by Wayne Grant
“Mac Lochlainn!”
All around, men took up the chant as the young clan chief climbed the hill.
“Mac Lochlainn! Mac Lochlainn! Mac Lochlainn!” echoed from the surrounding buildings as Conor’s men fell in behind him.
Near the entrance of the church, Hugh O’Neill heard the cheers and saw the young Mac Lochlainn chief marching up the hill in triumph. He slung his axe over his shoulder and marched down the hill to meet him. When the two bitter rivals reached the high cross in the centre of the square they stopped, facing each other. All around the square men fell silent as the two stared at each other without a word.
Then Conor Mac Lochlainn raised a bloody sword over his head. Men all around the square slid their hands toward their weapons. For a long, agonizing moment Mac Lochlainn stared at O’Neill, then he dropped to one knee and offered the hilt of his sword to the man who had blocked his path to the kingship. O’Neill took the weapon and dragged Mac Lochlainn to his feet, clenching him in a bear hug. When he was released, the chief of the Mac Lochlainns turned to his followers and raised a fist.
“O’Neill!” he shouted and all around the hilltop of Armagh the Cenél Eoghain took up the chant.
***
It was fifteen miles from the abbey at Armagh to the ford over the River Bann. For the first ten of those miles, the faster English-bred warhorses were able to keep a distance between them and their Irish pursuers, but in time, the greater stamina of the Irish ponies began to tell. Five miles from the river, they began to close on the slower riders fleeing to the east.
In a panic, de Courcy’s men whipped their exhausted mounts toward the river until they were completely blown. Only four riders survived to splash across the Bann.
A mile beyond the river, Sir John de Courcy dismounted and led his knackered horse off the road and into dense woods. He and his three remaining men hid there for a day as Irish patrols scoured the roads for any English stragglers. For two more days, they followed farm paths first east and then south.
It was nearing midnight when the nightguard on the palisade wall of the motte north of Newry heard a pounding on the gate. It was a dark night and he couldn’t see who might be calling at such an odd hour, so he hurried down from the wall walk to the gate below and peered out through the spy hole.
“Open up, for God’s sake!” croaked the Prince of Ulster.
***
It took two days for the smell of burnt wood and thatch to fade at Armagh abbey and for the bodies to be buried. Archbishop O’Connor consecrated a new graveyard on the western side of Saint Patrick’s church where men from Tir Eoghain were laid to rest beside men from Antrim, Down and England.
The clans of the Cenél Eoghain held vigils for the dead, then one-by-one departed Armagh for their home raths. With the holy abbey town secure and the bell of Saint Patrick safe in the hands of the Maelchallains, their thoughts turned to spring crops that needed tending and cattle that needed to be moved to new pastures. They would gather again in a week for Hugh O’Neill’s inauguration at the sacred hill at Tullyhogue.
O’Neill left a small garrison behind to keep watch over the abbey town and to patrol the fords over the Bann. Once he’d seen to the security of Armagh, the high chief of the O’Neills rode home to Dungannon to await the ceremony that would elevate him to King of Tir Eoghain.
On the day after the battle, Margaret Maelchallain sought out Declan at Cathal’s tent.
“How is the arm?” she asked.
Declan held up his left forearm, still secured with her splint, and waved it around.
“Good as new!” he said with a grin. “I had a good leech.”
That made her smile.
“And your friend, Sir Roland?”
“Oh, the wound’s still oozing a bit, but I don’t see any corruption. I think he’ll live, my lady.”
“Change the cloth every few days,” she advised.
There was an awkward silence as the subject of wounds and injuries was exhausted. Margaret’s face flushed a little.
“Come walk with me?” she asked.
Declan nodded and offered his good right arm. Together they walked up toward the church, passing through the old graveyard on the east side. The many fresh graves on the west side of the church were too melancholy a sight.
“You will be going home?” she asked when they reached the crest of the hill?
“Aye, I expect so.”
“You must miss your pretty little fort by the River Dee,” she said wistfully.
“I do, Meg. I wish you could see it.”
She turned and looked at him, her pale blue eyes searching his face.
