The Wandering of the Déise

 

The Wandering of the Déise

The Déise were one of the first tribes to settle in Waterford, but their journey to the county was a long and arduous one, filled with warfare and magic. It was first documented in the 12^th century manuscript, The Book of Leinster, under the title of ‘Tairired na nDésse’ (The Wandering of the Déise).

The story of the Déise tribe begins in 3^rd century County Meath where they owned a lot of land near Tara, which was the capital of Ireland at the time. One of their leaders was called Óengus of the Dread Spear because he owned the Spear of Lugh, one of the four treasures of the Tuatha Dé Danann. It was a magical weapon which, once thrown, never missed its mark. It had a life of its own and had to be chained inside a cauldron for safe keeping. The cauldron had to be filled with blood to stop the spear from going on fire. The weapon made Óengus a powerful and much feared leader.

For years, the Déise lived in peace beside the high king of Ireland, but that ended when one of the high king’s sons, Cellach, fell in love with Óengus’s niece. She had no interest in him, and rejected his advances, but Cellach was a prince who was used to getting what he wanted, so he kidnapped the girl and took her to Tara.

When Óengus heard what had happened to his niece, he was angry and went to Tara to get her back. He was accompanied by a small band of men carrying a large cauldron with Lugh's dreaded spear inside, just in case. At the gates of Tara, Óengus called out for the release of his niece, but Cellach refused.

Enraged, Óengus ordered that his spear be released. He put on a thick pair of leather gloves and when his men had loosened the spear’s chains, he reached into the cauldron of blood. As soon as his fingers wrapped themselves around the shaft of the weapon, he felt the energy pulsing inside it. He lifted it out, dripping with blood and convulsing restlessly. It took all his strength to hold onto the spear because it had already read the holder’s mind and knew who its target was. But still, Óengus waited. The spear vibrated so much that it started to glow red, getting hotter and hotter, until it burst into flames. Only then, did Óengus release it.

The burning lance shot up into the air with its three chains flailing at its sides, scorching a trail of fire over the gates of the high king and into his royal fort. It weaved in and out between the king’s soldiers, making a beeline for Cellach. As it reached the prince, the king himself tried to stop it, but the weapon swerved to avoid him. In doing so, one of its trailing chains, caught the king in the eye, blinding him, which meant he didn’t have to witness the weapon fly straight through his son, leaving a burning hole in his chest. By the time Cellach hit the ground, dead, the spear had returned to its thrower and was being rechained once again inside its cauldron.

In fear of another attack, the high king released Óengus’s niece. It was only when the Déise were gone that the king realised that he had just lost more than a son and an eye, because the law stated that the high king had to be without blemishes. In other words, a man with only one eye could not be the high king of Ireland. Angered by all that he had lost, he rallied an army and went after Óengus.

After seven great battles, the Déise were defeated and driven out of County Meath. They headed south into County Laois where they fought the Uí Bairriche clan and drove them off their land. They stayed there for thirty years but the Uí Bairriche regrouped and grew in strength until they could retaliate. After a lot of fighting, the Déise were defeated and again, driven off their land.

Homeless, they wandered further south to Ard Ladrann, which is now the parish of Ardamine, near Gorey in County Wexford. There, they were given land by the king of Leinster in exchange for his marriage to a Déise woman. When this woman got pregnant, a druid called Brí prophesised that the child would be a girl and that ‘all the men of Ireland shall know her, and her mother’s kindred will seize the land on which they dwell.’ In other words, this girl would end the wandering of the Déise and would finally find them a home.

Because of this prophecy, the child was treated with the greatest of care when she was born. She was even fed the flesh of little boys so that she might grow up strong. She became known as Eithne the Terrible, because little boys were terrified of her.

Meanwhile, the new high king of Ireland felt bad about how the Déise had been banished from their land and invited them back but they refused, putting all their hopes into the prophecy that Eithne the Terrible would find them a new home.

When Eithne’s father, the king of Leinster died, his sons took over and wanted the Déise off their land so they drove them into the Kingdom of Ossory, which is modern day County Kilkenny. The Déise were not welcomed there and were driven into the Kingdom of Munster. It was here that Eithne the Terrible, now a grown woman of great beauty, would fulfil the prophecy of her birth.

