Viking Dublin 150-1169AD.

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CHAPTER I** *

The Viking Stronghold***

150-1169 AD.**

“Thirty men they each commanded,

Iron-sinewed, horny-handed,

Shoulders broad, and chests expanded,

Tugging at the oar.”

- Longfellow.

The name of the capital of Ireland is as appropriate now as when it was first bestowed some two thousand years ago. It is a compound of two Gaelic words (Dubh-linn) which signify “the black pool.” The waters of the Liffey were then, and are still, tinged a deep brown by a subterranean peat bog, which underlies the foundations of the city and forms the bed of the river. The volume of the stream is here increased by the Dodder, Tolka and some other tributaries, so that it becomes wide and deep enough to accommodate sea-going vessels. This harbour was the “black pool,” which the ancient Irish saw and named.

However, the settlement had another designation and another claim to notice. It was the lowest practicable ford on the Liffey. Here the coast road from Wicklow to Tara, in Meath, the then capital of Ireland, passed over the river on its way northward. Some unknown benefactor had paved the swampy crossing with wicker hurdles, and the village was accordingly called Baile-Ath-Cliath (pronounced Ballaclee), “the town of the hurdle ford.” Irish annalists prefer the latter title, but the Danes and their successors the English, fearing no doubt, the myriad pitfalls of Irish pronunciation, always employed the shorter and more convenient form.

The first appearance of Dublin in history is about the year 150 a.d. A warlike Irish king, picturesquely styled “Conn of the Hundred Battles,” who had long been the acknowledged overlord of all the numerous petty monarchs of the country, was defeated by his rival, Mogh of Munster, and obliged to consent to a division of his dominions. The line of demarcation was drawn across the country from High Street, Dublin, to the Atlantic Ocean at Galway. Mogh is said to have been dissatisfied because his portion did not include the harbour of Dublin, which must, therefore, already have been a place of considerable commerce. A dispute arose over this point, and the interminable tribal wars broke out afresh.

Three centuries later a legend connects the ford over the Liffey with the apostolic wanderings of S. Patrick. As he was making his way to his home in Armagh from a missionary journey in Wicklow, he rested a night at Dublin before resuming his travels.

His hosts complained to him of the bad quality of the marsh water they were obliged to drink, whereupon the saint caused a miraculous fountain to spring up at their doors. The conversion of the heathen followed, and the place became the site of a church dedicated to

S. Patrick, which in later years developed into a great cathedral. A stone marked with an ancient Celtic cross was recently dug up near the steeple of S. Patrick’s, and is thought to have marked the site of the holy well. It has been set up within the walls of the church as close as possible to the place of its discovery.

The references to Dublin in Irish annals are, however, very few and far between until the coming of the Danes at the beginning of the ninth century. These marauders had a keen eye for a good harbour and a defensible position. Not only at Dublin, but at Wexford, Cork, Waterford, and Limerick, they founded towns, whose natural advantages have secured their prosperity to this very day.

Their first appearance was in 795 It was the beginning of a series of terrible raids. Every year the foreigners landed from their long ships and sacked some chieftain’s fortress, or, still more to their taste, a great monastery enriched by the offerings of the faithful and protected only by a religious sanctity, which entirely failed to impress the pagan from the sea.

In 836 fleets sailed up the Liffey and the Boyne, plundering the rich pastures of Kildare and Meath. This expedition led to a permanent settlement at Dublin. The situation was very advantageous to the Danes. Their fortified posts in the Hebrides and on both sides of the Irish Sea and S. George’s Channel formed a sort of maritime empire reaching from the Orkneys to the south of Ireland.

The site of their new colony was at the very centre of their scattered dominions. It would serve as a headquarters and port of call for ships making the great western cruise through the narrow waters that lie between Great Britain and Ireland. Furthermore it was conveniently situated for raids into the interior, the greater part of which lay within easy striking distance.

In the year 840 the Danes built a fortress at Dublin, probably on the slight elevation where the Norman castle was subsequently erected. Their leader was one Turgesius or Thorkils, a remarkable man, whose aims were far in advance of those of his plundering companions. He designed to conquer all Ireland, and set about the task most strategically. Three fleets, one on Lough Neagh, another on the upper Shannon, and another in Carlingford Lough, co-operated under the direction of Thorkils, who established himself at the sacred city of Armagh, where his wife delivered heathen oracles on the very ground consecrated by S. Patrick.

Success was within the reach of the pagan leader when a turn came. According to the legend Thorkils cherished a passion for an Irish maiden. At his entreaty she consented to a secret meeting on an island in Lough Owel, to which each party should bring some companions of his or her own sex and age. The Viking came, according to promise, with a few unarmed followers. But the lady’s handmaids were armed young men of her clan, disguised as women. When the Danes grew warm in their love-making, the Irishmen tore off their disguises and stabbed their enemies with the daggers they had concealed. Thorkils was taken alive and hurried before his beloved’s father, Malachi, King of Meath, who promptly had him drowned in the lake.

