Summer Warrior (The Clan Donald Saga Book 1)

by Regan Walker

  “Oui,” said the ruddy-cheeked mason. “Did you doubt it, Lord?”

  “Nay, but I am pleased. You have done well.”

  “You missed nothing save a long walk with midges,” said Domnall to one man who remained behind and asked what he had missed.

  “And the slaughter of the Galwegians,” added Maurice. “A grisly sight.”

  “You kept our men out of the fight?” asked another man who had stayed behind.

  “All save the archers,” said Somerled. “We were consigned to the third line and never called into the battle, which was just as well. ’Twas confused chaos made worse by the Roman archbishop’s raising a standard in the midst of the English forces rendering it a holy cause for the Normans who clung to it like a bear’s foot to honey.”

  “You must be hungry,” said Aileas to Somerled and the small group of men standing around him.

  Somerled glanced at his brother and Maurice and Domnall before nodding. “Aye, food would be good if you have any to share.”

  “We’ve plenty of trout and salmon caught this morning. I’ll go to prepare it. Come when you are ready.” With that, she kissed Ruairi on the cheek and, calling the two children to her, turned to walk back to their cottage.

  “I am in need of a wash,” said Somerled to Ruairi, “else I will arrive at your table smelling of English mud and kelp.” He thought to bathe in the burn that flowed through the woods nearby.

  “Best we all bathe,” said Ruairi, “or my wife will be holding her nose.”

  Somerled’s companions agreed and fetched their satchels from the ships before they all headed inland. In addition to his bath, Somerled trimmed his copper beard close to his face. It had grown long with his sojourn in England.

  As planned, they dined with Ruairi’s family and the stonemason. Aileas and the children made the cottage a home and, not for the first time, Somerled felt the longing for one of his own. Now that David’s war was over, he would set his sights on the future.

  “The trout and salmon are delicious,” he remarked to Aileas. “The herbs and butter add much. ’Tis nothing like my cooking.”

  “My brother speaks truth,” said Angus. “He oft forgets to take the fish from the fire.”

  That began a round of teasing but Somerled did not mind, for he was used to it. Moreover, he was glad they had come home to teasing and laughter instead of somber mourning.

  Content that the mason, de Mares, was doing a good job, Somerled determined to leave for Islay with his two galleys and one longship the next day.

  He was anxious to embrace his son.

  Isle of Islay, early September 1138 A.D.

  THE HEARTH FIRE BURNED steadily as Somerled sat at a table in the great hall, finishing his letter to Ragnhild. Gillecolum sat nearby bent over something he was carving out of wood. The boy had grown taller since he’d taken the lad from Ireland.

  After weeks away in Scotland and England, their reunion had been sweet. Gillecolum was now in those difficult years between boyhood and manhood when he needed a father most. No longer did he play with wooden swords, now he practiced with a steel blade.

  Somerled’s letter to the Princess of Man was short. Though his thoughts of her were tender and full of love, he did not seem to be able to write more than the barest of facts. He could not very well tell her that he intended they would be wed within the year, though he did. How he would accomplish that he did not yet know but he knew in his heart she would be his and not that far off. So, instead, he spoke of the outcome of the Battle of the Standard, as it was coming to be known. He thanked her for her prayers, telling her they were answered, that he and his men had survived. For that was the most important part. If he lived, there was hope for them. Ragnhild, being no fool, would understand the significance of that.

  He had just sealed the letter with red wax using the new seal Duncan MacEachern, the Keills blacksmith, had made for him—a galley complete with sail inside a circle with a sprig of heather—when Maurice entered the hall.

  Somerled rose, wondering what time of day it might be. He had lost track of time with his thoughts of the princess. What he could glimpse of the gray sky outside through the window did not tell him much.

  Maurice’s mouth twitched up on one side. “I see you have written another letter. For the princess?”

  “Aye,” said Somerled, rather sheepishly, still reluctant to admit what was apparent to all. “Now, I must find a way to take it to her.”

