LOTI: Preface

Lord of the Isles

By Bruce Younggreen

Preface

Norman’s lungs burned. A cramp in his side stabbed and threatened to crumple him but he did not stop. His abandoned flock of sheep grazed on pastures that lay miles behind him. He selected a jagged rock cairn ahead and urged his entire being to reach it. He obtained this minor goal and that gave him the courage and strength to select a bed of thistles as his next landmark. Focus, he commanded himself. Just a little further. Keep going! Keep going! See? Not so far, now.

His legs felt numb, heavy, difficult to move. He wanted to collapse, to suck in air, to rest. Instead, he forced himself to time his breathing to the rhythm of his running. “Breathe in for two steps, then out for four,” his father once told him. Norman concentrated on the task. Breathe in and in and out and out and out and out. Almost to my mark. There! Pick a new one. Yonder tree. Press on! Press on! I can go that far.

He crested the ridge. He welcomed the chance to run downhill at first but soon found that the effort of running became the effort of balance. Norman pushed all thoughts of exhaustion away and concentrated on his footing as he ran across the uneven surface.

A long promontory projecting into the Sound of Raasay. On it loomed a distant castle made of the black rocks of Trotternish Ridge. The castle represented the end of his grueling ordeal. Thistles and Heather clung to his kilt and scratched his bare legs but Norman pushed through the thickets in a desperate run to finish. The castle was not so far any more. A road converged with his path. The last thousand yards and the gentler downhill slope made running easier. He felt a surge of energy and drove himself forward in a final burst of speed and effort.

“Hey!” He yelled at the castle in a hoarse voice. A guard’s head appeared at the portcullis. Norman waved frantically and shouted again, “Hey!”

The great iron gate began to rise. The shepherd lad stumbled through into the courtyard and collapsed. Norman collided with the guard who caught him as he pitched forward. The guard eased him down to the ground as his legs turned to water and buckled beneath him. He rested on hands and knees, sitting on his calves, head drooping, fighting nausea and a black curtain of unconsciousness, catching his breath in ragged gulps of air.

After a few minutes he was able to gasp, “Ships! Royal Fleet! Man-O-War!”

“Sound the alarm,” the guard shouted to a soldier above them on the wall surrounding the courtyard.

The man turned back to the boy. “How many?” he asked.

“I dinna count, sir,” Norman gasped. “T’was...,” his chest heaved. “...a fleet...,” he sucked more air, “...tae be shurre.”

“How far?”

“I was tending me faider’s...,” Norman paused again, “...sheep in the hills above Kilmuir...,” another rasped breath, “...when I saw the first sails on the horizon.” The lad paused and breathed heavily for a minute.

“Kilmuir?” The guard was shocked. “Are ye certain, lad? Kilmuir be a dozen miles thence!”

“I dinna take the road tae Flodigarry. I came straightway as I could,” Norman replied, “o’er Trotternish ridge seeing as I was already near the ridge.”

The shriek of a bagpipe began somewhere in the parapets above them, sounding the call to arms. The guard watched until the lad could stand up, then led him over to the well, drew up the bucket, and gave the boy a drink.

Behind them, the courtyard was beginning to fairly explode in the well-oiled confusion that the emergency call to arms summoned. The guard left. Norman sat at the well. After his thirst slaked, Norman lifted the bucket and poured the rest of the water over his head. The dizziness ebbed. He rubbed his legs, massaging the pain and bringing back some sensation. Soon, his legs began to tingle, as if thousands of ants were crawling on them.

Norman turned his attention to the buzz of activity in wonder and excitement. He tried to imagine the glory of marching off to war. In his daydreams he imagined himself the hero, dodging blows, arrows whizzing past his ears, slashing and blocking and coming through bloodied but unscathed.

Norman noticed Lord John MacDonald, the Donald of the MacDonald clan, emerge into the courtyard. Immediately a groom led a horse, wearing armor and draped with the red and yellow MacDonald tartan, over to him.

“M’lord,” the groom said with a respectful bow. “Does himself wish to mount his steed?”

Across the courtyard, a burly man in a heavy leather apron handed out weapons, mostly swords and longbows, with an occasional mace or double-bladed axe for good measure, from the armory. Norman edged closer. He stayed to the parameter of the courtyard and scurried out of the way of horses and heavy boots.

A large claymore caught his eye. The blade was easily four feet long and three inches wide. It hung in a scabbard of leather embossed with a gauntlet-clad fist holding a cross over a crown. The words Per Mare Per Terras appeared above the emblem. The hilt was easily another foot, wrapped in leather, with a heavy iron pummel inlaid with silver. The great sword was much too heavy for him, but his eyes sparkled at the thought of how great the man must be that could carry and swing such a formidable weapon.

The armorer grabbed the claymore and handed it someone. Norman spun around to see the man who had taken it and found himself face to foot with Lord John who was seated on his horse. Norman’s eyes grew round in surprise at being this close to the Lord of the Isles.

John looked at the boy asked, “Art thou the man who brought the day’s news?”

Twelve-year-old Norman shrank back and nodded, unable to speak except to stammer, “M... m... my Laird!” He sank to one knee and stared at the ground. A thrill surged through him, though. A man! Lord John had called him a man!

John asked, “To whom do I have the pleasure of thanking for this warning?”

Norman stammered,

“T’is all right,” John said. “Rise. Tell me thy name.”

The boy looked up in a timid motion, afraid to make eye contact with the great Lord of the Isles. “My name, sire?”

“Aye, t’is what I asked,” John said.

“Yes, my Laird! My… my name is Norman, son of Torquil, son of Roderick, chief of Clan MacCleod of the Lewes.”

“Norman. Well Norman mac Torquil mac Roderick MacLeod, ye did well. I am grateful to ye and to ye Clan. From this day forth, ye shall be known as ‘Tormod Faire’.” With that, the Lord of the Isles wheeled his steed and rode to the head of the of his small army.

Norman repeated his new name to himself: Tormod Faire. It was a fine, Gaelic name. It meant “Norman, the Watcher”. He waved as the great Lord of the Isles led his troops out of the courtyard and down the road that lead south, to Portree.