Richard flattered himself that he had only to appear to conquer.  He was keen to achieve some military glory, and Ireland seemed an easy field to win it upon.  Like many another before and after him, he found the task harder than it seemed.  The great chiefs came in readily enough; O’Connors, O’Briens, O’Neills, even the turbulent McMurrough himself, some seventy-five of them in all.  The king entertained them sumptuously, as Henry II. had entertained their ancestors two centuries before.  They engaged to be loyal, and to answer for the loyalty of their dependants—­with some mental reservations we must conclude.  In return for this submission the king knighted the four chiefs just named, a somewhat incongruous piece of courtesy it must be owned.  Shortly after his knighthood, Art McMurrough, “Sir Art,” was thrown into prison on suspicion.  He was released before long, but the release failed to wipe out the affront, and the angry chief retired, nursing fierce vengeance, to his forests.

Richard remained in Ireland nine months, during which he achieved nothing, and departed leaving the government in the hands of his heir-presumptive, Roger Mortimer, Earl of March, the grandson of Lionel, Duke of Clarence, and, therefore, in right of his mother, Earl of Ulster, and the nominal owner of an immense territory, covering nearly a third of the island, barely one acre of which, however, remained in his hands.

The king had not been gone long before Art McMurrough rose again.  The young deputy was in Wicklow, endeavouring to carry out a projected colony.  Hearing of this outbreak, he hastened into Meath.  An encounter took place near Kells.  Art McMurrough, at the head of his own men, aided by some wild levies of O’Tooles and O’Nolans, completely defeated the royal army, and after the battle the heir of the English Crown was found amongst the slain.

This Art McMurrough, or Art Kavangh, as he is sometimes called, was a man of very much more formidable stamp than most of the nameless freebooters, native or Norman, who filled the country.  His fashion of making his onset seems to have been tremendous.  Under him the wild horsemen and “naked knaves,” armed only with skeans and darts, sent terror into the breast of their armour-clad antagonists.  One of the few early illustrations of Irish history extant represents him as charging at breakneck pace down a hill.  We are told that “he rode a horse without a saddle or housing, which was so fine and good that it cost him four hundred cows.  In coming down the hill it galloped so hard that in my opinion,” says a contemporary writer, “I never in all my life saw hare, deer, sheep, or other animal, I declare to you for a certainty, run with such speed.  In his right hand he bore a great dart, which he cast with much skill[6].”  No wonder that such a rider, upon such a horse, should have struck terror into the very souls of the colonists, and induced them to comply with any demands, however rapacious and humiliating, rather than have to meet him face to face in the field.