Page 38 of Summer Warrior

At the door, the two French stonemasons were waiting for him.

“I am Goubert d’Harcourt, Master Mason,” said the one with the gray beard and ermine-trimmed mantle. His accent was decidedly French. “And this is Aubri de Mares another of the king’s masons. King David has bid us work for you to help raise the stone towers you plan, and we are willing. We have a servant, too, who awaits us outside with our things. He will be coming with us.”

“I am most grateful,” said Somerled. “We cannot provide you the accommodations you may be used to but know that your work will provide security for the Isles and for our people, which will also serve King David’s interests.”

As they conversed, one of the king’s men approached and bowed before Somerled, handing him a scroll. “Your charters, my lord, signed by the king and stamped with his seal this day.”

“Thank you and please tell King David I’ll take care of the isles he has generously bestowed upon me. If he has need of me, I expect to be on Islay for some while. ’Twill be summer ere I sail north to Morvern.”

RAGNHILD SLOWLY ASCENDED the stairs, pausing to look back at Somerled as he stood near the door speaking to two men she knew to be part of King David’s retinue. One of the king’s servants crossed the hall to Somerled and handed him a scroll. He took it and slipped through the door with the two men following.

A sudden ache filled her heart, a desire she harbored that was not yet fulfilled, a longing for an impossible thing.

He had said nothing of his intentions concerning her, nothing of the future, save that he would send letters as he could. The Isle of Man was not on his way to anywhere in his kingdom of Argyll and the Isles. If she were to receive a missive by messenger, Somerled would have to send one of his ships to bring it.

Might he care enough to do that?

In the meantime, she would try not to think of what might be. She resolved to busy herself serving the people of Man and her father.

Life on the isle had a rhythm driven by the changing seasons. Harvest had passed and soon the seasons of Advent and Christmas would be upon them.

There were many tasks to be accomplished to prepare for winter. While her father’s tenants would be gathering wood for the cold months, planting vegetables that could survive winter in their gardens and repairing their roofs, farmers would be pruning apple and pear trees, butchering animals to provide meat and smoking what they could not eat. Abbot Bernard and his monks would be tending their herb garden and brewing ale for the celebrations to come.

Ragnhild would occupy herself with candle and soap making and embroidering winter mantles with Cecily. On sun-filled days, they might gather berries still left in the woods. On colder, rainy days, she might apply her skills to a new tapestry if there was time with her duties of overseeing the decorating of the hall and the planning the feasts that followed Advent. In all this, she vowed to be content now that her father had ceased speaking about a marriage to Earl Rognvald.

SOMERLED AND HIS COMPANIONS arrived in the harbor to find they were not the only ones leaving. Many longships that had been beached there were gone.

His men were taking out the oars as he stepped on deck. All looked to be sober and pleased to be sailing. He invited the masons and their servant to join him onboard and introduced them to his crew, who made room for them to sit.

“You might want to wear another mantle on our voyage,” Somerled told the Master Mason. “The one you have is very fine and it may well get wet.” The stonemason’s servant had brought two bags onboard. One appeared to be very heavy by the way it sagged when he picked up, producing the sound of metal clanging. It was the other bag the servant reached into, pulling out a different cloak and offering it to d’Harcourt.

“Une bonne idée,” said the mason, exchanging the mantle he wore for the simpler one the servant handed him. “’It has been some years since I crossed to England and I have forgotten the weather on the water.” Somerled had another reason for suggesting the man remove the fine garment that marked him a master of his craft. Though they had taken gold from the Norse pirates and would use it to build fortresses, he did not want the villagers they were to encounter to think Somerled and his men possessed great wealth. In truth, they did not.

Angus and Domnall came up to him and, speaking in a low voice, Angus said, “I observed the Earl of Orkney talking to King Olaf before he sailed earlier this morn. He was scowling when he left the hall.” The information pleased Somerled for it confirmed Rognvald’s suit had not been accepted and he would not have the Princess of Man to wife, at least not yet.

“I wonder if his anger will cause him to pillage his way north,” said Domnall.

“I doubt it,” replied Somerled. “He will want to be home for the winter months and has farther to sail than most. Too, if he succeeded in convincing the King of Scots he poses no threat to Scotland, he will not want stories of his raiding as he sails north to come back to David. I have long suspected he leaves the pirating to Sweyn and his friends.”

Somerled was glad the earl had failed in his goal to destroy his rival for the hand of the princess, for his arrow aimed did not bring down his prey. Somerled’s arm still pained him, but Liadan had applied salve to his arm and said prayers for his recovery. The wound was beginning to heal with no sign of festering.

Somerled gazed into the harbor. The dark blue waters were calm this morning beneath a bright blue sky. The clouds that had threatened rain were gone.

Moments later, they set off, the men pulling at the oars as they followed the River Irvine back to the Firth of Clyde. Once the ship entered the firth, the wind picked up and they raised the sail.

They sailed northwest to the Isle of Bute, beaching the longship in Scalpsie Bay on the east coast where they were welcomed by seals sunning themselves on rocks jutting out of the water.

A short walk took them to the village set on the narrow strip of ground that hugged the coast. Behind the village were low hills of green interspersed with patches of bracken.

At first shy, or mayhap suspicious, the village men eventually came to meet them. Like Somerled’s men, they were dressed as Gaels with tunics belted at the waist over trews or leggings, except that Somerled’s men carried more weapons, marking them warriors.

He introduced himself and explained that he had come to see the isle and meet the people for King David had granted him both Bute and Arran. “The Scots king and I have formed an alliance,” he explained, “each agreeing to come to the call of the other if there is need.”

“We have heard of ye,” said the grizzled old man with wiry gray hair who appeared to be their leader. “Aye and we are well pleased ye are here. We are simple folk and life was hard beneath the heel of the Northmen who lingered long on our shores. ’Tis glad we are they have gone.”

“You need have no worry of the Norse pirates returning,” Somerled assured him and the others who had gathered to hear him. “These two men,” he said, pointing to the masons, “will be helping us to build castles to keep the sea lanes free. I ask only for the name of your chieftain, so that we can send word when there is news. The rents will not change except to be lower.”

That brought a smile to their faces. It was clear to Somerled these were poor people who scratched out a living from the land and the sea. Any treasure they or their monks might have had was taken long ago by the pirates.