Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  Olaf flapped his hands, shook his head and looked anxiously at Thurstan.

  But it was the bullet-headed, bull-necked Raoul of Durham who spoke, and gratingly. “Lord Somerled, whatever your title, this matter is no concern of yours. It is entirely a matter for Holy Church. Of which, I understand, you are no true member, being of the heretical Columban faith. Holy Church may create sees and bishoprics where she will. Indeed she has the Christian duty to do so.”

  “But not in the realm of another monarch, Sir Priest. Without his permission.”

  “You are not monarch of the Isles, my lord. Nor even Ewan MacSween. Both are but sub-kings—Regulus.”

  “Ha—so that is it! As, then, is King Olaf here, all sub-kings of the realm of Scotland. Do you, Archbishop Thurstan, have King David’s agreement and permission to officiate here today? As certainly you do not have his permission to create a diocese of the Isles, part of the realm of Scotland.”

  Raoul was beginning to answer, pugnacious jaw out-thrust, when Thurstan twitched his magnificent cope. Frowning darkly he sat down.

  “Young man,” the Archbishop said sternly, “You may be very effective with sword and battleaxe, but in matters of religion and church-governance you would be wise to heed those better informed. I am Metropolitan of the North, with spiritual jurisdiction over all lands and territories wherein no other Metropolitan has function. I may ordain bishops where I will.”

  “But not in an independent realm which has not granted you leave to do so, old man. Has King David agreed to this?”

  “King David is not to be considered. He has proved to be an enemy of Holy Church. He fought against God’s own Body at Northallerton—as did you, I am told. He has made himself excommunicate . . .”

  “An enemy of the Church—he who has founded the abbeys of Jedburgh, Kelshaugh, Melrose, the Holy Rood and many another? You rave, Sir Priest—you rave! As to this of appointing bishops of your Romish Church, is there a single bishop of Scotland appointed by you or your predecessors? All have been nominated by the Kings of Scots and appointed directly by the Pope in Rome. This is but a base ruse, a device, to seek to claim a false overlordship over part of Scotland, at the behest of your master the usurper Stephen of Blois, Count of Boulogne. No religion in it. Dare you deny it, Clerk?”

  Thurstan all but choked, raising a quivering hand to point at Somerled, wordless.

  Bishop Raoul was more vocal. “King Olaf—how dares this cut-throat Islesman speak so to a prince of Holy Church! It is intolerable! He must withdraw. Withdraw, I say—his allegations and slanders. Or better, his person, from this sacred building.”

  “I withdraw what I have said only if the Archbishop withdraws this false and insolent bishopric. Not otherwise.”

  In the uproar, Olaf beat with his chalice on the table-top. “King Somerled! My lords! This is too much! Restrain yourselves, of a mercy! In my presence. And of my queen and daughter. If there is disagreement, let us discuss it calmly. All can be resolved, I swear.”

  “It can and shall be,” Somerled nodded. “By making an end of this folly and deceit of a bishopric in my Isles. In name—as it will be in fact! For I tell all here, I will not have it. Any attempt to send a single Romish Priest into my territories will be met by my longships. We have our own good Columban priests, from lona. You, Wimund, take heed. Sail a keel into the Hebridean Sea, as Bishop of my Isles, and you will not sail out again! Come as my guest, as Bishop of Man, and you are welcome. Can I say fairer?”

  “Safer not to come at all, whatever!” Saor MacNeil added, to vigorous acclaim from the Argyll table.

  Thurstan had recovered his voice, even though it trembled a little. “This is sacrilege! Infamous sacrilege. Not to be borne. To threaten Holy Church with force! Hear me, young man, in your rash and heretical pride. In God’s cause, Mother Church too can call upon the sword, the sword of righteousness. And when she does so, let him beware who provokes it! Your barbarous petty kingdom will drown in a welter of blood greater than that with which you carved it out!”

  “You threaten me, old man, Somerled of the Isles, with priestly swords and clerkly arks? Know you what you say? Have you ever seen the Hebrides? Ever fought one longship, let alone hundreds? Ever even tried to land on a defended beach? You will require more than bread and wine shamefully hoisted on a mast, to gain even a foothold on the smallest isle of my kingdom!”

