About the Book

The history of Ireland has traditionally focused on the localised struggles of religious conflict, territoriality and the fight for Home Rule. But from the early Catholic missions into Europe to the embrace of the euro, the real story of Ireland has played out on the larger international stage.

Story of Ireland presents this new take on Irish history, challenging the narrative that has been told for generations and drawing fresh conclusions about the way the Irish have lived. Revisiting the major turning points in Irish history, Neil Hegarty re-examines the accepted stories, challenging long-held myths and looking not only at the dymanics of what happened in Ireland, but also at the role of events abroad. How did Europe’s 16th century religious wars inform the incredible violence inflicted on the Irish by the Elizabethans? What was the impact of the French and American revolutions on the Irish nationalist movement? What were the consequences of Ireland’s policy of neutrality during the Second World War? Story of Ireland sets out to answer these questions and more, rejecting the introspection that has often characterised Irish history.

Accompanying a landmark series coproduced by the BBC and RTE, and with an introduction by series writer and presenter, Fergal Keane, Story of Ireland is an epic account of Ireland’s history for an entire new generation.

They are begging us, you see, in their wordless way,

To do something, to speak on their behalf

Or at least not to close the door again.

Derek Mahon

LIST OF MAPS

1. Ireland, c.1014

2. Irish Clans and English Settlement, c.1300

3. Ireland’s Counties, c.1610

4. Ireland, 1846

5. Ulster, 1910

6. Ireland, 1922

INTRODUCTION

THE INTERNATIONAL ISLAND

As a foreign correspondent I am naturally inclined to view the world as a place where the histories of different peoples continually bump up against each other; where trade and culture, great migrations, revolutions, the rise and fall of empires constantly alter the patterns of settlement, belief and identity. Whether standing in a remote Angolan town looking at the ruins of an old Portuguese cinema, watching the British flag being lowered for the last time in Hong Kong, or listening to the Inuit in the Canadian high Arctic recall the stories told by their ancestors of the coming of the white man, I am struck by the connections, both intimate and grand, that are braided through the histories of vastly different peoples.

When asked to write and present Story of Ireland for BBC Television and RTE I wanted to describe the role of events beyond our shores in creating the Ireland of today. In recent times the multi-billion euro international bailout highlighted the intermeshing of Ireland’s economy with the rest of Europe. This is not to claim the Irish narrative has been entirely directed by outside forces. As those who read this book and watch the television series will see: this is above all the story of Ireland. But that story repeatedly intersects with, and is shaped by, the story of other peoples and nations.

Nothing reduces me to despair more than a vision of Irish history that reduces the debate about the past to a simple paradigm of the Irish versus the English, who was right and who was wrong, as if history could be reduced to a crude morality play. As this book will show, it is not only misleading and reductive but profoundly self-limiting. The real story of Ireland and the Irish is so much bigger.

How can one possibly understand the violence that traumatized Ireland during the Elizabethan era without understanding the passion of the religious wars that devastated Europe in the mid to late sixteenth century? English terror of the Counter Reformation becomes both motive and alibi for atrocities in Ireland. Come forward to the age of revolution in the eighteenth century and witness the impact of the American and French revolutions on Irish political thinking, or three decades later the influence of Daniel O’Connell’s mass political movement on a generation of European reformers, including the English Chartists.

In America the Scots–Irish community would help to frame the American constitution and give the new United States one of its most famous presidents, Andrew Jackson, the son of Presbyterian immigrants from Ulster, who went on to lead America in a war against Britain. Jackson’s bitterness against the British, stemming from the Revolutionary War, was as vivid as anything expressed by the Catholic enemies of the king.

In the aftermath of the Famine of 1845–8 Catholic migrants became one of the largest populations in the cities of America’s east coast. In New York, at the famous Cooper Union, a building synonymous with great American political rhetoric, the Irish who had arrived as ragged peasants a decade before were commanding large audiences, and the attention of the New York Times, for their rallies against British rule in Ireland.

By the middle of the 1850s there were more Irish living in New York than in Dublin, and they brought with them the techniques learned in Daniel O’Connell’s campaigns, creating the machine politics that helped the Democratic Party control many of the country’s major cities. A century later this community would also provide one of the most notable American presidents of modern times, John Fitzgerald Kennedy.

In the modern age we can see how the Anglo-Boer war, World War I, and the advent of the European Community in the aftermath of World War II, would all play a part in making the Ireland of today. The most dramatic event of recent modern history – the attack on the Twin Towers in New York on 11 September, 2001 – changed utterly the international environment in which militant nationalism operated. After that, any lingering attachment to the bomb and the gun on the part of Sinn Féin and the IRA became an impossible prospect.

