 The Last Manuscript of the Agnew
1568 Brían Ó Gnímh has no riches, other than his own manuscripts. Tonight he will depart Dunluce Castle with his soft, satin ceremonial cloak returned to him, his rod in hand. The call is made for Ollamh Flatha. Brían rehearses the opening line of ‘The tale of Guile’s daughter’, a tale he will tell as a metaphor for falling from grace and as an apology for seeking out a foreign patron. He closes his eyes to dismiss the images of Glenshesk, the bloodbath he witnessed two years ago, and he prays for the soul of Séamus Mac Dhòmhnaill, 6th chief of Clan MacDonald of Dunnyveg, dead in captivity in his sixty-fifth year. All seemed lost then. He practises this tale, an ancient one in which a daughter must forfeit her duties of hospitality. She has no food to offer, just as Brían had no means for hospitality last year for four travelling princes, who supped on a meal as plain as that of their horses. So low had he fallen that he was no better than a common cainte. He must keep his status as ollamh, even if he has been a poor biatach — even if he has been a poor host. Never again will he return to such niggardly ways. Never again will his mind be so distorted by fear and war. Adversity has made him distressed, like the murdhucan sea bird, the siren he watched scream from his fortified tower in Ballygally. He must recover the name of scholars lost in the monasteries of Galloway, where his forefathers’ manuscripts burned. He must recover the name of Somhairle Buidhe Mac Domhnaill, descendant of Margery Byset and Eòin Mòr Tànaiste Mac Dhòmhnaill, whose alliance in 1399 gave Clan Donnell claim to the Glens of Antrim. Clan Dhòmhnaill needs Brían as much as Brían needs Clan Dhòmhnaill: he is no fool, but he will blind them all with poetry so that they believe his need is greater than theirs. Such is the art of diplomacy that Brían learned from his grandfather, Séann Ó Gnímh, who travelled Alba and Eireann seeking patronage and was set up by the O Neill family in Bally O Scullion, near Antrim. Such is the art of diplomacy that he learned from his father, An Fear Doircha, who travelled Alba agus Eireann seeking patronage and was set up by the MacDonnells at Priestland near Dunluce. Brían may have erred, but he knows his worth: he is at the top of his profession and his status will allow him to elevate that of the MacDonnells across all of Ulster. He will restore their name among the Gaels of Ulster, and for the sake of the MacDonnell reputation, he will call upon poetry to justify the murder of Séann O’Neill. Brían closes his eyes and rhymes the names taught to him by his father. Brían, son of An Fear Doirche, son of Seaán, son of Cormac, son of Maol Mitnigh Óg, son of Maol Mithigh Mór, son of Gille Pádraig, son of Séann of Dun Fiodháin, son of Maol Muíre, son of Eóin. He says like a psalm. Brían will be married tonight to his true patrons of love and blood. He will chronicle the battles of Somhairle Buidhe Mac Domhnaill once again. He will provide him legal counsel and educate the youths, Domhnall Gorm and Alastair. He takes his rod and walks down the corridor to the throne room, accompanied by his entourage. Tonight he will sleep under his master’s roof. Tomorrow he will find a new home for Aibhlín and their infant son, who will be worthy of the name of a prince, Fear Flatha Mac Gnímh. 1611 Fear Flatha has been fasting to ready his body for the task. He lies in darkness on sheepskin after five days of nothing but water from the springs of Ben Moal Rhuarí. He has pledged to write a poem to Fear Dorcha, who is one of the Magennises of Iveagh, County Down. Only he will know it to be a lamentation on the loss of his father, the great Ó Gnímh, famed across the whole of Éireann agus Alba, who is now in a golden house. Only he will know it to be a lamentation for the death of his beloved wife, Catríona, in childbirth last year, and for his brothers, Séann, who died in battle, and Brían, who was not made to survive a fever brought by famine. Fear Flatha once resented his father’s calling. The lands bestowed to him at Cill Uachtair parish in the barony of Glenarm were not guaranteed when his patron was warring with the MacQuillans and the English. Fear Flatha’s father built up great flocks as the family moved from location to location, but such riches were of little consequence in war. There is no permanence in the allocation of poetic land. Poetry has brought his family little land and even less fortune, and now that threads of lore will no longer be spun, artistry and lyrics no longer woven, poetry is to be silenced, hidden in vaults. This is an imagined history of the Agnew sheriffs and Agnew bards of Kilwaughter, which is based on historical research. To keep reading this story, click 'read more.' You may also like my new novel: The Secret Diary of Stephanie Agnew.
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Je suis seule. Or am I? You decide by the end of this blog! In this blog, I'm going to discuss the process of creating a poem, which was written in response to 'The Empty School.' 'The Empty School' is a seventeenth-century Irish poem, which came to my attention through writer Ciarán Ó Maitiú. Check out Volume 50 of The Glynnes journal to learn all about his work on this project. I will begin with my own response to it and then show you the original Irish and an English translation. Here goes! 1. Je suis seule, amangst men Anocht, the night, sans femmes Desolée, Disquiet. I am Aye sair, skuffet again. 2. Understanding not, yet well Nane that I ken, nane that I hear, nocht o Gall Gael, ocht dae I fear. C’est quoi, la langue maternelle? |
Extensive Blog on the Agnew Family History A Poem in Response to The Empty School Imagined History of the Last Agnew Manuscripts Angeline KingAngeline King/Dr. Angeline Kelly is a novelist from Larne in Northern Ireland. She has just completed a PhD in English at Ulster University, where she was Writer in Residence from 2020 to 2023. Angeline, who has a Masters in Applied Languages and Business from Ulster University and BA Hons in History and French from Queens’ University, had a career in international business before turning to writing. Archives |
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