1014: Brian Boru & the Battle for Ireland Read online

  The office of king, of whatever rank, was elective. In the case of the provincial kings and the high king it was restricted to the princely class, which included anyone whose great-grandfather had been a king. Male members of this class were obliged to undergo a very specific training, both mental and physical. The eldest son of a king did not automatically inherit his father’s role. So long as there was an eligible member of his family who had the support of the other tribes, that person might accede to the kingship if he was of the age, strength, and character to suit the office. Thus the method of choosing a king was not fully one of merit, nor fully elective, nor fully hereditary, but a combination of all three. In the case of the Árd Rí, the family from which he came was of paramount importance. For centuries the high king was elected from either the northern or southern branches of the Uí Néill, the family with the longest history of high kingship.

  Until one man changed that.

  The Gael developed a highly stratified society conforming to an elaborate system known as Brehon law. Brehons were judges, members of the intellectual class that included teachers, healers, and bards. Bards were highly revered – a poet was considered the equal of a prince, a gifted satirist could topple a king. Brehons, as interpreters of the law, were concerned with every aspect of tribal life, from governing the election of kings to writing statutes concerning beekeeping.

  Under Brehon law women had a degree of equality with men. Whether single or married they could inherit property and conduct its usage. The importance of women’s work was shown by the value assigned to their implements: a needle used in embroidery was valued at an ounce of silver, or part ownership of a yearling heifer. In case of divorce, which was common in early Ireland, a woman’s dowry might be returned to her. Polygamy was accepted if all parties consented, although in certain circumstances, such as incest, adultery was punishable by death. There was no such thing as illegitimacy: any act which resulted in a child was considered a marriage. There were no orphans. If a child’s parents were dead, he or she was fostered by other members of the tribe.

  Because the pre-Christian Gael had no written language, their history was painstakingly memorised by their bards over a period as long as twenty years. Poetry in its primitive form was a chant of pure emotion, speaking directly to the spirit. Captured in poetry like a fly in amber, Ireland’s history and genealogies were transmitted from one generation to the next virtually intact.

  In the sixth century, Christianity arrived in Ireland together with its concomitant literacy. The new faith was superimposed on the ancient druidic tradition without a substantial struggle. Ireland underwent an almost bloodless conversion as kings and princes gradually accepted fresh ideas. The majority of the Gael, who had a long history of loyalty to their chosen leaders, followed them into the worship of Christ. Canon law took its place beside Brehon law in Gaelic society. For a long time observance appears to have been optional, however.

  The people remained pastoral. The only towns of any size were those which developed around monastic centres. Tribal warfare continued unabated; cattle raids were as frequent as ever. Bands of outlaws, even if avowed Christians, were not above looting a monastery.

  Literacy offered a fresh outlet for the artistic impulse. Masterpieces like the Book of Kells testify to a new faith and a soaring imagination. Christian craftsmen turned native gold and silver into objects of breathtaking beauty, such as the Ardagh Chalice. The Ireland of saints and scholars existed for several generations – but it could not last.

  If the Gael were content to stay at home, others were not. The last decade of the eighth century saw the arrival of the Vikings. Their power in Ireland would reach its zenith with the Battle of Clontarf.

  ‘Viking’ was an appellation applied impartially to sea rovers from Norway and Denmark, as well as to adventurers from Sweden, Jutland, Iceland, and the islands and coasts of the Baltic. These people did not actually call themselves Vikings until the twelfth century, however. The origin of the word viking is something of a mystery. It may have been a verb describing what the Scandinavians did during three centuries of their history: they were seagoing marauders, they were Northmen who went ‘viking’.

  Another term applied to them was ‘Land Leaper’, meaning someone who seizes another’s land. During the cold, dark, interminable nights of winter in northern Europe, a man could only dream of the sun – of green grass, of golden fields of grain. Dream … and long … and ultimately determine to find. And seize for himself. This very human urge motivated one of the most violent eras in history, but it was not the only cause.