At every turn I took while making the television series I was aware of international connections. The first Irish were people who had come from elsewhere, probably around 8000 BC, part of the great human migrations that first reached Britain, and then crossed the Irish Sea. The elaborate passage tombs they built at Newgrange in County Meath belong to an Atlantic pattern stretching from Spain to Scandinavia; the amber with which Ireland’s bronze age jewellery is so beautifully decorated reached the island via a Baltic trading route, perhaps from as far away as eastern Germany or Poland; resin from the Pyrenees was used to style the hair of an Irish king born 2500 years before Christ.

Our ancestors were nomadic peoples with highly developed hierarchies, whose struggle for survival was underpinned by their faith in a spiritual world. They worshipped the gods of nature as they drove their cattle in search of grazing. Along the same routes that brought precious materials such as amber came stories and ideas. Standing in the gloom and damp air of a Newgrange tomb, I heard Dr Gabriel Cooney, one of Ireland’s leading archaeologists, describe the information superhighway of 3000 BC.

‘I think that, like today, people would have tended to put things in their own context, these early farmers building this monument would probably have had stories of places that were far away, and would have realized how things worked in other areas.’ We shared a Celtic culture with peoples in Britain and continental Europe. The Irish Sea witnessed a burgeoning exchange of trade and ideas with the peoples who inhabited Cornwall, Wales and Scotland. It was far easier to sail to a Welsh coastal village from County Wexford, or from the Antrim coast to the Mull of Kintyre than it was to travel from the east to the west of Ireland by foot.

One of the great historical absolutes of my childhood was that because Ireland had never been conquered by the Romans she somehow remained aloof from the changes that radically altered British society. It was Julius Caesar who invented the myth of Hibernia, a land of winter into whose mists civilized men dared not venture. There may have been a self-serving element to this, the future emperor of the Romans justifying his own reluctance to embark on a potentially costly conquest. And while there is no evidence of any large Roman military operation against Ireland, there were plenty of traders willing to ignore the grim warnings and visit Ireland’s east coast. Harbours grew up to service the boats that carried Irish leather to clothe the Roman legions. The Irish cattle barons of the plains became rich in the process. As Ned Kelly, keeper of antiquities at the National Museum of Ireland, told me: ‘The cattle barons start getting notions of grandeur and they become the important provincial kings of early medieval Ireland. You have the establishment of dynasties at that time, and they continued in power for hundreds of years afterwards. They were looking to model themselves on the Roman emperors.’

The traffic in goods and ideas was a two-way process and the greatest Roman export to Ireland was spiritual. The faith that would come to be seen as an indivisible part of Irish identity was carried across the seas from Roman Britain, where it had become the state religion on the orders of the Emperor Constantine. Through the efforts of saints such as Patrick, Declan of the Decies and a host of others, the Roman faith was spread through the island, creating monastic centres around which faith and commerce could thrive, and where an aesthetic revolution would take place. Scholars came from the continent to be educated at the great monastery of Clonmacnoise in County Westmeath.

The exquisite Leabhar Gabhaile – the Book of Invasions – is an example of the artistic and literary magnificence that emerged from the scriptoria of the Irish monasteries. This seventh-century account of the roots of the Irish weaves us into the stories of the ancient world and emphatically, and with considerable self-satisfaction, concludes that the Irish are a people of many origins, the best possible combination of numerous peoples! The Book of Invasions fuses legends, oral history, biblical stories and no end of vivid imagination to create an overarching myth of Irish origin. Its historical significance is what it reveals about how our ancestors saw their place in the world: they did not see themselves as cut off, or insignificant, and they were confident of their identity.

That cultural confidence would be challenged by the Vikings in the nineth century, and by the Normans two hundred years later. I travelled to Normandy and to Norway to understand the dynamics that had propelled the invaders towards Irish shores. It is too tempting to see them in familiar stereotype, as the demons who prowled the texts of our primary school history lessons, violent louts who despoiled our land of saints and scholars. They were certainly all of that, but there was more to these rough warriors than rapine and pillage.

It is also worth remembering that the lot of the Irish peasant varied little whether it was a Gaelic, Viking or Norman boot upon his neck. Warring Irish kings inflicted hideous damage on the monastic settlements, and monasteries themselves went to war over the control of land. In one notable battle between the monks of Clonfert and Cork there was, according to the Irish annals, ‘an innumerable slaughter for the ecclesiastical men and superiors of Cork’.

Labelling the Vikings or Normans as evil foreigners is poor history. How much more fascinating to journey into the world that made them, and to see their descent on Ireland as a process inspired by the imperatives of their own societies. In the snow-dusted fjords of the Norwegian autumn, I met Professor Jon Sigerdsson of the University of Oslo, who described a Viking society straining under economic pressures in the sixth and seventh centuries AD. As one of the world’s foremost experts on Viking culture, he believes a lack of resources in Norway, and the ingrained Norse habit of wanting to be better than the next man, helped inspire the attacks on Ireland.

