Page 10 of Summer Warrior

“You flatter me, my brother, for it is you who has gone far.”

Her father’s smile was wide. “Who would have thought the King of Dublin’s youngest son would have risen to be a king himself?”

“Fate, my lord,” suggested the one called Maurice, “and the will of King Henry, God rest his soul.”

Her father laughed. “You speak truth.” Then, turning to the golden-haired one, he said, “You are welcome in my hall, Somerled. I have heard much about your conquests. There is room at the high table for the three of you. Come, sit beside me and share your tales while the music and dance resume.”

As the three men approached the high table, Ragnhild, not wishing to be left out of the introductions, walked to the raised dais and gave her father an expectant look.

Her father chuckled. “I must not forget to introduce my ladies.” He gestured to Affraic on his right. “Allow me to present my wife, Queen Affraic, daughter of the Lord of Galloway.” He did not mention that Affraic’s mother was one of King Henry of England’s many bastards.

The queen smiled but there was no warmth in her greeting.

“And my daughter,” said the king with a sweeping gesture, “Princess Ragnhild, the jewel of Man.”

Her father did not see the grimace that came and quickly went from Affraic’s face but Ragnhild, expecting it, had taken in the expression and knew its source was jealousy. Her father had given her the byname when she was but a small child. Affraic, being close in age to her stepdaughter, chafed at the description.

The visitors, who had paused at her father’s words, bowed to Affraic and then to Ragnhild. The eyes of the golden one were clear blue and piercing in their intensity as he faced her. “I have heard much about you, Princess, and have longed to meet you.”

She felt the heat of her blush at his words. Studying his face for only a moment, what she saw there was sincere, unclouded interest. “I am happy to welcome you, your brother and your friend to my father’s court, my lord.” She gave the visitors a brief curtsey before returning to the dancers.

What had he heard about her and from whom?

OLAF HAD NOT EXPECTED Somerled to look the part of a nobleman, his posture erect and his clothing fine. He carried himself as one born to wealth, not a man who hunted pirates. His steps, too, were measured and his voice one of authority. About him was an air of greatness Olaf had observed in few others and it made him wonder what might be the fate of such a one.

So, this foreign Gael was now Lord of Argyll, Kintyre and Lorne, was he? Mayhap it was by his own pronouncement but, nonetheless, if the Gaels in the Highlands and Ireland supported him and he could send the Norse running, Somerled was one step short of being a king.

The three men joined Olaf on the dais. Their goblets were soon filled with the rich red wine Olaf favored. “Might you be interested in some food?” he asked them.

Somerled shook his head. “We have only just dined.”

Olaf asked, “Well, perhaps some cheese and bread?”

“Thank you,” Somerled said. “Some bread and cheese would suit.”

It occurred to Olaf the young lord’s request for food to accompany the wine was driven not so much by hunger as by the desire to preserve his wits in the midst of a strange court. For that, Olaf admired him. It was the first lesson learned by a young man destined to rule. Only fools were governed by drink.

Olaf gave the order to bring bowls for washing their hands and then for food and some sweetmeats. “Have you known my foster brother long?” he asked Somerled with a wink at Maurice.

“Since Ireland,” offered the young lord, “where I spent my youth.”

“Somerled trained with my young warriors,” said Maurice, “quickly rising above the others. Once I’d heard of the victory at Morvern, I offered him my sword.”

“Morvern in Argyll?” Olaf asked. “Tell me.” As the food was delivered and the men began to eat, Olaf leaned forward eager to hear more.

Maurice launched into a description of a battle won by a subterfuge Somerled had conceived that challenged one’s belief. But, if it occurred, it had been an ingenious strategy by a brave young man outnumbered by stronger and more numerous Norse raiders.

The tale having ended, Maurice said, “’Tis all the men speak of. And, since then, Somerled has led us to victory in each battle fought. The Norse pirates now fear his strategies as much as his might.”

The two men with the young lord went on to describe other battles with the Norse in Argyll and the Isles. Throughout the telling, Somerled remained silent, though occasionally his expression spoke of amusement. Often, the young lord’s gaze drifted to the dancers whirling about the hall and to Ragnhild where she danced in a circle with others.

Olaf was not surprised. His daughter’s beauty and lively manner attracted many men. The Earl of Orkney was not her only suitor.

Listening to Maurice with one ear, Olaf had heard enough to persuade him. “How many ships do you now have, Somerled?”

Shifting his gaze back to Olaf, he said, “Thirty, my lord. Three are beached at the edge of your harbor and another dozen are anchored without. The rest await me off the coast of Kintyre or remain farther north in Argyll. I do not keep them all in one place.”

“A goodly number,” said Olaf, impressed. “The least I can do for your men in the harbor is to feed them from the richness of our harvest.” Olaf turned to give the order that would see it done.

“They will be most grateful,” said Somerled.

“With your success in the north where I have interests,” said Olaf, “it seems prudent for us to speak of an alliance.”

Somerled’s eyes narrowed, the blue growing more intense. “An alliance would be of interest to me.”

“Very well,” said Olaf. “Be my guest this night. Enjoy the celebration and my hospitality. My daughter will see you have chambers in the castle. On the morrow, as you break your fast, we will speak more of this.” Olaf got to his feet and offered his hand to Affraic. “Come, Wife, let us leave the hall to those who would continue the celebration. Just now, I would seek my bed.”

Somerled rose and bowed, his companions following his example.

Olaf turned to go. Over his shoulder, he said to Somerled, “You might wish to partner in a dance with my daughter. She is well accomplished.”

“It would be an honor,” replied Somerled. As the music changed, Olaf paused to watch the young lord set aside his mantle and stride to the middle of the hall to bow before Ragnhild. He did not hear what was said but the princess smiled and nodded.

Olaf ascended the stairs, thinking his daughter would enchant the young lord as she did most men. So much the better for what he had in mind.

“Surely you do not intend to give the princess to an upstart foreign Gael?” asked Affraic in that nagging tone he disliked.

“No, of course not. But, if I can, I would have his ships and his warriors at my beck and call.”