“I would like that,” she said, in almost a whisper.
“You could, you know. Come with me, Meg. We could be at Shipbrook in a week. Ye’ve done yer duty as Keeper. Let your brother take up that burden.”
She gave him a sad little smile.
“I am sore tempted…,” she began, but stopped.
“Mac Lochlainn?” he asked, already sensing the answer.
She nodded.
“He needs me, Declan, more now than if he were king. More, I think, than you do. As you say, I will set aside my duties as Keeper of the bell soon, but I’ve grown used to having a voice in the counsels of the Cenél Eoghain. I will have that with Conor. That I know.”
“And Conor?”
“He’s asked me, of his own accord, to marry him. It seems he loves me, Declan.”
Declan gave her a wistful smile.
“Then he is smarter—and braver than I took him to be, Meg.”
Margaret smiled back at him, then leaned in and kissed his cheek.
“I’ll not forget you, Sir Declan,” she whispered to him.
Tullyhogue and Home
The sound of pipe music drifted through the trees as twilight fell on the fields and forests surrounding Tullyhogue, ancient inauguration site of the O’Neill chiefs. On paths older than the memory of man, riders converged there from every direction, come to see a new king made for the Cenél Eoghain. It seemed half of Tir Eoghain was gathering for this event—the first O’Neill king in a hundred years.
Beneath the inauguration hill, a boisterous crowd was gathered outside a large hall. Every man of any note in the land had come to pay respects to Hugh O’Neill on this day. Turlough O’Hagan, hereditary guardian of Tullyhogue, met each of the new arrivals and directed them to where O’Neill was greeting well-wishers at the back of the hall. The chief of the O’Neills was dressed in his finest clothes. He still looked nothing like one pictured a king, but he had more than proven his fitness to rule with the victory at Armagh.
Standing proudly beside O’Neill was Keiran O’Duinne who had been officially named as the new king’s herald. The young man’s face lit up when he saw his father coming through the crowd and he tapped Hugh on the shoulder to alert him. O’Neill tactfully saw off a long-winded supporter and opened his arms wide.
“Cathal, old friend! I’ve been wondering where ye were!” he roared as he grabbed the O’Duinne chief by the hand and pulled him in for a quick embrace. “My first command as king should be for ye to sire more sons,” he proclaimed. “Keiran now claims he can scratch his backside with his left hand,” he said with a laugh, “and I damned well know he can kill Englishmen with it. Saw it myself! As for yer youngest, I’m sorry Sir Declan could not stay for this. We owe him much. He stood with us in our hour of need and showed us how to fight the English.”
Cathal nodded.
“His coming was a blessing to me and to the Cenél Eoghain, Hugh, but the lad was ready to go home. I think he found what he came to Ireland to find.”
Others were lining up to meet O’Neill and Cathal took his leave. As he left the hall, a shout went up as a large troop of horsemen came galloping across the meadow. As the riders drew near, he saw the crescent moon banner held high by the lead horseman. The Mac Lochlainns had come to do homage to the new king of Tir Eoghain.
Riding beside Conor Mac Lochlain
n was his bride, Margaret Maelchallain. Cathal watched the girl dismount and smiled to himself. He hadn’t failed to see the looks that had passed between the beautiful Keeper and his son and wondered if the young chief of the Mac Lochlainns knew how close he’d come to losing his new wife. Meg looked up and saw him smiling at her. She smiled back and gave him a little English curtsey, then took the arm of her new husband.
***
It was sunset, when from somewhere up the hill, drums began a solemn, steady beat. At the sound, Rory O’Cahan and Turlough O’Hagan directed men to clear the hall. O’Hagan was the guardian of Tullyhogue, but the chief of the powerful O’Cahan clan would conduct the inauguration ceremony as was his hereditary right. As the two men exited the building, torches set at regular intervals along the path up the hill were lit, pushing back the gathering twilight. The torchlight gave a pagan feel to scene and, in truth, parts of the inauguration ceremony had roots in a time before Christianity came to Ireland.
