the dancing and demanding Irishmen with at least token protest and coy reluctance, their menfolk scarcely approving. Not so this female, who was clearly enjoying herself. Or had been. Now she was being squabbled over by three drunken gallowglasses, who had knocked down the last individual dancing with her and were now in process of pulling her this way and that between them. Slapping one of them hard for his attentions, she had been grabbed from behind by another and in the tussle her tight-fitting bodice had been wrenched half-off, releasing one full and shapely breast which jigged to and fro in lively fashion as she st
ruggled—to the cheering appreciation of much of the company. This did not seem greatly to worry her, for she seemed more concerned with kneeing a third man in the groin and kicking backwards at the shins of the character behind with her heels.
Somerled came up, smiling. Reaching out, he grasped the slapped individual—who was beginning to bore in again, truculent now—by one shoulder, whirled him round and with a violent thrust threw him bodily over into a group of his vociferous colleagues, where he, and one of them, crashed to the ground. Then turning on the remaining two, he lifted the one in front, in a bear’s hug, completely off his feet and tossed him headlong on top of the pair scrabbling on the floor. Stretching then across the young woman, he took the third gallowglass by the hair of his head and jerked him sideways. The fellow yelled in pain and indignation but unfortunately he clung on to the girl’s upper parts as he toppled, thereby further tearing her bodice. With his other fist he made a wild swipe at his tormentor, who parried it easily with a stiff forearm and then spun the sufferer round, still by the hair and, in a notable irruption of muscular strength, flung him to join the others. Standing there, hands on hips now, he looked down at them, and roared great laughter. He kept on laughing, too, until all around, suddenly tense features relaxed and general mirth joined his own—and a potentially ugly situation was deflated. Stooping, he picked up one of the floored gallowglasses, to shake him lightly, genially, then bent to the second.
“You drank too much whisky, my friends,” he cried. “For dancing, for women or for sport! Try again when you are sober!”
He turned back to the young woman and bowed. “Your pardon, lady, if you have been incommoded. These others meant well, admiring you too much. But they have imbibed freely. Our Scots spirits are stronger than the Irish sort, I vow! But I, now, am sober enough. Will you dance with me?”
She eyed him wonderingly, hands seeking to cover her bosom now. “If it is your wish, lord.”
“It is.” He went to her and solicitously helped her to tuck in her breasts within the torn bodice again—with only partial success and advice from all around. Then waving to the two instrumentalists, who had taken the opportunity to rest from their blowings, to resume, he stepped out with her into the skipping, jouncing rhythm of a Fermanagh jig, which soon had her bust bouncing free again. They let it stay that way.
“Your name?” he enquired.
“Cathula, lord.”
“Cathula what? It is a good name. And we can do without the lord, I think.”
“Cathula MacIan, sir.”
“You are good to look at and good to hold, Cathula MacIan! Wasted on the likes of these! Perhaps this hand will help? I can scarce spare two! What MacIans are you of?”
“Uladail, sir. MacIan of Uladail was my father—only he failed to wed my mother . . . having a wife already!” She panted that somewhat, for the exercise was less than gentle.
“Ha! That way? I thought that I saw quality. Uladail? Was I not speaking with MacIan of Uladail just now?”
“My half-brother, Neil. But . . . he prefers not to acknowledge me.”
“I see. Then I think the less of his judgement! I would. Although I am glad that you are not my sister! Who else do you have, besides a brother lacking judgement?”
“None, sir—none now. My mother is dead. I live . . . free.”
“Free? Free . . . for all?”
“No. Free, for my own self.”
“So—then I congratulate you, Cathula MacIan.”
They danced for a little and then Somerled took her back to his dais-table and offered her refreshment. Her breathing recovered, she sipped wine and hummed softly the basic melody behind the present piping.
“You sing?” he asked, although he could barely hear her.
“I sing—after my fashion.”
“Sing better than these? These Irish jigs? Sing songs of our own isles?”
“Some, yes. On occasion.”
“This is an occasion. Sing for me, Cathula. Sing me a song of my own people, such as I have not heard for long. Other than these wild Irish I have had to dwell for too long in Ireland. Too long. I have longed for my own land and its songs.”
“Ireland, yes. Is that where you lingered, Somerled MacFergus, all these long years whilst the Norsemen slew and ravaged and burned? We, your folk, could have done with your company before this!”
