Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  It was bloody havoc. The bows of the larger ship sheered down the side of its victim like an axe through brushwood, the long oars snapping and splintering, tossing, spearing and mangling their handlers in indescribable butchery. In mere moments that fine ship was a reeling, reeking shambles of screaming men, yawing round helplessly.

  As the dragon-ship scraped viciously past, Somerled, grim-faced, ordered his starboard oars to be lowered again, and pulled his vessel round in the tightest of turns. Ignoring the temporarily crippled craft, he drove on for the nearest Norseman, which was in circling battle now with one of the Argyll escorts. Preoccupied with this, its shipmaster delayed too long in drawing off and saving his oars. Down on this vessel’s starboard side the dragon-ship bored—and although the impact was less terrible here, and the carnage less—for the stern facing oarsmen could see the menace bearing down on them and some raised oars in consequence, unordered—much damage was done and the longship meantime spun round out of control.

  Shouting and signalling to the escort’s master to deal with this, Somerled swept on.

  But now the four detached craft from Conn’s fleet were coming up, and with the ten behind swinging in on them, the remaining Norsemen wisely decided that the odds were altogether too great, broke off and headed desperately for the open sea. The second escort managed to corner the last one between itself and the oncoming four, and seeing its position as hopeless, this craft yielded tamely. But the other three looked like making good their escape.

  Somerled, seeing his ships swinging off in pursuit, banged on Gillecolm’s great gong urgently, to draw attention, and went on banging, signing to all to give up the chase and close in on him. He was worried about Saor and Maguire.

  Leaving his escorts to cope with and put skeleton crews on the three disabled enemy ships, he rowed to meet Conn.

  It was, by any standards, an impressive array of ships which drove up Loch Dunvegan, no fewer than twenty now—for to Somerled’s three and Conn’s fourteen were added the three captured craft, although these were scarcely in fighting trim, with their surviving crewmen working reduced oars under threat from their captors. They would make a daunting sight for Thorkell and his people at the loch-head—whose ships would now number only eleven.

  The question was, how many of Saor’s six survived?

  Even as they drew fairly close to the maze of islets, it was difficult to perceive and assess what went on there. Ships and masts could be seen shifting and straggling amongst the holms and skerries, but there was no distinguishing who was what, nor any pattern discernible. There would be no pattern, to be sure, Saor’s obvious tactics being to double and dodge and hide, avoiding actual conflict as far as possible until reinforcements came up. How successful he had been remained to be seen—but at least there was still much movement in process, which would imply that the situation was still fluid.

  In the circumstance, Somerled came to the conclusion that an attitude of confident superiority was called for meantime, instead of plunging head-long into more action—since he certainly had no ambitions to get involved in all that dodging and scurrying amongst the islets. There was that low headland jutting out on the east side, on which the ruined broch sat, a fairly modest feature in itself but narrowing the loch there considerably; which was no doubt why the broch was sited there. At this point the loch was little more than half-a-mile wide, and barely a mile from its head. If he could block that . . .?

  Even twenty ships solidly take up nothing like half-a-mile of water, of course; but ranked in a single line, each could be near enough to its neighbours to ensure that no approaching vessel could win through without a struggle. Somerled so ordered.

  In took a little while for any reaction to become apparent ahead. But gradually it was evident that centrally amongst those islets ships were coming together, concentrating. Sails were of no use to any in these close waters, so that it was not possible to identify them from the painted symbols thereon, whether Norse raven or Argyll galley. But since the assembling group was soon larger than six, these were obviously the enemy.

  Thorkell seemed to be at a loss as to what to do. At least, the Norse concentration remained more or less stationary behind a central scatter of low holms. Other vessels appeared here and there, now, on the move, presumably Saor’s. Two of these, presently, came dashing out from the extreme eastern corner of the maze, not far from the broch-headland itself, towards the waiting line. As they drew close, one proved to be Dermot Maguire’s ship.

  He came straight to the dragon-ship, to shout that the fleet had been the devil’s own time in arriving, that they had been hunted like deer, that one of their vessels was stranded on a reef, that another had been captured, by the Norse. He did not know where Saor was.

