Page 73 of Summer Warrior

Their fleet of nearly forty galleys and longships that had dotted the River Eden for weeks were now pushed into the river like giant seals sliding off a rock. Once in the water, applying their great strength and skill, the men rowed hard for the mouth of the River Esk where it emptied into the Solway Firth.

Somerled’s galley led the others, his spirits rising as he smelled the open sea and felt his soul being restored.

Sailing southwest in the Solway Firth with Galloway off the starboard and the Isle of Man coming into view off the larboard, Somerled’s thoughts turned to the Princess of Man. He longed to see her, to look into her emerald eyes, yet he would not leave his fleet nor could he delay his men’s return.

Immediately behind him were three other ships, a galley commanded by Ruairi and two of the longships they had acquired from the Norse, one commanded by Domnall and one by Maurice. Ewan had told him he would find his own way back to Knapdale.

“We sail to Kintyre?” asked his brother.

“Aye, to Dunaverty where I would see the progress being made on the castle. There, we will leave Ruairi ere we sail to Islay. I want to visit Keills where I hope to commission the first of our galleys. Then we will gather Liadan and sail north.”

Angus nodded and gave the orders to the crew.

Somerled stood at the gunwale, gazing toward the Isle of Man, thinking of Ragnhild. He would send her a message letting her know her prayers had been answered. He said his own prayer, asking God to let him be the one to claim not only her heart but the woman herself.

The Isle of Man, August 1138

THE DAYS OF AUGUST were waning. Ragnhild felt it in the morning chill and the early twilight that descended on the isle. She rose in the dark each morning. Though she was tempted to remain under the furs until sunlight poured into her chamber high in the keep, Cecily was quick to remind her she could not.

“’Tis nearly eight, my lady. Did you not wish to break your fast with the king before going to the stables? The queen will still be abed but King Olaf is already afoot.”

Ragnhild stretched her arms and yawned as she sat up and dropped her legs over the side of the bed. “I suppose I must. Father will expect it.”

“And young Godred will be looking for you,” Cecily reminded her. “He scarce leaves his nurse ere he is asking for his Aunt Hilde.”

Ragnhild smiled to herself as she thought of her half-brother, Affraic’s young son. The small dark-haired boy looked more like his mother than the king. The child had an uncommon proclivity to activity, never silent, never still. “All right. You persuade me.”

Cecily held out Ragnhild’s sapphire woolen gown and helped her into it, pulling the laces tight. Then her handmaiden replaited her hair as she stood at her window looking out toward the Irish Sea.

The rising sun cast a soft glow across the horizon. Cumbria lay on the other side of the sea and she wondered if Somerled was still there, if he still lived. She could not accept that he had died in battle yet there had been no word from Scotland of King David’s invasion of Northumberland. Surely it is over by now.

By the time she had finished eating and greeting young Godred, the sun was warming the land. Bundled in a warm woolen mantle, she set off for the stable, eager to greet Fairhair, who whinnied as she entered. As he chewed on a large chunk of apple from the first of the season’s crop, she slid his bridle over his head. Her eyes focused on the browband Somerled had given her, the Celtic scrolling on black leather. “A worthy adornment for so handsome a horse, a gift from my love, a king in his own right.”

Fairhair ate the rest of the apple from her hand then nudged her shoulder as if asking for more.

“Nay, no more, for we ride while the weather is fair.” And, with that, she allowed the groom to saddle the palfrey and assist her into the saddle. She rode out of the castle bailey into the cool morning air, planning to greet the farmers that were harvesting winter grain and beginning to plant for the spring.

A few hours later, she returned and, once Fairhair was back in his stall, she went into the great hall to reach her hands toward the hearth fire to warm them. As she spoke to her father, giving him a report on the harvest, the castle door opened and a man she recognized as one of Lord Fergus’ guards hastened inside.

He bowed before the king and handed him a rolled parchment, sealed with red wax. “A message from Lord Fergus, Your Grace.”

Her father invited the man to sit. “There is ale if you are thirsty,” he said, gesturing to a flagon and tankards sitting on a nearby table.

“Thank you,” said the messenger and poured himself ale.

She watched with interest as her father broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. A minute later, a frown crossed his face. “The news is not good.”

Her brows rose in anxious inquiry. “What is it, Father?”

“Fergus speaks of a great battle north of York in a place called Northallerton. Thousands were slain on the Normans’ swords and lances. Many of Fergus’ men were killed with English arrows, including the leaders of Fergus’ army. Alas, King David retreated in defeat.”

Ragnhild’s hand rose to her chest as if to hold in her rampaging heart. “Does he speak of Lord Somerled?”

“Nay. He only mentions King David’s wrath at being deserted by so many of his soldiers and his joy that Prince Henry managed to survive.”

“Lord Somerled would never desert the Scots king.”

Her father gave her a sympathetic look. “’Tis possible he no longer lives, Princess.”