He eyed her doubtfully. “Your freedom extends to your tongue, I see, Cathula MacIan!” he said. “But, yes—I would have been here ere this, had I had my way. But my father fled to Ireland when I was a mere boy, dispossessed. We had nothing, lived wholly on the charity of MacMahon of Fermanagh. I grew up to fight in MacMahon’s wars, not our own. In time, I married MacMahon’s daughter. Who died, giving me a son. Only then, when he had a grandson to inherit Argyll, would the MacMahon consider lending us his men. I have had to wait, God knows—wait! But now the waiting is over, and I intend to win back all Argyll. Does that content you, woman?”
She was searching his face. “I will tell you that . . . later,” she said.
“Ah! Then meantime sing me a song of Argyll and the Isles, girl. Yours and mine.”
“In this noise, sir? You would hear nothing. Here is no place for such singing.”
“I will gain you quiet, never fear. Indeed, I desire quiet for a while So, sing you.” He rose, and taking an ale-tankard, beat on the table with it. When that had little effect he banged it more resoundingly, on and on. When still the din continued, he took a full tankard and went to toss its contents directly over the two pipers who blew so lustily just below the dais. The piping promptly expired in a cacophony of groans and squeals and bubblings.
That had its effect and when reinforced by more bangings, gradually an approximate hush was achieved.
“Quiet, you!” he shouted. “Cathula MacIan here will sing for us. A song of these parts. I will listen—and so will you! All of you. Or I will sing my own song, to a different tune that few will enjoy!” He took the girl’s arm to raise her. “Sing, woman of this land,” he said.
She was neither hesitant nor brazen. She gave them the ancient lays of Fionn MacCumhaill and Ossian the Fawn, his son, of Deirdre and the Sons of Uisneach and the heroes, lovely lilting things of passion and heartache, of sorrow and parting, sung in a clear and tuneful voice, strong but expressive. The themes touched a chord in the Irish, and there was applause and shouts for more.
She followed with one of the milking songs which the women sang when they crooned to the cows to yield, a gentle repetitive melody which soon had the gallowglasses joining in. Before all this got noisy again, Somerled touched her arm and held up his hand.
“That was good for us, and we thank you, Cathula MacIan. Now—I have something to say. In especial to those who have come here from other parts of this Morvern. Heed well. We have driven the Norsemen away meanwhile. But they will be back. You know that as well as I do. And I understand how it makes some of you doubtful, less than eager to take any part with me. But I tell you, I will be here also. I will not go away. So you will be wise to join me. I am here to stay. It is the Norsemen who will go, not I. For I am Lord of Morvern, both by right and by the sword, and will remain so. And more than Morvern. So consider well.”
He paused and stared round at the company.
“Consider this also. My father Gillebride is lord of you all. You owe him duty and service for your lands. It has not been paid for long, for you have allowed Norse masters to take what was his, these many years. But those years are over. Now you will return to your due allegiance. I am here to see that you do.”
Again the silence. Even the most brash gallowglass held his tongue now. “What you have paid the Vikings, I do not know. But I do know what you owe my father. You owe him in goods and gear, in provender and the service of armed men. Each his own due tribute, depending on his lands and state. It will be paid to me forthwith—in especial the last, the men. I require these men, armed and ready. They will be used to drive the last Norsemen from Argyll.
I shall accept no excuse. You each know your required number, with one to lead them, yourself or other. Aid me in your leal duty, in my father’s name, and you will be the gainers, I promise you. Fail me, and your lands are forfeit! I give you one week to muster and equip your men and have them here at Ardtornish. After that, I come for them, with my Irish! It is understood? You can be my friends and gain and grow strong, with me. Or you can be your own enemies, and suffer. That is all.”
There was some cheering but little of it amongst the Morvern folk.
Later, Somerled took the young woman’s arm. “You are a free woman, you say, Cathula MacIan,” he remarked. “How free, this night?”
“Free to choose, lord.”
“The name is Somerled, sometimes called Sorley. You would choose me?”
“I could. Or other. Or none.”
“To be sure. I would not force you.”
“I would not be forced, Somerled or Sorley MacFergus. See you.” And reaching in within a slit at the side of her homespun skirt, she drew out a small, slender sgian dubh or dagger, in its leather sheath, so narrow of blade as to be almost a stiletto, which gleamed evilly in the light of the torches, now lit.
“Ah, yes. I see. A women of spirit, as I thought! I admire spirit. I see that I need not have rescued you from those Irishry!”
“I was glad that you did.”
“Good. Then make me glad, tonight.”
“Would my body make you glad? So easy a thing as that?”
“The body—but the spirit also. I have not been with a woman for long.”
“I grieve for you! And for your wife, at home!”
“I have no wife. Not now. I had, but she died. Giving birth to our son. Three years back.”
Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) Page 6
