Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  There was nothing for it but to send out scouts to explore this network whilst they waited in the outer loch. Somerled despatched the two birlinns and one of the larger ships to seek out the enemy. For the rest, a well-earned respite. They had been active for eleven hours, now.

  Somerled held a conference of his leaders, and sought especially the help of the fisherman Murdoch MacCormick, from Achranich.

  “You, Murdoch, heard the Sallachan men say that when the Norse there fled inland they would make for their friends at Loch Shiel. You also agreed that it would be Loch Shiel. Why did you say Shiel and not Loch Moidart? Since, it seems, this Loch Shiel does not itself reach the sea?”

  “The talk is, lord, that there is a strong force of the pirates in Loch Shiel. I have never been there, nor here. But it is Shiel, not Loch Moidart that is spoken of.”

  “I have heard the same,” Cathula confirmed. “The Norse on Loch Shiel. They terrorise all of Moidart from Loch Shiel, it is said. Shiel is a score of miles long, and much of the land of Moidart can be reached from it.”

  “But how do they get their ships into Loch Shiel? This Shiel River, you say, is small and winding. Shallow. They cannot get longships up that?”

  “I know not, lord,” Murdoch said. “But somehow they must get in. There is an island, see you, part-way up the loch, a holy isle named for the Blessed Finnan. And that the Norsemen sacked. They crucified the good monks. Two or three years ago. They must have had ships, to reach that isle.”

  “I remember that evil deed,” the young woman agreed. “I have heard that they sail right to the head of the loch, at Glenfinnan.”

  “Then, in all this tangle of bays and lochs and kyles, there must be some way in from the sea. For sea-going craft. We must find it . . .”

  “Does it matter?” Saor asked. “Are we not concerned with assailing the Norse who have attacked Glencripesdail, back in Morvern? Not in seeking to conquer this Moidart, which is not even in Argyll?”

  There was a murmur of agreement at that.

  “We are told that they descended on Glencripesdail in strength. Eight longships. If fully-manned, that could mean near one thousand men. And alert, in mood for battle. It is a reprisal raid. Likely they will be moving south from Glencripesdail, making for Loch Aline, possibly Ardgour. Would you have this indifferent company go bareheaded at such a force?”

  None answered.

  “We shall do this my way, then . . .”

  A shout interrupted him, and a look-out gestured. A single longship had shot out of one of the creeks to the south, indeed the southernmost, that from Kentra Bay, oars lashing the water in clouds of spray. It was well over a mile from where they lay off Eilean Shona, but it did not require keen sight to perceive that this was not one of their scouting vessels. All its forty-eight oars were fully manned and being worked in tremendous style, as it headed north-westwards, seawards.

  As some of the shipmasters yelled about going in chase, Somerled said no. Let them go. Anyway, they would never catch them, not under-oared as they were. The Norse could only flee southwards, which meant that they must either make for their Glencripesdail friends, or go on to Loch na Keal in Mull—the former, almost certainly. Which was what he wanted.

  They waited there a little longer, until the Norsemen disappeared round the coast, and in case any more appeared. When none did, they turned about to reach and enter the channel from which the other had appeared, and so into Kentra Bay.

  This proved to be a large, oblong expanse of fairly shallow water, hidden from seawards, well over a mile deep and almost another wide, with shores low-lying and open on the north and east sides, steeper and wooded to the south. There were signs of habitation all along the northern shores, cabins and cot-houses and hutments—but no canvas awnings to be seen. About half-way along there was a concentration of cabins, a village of sorts, a largish hallhouse, a number of fishing craft drawn up, and amidst these one longship beached well clear of the water. Peat-smoke rose from some of the houses.

  “So—this is where they came from. Kentra. That ship, it seems, is not manned,” Somerled said. “And only the one.”

  “In this bay,” Cathula added.

  They rowed to the boat-strand, heedfully eyeing the hinterland all around for signs of enemy. Running their prows ashore, and landing, the newcomers could see why this longship had been left behind. It was being repaired, much of its timbering in course of renewal.

