A few miles from my hometown of Carrickmacross is a place where, 425 years ago this month, one of the greatest battles of Irish history didn’t happen.
It’s called Aclint and, now as then, is a location lacking in natural spectacle. But it forms part of the boundary between Louth and Monaghan, and by extension between Leinster and Ulster.
It was border country back in 1599 too, wedged between the outer fringes of the Pale and the still-Gaelic North.
Which is why, on September 7th of that year, it became the scene of a famous confrontation between Hugh O’Neill, the pre-eminent leader of Gaelic Ireland, and Robert Devereux, the 2nd Earl of Essex, England’s most charismatic military man.
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O’Neill was at the height of his powers then, his Nine Years War already marked by resounding victories over the English at Clontibret (1595) and Yellow Ford (1598).
He had grown to be such a problem for Queen Elizabeth I that in late March 1599, under Essex, she dispatched the biggest army ever sent to Ireland: 16,000 troops, waved off by cheering London crowds that probably included William Shakespeare.
Ominously, the sunshine in which they marched out of the city gave way to a sudden storm of rain and hail. And perhaps this helped unnerve the usually dashing Essex. Because from the moment of his arrival in Ireland, he grew mysteriously reluctant to pursue his main mission.
Contravening orders, he first turned south rather than north, seeking easy victories against lesser Gaelic factions, while bad weather, disease and mutiny gradually weakened his forces.
An enthusiast for chivalry, he meanwhile knighted many of his followers, increasing suspicions at home about what we would now call his personality cult, and earning sneers from the Irish that he only ever drew his sword to confer honours.
In late July an exasperated Elizabeth ordered him north without further delay. But by the time the two men finally met at Aclint, O’Neill’s army was at least as formidable as Essex’s.
O’Neill was nevertheless reluctant to fight if he thought politics might serve him better. And sensing weakness, the wily chieftain flattered his younger counterpart’s vanity. He humbled himself by riding into the middle of a river to address the great man from London, who towered above him on the opposite bank.
He also recalled affectionate memories of Essex’s father, the first Earl, with whom he had campaigned years before when still a loyal (if self-serving) subject of the crown.
When they discussed possible peace terms and O’Neill demanded freedom of worship, Essex scoffed that the chieftain’s horse cared as much about religion as the man on its back.
As for Essex’s chivalrous suggestion that they settle their differences in the old style, by single combat, O’Neill – who was aged about 50 at the time and had not come down in the last shower – declined.
It’s tempting to say that their 30-minute conversation was a pivotal event in Irish history, although as we know now, it only postponed O’Neill’s downfall for another two years.
But it was literally pivotal in the sense that on September 24th, after further talks between officers of both sides and O’Neill’s agreement of a tactical truce, Essex turned around, defying orders again, and went back to England without having fired a shot.
He rode through the night to get to London with his version of events before Elizabeth’s spies did, notoriously surprising the queen in her morning boudoir. She received him coolly, then sent him away. From there on, the story became Shakespearean tragedy, in more ways than one.
In the febrile atmosphere created by the prospect of Elizabeth’s imminent demise and the power vacuum that would follow, Essex’s paranoia about his enemies in court was justified.
Before he launched a shambolic coup attempt in February 1601, some of his followers first commissioned and watched a performance of Richard II, Shakespeare’s play about the overthrow of a monarch (with a subtheme of the Irish wars).
“I am Richard II,” raged the queen to her advisers. “Know ye not that?” Soon afterwards, one of the conspirators became history’s first recorded case of a man executed for commissioning a Shakespeare play.
In the same week Essex returned from Ireland, a new Shakespearean work had premiered in London. Julius Caesar contained no references to the Irish Wars – a subject by then censored on pain of death.
But it did have plenty to say about honour, rebellion and the dangers of regicide. It was certainly inspired, at least in part, by events closer to home than ancient Rome. Essex failed to take the hint, however, and on February 25th, 1601, in the Tower of London, it cost him his head.
Hugh O’Neill’s aura of impregnability continued for a few months longer, until be and Gaelic Ireland met their nemesis at Kinsale. The Essex title, meanwhile, outlived its temporary disgrace. Thirty years later, a third earl – son of the second – returned to build a castle in south Monaghan. Around this, gradually, grew up the town of Carrickmacross.