Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) (45 page)

The pitch and tow of the torches blazed up quickly and in only a few moments other lights began to prick the darkness, near and far—no doubt all the other shipmasters had been eagerly awaiting the chance to distinguish between friend and foe.

At least it revealed three of his own ships amongst the dozen or so around him, which was a help. Two of these were close together and Somerled told Gillecolm to make for them, fast. There was one of his Manx pursuers close at hand and in the way, but on the dragon-ship wheeling round almost upon it, this vessel hurriedly changed course and swung away. No doubt its master now perceived its full size, thanks to the torches, and decided on discretion.

They reached the two Isles ships, and were glad to see the third one heading to close with them also. So now they made a tight little group of four, able to act in concert, giving mutual support and protection. Singling out the nearest pair of unlighted vessels, Somerled led his group into swift attack.

They managed to separate one of the Manxmen from its neighbour, cornered it amongst them and ran it down before others could come to its aid. Somerled put a boarding-party on to it and sent torch-bearers after them to set it alight, whilst his three companions circled closely to keep off others.

In the ruddy light of the flames, the unequal fight was soon over, with the enemy’s burning sail coming crashing down on friend and foe alike. When he saw that much of the craft was alight, with most of its oars fuelling the blaze, Somerled beat his gong to recall the boarders, and leaving the dying ship, went to the aid of one of his own, assailed now by two of the enemy.

That, then, became the pattern of much of what followed, at least as far as Somerled’s group was concerned—and, he hoped, with the rest of his fleet, for these were the tactics he had taught and practised. In the face of a surprised and disorganised foe they were, on the whole, very successful. Some of the Manxmen and Orkneymen perceived their lesson in time and formed similar little groups, but many did not, and paid the price. It was not all one way, of course, for they were dealing with experienced and courageous fighters. The Isles fleet suffered its casualties. But from the first the enemy was at multiple disadvantage. They had been hastening back to Rushen, strung out in no sort of order, and no doubt with the leadership well in front. They were taken by surprise and in darkness, and could have no idea as to the strength of the assault. The fires at their base area must weaken resolve, drawing men towards homes and families at risk—and they must also be aware of Saor’s fleet somewhere behind them. All this was as Somerled had planned it.

Undoubtedly many of the Manxmen cut and ran. But sufficient stayed to fight, and make Somerled realise that there must have been far more than any mere fifty ships, as their scout had suggested. Either he had been hopelessly out in his observation or else Godfrey had been reinforced, possibly by another flotilla from somewhere up the west coast of Man, Fishwick or Peel.

To offer any coherent or even summarised account of that scattered, confused and prolonged battle would be quite impossible, even Somerled’s own part in it. Nor could it be stated that there was any overall victory or defeat. By the very nature of it all, there could be nothing clear-cut nor decisive, since neither side could know how many of the other there were, what state the rest were in, whether indeed fighting was still going on elsewhere at any given time. A large-scale night sea-fight was something new, and the combatants had to learn as they fought—if it was not too late to learn—and how many chose not to fight at all no-one knew.

A further complication was the weather. The wind freshened and swung round to the south-west as the night advanced, and the seas steepened, so that more and more attention had to be paid to seamanship and coping with conditions, less to fighting. Also the new airt of the wind and seas had the effect of gradually dispersing the struggling ships and setting them northwards. As time went on and men grew ever more weary, so less and less battle was fought. With supplies of torches running out and the fires on land dying down, it became difficult, once more, to distinguish friend from foe.

Almost inevitably, then, the engagement more or less fizzled out in the small hours of the morning rather than came to any recognisable conclusion. Somerled was aware of the process for some considerable time before he finally admitted that the battle was over. They had not found an enemy to engage for the best part of an hour.

It became a time for wound-licking. On the dragon-ship there was little damage to the vessel but considerable casualties amongst her complement, the various boarding-parties having suffered fairly heavily. Few were dead but many were wounded, some severely. Somerled himself had a grazed brow, where his great horned helmet had been knocked off by a glancing axe-blow, the pain of it only becoming evident now that the fighting was over. His companion longships—only two of them now, one having disappeared—were in worse case, having both sustained structural damage, stove-in timbers, splintered oars and the like. Blood was everywhere.

