Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (20 page)

Olaf waved genially. “You are Somerled, Gillebride’s son?” he greeted. “Welcome to my house and kingdom. We have heard much of you, some of it to your credit! I once had words with your father. They tell me that you are a very different man.”

“As is Olaf Godfreysson!” That was promptly returned, equally smiling. King Godfrey Crovan the Pale had been a great warrior and catholic in his slayings.

“Ah yes, yes.” The little eyes twinkled. “To be sure. Come closer, friend—come closer. This is the new Papal Legate to Ireland, the Lord Bishop of Armagh, who honours my house meantime. And here is our Bishop of Man, the Lord Wimund, an Englishman.”

“I fear that I am less holy, my Lord Olaf. I can only offer you the Abbot of Glendochart—and he only inherited that title from his father! But I greet these bishops with due respect, although I am no Roman. These are my friends . . .”

Presentations over, Olaf was not dilatory in coming to the point—only, he addressed the little gnome of a man. “And what can the King of Argyll want with the King of Man, think you, St. Malachy? Which of our territories does this young man covet, do you suppose? He has a great appetite for lands, I hear.”

Somewhat taken aback by such bluntness, however genially expressed, Somerled had to quickly revise his own approach. The Irish oddity gave him opportunity.

“Ha—this one comes to bargain, my friend. He brings only eight galleys when he could have brought a hundred! He does not be announcing his coming, whatever—and brings no gifts, it seems. So he thinks to outwit you as he tried to outwit David Margaretson. Och, it is a fine young man—just fine!” All this bubbling out in a wheezing chuckle, with the Papal Legate ending by slapping his black-robed thigh.

More wary than ever, Somerled sought to adjust to this new dimension. Clearly he was not going to pull any wool over these two pairs of elderly eyes. He glanced at Ragnhilde, who had not left the room but had taken up her stance near the door.

“I would not dream of trying to outwit the noble Olaf—even if I could. Nor yet your good self, my lord Bishop. My poor wits are insufficiently sharp for such trade. I but come with some honest proposals to put before Your Highness.”

“Well said, young man. My daughter said that she esteemed you honest—after a fashion. Too rare a virtue—eh, Bishop Wimund?”

That very different prelate inclined his head but did not commit himself.

“I thank the Lady Ragnhilde. You must judge my honesty by my proposals.”

“We shall, friend—we shall.”

“Who could say fairer, at all?” the Legate nodded, rubbing his hands. “A young man to heed, to cherish!”

“You desire to hear my suggestions
now
, King Olaf? At this time? In this . . . company?”

“When better, friend? The company is good.”

“Yes. As you will. I come to speak of Arran and Bute.”

“To be sure. Where you left your fleet, in Rothesay Bay.”

“M’mm. You are well informed, my lord. Yes, where I left my fleet. I spoke there with the Keeper of Rothesay Castle, one MacRoderick—
your
keeper, he declared!”

“Ah, yes the good MacRoderick. He would not trouble you, with your one hundred longships!”

“No. But he told me that
you
were his lord, not the High Steward of Scotland. That Man ruled Bute and Arran.”

“Does this trouble you, friend Somerled?”

“A little, yes. For King David of Scots has granted
me
Arran and Bute, in place of the Steward.”

“So many seeking to possess these poor islands. But I
hold
them.”

“That is why I am here. We believed that the Norse held them—as they had held so much. But found that it was yourself. I was prepared to drive out the Norsemen. But . . . you are different.”

“You fear that you could not drive me out, young man?” That was interested.

“I could, I think. But I would not wish to do so. You and I are both vassals of King David. It would be unsuitable that we should fight. And over a grant of our liege-lord David.”

“Is not the King of Argyll considerate?” Olaf observed, beaming.

“Och, he is a lesson to us, just,” St. Malachy asserted. “God be praised for the likes o’ him!”

Somerled bit his lip, frowning.

“Heed him, father.” That was Ragnhilde from the doorway.

“I do so, my dear—I do so. I but wait to hear King Somerled’s proposals, which he has come to put before me.”

“My proposals are simple. Friendship.”

It was the old man’s turn to look at a loss. “Friendship . . .?” he repeated, sitting forward.

“Friendship, yes. No more, no less. Is it not sufficient?”