She was so alluring that when the king of Munster saw her, he asked her to marry him, but Eithne was more interested in finding a home for her people than becoming a queen so she asked the king what he was willing to offer for her hand in marriage. The king was so taken with Eithne that he said she could have three wishes.

‘And I can ask for anything?’ she clarified.

The king nodded.

‘For my first wish,’ said Eithne, ‘I ask for revenge upon the Kingdom of Ossory, for they treated my people very badly.’

The king agreed, and the next day, he sent his soldiers into Ossory. A great battle raged, but the Ossory troops held firm against the invaders.

‘Has my wish been granted?’ Eithne asked the king.

He shook his head. ‘We cannot defeat them.’

‘Perhaps the wand can succeed where the sword has failed,’ said Eithne, bringing the king to meet Brí, the druid who had prophesised her greatness.

When they asked for his help to defeat the Ossory army, the druid mixed up a brew of leaves and herbs, before swallowing it and going into a deep trance. Eithne and the king waited until he snapped out of it.

Finally opening his eyes, Brí said, ‘The battle shall be lost in the morning by the side that first spills their enemy’s blood.’

‘So, we have to make sure that one of our warriors gets wounded first?’ the king, said to Eithne.

She nodded.

‘I can tell one of my men to walk into the ranks of the enemy and not defend himself,’ suggested the king.

‘That might work,’ said Eithne, ‘but can we know for sure that he won’t lift his blade to defend himself? When faced with death, a man’s instinct is to survive.’

The king agreed. ‘We could send him without weapons.’

‘The enemy might grow suspicious,’ Eithne said, turning to her druid. ‘Is there another way?’

‘There is always another way,’ said Brí.

The next morning, the druid conjured up a powerful magic spell to turn one of the king of Munster’s soldiers into a red cow. The animal was then sent into the enemy’s camp. As soon as the Ossory soldiers saw it, they killed it, spilling the first blood of the day.

‘Now you may attack,’ declared the druid.

The king of Munster’s army charged and easily defeated their enemy.

The king, pleased to be one step closer to marrying Eithne, said, ‘And what shall your second wish be?’

Eithne didn’t have to think about this, for she’d had this wish her whole life. ‘All I’ve ever wanted is land for my people and an end to their wandering. I wish for a home for the Déise.’

After much consideration, the king of Munster granted the Déise land which stretched from Inchinleama in the West to Creadon Head in the East, and from the River Suir in the North to the sea in the South. This territory would eventually be named Waterford, but even today, the county is still widely known as the Déise county.

‘And what of your final wish?’ the king asked Eithne.

 ‘That the Déise be declared a free people and that our name live long in the minds of men.’

The king held his hand out to his bride to be and nodded. ‘Your wish shall be granted.’

Eithne smiled and took his hand. ‘Time will tell.’  

Though Ireland would see many changes over the next two millennia, including the arrival of Christianity, the Vikings, the Normans and the English, you only have to attend a Waterford hurling match and hear the crowd roar ‘Up the Déise!’ to know that Eithne’s final wish came true. The spirit of the Déise lives on in County Waterford.  

 

 

 

   

 

 

Cover reveal!

 Check out the cover of my new book, created by the talented Mark Hill. It will be published by Gill in October. Pre-order here!

Lady Betty - Ireland's First Hangwoman

 

            Stone Court shopping centre in the square in Roscommon town is a bustling place full of happy
shoppers and diners, but this was not always so, for the building’s walls hold a dark and violent history. The castellated parapet, the towering belfry and two rusty hinges on the façade are all that remain of the building’s former life as the Old Gaol, and home to a gallows that was renowned as having the biggest drop in Ireland. The jail housed some of Roscommon’s worst criminals, many of whom were hanged there. One criminal managed to avoid the noose by offering to do the executions when the hangman didn’t turn up. Her name was Lady Betty, and she was the first hangwoman in Ireland.