There was time to spare now for first-aid and clearing up, for little could be done about reassembling the fleet and discovering losses before daylight. Even their present position was uncertain.

When at length the grey dawn broke over the snarling whitecapped waters, it was to reveal much that was unexpected. They were nearer to land than they had thought, no more than a mile off a savage, cliff-girt shore. Also evidently further north than they had realised. Ships were scattered near and far—and one, no great distance off, was another dragon-ship, Saor’s obviously; so the northern half of the fleet must have joined the battle without Somerled being aware of it. Many of the vessels looked to be mere drifting hulks, some abandoned, dismasted or burnt-out. Many others could be seen piled up along the rocks and skerries of the shore-line. How many were their own and how many enemy was not evident. It all made a sorry sight in the bleak morning light.

The two dragon-ships quickly pulled together and held a brief shouted exchange. Saor said that he and his had been in time to take part in the tail-end of the fighting, although he had found it hard to find who to fight. Probably it was their arrival which had hastened the end. He knew nothing about reinforcements for Godfrey and had not been involved in any real battle further north.

Somerled perceived that his ship and its companions were amongst the farthest north of the scattered fleet. He ordered a move southwards, followed by Saor and the others. As they went, vessels moved in to join them, some obviously limping and damaged and with reduced oar-power—but they left a lot of hulks behind, most of them probably Manxmen although it was hard to tell at any distance.

Somerled was grimly counting. By sun-up, and down near the southern corner of Man again, he added up to fifty-eight ships accompanying him, in various stages of impairment and dilapidation. He had started out with eighty, plus the twenty captured at St. Michael’s Haven—so there were over forty missing. It made a daunting thought. Some might yet appear, some might be salvaged, a proportion of their crews surviving. But by any standards it was a dire and costly victory—if victory it could be called.

Apart from the abandoned hulks there appeared to be no sign of Godfrey’s fleet. Presumably therefore the survivors had scuttled for Rushen and the shelter of its haven.

Somerled had not come all this way and at such cost to leave matters thus indeterminate, even though his depleted force was in no state for further battle meantime. He summoned Conn MacMahon, told him to take three other ships, to go back looking for stragglers, to aid any semi-crippled vessels and salvage what he could, as well as collecting survivors and wounded. The other fifty-four ships he ordered to follow him to St. Michael’s Haven.

Slowly and lacking
élan
the Isles fleet headed eastwards. They would still look a formidable force from a distance but that would be something of a misapprehension. Somerled hoped, however, that he could still make use of this appearance.

But when they had rounded the jutting tip of Langness, the south-eastern headland of Man, and approached St. Michael’s Isle and the hidden entrance to its bay, it was to discover what Somerled had half-expected. The narrow channel between island and mainland was tight blocked by Manx shipping, longships lying side-by-side and in rows. There would be no entry there, no amount of boarding and battling on so narrow a front would force this bottleneck. It looked grievously like stalemate.

A dragon-ship was very evident in the middle of the front of the barrier—Godfrey’s, for a wager. There lay any hope of extracting some gain from this ill-starred venture.

Somerled called to Saor to take charge of the fleet and to hold it there, about half-a-mile from the enemy. He was going forward to talk to Godfrey.

So, spurring on his tired oarsmen to make a special effort in dash and style, the Isles flagship surged forward in a cloud of spray, banners streaming, a fine, challenging sight. Still, silent, the ranked Manx ships waited.

At less then two hundred yards from the centre of that line, Gillecolm had his rowers pull up, back-water and slew broadside-on, in expert fashion. His father cupped his hands, to shout.

“Ha—Godfrey Olafsson, are you there? I am Somerled. I am sorry that I missed you last night. We could have settled our differences decently, as honest men should. No doubt you sought me also? It was difficult in the dark.”

There was no reply to this sally for moments, and then a voice came thinly across the water. “I, Godfrey, speak. What do you here, Islesman? What do you want?”