‘The Vikings loved to compete. They competed about almost anything. Who could travel the furthest, who was the bravest in battle, who could eat the most and who drank the most. Competition was actually the key element in this society, so it was important for the local chieftain or the petty kings to be able to give good gifts to their followers and friends, or to throw big parties. But there was not a lot of wealth in Norway so I think that one of the main reasons they actually left for Ireland was just to plunder some Irish monasteries and churches, steal the goods and bring them back to Norway.’ These Vikings changed their spots with the passing of years, becoming traders and settlers, establishing Ireland’s most important cities and ports, and becoming entangled in the power struggles of Irish kings. Near my home village of Ardmore in County Waterford lies the fishing port of Helvick Head. Driving there last summer with a Swedish friend, I noticed a look of puzzlement on her face.

‘Why do you have a Scandinavian village name here?’ she asked. ‘You know it means “where the rocks come down to the water”?’

‘The Vikings settled that place,’ I replied. She was genuinely astonished. Lest anybody think we Irish are alone in often failing to grasp the international dimension to our history, my friend, an educated woman who grew up in a fishing village that had likely been founded by Vikings, knew nothing of the impact of her ancestors. Other Norsemen would found the mighty kingdom of Normandy. These iron-clad warriors, who developed the use of cavalry to humble armies as far away as Sicily, would impose their will on the English and the Irish.

With the arrival of the Anglo–Normans came a long conquest that ushered in a new language, system of laws, parliament, the division of the land into thirty-two counties, and a reshaping of the landscape into the patchwork pattern of fields we see today. As Norman knights became Irish dynasts, the relationship with the local Gaelic chiefs changed; for all their immense power on the battlefield and the scope of their political and cultural influence, the Anglo–Normans could never feel entirely confident of their identity, hence the laws, described in detail in this book, aimed at achieving separation between Gael and settler. In crude terms there would never, with the exception of the Ulster plantation, be enough settlers to achieve a complete cultural separateness. Even in Ulster, some similarities between the world of the Scots settlers and that of the native Irish were inevitable, given the long history of trade and migration between the northeast part of Ireland and Scotland, and the dependence of the planters on native labour supply.

As a child growing up in the Republic of Ireland, I was aware that I lived on a divided island. I knew that three of my grandparents received pensions from the State for their service in the IRA during the fight against the British between 1919–1922, and that after that conflict they had taken the side of Michael Collins in the civil war. It was only later that I became aware of the complex nature of familial attachments and allegiances. My paternal greatgrandfather, whose son had fought for the IRA, spent his life as a loyal servant of the British Empire. Sergeant Patrick Hassett joined the Royal Irish Constabulary from a poor farming family in County Clare and served all over Ireland, including Belfast, before retiring on the king’s pension. He died in 1921, just as his son took up arms against the empire.

The stories I was told as a child cast the struggle with the British in a manichaean framework. My heroes were Cúchulainn and Patrick Pearse, and I saw the ancient Celtic warrior and the modern revolutionary as part of an unbroken chain of resistance to foreign invasion. One of my earliest recollections is of the great parade through Dublin on the fiftieth anniversary of the 1916 rebellion.

My memories of that particular day survive as a handful of images. Somewhere beyond the heads of the crowd a band was playing. I begged my father to lift me up so that I could see what was happening. As I was borne on to his shoulders, I saw soldiers marching past and the music became louder. There were lines of old men with medals on the opposite side of the street. I remember that they all seemed to be wearing hats.

I was five years old, so I have no recollection at all of what my father might have said, how he would have explained the scene to me. It would be several years before I discovered that he had brought me to witness the fiftieth anniversary celebration of the Easter Rising of 1916. Looking back from the vantage point of the twenty-first century, from an Ireland traumatized by financial crisis and loss of economic sovereignty, it is difficult to convey the great surge of patriotic sentiment inspired by the anniversary.

As an old schoolteacher of mine, Bean Ui Cleirigh, put it: ‘We all felt as if we were walking two feet taller, as if we really had taken our place on the stage of nations.’ Bean Ui Cleirigh was the kindly headmistress of a school founded by the sisters of Patrick Pearse, the most famous of the rebel leaders executed by the British. We were taught through the medium of Irish, and the history we learned stressed the sufferings of the Irish and their ultimate triumph over the foreign invaders. We had also been visited at school by the President, Éamon de Valera, a veteran of 1916, who only escaped execution because he had been born in America.

Now it is possible to see that great celebration of revolution as a ceremonial coda to the story of the revolutionary generation. The Ireland de Valera had known and that he had devoted his life to shaping was changing rapidly. International Ireland had been reborn. The soldiers I watched marching down O’Connell Street on that Easter Sunday in 1966 belonged to an army that had recently taken part in its first United Nations missions; the Catholic Church in Ireland, so long the bastion of conservative clergy, was experiencing the effects of the liberalizing agenda of Pope John XXIII and his Second Vatican Council; the economy was expanding under the leadership of a former revolutionary turned technocrat Seán Lemass, who had replaced the ageing and nearly blind de Valera in 1959; and the country had applied to join the European Economic Community, precursor to the European Union.

