Free Lord of the Isles (Coronet Books) by Nigel Tranter

suddenly tense features relaxed and general mirth joined his own—and a potentially ugly situation was deflated. Stooping, he picked up one of the floored gallowglasses, to shake him lightly, genially, then bent to the second.
    “You drank too much whisky, my friends,” he cried. “For dancing, for women or for sport! Try again when you are sober!”
    He turned back to the young woman and bowed. “Your pardon, lady, if you have been incommoded. These others meant well, admiring you too much. But they have imbibed freely. Our Scots spirits are stronger than the Irish sort, I vow! But I, now, am sober enough. Will you dance with me?”
    She eyed him wonderingly, hands seeking to cover her bosom now. “If it is your wish, lord.”
    “It is.” He went to her and solicitously helped her to tuck in her breasts within the torn bodice again—with only partial success and advice from all around. Then waving to the two instrumentalists, who had taken the opportunity to rest from their blowings, to resume, he stepped out with her into the skipping, jouncing rhythm of a Fermanagh jig, which soon had her bust bouncing free again. They let it stay that way.
    “Your name?” he enquired.
    “Cathula, lord.”
    “Cathula what? It is a good name. And we can do without the lord, I think.”
    “Cathula MacIan, sir.”
    “You are good to look at and good to hold, Cathula MacIan! Wasted on the likes of these! Perhaps this hand will help? I can scarce spare two! What MacIans are you of?”
    “Uladail, sir. MacIan of Uladail was my father—only he failed to wed my mother . . . having a wife already!” She panted that somewhat, for the exercise was less than gentle.
    “Ha! That way? I thought that I saw quality. Uladail? Was I not speaking with MacIan of Uladail just now?”
    “My half-brother, Neil. But . . . he prefers not to acknowledge me.”
    “I see. Then I think the less of his judgement!
I
would. Although I am glad that you are not
my
sister! Who else do you have, besides a brother lacking judgement?”
    “None, sir—none now. My mother is dead. I live . . . free.”
    “Free? Free . . . for all?”
    “No. Free, for my own self.”
    “So—then I congratulate you, Cathula MacIan.”
    They danced for a little and then Somerled took her back to his dais-table and offered her refreshment. Her breathing recovered, she sipped wine and hummed softly the basic melody behind the present piping.
    “You sing?” he asked, although he could barely hear her.
    “I sing—after my fashion.”
    “Sing better than these? These Irish jigs? Sing songs of our own isles?”
    “Some, yes. On occasion.”
    “This is an occasion. Sing for me, Cathula. Sing me a song of my own people, such as I have not heard for long. Other than these wild Irish I have had to dwell for too long in Ireland. Too long. I have longed for my own land and its songs.”
    “Ireland, yes. Is that where you lingered, Somerled MacFergus, all these long years whilst the Norsemen slew and ravaged and burned? We, your folk, could have done with your company before this!”
    He eyed her doubtfully. “Your freedom extends to your tongue, I see, Cathula MacIan!” he said. “But, yes—I would have been here ere this, had I had my way. But my father fled to Ireland when I was a mere boy, dispossessed. We had nothing, lived wholly on the charity of MacMahon of Fermanagh. I grew up to fight in MacMahon’s wars, not our own. In time, I married MacMahon’s daughter. Who died, giving me a son. Only then, when he had a grandson to inherit Argyll, would the MacMahon consider lending us his men. I have had to wait, God knows—wait! But now the waiting is over, and I intend to win back all Argyll. Does that content you, woman?”
    She was searching his face. “I will tell you that . . . later,” she said.
    “Ah! Then meantime sing me a song of Argyll and the Isles, girl. Yours and mine.”
    “In this noise, sir? You would hear nothing. Here is no place for such