Page 45 of Summer Warrior

CHAPTER 12

Ulaid (Ulster), the northeast coast of Ireland, November 1137 A.D.

SOMERLED AND HIS two companions trudged up the hill, past tall stands of pine, keeping their hoods over their heads against the light fall of rain. Reminded it rained nearly every day in Ulaid, he began to think of Islay’s weather as passably fair. A bit windy, mayhap, but even the short days of November had brought sun.

As they approached the crest, the place he had once called home appeared through the falling rain.

Years had passed since he had visited the house in which he had spent his youth. The two-story white sandstone manor with its gray slate roof brought back memories of a time when his father still lived and his siblings, Angus and Bethoc, played with him on the rocky shores where blustery showers often soaked them to the skin.

The oaken front door, darkened with age, opened to reveal his mother. Her golden hair, now laced with silver, was confined to two long plaits hanging down the front of her sapphire gown. On her head, over her veil, rested a simple circlet of silver.

For a moment, she stared as if trying to determine if she knew him. Then, with sudden burst of recognition, she cried out, “Sumarliðr!”

“Aye, Mother, ’tis me,” he said, taking a step toward her and holding out his arms.

He accepted his mother’s embrace and then took her hands in his, gazing into her much-loved face, noting the wrinkles that were new. Looking into her sky blue eyes, he said, “You must forgive my long absence. I have been occupied—”

“So I hear tell.” With a smile, she added, “’Tis said you forge a kingdom.”

“Aye, one that Father envisioned long ago.”

She looked behind him. “Introduce me to your friends and then let us leave this dampness to sit by the fire.” Inwardly, he chuckled. Only his mother would call rain “dampness”.

Quickly, he introduced the dark-haired Maurice MacNeill and auburn-tressed Liadan MacGilleain, explaining how they had come to join him. He finished with, “We were just on Islay where my men are building a place for the clans to meet.”

His mother, ever gracious, welcomed them into her home and ordered a servant to take their wet mantles. “I will ask the servants to see to your crew. They can stay in one of the outbuildings and will be well fed.”

“Thank you. I was just about to ask.”

She tossed him the knowing smile of a mother. “Recall I did the same for your father’s crews.”

“Aye, and they loved you for it.”

A servant stoked the hearth fire and, at his mother’s instruction, went off to heat the wine. It occurred to him then that Ragnhild was not unlike his mother. Both were noble Norsewomen of faith who did their duty with love and affection for those they served.

Somerled smiled at the few servants he recognized. Many were new.

“You must be famished,” said his mother, casting him a look of inquiry.

“We ate this morning,” said Somerled, “but ’tis unlikely we will turn away food if offered.”

His mother smiled. “Just as I remember. And how is Angus?”

“My brother is well.”

“Is he still in Morvern with the MacInnes Clan?”

“He is now chief of that clan but he is not always in Morvern. He sails with me most days but, at this moment, he is on Kintyre.”

“It heartens me to know you are together, especially since Bethoc has decided to join her errant husband where he is confined in the King of Scots’ castle at Roxburgh.”

“Aye, when I met with David, he told me of my brother-in-law’s confinement but the way he explained it, MacHeth is more a guest than a prisoner.”

“You met with King David?”

“I did.” At her raised brow, he added, “I will tell you about it in good time.”

They took seats around the hearth fire, holding their palms to the heat from the flames. High above them, a small, covered hole in the roof accepted the trail of rising smoke. The hot spiced wine arrived soon thereafter and Somerled and his companions wrapped his chilled hands around the mugs.