Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  “The Earl of Ross is one of the Ri of Scotland, and my own nephew,” David pointed out, mildly. “There has been enough of death and vengeance in our royal house. He was misled—and now must suffer his uncle to lead him, always! Sufficiently galling for any man! If you seek word with him, Somerled, you will find him fishing in Teviot, from a window in my castle yonder. Or he was, when I left him . . .”

  Astonished, Somerled withdrew from the royal presence, and went to see to the encampment of his men.

  Later he found his way to Rook’s Burgh Castle, in search of Malcolm, to find him, not fishing but playing chess with Prince Henry of Strathclyde, David’s son, the good-looking but delicate young man whom St. Malachy O’Moore had so dramatically brought back from death’s door. He and his cousin appeared to be on the best of terms.

  When the prince left the brothers-in-law to their private conversation, they eyed each other doubtfully.

  “You will spare me your complacency, Somerled, I hope. Likewise your commiserations,” the Earl said. “I was betrayed, and so am here, thus. Those I trusted failed me. That is the beginning and the end of it. There is little more to be said.”

  “As you wish. I cannot in honesty say that I am sorry, Malcolm. At the outcome. But I am glad that you are no worse off than this your present state. I would scarcely have expected so, so congenial an outcome!”

  “Do not be misled, man. I am a prisoner, no better. Wholly at David’s mercy. And am to remain so, for God knows how long! I may seem to live well enough, but I live entirely in David’s shadow. And at any time he may change his mind and have done with me. This is no life for any man . . .”

  “Yet it is life, Malcolm—not death! When David’s nobles, those Normans, are calling for your execution. And a tolerably comfortable life, it does seem. At least you are not immured in pit or dungeon. And David is a fair and honourable man. I say that you are scarcely ill done by.”

  “Had you said differently at Moidart, that time, I belike would not be a prisoner now!”

  The other shrugged. “You fought no battles? I heard of none.”

  “I had no opportunity, man. I was betrayed, I tell you. Before ever I could march south. The Moraymen turned craven, at David’s threats. They lost all their spirit. They yielded me up. Whilst I was separated from my ships and host. Sent me captive to David’s Constable de Morville, he who slew my brother. Lord—that I ever thought to trust my fellow-Scots . . .!”

  Feeling unable to weep with or for his sister’s husband, Somerled excused himself and made his way back to his troops.

  In the two days before the great army made a move, he became acquainted with many of the commanders of the royal host, mainly Normans but with a number of the old Celtic nobility. With the former he could not feel on easy terms. They seemed to him stiff, arrogant and clearly conceived themselves to be a superior breed to the native Scots, the Highlanders in especial. None treated Somerled like any sort of monarch, none indeed so respectfully as did David himself. He elected to remain most of the time with his own Argyll men.

  With some fifty thousand now assembled, it was too large a host to be manageable on the march as one entity. David decided to split it into four distinct armies and to invade England on the broadest front, in fact right across the country from the Norse to the Irish Sea. This made sense in more ways than one. Stephen’s actual whereabouts at present was uncertain, and this broadly-based advance ought to ensure that he could not be in a position to outflank them. Cumbria on the west, of which David had been Earl and governor for King Henry of England before succeeding to the Scots throne, was of doubtful allegiance to either kingdom and should be shown to which side it would be profitable to adhere. David’s long-term aim, beyond demonstrating his support for his niece, the Empress Maud, was to establish the Scots border across the land from the Tees to the Ribble, instead of Tweed and Solway, so that his realm would eventually include Cumbria, which had originally been part of Strathclyde, and also Northumbria, to which great earldom his late wife had been lawful heiress and which should now be vested in their son, Henry, Prince of Strathclyde. Also, and of very practical importance, with the Scots forces under their various lords tending to fight amongst themselves, Celt against Norman, North against South, Highland against Lowland, some judicious division was a wise precaution. So the Lord William of Allerdale, the King’s Cumbrian cousin, son of the brief-reigning Duncan the Second, was given the extreme west wing, to move southwards through that province; the young Earl Cospatrick of Dunbar, commanding his own men of Lothian and the Merse with other Borderers, took the left or east flank, down through the Northumbrian coastal plain; and dividing the upland central front between these was the youthful Prince Henry supported by the veteran Malise, Earl of Strathearn, and Fergus, Lord of Galloway, newly promoted Earl thereof for reasons of diplomacy, he being a notably slippery and untrustworthy character but a strong fighter. These four each were allotted some ten thousand men. David himself, with the remainder and his tight bodyguard of two hundred Norman knights, brought up the rear, but behind Fergus of Galloway’s host, he conceiving himself to be the only one who might exercise some control over that masterful individual. The High King asked Somerled to attach himself to the Galloway force, admitting privately that it might well prove a difficult and possibly trying assignment, Fergus being the man he was and the Galloway kerns probably the most ungovernable of all the Scots host; but he considered that the King of Argyll, a proven warrior and bearing a Celtic style and title superior to Fergus’s own, might possibly have a good and restraining influence. Doubtful as Somerled was, he could scarcely refuse.

