Cave of Secrets Page 2

  * * *

  William Flynn stood with his feet planted wide and his fists on his hips. When he lowered his head, the stocky man looked like a bull about to charge. ‘Where is that wretched boy, eh?’ he demanded of his wife. ‘Is he deliberately trying to ruin things for me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, keeping her eyes lowered so she did not see the anger in his face.

  ‘Are you certain, Kate? Do you know what just happened? For an hour I had been doing my best to win Richard Boyle’s confidence. I said I was trying, in my modest way, to create a gentleman’s country estate here like the magnificent place he built for himself near Lismore.

  ‘I was trying to work the conversation around to my other ambitions, when the earl commented that more Protestants are entering the Irish parliament. The balance of power is tilting their way, he said, so the time is right to extend the plantation of Munster. That means taking more land away from Catholic landowners and giving it to loyal Protestants.’

  Flynn waited for his wife to react. She waited for him to reveal why this was upsetting him.

  After a moment he continued. ‘Parliament, with Boyle as its most powerful member, oversees the plantation scheme. Some friends of his are eager to acquire plantation lands in this area as a speculative venture. Through a deal with the earl, they will receive the properties free of charge and then sell them on at inflated prices, making a huge profit for everyone involved. Except the original landowner, of course.

  ‘When the earl told me about this, I regretted having made such an effort to impress him with my property. As a Catholic landowner, I must find a way to keep it from being seized. Thinking fast, I suggested that a local landowner like myself would be perfect for organising the scheme. All I would require was a central base to act from. Boyle is a clever man, he knew at once that I was hinting at a position with the Dublin administration.’

  ‘You are a clever man too, William,’ his wife murmured.

  But her praise did not cheer him. Instead he scowled. ‘Unfortunately, at that very moment a servant rushed in claiming that Thomas had run away. Richard Boyle heard it all. He was standing right there with his son Roger, Baron Broghill. How could the earl respect a man who cannot govern his own child? You should have seen the expression on his face. Thanks to that miserable son of yours, now the earl would not trust me to mind mice at a crossroads.’

  She laid a gentle hand on her husband’s arm. ‘Tom is your son too, William. And I am sure the earl will not hold such a small incident against you. If he has sons he must know something of boys. Besides, Tom would never run away. He is merely playing one of his pranks.’

  ‘So much the worse for him if he is!’ Flynn sprayed spittle in his anger. ‘I’ll cane him within an inch of his life!’

  His wife took half a step back to avoid the shower. ‘Your guests are waiting,’ she reminded him. ‘Surely you can mend your fences with the earl. As you said yourself, you have a gift for making people like you. Flatter him and tell him some of your best stories. Meanwhile, perhaps I might lie down for a while?’ She looked at him hopefully, seeking his permission.

  * * *

  Outside the cave the light was fading. Tom saw that his arm was being tightly gripped by a boy smaller than he, though obviously stronger. Donal’s skin was chapped by wind and weather. His shaggy black hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were a brilliant blue. Salt-stained woollen trews, with a bit of rope for a belt, were his only garment. His upper body was as bare as his feet.

  Donal was not impressed by Tom’s greater size. His fingers already had discovered that the newcomer’s arm lacked muscle. His cheeks were as plump as a baby’s. Although Tom’s clothes were torn from his scramble down the cliff, his brown hair remained tied at the nape of his neck with a stiff grosgrain ribbon. There were silver buckles on his leather shoes.

  Donal knew he could take those silver buckles if he wanted. ‘Your clothes would make a cat laugh,’ he said.

  Tom was insulted. ‘This is what men wear!’

  ‘Not here, they don’t. It would get in the way.’

  ‘In the way of what?’

  Donal narrowed his eyes. ‘You ask too many questions.’

  ‘I don’t ask as many as you,’ Tom snapped.

  The two boys glared at each other. For a moment they were close to blows. Then the moment passed, and they laughed instead.

