The Cuillin mountains of Skye, named after Cuchullin, a semi-legendary ancestor of his own, were piercing the horizon far ahead with their purple fangs, when he decided that it was worth demonstrating his new style and status for the benefit of beholders on Rhum—assuming that they were still there and not off on some venture of their own. Almost half-way up the dramatic island’s cliff-girt east coast, Somerled nodded to the young woman.
“Now! Show them the worth of us!” he called.
Her tawny hair blowing in the wind, Cathula brought down her club on the gong with a mighty clang which shattered the rhythm of the pulling and chanting, and jerked up all the oarsmen’s heads. Then she recommenced her beating but now with an increased pace, slight at first but building up, as the long, heavy sweeps were forced by urgent muscles into the changed pulse of the gong, ever quickening. The singing died into mere regimented gasps and grunts as men bent and strained and cursed, and the dragon-ship’s speed increased and went on increasing. Spray began to rise like mist, both from the surging prow and the flashing oars, so that soon only those on the high bow and stern platforms could see beyond the curtains of their own making. In the stern, the smell of male sweat grew strong, pungent.
It was not all just simple gong-beating for Cathula MacIan. She had to watch the helmsman all the time, for as well as the normal idiosyncrasies of the Hebridean Sea, he had to contend with the down-draughts and swirling winds coming off the fierce and lofty mountains of Rhum, Askival, Hallival, Trollaval, Alival and the rest, which could play havoc with the steering, the sail-work and even the rowing. The sail-handlers had to be considered also, and Somerled likewise, who was acting as his own shipmaster. But the girl appeared to have an instinctive flare for it all, and clearly the crew now had confidence in her judgement.
So in spectacular fashion the great ship swept round the jutting southern headland of Loch Scresort, which was really just a deep U-shaped bay, and which provided the only reasonably sheltered haven of an island nine miles long by six wide. Their escorts were lagging behind now. Somerled stared eagerly ahead.
The bay was over a mile deep, and at its head was the usual township and hallhouse. Four longships and some smaller craft lay there—amidst obviously urgent activity.
“Four!” he exclaimed. “Only four—I had thought to see better than that! Others may be off on some ploy. But . . .”
“They make ready to receive us,” the helmsman commented. “Busy, they are!”
“Aye—belatedly. Enemies, we could have surprised them. This is not as it ought to be.”
“Your fine flourish wasted!” Cathula said. She had much slowed down the beat of her gong.
Somerled had been unable, as yet, to change the emblems on the sails of his newly-acquired vessels. The galley was the device of his house of Argyll, and in due course all his ships would sail under that symbol. But for the moment he had had to content himself with painting a great red cross over the black raven device of the Norsemen, in the hope that this would stand out with sufficient significance.
Whether or not the people at Kinloch-Scresort perceived or understood this, they could not tell. But obviously they did realise that the one dragon-ship, and two ordinary longships trailing a fair way behind, coming openly into the loch, were unlikely to represent any threat. Men could be seen, on anchored ships and on shore, watching, many men.
As they drew near, Somerled peered, to scan those waiting ranks keenly, searchingly—but was disappointed. The young woman watched him consideringly, as she slowed down the oarsmen.
As their stem ran up on to the weed-strewn shingle and sixty-four oars were raised vertically in impressive style, well rehearsed, Somerled leapt down on to the beach, to shouts, as the watchers recognised him.
“Ha—Manus!” he called. “Greetings—greetings to you all! My father—he is here?”
“I salute you, Lord Somerled,” Manus O’Ryan answered. “It is good to see you. Your father is here, yes—but he is sick. Sorry I am, but he is sorely sick.”
“Sick! Sorely, you say? Dear God—how sick? How long, man? What is this?”
“These ten days and more, lord. None know what it is. He lies, silent. Eats nothing, day after day. In the hallhouse, yonder.”
“I shall go to him. And the Earl Malcolm?”