Men of the O’Hagan clan pushed back the crowd to make a path for the dignitaries as Hugh O’Neill stepped out of the hall. Turlough O’Hagan lead the processional, flanked by two of his sons. He was followed by Rory O’Cahan, who carried a staff of office in one hand and a golden shoe in the other. Next came Archbishop Tomas O’Connor, his snow white robes reflecting the orange light of the torches. Then came Hugh O’Neill, looking a trifle nervous but resolute amidst all this formality.
Trailing O’Neill were the chiefs of the clans that had pledged their support to him. At the head of this group walked Conor Mac Lochlainn and a half step behind him came Margaret Maelchallain, the only woman in the group. She was dressed in a shimmering green dress with gold embroidery, her long black hair woven into a thick braid. Around her neck, suspended by a silver chain, she wore Saint Patrick’s bell. Men in the crowd crossed themselves as the Keeper passed by.
Behind Margaret came the O’Shanes, the O’Carolans, the Mac Mahons, the O’Gormleys and many other clans of the Cenél Eoghain. Near the end of that parade came Cathal O’Duinne, marching proudly with the rest.
The torchlit path wound along the contours of the slope until it passed through cuts in two steep earthen berms that enclosed the hilltop. Carved pillars of oak were set along the outer berm and more torches blazed atop the inner mound, illuminating a circular expanse of green grass. In the centre of the circle sat a boulder with three slabs of flat stone affixed to the back and both sides. This was the Leac na Ri, the inauguration throne of the O’Neills.
Turlough O’Hagan gave a small hand signal and the drums abruptly fell silent. The guardian of Tullyhogue then withdrew from the circle, his duty done. A buzz of anticipation ran through the crowd, but the voices fell silent when Rory O’Cahan stepped into the centre of the ring and raised his arms heavenward. For what seemed an eternity, he stood there, letting the silence set the stage for what was to follow. Finally he lowered his arms and began to speak.
“From the time of Niall of the Nine Hostages,” he intoned, his deep voice booming into the night, “we men of the Cenél Eoghain have gathered here at the sacred hill of Tullyhogue to witness the inauguration of kings and to do homage to the men chosen to rule over us. On this day, we freely submit to an unbroken line of blood-royal that has flowed in the veins of our princes for seven hundred years!”
There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd as O’Cahan paused and looked over the assembled multitudes.
“Many a High King of Ireland has shared that royal blood and many a Prince of Tir Eoghain. Today we acknowledge, we accept, we proclaim Hugh O’Neill our King! On the morrow, messengers will ride to the other kings of the Irish—in Connacht and Tir Connell and Munster—bringing them greetings from our new King. To the English, he has already made himself known—at Armagh!”
That brought a defiant roar from the crowd. O’Cahan let them have their moment. There were few among the gathered clansmen who had not lost comrades in that great victory. At length, he raised his arms to silence the uproar. When quiet prevailed once more, he led O’Neill to the Leac na Ri. O’Neill sat on the stone seat and looked slightly dwarfed there. It mattered not to the crowd as O’Cahan completed the ceremony.
“Hugh O’Neill is King by right of arms, King by blood, King by all here who proclaim it!” he intoned. He handed O’Neill the staff of office then tossed the golden shoe over the man’s head, a symbol of submission.
The crowd cheered until hoarse.
***
The two men stood at the stern of the trading cog and watched as the sun sank out of sight behind the low green hills of Ireland.
“It’s a beautiful country,” Roland said, “but I don’t think I’ll be coming back.”
That prompted a laugh from Declan as he held up his arm, still encased in a splint.
“You didn’t enjoy your traditional Irish welcome, Roland?”
Roland stretched his left arm and felt the tug of the newly-forming scar on his side
“Imprisonment and wounding, you mean?”
“Exactly! It wouldn’t be a proper Irish gathering without a few bandages to show for it.”
Roland looked up to see the sky turning shades of gold and orange above the western horizon,
“They’ll be making O’Neill king about now,” he said.
Declan nodded.
“If anyone can keep the Cenél Eoghain free, it’s Hugh O’Neill.”
“We could have stayed for the ceremony.”
