Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (8 page)

The occasion was an especial one, a summons to all the native chieftains and landholders, or tacksmen, of Morvern, to come and greet the son of their hereditary and undoubted lord, the Thane Gillebride MacFergus. Most had come, in the main somewhat doubtfully although there were one or two enthusiasts. But there was precious little goodwill and converse between them, however respectful they might seem towards Somerled himself.

It was nine days after the Sallachan affair and there had been no further encounters with the Norse invaders meantime. They had seen the occasional Viking longship, but these had kept their distance, usually clinging close to the Mull shoreline. Presumably the word had gone round that a large and powerful force had taken over Morvern and, until the Norse had gained fuller information and gathered their own strength, they were unwilling to try conclusions. It was a help that these pirate bands were themselves apt to be far from united and often in acrimonious competition for territories and prizes; indeed they were by no means all truly Norsemen, although all of Scandinavian extraction, including Danes, Icelanders, Orkneymen, Manxmen and groups from Dublin and the Norse colonies in Ireland.

Somerled, who had been sitting at a laden trestle-table on a roughly-made dais, or slightly-raised platform, made of decking from damaged shipping, left the MacInnes chieftain and jumped down, to push through the riotous dancers. He had had his eye for some time on a young woman who stood out from the others there like a swan amongst geese, but a lively and far from decorous swan, a tall, well-built, big-breasted creature with a loose mane of tawny hair which she kept tossing back as she cavorted. Most of the women present, from the townships and fishing villages, were distinctly shy, embarrassed, co-operating with the dancing and demanding Irishmen with at least token protest and coy reluctance, their menfolk scarcely approving. Not so this female, who was clearly enjoying herself. Or had been. Now she was being squabbled over by three drunken gallowglasses, who had knocked down the last individual dancing with her and were now in process of pulling her this way and that between them. Slapping one of them hard for his attentions, she had been grabbed from behind by another and in the tussle her tight-fitting bodice had been wrenched half-off, releasing one full and shapely breast which jigged to and fro in lively fashion as she struggled—to the cheering appreciation of much of the company. This did not seem greatly to worry her, for she seemed more concerned with kneeing a third man in the groin and kicking backwards at the shins of the character behind with her heels.

Somerled came up, smiling. Reaching out, he grasped the slapped individual—who was beginning to bore in again, truculent now—by one shoulder, whirled him round and with a violent thrust threw him bodily over into a group of his vociferous colleagues, where he, and one of them, crashed to the ground. Then turning on the remaining two, he lifted the one in front, in a bear’s hug, completely off his feet and tossed him headlong on top of the pair scrabbling on the floor. Stretching then across the young woman, he took the third gallowglass by the hair of his head and jerked him sideways. The fellow yelled in pain and indignation but unfortunately he clung on to the girl’s upper parts as he toppled, thereby further tearing her bodice. With his other fist he made a wild swipe at his tormentor, who parried it easily with a stiff forearm and then spun the sufferer round, still by the hair and, in a notable irruption of muscular strength, flung him to join the others. Standing there, hands on hips now, he looked down at them, and roared great laughter. He kept on laughing, too, until all around, suddenly tense features relaxed and general mirth joined his own—and a potentially ugly situation was deflated. Stooping, he picked up one of the floored gallowglasses, to shake him lightly, genially, then bent to the second.

“You drank too much whisky, my friends,” he cried. “For dancing, for women or for sport! Try again when you are sober!”

He turned back to the young woman and bowed. “Your pardon, lady, if you have been incommoded. These others meant well, admiring you too much. But they have imbibed freely. Our Scots spirits are stronger than the Irish sort, I vow! But I, now, am sober enough. Will you dance with me?”

She eyed him wonderingly, hands seeking to cover her bosom now. “If it is your wish, lord.”

“It is.” He went to her and solicitously helped her to tuck in her breasts within the torn bodice again—with only partial success and advice from all around. Then waving to the two instrumentalists, who had taken the opportunity to rest from their blowings, to resume, he stepped out with her into the skipping, jouncing rhythm of a Fermanagh jig, which soon had her bust bouncing free again. They let it stay that way.

“Your name?” he enquired.

“Cathula, lord.”

“Cathula what? It is a good name. And we can do without the lord, I think.”

“Cathula MacIan, sir.”

“You are good to look at and good to hold, Cathula MacIan! Wasted on the likes of these! Perhaps this hand will help? I can scarce spare two! What MacIans are you of?”