My father was a romantic nationalist. His was the Ireland of lost battles and sad poems, of martyred heroes like Theobald Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet. He recited stories of Cúchulainn and the Knights of the Red Branch to me at bedtime, and as an actor he won awards for his television portrayals of rebel heroes. Yet for all his attachment to the Ireland of martyrs he welcomed the change. The Ireland of 1966 was noticeably more self-confident and outward looking than the country in which he had grown up. My father was born in the immediate aftermath of a civil war in which an estimated 4000 people were killed, a conflict characterized by fratricidal atrocity and bitterness that of which endured well into my own generation. He came to adulthood during the economic stagnation, strict religiosity and cultural claustrophobia that permeated the newly independent Irish State. Eamonn Keane was ten years old when, on St Patrick’s Day 1935, President de Valera spoke on radio to remind his people that as well as being Gaelic, ‘since the coming of St Patrick, Ireland has been a Christian and a Catholic nation, she remains a Catholic nation’. Of this single-identity nation the poet Louis MacNeice, an Ulster Protestant, witheringly observed:

Let the school-children fumble their sums in a half-dead language;

Let the censor be busy on the books; pull down the Georgian slums;

Let the games be played in Gaelic.¹

But MacNeice was clear-eyed and objective enough to recognize that in Unionist-ruled Ulster there existed another land of small horizons.

Free speech nipped in the bud,

The minority always guilty.

Why should I want to go back

To you, Ireland, my Ireland?

The blots on your page are so black

That they cannot be covered with shamrock.

MacNeice published his great poem ‘Autumn Journal’ in 1940 as Europe was convulsed by war. His bitter tone needs to be understood in the context of its time. MacNeice nurtured the anguish of the exiled intellectual for whom Ireland represented both a prison and an inspiration. In this respect he followed a tradition of exiled Irish writers, including Samuel Beckett and James Joyce; indeed, the latter famously wrote of Ireland as ‘the old sow that eats her farrow’.

For MacNeice the imagination needed distance if it were to be unfettered. Yet Ireland and its preoccupations followed him. He believed that the Irish, north and south, had become trapped in a narrative of atavistic slogans: ‘A Nation Once Again’ or ‘No Surrender’. Identity was defined in ever narrowing circles of Catholic or Protestant, nationalist or loyalist, Irish or British. Take your pick according to tribe. The debate about an Irishness that might transcend such proscribed identities or even be a mixture of them, or a view of identity that might at least embrace the complexities of our history, was a long way into the future. The ground has widened now, the shrill voices of certainty are less voluble, but it is still a painstaking work in progress.

Earlier I described Irish internationalism as something ‘reborn’. In fact the period of our isolation from the mainstream of world affairs was comparatively short, and it was almost overwhelmingly a psychological rather than a physical drawing inwards, beginning for both northern and southern states after 1922, and continuing in the south until the arrival of Lemass as taoiseach in 1959. My own speculation, based on my experience of other war-ravaged nations, is that the men who took over the twenty-six counties of the Irish Free State after the civil war were, besides being inherently conservative, too exhausted by the physical and moral cost of the conflict to have a vision that extended beyond creating stability and balancing the books. The country was broken, the bitterness coursed through every political debate, and the people could justifiably wonder what freedom had brought them.

Yet even in that period, Ireland was not isolated on the international stage. The Free State government was actively engaged in the politics of the British Commonwealth, and even during World War II, Irish neutrality did not mean the country was entirely unaware or untouched by the great catastrophe unfolding across the seas. After the declaration of a republic in 1949, the country pursued an assertively independent foreign policy, gaining UN membership in 1955 and upsetting her American allies by declaring support for Chinese membership of the UN. During this period, Irish towns and villages witnessed the departure of hundreds of thousands of people for Britain and America. But when these emigrants returned on holiday visits they brought accounts of other worlds and ways of living. Along with the celebrated ‘American parcel’ and its flashy ties, button-down-collar shirts and loud check trousers, came uncles and aunts who described tantalizing freedoms in the cities across the ocean.

For all the efforts of the censors, the customs men could not search every bag or blockade the ships and planes that brought in books that were morally dubious in the eyes of the Church or the ‘Committee on Evil Literature’ established by the government in 1926. Nor could the likes of Archbishop John Charles McQuaid of Dublin, a self-appointed moral conscience of the nation, stifle the minds of writers such as Flann O’Brien (Brian O’Nolan), whose comic masterpieces included An Beal Bocht (The Poor Mouth, 1941), a merciless satire written in Irish about stereotypes of native misery and the Gaelic language ideologues whom the writer loathed. A representative sequence involves a Gaelic revivalist from Dublin addressing the country folk at a festival.