  “I’ll do it,” offered Maurice. “’Twill give me another chance to visit my kin on the way.” At Somerled’s unspoken question, Maurice said, “Aye, I will visit your mother and let her know you and Angus live and that Gillecolum is thriving.”

  Somerled’s son looked up and grinned.

  “Thank you, Maurice. It will mean much to her to know we survived England. I have to assume the reports from Scotland have spoken of the king’s defeat and the death of thousands. She will be worried.”

  “Aye, she will be.”

  Somerled handed his friend the letter for Ragnhild. “I must sail to Morvern and then to Moidart to see what the stonemason d’Harcourt is doing.”

  “If you take Liadan with you,” said Maurice, “you might as well take Domnall. He will want to call upon her brother, Diarmad.”

  “I had planned to do so. Domnall would have insisted.”

  Maurice ran a hand through his dark hair, grown longer with their sojourn in England. “Who can blame him with so bonny a lass not yet betrothed?”

  “True. Ere we sail north, I want to speak to the shipwright in Keills who is known to Liadan to see if he might be willing to build some of our galleys. Rents can be forgiven for such assistance. Will you join us in Moidart?”

  “I will, though it might be more than a sennight ere you next see me.”

  Somerled gave Maurice a curt nod before each went his own way.

  Having delivered all of the Islay men home hale and hearty, Somerled’s talks with the shipwright in Keills went well. He was happy to build galleys for their growing fleet and promised to solicit others on the isle to help.

  A few days later, Somerled sailed north with two galleys. Maurice had taken the longship south to Ireland. Domnall captained one galley but Liadan sailed with Somerled, Angus and Gillecolum. The young couple had grown closer with Domnall’s return, and they would have enough time together in their visits to Knapdale and Morvern on the way to Moidart. There was no reason to tempt fate if Liadan was to be a virgin on her wedding night.

  The Isle of Man, September 1138 A.D.

  “WHEN WILL YOU LEAVE?” Ragnhild heard her father’s garrison commander ask, his deep voice carrying to where she stood in the shadows having just come in from the stables.

  “In a few days, as the weather permits,” her father replied. “I will take the princess with me and visit my tenants on Skye before calling upon the Earl of Orkney. Rognvald has sent me a most gracious invitation.”

  Ragnhild froze. What could her father have in mind? And why take her with him to Orkney? She could think of only one reason. No word had come from Somerled or any news, for that matter, as to what might have happened to him in England. She despaired to think her father might count him among the dead. She could not allow herself to do so.

  “Shall I speak to the captain to ready your longship?” inquired the garrison commander.

  “Thank you. While my forty men will be sufficient for a visit with tenants and to call upon the earl, best to tell them to be prepared for battle should we cross with pirates.”

  The commander dipped his head. “As you wish, Sire.” With that, the commander departed through the door to the outer bailey on the opposite side of the hall.

  She crossed to where her father stood. “You are planning a voyage?”

  “I am,” he said, smiling at her. “’Tis time to call upon my tenants and to visit that elusive Earl of Orkney. You will come?”

  Ordinarily, Ragnhild would the thrilled to be included in one of her father
’s voyages but this one boded ill for her if her father expected her to accompany him to the murderer’s den Rognvald called home. “If you wish it, Father.”

  “I do. You have not sailed with me since we called upon King David. ’Twill do you good to venture outside of Man.”

  Ragnhild thought of the stark Orkney coast of high, rugged cliffs, the rest of it flat, and sighed. “Very well, Father.” She would go but she would find a way to thwart any marriage plans involving Rognvald.

  It was only days later when a longship arrived in the harbor one morning that she knew was not her father’s nor any Norse ship for the stem posts were plain and the rudder was in the stern where Somerled had cleverly moved all of his. Could it be him? Did he live?

  Shielding her eyes, Ragnhild stood in front of the castle, gazing down the hill, the grass still green from the last rains. In the harbor, a lone figure jumped down from the beached longship. She recognized him as the Irishman who was Somerled’s man. His curly dark hair and beard and his Celtic dress gave him away as her father’s foster brother, Maurice MacNeill.

