Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (50 page)

Malcolm was staring at him in next to astonishment; indeed Somerled himself found a certain surprise at his own sudden fervour and eloquence. He had not come prepared to say quite all that. He found Ragnhilde eyeing him interestedly too.

The young High King wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “We shall talk more of this,” he said, uncertainly. “Now we shall have the dancing bears from Muscovy.” And he signed for the entertainers to come on.

In their chamber of the Blackfriars Monastery that night, Ragnhilde remarked on her husband’s unexpected advice-giving to Malcolm the Maiden, venturing her opinion that he was scarcely worth it all.

“Perhaps not. But he is almost as a child,” Somerled told her. “I felt that he required some other advising than these Normans give him. I confess that I cannot greatly like him, but for his grandsire David’s sake, I spoke as I did. Whether he will heed me, who can tell . . .?”

In the days that followed it seemed that Malcolm was at least prepared to listen to Somerled’s advice, although actually heeding it would be another matter, for he carefully did not commit himself. But he sought out the older man’s company much more frequently than was required in mere hostlike hospitality towards an important guest, asking many questions and initiating discussions. This clearly was contrary to the wishes of most of his Norman advisers. They coined the name of Somerled-sit-by-the-King for the visitor, and did not seek to hide their disapproval—save only for Hugo de Morville, the High Constable, now an ageing and obviously ailing man. He had ever been the most courteous and moderate of David’s importations.

The Yuletide celebrations, although prolonged, were less elaborate and extravagant, in this semi-military court, than they would have been in normal circumstances; and since the Celtic peoples made more of Yule than did the Normans and Saxons, retaining much of the pre-Christian and sun-worship ceremonies and festivities concerned with the winter solstice, the New Year, the mistletoe, log and evergreen traditions, Somerled suggested that here was an excellent opportunity for the High King to go out and demonstrate some interest in his Celtic subjects, to observe and take part in some of the activities of the good folk of Perth and its surroundings. Without any real enthusiasm Malcolm allowed himself to be escorted to a number of the celebrations and thereby countered, to some extent, the sullen hostility of the local people to their monarch—for Perth, of course, was situated in the Gowrie area of Strathearn and since Fertech, Earl of Strathearn had been the moving spirit in the recent rebellion, Malcolm’s reprisals on this province and earldom had been the most harsh.

Peacemaker was something of a new role for Somerled the Mighty, but he reckoned that Malcolm was a young man who could be led, essentially weak but not without possibilities. And the results might benefit himself and his Isles kingdom as well as the Scots people and monarchy.

Twelfth Night over, and the weather worsening and growing ever more cold, it was decided that a move should be made before snows closed the Mamlorn passes. Besides, the Argyll contingent had all had quite enough of Malcolm and his Normans. But although real friendship remained no nearer attainment than when they had arrived, at least Somerled left with the promise that his sister and Donald would be released and that there would be no more raiding of Arran and Bute. In return, he would demonstrate with the combined fleets of the Isles and Man off the Cumbrian coast next Easter—but he did not commit himself to land a single man.

He assessed his visit to St. John’s Town of Perth as having been worthwhile. Ragnhilde was not so sure.

lona, the small jewel of the Hebrides, basked in the summer sun, and if there was a spot more fair on such a day in all his colourful and far-flung domains, Somerled did not know of it; the gleaming white sands, the lichened rocks and skerries, the greens and amethyst and azure of the water, the multi-hued seaweeds, the fertile, verdant cultivation rigs and cattle-dotted pastures, the scattered whitewashed cot-houses and the splendid high crosses, brown-stone and carved, of the saints and kings, all must delight the eye of even the least perceptive of observers. Only the shattered, fire-blackened and ravaged shell of the abbey itself affronted, although there had been many partial patchings and repairs from time to time; but only temporarily, superficially, the scars not to be hid. The Norsemen had not been back now for many a long year, but the centuries of fear were not to be overcome quickly; and the Columban Church was scarcely in good and confident heart.

It was this state of affairs which had finally brought Somerled to lona, this fine June. He had long felt guilty over the situation. This was the heart and centre of Scotland’s ancient Celtic Church, from whence all the land had been Christianised by Columba and his Brethren—and it lay in the midst of Somerled’s kingdom of Argyll and the Isles. He had endowed and erected his fine new abbey of Saddail, in Kintyre, but he had done nothing about this vital shrine of the faith. Last year had been the twenty-first anniversary of their marriage, and Somerled and Ragnhilde had decided that something must be done about lona. So here they were.