Gaels! It delights my Gaelic heart to be here today speaking Gaelic with you at this Gaelic feis in the centre of the Gaeltacht. May I state that I am a Gael. I’m Gaelic from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet… If we’re truly Gaelic, we must constantly discuss the question of the Gaelic revival and the question of Gaelicism. There is no use in having Gaelic, if we converse in it on non-Gaelic topics. He who speaks Gaelic but fails to discuss the language question is not truly Gaelic in his heart; such conduct is of no benefit to Gaelicism because he only jeers at Gaelic and reviles the Gaels. There is nothing in this life so nice and so Gaelic as truly true Gaelic Gaels who speak in true Gaelic Gaelic about the truly Gaelic language.

In The Hard Life (1961) O’Brien reflected on, among other things, Irish piety and the lack of a proper public toilet for women in central Dublin. One of the principal figures is a sanctimonious German Jesuit by the name of Father Kurt Fahrt, who is taunted throughout by the fractious figure of Mr Collopy, who believes the matter of proper facilities for women should be placed before the pope in Rome. It is anarchic, surreal and brave, and belonged to a decidedly European post-modernist tradition.

The pace of change accelerated throughout the 1960s and 1970s. Television had arrived in 1961, the same year I was born. Until then, dissent was articulated by a comparatively small intellectual elite whose views rarely reached beyond a limited audience. But the cultural commissars of the republic could not control the flow of debate on television and radio.

I did not grow up in the tyrannical isolation of General Franco’s Spain, and was part of the first Irish generation that could travel widely simply for the ‘experience’ as distinct from economic necessity. I recall the pride of seeing Van Morrison – who embraces British and Irish identities – walk on to a stage in America and be greeted for what he was: one of the great figures of twentieth-century music.

The sense of coming from an ‘international island’ was something I experienced in ways both profound and seemingly trivial: the victory of the singer Dana in the Eurovision Song Contest in 1970; the importation of American blues to Cork city by our local guitar legend, Rory Gallagher; the arrival of the first non-white pupils at my school later in the mid 1970s. They had come on scholarships organized by Irish missionary brothers, who had gone to the West Indies during the heyday of British imperialism. Our headmaster, Brother Jerome Kelly, was one of the most far-sighted men I have known. He went to the West Indies as a missionary, having grown up on a poor farm in one of the most remote parts of Ireland, a place in which I doubt a black or brown face was ever seen.

Brother Kelly witnessed the decline of British colonialism and taught many of the boys who would go on to become prime ministers and chief justices under the new dispensation. He returned determined to encourage in his Irish pupils an attitude of openness. Although a proud Irish nationalist himself, he was too clever and had seen too much of the world to live or teach according to slogans. He hired men who would challenge our preconceptions. Among them was a warm, and occasionally fiery, history teacher, Declan Healy, who spoke beautiful Irish and caused our heads to spin with his gift for asking troubling questions. On one occasion Healy challenged his class with the proposition that Sir Edward Carson, the Ulster loyalist leader and pet hate of Irish nationalists, was in fact an Irish patriot. As he reminded me recently: ‘I remember one kid saying, “Sir that doesn’t make any sense.” I said, “How do you mean that doesn’t make any sense?” I said, “Carson wanted the union of Ireland and Britain, he wanted what for him was the best thing for Ireland. Now can you say that he’s not a patriot because he doesn’t agree with you?” I was trying to do that kind of thing, it was a bit awkward and sometimes you’d be afraid they might use it as answers to questions in examinations and find themselves in trouble. But as I always said, we’ll have a go.’

*

Those words, ‘we’ll have a go’, came back to me throughout this journey into history. Trying to tell the story of thousands of years in five hours of television was a daunting task. Yet it was easily one of the most rewarding journeys I have undertaken in my career. I have always yearned for stories that challenge the way I see the world and that turn my own prejudices on their head. The Story of Ireland told in this book and in the television series is far more than a recitation of old battles. But I have to acknowledge the impact of war as a motive in wanting to tell the Irish story. The lesson I learned from covering the wars of Africa, the Balkans and the Middle East is that the greatest single cause of conflict is our fear of the other, of ‘them’. Fear that they will rise up and kill us; fear that they will take our jobs; fear that they will erase our identity, that we will be eradicated entirely as a people or forced to become like ‘them’.

In Portadown, County Armagh, I was once told by a loyalist demonstrator that he would like to see ‘you and all your bloody priests on top of a bonfire’. I was happy that the presence of the police prevented his aspiration becoming tangible. To this man my southern accent and name marked me as the enemy. I represented a threat to his home and his sense of himself as a Protestant subject of the Queen. He knew nothing of my history and I, at that time, could see him only as a cartoon character, the walk-on bigot in a drama from the seventeenth century.