  Somerled directed him, and the other newcomer, to take place in the line. Then he signalled the entire array to move slowly forward.

  He reckoned that, although the loch widened again a little, they could move a quarter-mile closer to the enemy, and with the two extra craft could still block the channel effectively.

  The aspect of creeping menace, twenty-two ships, must have been alarming for the waiting foe—of whom there appeared to be only ten in the group.

  Then another longship appeared scurrying out of the north-eastern corner, and quickly identified itself as Saor’s own. Somerled was much relieved to see his foster-brother safe, but cut short the shouted exchange. He ordered Saor to take the dragon-ship’s place in the centre of the line, and he himself moved on, closer to the enemy, alone.

  As he saw it, Thorkell had only two options now. He could come out and fight, outnumbered more than two-to-one; or else he could beach his ships and flee inland, or try to put up a fight at the fort. He believed that the Vikings would choose the first, cherishing their ships as they did. In these close waters it would be a dire struggle, but some of the ten might possibly make good their escape. His present approach was to challenge them to attempt just that.

  He ventured to within half-a-mile of the enemy behind their screen of skerries, hoping to coax them out—for the dragon-ship, larger than the others, could be taken to contain the opposing leader. He was not taking any very great risks, however, for with half-as-many oars again as the general run of longships, he could probably out-row any attack.

  His move did achieve a reaction—but not what he had looked for. One Norse craft detached itself from the rest and came rowing slowly round the reefs towards him.

  So Thorkell thought to parley—unusual choice for a Viking? And yet, of course, once before this one had come parleying, to Ardtornish.

  The Norseman advanced only so far beyond the islets, fairly evidently seeking to ensure that he could scuttle back to cover if need be. Somerled moved forward to within hailing distance.

  He took the initiative. “Is that Thorkell Svensson, the pirate?” he shouted. “I, Somerled, ask it.”

  “I am Thorkell, yes,” came back. “What do you here, far from Argyll?”

  “I come for you, Thorkell! I warned you, that day, to keep away from my territories. Yet your barbarians savaged my Gigha. Now, you pay.”

  “That was mistaken, Somerled. Ketil Left Hand made mistake . . .”

  “Mistake, yes. I make no mistakes, ravager, wrecker! Nor will you, again. This is the end, Thorkell.”

  There was a pause. “We need not fight,” came across the water, at length.

  It was Somerled’s turn to ponder.

  “We can come to terms,” Thorkell shouted, further.

  “Terms? What terms can you offer, man? I hold you in the palm of my hand.”

  “Many men will die, if we fight. Your men.”

  “Many have already died. Women and children also. At your hands.”

  “There need be no more, King Somerled. If I leave here. These isles.”

  “Nor if you are dead!”

  “I will not die easily, I promise! And kill you first, if I may! So consider.”

  “I hear nothing to consider.”<
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  “If I give you all Skye, at no cost? For always. Is that nothing?”

  “It is not yours to give.” But Somerled paused again. “You would come back. As you came back to Argyll, to Gigha.”

  “No. I swear it. I will not come back. Nor any of mine.”

  “You are not eager to fight, Thorkell!”

  “You outnumber me. My men are weary with much rowing. Is it agreed? A bargain?”

  “Not so fast! You have ten ships remaining. I could sink them all. Or I might take six. Leave you four. To take you away. Out of my Hebrides. Outer as well as these. To Ireland. Or Orkney. Or Iceland. Or back to your Norway. Or to Hell itself! But never again the isles. How say you to that, pirate?”

  In only moments the reply came back. “Accept.”

  It was as easy as that. Thorkell Svensson, surly now, agreed to go back to his ships, decant all his men into four of them, and sail off, leaving the rest—on Somerled’s sworn oath that they would not be molested as they departed.

  The vessels each turned back to their own groups.

  So presently four much-overladen enemy longships came rowing out from behind the islets, in file, to thread through the narrow gap in the Argyll line which the dragon-ship left open between itself and Saor’s craft. Men jeered and cheered and fists were shaken—but no physical obstacle was offered as the Norsemen headed northwards for the open sea.