  Her heart sank to think he might have come alone because his lord no longer lived.

  The guard at the palisade gate, by now familiar with the Irishman, allowed him entrance.

  She met him halfway down the hill.

  “Princess,” he said, dipping his head, “I come with a message for you from Lord Somerled.”

  “He lives!” she exclaimed, relieved beyond all measure. “I am happy he survived King David’s war when so many did not, but I am disappointed not to see him. Is he injured?”

  “Nay, he is well, my lady. He has sailed to Argyll’s north coast and to Moidart where his stonemason is surveying castle sites. He was forced to leave there when he received King David’s summons.”

  Her disappointment was too keen to hide.

  Maurice held out a parchment, sealed in red wax. “He sent this, my lady, knowing you would be worried since he was in the battle where thousands died. He did not want to leave you wondering about his fate.”

  Accepting the letter, she asked, “Will you stay the night?”

  “I cannot, for Somerled is expecting my return. Is there a message for him?”

  “A moment,” she said. Breaking the seal on the letter, she opened it to read.

  Princess,

  Some months past, I sailed to Scotland with forty galleys and longships at King David’s summons and fought with him in England. ’Twas the price of his favor and could not be denied. I oft looked at your green riband and thought of you and your prayers that I welcomed but did not deserve. Surely, God has answered them, for all of us lived to return.

  – Somerled

  He did not speak of love or any future they might have together. She looked up to encounter Maurice’s expectant gaze. “You may tell him I am grateful for his kindness in sending you so far to deliver his message.” She thought carefully of the next before adding, “And you may tell him my father leaves in a few days’ time for Skye and then he will pay a visit to the Earl of Orkney for Rognvald has extended him an invitation.”

  “I see.” His brows drew together. “And do you sail with him?”

  She met his inquiring gaze. “I do.”

  He bowed. “Then I bid you Godspeed and farewell, Princess.”

  She watched him walk down the hill to the gate and from there to the harbor, knowing the underlying message had been conveyed. If Somerled was ever to claim her, it must be now. He had once spoken of love. Did he still feel the same or, with the passage of time, had his heart changed?

  CHAPTER 18

  Loch Moidart, Argyll, September 1138 A.D.

  THE HEATHER-COVERED PROMONTORY, overlooking the joining of the River Shiel and Loch Moidart, that was sometimes rendered an island by the tide, was the place Somerled intended to locate his most northerly castle.

  Standing there now with Gillecolum, it seemed to him that of all the windswept places in his kingdom, Moidart might be the most beautiful. For certes, it was the most wild, the most untamed and the most remote. And yet, it was not for those reasons he had chosen the site.

  He humbly admitted he was not the first to recognize the strategic importance of the location, for here stood the remains of an ancient hillfort, a guardian of the past. From this spot, he could command the waters west to the Sea of the Hebrides and north to Skye and from Loch Shiel east to Loch Sunart, avoiding the dangerous waters off Ardnamurchan Point. And, if that were not enough, there was sand enough close by to beach his ships.

  “Is this the place you would build a castle, Father?” asked Gillecolum.

  “Aye, lad, what do you think of it?”

  “It reminds me of Ardtornish because it will sit high and look out on the sea loch.”

  “Aye, you are correct. The sites for most of our castles have that in common. Do you know why?”

  “So that we can see the enemy coming?”

  Somerled placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. “Well said. To see the Norse pirates coming from afar is to be forewarned. And it may not always be the Norsemen that trouble our shores.”

  “Somerled!” Angus shouted up the hill. “You are wanted in camp!”

  “Is the stonemason ready for me?” Somerled yelled down.

  “Aye with maps and drawings aplenty.”

  Somerled and Gillecolum retraced their steps back to the camp in the woods. Liadan’s brother, Diarmad MacGilleain, and his crew had raised the tents before he and Domnall had arrived with their galleys.

  Liadan’s reunion with her brother had been touching. Each had longed to see the other’s face and tears fell in abundance. In the days since their arrival, Domnall had oft spoken to Diarmad, making Somerled think mayhap they had come to some agreement, for they were easy in each other’s company.