Soon afterwards I was posted permanently to Northern Ireland and I covered the conflict day in and day out. I also read every book I could on the history of the previous four centuries, and I made it my business to talk with nationalists and unionists and, above all, to listen. The world that had seemed so simple from the other side of the border turned out to be a very complicated place indeed. I learned, slowly and at times painfully, the virtue of trying to put oneself in the other man’s shoes, and of looking beyond rhetoric to the history that made him. If the telling of history, for nationalists and unionists, for Irish and British, is a mere matter of computing wrongs in the hope of a final moral victory, then we miss the point entirely. The story must be a means to greater understanding.

Perhaps this idea is best expressed in a poem written by a good friend of mine, Michael Longley, an insightful and civilized voice throughout the years of the Troubles. In the best tradition of outward-looking Irish writers, Longley reaches across the oceans and draws from the classical tradition for a work he wrote to commemorate the IRA ceasefire of 1994. In the poem ‘Ceasefire’ Longley evokes the death of Hector at the hand of Achilles before Troy, and the visit to the victor’s tent by King Priam, father of Hector.

Put in mind of his own father and moved to tears

Achilles took him by the hand and pushed the old king

Gently away, but Priam curled up at his feet and

Wept with him until their sadness filled the building.

Taking Hector’s corpse into his own hands, Achilles

Made sure it was washed and, for the old king’s sake,

Laid out in uniform, ready for Priam to carry

Wrapped like a present home to Troy at daybreak.

When they had eaten together, it pleased them both

To stare at each other’s beauty as lovers might,

Achilles built like a god, Priam good-looking still

And full of conversation, who earlier had sighed:

‘I get down on my knees and do what must be done

And kiss Achilles’ hand, the killer of my son.’

Fergal Keane, 2011

PROLOGUE

The human history of Ireland begins very late in European terms: humans first appeared there a mere ten thousand years ago, in the wake of the last ice age. These first settlers may have come from western France or Iberia, hugging the curving European coastline before making a final jump north and west. Or they may have crossed the narrow North Channel from Britain: indeed, some of the earliest evidence of human activity in the island has been uncovered in the northeast of the country at Mount Sandel on the banks of the river Bann in what is now County Derry. Here, archaeologists have discovered mute testimony – in the form of charcoal and ash, salmon bones and the hazelnut shells that are ubiquitous features of these early sites – of a mesolithic culture dating back to 7000 BC. Similar sites have been excavated across the island: an aerial view reveals a wealth of other artificial ripples and furrows in the landscape, all of them silent but eloquent memorials of nameless and untraceable ancestors.

These first settlers were far from static. They were beginning to trade, to travel, to explore the land and exploit its rich resources: venturing across to what is now Scotland, for example, to barter hides and their superior hard flint for seed, cattle and other novelties that would transform their home surroundings. At the same time, the dense forests that succeeded the ice ages began to be hacked away for firewood, to provide access to grazing land on the bald uplands and to carve out small fields in which the first primitive strains of rye, oats and especially barley were grown. More newcomers came, and more, as a result of these contacts between this society and the world outside, slowly but unceasingly feeding new ingredients and genes into the Irish scene: and as the mesolithic age passed into the neolithic, so levels of sophistication rose in agriculture, in pottery and sculpture and in science.

And in architecture: for these are the ancestors that began, definitively, to leave a built legacy across the island. In what is now the windswept and bleak littoral of north County Mayo, for example, lies that patchwork of tombs, dwellings and ancient stone-walled agricultural land called the Céide Fields, which were grazed by cattle and planted with cereal crops five thousand years ago when the climate was a good deal warmer than it is today. It was only by flukes of climate change that this landscape came to be covered in a thick, pickling layer of peat bog that preserved it for posterity; there is no reason, therefore, to think that what was accomplished in Mayo was not equally undertaken elsewhere. Or take the remarkable megalithic monuments that began to appear at this time too, of which the astronomically aligned passage tombs at Newgrange, Dowth and Knowth on the bend of the river Boyne in County Meath remain the most famous.

Later, metals were fashioned into shapes beautiful and practical: smiths worked bronze into tools, horns and ornaments for the country’s elite; and gold into fabulous collars, torcs, necklaces and bracelets. A model boat fashioned in pure gold – ‘that small boat out of the bronze age / Where the oars are needles and the worked gold frail / As the intact half of a hollowed-out shell’¹ – was an element in the Broighter Hoard, stored carefully in a wooden box and unearthed by a farmer ploughing his fields on the shores of Lough Foyle in 1896. Human history, then, began to unfold and to score itself on to the land – but a modern map of the island is equally impressed with traces of a parallel mythical past: the modern cathedral city of Armagh that is named for the goddess Macha; Faughart in County Louth where the hero Cúchulainn accomplished his mighty deeds; the hexagonal stones of the Giant’s Causeway in County Antrim that geologists surmise were forged by volcanic action millions of years ago, but that myth declares to be the work of supernatural hands.