  Later, the victors found the six abandoned ships, oars missing but otherwise in fair order, run aground on the holms. More important, they found their own three missing craft, two also aground and one drifting abandoned, but the crews ashore and more or less unhurt.

  Thus, with scarcely the loss of a man, Somerled MacFergus became Lord of Skye and all its appendages, a huge addition to his domains. More important perhaps, the Norse presence on this entire seaboard was eliminated. As vital could be the proof to all it might concern that Somerled was still the Mighty—in case there had been any doubts.

  He set out to explore his new territories.

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 16

  The dragon-ship was sailing south again, in fine weather, alone, with no single escort, so safe these years had become the Hebridean Sea, thanks to Somerled’s rule and dominance. The Norsemen kept their distance, Stephen was tamed and David’s Scotland was comparatively law-abiding. It was midsummer, the year was 1153, and the family were on their way to inspect progress at Saddail in Kintyre.

  This business of abbey-building Somerled had found more difficult than he had foreseen. Although he had collected a number of stone-masons for his castle-building programme, now more or less complete, none of these had any experience in the elaborations and special skills of erecting abbeys and great churches; and he was determined that this monument to his kingdom and line should be no humble edifice but worthy of comparison with the shrines King David was putting up in such numbers, even though smaller. And of course there was no native tradition of fine stone buildings in the Highlands and Islands, where the Celtic Church had other ideas. So work had been held up time and again over these years. But fairly recently he had acquired a new monkish mason, who had been completing work on a chapter-house at Rushen Abbey on Man; and now, with summer upon them again, Somerled was taking his family on what was something of a holiday, to see how the work went and to plan further developments.

  He had become very much a family man these last years, and gladly so. Ragnhilde’s fertility was as notable as her other excellences. She had presented him with two more sons, Ranald and Angus, to add to Dougal, and of course Anna, everyone’s pet. They were all aboard the dragon-ship, which in consequence presently much belied its name and style, seemingly more nursery-ship than leader of a war-fleet dreaded in all the Western Ocean, whatever its tough oarsmen thought—although its captain at least had no objections, for Gillecolm doted on the children. Now in his later twenties, and a big strapping young man physically, and an excellent shipmaster, in many ways he was still a child himself and clearly would be always. Somerled no longer felt embarrassed and uncomfortable with him, with three other fine and normal sons; indeed he had developed a real affection for his peculiar first-born. Ragnhilde had loved him from the first.

  They had left Islay at sun-up, Finlaggan Castle there become their summertime home, and not rushing it, before noon were closing the Mull of long Kintyre, notorious for its difficult seas and tide-races. In consequence, Gillecolm was using the off-shore island of Sanda as breakwater as they made their broadside-on turn against the great Atlantic swell, when they came, as it were, face-to-face with a fairly large fishing-boat using the same tactics but in the other direction. There was nothing unusual about this, save that normally such craft would hastily and prudently keep their distance from all war-vessels; whereas this one, after a minute or two, actually turned to head towards them. Men in fact could be seen waving, as though urgently.

  As they drew near, a young man richly-dressed, it appeared, and no fisherman, could be seen as principal waver. It was Gillecolm’s keen eyes, or perhaps some instinct, which identified him.

  “Donald!” he cried. “It is Donald.”

  Somerled certainly would not have known his nephew, now a slender handsome figure, for it was over ten years since he had seen him, then a mere youth. But Gillecolm was sure—and the waver certainly seemed eager enough to join them. No doubt he recognised the great galley-device painted on the dragon-ship’s sail and the personal standard of the Lord of the Isles.

  As the great and small craft came together, the young man shouted. “My lord! My lord Somerled—it is I! Donald—Donald MacEth. Well met, Uncle—well met!”

  When they had aided him aboard and dismissed the hired fishing-boat with suitable payment, amidst incoherent greetings, with Gillecolm all but weeping with joy, introductions to Ragnhilde and the children, it transpired that Donald was in fact on his way to see Somerled and this fortuitous encounter the more fortunate—for haste was essential it seemed, with every day vital. This came out in something of a gabble. He was afraid that he might be pursued.