They sat out in the forenoon sunshine, actually on the stepped plinth of St. Martin’s Cross, from which the Street of the Dead, a causeway of stone, led to the Relig Oran, the burial-place of the kings. Forty-eight Scots kings, no less, were reputed to lie there, Malcolm’s ancestors in the main, along with seven Kings of Norway and four from Ireland. Nearby was the later chapel, built by Margaret, queen and saint, David’s mother, it was thought as something of a plea for forgiveness from the Celtic Church which she had so sternly brought low, in favour of her Romish one—now also damaged by the Vikings.

“Flaithbertach must be persuaded to return here,” Somerled declared, not for the first time. “Until he comes, nothing here will prosper as it should. You, Abbot Augustine, do very well, none would say otherwise. You bear the burden nobly. But you are not the Co-Arb, head of the Columban Church, whose place this is. Flaithbertach is that, for better or worse. And so long as he remains in exile, Columba’s successor, his Church and faith will not flourish.”

“We have sought his return from Ireland many times, my son,” the Abbot assured. “But he does not come. We cannot
make
him come.”

“Why should he refuse? It is safe now. Since I took over the Isles no Viking raider has come to lona, nor will. Peace prevails here now. There is no reason why he, and all the precious Columban relics, should remain at Derry. They, and he, belong here. They were only taken to Ireland for safety from the Norsemen.”

“I do not think that it is all of Flaithbertach’s wishing, my lord King,” Dubhsith the lector put in. “It is said that the High King of Ireland, Muirchertach O’Lachlan, is against him returning. Why, I do not know . . .”

“Then Muirchertach must be told otherwise. The Irish Celtic Church is sister-church to our own. But only that. They have no authority over the Columban Church. Muirchertach, and Flaithbertach also, must be told so.”

“Perhaps if you were to build up this abbey again, as you did Saddail, this Flaithbertach might be coaxed to come and see it,” Ragnhilde suggested. “And once here, he might be prevailed upon to stay.”

“Would you not require the Co-Arb’s
permission
to rebuild the abbey?” Augustine asked. “It would be a great and godly act of faith, my son—but you would require the authority of the Church, I think.”

“That may be so. Then we shall seek to achieve both these purposes. We shall send to Flaithbertach at Derry, asking him to return, and gaining his authority to rebuild the abbey. Aye, and if necessary, deal with King Muirchertach too. An embassage from myself.
You
shall go, Abbot Augustine. And friend Dubhsith with you. I shall send you in one of my ships, with an escort . . .”

“But—my lord King! No, no—not me, I pray you!” the Abbot exclaimed. “I am too old for such travel . . .”

“Nonsense, man! My ship will carry you from door to door. The Abbey of Derry is on Lough Foyle, a sea-loch. It has to be you, to speak of lona with Flaithbertach. Saor MacNeil, my chamberlain of Argyll, will accompany you, to speak with the High King, if necessary. It will be a pleasure for you, just. To see Columba’s old abbey of Derry . . .”

“Visitors!” a voice said, behind them. Gillecolm, ever keen-eyed, was pointing. “A galley and a longship.”

They all turned to look. A couple of vessels were beating up the narrow sound between lona and great Mull, obviously making for the sheltered landing-place at St. Ronan’s Bay. The longship’s sail bore Somerled’s own device. The other craft flew a large banner.

“Can you see what banner is that?” Somerled demanded.

“It is red and white. A white lion, on red.”

“Ha—that is Ross! Now, what? Could it be my good sister . . .?”

It was not the Countess of Ross who landed from the galley, under Conn MacMahon’s escort, but her husband the Earl Malcolm. And he came grim-faced.

The brothers-in-law had not seen each other for years. Malcolm was looking a deal older—no doubt Somerled was also, but not to the same extent, for he remained very fit, active and vigorous for his fifty-odd years. They eyed each other uncertainly, Malcolm perhaps a little uneasy over his welcome, Somerled fearing trouble, for the earl never seemed to be the bearer of good news.

