Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

by Nigel Tranter

  Not that she disapproved of the visitors from lona themselves—on the contrary. Abbot Augustine was a saintly old man but with a twinkle in his eye—actually reminding her of St. Malachy O’Moore, which was scarcely surprising since that odd character had been a Celtic abbot before he became a Roman prelate. Augustine was not, in fact, titular Abbot of lona and Primate of the Columban Church but, as it were, only sub-Abbot in charge, the true head of the Church being domiciled in Ireland, at Derry Abbey, where the Columban hierarchy had taken refuge long ago, from the Viking raiders, and never come back to lona, sacked so many times; although Somerled was trying hard to get the present man, Flaithbertach, to return, with assurances that he now had the pirates well under control. Along with Augustine had come, for this ceremony, Dubhsith, the lona lector, a genial barrel of a man, and MacForcellach, chief of the Keledi, the Friends of God, the special priestly order within the Church, a surprisingly young man for such position, silent but with a piercing glance. With a group of lesser clerics, a cheerfully unpretentious lot, they stood out only by reason of their drab clothing.

  It was rather amusing, really, in that since none of these had had any experience in opening new abbeys, it had fallen to the Romish Wilfrith, ably assisted by Somerled, to advise and organise the affair. They were presently assembled in the refectory, not yet quite completed but decked in foliage and greenery for the day, to process from there around the establishment to the great church itself, behind a troop of fiddlers—at which Wilfrith raised his eyebrows. He was, of course, basing his attempts at organisation on his experience of the consecration of Rushen Abbey on Man—and finding gentle resistance from the Columbans, who obviously had a deep suspicion of ritual and display. Without Somerled’s support the thing would have been done with no more ceremonial than one of their ordinary brief baptismal services. At least, unlike the Romans, the Celtic clergy had nothing against women taking full part in whatever was done, and Ragnhilde and Anna were lined up to process with the rest.

  At last Wilfrith was as satisfied as he was likely to be, and they moved off. Saor MacNeil, as Chamberlain of Argyll, led the way, bearing aloft the great galley banner of the Isles and looking notably pleased with himself. Then came the eight fiddlers, playing with much élan. That they rendered what amounted to a quick-step, of spirit and verve good enough to dance to, no doubt emphasised the holy joy of the occasion, but it did have the effect of sending the company along at a pace which few sacred processions can have equalled, and which forced old Abbot Augustine into a sort of tottering run, his pastoral staff waving about alarmingly, the rest of the clergy hurrying after. Somerled, with Ragnhilde on his arm, strode out as though to urgent war, the Queen having to kilt up her skirts. Dougal followed on with skipping Anna, then Gillecolm with Cathula, then Ranald and Angus grinning widely, Conn Ironhand muttering about his old bones and Dermot Maguire deliberately refusing to be hurried, the long tail of chieftains and captains thereafter inevitably getting left behind, losing their places and becoming something of a rabble. All this to the cheers of the delighted crewmen, soldiery and watching local populace.

  Thus they wound round the monastic buildings, completed and otherwise, through the grove of tall old trees carefully retained, through the new-planted orchard and apiary, to reach the handsome, lofty, cruciform church in almost less time then it takes to tell, Wilfrith panting along in the rear, profoundly shocked.

  The fiddlers finished with a splendid flourish, approximately in unison, and there was silence save for puffing breathing. It was now time for Augustine to take charge but meantime that saintly character was in no state to do more than lean on his crozier and gasp.

  Perceiving this, Somerled called on the musicians to give them another offering whilst they waited, and after something of a false start they launched into Cuchullin’s Wedding March, a lively air productive of much toe-tapping and beating time. Clearly the instrumentalists believed that joyful occasions should be celebrated joyfully.

  When this was finished, Augustine was sufficiently recovered to turn and take the handsome carved bronze bell-shrine from the lector, Dubhsith, and extract the battered old rectangular bell therefrom, to wave it to and fro, with a hollow clanging, notably deep-sounding for something so small. This was St. Moluag’s Bell, from Lismore, the second-most-holy in the land, St. Columba’s own bell presently being with his other relics in Ireland. Thereafter the old man raised his crozier and led the way round the outside of the building, tapping at the masonry here and there and murmuring a few words each time, in a quite conversational tone, as it were wishing it well. He had quite refused, although courteously, Wilfrith’s direction about sprinkling holy water, declaring that such was for baptising human souls into the Body of Christ, not for spilling on lumpen stone. Back round at the main arched and carved western doorway, splendid with Celtic beasts and interlacing, he beat on the great oaken doors with his useful staff; but when they were flung open by someone inside, he did not go in but turned to face the throng. There, hand uplifted, he uttered a prayer for the good and proper worship of God ever to take place here, and Christ’s teachings to be expounded worthily to receptive ears, with the saints’ guidance and comfort on all who came with humble minds, especially that of blessed St. Marnock—for this was St. Marnock’s Day, 25th October—and ending with a benediction on those present. Thereafter he stood smiling beatifically at them, obviously finished. He did not actually enter the church. The Columban clerics conducted most of their services and worship in the open air, weather accepted as part of God’s providence, using their small and humble buildings mainly to house portable altars, fonts, communion-elements, chalices, patens, spoons and the like. Augustine was gently reminding all not to have too much concern with the towering monuments of man’s self-glorification—with perhaps a special glance at Somerled.