Olaf wagged his head. “This is no proposal, young man.”

“Is it not? Many, I think, would wish to have me their friend. And few, on this seaboard, their enemy! Ask your fellow-Norsemen.”

“Are you threatening me, Somerled MacGillebride?”

“How can you ask that? When I am offering you my friendship.”

“In exchange for Arran and Bute!”

“Also,
your
friendship for me, in return.”

“I thought that you came to bargain, young man?”

“I did. Consider. You require a friend such as Somerled of Argyll. This kingdom of Man is vulnerable. You must know that sufficiently well. Anyone can see it. And if anyone, then the Norsemen, the Irish Norse in especial. Or the English—these Normans are ever seeking new conquests. Or even Sigurd of Norway, who is said to be considering binding all the lands and territories held by Norsemen into one Norse empire under his sway—Canute’s dream. That is partly why I entered into firm friendship with King David—in case Sigurd thinks to try to take
my
lands back, and I can be assured of David’s aid. Can you? Are you more secure, on Man? As I sailed round your coasts, I could not judge it so.”

The other fiddled with his bed-clothes. “I have no fears of Sigurd. My son Godfrey is in Norway even now, at Sigurd’s court.”

“Sent for good reason, no doubt! Because you had heard this of Sigurd’s empire? But, other than Sigurd, you are vulnerable. If such as I could consider an attempt on Man, so could others. I say that friendship with me would serve you well. You are now wed to Fergus of Galloway’s daughter—again no doubt for good reason. Arran and Bute start where Fergus’s territories end. Then my lands of Kintyre, Cowal, Lorne, Moidart and the isles extend. Your entire eastern flank would be protected, since David I think would not let Cumbria be used against you—unless you displeased him!”

“You are very concerned for me, King Somerled!”

“I want Arran and Bute.”

“Why? So greatly.”

“Because they represent a weakness to
my
kingdom, a danger. If not in the strongest and most sure of hands. They are the postern-door to Argyll. Takeable from the sea, yet lying between Kintyre and Cowal.
You
do not greatly value them—or you would have left a large fleet protecting them and a more notable governor than this MacRoderick.”

“So you would enter into a treaty of friendship with Man. How think you of this, St. Malachy? You, a seer.”

“Och, och, my eyes are growing dim, alas—years upon years! But still I can see a little. Eight ships brought, just, when these might have been a hundred. A choice young man, whom your lass deems to be honest. And no gifts—myself, I am a sad doubter when gifts are brought, a very Thomas! How much do these islands he speaks of mean to you, my friend?”

Olaf shrugged. “My sons took them from the Norse pirates.”

“But your sons do not themselves occupy them?”

“No. Would God that they did!”

The Legate spread his hands, chuckled and said no more.

“And you, Lord Wimund? You are Bishop and have pastoral care of these isles. How say you?”

“I say, Lord King, that these islands must remain in the nurture and care of Holy Church, with no return to the Columban heresy. That assured, I see no great ill in this. Not that I fear this King’s ill will, but rather King David’s. It would be unwise to risk David’s ire—if he has indeed granted these islands to King Somerled.”

“So-o-o! It seems, my young friend, that I am advised towards discretion. I shall give you my answer later. But first, tell me—what of this of Holy Church? Of Rome and the Columban Church. I am sure that this will also interest the Papal Legate here.”

Somerled spread his hands. “I am no churchman. If the folk of Arran and Bute now worship according to the Roman rite, I for one would not seek to change it. Myself, I worship otherwise—but that is of no matter. All men should worship as they will.”

“As I say, a choice young man!” Malachy O’Moore nodded. “We live and learn, just.”

“So—we shall see you later, Somerled MacGillebride MacFergus—if you will honour my table below. Hilde—escort our friends . . .”

The interview over, Ragnhilde took them back to their quarters.

“Thank you for saying nothing to my father about my brothers’ behaviour,” she said quietly, to Somerled. “I think that you will find that your journey here has not been fruitless.”

“It could not be that, in any event, since I have met you here, lady!” he said gallantly.

Cathula snorted.