  “Hold your ranting tongue, upstart, heretic!” Raoul bellowed, all Norman baron now, episcopal dignity forgotten. “Little you know what you so arrogantly challenge. It is the might of England that you will face. King Stephen will answer the call of the Church. As will others. You will be swept into your precious Western Sea, with all your piratical crew . . .!”

  “With what, sirrah? Oar-boats and fishercraft and merchanters? Stephen has no war-fleet. Where are the longships and galleys to challenge mine? Do you, in your ignorance, think that the Isles can be taken by a land army? Even if they could, think you King David would permit you to march through his Scotland?”

  “You are not the only one with ships-of-war, barbarian! King Olaf has many. The King of Dublin not a few. The Earl of Orkney, even you cannot deny, has sufficient to more than match your own.”

  “All these know better than to challenge the Islesmen in their own Isles, with the King of Scots watching! Eh, Olaf Godfreysson? I am David’s ally and vassal, you will mind, and have his protection. And this is David’s quarrel also. I answered his call; he will answer mine. And have you forgot the Norsemen, still in Skye and the Long Island? How think you they would welcome churchmen and Englishry into the Hebrides? Even if Dublin and Orkney would—which I doubt.”

  “The pirate Norsemen will not oppose their own kin. They are almost all from Orkney. And Orkney can call on the King of Norway . . .”

  “But Orkney will not! The last thing that Earl Ronald Kali would wish is for King Ingi Cripple to come sailing into his waters. Always the Orkneymen are concerned to keep Norway at a decent distance. Nor has Ronald any interest in this seaboard. They say he sets his eyes on Jerusalem! He would be thought a saint . . .!”

  “Ha—tell him otherwise, Olaf.” That was Fergus, making his first intervention. “Tell this arrogant Islesman of Ronald Kali’s interest!”

  Olaf, frowning, shook his head. “On another occasion, my lord. Not now.”

  “Why not? The sooner he learns, the sooner he will recognise that his fool’s bladder is pierced! For Ronald of Orkney, as he knows full well, can launch three longships for every one of his!”

  “That is so. But this is scarcely the occasion. In this bicker. My daughter’s presence . . .”

  “Then I shall tell it—since it much concerns this issue,” Fergus exclaimed. “King Olaf, my own goodson, intends to marry his daughter, the Princess Ragnhilde, to Earl Ronald of Orkney. A firm alliance between Man and the power of the Orcades. It will . . .” The rest was lost in the tumult of outcry and clamour.

  Somerled was part-way to his feet, appalled, when gazing across to where Ragnhilde sat, with Affrica, he saw the shock, bewilderment and horror of her expression and realised that this was as much as a surprise and blow to her as to himself. He resumed his seat as the young woman rose from hers.

  Ragnhilde did not speak. Set-faced and looking at none of them, she turned and hastened from the refectory.

  A silence descended upon the company, broken only by a tinkle of laughter from the Queen. Olaf frowned on her, looked as though he was going to hurry out after his daughter, then thought better of it.

  Raoul spoke. “An excellent provision, we must all agree. Such alliance must make it clear, even to this intemperate Islesman, that his vaunted reliance on his ships of war will not save him. The combined fleets of Orkney and Man must much outnumber his own, without counting that of Dublin. King Stephen’s armies will not lack for transport.”

  “Stephen’s armies will require more than transport!” Somerled said grimly. “You clerks know nothing of warfare at sea and in the isla
nds, or you would not speak as you do. Troops have got to land from ships, and landing-places are few and often dangerous. All would be defended, to the end. And if one isle was taken, there would be another and another and another to assail. Held by men who knew such warfare. I tell you, you know not what you say. King Olaf is no warrior, but even he, I swear, knows that talk of conquering the Isles, in borrowed ships, against my power, is folly. Tell them so, Olaf Godfreysson.”

  That man said nothing, seeming as though he scarcely heard, his eyes on the door through which his daughter had disappeared.

