“Very well. I shall sail this day. Not round your Man, but for Scotland. The Solway. I go tell David of my, my bliss! Seek his blessing! and inform him that Olaf of Man is still his loyal vassal! You would wish me to do that? Give me four days and I shall be back. For my bride!”
The small man looked at him, varying expressions chasing each other across his cherubic features. Then he nodded. “So be it,” he said. “Four days . . .”
As it transpired it was only three days before Somerled returned to Man, for when he had reached Eskmouth on Solway it was to learn that King David was meantime far from Rook’s Burgh, gone to endow a new abbey, or priory, at Urquhart in Moray. So he had sent the Abbot of Glendochart, Dermot Maguire and Cathula MacIan—deeming the last to be more conveniently absent from any nuptial celebrations, in the circumstances—on a mission to the High King, to inform him of the situation and of the threat posed by Stephen and Thurstan and suggesting their joint action to deal with any developments; but adding that he, Somerled, believed that Olaf could be kept approximately loyal if David made a show of strength along the West March, and especially in the Solway area—for instance by taking suitable measures to discipline Fergus of Galloway. The three envoys must find their own way back to Argyll by land.
Back at Rushen, although they found no wedding-fever—except perhaps on the bride’s part, well disguised—preparations were well in hand. However unsuitable for so distinguished a couple, in the fortunate absence of Bishop Wimund, and not wishing to involve the new Abbot, the wedding ceremony would be performed by Wilfrith, the same lowly parish priest at St. Michael’s Haven who had conducted the Isles party to the castle on their first visit. This was to have been two days hence, but Olaf appeared to be only too pleased to put it all forward a day, seemingly for some reason anxious to get it all over at the earliest possible. Neither of the principals made the least objection.
They did not manage to see each other alone and could make only restrained and conventional converse in the presence of others; but their glances and surreptitious arm-squeezings and the like were eloquent enough of mutual congratulation and a sort of unholy glee. Such manifestations had to be most heedfully brief and hidden, for Ragnhilde was supposed to be in a state of shame and contrition, necessary before approaching God’s altar for His blessing on their premature union—and presumably the same ought to apply to the bridegroom. It was as well that Affrica kept herself at a distance, indeed largely out-of-sight, no doubt in general disapproval. She still had Ronald of Dublin for company; and it dawned on Somerled that it was probably on this account that Olaf was in such haste to get the wedding over and the guilty pair forth of Man; for once Ronald left the island, either to Ireland or to Galloway, the cat would be very certainly out of the bag.
So, the next day, not in Rushen Abbey but in the small private chapel of the castle, in a simple, short and almost hurried ceremony, they exchanged their vows and were declared man and wife, in the sight of Almighty God and the presence of a remarkably small congregation as witnesses, more actually from Argyll than from Man itself, Saor MacNeil acting as groomsman and Olaf presenting his daughter in distinct embarrassment, Affrica absenting herself. It was a humble, not to say hole-in-corner nuptials for Somerled the Mighty of Argyll and the Isles and the Princess of Man; but neither found cause for complaint. Indeed it was the happiest occasion of Somerled’s life; and from her flushed loveliness and the shine in her eyes, Ragnhilde was nowise despondent.
Feasting thereafter being considered unsuitable, only a comparatively small company sat down to a bridal repast, with no speech-making—although Olaf did eventually drink to the future well-being of his daughter, if not of his new goodson. All, in fact, seemed equally eager for a move to be made and the entire affair rounded off and tidied up. In the end Olaf and Ragnhilde did display some emotion at their leave-taking, clutching each other wordlessly for a few moments. For the rest it was mere formality, and not noticeably formal at that. Affrica was still elsewhere.
And then, in great relief, the Argyll party were on their way, on borrowed horses, to St. Michael’s Haven, the newly-weds hardly able to believe that they were in fact man and wife for all time coming. They raced their mounts almost as though subconsciously they feared that they might yet be pursued and dragged back and all somehow undone.
There was no delay at the haven and as the dragon-ship and its escorts pulled out towards the open sea, bride and groom embraced each other, on the high stern platform, clinging.