  Donal released Tom’s arm. ‘You made enough noise coming down that cliff for a whole company of soldiers,’ he said in a friendlier tone. ‘What was chasing you? Wolves?’

  Tom resisted the urge to rub his arm. ‘Something worse,’ he replied ruefully. ‘I was running from my father. He said he would kill me.’

  Donal grinned, revealing a missing tooth. ‘Not a day passes but my father threatens to roast me over a slow fire. He doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘Mine does,’ said Tom. ‘He hates me.’

  ‘You must have got it wrong. Men value their sons above everything. My father and I are as close as the fingers on your hand. He is An Rí – the king,’ Donal added proudly, translating to be sure the other boy understood.

  ‘Now you have it wrong. Charles Stuart is the king.’

  ‘Phah!’ Donal said. ‘He’s only the king of the Sasanach. My father, Muiris, is a chieftain. A real king.’

  Tom was not sure what Donal meant. The education of William Flynn’s children did not include the Irish culture. ‘You know where I live,’ he said to Donal, ‘so tell me where you live.’

  Donal turned and pointed in the dusk. ‘My people live a short distance down the coast, you can’t see the place from here. They were fishermen for generations.’

  ‘What do you mean, “were”? Don’t they fish now?’

  The other boy hesitated. ‘We still make our living from the sea,’ he said.

  ‘Do you have a large family?’

  ‘There was a large family. Now there’s only Maura and me.’ Donal’s merry face had turned to stone. His eyes warned Tom not to ask more questions.

  But curiosity was too strong. ‘What happened to them? Were they taken ill?’

  Donal stared bleakly into space. ‘Before I was born, my parents had three other boys and another girl. They died of fever. People say it comes on the ships sometimes.’

  Tom wished he could take back his words. He fumbled for something to say which would not cause pain to the other boy. ‘I don’t have any brothers either,’ he offered.

  Donal’s expression softened. ‘Maura’s almost as good as a brother, even if she is a girl. She’s only little but she’s as cute as a pet fox.’

  ‘She doesn’t sound much like my sisters. I have three without a thought in their heads. As useless as a platter of air, the lot of them.’

  ‘How do you know? Do you ever talk to them?’

  Tom looked startled. ‘Talk? To girls?’

  ‘Maura and I talk all the time.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Younger than me. Four summers.’

  ‘How old are you, Donal?’

  ‘Almost eleven summers. And yourself?’

  ‘A bit older than that,’ Tom replied, embarrassed to admit his exact age to the smaller but stronger boy.

  From the corner of his eye Donal glimpsed a flash of light in the bay. He stiffened in concentration. The light flashed again. Twice. ‘You can’t stay here, Tom Flynn,’ he said briskly. ‘You have to go back where you came from.’

  ‘I can’t! I mean … I can’t climb that cliff.’

  ‘Is that all? There are easier ways. Follow me; you’ll be home before hounds can scratch fleas.’ Seizing Tom’s arm again, Donal ran up the beach.

  The wind howled over Roaringwater Bay.

  CHAPTER THREE

  In the Mist

  Tom was crawling into bed when he heard footsteps in the passage outside his door. He pulled the bedclothes over his head and lay still.

  While he was with Donal some of the other boy’s confidence had rubbed off on hi
m. For a brief time he could imagine that he too was part of a close family, and had a father who would be glad to see him again. That confidence was gone now.

  A woman carrying a candle in a pewter candlestick entered the bed-chamber. She was shaking her head and muttering to herself. Her collapsed mouth was toothless, her shoulders stooped with age. A few locks of grey hair clung to a pink scalp. Eithne had been nurse to all four of the Flynn children. Now she was demoted to housemaid. She did not know what would become of her when she was too old and crippled for even that work. William Flynn was not a charitable man.

  Her eyes swept the room. The walls were covered with horsehair plaster. A chest with drawers stood in one corner. The floor was bare. The only window was secured at night by heavy timber shutters. Below the window was a small cabinet with space underneath for a chamber pot.

  The panel giving access to the bed-closet was firmly closed.