“Uladail, sir. MacIan of Uladail was my father—only he failed to wed my mother . . . having a wife already!” She panted that somewhat, for the exercise was less than gentle.

“Ha! That way? I thought that I saw quality. Uladail? Was I not speaking with MacIan of Uladail just now?”

“My half-brother, Neil. But . . . he prefers not to acknowledge me.”

“I see. Then I think the less of his judgement!
I
would. Although I am glad that you are not
my
sister! Who else do you have, besides a brother lacking judgement?”

“None, sir—none now. My mother is dead. I live . . . free.”

“Free? Free . . . for all?”

“No. Free, for my own self.”

“So—then I congratulate you, Cathula MacIan.”

They danced for a little and then Somerled took her back to his dais-table and offered her refreshment. Her breathing recovered, she sipped wine and hummed softly the basic melody behind the present piping.

“You sing?” he asked, although he could barely hear her.

“I sing—after my fashion.”

“Sing better than these? These Irish jigs? Sing songs of our own isles?”

“Some, yes. On occasion.”

“This is an occasion. Sing for me, Cathula. Sing me a song of my own people, such as I have not heard for long. Other than these wild Irish I have had to dwell for too long in Ireland. Too long. I have longed for my own land and its songs.”

“Ireland, yes. Is that where you lingered, Somerled MacFergus, all these long years whilst the Norsemen slew and ravaged and burned? We, your folk, could have done with your company before this!”

He eyed her doubtfully. “Your freedom extends to your tongue, I see, Cathula MacIan!” he said. “But, yes—I would have been here ere this, had I had my way. But my father fled to Ireland when I was a mere boy, dispossessed. We had nothing, lived wholly on the charity of MacMahon of Fermanagh. I grew up to fight in MacMahon’s wars, not our own. In time, I married MacMahon’s daughter. Who died, giving me a son. Only then, when he had a grandson to inherit Argyll, would the MacMahon consider lending us his men. I have had to wait, God knows—wait! But now the waiting is over, and I intend to win back all Argyll. Does that content you, woman?”

She was searching his face. “I will tell you that . . . later,” she said.

“Ah! Then meantime sing me a song of Argyll and the Isles, girl. Yours and mine.”

“In this noise, sir? You would hear nothing. Here is no place for such singing.”

“I will gain you quiet, never fear. Indeed, I desire quiet for a while So, sing you.” He rose, and taking an ale-tankard, beat on the table with it. When that had little effect he banged it more resoundingly, on and on. When still the din continued, he took a full tankard and went to toss its contents directly over the two pipers who blew so lustily just below the dais. The piping promptly expired in a cacophony of groans and squeals and bubblings.

That had its effect and when reinforced by more bangings, gradually an approximate hush was achieved.

“Quiet, you!” he shouted. “Cathula MacIan here will sing for us. A song of these parts. I will listen—and so will you! All of you. Or I will sing my own song, to a different tune that few will enjoy!” He took the girl’s arm to raise her. “Sing, woman of this land,” he said.

She was neither hesitant nor brazen. She gave them the ancient lays of Fionn MacCumhaill and Ossian the Fawn, his son, of Deirdre and the Sons of Uisneach and the heroes, lovely lilting things of passion and heartache, of sorrow and parting, sung in a clear and tuneful voice, strong but expressive. The themes touched a chord in the Irish, and there was applause and shouts for more.

She followed with one of the milking songs which the women sang when they crooned to the cows to yield, a gentle repetitive melody which soon had the gallowglasses joining in. Before all this got noisy again, Somerled touched her arm and held up his hand.

“That was good for us, and we thank you, Cathula MacIan. Now—I have something to say. In especial to those who have come here from other parts of this Morvern. Heed well. We have driven the Norsemen away meanwhile. But they will be back. You know that as well as I do. And I understand how it makes some of you doubtful, less than eager to take any part with me. But I tell you,
I
will be here also. I will not go away. So you will be wise to join me. I am here to stay. It is the Norsemen who will go, not I. For I am Lord of Morvern, both by right and by the sword, and will remain so. And more than Morvern. So consider well.”

He paused and stared round at the company.

“Consider this also. My father Gillebride is lord of you all. You owe him duty and service for your lands. It has not been paid for long, for you have allowed Norse masters to take what was his, these many years. But those years are over. Now you will return to your due allegiance. I am here to see that you do.”