  No welcoming villagers came to greet them, but they could see that they were being watched, warily, from one or two of the cabin-doors. Somerled sent men to fetch him someone whom he could question.

  An elderly lame man was brought, with a keen eye, who gave his name as Calum MacGilchrist. He admitted that most of the able-bodied folk had fled, at word of their ships’ appearance. They had learned to flee from almost everything, these last years. The Norse often fought amongst themselves, parties raiding each other from different areas—and the local people suffered. They were here, the Norse, in great numbers; it was their greatest base between Mull and Skye. They were very fierce. But their main force had sailed off three days back, for Loch Sunart it was said—all except the one ship here and the three in Loch Shiel. Ivar Blacktooth commanded, a terrible man. He occupied the hallhouse now. He had slain MacRaith of Kentra and put out his wife’s eyes, using her for sport.

  “You say that there are three longships still in Loch Shiel?” Somerled interrupted. “How do they get them there?”

  “On rollers, just, lord—pulled on rollers.”

  He stared. “What? Rollers . . .?”

  “They draw them overland. Many men, pulling on ropes, and pushing. Using smooth, round tree-trunks as rollers.”

  “Save us! How can they do that? Great ships . . .?”

  “None so difficult, lord—with many men. And level land. See—there. And there. They have cleared roads for their rollers. Bedded with pebbles and sand from the beach. There are two of these roads, over the flats here. A mile, less, to the foot of Shiel. Another to Ardtoe Bay.”

  “So that is it! Rollers. I salute them for that, at least! I never heard the like. These three ships on Loch Shiel? Where are they? Near at hand?”

  “Usually they lie at Ardshielach, near the loch-foot. Three miles.”

  “How many men? Full crews?”

  “No, lord, I think not. Most came over to join the Sunart attempt.”

  “Ha! So only a few will be left with the ships? Saor, my friend—do you hear that? Three ships and only a few men, at this place. At the foot of Loch Shiel, three miles. Take one hundred men and off with you! They would not be warned? By these Norse who have just left?”

  “I think not, no. When these were told of your ships come into the outer loch, they delayed nothing. They were up and off, before you blocked the escape. For Sunart . . .”

  “Aye. Then you have it, Saor? Go secretly. Surprise them, at the ships. It should not be difficult. And we win three more vessels . . .”

  Nothing loth, MacNeil called for volunteers. Surprisingly, Cathula MacIan asked if she could go with them. She wanted to see Vikings slain, she declared—not just fleeing off like kicked curs! She had come with a score to settle, and so far had settled nothing.

  The men eyed her warily but did not deny her.

  When they were gone Somerled asked the man MacGilchrist whether there were any other Norse bases in the area, to be told that there was only the one small encampment behind Eilean Shona, at Doirlinn. But its people had likewise been brought in to join the Sunart force. Nevertheless, Dermot Maguire and some fifty men were despatched to this Dorlinn, to deal with anyone left there, and to destroy the place as a base.

  The remainder of his people Somerled then set to fire-raising. All Norse installations and belongings were to be burned; but the main objective was to create a show—and a show which would be visible from major distances. He wanted it to look as though all this centre of Moidart was being set alight. Great smoke-clouds. On the other hand, he d
id not want the local people’s interests seriously to suffer. So their cot-houses and byres and hay were not to be fired. But elsewhere, conflagration—old heather, dead bracken, scrub-woodland, beach-wrack, whins, broom and thorn. The smoke must be very great and widespread, demanding attention, from right across Loch Sunart in Morvern. As the crow flew, it was less than ten miles to Glencripesdail although nearly forty miles by sea, round Ardnamurchan Point. He wanted those Norse to be in no doubt but that their Moidart headquarters was in serious trouble. But wait an hour, to give MacNeil and Maguire time to surprise their quarry—then see to it.

  Burning other folk’s property is always a heartening process. There was no lack of enthusiasm for this task.

