Page 26 of Summer Warrior

Somerled took a deep breath, praying his plans wouldn’t offend the Scots king. “Aye, there is. To hold the sea lanes free, I must build fortifications in strategic places. Not just timber castles,” he said, looking up at the rafters, his hand raised, “though this is a fine one. I wish to construct stone towers like the Normans built, and as you are building in other parts of Scotland. For that, I would seek your approval and, were you willing to part with skilled masons, I have need of them. My people can quarry stone, crush shells for mortar and cut timber for scaffolding, but they have not the skills to design and construct a stone edifice.”

David smiled, his ringed fingers gripping his goblet. “I have some thoughts on the matter, but I need to make inquiries. Let us speak again tomorrow. There may be things I would ask of you as well.” Turning the goblet in his hand, he said, “A hunt is planned for the morning. Perhaps you and your companions might like to participate? My constable’s stables are at your disposal. I suppose I should ask if you ride as well as sail?”

Somerled chuckled. “I do. The coming of the Norse exiled my family to Ireland where I lived as a boy. I learned letters and Latin from the Culdee monks and the ways of a horse from the great horse lords in my mother’s family.”

The king nodded. “I know well the good teaching of the Culdees. They were the priests who taught my father King Malcolm. But my lady mother wanted the church in Scotland to be tied to Rome.”

“I would have Argyll and the Isles free,” said Somerled. “I fear the yoke of Rome could be as oppressive as that of the Norse.”

David gave him a measured look.

Somerled met his gaze and did not look away.

“Very well,” said the king. “Tomorrow it is. Meantime, enjoy the pleasures of my court.” He turned to converse with his son, leaving Somerled free to speak again with Ragnhild.

“I know you can ride,” he said to her, “but do you hunt?”

The green of her eyes, deeper in color in the evening, glimmered in the candlelight. “Of course. I learned the way of the bow as a young child, taught to me by my father’s men.”

“Then I shall look forward to joining you on the hunt tomorrow. The king has invited me and my companions to take part.”

“I was hoping he would,” she said, her smile brilliant.

AS THE MUSICIANS BEGAN to play, Ragnhild accepted Somerled’s invitation, thrilled he had been the first to ask, for she had hoped to dance with him. There were other men with whom she would dance but none like Somerled. She liked Prince Henry’s gentle ways and would have happily partnered with him but Earl Rognvald she would try to avoid.

Once the trestles were taken down and the musicians readied their instruments for more lively tunes, the dancers took to the floor. With each touch of Somerled’s strong hands, each smile he gave her, she felt a contentment she had not previously known, a joy in his presence.

“Will you stay long at Irvine?” she asked.

“I cannot say. It depends upon the king.” Somerled’s blue eyes alighted with mischief. “And you.”

“Me?”

“Aye. I have business with King David but had I known you were here, I would have come even without that purpose.”

When the music stopped. Earl Rognvald came to stand in front of her. As always, his long chestnut hair was in perfect order and his clothing fine, his tunic crimson silk, embroidered in golden thread, his trousers blue. Around his shoulders, he wore an ermine-trimmed woolen mantle in the deepest shade of woad blue.

“I have written you a poem, Princess. A tribute.”

Inwardly, she groaned. Glancing at Somerled, who had stepped back and lifted a brow at the earl, she said, “Say on.”

“The verses came upon me as you entered King David’s hall this eve,” said the earl, and he began to recite.

Golden one, tall one

Moving in perfume and onyx

Witty one, you with the shoulders

Lapped in long silken hair

Listen: because of me the eagle has a red claw

Behind Rognvald, Somerled covered his mouth and looked at his feet.

She considered the poem a bit outlandish and the last line, a reference, she presumed, to Rognvald’s warlike ways, served little purpose as a tribute to a lady. Rather, it reminded her of the rumors he was responsible for the disappearance of Earl Paul.

Fingering the onyx beads at her neck, she said, “You do have a way with words, Lord Rognvald.”