“At last!” Somerled exclaimed. “My dear—what a bridal for you! What a mockery for my beloved.”
“Not so,” she declared. “It suffices. It all sufficed, did it not?”
“Sufficed, yes. You saw to that, lassie. You ensured it all. By your . . . device. I have wed a puissant and potent woman, I fear! I think that I will forget it at my peril! I am warned.”
“I am glad that you perceive it! Somerled the Mighty would not wish to wed a mouse?”
He kissed her—and realised that Gillecolm was standing there beside them, watching. Also Saor, grinning—indeed, most of the ship’s company, all most interested. Frowning, he turned her round, to gaze back at the receding land.
“I fear, also, that we are not alone, cannot be alone, on this ship. I am sorry. There is not even a private corner which we could make a bridal-chamber. This is a ship-of-war . . .”
“Care not—we can wait a little longer. Besides, you already . . . know my body, Sorley!” That was little more than a whisper. “You have held me close, as good as naked! Is there not . . . the less hurry, my lord?”
“By the Powers, there is!” He swung round on Saor—in Cathula’s absence acting ship-master. “You, man—cease your gawping, and get this ship back to Argyll faster than any ship has moved before! Do you hear me? Beat these lazy oarsmen, if need be—or be beaten yourself!”
His foster-brother hooted his mirth, made the rudest of gestures and turned towards the ranked rowing-benches. “You hear? You hear, oafs? Sorley MacFergus would be back to bed it at Ardtornish. In company! Row you, row!”
Smiling, Ragnhilde held out a hand to Gillecolm.
CHAPTER 13
Somerled stretched his arms pleasurably, revelling in the sun warming his body, for the water had been cold—even though Ragnhilde did not appear to find it so. Women did not seem to feel the chill as men did, why he knew not.
He extricated a fly which had got entangled in the damp hairs of his chest, and leaned back to watch his wife at her splashing in the loch, a gratifying picture in every way on a golden day of late September, amongst the low, green, cattle-strewn hills of Islay. Without being a strong swimmer, she loved the water, and on this benison of a day, after a week of wind and rain, nothing would do but that he must postpone his intended sail across to Colonsay, where still another castle was being built in his chain of strongholds for the security of his island kingdom, and go swimming with her. He had not grumbled overmuch.
He felt a little guilty that they had not brought Gillecolm with them, who liked swimming also. But Ragnhilde, although no prude, drew the line at appearing naked in front of the boy, and hated to enter the water in clinging, encumbering draperies. She and Colm got on very well together, indeed next to his father she was the lad’s favourite company—though this could hold its embarrassments. Anyway, he could go swimming at any time.
They had rowed here, to the other end of Loch Finlaggan from the castle-isle, over half-a-mile away, for privacy. Somerled, contemplating the energetic beauty flaunting before him, was likewise contemplating the possibility of showing suitable masculine appreciation of such beauty and energy, deliciously wet and cool from the water as it would be, and was consequently glancing around him for a convenient spot a little more private still, when alternative movement caught the corner of his eye. He cursed in irritation.
Another small boat was being sculled towards them, from the direction of the castle. It might not be actually making for them, of course—but th
e chances were that it was, for there was nothing at this southern end of the loch to bring strangers, save the remains of a stone-circle; and his castle people knew what he was at.
He considered calling a warning to his wife but decided against it. Splashing as she was she probably would not hear him; besides she might prefer to remain part-covered in the water whilst the oarsman was sent about his business, whatever that was.
As the boat drew nearer, something about the posture of the rower suggested that it was in fact a woman; and in a few moments he was able to recognise that it was Cathula MacIan. Frowning, he wondered. Cathula had been left behind at Ardtornish when they had come for a few days to Islay. She and Ragnhilde made less than comfortable company. They did not actually openly disagree; indeed they were almost excessively polite to each other. But there was mutual resentment, however queenly gracious the one and elaborately respectful the other. This island of Islay, chiefest of the Sudreys, was the favourite location which Ragnhilde thus far had discovered in her husband’s territories, more gentle, open and fertile than most of the rugged if grand West Highland scene, wild-flower decked and wild-geese haunted—and Cathula knew it. He would have expected her to keep her distance.