  So a move was made, on the Eve of St. Fillan, on a front over ninety miles wide. Inevitably it was a somewhat ragged and uncoordinated advance, however hard David sought to control it, with a corps of mounted messengers dashing back and forth between forces and parts of forces.

  Somerled and his people found themselves to be given the east wing of Fergus’s army, with an approximately four-mile front to cope with, initially crossing the Border in the Carter Fell and Redesdale area. Fergus himself he discovered to be amiable enough, in a sardonic, fleering way, a slightly-built, dark and quite handsome man in his late forties, who like David had been reared largely at the English-Norman court, more or less as a hostage, but who, unlike his monarch, neither loved nor admired the Normans—even though he was now married to one of the late King Henry’s bastard daughters as second wife. He was, of course, the father of Affrica, Queen of Man, by the earlier marriage. Somerled did not like the man any more than he had done the daughter, but sought to co-operate and get on as well with him as was possible. Their mutual positions were from the start a little difficult, Fergus being the commander, with nine thousand men, six thousand of them being his own Gallowegians, while Somerled had only twelve hundred as yet, although nominally superior in rank, king as against earl, but considerably junior in age. There would require to be much give-and-take, it was evident.

  Very quickly, even on the second day of the advance, something of the problems of the situation became all too apparent. They had not moved far into Northumbria before, in the Otterburn and Elishaw area of Redesdale, much smoke and flame began to appear on the Argyll contingent’s right. At David’s last conference of commanders he had emphasised strongly that there was to be no indiscriminate slaughter, no burning nor ravishment, that Northumbria and Cumbria in especial were to be treated as if already part of Scotland, their people encouraged to join forces with the Scots in this venture. Yet here was already widespread burning, seemingly. Somerled sent Saor MacNeil to investigate and if necessary halt any misbehaviour.

  That man returned, after a while, with his report. There was complete and unbridled savagery going on over there, looting, raping, massacre, the Galloway kerns destroying all before them, as bad as any Norsemen. His protests had met with scorn and abuse, and the local commander, one MacKerrell, had shouted him down, declaring that the Earl Fergus was his master, and similar
ly engaged further west.

  Somerled debated with himself as to what he ought to do, if anything. In one way it was no business of his; he was only a sub-commander here.

  On the other hand, as well as being shameful and contrary to David’s express orders, this sort of indiscipline could be catching and might well spread to his own people. Also it was bound to delay the advance and result in weakened, drunken and booty-laden troops, a danger to all concerned. He decided to go and have a word with Fergus.

  Leaving his scattered force under the command of Conn Ironhand, Dermot Maguire and Sir Malcolm MacGregor—Cathula MacIan had been left discreetly behind with the ships at Esk-mouth—he and Saor rode off westwards over the rolling countryside where the Cheviot foothills sank to the high Northumberland moorlands. Once out of their own sector it was quickly evident that Saor had not exaggerated. It was sparsely populated territory, with few and isolated farmsteads and occasional small villages nestling in hidden, narrow valleys. Some of the farms had escaped, but none of the hamlets and village communities, so far as they could see. The first they came to, Plashetts on the North Tyne, was typical, a smouldering ruin of smoking thatch and blackened walls, dead bodies lying everywhere, men, women and children, the women usually naked, livestock indiscriminately butchered and left, barns and mills destroyed, corpses thrust down wells. Such few distracted survivors as they perceived fled at their approach.