History and myth have thus been much mingled, and the result is that the story of this pre-Christian land is still the subject of a good deal of conjecture. Of course, tales handed down from generation to generation can preserve a version of history that would otherwise be utterly lost – especially when dealing with oral cultures that leave few or no written records for posterity. In this case, tales of invasions of the island by the Milesians of Iberia and other mythical entities seem to glimpse an ancient past, when repeated waves of new settlers came from over the sea. Such events were not formal military expeditions as we would understand the term, but they had immediate cultural and political implications on the island itself: it was divided and divided again among various groups and tribes, in a pattern that would continue well into the Christian era. These later migrations, however, did not erase the earlier, culturally sophisticated societies already established. Persistence and consistency characterize this island’s history – and these earliest human civilizations were no less dogged in this regard than their successors would prove to be. Rather, it is much more likely that newcomers, discovering as they did a country already settled, adapted their old ways to the new land. In the process, they added both their genes and – more immediately usefully – their own layers of vital cultural experience to an increasingly complex society. And as the centuries passed, so the population of the island slowly rose: by 700 BC, it may have risen above the one hundred thousand mark.

By the fourth century BC, Ireland had appeared on maps of the classical world. Although the Carthaginians had long maintained a blockade of the Strait of Gibraltar, the better to maintain control of their trading routes, at least one mariner managed to dodge the patrolling ships and sail north and west in search of the tin and other metals that formed the wealth of the western islands. The navigator and cartographer Pythias of Massilia – modern Marseilles, but originally a Greek colony – named the far-flung island Ierne, a name clearly derived from Ériu, the Irish matron goddess. Three hundred years later, as Julius Caesar swept through Gaul and landed in Britain, the name had been Latinized: the Romans unflatteringly knew the island that hovered just over the western horizon as Hibernia, land of winter. They gradually accumulated all the knowledge they needed about this Hibernia, as with all the territories that fringed their empire: ample evidence exists, in the form of Roman coins and material goods, that imperial scouts and traders crossed the water in search of butter, cattle and Irish wolfhounds; and that Roman merchants and enterprising tourists fetched up in the valley of the river Boyne to marvel at the already ancient tombs. Conversely, Hibernian contacts with Britain and further afield, in search of gold, wine and agricultural produce, were equally common and ongoing. Roman control of its province of Britain was never as deeply rooted and all-encompassing as has sometimes been supposed – Romano–British towns were invariably walled, in sharp contrast to the situation in, say, Gaul and Spain – and it is reasonable to assume that repeated Hibernian incursions in search of booty and slaves were one good reason for this state of affairs.

But this land of Ierne or Hibernia was only ever of marginal economic and strategic interest: there was never enough at stake to make a Roman invasion worthwhile. Only once, in AD 82, do we have a fascinating glimpse of a moment in history when a decisive Roman intervention might have been possible. The historian Tacitus describes an embassy in that year in the form of a Hibernian princeling, ‘expelled from his home by a rebellion’, who sailed across the water to Roman Britain. The intentions of this prince were to negotiate with Agricola, the all-conquering Roman governor of Britain (and father-in-law to Tacitus himself, which is why we know so much about him), who maintained a fleet in the Solway Firth, less than a day’s sail from the northeast coast of Hibernia. He ‘was welcomed by Agricola, who detained him, nominally as a friend, in the hope of being able to make use of him’.² The embassy, in other words, would have provided a convenient pretext to enter and conquer Hibernia, had the political will been present.

The identity of this petty king has never been established, but some of the recurring themes of our story are set at this point. The first is of the disenfranchised or otherwise put-upon exile seeking foreign aid – with potentially momentous consequences. The second is of a relationship between the two islands that is already close and mutually significant. ‘I have often heard Agricola say,’ Tacitus remarked, ‘that Hibernia could be reduced and held by a single legion … and that it would be easier to hold Britain if it were completely surrounded by Roman armies so that liberty was banished from its sight.’³ But Agricola was diverted by rebellion in Scotland and his alternative invasion plans were shelved – for good, as it turned out: Hibernia may have been clearly visible from points on the coast of Roman Britain, but the empire’s legions would never cross the sea in force.

By the fourth century, Roman control of Britain was visibly waning and Irish influences began to increase in potency. Although these contacts continued to take the form of pillaging, skirmishes and slaving raids, there were also sustained attempts at planting communities along the western seaboard of Britain. Such settlements were made in Cornwall, in west Wales and later in Dál Ríata, a long-enduring and politically successful kingdom straddling the narrow waters of the North Channel; the existence of such colonies underscores the sense that the seas at this time were as much highways as barriers to movement. These increasing contacts, of course, also impacted profoundly on the situation at home: goods and materials seized or traded in Roman Britain were carried back across the sea, helping to effect shifts of balance on the domestic scene.