  The ancient oak forests that once carpeted Ireland were nearly gone. Cut down to build England’s warships. Burned for charcoal so Irish chieftains would have no place to hide. The enclosed bed that sheltered Tom from drafts was made of deal painted to look like oak. His father had warned him not to scratch the finish. ‘I paid the king’s coin for that piece. Damage it and you will sleep on the floor.’

  In a bed-closet which pretended to be Irish oak, Tom tried to pretend he was back in the cave.

  He felt a tickle in his nose. Try as he might, he could not hold back a mighty sneeze.

  Eithne scurried to the bed-closet and slid back the panel. With one gnarled finger she poked at a mountain range of rumpled blankets. ‘Master Tom? Is it yourself under there?’

  Reluctantly, the boy sat up, yawning and stretching as if he had been fast asleep.

  ‘We’re worn to the bone searching for you,’ the old woman complained. ‘When you didn’t come for your supper I thought for sure you’d scarpered. It fair put the heart crosswise in me.’

  At the mention of food Tom’s stomach rumbled. ‘What was my supper?’

  ‘Barley soup and suet pudding. I would not let them give you any of that rich party food. Och, you were wicked to disappear, lad. I was blamed, even if you’re not my babby any more.’

  ‘What happened wasn’t your fault. It was just …’ Tom paused, knowing he did not have to explain to her. Eithne knew how harshly William treated his only son. ‘I thought it best to stay out of his sight for a while, so I went as far away as I could. After dark I returned and sneaked up the back stairs. I’ve been in my bed ever since.’

  That much was true. But he had left out the bit in the middle. The bit where he found the cave. And made a friend.

  When they had parted at the top of the cliff, Donal had said, ‘Now you know the way, Tom Flynn, come back again if you like.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  Donal shook his head. ‘Not tomorrow. Give it …’ He counted out the fingers on his lean hand. ‘Give it three days.’

  ‘Will you be here then?’

  ‘I might,’ said Donal with a shrug. ‘Will you come?’

  ‘I might,’ Tom replied. And shrugged.

  The two boys laughed.

  ‘Take care that no one follows you,’ Donal warned as they parted. ‘Come down through that cut in the cliff face the way I showed you, and give a whistle at the mouth of the cave. Like this, listen.’

  Tom had listened carefully.

  * * *

  Eithne went to tell Tom’s mother that he was home and safe, then brought the boy some bread and cheese. While he gobbled the meal she sat beside him. As he wiped the last crumbs from his mouth he said, ‘Sing me a lullaby, Eithne.’

  The old woman smiled. ‘It’s a long time since I sang suantraí to one of the childer.’

  ‘You know the one I like best. Please?’ The gentry were not supposed to say please to servants, but Tom said it anyway – as long as he was out of his father’s hearing. He snuggled down into the bed and pulled the quilt up to his chin, waiting.

  Eithne heaved a sigh and settled herself on a three-legged stool beside the bed. Her cracked voice filled the chamber. ‘Come and take a ride with me upon my magic pony,’ she sang lovingly. ‘Fast and far we’ll travel all the live long day.’

  Tom fell asleep before she finished the song. He awoke to find himself alone. Eithne had opened the shutters over his window before she left, and his bed-chamber was rosy with dawn light. He expected his father to come bursting in at any moment to punish him. When he did not, the boy hurriedly dressed and left the room.

  The doors leading to the other chambers on the landing were firmly closed. Behind them lay deep pools of silence.

  Tom made his way to the front staircase. He tiptoed down with one hand on the railing.

  The great hall of Roaringwater House resembled a battlefield. The new Persian rug had been slashed by a sword. The front panel of the Jacobean chest was bashed in. Chairs and benches were overturned and broken. Cushions were ripped open and sodden with wine. Candles had guttered in their sconces; the wax ran down the walls. Men whom William Flynn called the most important in the land lay sprawled drunkenly on the floor. One wore a soup tureen on his head like a helmet.

  They smell worse than a cave of bats, Tom thought to himself.