She did not, but rowed directly for their position, passing within a score of yards of the swimmer without making any sign. Beaching the light craft, little more than a coracle, she stepped out, with a gleam of long white legs, and came striding up over the grass to the reclining man.
He lay still, unforthcoming. He did not attempt to cover his nakedness; but he acknowledged to himself that she was very good-looking, and knew an alternative and shameful stirring at his loins.
“Greetings, my lord,” she said formally. “I come . . . less than eagerly.”
“Ah. But you come, nevertheless!”
“Yes. There is news which you should have. I have brought it on, myself, believing that you would wish me to do so.”
At the direction and veiled mockery of her glance, he belatedly reached for some clothing to part-hide himself. “Well, woman, well?” That was rougher than was intended.
“That priest, Wilfrith, from Man. He who married you. He came to Ardtornish. Seeking you.” She spoke with an unaccustomed jerkiness.
He sat up. “The Romish priest from St. Michael’s Haven? He came? All the way to Argyll? What does he want?”
“What he may want, I know not. Some comfort and shelter from you, perhaps—for he is dismissed from his church at St. Michael’s. For wedding you! By the Bishop Wimund, when he returned and discovered it. But it is the tidings he carried which bring me here, strange tidings . . .”
She paused and turned. Ragnhilde had waded ashore and was walking up towards them unhurriedly, wringing the water out of her long red-gold hair as she came.
Cathula stared, as well she might. The younger woman, so calmly assured and candid in her approach, was gaze-worthy to a degree, slender but shapely, splendidly proportioned and unblemished, full but firm breasted, her bodyhair darker than that of her head, carrying herself with a quiet confidence such as could defy criticism but did not. She smiled, moderately cordial.
“Highness,” the other acknowledged a little huskily.
“You have not come swimming?” That was kindly asked.
“No. No, lady. I act messenger, whatever.”
“Well, then—what did this priest say?” Somerled asked, but scarcely urgently, admiring these two women. “The priest who wed us, Hilde. He has come to Ardtornish. From Man.”
“Not from Man—from Galloway,” Cathula said. “He was dismissed from Man. He tells a strange tale. He swears that it is true—even though it sounds scarcely to be believed . . .”
“Wilfrith dismissed!” Ragnhilde interrupted. “From Man? From his church? My father would never do that.”
“Not by King Olaf—by Bishop Wimund. When he returned from York. For marrying you. Before he himself left Man again. It is all hardly to be credited. This Wimund—is he crazed, think you? You, Queen, know him.” Her glance at Ragnhilde who stood at ease allowing the sun to dry her, was this time not at her body.
“Wimund is no friend of mine. A stiff and ambitious prelate. More concerned with power and position than with religion, I would say. But I do not know him closely—few do, I would think.”
“Ambitious for power? That could be . . .”
“Lord!” Somerled exclaimed. “What is this? Out with it, Cathula! What are these tidings that you talk around like some old wife?”
She shrugged. “Wilfrith says that Wimund has declared himself to be lawful son to Angus, the dead Earl of Moray, he who was killed in the battle. And so rightful heir to the Scottish throne! Before David . . .”
“God in Heaven!” The man rose to his feet in a single lithe movement, nudity forgotten quite. “Wimund! Angus of Moray? Son to Angus? You are in your right mind, woman?”
“I am, yes. As to this Wilfrith, he appears to have sound wits. He swears that it is true. Not that Wimund is this, but that he claims it. He has left Man and is gone to Galloway. Or to Cumbria, I know not which. There to pursue his cause.”
“But . . . how can this be? It makes no sense, from start to finish. Sheerest folly! How can he expect any to believe him? Sakes—my own sister is wed to Angus’s brother! Would I not have known if Angus had a son? And his age. How could he be? To be sure, Angus was a deal older than Malcolm. But he could scarcely have had a son of that bishop’s age.”
“Wimund is younger than he seems,” Ragnhilde said. “A strange man. My father always wondered as to his birth, his breeding. He never spoke of it, to my knowledge. But, to have been made bishop so early, he must have been highly bred?”