            Her real name was Elizabeth Sugrue, and before she came to Roscommon, she lived in Kerry on a small, rented farm with her husband and two sons. The 18^th century was a difficult time for Catholic farmers like the Sugrues. The Penal Laws denied them an education and an opportunity to practice their faith, with a price put on the head of any priest who broke the law by celebrating Mass. Many landlords cared little about their tenants and mercilessly evicted them if they couldn’t pay the ever-increasing rent. It was a time of great unrest in Ireland, giving rise to rebellion and attacks on wealthy landlords.

            Unlike most Irish Catholics, Elizabeth Sugrue was educated and even owned some books. When she wasn’t working on the farm or in their small cottage, she taught her husband and sons to read and write. She also liked to draw pictures, which was an unusual hobby at the time, when most Irish people didn’t have time for hobbies.

            Disaster struck when Elizabeth’s husband died, and she had to sell her books to pay for the funeral. Unable to pay the rent, she was evicted and forced to walk the roads with her two sons, begging for scraps of food. She picked up occasional work, reading or writing letters for people who were illiterate, but the life of a beggar is no life for anyone, especially children. When her youngest boy got sick, there was nothing Elizabeth could do except cradle him in her arms on the side of the road, as his little life extinguished before her eyes.

            After that, Elizabeth sank into deep bouts of depression, and started to lose her mind, which was understandable, considering what she had been through. Though she loved her remaining son, Pádraig, she was often impatient, cross, and at times, cruel to him.

Travelling the roads of Munster, and then Connacht, Pádraig, now almost an adult, took it upon himself to do his mother’s job of reading and writing for people, in exchange for a few morsels of food. All the while, however, he dreamed of a better life.

‘Some day, I’ll be rich, Mother,’ he said. ‘And I’ll look after you in a big fancy house with servants.’

Instead of encouraging him, Elizabeth laughed sourly at her son’s foolish ambitions and told him he’d never amount to anything.

When mother and son found an abandoned cottage in Roscommon, they settled there, and though they weren’t much better off than they’d been on the road, at least they had a roof over their heads.

Pádraig continued to read and write letters for people in return for a few pennies, which he used to buy food for himself and his mother. When he had some to spare, he put a penny aside for himself. From discarded newspapers, he educated himself about the wider world, including America, which seemed to be a land of change and opportunity. His mother, suffering badly with her nerves, became increasingly difficult to live with, and often shouted and hit her son, until he could take it no longer. When he had enough saved, he packed a bag and left for America, leaving a note to say that he loved her and would return when he’d made his fortune.

Elizabeth screamed in fury and threw his note into the fire. Forced to defend for herself, she started renting out a room in her home to travellers who couldn’t afford to stay in a proper inn. Though she was angry at her son for abandoning her, she was delighted to get a letter from him saying that he’d joined Washington’s forces in the American War of Independence. He even left an address for her to write back, which she did, as soon as she had enough money to buy a stamp. Desperately, she waited for a second letter and when none came, she feared he’d been killed in the war.

The years passed and Elizabeth became more and more bitter at a world that had stolen everything from her. One wet winter’s night, there was a knock on her door and she opened it to a well-dressed man, standing with his horse in the rain.

‘I believe you take lodgers?’ said the man.

Elizabeth did take lodgers but not ones as wealthy as this gentleman. She wondered why he didn’t go to a real inn, but of course she didn’t ask. She wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to earn some money. Inviting him in, she said he could have a bed, but that she had no money for food. Her eyes widened when the man produced a pouch, heavy with coins, and taking out a sovereign, he told her to go buy some. She dashed off through the rain and returned with enough food to feed her whole neighbourhood.

After they’d filled their bellies, Elizabeth showed the gentleman to his room, and she went to bed but couldn’t sleep. All she could think about was the man’s bag of coins in the room next door.

Taking a knife from the kitchen, she stole into his room with the stub of a candle to light her way. Her visitor was fast asleep so she rummaged in his belongings but couldn’t find the pouch. Then, she noticed a leather cord hanging out from under his pillow. It made sense that he would keep it there. Would she be able to remove it without waking him?

Her hand trembled as she gently pulled the cord, feeling the weight of a pouch of coins coming with it. Inch by agonising inch, she manoeuvred the pouch out and almost had it free when the man woke and grabbed her wrist.

