by Regan Walker
Castle Rushen, the Isle of Man
RAGNHILD WAS RESTLESS. All Saints’ Day was approaching and Advent just behind it and she had much to do. Besides that, they were expecting a visit from Queen Affraic’s father, Fergus, Lord of Galloway.
Fergus always arrived with a great show. On his head of limp brown hair would be a golden crown, despite that he was a liege man of King David. Fergus’ face, like his beard, drooped in a weary way. Yet his apparel would be so rich as to rival an English king’s. His wife, Elizabeth, likewise would glide into the castle with her nose in the air, reminding all she was the daughter, albeit illegitimate, of Henry I, England’s dead king.
Ragnhild considered Fergus’ son, Uchtred, in a better light, for he had been her childhood friend. But Fergus’ kerns, his foot soldiers, were unruly and coarse, rivaling even Sweyn Asleifsson for outrageous behavior. Not a man among them did she trust. It was with good reason they were called the Picts of Galloway.
Her father’s guards, when hearing of their coming, had exchanged speaking glances. Nevertheless, the Wolf of Galloway would be entertained in grand style, for he was her father’s ally as well as King David’s and possessed a great fleet of longships. Hence, Ragnhild had many tasks awaiting her this day.
“You have seen to my father’s chamber?” asked Affraic in a disdainful manner.
“Of course,” replied Ragnhild. “The same one he occupied the last time he and your lady mother visited. I have asked the kitchen to prepare your father’s favorite dishes as well.” She had to wonder what Affraic would do when, one day, Ragnhild would leave the isle. She had never before looked upon such a fate as one to be desired but all that had changed with Somerled.
What would it be like to be wed to such a warrior? She suspected ’twould not be an easy life but then she did not desire a life without challenges. She would take the man no matter there would be arduous days.
“You might think to have a new bliaut made,” said the queen, giving Ragnhild’s simple green dress an appraising glance.
“The gowns I have are more than adequate,” said Ragnhild. “In one of them, you will recall, I greeted King David.”
“Very well,” said Affraic, “do as you wish.” She turned in a haughty manner and walked away, reminding Ragnhild of Affraic’s mother, the Lady of Galloway.
Several days later, two longships from Galloway entered the harbor. Watching Fergus’ men descend from the ships, Ragnhild was glad she had thought to clear one of the buildings that housed her father’s unmarried warriors across the moat and outside the palisade so that Galloway’s kerns could be housed beyond the castle. She would ask her father to build additional soldiers’ quarters so there would always be a place for the troublesome warriors of visiting nobles to lodge.
She asked the garrison commander to dispatch two of Man’s most trustworthy guards to Fergus’ ships to escort Galloway’s warriors—all save Fergus’ personal guard—to the quarters prepared for them.
With her father and stepmother, Ragnhild waited at the castle door in the mist-shrouded morning as Fergus and his retinue arrived. Above, dark clouds threatened rain, an inauspicious beginning.
Although Fergus, in his fourth decade, was younger than her father, he was Olaf’s father-in-law and addressed the King of Man as such. “Greetings to my son-in-law and to your queen and daughter,” said Fergus.
“And to you, your queen and your son,” returned Ragnhild’s father. Fergus’ son said nothing but winked at her. Uchtred had grown since she had last seen him, now taller than she, though his face, thankfully, was still more a reflection of his mother than his father. Whoever had been Elizabeth’s mother, one of King Henry’s many women, must have been a beauty.
“I hope to soon lay eyes on my grandchild, Godred,” remarked Fergus as he strolled beside Olaf into the castle.
“He is a lovely child,” Affraic remarked to Elizabeth as they trailed behind Olaf and Fergus. “The king is very proud of his heir.”
Ragnhild and Uchtred followed the two women with Fergus’ three guardsmen behind them.
“Was it very cold on the sea this morn?” she asked Uchtred.
“’Twas wretched damp and gloomy,” and then with a smile, “but the voyage was mercifully short.”
She laughed. “Then you will be happy for the fire and hot wine.”