  By the evening, central Moidart seemed to be ablaze. If the vast, billowing smoke-clouds, towering high as thunderheads, made it early dark, the angry red glow in the sky compensated with its own ominous light. Saor and Cathula returned, the former cheerfully complacent, the young woman notably quiet and withdrawn. There had been only two dozen Vikings left with the ships, none of whom were now alive. The vessels were in good order and there was useful booty. MacNeil mentioned privately that the MacIan woman had been bold enough to start with, but despite her assertions, once the real bloodshed began she changed her tune and retired to vomit.

  Somerled let her find her own couch, that night.

  He warned his people that they had better not sit up drinking captured ale and admiring Norse loot—which was considerable—for they were all to be up and busy well before dawn.

  It was late, however, before he himself slept, mind active, planning, guessing, assessing.

  Sun-up saw Somerled drawing a plan, with a stick on smooth sand, of the intricate area round about. They had persuaded many of the local folk that they were in no danger, and won a certain amount of co-operation. MacGilchrist and others helped him with his map, with information as to depth and width of channels and bays, links and passes between, hiding-places and the like. He was possibly going to need every scrap of information that he could glean.

  Timing was a major problem. He was assuming that the fires and the news would bring Ivar Blacktooth’s force back from Glencripesdail in haste. But if they had proceeded on beyond that glen, southwards towards Arienas and Aline, then it would take the longer for them to get back. He reassured himself however that these Norsemen all hated marching, preferring never to be far from their ships—so the chances were that if they intended descent on the centre of Morvern, they would be more apt to essay it by sea, however much of a detour, rather than march miles across empty mountains. If this was so, to be sure, timing could be still more difficult, since they might have been on their way when alarm was raised, and so could be here the sooner. So he had to be ready for almost anything.

  Certain basic reckonings he allowed himself. The master of perhaps a thousand men would not be likely to be overcautious, especially in territory which he had ruled for some time. And he would be angry. He would have nine longships, presumably—a formidable force, which his own could nowise challenge at sea. But in this narrow network of waterways, the marshalling and controlling of nine ships could be difficult . . .

  Somerled already had most of his men out, reinforced by some of the locals. His ships were all hidden away in coves and creeks, for the last thing he wanted was to have them possibly bottled up in this Kentra Bay. The chop-chop of tree-felling sounded on the chill morning air. A certain amount of smoke still blanketed the hills and blurred all outlines, and its smell was acrid, choking.

  He had some final words with his leaders and then scuffed out his sandmap with his foot. They had judged and debated as far as they were able. The rest must lie with God and His saints.

  He sent Saor left-about round Kentra Bay, to the far side and beyond, up the south flank of the narrow entrance channel, where beneath the steep wooded slopes the tree-felling was in progress. Conn Ironhand he left with the main bulk of their men, at Kentra township meantime. Himself he took a hundred or so and went down the north side of the entrance channel, opposite Saor and the lumbermen, there to prospect the ground and pick out hiding-places. Cathula went with him.

  That entrance channel was over a mile long and for half its extent no more than two hundred yards wide—an admirable gateway for a secret base, so long as it was held by the right hands. But it was a gate which could be shut. They made what preparations they could and Somerled established his look-outs and line of runners behind, local men. Then all that he could do was to wait.

  They waited for long and most men slept. Doubts were expressed as to the worth of all this, as time went on; and even Somerled himself began to wonder whether he had been perhaps just too clever?

  It was almost midday before the first signal reached them, a man waving a plaid, from the top of a nearby hillock with a view. He went on waving, up and down. That meant that ships, many ships, had come into sight, presumably round Ardnamurchan Point. It was not long before another signal, circular, indicated that the vessels had indeed turned into outer Loch Moidart.

  Now all was activity in the narrows, messages being sent, final positions taken up, men covering themselves in greenery. But there were still doubts. So much depended on what the Norse leader did now.

  Signals continued to be received. The oncoming fleet was keeping to this south side of the loch. It was not dispersing or lying-to. It was approaching the Kentra entrance.