  He did not see his father amongst the fallen, but he did not look too closely. Still on tiptoe, he left the house. No one stirred. The heavy door creaked on its iron hinges as it closed behind him. The early morning air was sweet and clean.

  Although Roaringwater House was built of rubblestone, the three-storey central block had a limestone façade. Low wings extended on either side. One wing contained the stables, the other was occupied by the servants – with the exception of three who had small rooms at the top of the house; they were the cook, the housekeeper, and Simon, the steward, who performed a number of tasks.

  The mullioned windows at the front of the house were fitted with specially cut glass panes. There were no large windows at the rear. No sweeping view of the spectacular coastline with its rugged headlands, its numerous islands set like jewels in the gleaming water. Roaringwater House turned its back on the bay. William Flynn’s gaunt grey residence faced northeast towards distant Dublin. The seat of power.

  The tenants on William Flynn’s land worked as servants to pay rent for their smallholdings, which were nowhere near his house. Tom and his sisters lived in a cocoon of their father’s making. They never met the servants’ children, who received no education and were not considered fit playmates. Beneath the broad and windswept sky there was no boy of Tom’s age. He had no companion and nothing to do except for the games he invented for himself. His favourite had always been to pretend he was a general leading his imaginary troops to one victory after another – each the result of his clever strategy. He still played the game, even if he was getting a bit old for it.

  In the autumn a tutor would ride out from Bantry to spend four days a week at Roaringwater House. Flynn had not sent any of his children away to school. ‘There are too many disturbing influences in Ireland now,’ he explained. The girls’ education had long since concluded, but this year Tom would be instructed in classical history, algebra, gentlemanly deportment and Italian art. Autumn seemed far away.

  With no particular destination in mind, Tom wandered about ‘The Park’ as his father called the barren landscape surrounding the house. Stony land with shallow soil where only furze and heather thrived. The roses his mother planted in front of the house every year died the following year. Along the deeply rutted drive with its gleaming white borders several empty carriages waited. From the stables came the sound of an impatient hoof pawing on cobbles.

  Otherwise there were no signs of life.

  Tom ambled along until he came to a large patch of torn-up turf, the site of yesterday’s wrestling matches.

  Wrestling was one of the most popular sports in Ireland. Peasant and gentry alike competed, though not against one another. A lot of betting went on. Each wrestler wore a wide l
eather belt around his body. He would seize his opponent’s belt with one hand and wait for the signal. When it came, the two struggled until one broke the other’s grip in any way he could, and then threw him down with all the strength he had. There were no other rules.

  Donal would be good at wrestling, Tom said to himself.

  Three days. Why wait three days? Why not go to the cave now and see if Donal was there?

  Glancing towards the house to be sure no one saw him, the boy set off at a brisk walk. Savages and barbarians, he thought to himself. Barbary pirates. What nonsense. Those are just threats my father makes to keep me on a chain, like the mastiff who guards the stables. I’m not a dog. Or a servant. I don’t have to take orders. I’ll wager Donal doesn’t take orders.

  The more distance Tom put between himself and the house, the better he felt. At first he did not notice that a sea mist was blowing in from the bay. It rolled in shifting swirls, gradually obscuring the landscape. When Tom realised he was surrounded by a thick white cloud he stopped walking.

  The mist was eerie. Magical. Sound was muffled. The boy’s skin felt cold and damp. His lips and eyelashes were wet. Tiny droplets on his clothing like little pearls. He considered turning around and going home. Instead he whistled a cheerful tune and resumed walking. Walking in the clouds through a magical world of his own.

  When he was sure he must be near the cliffs, he heard voices on the wind. The voices became clearer, became men shouting. Tom held his breath to listen but the voices stopped. It must have been a trick of the wind. He walked on. Then he heard another shout.

  A blaze of golden furze shone through the mist in front of him. He recognised that furze. It clung to the edge of the cliff above the cave. He carefully parted its spiky branches and peered down. He could not see the beach for the mist. Yet he had the distinct feeling that someone was there.