  The Islesmen, used to warfare and bloodshed as they might be, sickened at this wholesale and pointless slaughter. Grim-faced they rode on.

  They passed half-a-dozen and more such desecrated and ravaged communities before they ran the Earl of Galloway to earth in the manorhouse of Falstone further down Tyne. They found Fergus relaxed in sated ease in the disordered hall, drinking deep and watching some of his officers make sport of four barely conscious and unclothed young women, one little more than a child. A bound and gagged man was sharing the high table with the Earl, no doubt the owner of the establishment. A priest lay, either dead or unconscious, on the floor.

  “Ha—my friend of Argyll!” Fergus called, as they were ushered in. “Welcome! Welcome to Sir Ranulf d’Orsay’s table and hospitality! This is Sir Ranulf. You will forgive him for being retarded in his speech, at the moment? Two of these wenches are his daughters, I believe—I mind not which. Their hospitality has been fair enough—at short notice, you will understand—but no doubt we can find you fresher fare.”

  “That will not be necessary, my lord Earl,” Somerled returned. “I come only for urgent word with you and then must return. Since my force at least is advancing according to orders, if yours is not!”

  “Ah, a pity. Such haste! But at the least you will have a flagon of Sir Ranulf’s wine, whilst we talk? Sit, you.”

  “You wish that we talk here? In . . . this?”

  “Why not? We are comfortable enough, are we not? And entertained the while. None will overhear, I think. Save Sir Ranulf here. And he will not disclose our converse hereafter—for he hangs when I leave!”

  “I would prefer, my lord, to be spared your entertainment!” Somerled gestured distastefully towards the ravishers and their victims.

  “So! You are dainty in such matters, eh, King Somerled? You are not one of those who favour . . . others? I dare-say that we might still find a comely youth somewhere, unhanged.” The Earl looked from Somerled to Saor. “Or two . . .?”

  Seeking to swallow his hot temper, Somerled clenched his fists. “I desire but word with you. As to the behaviour of your men. Indeed, as to what I see here on every hand. Rapine, slaughter, sack, pillage. All contrary to King David’s royal command.”

  Fergus stared. “And you? You find fault?”

  “I do. As must any wise commander. Since it will delay the advance, make enemies of the entire country about, so endanger our rear, and spoil and unman our own people.”

  “All that, you tell me? This is war, man—war. Do not say that you and your Highlandmen cannot stomach simple warfare . . .?”

  “This is not warfare, my lord, but savagery! We are here to fight King Stephen, not unarmed folk, women and bairns. People whom David would have his own subjects . . .”

  “Islesman—I’d remind you to whom you speak! I command this host—remember it! I’ll thank you not to try to teach me my business. I was commanding hosts when you were but a puling child!”

  “Then, by this, you ought to know better, my lord.”

  “Christ God save us—enough of this! If you cannot speak fairer, then speak no more. Back to your bareshanked caterans, and mind your own affairs, not mine!”

  “This is my affair. You delay all, on a wide front. And therefore break the line and endanger me, and others. And your kerns’ behaviour and riot could affect mine, cause trouble, discontent . . .”

  “Nor would I blame them, with such a lily-livered lord! Get you back to them, then, before they start acting like full-blooded men. And spare me more of your whimperings!”

  The younger man half-rose from the bench in crouching, trembling rage. For long moments he stared into the other’s dark, scornful eyes, throat working convulsively. Greatly daring, Saor gripped his foster-brother’s arm.

  Gradually Somerled recovered his self-control, straightening up. Without another word he turned and strode for the door.

  “That one might have had you bound and gagged, Sorley MacFergus, like that Norman knight,” Saor pointed out reasonably, as they mounted their horses. “With but the two of us in it, wiser to have somewhat bridled your kingly tongue!”

