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

singing.”
    “I will gain you quiet, never fear. Indeed, I desire quiet for a while So, sing you.” He rose, and taking an ale-tankard, beat on the table with it. When that had little effect he banged it more resoundingly, on and on. When still the din continued, he took a full tankard and went to toss its contents directly over the two pipers who blew so lustily just below the dais. The piping promptly expired in a cacophony of groans and squeals and bubblings.
    That had its effect and when reinforced by more bangings, gradually an approximate hush was achieved.
    “Quiet, you!” he shouted. “Cathula MacIan here will sing for us. A song of these parts. I will listen—and so will you! All of you. Or I will sing my own song, to a different tune that few will enjoy!” He took the girl’s arm to raise her. “Sing, woman of this land,” he said.
    She was neither hesitant nor brazen. She gave them the ancient lays of Fionn MacCumhaill and Ossian the Fawn, his son, of Deirdre and the Sons of Uisneach and the heroes, lovely lilting things of passion and heartache, of sorrow and parting, sung in a clear and tuneful voice, strong but expressive. The themes touched a chord in the Irish, and there was applause and shouts for more.
    She followed with one of the milking songs which the women sang when they crooned to the cows to yield, a gentle repetitive melody which soon had the gallowglasses joining in. Before all this got noisy again, Somerled touched her arm and held up his hand.
    “That was good for us, and we thank you, Cathula MacIan. Now—I have something to say. In especial to those who have come here from other parts of this Morvern. Heed well. We have driven the Norsemen away meanwhile. But they will be back. You know that as well as I do. And I understand how it makes some of you doubtful, less than eager to take any part with me. But I tell you,
I
will be here also. I will not go away. So you will be wise to join me. I am here to stay. It is the Norsemen who will go, not I. For I am Lord of Morvern, both by right and by the sword, and will remain so. And more than Morvern. So consider well.”
    He paused and stared round at the company.
    “Consider this also. My father Gillebride is lord of you all. You owe him duty and service for your lands. It has not been paid for long, for you have allowed Norse masters to take what was his, these many years. But those years are over. Now you will return to your due allegiance. I am here to see that you do.”
    Again the silence. Even the most brash gallowglass held his tongue now. “What you have paid the Vikings, I do not know. But I do know what you owe my father. You owe him in goods and gear, in provender and the service of armed men. Each his own due tribute, depending on his lands and state. It will be paid to me forthwith—in especial the last, the men. I require these men, armed and ready. They will be used to drive the last Norsemen from Argyll. I shall accept no excuse. You each know your required number, with one to lead them, yourself or other. Aid me in your leal duty, in my father’s name, and you will be the gainers, I promise you. Fail me, and your lands are forfeit! I give you one week to muster and equip your men and have them here at Ardtornish. After that, I come for them, with my Irish! It is understood? You can be my friends and gain and grow strong, with me. Or you can be your own enemies, and suffer. That is all.”
    There was some cheering but little of it amongst the Morvern folk.
    Later, Somerled took the young woman’s arm. “You are a free woman, you say, Cathula MacIan,” he remarked. “How free, this night?”
    “Free to choose, lord.”
    “The name is Somerled, sometimes called Sorley. You would choose me?”
    “I could. Or other. Or none.”
    “To be sure. I would not force you.”
    “I would not be forced, Somerled or Sorley MacFergus. See you.” And reaching in within a slit at the side of her homespun skirt, she drew out a