  Ceremonial being thus suddenly at an end, most others thereafter went into the church to admire, wonder and exclaim, of course—but the lesson was not entirely lost on them.

  Later, however, as they enjoyed a celebratory feast in the refectory, a very different note was struck. Abbot Augustine was displaying another side to his character, that of the born storyteller, entertaining all by recounting the story of St. Marnock, how as a small boy in Ireland he was present at the splendid reception given to St. Columba on his one and only return to his native land from Scotland, in the year 585, at Clonmacnois, and was so carried away by his wonderment and admiration for the holy man that he actually crept in under the hangings of the tent-like canopy being carried over the saint in procession, and there clutched on to the tail of Columba’s cloak; duly uncovered and upbraided by all but the saint himself, he was told to put out his tongue—and then all were informed that the lad would indeed grow up under his shadow and become a noted fellow-worker for Christ and that this tongue they all saw would be gifted by God with especial eloquence. So it was meet that on this St. Marnock’s Day this new abbey should be dedicated to his name, especially as he had laboured abundantly in these very parts all those years ago, as witnessed by his island of Inchmarnock off Bute, less than twenty miles away, and the cells of Kilmarnock in Cowal and in Ayrshire.

  They had got thus far when there was an interruption. A courier, who had obviously travelled far and fast, was shown in and brought to Somerled. He came from distant Ross, from the Earl Malcolm thereof, with an urgent message. The five Celtic earls, under Fertech of Strathearn, hitherto so reluctant to take up arms, had now suddenly and much against Malcolm’s advice, risen in revolt against the High King, on the grounds that he had betrayed them, and Scotland, by absenting himself from the country for so long and paying fealty to the King of England. They were marching south with the armies of the North—but not that of Ross. Malcolm was sure that this was folly, at the present juncture, with no hope of success. Moreover he, Malcolm, was only released on parole and the High King held his wife and son as hostage for his good behaviour. Strathearn and the others would almost certainly appeal to So
merled for aid, if they had not already done so; and he urged him strongly not to give it, instead to send them word that they should give up this ill-timed project.

  This was the first that Somerled had heard of the earls’ surprising move and he required no persuading not to become involved. He was getting a little tired of being used by the men of the North in their consistently ineffective ploys, and always without any return service or advantage to himself, or even thanks. He would send the courier back to his brother-in-law, assuring him of his non-intervention on this occasion.

  The Saddail Abbey celebration continued.

  On their return northwards to winter at Ardtornish, Somerled received a request indeed, not to join the Five Earls in war but the High King in peace. This surprising development was intimated by the arrival of an envoy from Malcolm the Maiden, Gregory Bishop of Dunkeld, no less, chosen no doubt as one of the few Gaelic-speaking prelates of the Roman Church, most of whom now were Normans. He brought the good wishes of the monarch for King Somerled and an invitation to join him and his court at Perth for the Yuletide festivities.

  This unlooked-for courtesy naturally called for some explanation on the part of the Bishop—although Somerled had anticipated that King Malcolm might well be looking for allies in the present state of threat from Henry of England, his erstwhile friend. Master Gregory amplified. The High King had answered the unexpected danger of the northern earls’ revolt in forthright fashion, marching promptly against them and summoning all loyal men to rally to his standard at Perth. He had been rather swifter to act than were most of the said loyal subjects, with the result that before any large numbers had assembled, he had been in fact besieged in the walled city of Perth by the said rebellious earls. However, this crisis brought about a speeding-up of the loyalist muster and a major host came to the relief of the besieged monarch, in the face of which the earls discreetly withdrew north-eastwards. In due course, King Malcolm followed them, with a large army now, into the earldoms of Angus, Mar and Buchan, laying waste these lands and placing Norman governors therein, to teach the folk the cost of revolt, the earls fleeing ever further north. The High King was now back at Perth, supervising the assertion of the royal authority in the more southerly earldoms of Strathearn and Lennox. He intended to remain there over Yule. Hence the invitation to Somerled.

  That man did not take long to decide on his course. He would go to Perth. If the young King wanted now to be friends, at least on the surface, that was surely to his own advantage. For he himself could do with allies. The Celtic North was obviously a spent force. Godfrey was still at large, and might possibly succeed in obtaining aid from Norway, Orkney or even England, just conceivably all three—in which case Somerled would be glad indeed of Scottish support. And there was his sister and nephew at Rook’s Burgh to think of. He would go, but in style, as one king to another, or rather two, for he would take Dougal also, as helping to establish him as accepted King of Man. Ragnhilde also, and Anna as Donald’s betrothed, all in the interests of due recognition. And, of course, a goodly train of armed men.