  A rise in the population of Scandinavia, which began in the seventh century, reached a climax in the tenth, putting great pressure on land and resources. Added to this was the resentment of the Norse jarls, or noblemen, with their own independent earldoms, at efforts being made to unify Norway under one crown.

  The result of these forces coming together was an explosion of Vikings onto the world stage.

  As with most of early history, facts about this period have been exaggerated and embellished until the underlying kernel of truth may be hard to find. A predilection for embroidering history is not unique to the Irish. Down through the ages famous historians have refused to let the truth get in the way of a colourful story. Plato, Herodotus, Giraldus Cambrensis – and that master propagandist, Julius Caesar – all employed creative fiction to suit their purposes. Thus it is not surprising that something as momentous in its time as the Battle of Clontarf has been heavily mythologised. The protagonists were always prime candidates for myth – none more so than the Vikings.

  During the ninth and tenth centuries the political situation in Ireland had changed dramatically. Adding Vikings to the mix destabilised a complex societal structure built on blood and hereditary ties, an archaic code of law, and shifting military alliances. It also seemed to herald an increase in violence among the native Irish, who could not fail to be affected by the actions of the invaders.

  The Norse and Swedes, whom the Gael identified as ‘the fair foreigners’ in the beginning, and the Danes, whom they described as ‘the dark foreigners’, often fought among themselves – not unlike the Irish. The Viking concept of warfare was somewhat different, however. They considered battle an end in itself, a transforming experience which could open the gates to Valhalla, their idea of heaven. The Gael usually respected their dead enemies. The Vikings practised a variety of mutilations on theirs. Two of the most frequently cited examples are revealing. In one, a man was propped against a tree while still alive, eviscerated, then bound to the tree with his own intestines. The second example is the notorious and not infrequent ‘blood eagle’. A man’s lungs were torn from his living body and placed on his back, like wings. It is little wonder that the word ‘viking’ could instil terror.

  Yet within a couple of generations many of the Vikings in Ireland had become settlers in the literal meaning of the word. They settled. And as emigrants tend to do, they clung to their own kind. They formed communities which grew into towns – a foreign concept in such a pastoral culture. Wicklow and Arklow in the southeast were two of their earliest successes.

  As Norse and Dane adjusted to the more moderate climate of their new land they grew comfortable, even prosperous. Trading centres proliferated and eventually became the focal point of towns. Bunratty Castle in County Clare stands on what was the site of a Viking trading post in 970. In Ireland the growing season was longer and the soil was warmer, so farms were laid out in the hinterland of the towns. Families expanded in response to the change in circumstances. Immigrants married Irish women, or, rarely, brought women from their homeland, built houses and raised children. Memories of the cold north faded into tales told to the little ones around the fire. The newcomers ceased to be, if they ever had been, the rampaging Vikings of song and saga.

  Ultimately the Norse became the predominant Scandinavian element in Ireland. After changing hands several times between Norse and Dane, Dublin became the nucleus o
f the smaller Danish population. However, the phrase ‘The Danes of Dublin’ entered into common usage to such an extent that eventually all Northmen were called Danes. This created a confusion which continues to influence historians today – although some go the other way, and call all the Danes ‘Norsemen’.

  Around the coasts of the island various Gaelic tribes developed trading relationships with the newcomers. One result was valuable cultural and linguistic cross-pollination, which engendered a growing if grudging respect. But tribes elsewhere in Ireland went to war against the foreigners, striving to expel or at least dominate them. War was too old a habit to relinquish in favour of trade. In a society where the greatest honours were achieved in battle, commerce was considered less than noble. The Annals of the Four Masters, which document early and medieval Irish history in great detail and was compiled in the seventeenth century, contain hundreds of accounts of great battles and heroic undertakings, but none of commercial success.