In the evening they were summoned to the same hall in which they had eaten previously—although now it seemed a different place, packed with folk, torches lit, a great fire blazing on the central hearth, tables groaning with meats and drink. There was little ceremony, indeed almost pandemonium prevailed, men shouting and laughing, women skirling, hounds barking, musicians playing, servitors hurrying hither and thither. The fact that King Olaf was present in person appeared to make no difference—but then the Norse had odd ideas about kingship.

There was no raised dais in this hall, but a top table stretched at right angles to the others at one end, and in the centre of this Somerled was ushered into a place between Olaf and Queen Affrica. He would have preferred to have been on the other, left, side of the King, where the little Legate sat next to Ragnhilde, even though the less honourable position. The three bastard sons sat together further left still, in a noisy group, carefully not looking as the Scots party was shown in. Cathula was disposed near them, with Saor and her brother—but she would have little difficulty in looking after herself.

Seen on his feet, Olaf Morsel was even tinier than he had seemed in bed, with very short legs, making even Bishop Malachy look sizeable, his clothing now a curious mixture of bed and day wear. His wife wore the lowest-cut gown Somerled could recollect having seen at table, although her figure scarcely justified it.

The provender proved to be hearty rather than imaginative, salmon, wildfowl, venison and beef, washed down with vast quantities of ale, wine, aquavit and whisky. The noise increased as the meal went on, conversation difficult.

Somerled was surprised at how much food and drink Olaf managed to put away—he had that other by-name of Olaf Buttered-Bread, to be sure—although Affrica only toyed with her share. At one stage of the repast, his host, pressing more wine upon him, further shouted—but without any evident significance—that friendship was an admirable exchange for islands. No more appeared to be forthcoming. It was as simple as that.

Presently, after much yawning and belching, Olaf announced that he was tired and was going to his bed. Without more ado, he rose and tottered off to the door and out, nobody appearing to pay the least attention. Somerled was the only one to rise—although, when they perceived it, his own party followed suit.

However, despite all this lack of formality and seeming respect, it became apparent that the King of Man’s presence had in fact had more influence on the company than it might have appeared. For quickly thereafter the tone and tenor of the proceedings commenced to change noticeably. Noise redoubled, although this had scarcely seemed possible. Horseplay began, scuffling broke out, the King’s three bastards very much the ringleaders. The Queen appeared far from censorious, approving rather—indeed she moved along the bench closer to Somerled, in frank appreciation, to fill up his goblet, actually rubbing herself against him. Evidently intent on speech, she had to come closer still, to be heard, so that he was looking down the front of her gown, with no great delight, her lips almost at his ear.

“The woman you have with you—is she your concubine?” she screeched.

Frowning, Somerled chose his words. “Cathula MacIan is shipmaster of my dragon-ship.”

She smiled disbelievingly and patted his arm. “How . . . convenient! When seafaring. A man of good appetite. A man after my own heart, I think.”

He drew away, in noticeable fashion, but said nothing.

She followed him. “Your wife died, did she not?”

“Sadly, yes.” He looked along the table and saw Ragnhilde watching, beyond the Legate, who was sitting back with his eyes closed. “Your father, Madam—I heard that he was at odds with King David?”

“Oh, some small matter.” She offered him her own goblet to drink from, since he neglected his.

“I have had sufficient, I thank you . . .”

Bishop Wimund aided him by rising, bowing stiffly in the direction of the Queen and himself, more deeply to the unseeing Legate, and stalked off.

Somerled took the opportunity to rise also, disengaging with difficulty, so close was the Queen. “With your permission, Madam, I also will retire. It has been a long day. It is long since I slept.”

“Come, Somerled—they call you the Mighty, do they not? Do not tell me that you are so weary that you must seek bed to
sleep
in! I esteemed you more lusty than that!”

It went against the grain for that man to reject any lady’s so frankly offered favours, but in present circumstances he felt that he could do no other.

“I regret to disappoint. But as your lord’s guest, I feel . . . constrained.” Misliking the sound of that himself, he did not wonder at the sudden constriction of brows and lips, until he perceived that the Queen was looking past his shoulder. He turned, to find Ragnhilde at his back.

“Do you wish to withdraw, my lord?” she asked. “I fear that the further entertainment may not please, perhaps.” She looked from Affrica, expressionless, back to where one of her half-brothers was now standing amongst the debris of the table-top and hauling up one of the serving-wenches, her clothing already in disarray.