  So, at the end of November they set out, on a fairly leisurely progress, by ship first to his new castle of Dunstaffnage, built on the site of the famed Pictish fort at the mouth of Loch Etive in Lorne, where Somerled had had horses collected for them, a great many of the short-legged, sturdy Highland ponies and garrons. From there they rode, a long cavalcade, eastwards along Etive-side and through the mighty Pass of Brander below towering Cruachan, to the foot of Loch Awe, where they stayed for the first night at the hallhouse of Sir Malcolm MacGregor of Glenorchy, who was to accompany them onwards to Perth.

  The next day they had to cross the high spine of the land by the long, bare and lofty gut of Glen Lochy and over the summit of Mamlorn into Breadalbane; and so down to Tyndrum, where there was a Columban cashel to provide modest comfort for the ladies. There was snow on the high tops already but fortunately none on the drove-road which they were following, the route by which the great West Highland cattle-herds were driven each year to the low-country markets. This would be their longest and toughest day, over the passes. Thereafter it was comparatively easy, a mere few miles through forested country now to Glen Dochart, where Abbot Farquhar MacFerdoch made them welcome at his house before likewise joining their company.

  Easy stages up Dochart and down Glen Ogle and along Loch Earnside into Strathearn, took them into a cowering land, however fair, which had so recently felt the royal—or Norman—wrath. They came to Perth in four more days.

  St. John’s Town of Perth was a semi-walled town, set on the south bank of the Tay, here a broad and noble river. The place, although notable as a religious centre, with many monasteries and churches, was now as an armed camp, of course. Somerled’s cavalcade was challenged a mile off, but discreetly, for it made an impressive sight, obviously not to be provoked lightly. Messengers were sent on ahead to announce their arrival.

  At the west gate of the town proper they were met by a group of Norman knights, clearly sent hurriedly to welcome and escort the King and Queen of Argyll and the Isles to the High King’s presence. These were more respectful than had been those who greeted Somerled at Rook’s Burgh on his first visit to the High King, David, all those years ago.

  David’s grandson received them civilly but without warmth, obviously surprised to see Ragnhilde. But then reputedly he was not a warm young man in many respects, and uninterested in women. Pale, slightly-built, unimpressive, Malcolm the Fourth was a strange representative of one of the oldest lines of warrior-kings in Christendom. By-named the Maiden, meaning virgin, because of his determinedly unmarried state, there were nevertheless stories about his secret habits which were scarcely maidenly. Somerled did not like the look of him—a more different character from his own would probably have been hard to find. But he also was civil, courteous, careful to give no more and no less than one monarch should give to another. Dougal too, as King of Man, heedfully took the same attitude. Ragnhilde was reserved. There appeared to be very few women about this court—Malcolm of course was still more or less on campaign.

  Malcolm mac Henry mac David was, it transpired, a man of as little subtlety and finesse as he was of grace, and that very night at table, with Somerled seated on his right and Ragnhilde on his left, without preamble he plunged into business.

  “You, sir, were friend to my grandsire David—his vassal, I am told. I hope that I can call you mine also?”

  “Ah—yes and no, my lord King. Friend, yes; vassal, no.”

  “But, I am told . . .?”

  “I gave him my oath of fealty, my lord, as High King of Scots, gave it of my choice, not of duty. Because he was my friend.”

  “But . . . fealty and vassalage, King Somerled, are they not the same?”

  “No, sir, they are not. The Ri, or lesser kings of Scotland, are not vassals of the High King but his appointers and councillors. You would not name the Earls of Fife, Strathearn, Moray, Mar and the rest your vassals, I think?”

  “They are rebels, sir, rebels! In shameful revolt against me. But I have drawn their teeth.”

  “Perhaps, sir. But they are not and never were your vassals. The Ri of the Ard Righ. I chose to be of a like accord with my friend King David.”

  Malcolm scratched his hairless chin uncertainly. He had been wholly reared and educated, if that was the word, by Normans and neither knew nor cared much about his ancient Celtic inheritance—which was why his earls were in rebellion against him. He changed his stance.

  “If not my vassal I would wish you to be my friend, Lord Somerled.”

  “Ah, that is different. Friendship is . . . admirable.” That was carefully said.

  “Yes.” The other hesitated. “I could be a good friend to you,” he declared.

  “That would be gratifying, my lord King. And what would I have to do to earn such . . . felicity?”

  “Act my friend—that is all.”

  “Would I do otherwise, lacking cause? Forby, you must have a fair su
fficiency of friends, have you not? All these Norman lords and bishops. Not to speak of the puissant King Henry of England.”

  Malcolm frowned and plucked at his sleeve. “Henry is no true friend. He threatens me.”

  “You say so? But he is your companion-in-arms, is he not? You went to his wars. He knighted you. Returned to you your earldom of Huntingdon?”

  “At a price. He claims paramountcy over me and my realm, now. Summons me, me, High King of Scots, to Caer Luel to do homage to him. And claims all Cumbria and Northumbria as his.”

  “That is an old story, to be sure. You have already done homage to him, have you not?”

  “That was only for my English earldom of Huntingdon. For nothing in Scotland.”