“He hunts deer, lord. He is the great hunter! And this isle is full of deer. He goes . . .” The man’s voice tailed away as his attention was distracted, seeing Cathula MacIan climbing down from the ship, much white leg inevitably if briefly on view. “Och yes, then,” he ended. “Well, now.”
Somerled called to her, without explanation, and set off long-strided for the hallhouse.
In an upper room thereof he found Gillebride MacGilladamnan MacFergus, one-time Thane of Argyll—and was shocked at what he saw, scarcely recognising the gaunt, haggard figure, lying on the couch of old deerskins, as his father. Gillebride, in his sixties now, had never been robust, any more than he was a warrior; but this grey, shrunken man, lying limp and staring with great lack-lustre eyes, was the merest shadow of his former self. Yet it was barely three weeks since they had parted.
“Father!” Somerled went to the couch and knelt, taking a nerveless hand. “Here’s a sorry plight. You are sick, ill? I did not know. You should have sent me word. What ails you? I am sorry, sorry.”
The other was slow in answering, his voice little more than a whisper. “I am far gone, Sorley—far gone. All strength melted away. There is a curse on me, I swear—has been, all my days. I, I have achieved nothing. Now any strength I had has gone and I rot here . . .”
“Are you in pain?”
“Pain, yes. Some pain. But it is in my heart that the grievous pain is, lad—the ache of the heart and soul. That all is wasted away, lost. I am but a winnowed husk . . .”
“All is not lost, Father. You will be lord of all Argyll again. I have won back Morvern. And have driven the Norsemen back from much of Moidart and Mull also. When you are recovered, you will go back to what is your own, I promise you. Do not speak now of all being lost.”
Gillebride did not seem to hear him. “Nothing that I have touched has come aright,” he muttered. “God’s hand has always been heavy on me. While your mother lived, I was able to do more. She was strong, strong. Now, all is dust and ashes. I needed her, Sorley, always. I am lost . . .”
“No!” That was almost a bark. “You will recover from this sickness and then take your true place in Scotland again. I tell you, I am winning Argyll back for you . . .” Somerled’s voice died away as his father’s eyes closed and remained so. Biting his lip he stared down. They had never been very close, these two, of such different temperament and spirit. Now as the young man gazed at his defeated sire, he shook his head—and blamed himself the while that the emotion he felt was largely irritation, impatience, disappointment rather than pity and concern for this loser in life’s battles who was his progenitor.
When Gillebride opened his eyes again, his regard went past his son. “There is a woman,” he said. “Who?”
Somerled turned, and rose to his feet. Cathula stood in the doorway, watching.
“That is Cathula. Of the Morvern MacIans. She has . . . aided me.”
His father made no comment.
She came forward. “Can I help?” she asked. “I have some small skills in healing, as I told you, taught me by a wise woman. Perhaps I can at the least make my lord more comfortable?”
“Yes. Do that. This place stinks . . .!”
With the older man’s eyes closing again, Somerled left the young woman to it and went in search of enlightenment as to the general situation.
He found Manus O’Ryan again, one of his father’s loaned shipmasters, and questioned him about the state of affairs here on Rhum and what had been achieved since he left them twenty days before. He was shaken to discover that, in fact, little or nothing had been gained. The neighbouring islands of Eigg and Muck and Canna had been taken over, and that of Coll rather further o
ff. But that was all, apparently—and these practically unopposed. His father’s illness and his brother-in-law Malcolm MacEth, Earl of Ross’s lack of enthusiasm and fondness for hunting, seemed to have precluded all agressive enterprise by the main part of the expedition. It had been left to the junior detachment, Somerled’s own, to make all the running.
O’Ryan was apologetic, even shame-faced. He had urged some activity, he declared, but had no authority to act independently. Anyway, he was no Islesman, no Scot, only lent to the Lord Gillebride by the MacMahon. It was not for an Irishman to take the lead here . . .
Somerled, seething, went back to his own people.