  Somerled himself would have wished to leave and go in search of the young woman, but recognised that this would look odd and serve no purpose for either of them. But at least he did not have to sit there indefinitely being harried and browbeaten. As Fergus began to speak again, he slammed down his hand.

  “Enough!” he cried. “Further talk is profitless. You now know my mind. Any attempt to impose this bishopric on the Isles will be met with the drawn sword. Any invasion of my kingdom will be fought island by island. And King David will be apprised forthwith of what has been proposed here. You, Fergus of Galloway, now one of his earls, take heed! And you, Olaf Godfreysson, one of his vassals, likewise! Now, sir—may we make an end here?”

  Amidst contrary shouts, abuse and threats, Olaf stood. Clearly he was glad enough to be finished with this confrontation, meantime at any rate, anxious to be off after his daughter.

  Somerled and his party rose and stamped out of the building, waiting for none.

  CHAPTER 12

  That evening, having been informed that there would be another banquet in the main hall of Rushen Castle, and having returned a message that he and his preferred to eat in private this night, Somerled removed himself from his friends and went to his own borrowed chamber. After a while, he descended the stairs again, to knock at the door of Ragnhilde’s apartment. He guessed that she, likewise, would not be dining in the hall.

  From beyond the door, the girl Berthe’s voice sounded. “The princess is indisposed. She does not wish to be disturbed.”

  “I regret that. I would not wish to intrude,” he called. “But I would esteem a word with her, for I intend to leave early in the morning. This is Somerled.”

  There was a pause and then the door was thrown open, and by Ragnhilde herself.

  “I did not know that it was you,” she said. “Do not leave so soon, I beg of you. I . . . I need help.”

  “There is nothing for me here, now. All has been said. Too much! I should be off.”

  “No. All has not been said. I have said nothing, as yet! Come.” She took his arm and drew him into the room, shutting the door again.

  It was a handsome chamber, amply furnished, with a great bed and a small, tapestries on the walls and white bearskin rugs on the floor. Berthe discreetly went to busy herself in a garderobe closet attached.

  “You did not know? Of this of the marriage?” he put to her.

  “Think you that I would know and not tell you?” she demanded. If he had expected a stricken woman, distraught, possibly in tears, he did not find it. She was clear-eyed, unbowed, determined. “I will not wed this man—I will not! I am not to be married off like some chattel, to a man I have never seen. It is beyond belief that my father should do this. Without a word to me. He is weak, yes—but kindly. It is shameful, not to be borne. He has been forced to it. That Fergus and Bishop Raoul, between them. It is their doing—with Affrica. I know it.”

  “Perhaps, yes. But how will you gainsay him? If he is determined on it, and has committed himself.”

  “I shall find a way, some way. I will not be bought and sold, like, like some cattle-beast!”

  The thought of this graceful and spirited young woman likening herself to a cattle-beast was such as to draw a brief smile from the man, even though he was feeling far from amused. Seeing it, she flared up, in marked contrast to her normal calm assurance.

  “You laugh! You do not believe me! You think that I am but a weak, foolish girl? I tell you that I will not be used so.”

  “No, no. Yes. To be sure. I rejoice at it. I do, indeed. More than, more than . . . I can say. But, if your father insists, it will be difficult.”

  “Difficult, no doubt—but not impossible. If he can be persuaded against his own daughter, he must be persuaded again, otherwise.”

  “You know him better than I do. I wish you well.”

  “How well do you wish me, King Sorley?”

  He searched her eager features. “More than I can say, woman,” he told her, again, deep-voiced. “For when I heard what your father said, back there, I all but cried out. Cried that it could not be, must not be! That I would not permit it. In my folly, I all but shouted it out, there before them all.”

  “You did . . .?”

  “Aye, Ragnhilde, I did indeed. You see, I could not bear the thought of you given to another. God help me, I wanted you, want you, for myself! Ever since the day when first I saw you, I have wanted you, dreamed of you, longed for you—aye, needed you. I, I . . .”

  “You mean this, Sorley? In truth. You are not cozening a foolish woman?”