This was an intensely hierarchical society. The country’s many tribal kings were at the top of the structure, while grinding poverty without hope of betterment was the lot of the landless serfs at the bottom. There was no state, nor anything resembling it, in this politically fragmented land of túatha or petty kingdoms and endlessly fluctuating borders. Neither was there a firm division of the country into larger units: the provincial pentarchy of Ulster, Munster, Leinster, Connacht and Meath might have been in existence at certain periods in history, but was certainly not a constant presence in political affairs. The nearest the country came to a degree of unity was in its structure of federations of túatha that had submitted to the authority of an overlord – and such federations were apt to change all the time. By the fifth century AD, when a documented history of the island begins, the forms of the modern provinces of Munster and Connacht were more or less recognizable, but those of the others were not: Laigin in the southeast occupied a much smaller territory than the modern province of Leinster; the ancient dynasty of the Ulaid ruled over a now-shrunken kingdom in the north and east of modern Ulster; and the northern and southern branches of the Uí Néill dynasty governed a wide and fluctuating area that stretched from the fertile eastern plains to the island’s rugged northwestern tip.

Power was concentrated in the hands of a number of dynasties, flowing down from a king or patriarch into the rest of society. Emphasis, in this oral culture, was placed upon learning: poets and scholars were the conservators of tradition and convention. And so, in spite of the enduring rivalry between these kingdoms, Ireland was not characterized by anarchy: this society was abidingly conservative, its members tending to know their place in a complex and carefully calibrated scheme of things. Life was ordered by dense mazes of laws: these were extraordinarily pervasive and covered every issue under the sun, from marriage, murder and inheritance rights through to the perils and minutiae of beekeeping; the system was collated and written down after the arrival of Christianity heralded the shift from an oral to a written culture. As for the sense of political fragmentation, here too the roots of a larger collectivity could be discerned – and so the political disunity of these years ought not to be equated with the absence of a shared, if nebulous, identity. After all, it is significant that the Gaelic word for a province is cúige, meaning a fifth – and the presence of a fifth implies the existence of a whole.

PART ONE

GODS AND
WARRIORS

CHAPTER ONE

CHILDREN
OF GOD

How wonderful it is that here in Ireland a people who never had any knowledge of God – who until now have worshipped idols and impure things – have recently become a people of the Lord and are now called children of God. You can see that the sons and daughters of Irish kings have become brothers and virgins for Christ.¹

ACCORDING TO THE legends, Christianity first arrived in Ireland on a spring night in AD 433. The pagan high king Laoghaire (Lóegaire) had ascended the hill of Tara, and now he stood on its summit, surrounded by druids and vassals. His task was to light the sacred fire of Beltane, which would usher in summer, and the ancient law dictated that no fire could be lit on this feast day before that of the king himself. But suddenly, on the hill of Slane nearby, a flame flared in the darkness and the old codes were in a moment exploded. The druids pleaded with Laoghaire to ‘extinguish this flame or it will burn forever’; and, hastening through the spring twilight to Slane, they found on the summit of the hill the man called Patrick. An epic battle of magic followed, during which Patrick lifted a druid into the air and dashed his brains out; and in the aftermath of the newcomer’s victory, the fearful Laoghaire saw the truth: ‘It is better that I should believe,’ he said, ‘than die.’ On Easter Day the high king converted to Christianity; and at Tara, Patrick set about converting all the chieftains of Ireland in their turn.

It is a captivating tale: and it sweeps the national saint, endowed with unprecedented power and authority, to the centre of the stage of Irish history. Yet, for all that it mingles legend with the rhythms of pagan Ireland, it pays scant attention to the historical reality – for Patrick was not in fact responsible for carrying Christianity across the Irish Sea. This new religion had taken root well in advance of his ministry: certainly an established Christian community existed in the south and east of Ireland as early as the last decades of the fourth century. This early Christian community did not exist in isolation: indeed, with the Pelagian heresy posing a substantial threat throughout much of Europe, the doctrinal wellbeing of the Church in Ireland, as elsewhere, was a pressing issue for the papacy itself.^fn1 In 431, then, the first Christian bishop was dispatched by Rome to Ireland – and his name was not Patrick. The theologian St Prosper of Aquitaine records the event: ‘to the Irish believing in Christ, Palladius, having been ordained by Pope Celestine, is sent as first bishop’.²

Few details are known about this first bishop or his visit to Ireland. Palladius – most likely a Briton or Gaul of aristocratic background – made landfall on the coast of what is now County Wicklow, and most of his time in Ireland was spent ministering in this corner of the country: he is traditionally associated with Baltinglass, where he is said to have deposited his writing tablet, together with certain relics of St Peter and St Paul. His stay was of no great duration – within three years he had moved on to Scotland – and though his mission was symbolically important, it has essentially vanished from the Irish collective memory. Palladius’s successor, by contrast, has attained an iconic presence in Irish history – though the irony is that precious few hard facts exist about the life and times of either man. As we shall see, however, the championing of Patrick and erasure of Palladius from the story of Ireland came about largely for reasons of political expediency.