Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books)

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Authors: Nigel Tranter
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flowed freely, and whole bullocks roasting over fires outside provided an ongoing sustenance for those who still had any capacity left to stomach it.
    The occasion was an especial one, a summons to all the native chieftains and landholders, or tacksmen, of Morvern, to come and greet the son of their hereditary and undoubted lord, the Thane Gillebride MacFergus. Most had come, in the main somewhat doubtfully although there were one or two enthusiasts. But there was precious little goodwill and converse between them, however respectful they might seem towards Somerled himself.
    It was nine days after the Sallachan affair and there had been no further encounters with the Norse invaders meantime. They had seen the occasional Viking longship, but these had kept their distance, usually clinging close to the Mull shoreline. Presumably the word had gone round that a large and powerful force had taken over Morvern and, until the Norse had gained fuller information and gathered their own strength, they were unwilling to try conclusions. It was a help that these pirate bands were themselves apt to be far from united and often in acrimonious competition for territories and prizes; indeed they were by no means all truly Norsemen, although all of Scandinavian extraction, including Danes, Icelanders, Orkneymen, Manxmen and groups from Dublin and the Norse colonies in Ireland.
    Somerled, who had been sitting at a laden trestle-table on a roughly-made dais, or slightly-raised platform, made of decking from damaged shipping, left the MacInnes chieftain and jumped down, to push through the riotous dancers. He had had his eye for some time on a young woman who stood out from the others there like a swan amongst geese, but a lively and far from decorous swan, a tall, well-built, big-breasted creature with a loose mane of tawny hair which she kept tossing back as she cavorted. Most of the women present, from the townships and fishing villages, were distinctly shy, embarrassed, co-operating with the dancing and demanding Irishmen with at least token protest and coy reluctance, their menfolk scarcely approving. Not so this female, who was clearly enjoying herself. Or had been. Now she was being squabbled over by three drunken gallowglasses, who had knocked down the last individual dancing with her and were now in process of pulling her this way and that between them. Slapping one of them hard for his attentions, she had been grabbed from behind by another and in the tussle her tight-fitting bodice had been wrenched half-off, releasing one full and shapely breast which jigged to and fro in lively fashion as she struggled—to the cheering appreciation of much of the company. This did not seem greatly to worry her, for she seemed more concerned with kneeing a third man in the groin and kicking backwards at the shins of the character behind with her heels.
    Somerled came up, smiling. Reaching out, he grasped the slapped individual—who was beginning to bore in again, truculent now—by one shoulder, whirled him round and with a violent thrust threw him bodily over into a group of his vociferous colleagues, where he, and one of them, crashed to the ground. Then turning on the remaining two, he lifted the one in front, in a bear’s hug, completely off his feet and tossed him headlong on top of the pair scrabbling on the floor. Stretching then across the young woman, he took the third gallowglass by the hair of his head and jerked him sideways. The fellow yelled in pain and indignation but unfortunately he clung on to the girl’s upper parts as he toppled, thereby further tearing her bodice. With his other fist he made a wild swipe at his tormentor, who parried it easily with a stiff forearm and then spun the sufferer round, still by the hair and, in a notable irruption of muscular strength, flung him to join the others. Standing there, hands on hips now, he looked down at them, and roared great laughter. He kept on laughing, too, until all around,

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