Page 8 of Summer Warrior

CHAPTER 4

Castle Rushen, Isle of Man, autumn 1137 A.D.

BOISTEROUS CONVERSATION erupted in Olaf’s ears. His chieftains and their wives and his full contingent of warriors packed the hall and filled the trestles. There were a few guests as well, visitors from Orkney sent by Earl Rognvald to assure Olaf of the earl’s continued interest in an alliance and his daughter’s hand.

Torches flamed in sconces set into the stone walls and candles burned on the trestles and high table, giving the great hall a warm glow. The fire flickering in the hearth added heat to the large space though Olaf suspected it would not be a terribly cold night.

Spirits were high and lighthearted frivolity prevailed as the farmers congratulated themselves on producing a great crop of barley, oats and rye. The monks had brought a goodly supply of ale to make hearts merry and roasted meat from the island’s cattle filled hungry bellies.

Minstrels added to the pleasant evening with their flute, lyre and wooden lurs. Olaf had enjoyed the music in King Henry’s court and had insisted they have similar bards and minstrels at his court on Man.

With his wife on one side, his daughter on the other and Godred, his young heir, asleep above stairs, Olaf was content, at war with no one, save possibly the Norse renegades that preyed on Skye and the Northern Isles under his lordship.

Olaf inclined his head to get a better look at Abbot Bernard, sitting on the other side of the princess. The priest had come at Olaf’s invitation to share in the celebration. It made his daughter happy to include him and the man of God was well liked and generally good company.

More than a year ago, Olaf bid Godspeed to Earl Rognvald as he departed, telling him to return the following spring if he was still of a mind to have the princess as his bride. The earl’s absence since then had lifted Ragnhild’s spirits. Though his wife, Affraic, would have it otherwise, Olaf was in no hurry to marry off his daughter, more especially after Abbot Bernard had told him the Norse pirates were in retreat. Perhaps he might not need the earl’s strength to keep the raiders at bay.

When spring came and flowers bloomed across the isle, a messenger arrived from Orkney with Rognvald’s missive telling Olaf that he had not lost interest in the princess but the affairs of Orkney would keep him occupied for some time. Olaf smiled to himself. After all, Earl Rognvald had to make good on that promise he’d made to the people of Orkney to erect a great cathedral. His delay in returning to Man was not inopportune.

Ragnhild was an intelligent voice among his advisors, one he did not want to lose. None could argue with the way she kept his household, nor the tapestries she and her late mother had made that graced his hall. More than Affraic, Ragnhild was a gracious hostess to his guests. The queen was content to let the princess manage the servants and attend their guests. As he thought about it, he sighed. One day, he would have to let Ragnhild go yet it did not have to be soon.

“Abbot Bernard,” Olaf said, leaning across his daughter to address the priest, “Did you send the message to your fellow priest on Lismore asking about that Gael? The one you told me was chasing away the Norse raiders from the coast and the Isles?”

“I did, Sire. Somerled is the Gael’s name and, at your direction, he now has your invitation to come to Man.”

“Sumarliðr,” said Olaf, letting the sound roll off his tongue. “A Norse name.”

“He is rumored to have a Norse mother,” the priest continued, “but he fights for the Gaels in Argyll as one of them.”

“A Norse-Gael?” Olaf asked. He should not be surprised. There were many pairings of Norse and Gaels as the Norse settled in Ireland and the Hebrides. His own ancestors had been some of those.

The abbot nodded. “’Tis said he is wily and bold, a leader of men. And his fame spreads with the number of dragonships he has acquired from the Norse pirates he has vanquished.”

Olaf sat back in his chair, twisting his silver chalice in his hand, the rubies flashing red in the candlelight. He considered the abbot’s news. He had never been one to encourage close ties to Norway, though he paid King Magnus homage. He preferred his alliances with England, Galloway and Scotland. They were closer and stronger. In precarious times, they had assured none would threaten his rule. Still, there was this Norse pirate menace to deal with. It might be wise to make an ally of this Somerled. “Will he come, do you suppose?” He was curious to meet this warrior who had risen from nothing to be the talk of the night fires and the chatter of priests.

The abbot returned him a knowing smile. “He will come, Sire. How could he refuse an invitation from the powerful King of Man?”

RAGNHILD TRIED NOT TO LOOK at the men in her father’s hall who had come from Orkney but she felt their eyes upon her all the same. Sweyn Asleifsson had been among those accompanying Earl Rognvald when he came before and she had not liked him then. One of the guards told her Sweyn’s companion called him “the Skullcrusher”, a name that, while fitting, made her shiver to think of it. From his belt hung a wicked-looking axe he sharpened each day.

His companion, Holdbodi Hundasson, was like him. Both were only a few years more than a score of summers in age, and yet already they displayed a great talent for drunkenness, consuming much ale from their drinking horns deep into the night. She had listened from the shadows on the circular staircase and learned of their adventures and plundering.

They made free with her father’s female servants and, more than once, the castle guards had stepped in to prevent the Orkneymen from taking advantage of a frightened girl.

Sweyn had the harsher mien. Like the other men in her father’s hall, he wore a beard and whiskers on his upper lip. Yet the lines in his face were deep for his age and the haunted look in his pale eyes seemed to bear witness of evil deeds. His tunic was fine enough, speaking of wealth. On his chest, he proudly displayed a large gold Thor’s hammer, a pagan symbol, yet he served a Christian lord, who, she was reminded, bragged about his skill at casting runes. Worse still, the bold leers Sweyn gave her made her skin crawl. It was as if he were undressing her with his eyes.

Both Sweyn and Holdbodi had the look of pirates, their lank brown hair bleached from the sun hanging in long tendrils. Their eyes were lustful and acquisitive. She wondered how their master, so meticulous with his person, tolerated such a slovenly appearance in his warriors.

She had not liked the vain Earl of Orkney but she liked even less these men who purported to speak for him. She only hoped, having conveyed their master’s message of his delay, they would soon be gone.

STANDING IN THE PROW of his longship, Somerled watched the Isle of Man grow larger as they sailed nearer to the coast. All around him, the setting sun had turned the sky the color of orpiment, the flame-colored mineral whose poison archers used to render their arrow tips deadly. Where the sun met the sea, the bright color faded like dying embers.

The ship he sailed was one he had captured from the Norse raiders that had attacked the Isle of Mull, now refitted with a hinged stern rudder and plain stem posts. Larger than his fast-moving galleys that carried sixteen oars and thirty men, the twenty-bench longship carried forty or more.

Word had spread of the successful uprising he was leading in Argyll and the Southern Isles, causing men to flock to him in great numbers. Some had lost all to the Norse and cried for vengeance while others wanted to be a part of what had begun in Morvern. Somerled was pleased to see the spirits of the villagers rise with their victories.

He now had more than thirty longships and galleys under his command and, with each battle fought and won, he gained more. With them, he had taken back much of Argyll, including Kintyre and Lorne, and the people now addressed him as “Lord”.

“Are we expected?” asked Angus, staring at the white limestone castle silhouetted against the salmon-colored evening sky.