Instinct and fear kicked in, and she plunged the knife into the man’s neck. In seconds, he was dead.

Elizabeth pulled out the pouch of sovereigns and then thought about how she’d dispose of the body, but first, she decided to check his belongings for more valuables.

She gasped in shock when she found a letter with handwriting that she recognised – her own! It was the letter she’s sent to Pádraig. Trying not to think about what this meant, she rummaged through the rest of his stuff and found a diary. She flicked through the pages to the most recent entry.

I have finally arrived in Roscommon and tomorrow I shall visit my mother. I know she won’t recognise me after all these years but it will be good to see her again. I won’t reveal my identity until I’ve spent a night with her. That will give me a chance to see if she’s mellowed with age. If she has, I will look after her in luxury for the rest of her days, like I promised I would.

Elizabeth’s scream woke her neighbours.

‘I’ve killed my son!’ she roared, sobbing with tears and hugging Pádraig’s lifeless body.

Filled with grief, rage and terror, she shrieked into the night, like a demented banshee, until some of the neighbours entered her hovel and came face to face with the horrific spectacle of a mother weeping over the son that she’d murdered.

Elizabeth was arrested, imprisoned in Roscommon Gaol, tried, found guilty of murder, and sentenced to death by hanging.

On the morning of her execution, a huge crowd had gathered in the square before the Old Gaol. Some were spectators, there to be entertained by the grisly event. Other were friends and family of some of the twenty-five sheep-stealers, cattle-rustlers and shop lifters standing before the gallows. A few of the prisoners, from a gang called the Whiteboys, seemed to have a lot of support from the crowd. The Whiteboys were a secret society who disguised themselves in white robes and carried out attacks on landlords who treated their tenants badly.

The prisoners lined up at the dangling noose but there was no sign of the hangman.

‘He’s sick,’ a messenger said, but the sheriff didn’t believe a word of it. He knew the hangman didn’t turn up because he was afraid of the Whiteboys.

Half the crowd called for blood, while the other half called for the prisoners to be released. The sheriff could do neither. Nor could he return them to the jail because their cells had been set aside for new prisoners. Try as he did, he couldn’t find anyone to perform the hangings.

Then, a lone voice called out. ‘Spare me life, yer honour. Spare me life an’ I’ll hang them all.’ It was Elizabeth Sugrue.

The sheriff, though dubious about letting a woman do the job, was desperate, so he agreed. One by one, Elizabeth hung the prisoners, and seemed to take pleasure in doing so, despite the cries of hate she received from the Whiteboy supporters, who threatened to kill her. Afterwards, the sheriff knew it would be unsafe to release Elizabeth into the public, so he offered her a permanent position as hangwoman of the jail.

She accepted, and took up residency in the building, taking to her new role with relish. For efficiency, she even had the gallows moved from the square to outside her room on the third floor. Prisoners would enter her room and be sketched by her, before being noosed and pushed onto a platform outside. Elizabeth would then pull back a lever and the convict would plummet to his/her death below.

In her room, Elizabeth displayed the charcoal portraits of all the prisoners she had executed. She became known as Lady Betty, due to her interest in art, reading and writing, and the fact that she was a little more refined than everybody else in the prison.

She was also known to have enjoyed flogging convicts for the public and displaying corpses of rebels outside the Old Gaol, which made her one of the most hated women in Roscommon, where people referred to her as the ‘Woman from Hell’.

Though she was pardoned for her own crime in 1802 as payment for her services to the jail, the public’s hatred of her eventually caught up with her. In 1807, a prisoner who had been breaking rocks in the prison yard as punishment, struck her over the head with a stone and killed her.

She was buried in an unmarked grave inside the prison walls, but long after her death, her ghost was said to haunt the jail, looking for one more neck to noose. Her name was used to threaten naughty children in Roscommon for years. ‘If you don’t be good, Lady Betty will get you.’

Lady Betty likes to draw

The face before it drops the jaw.

Pray to Jesus that she might

Not smile upon your face tonight.