Despite the death of its founder, Dublin maintained its position and its hold over the adjacent country; the sea still, in the phrase of the annalists, “vomited floods of foreigners into Erin.” At length dissensions among her enemies gave Ireland relief. Although all the Norsemen are usually classed together under the generic name of “Danes,” they were of two distinct races, the Danes proper from Denmark, whom the Irish called Dubh-Gaill (dark strangers), and the Norwegians or Finn-Gaill (fair strangers).

The two nationalities quarrelled, probably over the division of the spoil. Malachi of Meath, fresh from disposing of Thorkils, headed a rally of the natives, which drove both branches of the foreigners out of Dublin. But the worst feature of these tribal efforts was their short duration. The Irish armies went home or melted slowly away. The Danes came back and, under the leadership of a great warrior, whom both parties were glad to accept, fixed themselves firmly in their old possession.

Olaf the White, the new Danish chief, was perhaps a greater scourge than any of his predecessors. No place within 70 miles of his capital was safe from his attacks. His power extended far beyond the limits of Ireland. He sailed off to aid Hinguar and Hubba in their campaigns in Northumbria, and returned laden with booty. After his death, which occurred about the year 870, the settlement again fell into difficulties.

For forty years, from 875 to 915, the historians record “rest from the Danes,” meaning that their wild and continuous raids over the land ceased for a space, and they were compelled to act on the defensive. The explanation is, no doubt, that scenting war and plunder from afar, all the “stormy petrels” of the nation were away in England fighting Alfred the Great.

During the “forty years rest” Dublin was twice taken and retaken. At its second siege the Danes, driven from the city, held on doggedly for a while to the little island of Ireland’s Eye just outside the bay. Thence they fled to Anglesey, where they tried to establish themselves, but were expelled by the sword. Finally, broken with the wars, they enreated Ethelflaed, Alfred’s Amazonian daughter, governor of Mercia, to permit them to settle in England. There, after much wandering, they had rest.

The settlement of vast numbers of Northmen in Normandy and East Anglia caused a recurrence of trouble in Ireland. The more restless spirits scorned to become good Christians and peaceable subjects of Saxon or Frank. Another great fleet and army came to Ireland in 919, and recovered Dublin from the Irish after a brief campaign, during which the invaders won the greatest triumph they had yet achieved. At Kilmashogue, a peak of the mountains some six miles from the city, they defeated and slew Niall Glunduff, the arch-king or overlord of all Ireland.

The dismal history began all over again. The ancient annalists rise to an unusual pitch of eloquence in describing this “distressful” period. “Many were the captives carried over the broad, green seas, and many and frequent were the bright and brilliant eyes that were suffused with tears and dimmed with grief and despair at the separation of son from father, daughter from mother, brother from brother, and clansman from tribe.”

However, the power of the Danes was soon to receive as deadly a blow in Ireland as it had done elsewhere. Christianity began to exert its influence in humanising and civilising their pagan fierceness. The stream of warriors, which the North had so long poured from her “frozen loins,” showed signs of exhaustion. In the absence of reinforcements the colonies in Ireland were soon hard pressed.

The Norsemen of Dublin, under their king Olaf, formed a part of the great coalition that was shattered at Brunanburgh in Northumbria in the year 937. The defeat left them almost powerless for harm, especially since Ireland had at last produced leaders capable of organising the native forces for victory. These were the celebrated Malachi II., King of Ireland, and his more famous successor, Brian Boru. In 980 Malachi won a victory at Tara, levied a tribute of 2000 oxen on the vanquished Danes, and liberated the Irish hostages in their possession.

In 996 he plundered Dublin, and carried off two relics much reverenced by the Danes -the torc or collar of Tomar, slain in 848, and sometimes identified with Thorkils; and the sword of Karl, son of Olaf the White, who fell in defending his father’s residence at Clondalkin in 869. The incident furnishes a theme for one of Moore’s lyrics

 

“Let Erin remember the days of old

Ere her faithless sons betrayed her,

When Malachi wore the collar of gold

That he won from the proud invader.”

In the meantime Brian Boru, King of the Dalcassians of Co. Clare, had gained great prestige by driving the Norsemen of Munster out of their stronghold at Limerick. His ambition aimed at attaining the sovereignty of all Ireland. Malachi, the possessor of the title, was compelled to concede the southern half of his dominions to his rival.

Mailmora, sub-king of Leinster, did not appreciate the new arrangement, which brought him under the strong hand of Brian. In concert with the Dublin Danes he rebelled, only to meet with a complete defeat at Glenmama, near Dunlavin, in Wicklow. After the battle Mailmora, who had hidden in a yew tree, was captured by the victor, but was kindly treated and taken into favour.

Dublin was again plundered, and its king forced to enter into matrimonial alliances with Brian. The Dane’s mother married the Irish king, who in turn bestowed his daughter on the foreigner. The star of Malachi was waning, as that of his rival rose. In 1002, without the semblance of a struggle, the overlord and vassal exchanged their relative positions. Brian had soon to justify his elevation. Mailmora of Leinster and Sitric of Dublin were again in revolt. The affair rose out of an angry taunt of Brian’s son Murrough. He had been playing chess, when Mailmora, who was looking on, advised a certain move, which in the end proved disastrous.