  “The man is a barbarian! An oaf and savage beneath the skin of gentility!”

  “Och yes, indeed. But a savage who held us in the palm of his hand, just. I am thankful to get out of there with a whole skin, King and Chamberlain of Argyll or none.”

  Although Somerled did not say so, he rather wished that he had not come on this errand. For what was he to do about it? It had hopelessly soured relations between himself and Fergus, without in any way bettering the situation. He could scarcely go bleating to David—who anyway was held up some thirty miles back besieging Wark Castle, the only English Border strength which had failed to capitulate to the invaders and which was formidable enough to be a danger in their rear; otherwise the High King himself would no doubt have seen the smoke of the Galloway depredations and come forward to deal with it all. Somerled would have to slow his own force’s advance so as not to lose touch with the rioting host on his right, whilst at the same time seeking to keep in some sort of line with the Earl Cospatrick on the left. It was a thoroughly bad and frustrating situation, looked at from any angle.

  He decided that he was not cut out for subordinate leadership.

  Back with his own men, he sent word to Cospatrick to slow the eastern advance as the centre was lagging.

  So that strange invasion proceeded, by fits and starts, on a notably gapped and uneven front, with William of Allerdale pushing ahead fast through Cumbria, Cospatrick impatient in lower Northumbria, but the hilly centre hopelessly delayed and erratic—for which Somerled received a certain amount of blame. Fortunately there was no real opposition, only local skirmishing, with fords and passes briefly held against them at times. Undoubtedly the main armed manpower of the region was withdrawing before them discreetly, either to join Stephen or in doubt as to a final allegiance.

  Progress did improve somewhat in the centre when, three days later, David came up, having reluctantly had to abandon his siege of Wark as too costly in time. He moved to reprove and control Fergus. Just what transpired between the two was not reported, but thereafter there was much less of pillage and delay on Somerled’s right. It became rumoured throughout the army that the High King had threatened to send Fergus home to Galloway unless he mended his ways—even though that would have lost the host six thousand Gallowegians, who would undoubtedly have turned back with their lord.

  The first real resistance materialised as the spearhead of the host neared Durham, where the Bishop, a Norman named Raoul, wa
s a known fighter. His castle and cathedral together occupied a strong defensive position on a lofty and narrow spine of rock within a loop of the River Wear. Recognising the hopelessness of direct assault upon such a place, although he was able to occupy the town below without much difficulty, David instituted another starving-out siege, whilst he sent out probing horsed parties east, south and west to try to glean information as to Stephen’s dispositions. He was all too well aware of the peculiar and vulnerable situation of his host, sitting there over one hundred miles deep into England, with so far no sign of any counter-stroke, only this bishop’s castle glowering down on them.

  At last reasonably firm news reached them as to the position to the south. Stephen himself had returned to London, leaving his army under the veteran Walter d’Espec, whilst calling on all the English barons to rally to his standard at York, and ordering the old Archishop Thurstan thereof to defend the entire North and more or less conduct a holy war against the invaders. This inglorious attitude drew scornful cheers and jeers from the Scots leadership. But David was less sure that it was good news, deeming that he would have preferred to have Stephen in charge and facing him than the renowned warrior d’Espec. The Archbishop as figurehead might not mean a lot militarily; but probably most of the northern lords would rally to his banner more readily than they would have done to Stephen’s own usurping one.

  Then a second item of news reached Durham. The Lord William, waiting for none, had pressed on to reach the Ribble, where he had fought a major battle against West Midland forces at Clitheroe and defeated them soundly. He was now advancing up the Ribble line north-eastwards, objective achieved, and called upon the High King to meet him at Tees, to be the new Scots Border.

  This was heady stuff, of course, for the rest of the Scots army and the immediate demand was for a move to be made for Tees, for York itself, leaving this Durham to stew in its own juice. David, who was not a rash man, was doubtful as to the wisdom of this, strategically and politically. But he had also to consider other factors—the dangers of idleness in his heterogeneous host, the passage of time with the vital corn harvest at home beginning to preoccupy his troops, and the all but unanimous advice of his lieutenants.