From the play, Lady Betty, by Declan Donnellan

 

By Kieran Fanning

           

 

THE ARRIVAL cover reveal

 Check out the cover for my new upper middle grade (11+)/teenage thriller, THE ARRIVAL, by Jolua Design Studios, coming soon in ebook and paperback. It has been described as "Indiana Jones meets The Da Vinci Code for kids"

When mysterious artefacts are discovered in an underground tunnel, teenagers Sarah and Declan assemble them to create an electricity-filled gateway, through which an unusual boy arrives. Declan thinks he has been sent from God. Sarah thinks he is an alien. Others believe he may be something else…

 

The Arrival

 

The Cemetery of Broken Dreams - To self-publish or not?

Welcome to the Cemetery of Broken Dreams, a place where unpublished books go to die. I often think about how many amazing stories have been buried because they weren't accepted by publishers. There can be many reasons for a manuscript not making the cut. Chief among these is that the work isn't good enough, and perhaps then, it deserves to go six feet under. But there are other reasons. Sometimes a manuscript doesn't fit in a publisher's catalogue or the content has been overdone or is out of fashion. for example, you could have written the greatest wizard school story or a brilliant vampire teenage romance, but what are your chances of getting them published?

So, what do you do if you have a piece of work that you think is good but it hasn't been given the stamp of approval by the gatekeepers of the publishing world? Do you bury it in the Cemetery of Broken dreams or do you self-publish?

I've been grappling with this question for some time. Self-publishing has been a viable option for some time but I haven't pursued it for a number of reasons.

1. It requires a lot of work. You basically have to do everything yourself - editing, design and marketing.

2. Many will disagree with me about this, but there is still a stigma to self-publishing. Is it an

admittance of failure - you couldn't get your book published in the traditional manner so now you're publishing it yourself. Will my reputation as an author be damaged by self-publishing a book?

3. Although there have been many hugely successful self-published books (famously, Sense and Sensibility, A Christmas Carol, The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, The Tale of Peter Rabbit, The Martian by Andy Weir, and Wool by Hugh Howey), many often sell only a few copies.

4. It can be expensive. You basically have to pay people to do everything or do it yourself.

There are also many advantages to self-publishing.

1. You can bypass the publishing gatekeepers.

2. You have the freedom to publish your book entirely your own way - you control everything.

3. Royalties are significantly higher.

4. Traditionally published books, unless they are best sellers, eventually go out of print. Self-published eBooks and print-on-demand books do not.

So, the big question is, should you bury your unpublished books in the Cemetery of Broken Dreams or should you self-publish and let your manuscript run free, even if only a handful of people read it?

I have read some brilliant manuscripts (by some of my writer friends) that never got published, and I often think, how unfair it is that these books are gathering dust in desk drawers or on a PC when they could be making a reader very happy.

Like many writers, I have some manuscripts that haven't made it for one reason or another. Some of them frankly weren't good enough and deserve to remain unpublished. but some of them, I believe, are good enough.

One of them, THE ARRIVAL, had many near acceptances from publishers, with one stating that it was 'kind of amazing' but in the end, it was rejected. Part of the reason, I think, is that the subject matter isn't that fashionable. It's a story that's been in my head for decades. It was inspired by W.B. Yeats' poem, 'The Second Coming', which I discovered in college. When I considered pursuing a career in art, I did a series of paintings based on the poem, and from these, the genesis of THE ARRIVAL came.

One of the self-published books that made me see self-publishing in a completely new light was the brilliant Island by Nicky Singer, and the blog post she wrote about the book: https://www.notesfromtheslushpile.com/2015/05/slow-books.html

So, after toying with the idea for a long time, I've decided to self-publish my book, THE ARRIVAL. Even if only one reader loves it, isn't it better to put it out there than leaving it to rot in the ground?

I know nothing about self-publishing so it will be a steep learning curve but this blog post is the first step.

I'd love to hear your thoughts on the subject.

***

THE ARRIVAL is an atmospheric thriller for upper middle grade. It is about the arrival of an unusual child in a religious community in Ireland. is this child the Second Coming of God, an alien or something else? How did he get here and what does he want?

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