Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
Cave of Secrets (12 page)
‘I
did not expect you,’ Catherine Flynn said faintly.
‘Tomás is not strong enough yet to come by
himself
.’
With the ghost of a smile, she replied, ‘It is not such a great distance.’
‘No,’ he agreed, ‘not such a great distance.’
‘But too far for you until now.’ There was reproach in her voice.
He did not respond.
‘Not too far for your children, though,’ she went on. ‘They are yours, are they not? Donal and little Maura?’
‘They are mine.’
‘You can be proud of them, Muiris.’
‘I am,’ he said. ‘As you are proud of Tomás and your three daughters.’
‘How did you know I have three daughters?’
‘Two are pretty,’ Muiris went on, ‘and one, I believe, is clever. Cleverness lasts longer than beauty, Caitríona.’
Her hand flew to her cheek.
‘Who is this person?’ Elizabeth demanded to know. ‘Are you one of the villains who kidnapped my brother? Father said there were pirates in the bay, but I never–’
Mrs Flynn turned away from Muiris, saying, ‘I want to see my boy.’ When she hurried into the hall, he followed her.
They found Tom sitting on a chair, with Virginia and
Caroline
standing on either side of him. They were doing the talking, their words overlapping one another in their
excitement
. In the shadowy room the boy looked pale. The
walking
stick was propped beside him.
His mother’s eyes went straight to the stick. ‘So you did break your leg. Oh, my poor baby!’
‘Stupid of me,’ said Tom. ‘I was running and slipped on the ice. I fell down a hill. Or off of a hill, I’m not sure what happened exactly.’
‘What were you running from?’ Elizabeth asked.
‘I wasn’t running from anything, Lizzie. I was going to visit my …’ Tom met Muiris’s eyes. Those intense eyes that could see right through him. ‘My friends. My best friends. They took care of me until I was able to come home again.’
His mother looked around for a chair so she could sit down too. She felt faint but she refused to give in to it. My people do not faint, she told herself.
She beckoned to Muiris to come and stand beside her. His eyes asked a question; she answered it with a nod. She
took his hand. Held it tight. ‘This man is more than a friend,’ she said. Reaching down inside herself for the voice she had submerged for so long, the confident voice with the accents of the Gael. It was rusty from disuse, but she forced it into her throat. ‘This is your uncle.’ The voice grew stronger. ‘My oldest brother, Muiris Ó Driscoll of Roaringwater Bay.’
Caroline gasped.
‘That’s impossible!’ cried Elizabeth. ‘We cannot be related to
pirates!
’
Muiris said with quiet dignity, ‘I am not a pirate. Even if I were, I would not apologise for it. Piracy is a respectable profession – from time to time. The English queen knighted her favourite pirates. Have you heard of Sir Walter Raleigh? Sir Francis Drake? Or Sir Fineen Ó Driscoll, the greatest of them all?’
Tom’s sisters struggled with their shock. Their mother made it worse by bursting into laughter. ‘Muiris, you have not changed a peg.’
He raised one eyebrow. ‘Did you think I would?’
She stopped laughing. ‘No. I did not think you would change.’
‘You changed, Caitríona.’ He made it sound like an
accusation
.
Tom and his sisters looked from one to the other, trying to make sense of their conversation.
‘I had to change, Muiris. To live this life, I had to become
the woman I am now.’
He scowled. ‘You did not have to live this life. You had a choice.’
‘
A chroí!
From the day I first saw William I had no choice. And he felt the same way. Father understood. That is why he agreed to my dowry.’
‘Which impoverished the rest of us, and built this
monstrosity
of a house!’ Muiris said angrily, snatching his hand away from hers. ‘Has any of it made you happy, Caitríona?’
‘My children make me happy.’ The soft voice again. The lowered eyelids.
Elizabeth said, ‘I do not understand. Did
you
pay for
Roaringwater
House, Mother?’
The voice became a whisper. ‘William built it with my marriage portion.’
Virginia said, ‘You were right, Lizzie. We
are
traded like animals. How large a dowry do you suppose Father offered Mr Fox to take you off his hands?’
Elizabeth went white.
‘Stop this!’ cried Tom. ‘You’re tearing at one another!’
Muiris looked down at his sister. ‘After this house was built there would not have been much left of your dowry, Caitríona. Not enough to buy fine clothes and furnishings. The land itself is barren; only sheep and goats can survive on it, and not many of either. How does Liam Ó Floinn support you?’
‘He has investments, I believe. Something about the East India Company? We never discuss it, though. William says I could not understand finance.’
Her brother’s expression softened. ‘Oh my poor Cáit. What has your wilfulness cost you? Your son is right, he is a wise boy. We are tearing ourselves apart over a war that was won and lost long ago.’
Tom felt as if a bag had been opened in front of him and its contents spilt out on the flagstones. Not shining gold ingots, but dark secrets dredged up from the bottom of a black sea. He wanted to be anywhere else but here. ‘Take me home with you, Muiris? Please, please take me home!’
‘You are home, Tomás,’ said Muiris. Looking at Catherine Flynn, he added, ‘You have to live your own life. I cannot give you a different one.’