  Many of the written records of the period were lost when Vikings – or raiding parties of Irish outlaws, who were just as bad – burned or stole countless books and manuscripts. There is no excuse for the Irish, but until they were Christianised the Vikings could not read, and so did not value what they had taken. They knew enough to sell them, though, or at least to steal the jewels with which many books and sacred objects were embellished. In this way a number of priceless artefacts found their way to the European continent. A few eventually came home again.

  The surviving ancient Irish texts, fragmentary though they are, stand as documents of the era in which they were written. Thanks to the efforts of scholars and archaeologists many can now be dated with reasonable certainty. The identities of individuals as well as historical details have been verified. We know to a degree what happened at Clontarf on Good Friday, 1014. We can recognise the event for what it was: a Greek tragedy of classical proportions. Its central figure was a giant by any standards. He was known as Brian Boru.

  CHAPTER TWO

  IRELAND IN THE TENTH CENTURY

  In AD 941 a son was born into a large clan in the kingdom of Thomond, a territory in the province of Munster. His parents had him christened Brian. Their clan, or group of closely related families, belonged to the tribe of the Dál gCais: the Dalcassians. The child’s father was Kennedy (Ceinnéidigh in Irish), son of Lorcan. Kennedy was a bó-aire, or cattle lord, possessing a wealth of fine black cattle. Kennedy’s wife, who was called Bebinn, was the daughter of a king of West Connacht, another bó-aire.

  Elected as a king of Thomond, Lorcan was the first of his tribe to lead an army outside his own territory. He once claimed the right to be king of all Munster but his claim was hotly contested by the more powerful Munster tribe, the Owenachts, and eventually he and his followers were defeated. They never forgot.

  By the time Brian was born, Kennedy and Bebinn already had eleven sons. Such large families were common: it was important to have many children in order to be certain of raising at least a few. When Brian was born most if not all of his brothers were still alive, as were an impressive number of aunts and uncles and cousins.

  Kennedy’s home was an Iron Age ringfort known as Béal Boru, on the west bank of the Shannon River in what is now County Clare. Thomond at that time was heavily forested; some referred to it as a wilderness. Majestic red deer as large as horses stalked the heights, like kings surveying their realms. Dense woodlands were home to shy but beautiful pine martens, with fur of glossy chocolate brown, a bushy tail and dazzlingly white throat. A dawn chorus of songbirds greeted the sunrise; a sleepy nocturne announced the fall of night.

  From Béal Boru one could see the southern bay of Lough Derg in one direction and the purple and brown mountains of Craglea and Thountinna in the other. The southern slope of Craglea was home to Ayvinn (Aoibhinn), the traditional banshee of the Dalcassians. On the flank of the mountain, a well sacred to Ayvinn gushed from a cleft in the crag. According to legend, the banshee’s appearance always signalled the death of a chief of the tribe.

  The Dalcassians had once been important in Munster, but tribal warfare had taken its toll. By the time Brian was born they had subsided into near-obscurity, yearning for lost glories. They could have disappeared from history without leaving a trace, except for a curious quirk in the nature of Kennedy’s youngest son: Brian mac Kennedy was unwilling to accept limitations.

  Brian was the sort of boy who throws a stone into the water just to see how far the ripples will go. While still a small child he had listened with fascination to the tales that visiting storytellers told beside the fire. Such storytellers were an important part of Gaelic life, the entertainment that made dark winter nights bearable. Their repertoire invariably included the great heroic tales: Nuada of the Silver Arm; Cúchulainn, the invincible warrior; Fionn Mac Cumhaill, the outlaw leader of the Fianna.

  Inspired by these legends, when he was little more than a toddler Brian taught himself to use the dagger and the casting spear. Because he was the youngest of his family, there was a shortage of boys his own age to take part in his games. He had to invent his enemies. As he grew older he lost interest in pretend battles against shadowy opponents and began to dream of adulthood, with its own set of fantasies and ambitions. But the early tales and first heroes of a child become permanent fixtures in the mind.

