Desolating Civil Wars Among the Irish
FROM the deposition of Donough O’Brien down to the period of the Norman
invasion of the island—about a century and a half—Ireland was cursed by
the civil wars which raged interminably, because of disputes of royal
succession, between the McLoughlins of Ulster—a branch of the Hy-Niall
dynasty—and the descendants of King Brian of Kinkora, in which the
latter were finally worsted. Then the successful family fell out with
royal O’Conors of Connaught. One of the latter, a brave and ambitious
man, called Turlough Mor, aimed at the chief sovereignty and proved
himself an able general and a wise statesman. He reigned in splendor
over Connaught, and terrorized his enemies of Ulster and Munster by his
splendid feats of arms. He held his court at Rathcroghan, in Roscommon,
and often entertained as many as 3,000 guests on occasions of festival.
His palace, fortified after the circular Celtic fashion, dominated more
than four hundred forts, or duns, which were the strongholds of his
chiefs, in the territory of Roscommon alone; he founded churches and was
generous to the clergy and to the poor. In spite of all this, however,
he was unable to attain to the High Kingship, and only succeeded in
paving the way to the national throne for his son and successor, Rory,
commonly called Roderick, O’Conor, whose reign was destined to behold
the Anglo-Normans in Ireland. Dr. Joyce, in dealing with this troubled
period of Irish history, says that during the one hundred and fifty
years comprised in it, there were eight Ard-Righs “with opposition”—that
is, some one of the provinces, perhaps more, would refuse to recognize
their jurisdiction. There was also chaos among the minor royal families.
As regarded the High King, it was not unusual to have two of them using
that title at once, as was the case with Donal O’Loughlin, King of
Ulster, and Murtough O’Brien, King of Munster. Both these claimants
terminated their careers in monasteries. A similar condition existed,
also, between Turlough Mor O’Conor, before mentioned, and Murtough
O’Loughlin, King of Ulster, and the strife was only ended by the death
of Turlough Mor, in 1156. His son, Roderick, then attempted to wrest the
Ard-Righship from the Ulster monarch, but was defeated. On the death of
the latter, in 1166, Roderick, who was not opposed by any candidate of
influence, was elected High King—the last of the title who reigned over
all Ireland.
It may be asked, why did not the clansmen—the rank and file of the Irish
people—put a stop to the insane feuds of their kings, princes, and
chiefs? Because, we answer, they were accustomed to the tribal system
and idea. Doubtless, they loved Ireland, in a general way, but were much
more attached to their family tribe-land, and, above all, they adored
the head of their sept and followed where he led, asking no questions as
to the ethics of his cause. Had they been more enlightened regarding the
art of government, they might have combined against their selfish
leaders and crushed them. But the tribal curse was upon them, and is not
yet entirely lifted.
The Danes held the crown of England for about a quarter of a century
after they were driven from power in Ireland. At last, after great
difficulty, they were driven from the throne and the saintly Edward the
Confessor, of the old Saxon line, was raised to the kingship of England.
His successor, King Harold—a brave but, we fear, not a very wise man—is
said by English historians to have “done homage”—an evil custom of those
days—to William, Duke of Normandy, while on a visit to that country. At
all events, William claimed the crown, which Harold, very properly,
declined to surrender. William was an able and resolute, but fierce and
cruel, warrior. He speedily organized a force of 60,000 mercenaries,
mainly French-Normans, but with thousands of real Frenchmen among them,
and, having provided himself with an immense flotilla—a wondrous
achievement in that age of the world—succeeded in throwing his entire
force on the English coast. Harold, nothing daunted, met him on a heath
near Hastings, in Sussex, where the Saxon army had strongly intrenched
itself, and would, perhaps, have been victorious had not it abandoned
its position to pursue the fleeing Normans, who, with their accustomed
martial skill, turned upon their disordered pursuers and repulsed them
in return. The centre of the great conflict is marked by the ruins of
Battle Abbey. The two armies were about equal in strength and fought the
whole length of an October day before the combat was decided. Prodigies
of valor were performed, but, at last, the brave Harold fell, and the
remains of the Saxon army fled from that fatal field. William, soon
afterward, occupied London. The Saxons made but small show of
resistance, after Hastings, and, within a few years, “fair England” was
parceled out among William’s Norman-French captains, who thus laid the
foundation of the baronial fabric that, with one brief interval, has
dominated England ever since. A few of the Saxon nobles managed,
somehow, to save their domains—probably by swearing allegiance to
William and marrying their lovely daughters to his chiefs—but, as a
whole, the Saxon people became the serfs of the Norman barons, and were
scarcely recognized even as subjects, until the long and bloody wars
with France, in the thirteenth, fourteenth, and fifteenth centuries,
made them necessary, in a military sense, to the Plantagenet kings, who
employed them chiefly as archers. Under Norman training, their skill
with the deadly long bow made them perhaps the most formidable infantry
of the Middle Ages.
The Normans in England, very wisely, accommodated themselves to the new
conditions and made up their minds to live upon and enjoy the lands they
had won by the sword. They rapidly became more English than Norman, and
after the accession of the House of Anjou to the throne, in the person
of Henry II, began to call themselves “Englishmen.” Sir Walter Scott, in
his noble historical romance of “Ivanhoe,” draws a splendidly vivid
picture of that period.
In Ireland, as we have seen, the series of distracting civil wars, all
growing out of questions of succession to the national and provincial
thrones, still progressed, and, owing to the unceasing discord,
prosperity waned, and some historians claim that Church discipline was
relaxed, although not to any such extent as is asserted by the Norman
chroniclers. But the reigning Pontiff, hearing of the trouble, summoned
some of the leading hierarchs of the Irish Church to Rome, where they
explained matters satisfactorily.
About the time that Henry II, in virtue of his descent from the
Conqueror, through his mother, daughter of Henry I, assumed the English
crown, the Papal chair was occupied by Adrian the Fourth, whose worldly
name was Nicholas Breakspeare, an Englishman by birth, and the only man
of that nationality who ever wore the tiara. He, too, had been informed
by Norman agents of the disorders in Ireland, where, among other things,
it was claimed that the people in general had neglected to pay to the
Papacy the slight tribute known as “Peter’s Pence.” This circumstance,
no doubt, irritated the Pontiff, and when Henry, who had his ambitious
heart set on acquiring the sovereignty of Ireland, laid open his design,
Pope Adrian, according to credible authority, gave him a document called
a “bull,” in which, it would appear, he undertook to “bestow” Ireland on
the English king, with the understanding that he should do his utmost to
reform the evils in Church and State said to exist in that country, and
also compel the regular payment of the Papal tribute. All of which Henry
agreed to do.
------------------------------------------------------------------------