Declan shrugged.
“I got what I came for. It was time to go.”
Roland laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“I think maybe you got more than you came for, Dec. She was quite a woman.”
Declan swung around and leaned against the rail, facing east now, toward the Irish Sea and England.
“She was that, Roland. I suppose she’s married now and I wonder if Conor Mac Lochlainn knows what he’s getting in the bargain! Still, I think she made the right choice. I suspect Shipbrook may have been too small a place for a woman like Meg Maelchallain. As for me, it’s home and I miss it.
Roland turned to face east with him.
“You could have been an important man in Tir Eoghain if you’d stayed,” he said. “O’Neill trusts you.”
Declan did not answer for a bit as he looked out over the bow.
“So does Sir Roger,” he said finally.
The cog rose on a large swell and plunged down into a trough sending a wave of spray over the bow. On the deck below, Brother Cyril scampered beneath the forecastle in time to escape the cascade, but Finn Mac Clure, having never taken ship before, was drenched.
“He’s got a bit to learn, but he’s a good lad I think,” said Declan nodding toward the sodden boy below them.
“I’d not have brought him along if I didn’t think so.”
“So what do you intend to do with the lad?”
Roland laughed as he watched Finn squeezing the salt water out of his shirt.
“You said it yourself. Irish boys make the best squires.”
Acknowledgements
This foray across the Irish Sea required me to divert from the rich vein of British history I’ve been mining for the past five years and dive into late 12th Century Ireland—a bloody time with sparse records. Most historians have had to rely on the Chronicles of the Four Masters and the journals of Giraldus Cambrensis as the primary surviving records of this tumultuous time when Anglo-Norman invaders were relentlessly expanding their domains and Irish kings were fighting among themselves. I have used the same basic sources, but have been helped mightily by some folks who have far more knowledge than I.
I wish to thank Mr. James Kane, an Executive Committee member of the Association of O’Neill Clans, for his generous help in understanding the political setting in the north of Ireland during the final decade of the 12th Century and the rise to power of Hugh O’Neill.
I’m also grateful for the assistance and information provided by the staff of Ranfurly House Arts &
Visitor Centre during my research visit to Dungannon, Northern Ireland.
I also wish to thank Ms. Nessa O’Connor of the Irish Antiquities Division of the National Museum of Ireland for telling me how to open the shrine of St. Patrick’s bell!
Finally, I wish to thank my editor, Mary Grant, who has diligently reviewed all my manuscripts, fussed at me about my overuse of dashes, pointed out that “the man” is a lazy way to reference a character, noted that no one can be in two places at once and told me when a beautifully written scene wasn’t “working.” The Saga of Roland Inness would not be nearly as good without her—nor would the rest of my life. Sorry about that dash…
Historical Note
Most of the events depicted in Declan O’Duinne are fictional, but this story was built around a core of documented history. It is a tale set amidst the struggle of the Gaelic Irish to resist the rising tide of Anglo-Norman expansion into Ireland. That was a struggle that lasted for over four hundred years, ending finally with the “Flight of the Earls” in 1607, when the last of the Gaelic Earls lost the Nine Years’ War and fled to the continent seeking support. They never returned.
Along with my fictional characters, a number of real historical personages appear in this story:
Sir John de Courcy—Prince of Ulster: John de Courcy was an obscure Anglo-Norman knight who served in the garrison in Dublin when King Henry II made his one visitation to Ireland in 1172. Henry is alleged to have made a jest with the young knight, telling him he could have as much of Ulster as he could capture, but de Courcy did not get the joke. He later gathered twenty-two other itinerant knights, along with three hundred foot soldiers and invaded the north. He captured Down and Antrim and ruled there until 1204, when, on King John’s orders, he was deposed and captured by Earl Hugh de Lacy. They took him while he was unarmed and unarmoured, praying at Down Abbey on Good Friday. He is said to have torn the iron crucifix from the wall and killed thirteen men before he was subdued. He was imprisoned and later released, but never regained his lands in Ulster. He was extremely religious, though perhaps not quite the zealot portrayed in my story.