She wilted under his gaze. ‘Are you abandoning me again, Muiris?’
‘I never abandoned you. When your husband was away I sometimes came near the house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you. And your children.’
‘I never saw you.’
‘You never looked for me.’
‘
I
did,’ Elizabeth said unexpectedly. ‘I was not looking for
you
, exactly, but for someone. I desperately wanted someone. – anyone – a prince to rescue me, or God to make
everything
all right for me. Someone.’
Her mother turned towards her in astonishment.
Seizing his opportunity, Muiris gave Tom’s shoulder a quick squeeze and strode from the hall – and the house – before anyone could stop him.
* * *
Mrs Flynn retired to her chamber. She called for a cloth soaked in lavender water to place on her forehead, and said she did not want to be disturbed.
Tom’s sisters descended on him like a flock of seagulls on a fish carcass. ‘Is he really our uncle?’ ‘How did you find him?’ ‘Does he have a family?’ ‘Is that where you were going last summer?’
Muiris only answers the questions he want to answer, Tom reminded himself. ‘My leg hurts,’ he told his sisters. ‘I want my bed now. Will one of you help me up the stairs?’
When he was in his bed-closet with the panel firmly closed – and the questions shut outside – he tried to put the pieces together in his head. This was like one of Seán’s colourful tales about the Milesians or the Tuatha dé Danann, a tapestry woven of many threads. Yet this tale was true. And the threads led to him.
Does every family have secrets? Are all children as
ignorant
as I was of the astonishing past which produced me?
R
oaringwater House was turned upside down. The appearance of Muiris had been like a thunderbolt. The servants talked of nothing else. There was excited
whispering
in the kitchen and chattering on the back stairs. Some claimed they knew everything. Others said they knew
nothing
but were eager to be informed. One or two merely smiled and kept their mouths shut.
Mrs Flynn emerged from her room the following
morning
, but she discouraged conversation and would not talk about her brother at all. Tom also evaded his sisters’
questions
. He used his leg as an excuse, though he was no longer in pain. Bríd was a true healer, much better than the barber/doctor from Ballydehob.
The boy wanted time by himself to sort out his thoughts. He wished it were summer so he could go swimming. The days were gradually growing longer, but the water was still
very cold and he did not trust his leg.
He tried to be satisfied with looking out the little window in his room, gazing towards the bay.
I have the threads, he thought, but I don’t see the whole pattern. Am I related to Fineen Ó Driscoll? Was he my grandfather? My great grandfather? Is his blood in my veins at all?
Tom wanted to know and was afraid to know. Afraid of being disappointed by the answer.
During the next few nights he had nightmares, though they were not the same as before. Now they featured a
faceless
man dressed in brocades and high leather boots. He
carried
a great, curving sword with a hilt of gold. Sometimes the man threatened Tom with the sword. In other dreams he gave the sword to the boy as a gift.
The thunder of hoofbeats on the frozen carriage road broke the spell which had fallen over Roaringwater House. Within moments they heard shouting, then Simon’s cry, ‘The master’s home!’
William Flynn had not returned alone. He was mounted on a superb new horse and accompanied by four other men who were equally well mounted. They all wore new
clothing
, if travel-stained, and had plumes in their hats.
Flynn tossed his reins to the stable boy and slid from the saddle as if he did not ache in every bone and joint. His wife and children hurried to greet him. During the months of his
absence Tom’s vivid imagination had pictured far too many tragic scenes involving William Flynn. Now here was the man himself, thankfully alive and well. Though a bit thinner.
‘William!’ his wife exclaimed, aghast. ‘Have they fed you nothing in Dublin?’
‘On the contrary, I ate very well,’ he assured her. ‘Do we not eat well, men?’ he asked his four companions.
They laughed and nodded. With an extravagant wave of his arm, Flynn ushered them into his house. His magnificent Roaringwater House, created through his own cleverness. Safe now, thanks to his courage and persistence. He felt
wonderful
. In the glow of his mood even his son was a welcome sight. ‘Look at you, boy! I wager you have grown two years’ worth in half a year!’ Flynn gave Tom a fatherly punch on the arm.
The boy blinked in surprise.
Flynn kissed his wife on the cheek and hugged each of his daughters in turn. ‘I have presents for all of you,’ he said. ‘New Year’s presents, even if they are a little late. But welcome anyway, eh? Eh?’
His family nodded in unison. They were watching him in fascination. With the exception of his wife, none of them had ever seen William Flynn exuberant.
He introduced his four companions as ‘members of my company’ and called for tankards of beer to be served to them immediately.
The men took over the great hall as if they were holding court. They threw off their travelling cloaks and tossed them to Simon. He neatly folded all five, though he did not look happy. Caring for the outerwear of strangers was beneath his rank in the hierarchy of servants.
Catherine Flynn eyed her husband’s clothes. ‘I do not remember that coat and those breeches, William.’
‘These?’ He made a dismissive gesture. ‘They are only
temporary
until the earl can have proper uniforms made for us.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘The Earl of Cork?’