  Inside the main tent, Somerled found the French stonemason, Goubert d’Harcourt, with Angus, Domnall, Diarmad and Liadan. They were gathered around a table studying a map much like the one Ruairi had shown Somerled at Ardtornish.

  “So, what think you of this site for a castle?” he asked them.

  D’Harcourt ran his fingers over his small, pointed beard. “Un bon choix, my lord. Assuming there is stone enough to be had, it should not be difficult to erect a Norman tower here.”

  “Excellent,” said Somerled, pleased they could move forward. “Then tell me of the other sites you have seen while I was delayed with the King of Scots.”

  D’Harcourt looked down at the map. “Where there is already a timber castle, or hillfort, as you call them,” he pointed to several places on the map, “the building will go easier. Others, like the site at Dunaverty Bay on Kintyre, will, because of their locations, take more men and more time.”

  Somerled had known all that to be true. “May I leave you here to supervise the construction, at least the beginning?”

  “Bien sûr, I will stay, but we need to find more masons, else the castles you want will take decades.”

  “I expect you are right but I will find the skilled men and you can train others. God willing, we will have time. The Norse pirates still plague certain isles but not like they once did.”

  When the sun had risen high in the sky, a longship sailed into the loch, approaching the promontory where he and Gillecolum had stood earlier that day. Somerled watched it hove into view. When it was nearly to the beach, Maurice waved to him from the deck.

  “’Tis Maurice,” said Angus who had joined him and Gillecolum on the beach.

  “Aye and about time.” Somerled strode to meet the Irishman as he climbed down from the deck. Gillecolum and Angus followed, close on his heels.

  “I bring news,” said Maurice, “but first ale and food!”

  Over a dinner of fresh trout, Somerled finally persuaded Maurice to divulge the news he’d been hiding. “Well?”

  “Your mother is in good health and very happy to hear you and Angus survived David’s war with the English. She asked about her grandson and I told her Gillecolum
thrives ’neath your watchful eye.”

  Somerled raised his brows, sure Maurice was toying with him. “And?”

  “Oh, yes. The Princess of Man thanks you for sending me, your trusted companion,” he said with a wink, “to convey your message. Though, to be honest, I do not believe she thought much of it.”

  Maurice’s teasing hit Somerled as truth. He’d known he had not written words to satisfy a maiden’s heart.

  “Yet, she must think much of you to confide the next,” said Maurice.

  “Tell me,” Somerled said, narrowing his eyes on the Irishman.

  “She divulged that her father was to sail north for Skye in a few days’ time, taking her with him, and afterward, he plans to call upon the Earl of Orkney at Rognvald’s invitation.”

  All eyes turned to Somerled. He did not need to ponder the significance of such a move overlong. “’Tis time to claim my bride.”

  “What will you do, Father?” asked Gillecolum.

  Somerled smiled because he knew his son liked the princess.

  “Do not doubt, Gille,” said Angus. “Your father will think of something clever, for he means to give you a new mother and the princess is his chosen lady.”

  Offshore of the Isle of Mull, September 1138 A.D.

  RAGNHILD SET HER FACE to the wind, inhaling the smell of the sea. It had taken the king’s longship a sennight to arrive where they anchored off the west coast of the Isle of Mull. They’d made several stops to see old friends and greet her father’s tenants. She had enjoyed their visits along the way and was glad her father had included her in this voyage, though she worried about its end.

  She gazed toward the west where the Isle of Coll was silhouetted against the light from late afternoon sun. It was cool on the water but she was warm in her hooded, fur-lined mantle.

  Here, she felt Somerled’s presence, for these were waters over which he claimed authority, though Coll and its neighbor, Tiree, were among her father’s isles. If Maurice had delivered her message, Somerled knew the time might be short in which to ask for her hand. Why had he never done so? He had never spoken of marriage, though she hoped what she had seen in his intense blue gaze was not only love, but a desire to call her his own.