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Authors: Nigel Tranter
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ships had indeed returned in mid-afternoon, had not been long in assessing the situation and, without descending upon the township, had hurriedly departed down Loch Linnhe as though making for the Sound of Mull. There was no sign, as yet, of their own four craft.
Somerled was satisfied. The fleeing Norsemen to the west would surely not come back, now, over these harsh mountains, but would proceed on to Loch Shiel to join their fellow-countrymen in Moidart—and that represented a challenge, but for the future, not today. Those in the ships were presumably bound for Mull or Nether Lorne—or even for Kinlochaline, where they would get another shock. The chances of any counter-attack meantime were small. He would get back to Sallachan, then, and hope that their decoys would arrive there fairly speedily. If they did not, there would be nothing for it but to return over these mountains again, making across-country for Oronsay and Carna at the mouth of Loch Sunart, where they had left their original two vessels. It was a pity that they had had to burn those ships at Sallachan . . .
So far as he could tell now master of Morvern, Somerled gave the order to retrace their steps.
Their four decoy-ships they found awaiting them at the township bay.
CHAPTER 3
The din was beyond description and Somerled cupped his ear. “Speak up, man,” he shouted. “I can hear only a word in three!”
“Then quieten your Irish savages!” the other exclaimed. “This is beyond bearing!”
“My Irish savages have bought your freedom and welfare, MacInnes. And you did nothing to earn it. Mind it! They deserve their amusement.”
The older man frowned. “Living under the Vikings is hard . . . I say, living under Vikings is hard, desperate,” MacInnes of Killundine declared. “If you have not been after suffering it you cannot understand. There was nothing that I could do . . .”
“So say all here. Yet if all had united, or most, and taken your courage in your own hands, you could have driven out these Norsemen. For you much outnumber them.”
“It is not so easy . . .”
“
I
did it, in three days. With two hundred Irish. How many men are there able to bear sword, in Morvern? Fifteen hundred? Two thousand?”
“But they are not at one—not at one, I say. MacCormick and MacIan are enemies of MacInnes, see you. The clans do not make common cause, MacFergus. I cannot . . .”
“Then they
will
do so, hereafter, by God! Or I will hang a few MacCormicks and MacIans and MacInneses and see if that will unite them—if only against myself!” Somerled cried, jumping up from his bench, transformed in an instant, as he could be, on occasion. “And call me lord, man. I am Lord of Morvern now and will be Lord of Lorne and of Mull and of Kintyre, aye of all Argyll, one day. So lord me, MacInnes—so that you get used to it!”
“Yes, lord . . .”
They were carrying on this difficult conversation in what had been the courtyard of the ruined hallhouse of Ardtornish, near the mouth of Loch Aline overlooking the Sound of Mull, and which was the ancient
duthus
or capital messuage of the entire lordship of Morvern. Learning from the Norse, they had spread captured Viking sails, erected on poles, as awnings over the yard and against the broken walling, to give some illusion of cover from the elements; and beneath this, celebratory feasting—by no means the first—was proceeding, with the gallowglasses in highest spirits and voice. There were local people there also, but these were considerably less vocal, more restrained in their merrymaking. Music of a sort, produced by bagpipers, added to the uproar, in the interests of dancing—although the dancers in the main seemed to prefer their own bawled and breathless singing, which evidently gave spice to the jigs and reels, the wording to be suitably emphasised to the women and girls present in case they missed the allusions. Captured Norse ale and spirits, and the Scots
uisge beatha
or whisky,
Somerled was satisfied. The fleeing Norsemen to the west would surely not come back, now, over these harsh mountains, but would proceed on to Loch Shiel to join their fellow-countrymen in Moidart—and that represented a challenge, but for the future, not today. Those in the ships were presumably bound for Mull or Nether Lorne—or even for Kinlochaline, where they would get another shock. The chances of any counter-attack meantime were small. He would get back to Sallachan, then, and hope that their decoys would arrive there fairly speedily. If they did not, there would be nothing for it but to return over these mountains again, making across-country for Oronsay and Carna at the mouth of Loch Sunart, where they had left their original two vessels. It was a pity that they had had to burn those ships at Sallachan . . .
So far as he could tell now master of Morvern, Somerled gave the order to retrace their steps.
Their four decoy-ships they found awaiting them at the township bay.
CHAPTER 3
The din was beyond description and Somerled cupped his ear. “Speak up, man,” he shouted. “I can hear only a word in three!”
“Then quieten your Irish savages!” the other exclaimed. “This is beyond bearing!”
“My Irish savages have bought your freedom and welfare, MacInnes. And you did nothing to earn it. Mind it! They deserve their amusement.”
The older man frowned. “Living under the Vikings is hard . . . I say, living under Vikings is hard, desperate,” MacInnes of Killundine declared. “If you have not been after suffering it you cannot understand. There was nothing that I could do . . .”
“So say all here. Yet if all had united, or most, and taken your courage in your own hands, you could have driven out these Norsemen. For you much outnumber them.”
“It is not so easy . . .”
“
I
did it, in three days. With two hundred Irish. How many men are there able to bear sword, in Morvern? Fifteen hundred? Two thousand?”
“But they are not at one—not at one, I say. MacCormick and MacIan are enemies of MacInnes, see you. The clans do not make common cause, MacFergus. I cannot . . .”
“Then they
will
do so, hereafter, by God! Or I will hang a few MacCormicks and MacIans and MacInneses and see if that will unite them—if only against myself!” Somerled cried, jumping up from his bench, transformed in an instant, as he could be, on occasion. “And call me lord, man. I am Lord of Morvern now and will be Lord of Lorne and of Mull and of Kintyre, aye of all Argyll, one day. So lord me, MacInnes—so that you get used to it!”
“Yes, lord . . .”
They were carrying on this difficult conversation in what had been the courtyard of the ruined hallhouse of Ardtornish, near the mouth of Loch Aline overlooking the Sound of Mull, and which was the ancient
duthus
or capital messuage of the entire lordship of Morvern. Learning from the Norse, they had spread captured Viking sails, erected on poles, as awnings over the yard and against the broken walling, to give some illusion of cover from the elements; and beneath this, celebratory feasting—by no means the first—was proceeding, with the gallowglasses in highest spirits and voice. There were local people there also, but these were considerably less vocal, more restrained in their merrymaking. Music of a sort, produced by bagpipers, added to the uproar, in the interests of dancing—although the dancers in the main seemed to prefer their own bawled and breathless singing, which evidently gave spice to the jigs and reels, the wording to be suitably emphasised to the women and girls present in case they missed the allusions. Captured Norse ale and spirits, and the Scots
uisge beatha
or whisky,
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