Page 39 of Summer Warrior

The name of the grizzled old man was given as their chief and recorded by Maurice. After that, Somerled and his men stayed to meet all the villagers before sailing for Arran. “Will you spread the news to the other villages?”

“Aye,” said the grizzled old chief with a smile. “You could not stop us.”

The Isle of Arran lay only five miles southwest of Bute so it did not take them long for its shores to come into view. Where Bute was mostly low and green, Arran was lofty and brown with heath-clad mountains surrounding deep ravines and glens. Its shores were rocky and the coast covered with brushwood.

As they sailed farther down Arran’s coast, the brown mountains turned into green rolling hills, broken only by stands of whitebeam trees. The weather on Arran being mild, patches of wildflowers still dotted the hills.

They put in at Lamlash because of its good harbor and its long beach with both shingle and sand. Small boats were pulled up onshore, the kind used by local fishermen, though no men were in evidence.

“The bay must be full of fish, Lord,” said Liadan, pointing to a flock of birds floating on the water. “The diver birds are reaping a rich harvest.”

Somerled’s eyes were drawn to the flock of the great black and white birds repeatedly diving beneath the water to bring up their dinner of what looked to be cod and whiting. In the air above, gannets dove from great heights to compete for the same fish. He was reminded that those were the birds he was admiring on the Isle of Man the first time he had glimpsed Ragnhild riding her white horse.

Heaving a sigh, he turned his attention to the isle before him.

Arrayed along the shore was a village with smoke rising from hearth fires. Facing the village, across the bay, was the small Holy Isle, so named for the seventh century Irish monk who had once dwelled there.

Behind the village rose cultivated slopes. Large stands of trees stood like guards on either side. Despite David’s steward, Fitz Alan, having pronounced the isle “unproductive”, Somerled did not find it so. While it was possibly true that much of the isle might be best left as pasture for cattle, by the look of it, the farmers here grew flax.

The villagers came to meet them, their expressions curious. Aware he was often taken for a Norseman, Somerled introduced himself and told them a little of his background. As on Bute, they had heard of him. A few asked sharp questions. He had expected they would. He explained his purpose in landing on Arran. “We’ll not be a burden to you,” he told the men, “unless King David calls upon us to aid him. And you will not see the Norse returning.”

“Aye, all know of the great Somerled who has given the Gaels their freedom,” said a man of middle years. “We are not unhappy to be under your protection. King David’s steward paid us little mind and we feared the Norse would return.”

Women crept out to see the visitors, children hiding behind their skirts. Liadan was a subject of much interest as she was the only woman with them, so Somerled explained her presence as he had at Irvine. “Liadan is from Islay and we are taking her to her brother, who serves me in Morvern.” While that was Somerled’s intention, she would likely not see her brother until summer.

Soon thereafter, the sun set behind the distant hills, making the day seem shorter than it ought to even in October. That night, the villagers cooked fish and roasted geese over an open fire, inviting Somerled and his men to partake. “’Tis very generous of you,” he said, accepting their invitation.

“The fish are always abundant and the geese are plentiful this time of year,” one woman said. “We are happy to share.”

After they ate, Somerled’s men shared stories with the villagers of their battles while the local people told him of life under the harsh rule of the Norse.

“They despoiled our most comely daughters and killed any man who challenged them. We were treated like slaves to do their bidding and deprived of all our weapons, save for those we needed to clean fish.” The faces of the men were glum as they recited instances of abuse.

“Aye,” said Somerled, “it was the same in Argyll. But now you are free to forge weapons to defend yourselves should you have need. All the men of the isles should be warriors as well as farmers and men who raise cattle. They must train to fight.”

That night, they took shelter with the villagers who welcomed them into their homes. Liadan was the guest of one family with a daughter her age while the men slept in other cottages on the floor wrapped in their woolen mantles.

Somerled was offered the bed of the village leader and declined. “I have slept in caves in Morvern, on my ship and on the forest floor in many other places. I will not take a good man’s bed from him. Grant me a space on your floor and I am content.”

The leader nodded. “Aye, Lord. It shall be as you wish.”

The next morning, he and his men rose with the dawn. Somerled walked to the shore and gazed east. The sun rising behind Holy Isle rendered the small island a dark silhouette. Visiting his new isles had been necessary but now he was eager to build.

They broke their fast with bread the villagers offered them and shared the herring they had brought from the Isle of Bute.

Somerled asked them to let the other villages know that the isle was now under his protection, which they gladly agreed to do. “Aye, we’ll spread the word,” said an older man among them.

Their leave-taking was warm, all things considered. Once strangers, they were now friends. The men and women, even the children, gathered on the shore to shout “Godspeed!” and wave to Somerled as his men rowed his ship away.

THE RETURN TO DUNAVERTY BAY on Kintyre was a short one, owing to the wind from the south which allowed them good time. They arrived just before noon. Those coming to greet them were a smaller number than the last time.

“Most of the men are in the woods cutting timber,” said Ruairi, coming to greet him. “Some are fishing. We did not expect you so soon.”

“’Tis no matter,” he told Ruairi, “I will not be here long. I have much to tell you but, for now, come meet the stonemasons whose services King David has given us to help with our castle building.”

Before they could move toward the masons, Ruairi’s children ran to greet Somerled. “Did you bring us anything, Uncle Somerled?” asked Ceana.

He laughed. “Aye, a pretty riband for you to match your blue eyes.” The ten-year-old girl’s wide smile told him he had chosen well when he’d asked Maurice to fetch it while they were still in Irvine. “And for you, young master,” he said to Bran, “a wooden sword to practice with.”