“I will, indeed,” he said, his hazel eyes twinkling. “’Tis good to see you, Hilde.”
They had known each other since they were youths and “Hilde” had been his name for her when they played games, their favorite being hoodman-blind. While Ragnhild was not overly fond of the nickname, she liked Uchtred and knew it was spoken with affection for she was like a sister to him.
One summer, they had learned archery and chess together. Affraic, then only Lord Fergus’ daughter, had been a few years older than they were but she never participated in their childhood games and cared not for archery. Even then, she looked nothing like her beautiful mother.
Refreshments awaited them in the hall. As the others accepted mugs of hot spiced wine and platters of bread, cheese and apples, Ragnhild spoke to the servants to assure herself the guests’ chambers were ready. When that was done, she spoke to Fergus’ chief guard. “I have a chamber reserved for you and the two men with you. It is close to Lord Fergus’ rooms.”
The guard, more reserved than Galloway’s kerns, inclined his head. “Thank you, my lady.”
The rain fell in torrents that night, so loud she could hear it beating against the castle from her chamber where she huddled under the furs. Worse, it continued for days thereafter. As a result, there were no long walks along the cliffs, no riding across the hills. Instead, during the day, while Affraic and Elizabeth embroidered and Ragnhild’s father and Fergus sat drinking and talking, she and Uchtred kept each other company with games of chess and reading aloud by the fire.
On this afternoon, with the deerhounds at her feet, she read The Song of Roland. The story told of Charlemagne’s honorable nephew, who died a martyr’s death through the treachery of his stepfather. Assigned the rear guard in a march to battle, Roland died when the enemy was told how he could be ambushed. The slaughter of Roland and his men made Ragnhild worry for another valiant warrior who might be fighting the Norse pirates this very moment.
Somerled said he was going to Islay but she had received no letters from him and desperately wanted to know if he was well.
“I have no interest in becoming like one of my father’s men,” Uchtred said, commenting on the final scene of the story. “Always lusting for battle. My inclinations go the other way. Did you know that my father intends to build an abbey at Dundrennan?”
When she shook her head, he said, “I would oversee not only the abbey’s building but become the abbot, should that be possible.”
“But Uchtred, you are your father’s heir. He will expect you to become Lord of Galloway when he dies.”
“Alas, I know it,” said Uchtred, his expression downcast. “I fear I shall have to content myself with building abbeys.”
“That is not a bad thing,” she encouraged. Silently, she thought if Galloway built more abbeys and brought more abbots like Abbot Bernard to its shores, perhaps its men would not have the reputation as violent Picts.
Rising from her seat, she listened and, hearing no sound of rain, said, “Come, I believe we have been favored with a break in the weather. I will take you to meet Abbot Bernard. The monks are busy making ale just now and I’m sure he would be happy to share some.”
OLAF DOWNED THE LAST of his second goblet of wine and watched his daughter leave the castle with Fergus’ son. “It seems our children have found each other most companionable.”
“Aye, I have observed that they often seek each other’s company.” Running his hand over his scant1 beard, Fergus appeared to contemplate. “As I recall, the princess is of marriageable age. Some might say well past it.”
“She is not yet twenty,” replied Olaf, defensively. “I know maid
ens are often wed at a younger age, but I have been loath to give her to one of her many suitors, though I know, one day, I must.”
“What say you to adding Uchtred to that list of suitors? He is young, aye. But one day, he will be Lord of Galloway. Only think, Olaf! He could provide support for your young heir, an ally he can trust close to hand.”
“As I trust he will be in any event.” Olaf was already allied with Galloway through Affraic. He hoped to gain more than that from the marriage of the princess. In any event, Uchtred would likely be available for some years. “We will see.”
Fergus said, “Word has it that David’s troubles in England grow with his niece, Empress Maud’s defeats and Stephen’s rising power. I expect he may call upon us should he venture into England again on her behalf.”
Olaf heaved a sigh. “That treaty David agreed to at Durham will not hold. But I have told him I will have no part in any battle in England.”
