Page 9 of Summer Warrior

“Aye and no,” said Somerled, amused at the situation. “We are invited but I sent no message as to when we might call upon the king. Nevertheless, I assume we will be welcomed, particularly with Maurice at my side.”

Maurice MacNeill, who joined Somerled after Morvern, had been a foster brother to King Olaf while he was still living in Dublin. Somerled hoped Maurice’s presence would make the meeting go easier, a gathering of friends, not strangers.

As they entered the crescent harbor, the King of Man’s longships closed in behind them, sealing off their exit. It was what Somerled would have done had he commanded Man’s fleet. He had expected the move, hence he did not take offense. A dozen of his own longships remained on the coast just outside the harbor as a precaution should a fight ensue as he tried to leave. Invited guest or no, he would be prepared.

At the pebbled shore, they beached the three longships alongside a dragonship already there. The Norse warriors standing on the deck studied Somerled and his men in curious fashion, the unique rudders drawing their attention.

The round shields of Somerled’s men carried different designs than those of the Norse and their clothing was Gaelic. Had they met on a distant shore a battle might have ensued but Somerled had come to visit the King of Man.

He turned to Domnall, now a senior captain in charge of ships and men. “Some of the men can bed down on the beach; the others should remain onboard.” With a look toward the dragonship, beached nearby, he added, “I trust not the Norse, even invited ones.”

Domnall nodded. “Aye, Lord.”

Somerled, his brother, Angus, and Maurice headed toward the castle. Beneath Somerled’s boots, the dry grass crackled with his footfalls. The hillsides, once green with summer, now wore the rich brown mantle of autumn.

He and his companions scaled the small hill from the harbor to the wooden palisade that surrounded the tall stone fortress with its crenelated top and numerous arrow loops. The battlements were manned by warriors in helms and hauberks. King Olaf did not leave his peace to chance.

“It has been a long while since Olaf and I were foster brothers in Dublin,” said Maurice, “yet, despite the years, I expect he will know me.”

Somerled glanced at Maurice, judging him to be in his fourth decade, somewhere between his own age and the King of Man’s. “I am hoping Olaf will be pleased by your presence and his welcome all the warmer for it.”

“Aye, he will be glad to see me,” said Maurice. “We were unruly lads together and said our goodbyes on good terms. I was younger and looked up to him. Which reminds me, best be prepared for his short height. ’Tis the reason he was dubbed ‘Bitling’ as a youth.”

It was difficult for Somerled to think of such a powerful king as a man of small stature. The image he had conjured, particularly after seeing the Princess of Man, was quite different. “His lack of height does not seem to have impaired the respect he has garnered as a king among kings.”

Maurice shook his head, the light from the setting sun making his face glow. “Nay, it has not, though he generally leaves the fighting to others. He was trained to use a sword, but he is no warrior. His strength lies in diplomacy.”

They crossed the bridge over the moat and approached the gate to the wooden palisade where a guard in hauberk and helm stood, lance to hand.

Uncharacteristically, Somerled was anxious. It had nothing to do with the guard or meeting the king. Two years had passed since he’d first glimpsed the red-haired princess. Did she still remain unwed? The thought that she might now be the possession of another did not sit well. The pleasures of women were not unknown to Somerled but none compared to his memory of the girl tearing across the green hills of Man on a magnificent white horse. He had hoped then their futures might somehow be entwined and that hope still lived.

Somerled had enriched his clothing for the occasion. He wore a crimson tunic embroidered with silver thread and a mantle of fine wool in a deep shade of blue. Clasped at his throat was an intricately carved silver raven brooch with a ruby eye, a gift from his Norse mother. Yet, as he intended, there was much of his attire, including the Celtic embroidery on his tunic, that proclaimed him a Gael. Proud of his heritage, he would not seek to hide it, not even for a Norse king.

At the gate, the sound of merrymaking reached his ears. Beside him, Maurice announced to the guard, “The Lord of Argyll, Kintyre and Lorne would see the King of Man, having received his invitation.”

“Wait here,” said the guard who carefully perused the three of them before stepping through the gate and closing it behind him.

Moments later, he returned to open wide the gate. “The king bids you and those with you welcome, Somerled.”

So, Olaf did not choose to recognize his title. Well, that would soon change.

RAGNHILD LOVED HARVEST time when hearts were merry and food was plentiful. Now that the hard work was done, there was time for celebration and dance. Except for the high table where her father and Affraic still sat observing all, the trestle tables had been taken down and stored against the walls to allow room for dancing. She anticipated this part of the evening with eager delight, for she loved the many forms of dance visitors had brought to Castle Rushen since she was a child.

The music had just changed to the circle dance and Ragnhild was joining hands with the others when the doors to the great hall opened to admit three men. They paused before striding toward the high table. The hounds resting near the hearth raised their heads but showed no alarm.

At her father’s signal, the music stopped. “It seems we have a late addition to our celebration.”

The tall, fair-haired man in crimson tunic and blue mantle bowed before her father. He was lean and his movements agile. His hair, shining in the light of the torches, was long to his shoulders. His prominent jaw was outlined by a trimmed copper-colored beard. Her first impression named him Norse, yet his clothing spoke of a Gaelic connection.

Rising, he said, “I come at your invitation, good king. I am Somerled, Lord of Argyll, Kintyre and Lorne.” There was the hint of a lilt in his accent. His voice was clear and deep, the voice of one who knew his own worth but was neither proud nor boastful. She sensed an underlying strength that belied his humble stance before her father. Could this be the one Abbot Bernard had spoken of?

Somerled continued, “Allow me to introduce my brother, Angus MacGillebride, and my companion, whom you may recognize as your foster brother, Maurice MacNeill.”

Her father was already smiling at the Irishman who appeared a Celt in green and brown, his curly dark hair shorter than that of the other two, his skin swarthier. The one called Angus, Somerled’s brother, was dressed as a Gael, his hair slightly darker than his fair-haired brother.

Ragnhild was intrigued.

Her father nodded to the one called Maurice. “Many years have passed since we lifted cups of mead together in Ireland. I am glad to see you have gone far and stand before me a fine man.”