“Much, good-brother—much. We have a deal to settle, you and I. We can do it by the honest method of another trial of strength—if you will come out and meet me. Either your ship and mine, or your fleet and mine. Or we can make a compact, a bargain. Yours is the choice.”

“I have nothing to bargain over, with you, upstart!”

“I think you have. And that is no way to name your sister’s husband!”

“What do you want with me?”

“Ah—that is better. I want peace between us, Godfrey. I want no more threats from you. I want no more talk of you being King of the Hebrides. Whilst you remain without lawful offspring, I want your sister’s son, Dougal here, named heir to the throne of Man—as is his right. Aye—and I want an end to your oppressions on Man, your persecutions of your own folk and my friends here. You make a bad king, Godfrey—and bad kings as neighbours endanger others.”

There was silence from the enemy line.

“How say you, then?” Somerled called. “Is it to be peace? A compact? Or more battle?”

“You rave! You are mad!” That came less than distinctly, as though choked over.

“You shall learn if I rave, man! I hold you and your kingdom in my hand. If you will not come out and fight, I can land anywhere on this island and take it. Your people hate you—they will not fight for you. And Orkney is far away.”

Again silence. Somerled’s throat was getting sore with shouting. He turned to Thorfinn Oak-Hewer to make his contribution.

“Godfrey Olafsson—I, Thorfinn Ottarsson, speak. He whom you unlawfully dispossessed. Along with others. You have heard King Somerled. Now hear me. I fought for you, in Ireland, gained you much. Yet you turned on me, and the others, when we came home. You laid your father’s kingdom waste. Now you pay!”

Another voice sounded from the Manx dragon-ship. “King Godfrey does not speak with rebels.”

“Then he is a fool as well as all else! For he will have a lot of rebels. How many of that fleet will fight for him, now? How many prepared to die for a tyrant?”

There was no answer.

“I tell you,” Thorfinn went on, “if you come out of there, we will beat you, as we beat you last night. If we land, few on Man will fight for you. We shall win and you, Godfrey, will die. That is a promise! We have here Dougal mac Somerled MacFergus, your sister Ragnhilde’s son. Him we will make King of Man in your place—and Man will welcome it. None here love you. Deny that if you can.”

After a pause, it was Godfrey’s thinner voice again. “What do you want?”

“Ah—that is better! We want an end to your rule and tyranny. We want . . .”

Somerled gripped the other’s arm, to silence him, and spoke instead.

“We want peace between our realms, as it was in King Olaf’s day, good-brother. We require your sworn oath upon it. But since we do not altogether trust your oath, we shall have surety for it. We shall take half of Man, half of your kingdom. Since the Lord Thorfinn’s lands, and others you have stolen, are in the north of the island, we shall take that end. And hold it. Until we are assured that you have mended your ways.”

“You cannot do any such thing . . .”

“We can, and shall. The north is loyal to its lords whom you have dispossessed. We shall take it over and hold it as a dirk at your throat! To ensure that you keep your word. You remain King of Man—meantime. But if you invade the north, if you continue to persecute your folk, if you call yourself King of the Hebrides again or seek my kingdom’s hurt, then I come back. To make Dougal, your nephew, King of Man. Is it understood?”

There was no acknowledgement of that from across the water, with an interval on both sides. Even to Somerled how to push the matter forward was not very apparent at this stage. This shouted exchange had its limitations, but he had no wish to risk closer contact with Godfrey meantime. His men and ships behind him badly required a spell of rest and recovery, whatever he had just threatened. None had slept for longer than he could recollect. This was no occasion to try to draw up treaty terms.

It was Thorfinn who achieved some practical advancement. He raised his strong voice. “We take the north, Godfrey—you hear? As surety. A line from Maughold Point on the east, across the island by Snaefell and thence down to Knocksharry on the west. Some of that land is my own. North of that your writ will no longer run. South it may still do so—but only so long as you keep clean hands. You have it? From Maughold to Knocksharry. Or else you lose all
now,
and your life with it. Choose!”