Page 56 of Summer Warrior

“The stonemason de Mares directs the work cutting stone,” said Angus. “He praises the sandstone on Kintyre.”

“Ah, that is good,” said Somerled, running his hand through his hair, tangled from the wind. “Mayhap the spring will see the start of construction.” He wondered how d’Harcourt was faring in the north where he had sailed with Ruairi to look at castle sites. “I hope to be in Morvern in the spring with our Master Mason.”

After dinner with his son and companions, he joined his men around the bonfire to talk of their work and his growing concern about the civil war in England.

“Cutting stones is hard work, carrying them more so,” said one. “But it builds strength and I like to think that, one day, I’ll see those stones I carry in a castle rising from that rock.” He shifted his gaze to the looming headland just waiting for the castle.

“When we left Islay for our trip to Ireland,” said Maurice, “the hall where the chiefs will one day gather was coming along nicely.”

The men nodded their approval, their faces set aglow by the flames rising into the night. All had their mantles drawn about them. Somerled waited until the conversation quieted to raise a difficult subject. “I must tell you I believe the King of Scots may invade England next year. And, if he does, we will likely be summoned to join him.”

“Let us hope if that happens,” said one man, who Somerled knew to be a farmer, “he does not call upon us until the spring seed is sown.”

“Aye, we can pray for that,” said another.

The men would do their duty but, by their dour expressions, Somerled could see none were pleased at the thought of fighting a war in England when they were still fighting Norse pirates in the Isles.

“If you go to war for the Scots king, we go with you,” said Maurice.

“Aye,” said Angus.

The men gathered around the fire nodded their agreement.

Somerled was touched by their loyalty. “As soon as winter is over,” he said, “we will travel north to deal with any Norse who linger in the Isles with plunder in mind.”

The next morning, Somerled said goodbye to Angus and his men and sailed with Maurice, Liadan and Gillecolum back to Islay where they would spend the rest of the winter.

The voyage, though short, was not pleasant due to harsh winds and pelting rain. By the time they reached Loch Indaal, they were sodden and happy to be ashore. Barnacle Geese, still there in large numbers, sent their clamorous calls into the air from where they roosted on the flat, muddy land near shore. Otters, indifferent to the weather, gamboled together in the bay.

Somerled’s crew beached the galley and they all headed inland, taking the well-trodden path to Findlugan’s Loch. Fallow deer in thick winter coats stared at them from the brown hills. As they came over the rise, Somerled gazed down at the loch surrounded by wind-swept peat bog, grasses and gently rolling hills.

In the distance, he saw buildings standing on the largest of the islands in the loch.

Anxious to observe the progress of the construction, with his young son at his side and Maurice and Liadan following, he strode toward the north end of the loch, passing curlews wading near shore, their long down-curved bills searching for food in the mud.

The wintering ducks and geese apparently approved of the new human tenants as they were floating on the rippling waters of the loch in great numbers.

Once he was close enough to see what had been accomplished since he’d been gone, Somerled stood amazed. From the largest island rose the tall wooden great hall with a new thatched roof. New, too, were outbuildings and what looked like a small stone chapel with a thatched roof.

Smoke rose into the air from three of the roofs ere it was swept away in the wind.

“Do you think Domnall has returned?” asked Liadan, betraying her interest.

“Since his ship wasn’t at Loch Indaal,” replied Somerled, “we will have to wait and see. If he is here, he may have entered on the east coast, sailing up the sound.” He watched his charge for signs of disappointment, but she gave none. “They must have been hard at work to have done so much,” he said, gazing in awe at what appeared to be a small village on the island.

In time, he would build other, more magnificent strongholds in Argyll and the Isles but none would be more significant for the future of his lordship than this secret place. Here the council of chiefs would meet. Here new lords would be installed. And here, peace would be celebrated and God would be praised.

He took out Ragnhild’s green riband and fingered the soft silk, bringing to mind the image of her handing the riband to him. Mayhap it would be here, too, that the woman who held his heart would join him.

“They wanted to meet your goal to be finished by winter’s onset” said Maurice, “and it seems they have done so.”

“Father,” said Gillecolum, pointing to the smoke rising from the buildings, “they have lit hearth fires. Can we go inside and get warm?”

Somerled looked at the earnest expression on his son’s face and smiled. “Aye, we shall. ’Tis a good idea. Forgive me,” he said, turning to Liadan, “for not thinking of you and the lad.” He glanced at his men standing behind them. “My crew surely feels the same.”

“I minded not pausing to admire all that is here,” said Liadan, taking Gillecolum’s hand as they crossed the wooden path from the shore to the large island. His men, who crossed after, remarked at how much they liked the raised path that allowed their boots to stay dry when they were so often wet.

They were met by Duncan MacEachern, the village smith from Keills, whose powerful chest appeared even larger draped in his brown woolen mantle. Beaming his pleasure, he said, “Greetings, Lord. Welcome back! As you see,” he gestured behind him, “the men have done much in your absence.”