Later, when Malcolm MacEth and his party returned from the chase, well-pleased with their prowess, Somerled was perhaps less affable, not to say respectful, than he ought to have been towards an earl of Scotland and member of the royal house. Malcolm, a year older, and wed to Somerled’s sister, was a pleasant young man but no fire-eater. He had indeed come on this venture less than eagerly, conceiving it to be really no concern of his own—although if successful it might provide a useful stepping-stone towards what was his concern, or his family’s, the throne of Scotland. He was the second son of Ethelred, himself second son of Malcolm the Third, Canmore, and his Queen Margaret the Saint. Ethelred had been debarred from succeeding to the throne when his father and elder brother were slain together, on account of his being in holy orders. He had been made Primate of the Columban Church as a youth, for political reasons. But that did not debar his lawful progeny, marriage being lawful for priests in the Celtic Church. Nevertheless David, youngest of the five brothers of Ethelred, or Eth, now sat on the throne; and Angus MacEth, Earl of Moray, Malcolm’s brother and David’s nephew, believed that he had the better right; also that he could rely upon most of the Highlands and Isles, and North of Scotland area, to support him; for David, although making a good monarch, was bringing in large numbers of his Norman friends from England and giving them high positions and lands. The Celtic north disapproved. And Malcolm, Earl of Ross, supported his elder brother.
“I trust that I see you well, Malcolm, and not wearying yourself with forays against the Norse!” Somerled greeted, with heavy sarcasm. “A pity if it was to interfere with your deer-slaying!”
“I fare well enough, Sorley,” the other returned, easily. “The Norse seem to be scarce around here—whereas the deer, now, are otherwise. I have never seen so many and such fine beasts as on this island, the stags with great heads. And large herds of them. Come and see what we have brought in, this day.”
“I thank you—but I am content to leave the provisioning to others,” his brother-in-law said stiffly. “Having more to do.”
The other shrugged. “As you will. I see that you have acquired a great ship from somewhere?”
“That—and near a score of others! Whereas you, it appears, have still only the four craft I left with you. At least you do not seem to have lost any!”
“Oh, we have picked up a few small vessels. As I say, the Norsemen are few in these parts, and do not leave their longships lying around! Clearly you have been more fortunate. You have seen your father?”
“Yes. It is grievous. I could scarcely credit it—the change in him. He is sore stricken. How did it happen?”
“God knows! One day, when I returned, he had taken to his couch. And there he has lain since. I can get no sense out of him. Only moans and forebodings. What is amiss I do not know.”
Malcolm MacEth was a darkly good-looking man, equable, almost casual, and popular. Somerled liked him well enough but recognised an essential weakness somewhere, which might hold its dangers for himself and for others. What sort of a King of Scots he would make, should he eventually reach the throne, his brother being unwed, was open to doubt.
Somerled was in a quandary. What he found here at Rhum inevitably must change all his plans. He dared not remain away from his newly-won territories for long, where he had left Saor MacNeil in charge at Ardtornish, Conn MacMahon at Moidart and Dermot Maguire at Tobermory of Mull, all dangerously scattered although to keep in touch. He had been going to transport his father in triumph to his old home of Ardtornish; but that was meantime out of the question. And he could by no means wait here for his father to recover. The old man clearly required skilled attention, which was not to be had on Rhum or anywhere nearby. Best if he went back to Ireland, to the High King’s court—but he could not take him, lest he lose all that he had gained for them both.
He had come here, also, to collect more men, the remainder of the expeditionary force from Fermanagh, about two-hundred-and-fifty strong. He needed these additional men—and they were being wasted here. Malcolm clearly was no great asset at this stage, although he might be later, to attract allies on the mainland. If he could be persuaded to take his father back to Ireland in one under-manned ship, leaving the rest, that would be the answer. But he, Somerled, was in no position to command a royal earl, even though married to his sister.