“I would like to have told him the same, but I am sworn. Ah well, the warriors of Galloway love a good fight.”
Olaf gave no reply but he wondered what havoc the men of Galloway could wreak on England based upon the stories his garrison commander had told him of the lengths to which he had gone to keep order among Fergus’ soldiers.
Loch Findlugan, The Isle of Islay, November 1137 A.D.
THWACK! SOMERLED POUNDED another nail into the beam, satisfied he had hit the mark. The sound of other hammers and the sawing of boards could be heard all around him.
Three weeks had passed and, notwithstanding the occasional rain, the causeway had been constructed from the loch’s shore to the large island where a great hall was rising.
The villagers, who brought them bread, gruel and ale to add to their stores of fresh meat and fish, seemed to take great pride in their lord’s having selected Islay as the site for his headquarters.
Maurice wiped his brow with his sleeve, dipping a cup into the water barrel next to where Somerled worked. “The building goes well.”
Taking the nails from his mouth, Somerled looked around at the work that had been accomplished thus far and nodded. Work had begun on the building that would be the lord’s house and, beyond it, lodgings for others were under construction. On the banks of the loch a stockpile of wood and supplies had accumulated. “Aye, it does.”
“The men should have no trouble meeting your goal. So, I have been thinking. What say you to letting me take a galley to Ireland? ’Tis only a half day’s sail. I would see my family ere we leave on our next voyage.”
Somerled thought for a moment. “Would you take a message for me to the Isle of Man on your way back? It would mean sailing farther south before turning north but I’d be most grateful.”
Maurice smiled. “A message for the princess?”
There was no sense in denying what was obvious to all. “Aye.”
“Of course, I’ll carry the message.”
An idea came to Somerled that afternoon as he continued to work and he realized that he had his own need to sail to Ireland. In Ulaid, not far from Maurice’s family, Somerled’s mother cared for his son, Gillecolum, still a boy but of an age to be with his father.
Over dinner that night, he spoke of his idea to Maurice. “I have been thinking that since the smith, MacEachern, has shown great leadership over the construction and will soon see it accomplished, I would sail to Ireland with you to retrieve my son.”
Maurice smiled. “I would welcome your company. And then you could deliver your own message to the Isle of Man.”
The Isle of Man
RAGNHILD LED FAIRHAIR from the stables into a rare day of sun. Lord Fergus had remained on the isle for a fortnight and, in that time, the rain had been unrelenting. She was glad when he sailed back to Galloway, taking his unruly warriors with him. Fortunately, she had not been forced to deal with them but her father’s men complained bitterly of their fighting and harrying the isle’s young women.
Now that they were gone and the sky was clear, she wanted to ride to her favorite spot, the cliffs above Niarbyl Bay, where she could think without the incessant duties that dogged her in the castle.
Confined to the inner bailey and the stables for some time, Fairhair was eager to run. So, they galloped over the hills, Ragnhild’s mantle blowing behind her, whipped by the wind. Exhilarated, she felt more alive than she had in days.
Arriving at the bay, she reined in Fairhair and looked down from the cliff. The rain of the past few weeks had painted much of the landscape green. Against the blue-gray waters of the bay and the white-topped waves breaking on the shore, it was breathtaking.
She slid from the saddle to walk Fairhair forward where they stood looking out to sea. Stroking his broad neck, she listened to the waves and watched the fulmars as they wheeled effortlessly in front of the cliffs, taking advantage of the onshore winds.
She inhaled deeply the smell of ocean and salt, an elixir to her soul after so many days confined to the castle.
Ragnhild had believed she would be content to stay on the Isle of Man for the rest of her life. Yet, sometime in the last year, she had begun to think otherwise. Now, a longing had grown within her to stand by the side of a golden warrior.
CHAPTER 12
Ulaid (Ulster), the northeast coast of Ireland, November 1137 A.D.
SOMERLED AND HIS two companions trudged up the hill, past tall stands of pine, keeping their hoods over their heads against the light fall of rain. Reminded it rained nearly every day in Ulaid, he began to think of Islay’s weather as passably fair. A bit windy, mayhap, but even the short days of November had brought sun.