‘Of course not, woman! The Earl of Strafford, Lord
Lieutenant
Thomas Wentworth. In April the king will summon the English parliament to raise more money for the war against the Scottish rebels. Meanwhile Strafford has returned to Ireland to organise an army of Irish soldiers. He is
confident
he can convince the Irish parliament to provide the funds.
‘I was one of the first to greet him upon his arrival. I hired a trumpeter out of my own pocket and arranged for a small but elegant refreshment to be served at dockside. Very expensive, of course, but a worthwhile investment. I do not think he expected such a warm reception. He certainly showed his gratitude. On his instructions I am to recruit soldiers in Cork.’
‘Does this mean you have your commission, William?’
He beamed. ‘I do indeed. I am a major in Strafford’s army.
These men with me are my senior officers. I shall be
equipping
them myself until our funds come through, but then I shall be repaid with interest. We are going to Scotland to fight for the king!’
Tom made his first mistake of the day. ‘What king?’
‘King Charles, of course, our lawful sovereign. What’s the matter with you, boy? Are you simple?’ Forgotten was the warm greeting, the fond punch on the arm. William Flynn’s familiar scowl returned.
Tom slipped out of the hall as soon as he could and went to his chamber.
There are other kings, he thought as he gazed out the window towards the bay. There are Irish kings to whom Irish men should owe their loyalty.
Loyalty was a slippery subject. The more Tom thought about it, the less certain he was about his own. Perhaps one had to be an adult to understand. Yet I am an adult when I’m with Muiris and his family. And they are my blood kin. But so are my parents.
I love Muiris. But perhaps I would love my father if he would let me.
Tom’s head began to ache. He longed to crawl into his bed-closet and shut the panel on his problems. That was not the sort of thing a man would do, however.
Squaring his shoulders, Tom went back downstairs.
Virginia beckoned to him. ‘Cook’s been told to prepare a
huge dinner and Father’s taken his friends out to inspect the stables. How many men make up a company, Tom? As many as a regiment?’
‘I don’t think so. I don’t really know.’
‘Neither do I. I
hate
living in such an isolated place. We are kept in perfect ignorance. Like the situation with Mother’s brother. Do you really believe that–’
‘I have a message for Cook,’ Tom interrupted, hastily
heading
for the back stairs. It need not be a lie. He could tell the cook that he would not be taking dinner with the rest of them.
In the passage at the bottom of the back stairs he found the members of his father’s ‘company’. They filled the space with their presence, talking loudly and stamping mud off their boots. They ignored Tom as he politely tried to edge past them.
One man said disdainfully, ‘Only a handful of saddle horses and none I would care to ride.’
‘The brown gelding is herring-gutted,’ another
commented
. ‘They all show too much daylight beneath.’
‘Did you note the mismatched carriage horses?’ asked a third. ‘Or the ancient pony with hipbones like a hatrack? What does the major feed those nags on? Gorse?’
‘Do you mean furze?’ Tom asked.
The men laughed.
Tom faced them squarely. ‘My father has the best horses
on the bay,’ he declared.
‘Best what? Seahorses?’ Now the men were laughing at him.
‘Since you obviously don’t know,’ Tom said coldly, ‘furze makes excellent fodder. You chop off the green tops and pound them on a flat surface with a mallet. Horses thrive on it.’
He stalked away before they could think of a reply.
His father was still at the stables, talking to the groom. Flynn was doing most of the talking. The groom listened with averted eyes and a bored expression. From time to time he responded with a grunt, which his master could take any way he liked.
As Tom approached, Flynn noticed his son’s walking stick for the first time. ‘What did you do to your leg, boy?’
‘I had a fall, but I’m all right.’
‘You always were clumsy,’ said Flynn. Stroking his lower lip, he surveyed his son. ‘You have grown since I saw you last, boy. What age are you now?’
‘Fourteen next month, sir.’
‘Is that all? You look older now. In Dublin I met a lad only a year or so older than you who is a man in every way. He was of great help to me, in fact.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’
‘Fourteen, eh?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Tom felt himself begin to sweat, though the day
was cold. This was leading somewhere. He tried to be
prepared
.
‘What are we to do with you in another year, boy?’
Tom did not reply. He knew from experience that
anything
he said might only add fuel to the fire.
‘Young men of fifteen march with armies,’ Flynn
commented
. ‘Fifteen may be the best age for a soldier; they are full of vigour then. Would you like to be a soldier? If you live long enough you might even become an officer someday. Or perhaps you would rather be a scholar like my friend in Dublin? Probably not, though,’ he continued, answering his own question. ‘Scholars need brains and I have never seen any evidence of yours. I am wasting money on that wretch Beasley.’
Tom knew his father did not care what he wanted. He stood straight and silent – and sweating – while William Flynn peered at him from beneath his brows.
The boy is growing up, the man told himself. There was a time when he would cringe before me like a hound that expects to be beaten. I see no cringing in him now.
Dismissing Tom with a wave of his hand, Flynn resumed his one-sided conversation with the head groom. Out of the corner of his eye he watched his son walk away. Noticed how careful Tom was not to limp.
That lad might make a soldier, he might indeed, Flynn told himself. A soldier to fight for the king.