So that evening in the hallhouse, Somerled swallowed his ire and disappointment and went to work to gentle and manoeuvre—to the evident amusement of Cathula MacIan, who discovered a man different from the masterful character she had come to know. Fortunately the Earl Malcolm was not really hard to persuade. He was very much enamoured of his wife and small son Donald, back in Fermanagh, and had not left them for so long as a month previously. Although reluctant to abandon the so-fine hunting here, he was well enough content to leave the warfare to his brother-in-law, and after only token resistance agreed to escort the sick man back to Ireland and better care, and to return to the Hebridean seaboard later, with reinforcements if possible. The word of Somerled’s successes should ensure that these would be forthcoming.
So the matter was settled, and next morning Somerled took a difficult, unsatisfactory farewell of his father, who registered scarcely any interest, and set off southwards again, with the three extra longships and almost two hundred more gallowglasses. He was particularly glad of these trained crews, for he was getting desperately short of experienced hands to man, and especially to skipper, his captured ships.
Before leaving, he handed over to Earl Malcolm a handsome armlet of wrought gold and jewels, taken from the slain Norse leader Ivar Blacktooth, for presentation to Somerled’s five-year-old son Gillecolm, whose mother had died at his birth. Gillecolm, who had been left in the care of his aunt, the Countess, was something of a problem, which his father tended to push to the back of his mind. This trophy was a not very adequate gesture, indicative of the sense of guilt Somerled could not quite dismiss.
They were all relieved to get away from Rhum and its aura of unreality.
CHAPTER 5
The atmosphere at Ardtornish was eager, almost tense, as men waited. This day could mean much in the lives of almost all there, for good or ill. Somerled mac Gillebride was taking a great risk, and all were aware of it. He had been highly successful in his warfare and strategy hitherto, admittedly; but that was not to say that he would be equally effective in this other role as man of words, negotiator, bargainer—especially when he had in fact no great deal to bargain with.
At least they knew that the Norsemen were coming, were on their way—that word had been passed, by signal-fires, right down the Sound of Mull from Tobermory; but that could imply ill equally with good. One could not trust these pirates, and they might be coming to deceive and fight and slay just as easily as to confer. And they had the overwhelming numbers and strength still, if it came to blows.
For his part, Somerled assumed an air of quiet confidence. He had done all that he could, made arrangements to try to meet such developments as he could foresee, sought to keep open lines of retreat. The rest lay with fate—and quick wits.
At length the second signal, columns of smoke in pairs, appeared to the west, signifying that the visitors and escort were actually entering the Sound of Mull from the open sea. It should not be long before they saw them, now.
He cast a last glance over
the serried ranks of his shipping, lined up in the bay below. Too late to try to better that now. Every vessel which he had been able to lay hands on, from far and near, was there, pressed into this demonstration, however old and unseaworthy, even the longship under repair at Kentra in Moidart, towed round. Carefully they were marshalled in neat rows, with the decrepit and useless in the centre, hopefully inconspicuous as such, the good longships at the outside, forty-three craft all told although made to look more by the erection of extra masts amongst them. Somerled had grudged having to detach the six longships under Saor sent to escort the Norsemen in, but he had judged that such a gesture was called for.
Presently the look-outs on the higher ground shouted that they could see the approaching ships coming down the Sound—and the excitement rose as they called down numbers. It was a great fleet which was bearing down on them, scores of ships. Even subtracting their own half-dozen escort vessels, there were more Norse craft than were supposed to be drawn up here at Ardtornish.
Somerled stroked his chin but made no comment. Thorkell Forkbeard did not have more than a dozen longships of his own at Inch Kenneth of Mull, it was reported. He must have raked around in a large way to raise this impressive assembly—especially as the Norse pirates were not in the habit of co-operating with each other, each group more or less self-contained and jealous of its own dominated territory. Therefore this presumed united front was very significant. It could represent a serious and new drawing together of enemy forces; but it also probably meant that he had the Norse much worried and apprehensive, if they were forced to these unusual measures. Which was worth now taking into account.
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