“That,” said Murrough in chagrin at losing the game, “was like the advice you gave the Danes which lost them Glenmama.”

“I will give them advice now,” returned the other, “and they shall not be again defeated.”

“Then you had better remind them to provide a yew tree for your reception,” was the reply.

Mailmora flung out of the palace in bitter wrath, and mounting immediately, returned to his kingdom. Brian sent a messenger to bring him back, but Mailmora’s only answer was to crack the skull of the unfortunate emissary with a blow of his mace.

On his arrival in Leinster he began to organise a great confederacy of Danes and Irish. Sitric summoned all his fellow-countrymen within the four seas of Britain. From the Orkneys and the Isle of Man they came, a motley, but formidable host. The most notable person in their ranks was the heathen sorcerer Brodar, tall and strong, wearing a magic coat on which no steel would bite, and with black, snaky locks so long that in the fight they were tucked into his belt. He fought with the fury of the renegade, for he had formerly been a Christian. Two thousand mail-clad mercenaries attended this warrior alone.

Brian encamped at Kilmainham, and set out to provoke the Dubliners to a fight by wasting the entire district of Fingal to the north of the city. Here were many Norse settlements, and indeed the district received its name from the Finn-Gaill, the “fair strangers” or Norwegians, who contended with the Dubh-Gaill in the early days of the colony.

On Good Friday, 1014, the famous battle of Clontarf took place. The Irish marched round from Kilmainham towards Drumcondra. They found the enemy drawn up on the northern bank of the Liffey, their line extending from the bridge they had built near the Castle to the mouth of the Tolka at Clontarf.

It was a day of single combats fought to the death. Murrough of the sharp tongue, after prodigies of valour, was slain by the last dying effort of a Norseman, whom he had overthrown. Another son of Brian’s, a boy of 15, was found drowned at the fishing weir of the Tolka, near the modern Ballybough Bridge, his hands still clutching the corpse of a foeman.

The Claremen plied their battle-axes so well that to Brian, whose age rendered him a mere spectator, it seemed as if a great band of men were felling the trees of “Tomar’s Wood.” Towards evening the foreigners broke and fled, either to the city or to gain their ships in the bay. Brodar, the sorcerer, with a small band of followers, in the general confusion happened somehow upon the tent, where the old King was still praying for victory. Seeing but a man on his knees, he turned away with a contemptuous cry of “priest, priest,” but a companion corrected his error by shouting “king, king.” Brian rose hastily and seized his sword, with one sweep of which he severed both the legs of the Dane. At the same moment the two-handed battle-axe of Brodar descended with deadly force on the King’s head. Each had perished by the other’s hand.

With the bloody day of Clontarf, the “Danish terror” passed away from Ireland. They were not, indeed, expelled from the country, as so many people still believe, but their power was broken for ever.

Dublin was so weak that it gravitated into the hands of whichever Irish king gained a temporary supremacy. The ruler of Leinster was most often able to enforce his authority in the town, and a number of the native Celts came and settled in the neighbourhood. Irish-town, near Sandymount, may owe its name to some such immigration. This was really a wholesome chastening for the plundering Norsemen.

After their great defeat the germs of civilisation and progress begin to sprout in a long barren soil. Clontarf was the last struggle of heathenism. Within a short space of time the Danes of Dublin were converted. Penned as they now were within the walls of their city, they set to work, with all the ardour of proselytes, to found religious establishments in their midst as a memorial of their piety. In 1038 King Sitric and Bishop Donat set up “The Church of the Blessed Trinity,” which developed into Christ Church Cathedral as it stands to-day.

There is a tradition, not borne out by architectural evidence, that the present crypt represents the erection of 1038. The parish churches of Dublin began to spring up. The strange old tower and vaults of S. Michan’s, with their weird associations, bear the name of a Danish saint, and have been assigned to the year 1095. The great Cistercian monastery of S. Mary’s Abbey takes its rise somewhere during this period. In 1152 the see was raised to the level of an archbishopric by a decree of the papal legate published at the Synod of Kells. The den of thieves on the Liffey was in a fair way to become an orderly and devout Christian city.

The great advances made by Dublin during this period were so remarkable that, at the time of the landing of Henry II., it stood out as unquestionably the leading city of Ireland and became the seat of English government. Its only possible rival was the kindred Danish city of Waterford, which, though very convenient as a port of entry from South Wales, was not sufficiently central for the purpose of administration.

At the time of the invasion the citizens of Dublin were gradually merging their distinctive nationality in that of the Irish all around them. Their bishop was, if one may judge by his name, not of Norse origin. He bore the characteristically Irish cognomen of Lawrence O’Toole. Even their kings were beginning to use the Celtic patronymic “Mac” with their Danish Christian names. We hear of Hasculf MacThorkil, not Hasculf Thorkilson. But the process of assimilation was rudely arrested by the unending wars and massacres which the reckless tyranny and violence of Dermot MacMurrough, King of Leinster, brought upon his hapless country.

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