Page 20 of Summer Warrior

“Aye, and a sad day it will be.”

Somerled heaved a sigh. “’Twould be sadder if we’d not come.” In the distance, he heard the bellowing of the red deer harts, reminding him the rutting season was upon them. At least the Norse invaders had not stopped the cycle of life on the island.

A few hours later, what work they could do was done. The light was beginning to fade as fires were lit and the deer taken in his archers’ hunt had been set to roasting over the flames. Both the villagers and Somerled’s men, including those guarding the ships, would soon feast on venison.

They sat around the fires, warming themselves against the chill. Somerled drew his woolen mantle around him as the flames sent sparks rising into the night air. His mind drifted to the scene at the chapel where the pirates had shown little respect for the center of the villagers’ worship.

Islay had been a place of faith in the tradition of Columba for centuries and Somerled revered its past. “It occurs to me,” he said to himself as much as to his men gathered around him, “Islay would be a worthy place to base our Kingdom of the Isles.”

Liadan scooted closer. “Lord, there is a long loch in the moorlands not far from here, named for St. Findlugan, the Irish monk. Near the shore is an island that St. Columba is said to have visited.”

“An island within an island,” Somerled muttered, liking the sound of it. “But so far from the sea?”

“Nay, not far,” she said. “’Tis a few hours’ walk from there to the great sea loch Indaal where you could beach more than a hundred longships and galleys.”

Somerled ran his hand over his well-trimmed beard. The idea of a hundred galleys and longships bringing the clan chiefs to a safe place where they could deliberate matters of importance greatly appealed. He would need such a place if the kingdom he envisioned drew chiefs from all the Isles and the coast. “At dawn, I would see this loch you speak of.”

“Aye, Lord, I can take you there,” said Liadan.

The Isle of Man

RAGNHILD’S EYES LIT WITH PLEASURE at the small emerald leaves embroidered at her wrists and on the hem of her gold silk gown. “The embroidery is exquisite, Cecily.” The fabric had been a gift from a visiting noble, the bliaut the one she would wear when she was presented to David, the King of Scots.

Cecily, Ragnhild’s handmaiden, smiled, her dark hair making her blue eyes more striking. “I thought the small green leaves would be a reflection of your eyes, my lady.” Only a few years older than her mistress, Cecily was skilled with a needle and thread. More than her skill, Ragnhild valued her friendship. There were few women on the isle who could be a close companion to Olaf’s daughter. Affraic had her women who came of an afternoon to stitch with her but their gossip left Ragnhild wishing for more interesting conversation. Cecily provided a worthy friend but not always the conversation Ragnhild longed for. Mayhap she would find it at King David’s court.

The shimmering gown hugged her curves until it flared out at her hips to form the full skirt. The long sleeves were tightly fitted to the wrist where they joined graceful folds of silk reaching nearly to the floor. Her long red hair hung loose beneath the circlet of gold on her head from which hung a transparent silk veil flowing down her back. “I have never been to King David’s court. I do hope my appearance will bring honor to my father. I wouldn’t want him to be seen as less by the Scots.”

“Worry not, Mistress. You are a king’s daughter and will outshine their women.”

Just then, the king appeared at her door. “I have something for you, my beautiful daughter.” For a moment he looked sad, as if remembering a time past. “It was prized by your mother. Ingibiorg asked me to give it to you when you were a woman full grown, which you are.”

Her father handed Ragnhild a small velvet bag, embroidered with silver thread in a scrolling Norse design. She turned it over letting its contents spill into her hand. She inhaled sharply at the singular beauty of the necklace she had not thought about in years. “I remember my mother wore this once when I was a child.” In the center of the necklace of onyx beads hung a gilded cross, its arms equal. At the center of the cross was an onyx stone.

She met her father’s thoughtful gaze. Though a daughter of a king, Ragnhild rarely wore jewelry, but she would proudly display this beautiful reminder of her mother. “I will treasure it always.”

Cecily came alongside her to admire the necklace. “’Tis a rare piece of fine workmanship.”

Ragnhild was glad her mother had left her no pagan symbol but an emblem of the true faith. “Thank you, Father.”

“’Tis an unusual cross,” he said. “Likely acquired by your grandfather Earl Hakon from a Byzantine merchant.” As he made to leave, he turned. “Attend to your packing, Daughter. We leave two days’ hence.”

When he had gone, Cecily said, “The onyx will look wonderful around your neck when you wear this gown. ’Tis said King David, though he be your father’s age, is handsome of face and now widowed yet still young enough to sire more children. You will not go unnoticed by him.”

“I don’t want to marry a man my father’s age, Cecily, not even the King of Scots. Besides, they also say that he loved his wife, Matilda, and like his mother, Queen Margaret, David is pious. Perhaps he does not wish to wed again. He already has his heir.”

“Well, you need not consider the Scots king. At his court there will be other men who would gladly seek the hand of the beautiful and wealthy Princess of Man.”

Ragnhild gazed out the arrow slit in her chamber to the blue sea beyond, pondering her handmaiden’s words. Her mind filled with questions. If many nobles flocked to King David’s court at Irvine, might her father seek to barter her hand anew or was he set on the Earl of Orkney? Her own mother had been the daughter of one of Orkney’s earls so Olaf had before sought their alliance through marriage.

Into Ragnhild’s mind came the face of Lord Somerled, the golden warrior who had never been far from her thoughts since the day he left Man. Could a man desire more than her physical appearance and her father’s wealth? Was Somerled such a man?