“You are alone, Malcolm?” the latter asked, after greetings. “Bethoc—she is not with you? Nor Donald?”

“I left Bethoc at Urquhart. She is less than well. Captivity has told on her—as on us all. And Donald is prisoner again. In Stirling Castle this time, not in Rook’s Burgh. In worse state, God damn them!”

“But—he was to be freed, pardoned. They both were.”

“Aye—but only to be retaken. No doubt my wife also would have been held again, but she came straight north to me in Moray. Donald lingered in the south, foolishly, and was seized.”

“In Heaven’s name—why? I bargained for his liberty.”

“Your bargain was but a poor one, then! To bargain with the Normans is a profitless folly!”

“I did not bargain with the Normans. I bargained with the High King of Scots.”

“It is not different. He is a weak fool and is wholly in their hands.”

Somerled clenched his fists.

“There is more than that—a deal more. Malcolm has given his sister Ada in marriage to Florence, Count of Holland. And for dowry has given the earldom of Ross—
my
earldom!”

The other stared. “Lord—that cannot be true! He could not do that. Give away your earldom—one of the ancient Celtic lesser kingdoms of Scotland. To the Hollander.”

“He has done it. He has declared it forfeit to the crown, and myself with it; and vested it in his sister, as marriage portion. Now he drives out all the chiefs and lairds and landed men of Mar and Moray and Ross, replacing them with Normans and Flemings.”

“Is the man run crazy-mad?”

“They say that he is determined to break the North. Or his Normans are. To pull down all the Celtic earldoms. And so starts with mine.”

“This is beyond all belief! What has come over him? When I spoke with him two Yules back nothing was said of this. We were in agreement. I was to aid him against Henry of England, as indeed I did, the next Easter, when I sailed my ships to the Cumbrian coast . . .”

“Henry! He has come to terms with Henry—is now in Henry’s pocket, in fact. He has sworn to be his man. Has renounced all Scotland’s claims to Cumbria and Northumbria . . .”

“But why? Why?”

“I know not. He had a secret meeting with Henry early this year. This damnable treachery is the result.”

“You are sure of all this, Malcolm? It is not mere tales and hearsay?”

“It is all true. And here is more truth for you, Somerled. Henry Plantagenet has received your wife’s brother, Godfrey the Black, at his court, after some treachery in Norway. Received him with honour, making much of him. Hails him as King of Man, and
his
vassal. Has even had made for him a costly suit-of-armour—horse-armour also. And a charger to carry him. He has promised to aid Godfrey to recover Man—and Malcolm has agreed to aid in this.”

“Precious Soul of God!”

The lona project was distinctly overshadowed after that. The clerical deputation was still to go to Ireland to try to coax back Abbot Flaithbertach. But Saor MacNeil’s remit was much widened. He was to approach the High King Muirchertach, and such lesser kings and leaders as he could contact, to warn them that the warlike Henry Plantagenet was becoming dangerous indeed to the Celtic polity. If he could contemplate taking over Scotland and Man, Ireland also would not be beyond his ambitions, that was scarcely to be doubted. It behoved the Celtic peoples to unite against the threat. In the event of war, major war, could Somerled of the Isles rely on aid from Ireland? He would need it, against England and Scotland both.

Back at Islay a few days later he found a courier awaiting him from Malcolm, King of Scots. The letter he bore was brief and to the point, wishing him well but requiring Somerled of Argyll and the Isles to resign all his lands, territories and titles to himself, as High King, preparatory to having them all re-issued in vassalage and fealty. This forthwith and by order, on pain of direst penalties.

Undoubtedly it was by far the greatest fleet ever to sail out of the Sea of the Hebrides and into the Firth of Clyde. Somerled could not restrain a surge of pride and even emotion as he counted no fewer than one-hundred-and-sixty vessels, longships and galleys, as Gillecolm held the dragon-ship steady against tide and currents whilst they all turned the mighty thrusting headland of the Mull of Kintyre and into the more sheltered waters of the firth. The great majority were his own, of course, but there were over thirty from Man and almost as many from Ireland. And there was no subterfuge nor pretence here, all the ships were packed with fighting-men, a vast army of nearly twenty thousand. All would be required no doubt—but it made a heartening sight for the only man who could have assembled such a force out of the Celtic lands.