“But that would make no more sense than the rest. Angus did not belong to the Romish Church but to our own. Why should his son be made a Romish bishop? And not in Scotland, that is certain.”
“I do not know. All we knew was that he came to Man from Furness Abbey, in Cumbria. Sent by Archbishop Thurstan, no doubt. Cumbria was attached to Scotland, was it not? Part of the old Strathclyde?”
“Aye—but Cumbria was never held by Angus of Moray’s line. The Lord William of Allerdale, King Duncan’s son . . .”
“Is it not all a ruse?” Cathula asked. “A trick to give excuse for the Archbishop and King Stephen to take a hand? When you refused to have their bishopric of the Isles. There need be no truth in it . . .”
“Yes. Yes, that could be it. Angus’s mother was King Lulach’s daughter, the last of the ancient line of our kings. Malcolm Canmore slew Lulach, as he slew MacBeth, and took the throne. David’s father. That is why Angus rebelled, and Malcolm too. Angus is dead and Malcolm a prisoner with David. So, if a son of Angus could be found . . .! Yes that could be Stephen’s game. To foment more rebellion, and then to move in. For England to seem to support the rebels, but in fact to take over Scotland. That makes sense. But—why Wimund? A bishop?”
“Perhaps to gain support from churchmen in Scotland? More likely, to win the Pope of Rome’s backing. As in this of the Isles bishopric. The one with the other. These are cunning men . . .”
“Why wait until now? Wimund could have made his claim long ago.”
“Because it is their need—the English. When you refused to have this bishop they required other excuse for a move into Scotland. This would serve. This Wimund may believe that he is the Earl of Moray’s son, but might never have made aught of it. But now it will serve Stephen’s needs.”
“That could be, yes. Wimund has left Man for Galloway, you say? So Fergus is in it, also. I sent warning to David to deal with Fergus—as you know. But it seems he is too busy endowing abbeys! David should look more to his defences and the safety of his realm and less to church-building! He nurtures a snake in Fergus.”
“What will you do, Sorley?” Ragnhilde was putting on her clothes now.
“Do? What can I do? Up here. Why did this clerk Wilfrith come to me with this? It is David’s concern.”
“He tol
d me that he knew none in Scotland, save only you,” Cathula said. “He is only a poor priest—who would heed him? You he wed. He has no charge now, no support. Because of you and your marriage. No doubt he hopes that you will succour him, show him some favour and employment.”
“If he was a Columban monk . . .”
“I am no Columban,” Ragnhilde pointed out. “He could act chaplain for me—and serve you also in clerkly duties. Do not tell me that the King of Argyll and the Isles could not use a clerk? We owe him something, do we not?”
“True. We shall see.” Somerled too began to dress. “I shall have to send further word to David. Where he may be, I know not. What else I can do I know not either.”
“You have ships and men,” Cathula declared. “You could sail south. As a gesture and warning, if no more. Off the Galloway shore. And further, off Cumbria and the English coasts. To give them pause. Let them see that some in Scotland are ready, and concerned with more than abbey-founding!”
“M’mm.”
“Besides, is it not time that Somerled the Mighty showed some might? How long is it since you drew a sword? Your fighting-men grow fat and slack, your longships gather barnacles in a score of havens, your oarsmen’s hands soften. But . . . if you are too lovesick with chambering and bedding, you could always send Saor MacNeil to act leader!”
As hot rebuke surged to the man’s lips, Ragnhilde gripped his arm.
“It might be a wise move,” she said, easily. “However ill-put. Serve David and yourself both. And my father also, perhaps. For your fleet between Man and Cumbria would warn him not to let himself be persuaded to join in this folly of Wimund. They will try to bring Man in, you may be sure. I could sail with you and call upon him. It is three months—and hereafter I may not be in fit state for sea-going for some time, I think.”
It was Cathula’s turn to catch her breath and glance involuntarily down at the Queen’s belly—as she was meant to do. To be sure there had been no sign of any thickening there, as yet. She did not comment.
Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) Page 25