As they approached the crest, the place he had once called home appeared through the falling rain.
Years had passed since he had visited the house in which he had spent his youth. The two-story white sandstone manor with its gray slate roof brought back memories of a time when his father still lived and his siblings, Angus and Bethoc, played with him on the rocky shores where blustery showers often soaked them to the skin.
The oaken front door, darkened with age, opened to reveal his mother. Her golden hair, now laced with silver, was confined to two long plaits hanging down the front of her sapphire gown. On her head, over her veil, rested a simple circlet of silver.
For a moment, she stared as if trying to determine if she knew him. Then, with sudden burst of recognition, she cried out, “Sumarliðr!”
“Aye, Mother, ’tis me,” he said, taking a step toward her and holding out his arms.
He accepted his mother’s embrace and then took her hands in his, gazing into her much-loved face, noting the wrinkles that were new. Looking into her sky blue eyes, he said, “You must forgive my long absence. I have been occupied—”
“So I hear tell.” With a smile, she added, “’Tis said you forge a kingdom.”
“Aye, one that Father envisioned long ago.”
She looked behind him. “Introduce me to your friends and then let us leave this dampness to sit by the fire.” Inwardly, he chuckled. Only his mother would call rain “dampness”.
Quickly, he introduced the dark-haired Maurice MacNeill and auburn-tressed Liadan MacGilleain, explaining how they had come to join him. He finished with, “We were just on Islay where my men are building a place for the clans to meet.”
His mother, ever gracious, welcomed them into her home and ordered a servant to take their wet mantles. “I will ask the servants to see to your crew. They can stay in one of the outbuildings and will be well fed.”
“Thank you. I was just about to ask.”
She tossed him the knowing smile of a mother. “Recall I did the same for your father’s crews.”
“Aye, and they loved you for it.”
A servant stoked the hearth fire and, at his mother’s instruction, went off to heat the wine. It occurred to him then that Ragnhild was not unlike his mother. Both were noble Norsewomen of faith who did their duty with love and affection for those they served.
Somerled smiled at the
few servants he recognized. Many were new.
“You must be famished,” said his mother, casting him a look of inquiry.
“We ate this morning,” said Somerled, “but ’tis unlikely we will turn away food if offered.”
His mother smiled. “Just as I remember. And how is Angus?”
“My brother is well.”
“Is he still in Morvern with the MacInnes Clan?”
“He is now chief of that clan but he is not always in Morvern. He sails with me most days but, at this moment, he is on Kintyre.”
“It heartens me to know you are together, especially since Bethoc has decided to join her errant husband where he is confined in the King of Scots’ castle at Roxburgh.”
“Aye, when I met with David, he told me of my brother-in-law’s confinement but the way he explained it, MacHeth is more a guest than a prisoner.”
“You met with King David?”
“I did.” At her raised brow, he added, “I will tell you about it in good time.”
They took seats around the hearth fire, holding their palms to the heat from the flames. High above them, a small, covered hole in the roof accepted the trail of rising smoke. The hot spiced wine arrived soon thereafter and Somerled and his companions wrapped his chilled hands around the mugs.
“Cook will be preparing your favorite lamb stew,” said his mother. “She has been anxious to see you and will want to serve the meal herself. News comes to us of you but not often enough, so tell me all.”
“First,” said Somerled, “where is my son, Gillecolum?”
“With his tutor. I will call him when you are ready.”
Excitement rose in Somerled’s chest. “Now, if you please. When I last saw him, he was a wee lad. My eyes are hungry to see how he has grown.” Somerled conjured in his mind the image of a small boy with blue eyes and hair the color of harvest wheat.
His mother turned to a servant and told him to summon the lad. While they waited, Somerled told his mother in summary all that had happened. “It began in Morvern, as you might imagine, and from there we took back Argyll, Kintyre and the Southern Isles. ’Twas King David who gave me Arran and Bute.”