  “Pursued?” Somerled exclaimed. “You mean that you are in flight? That you have left your father and mother, at David’s court? Fled?”

  “Yes—it was necessary. They are in danger, great danger. We all were. I had to come to you. Nowhere else we could turn . . .”

  “But why? What danger? Malcolm—he has not been plotting again? Against David?”

  “No, no—not that. David is dead. Did you not know?”

  “Dead? David the King! Oh, no—not that! The good David . . .”

  “He died weeks ago. In late May. At Caer Luel. He is now buried at Dunfermline. And all is now changed. We are in much danger . . .”

  “David! He was my friend. Gone—dear Lord, David gone! How? How did he die?”

  “He had been failing. Ever since his son Henry died, last year. He seemed to lose all taste for living. He ate little, spent his days brooding and in prayer. While his Normans grasped the power. Now they have the young King and his two brothers in their hands, David’s grandsons, and all is lost. Malcolm, now King, is but sixteen years, and weak, feeble.”

  “All changed indeed, to my sorrow. But not all lost, lad. You say that your father is in danger? Even your mother?”

  “The Normans have always hated him. They would have had him slain, long ago. David and he became friends—they were uncle and nephew—and the Normans resented it. Now, they have the power, with the young King their puppet. They can do as they will.”

  “Your father is one of the Seven Earls of Scotland, one of the Ri who appoint the King, grandson of Malcolm the Third and Margaret. They would not dare to harm him now, after all these years, and insult the people of Scotland?”

  “The Frenchmen care nothing for that. They have him, and my mother, in close confinement now. There was talk of slaying him. We decided that I should escape from Rook’s Burgh and come to you for help.”

  Somerled stared at him, mind busy.


  “What can you do?” Ragnhilde asked unhappily.

  “I must think. This changes all. My oath of fealty was to David—him only. I am no longer bound by it. I must do something. I cannot leave my sister and her husband to their fate at the hands of their enemies. I never loved these Normans—nor they me. Hugo de Morville was the best of them, the Constable. What of him, Donald?”

  “He is our friend, I think. But only he. The Marischal, the Steward, Bruce, Comyn, Baliol, Soulis, Lindsay and the rest, are against us.”

  “What do you want my husband to do?” Ragnhilde demanded.

  “I do not know, lady,” the young man admitted. “But something. He is strong, powerful. All the North would heed him. Most of the other earls, weak crew as they are. Something is possible, surely. Who else can we turn to?”

  “I shall think on it,” Somerled said. “We go to Saddail, where my new abbey is a-building. There I shall decide . . .”

  Somerled’s initial action, with speed essential, could only be in the nature of representations, threat and ultimatum inferred. He would send urgent message to the new young King of Scots, Malcolm the Fourth, declaring that he was no longer vassal to the Scots crown, since his allegiance had been personal to David; demanding good and fair treatment for his good-brother and sister, the Earl and Countess of Ross; requiring assurances of their welfare; and if these were not forthcoming promptly, promising that he would use armed force, rouse the North, indeed all Celtic Scotland, against the alien power presently surrounding the throne—although he would pray God that this would not be necessary. He would also approach his goodsire, Olaf of Man, for similar action.

  The problem was, of course, who to send to deliver this message? To a monarch, it could not be any humble courier but somebody substantial. But with the urgency of the situation there was no time to send back to Islay or Ardtornish or elsewhere in his far-flung domains for suitable personages—in which he was notably weak anyway. The only people he had brought along on this trip, other than the family, were Farquhar MacFerdoch, Abbot of Glendochart, and the Romish priest from Man, Wilfrith, who now acted as his secretary and Ragnhilde’s chaplain—brought because they could be helpful with the abbey-building. Farquhar was no true cleric, of course, only a hereditary abbot of the Columban Church, a secular figure, custodian of the staff, bell and altar of St. Fillan. But he had the title and was a chieftain in his own right, and Somerled had appointed him nominally responsible for much of the abbey project. The priest Wilfrith was really of more use in this, to be sure, knowing more about real abbeys, having been trained in one.