By John Fitzgerald
For decades one of the first lessons that every Callan schoolchild learned was that a great Ard Ri (High King of Ireland) drowned here in the mid-ninth century, which is how the King’s River got its name.
The fact that a community in another part of Ireland also laid claim to the king, Niall Caille, was always a little irritating, but it never deterred us from taking pride in our heritage, or from keeping alive the story of an event that is now lost in the mists of time.
Northern Irish tradition has it that the same king drowned in the River Callan in County Armagh, and people across the border are as stubbornly loyal to this version of the king’s demise as we in Callan are to ours.
We are of course dealing here with bits of history wrapped up in folklore and further embellished over the centuries by fond storytelling, so we shouldn’t lend undue credence to any of it.
Still, much folklore has a basis in real events, so we shouldn’t dismiss it too readily either.
The role of Ireland’s High Kings is recorded in the Annals of Tara and we know at least that Niall Caille was a real person and a monarch.
We know too that his predecessors included such notables as Con of the Hundred Battles and Niall of the Nine Hostages.
Niall Caille is listed as the 166th Ard Ri of Ireland, assuming his kingly post in about 831 AD.
Niall had a host of enemies to confront: Native rivals, and, more ominously, the Viking Invaders who were ravaging their way across Ireland/
In about 835 AD a huge Viking fleet under the command of Turgesius arrived in Ireland. He waged implacable warfare, and mention of his reviled name sent shivers of dread through the land.
With a swagger of disregard for the native religion, he converted the great cathedral at Clonmacnoise into a pagan palace to venerate the Norse gods and then, to the horror of God-fearing Christians, used the High Altar of the former place of worship to issue bloodcurdling Orders of the Day to his merciless warriors.
His men plundered and vandalized Christian shrines, destroyed sacred books and chronicles, seized all gold and jewels they found, and torched holy relics.
The toughest native chieftains and macho warriors prized for their courage in battle with rival Irish factions went pale at the very thought of Turgesius, let alone the prospect of meeting his deadly army in combat.
But King Niall was a fearless ruler. Having notched up impressive victories in the North of the country (especially in what is now Donegal) against Viking forces, he wasn’t going to be intimidated by this blood-crazed foreign upstart. He was anxious to move south and take on Turgesius elsewhere in the land.
This is where historical certainty ends and folklore takes over. Tradition has it that Niall decided to move his forces south to rally his Chieftains in a decisive push to rout the Vikings in Leinster.
Legend further states that in the spring of 844 AD (or possibly 845), after spending the entire winter training and preparing his army, Niall led his fighters across the wild Irish countryside until he reached the area encompassing the present day Callan.
Passing along the approximate route of what is now Kenny Street, he and his retinue encountered a river in flood. Days of rain had swelled the waters and the royal army beheld a raging watery torrent that threatened to delay their progress. The approach to the ford was flooded.
Logic would have dictated a day’s rest…to let the water levels return to normal. But patience wasn’t among Niall’s virtues: He was a man of action and there was no time to lose in his quest to drive the invader from Ireland. Unwilling to hang about waiting for the floodwater to abate he ordered a servant to find the ford.
The servant, not being familiar with the area, plodded awkwardly and tentatively through the flood and, losing his balance, fell from his horse into the violent flow.
Aghast at this, the king called for someone to rescue his loyal servant. When nobody responded, he nudged his own horse and waded into the floodwaters. To the horror of his warriors, the horse buckled, propelling the king into the river. The fierce current carried him off and he was drowned.
When the flood receded, search teams formed and fanned out along the riverbanks, hoping against hope to find their sovereign alive. Unspeakable grief overwhelmed them when they found his body downstream near the present day Kells.
The alternative version of Niall Caille’s death embedded in Northern Irish tradition posits that he was drowned in about 845 AD in the River Callan, near Armagh, while pursuing his enemies in that part of Ireland.
The alleged cause and circumstances of his death are similar to how he allegedly met his end in County Kilkenny: He tries to rescue a servant who has fallen into the river and is drowned trying to save him.
The folklorists up north will tell you that Niall’s resting place is probably situated somewhere along the banks of the river Callan, about a mile south-east of Armagh , near the present day Tunnymore Park.
According to Armagh folklore a cairn was built over the king’s tomb. A cairn was a mound of stones that could serve as a memorial. Or to cover the dead or mark a burial place.
Unfortunately, the cairn in question is no longer visible because it was allegedly demolished by a farmer at the beginning of the 19th century.
It is also worth noting that burial cairns date from the Neolithic period and the Early Bronze ages so the cairn referred to might have been in existence before the mid-ninth century when Niall Caille died.
As with our own folklore down here, there is no conclusive evidence that the great man died in the manner recalled by the Northern folklorists or at the location in Armagh they assign (in good faith) to his demise.
To continue with our own folklore version of what happened: After the drowned king’s body was recovered, his grieving soldiers and servants, flanked by lines of devout clerics, bore his mortal remains to nearby St. Brigid’s Monastery that ever afterwards has been known as Cill Ri, the King’s Church.
He received a royal funeral, with full military honours as befitting a great Ard Ri of Ireland. The local monks, who had experienced firsthand the bloodiest of Viking atrocities, paid lavish tribute to the monarch.
To honour and commemorate him, they erected an ornamental High Cross at his burial place. It is a stunningly crafted moment, its Celtic decorations sculpted by the master artisans of the period. The carvings reflect Niall’s status and kingly achievements.
Tradition further states that, instead of placing the High Cross within the consecrated ground of the church, among the remains of revered abbots and priests, the holy men opted to locate it in a nearby field where locals would have unrestricted access to it.
The cross stands facing East-West to the rising sun. It displays designs suggesting royal attire and an ermine costume normally worn by popes and kings, and one of the arms of the cross has a scene that, though faded and difficult to decipher, resembles an army on the march.
So, was it the river in Callan, County Kilkenny, or the Callan River in Armagh; that claimed the life of the High King?
We’ll never know for sure, barring a sensational archaeological unearthing (unlikely but not impossible), or DNA analysis of skeletal remains at either one of the relevant locations in Counties Armagh or Kilkenny.
In Callan, we’ll just have to cling to the hope that the Ard Ri did lead his army here to honour us with his presence.
And it’ll always be the King’s River…
(Extract from my book Callan in Words and Pictures)