  “Mean it, lass? I mean it more than I have ever meant anything. Why do you think I came to Man, again? Not because of this of the bishopric. I could have fought that from Argyll. But because you asked me to come. I told you. Because I would see you again. Because I hoped that, somehow . . .”

  He got no further just then. She launched herself bodily upon him, into his arms, part-laughing, part-sobbing, in gasping incoherence.

  “Oh, Sorley, Sorley!” she cried. “My dear, my heart! I, too . . . oh, my love! I, too! Hold me—oh, hold me fast. I . . .”

  His lips first closed then presently opened hers and their breathless, stumbling words gave place to a true and basic eloquence which had nothing to do with speech, a communion of lips and hands and persons which left little unsaid and promised more, much more.

  In time Ragnhilde remembered Berthe, and after some tentative adjustments managed to insert a finger between her lips and his, and nodded towards the open garderobe. Reluctantly he relinquished her and drew a little way apart but still held her by the arms.

  She recovered speech first. “How good, good! Oh, I am glad. Why did you not tell me, before. I hoped and hoped, but could not be sure.”

  “I have had little opportunity, girl! I had to, to feel my way. I dared not be too bold, at first, lest I offend. I could not tell how you felt. You were kind, gracious, but . . .”

  “Am I so fearsome? Somerled the Mighty did not dare! Are all the tales false? But—save us, my dear, what does it matter now? Now that we both know. That we are for each other. We are, Sorley—we are for each other? Always?”

  “Always,” he assured, and kissed her again.

  “Then we must make plans,” she declared. “We shall have to act quickly.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I will speak with your father in the morning. Delay our sailing.”

  “But that will serve nothing, Sorley. He will not heed you. These others have persuaded him.”

  “You yourself said that he must then be persuaded otherwise.”

  “Only actions will persuade him. I meant that I would go, run away, leave Man. And still I shall do so. With you, my dear. You must take me off with you. In your ship. When you sail.”

  He stared at her, mind racing.

  “That is it. You will go early, as you planned. I will make my way to the haven secretly. None will know. Berthe will come with me. That is what we must do. In the morning.”

  He wagged his head. “But—lassie! That may not be the best way. Would not serve us to best advantage. It would get you away, yes—but not to your good repute. Nor to mine. We must do better than that . . .”

  She had drawn back. “You do not want me on your ship? You are not so eager? Repute! You shrink from it . . .?”

  “No! It is not that. On my soul, Ragnhilde, the thought of you, gone away with me, together, makes me all b
ut lose my wits! But . . . not quite, my dear. We must use our wits, not lose them! See you, girl, I want you, want you for my wife, my queen. Not my, my paramour! As do you, I swear. But this has to be done decently. I am a king, now, and you a princess. We cannot run off like any pirate Norseman and his woman! We require your father’s agreement . . .”

  “He will not give it. How can he, having made his announcement? He has thrown in his lot with England and the churchmen.”

  “I am not so ill a match for his daughter—King of Argyll and the Isles. Is that so much poorer than the Earl of Orkney?”

  “No, foolish one—it is not that. It is this of alliances and statecraft. He is committed to Thurstan and Stephen and Fergus and this Raoul. The Orkney fleet is necessary to them. No doubt they threatened him with English invasion here if he did not aid them. And Papal anathema, perhaps—for he is much concerned for his immortal soul these days. You must see it. He will not heed you.”

  “I could threaten too. Threaten to assail Man . . .” He paused, as another thought struck him. “This running off, Ragnhilde, without your father’s consent, could cause much trouble. For us, but for others also. It could, indeed, bring on war. Nothing would be more likely to bring the Orkney fleet down upon the Isles, or the Manx fleet up, than for me to run off with the Earl Ronald’s promised bride. He would have to do something—insulted before all.”

  “Then—you will yield me up? For fear . . .?”

  “No, woman—no! But somehow we must get Olaf’s agreement. If Olaf consents, Orkney’s quarrel would not be with me. You must see it, my dear. There must be much that I can offer your father, in exchange. For he will not truly desire war, I think. Any more than do I. I have done much fighting, and do not shrink from it. But to force large war upon my kingdom, against the combined fleets, with England eager to take the pickings . . .”