Again the silence. Even the most brash gallowglass held his tongue now. “What you have paid the Vikings, I do not know. But I do know what you owe my father. You owe him in goods and gear, in provender and the service of armed men. Each his own due tribute, depending on his lands and state. It will be paid to me forthwith—in especial the last, the men. I require these men, armed and ready. They will be used to drive the last Norsemen from Argyll. I shall accept no excuse. You each know your required number, with one to lead them, yourself or other. Aid me in your leal duty, in my father’s name, and you will be the gainers, I promise you. Fail me, and your lands are forfeit! I give you one week to muster and equip your men and have them here at Ardtornish. After that, I come for them, with my Irish! It is understood? You can be my friends and gain and grow strong, with me. Or you can be your own enemies, and suffer. That is all.”

There was some cheering but little of it amongst the Morvern folk.

Later, Somerled took the young woman’s arm. “You are a free woman, you say, Cathula MacIan,” he remarked. “How free, this night?”

“Free to choose, lord.”

“The name is Somerled, sometimes called Sorley. You would choose me?”

“I could. Or other. Or none.”

“To be sure. I would not force you.”

“I would not be forced, Somerled or Sorley MacFergus. See you.” And reaching in within a slit at the side of her homespun skirt, she drew out a small, slender
sgian dubh
or dagger, in its leather sheath, so narrow of blade as to be almost a stiletto, which gleamed evilly in the light of the torches, now lit.

“Ah, yes. I see. A women of spirit, as I thought! I admire spirit. I see that I need not have rescued you from those Irishry!”

“I was glad that you did.”

“Good. Then make me glad, tonight.”

“Would my body make you glad? So easy a thing as that?”

“The body—but the spirit also. I have not been with a woman for long.”

“I grieve for you! And for your wife, at home!”

“I have no wife. Not now. I had, but she died. Giving birth to our son. Three years back.”

She nodded. “The price some pay. I had a husband once. The Vikings slew him. And raped me. Now I carry a
sgian dubh
. I will pass this night with you, Sorley MacFergus.”

“I thank you. I have a chamber of a sort in the ruin here. Which I have made fit to sleep in. It is the chamber in which I was born, twenty-eight years ago . . .”

The response to Somerled’s demand for men from the Morvern chieftains and communities was less than overwhelming. Those nearest at hand, at Acharn and Arienas, at Uladail and Kinloch and Savary, produced a quota, with the Irishry too close for comfort—but even these were in minimal numbers, along with a variety of explanations. But those further off delayed, including some of those most able to contribute, such as MacInnes of Killundine himself, Fiunary, Drimnin and Glencripesdail. Somerled perceived that some persuasion was going to be necessary.

He had decided on a showing-the-flag gesture, by sea—since nearly all the townships and communities were on the coast—when a messenger arrived from the last-named, the north-coast area of Glencripesdail, with the news that there had been a Norse raid thereon, from Moidart, with the usual slaughter and rapine. The Vikings had come in strength, in eight ships, and were still there. Who could tell who would be next?

Somerled had no doubts that this almost certainly was a retaliation for Sallachan, and required to be dealt with promptly, from every point of view. These would be the Norse from Loch Shiel, in Moidart, where the Sallachan men had fled. Although Moidart was not in Argyll, this mattered nothing to the Vikings. Sunart was the next sea-loch below Shiel, around the mighty headland of Ardnamurchan, which divided the Nordreys from the Sudreys, the Northern Hebrides from the Southern—and Glencripesdail was on the north shore of Loch Sunart. If this move was not countered speedily, it would be but the start of a Norse bid to reoccupy Morvem; and it would effectively prevent any further recruitment of clansmen here, nothing surer.

He had seven ships now—the two originals, brought round from Sunart, the four former decoys, and one of the burned vessels from the first attack at Achranich, patched up and made approximately seaworthy. As well as these, MacInnes of Kinloch and MacIan of Uladail had birlinns, chieftains’ small galleys. And he could muster some four hundred men—which, although twice his earlier force, was nothing like what he required. The longships, fully manned, as the Norse ones would be, with two men to an oar, called for ninety-six rowers each, apart from other hands; and sixty of his new men were to be used up in the two birlinns, which their owners insisted on retaining in their own hands. So undermanning was again the rule, with only some fifty men per longship, therefore with half the oars unused—which meant that sea-battles and stern-chases would have to be foregone, except under very special circumstances. Somerled’s disappointment with the Morvern chieftains therefore was pronounced—but this was scarcely the time to display it.