  Brehon law decreed an education to be the birthright of the noble class. Brian’s parents might have intended him for the priesthood as every Christian family sought to give at least one son to God. But his brother Marcan, seventh in the line of Kennedy’s sons, already was showing a strong preference for the Church. When Marcan entered a monastery young Brian was sent too to study at the great monastic centres of Clonmacnois and Inisfallen. These were staffed by highly educated monks who had studied throughout Europe. Under their strict tutelage Brian learned to read Greek and Latin. He memorised the careers of Caesar and Charlemagne, studied the tactics of Xenophon’s cavalry and the deployment of the naval fleet of Xerxes. His mind was like a sponge, thirstily soaking up information.

  When Brian was ten years old his father was killed in battle by Callahan of the Owenacht tribe. Several of Brian’s brothers suffered a similar fate. Four years after Kennedy’s death, Brian’s oldest surviving brother, Mahon, acceded to their father’s title as king of Thomond. It was a kingship lacking much in the way of power or royal prerogatives, but this probably suited Mahon, who was not a warrior by nature but a kindly, gentle man. He preferred negotiation to confrontation as a way of protecting his tribe.

  Unfortunately, confrontation was the way things were achieved in Ireland. In 959 the Owenacht king of Munster died and another prince of his tribe, a man called Molloy, declared himself king and set up court at Cashel.

  During the years when Brian was occupied with his studies, Mahon followed the path of expediency. He began trading with the Norse settlers along the Shannon, who bought the furs of seal, otter, badger and fox from the Dalcassians. Mahon made a number of concessions to those same settlers in order to keep peace. Inevitably, he quarrelled with his youngest brother, who had now completed his education. Brian saw everything in black and white; as far as he was concerned Mahon was a traitor. While still in his late teens Brian broke with his brother completely. Gathering a company of young, like-minded followers, he struck out into the mountains of east Clare to fight the foreigners on his own terms.

  His little band was clothed in coarse homespun wool or in deer hide and often went barefoot. Their weapons included the iron-bladed Irish axe – a basic, multi-purpose implement equally suited to domestic use – and the javelin. Belted around their waists was a thrusting sword. When their weapons were damaged they learned to repair them themselves. They fashioned circular shields out of wood. They used both their spears and the bow and arrow in order to live off the land, hunting wild boar in the forest and brown hare on the meadows, spearing fish in the rivers, trapping badgers and weasels as they emerged from their dens. They even collected bats from their
caves if all else failed. Of necessity, the young rebels learned to eat almost anything.

  Around their necks they wore leather bags containing a day’s provisions of dried meat and hazelnuts. If they were lucky, they might be given a bit of hard cheese by some sympathetic herder. They became very tough and very resilient. They were warriors.

  Lightly armed and lightly equipped, Brian’s band was a highly mobile force. They were well able to swoop down from the hills and fall on their enemies. Their traditional method of warfare, inherited from their Celtic ancestors, was to rush forward in no particular order and try to overcome the enemy by sheer force. The side with numerical superiority usually won.

  At first the Irish were almost exterminated by powerfully built Norse husbands and fathers who had better weapons. After the initial shock, Brian responded by introducing his band to a code of discipline which he had gleaned from his classical studies. His ideas must have seemed incomprehensible to the young rebels. He realised they could not count on numerical superiority because they did not have it. There had to be another way to win. There was: he discovered within himself a gift for tactical ingenuity. A careful study of the annals reveals that Brian Boru mastered the art of guerrilla warfare long before the term was invented.

  He learned to use the land itself as a weapon. Opponents could be tricked into floundering into a bog and drowning. Or lured into a steep defile where they could not find a way out. Brian soon knew every treacherous piece of ground in Thomond and how best to exploit it. He relied on the element of surprise, striking without mercy and then vanishing back into the trackless mountains he knew so well. Most battles were fought in the daytime, but he was not afraid to attack at night. When he stood no chance of winning, he retreated rather than make a heroic but futile last stand, which would cost the lives of his men.