  The excitement grew as men crouched, hidden. Somerled had difficulty in keeping himself from getting caught up in it, especially with that young woman beside him no help. He had to be ready to use the most exact and careful judgement presently. All might stand or fall by one swift decision—his decision, for once the enemy entered Kentra channel, decision for the time-being was no longer theirs.

  The final signal from the hillock came—the first ship had entered.

  From his stance of vantage behind a rock outcrop Somerled watched. Soon the first longship came into view, alone. In these tidal narrows, ships had to go in single file anyway; but no second craft appeared. And this, he was certain, was not Ivar’s own ship; there were no special markings, on sail or prow, to distinguish the leader. So this was but a scout, to spy out conditions ahead. Ivar was being careful, after all.

  Somerled gave no sign, therefore, though biting his lip.

  The time factor was now, of course, more urgent than ever. Half-a-mile further and this vessel would be into Kentra Bay proper, and fairly soon after that would be able to see the township and Conn’s company massed there. Then, presumably, it would turn back, or otherwise seek to warn the others—which must not happen. Yet to intercept it now would give away this ambush.

  The ship rowed on, in mid-channel, and past.

  Then the agonising further waiting, every moment counting. Would the Norse leadership hold back out there until they got a signal from their scout? Or would they be satisfied that it had got through these dangerous narrows without trouble? In Ivar’s place, what would he do? With a thousand men to play with? He would come on, he thought . . .

  The scout-ship disappeared into the bay.

  A man, further along this bank than himself, held up a hand, presumably indicating action. Then, almost at once, a prow rounded one of the bends in the channel—and this was a prow indeed, an arrogant, towering dragon-head, painted red-and-black. The vessel behind was half as large again as the ordinary longship, with sixty-four oars, not forty-eight, a full-sized dragon-ship, most certainly Ivar’s own. A few lengths behind it came another craft, this one of normal size, then another behind that.

  So this was it—the moments for judgement, decision, at last.

  Holding himself in—and hoping that his men would do so likewise—Somerled calculated, assessing distances. Every yard could tell. He snapped a curse at Cathula when she whispered. He let the dragon-ship pass. A fourth vessel was now in view and a fifth appearing round the bend—too close behind to please him. With a muttered exclamation, part-prayer, part-impre
cation, he raised his horn and blew two blasts.

  Men had been waiting anxiously for this, and there was no delay now. Between the dragon-ship and the next craft, narrow as the gap was, there was an explosion of activity. Out from the farther, west side, men raced, straight into the water, many men, dragging behind them a boom, a succession of tree-trunks bound together and linked close with ropes. Pushing and pulling, they splashed and swam out with this, whilst from this east side others emerged from hiding to plunge in and swim to join them across the mere two hundred yards of channel. At the same time, arrows began to shower down upon the ships from both sides. Archery was not greatly advanced amongst the Celtic peoples, any more than with the Norse, as a weapon of war—it was the Normans who had developed this arm—but Somerled had recognised its advantages and had gathered a number of bows and arrows—of the hunting variety necessarily—and this was an easy target.

  When he saw the first boom well under way, and the confusion aboard the vessels, he blew another three blasts on the horn, and set off another similar manoeuvre between the second and third ships.

  The Vikings were not idle, meantime, however surprised. But strung out as they were, there was no coherent action. Those facing the booms hastily backed-water with their oars, and in consequence bunching developed. Clearly a third boom was going to be difficult to get across—although the archery was having effect amongst the oarsmen.

  It was the dragon-ship which demanded most of Somerled’s attention. It had no boom in front of it. When the trouble erupted astern, it slowed, uncertainly, then also began to back-water to the aid of the ships behind. There was much shouting and sword- and battleaxe-brandishing.

  A single long blowing of the horn was the signal for Saor to have another log boom run out, the most southerly, in front of the dragon-ship. Almost immediately after this, a succession of short blasts initiated a new stage in the attack.