Out of control and terrified, Tom thrashed violently in the water. And felt his toes graze the bottom.
Rowing backwards with his arms, he soon righted himself. The water came up to his chin but the bottom was still there, solid and reassuring. He was on a shelf that extended an unknown distance into the bay. As long as he went no further, he could practise swimming with confidence. If he remembered not to swallow any water.
By the time Tom returned to the beach his body felt well used, but his spirit was soaring. He promised himself he would swim every day he could.
He waited until his clothes were almost dry, then made his way home, eager for the next morning, when Donal and Maura might be there. And they were.
Tom did not talk about his newly acquired skill for fear they would want a demonstration. Instead he told them about life at Roaringwater House. Things that seemed commonplace to him fascinated them. When he described his bed-closet, Maura clapped her hands with delight. ‘Tomflynn sleeps in a coffin!’ she cried as she capered around him.
Tom had his own questions. ‘How far back does the cave go, Donal?’
‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘I can.’
Donal led the other two into the cave. When their eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, he pointed out a narrow passageway leading to another chamber. ‘Beyond this are more rooms,’ he told Tom, ‘but you’d want a torch to see them. We only carry one when it’s needed.’
‘What are the rooms used for?’
‘Why do you think they’re used for anything?’
Tom said, ‘You told me your work was guarding the cave.’
‘You have a good memory.’
‘Ev’ryfink is used for somefink,’ Maura volunteered.
Tom chuckled. ‘Her English is not as good as yours, Donal, but she tries.’
‘Our father insists we learn English so we can deal with the Sasanach,’ said Donal. ‘They’re too thick to learn Irish,’ he added scornfully.
‘What dealings do you have with the Sasanach?’
Ignoring the question, Donal said, ‘Only a few people know these caves are here. You can’t see them unless you come right up to them. That’s why they make such good storehouses.’
‘Storehouses?’ Tom queried. ‘But they’re empty.’
‘They’re empty now. The first time you were here they had casks of wine in them. Spanish sherry.’
‘I don’t understand, Donal.’
‘I’m talking about making a living from the sea. That’s what my family does. It isn’t always sherry, either. Or port from Portugal. Sometimes it’s swords, or silver, or Persian rugs. Once it was teeth.’
‘Teeth!’
‘Giant fangs,’ said Donal. ‘They were curved and white and longer than my leg. They came from Africa, so there must be giant wolves in Africa. I never want to go there, myself,’ he added fervently.
Try as he might, Tom could not imagine wolves with fangs longer than a boy’s leg. ‘You’re making that up, Donal.’
‘I am not making it up. I swear on the Virgin.’
Tom only half believed the story about the fangs, but he was fascinated to learn of the wine. His father served port and sherry to his guests. Was he buying stolen goods without knowing it? Was Donal’s family making a fool of William Flynn?
‘Could I do what you do? Work with your family, maybe?’ he asked Donal when they were out in the sunlight again.
‘Are you serious?’
‘I am serious,’ Tom insisted. The idea had come to him in a rush. He could almost see himself carrying barrels in and out of the caves, whistling through his teeth, tossing his hair out of his eyes. Getting even with his father. ‘Please, Donal. Give me a chance.’
The other boy looked doubtful. ‘It’s not for me to decide,’ he said. ‘You had best talk to my father.’
‘Your father the king?’
‘My father the king. I can tell him about your offer tonight. If he’s interested, I’ll take you to meet him tomorrow.’
Tom hardly slept that night. The morning dawned dark and stormy. By the time he was dressed the wind was howling down the chimneys. It rattled the windows of the house and made the horses restless in the stable. When Tom came downstairs Elizabeth told him, ‘Mother says you are not to go outside today.’
‘I don’t mind the weather. She thinks I’m still a baby.’
‘She means it, Tom. You have to stay in.’
With a heavy heart, the boy went in search of a way to pass the time. He checked the traps in the cellar and released the rats. He tried to make them race one another but they ran away and hid instead. He then devoted himself to carving curlicues on the upstairs window frames – in places where no one would notice – with his penknife. Until the blade broke.
The storm grew worse. At midday the dairymaid complained to Cook that the cows in the dairy still had not let down their milk.
In the afternoon it seemed as if all of Roaringwater Bay was trying to come into the house. Tom had never been frightened of storms. They were both familiar and exciting. But this one was a giant. With giant fangs …
He struggled to control his galloping imagination.
Catherine Flynn stayed in her room for most of the day. So did Elizabeth. Virginia busied herself trying to paint the storm, while Caroline painted beauty patches on her face with a bit of soot from the fireplace. Eventually Missus ordered the lamps to be lit and sent a housemaid to the cellar for more lamp oil. The housemaid returned to report that she could hear ‘rats everywhere’ and would not go down. In the end, Virginia went for the oil herself.
Night fell early. Darkness crept in through the windows and lay in inky pools on the floor. Tom’s mother came downstairs to gather her children by the massive fireplace in the great hall. Mrs Flynn set to work darning a silk stocking. Every time the thunder rolled she flinched. Finally she laid aside the wooden darning egg and folded her hands in her lap.
Caroline paced nervously back and forth, picking up an ornament, setting it down again. Elizabeth and Virginia sat rigidly in their chairs, looking pale.
Tom longed to run upstairs and climb into his bed-closet and shut the panel tight. But he stayed where he was until the women went to bed.
The following morning the beach was littered with wreckage. Tangled masses of seaweed, driftwood, dead fish, broken shells. The sand stirred up from the bottom of the bay smelt rotten. But the sun shone. The sun shone! And Donal was waiting there for Tom.
CHAPTER SIX
Dublin
The storm had blown itself out before reaching Dublin. The sky over the city was overcast but there was no mud in the streets, only horse dung and refuse. William Flynn paused to consult the new public clock on the Tholsel. Then he made his way toward Skinners’ Row.
The city was growing, extending its boundaries. Land was rising in value day by day and week by week. The streets were crowded with gentlemen and beggars, foreigners and merchants and thieves. Almost every vessel that sailed into Dublin port brought more adventurers eager to make a fortune. The harbour was a veritable fortress of masts.
A new Custom House had been erected between Dame Street and the Liffey. Men of distinction were building fine homes along Wood Quay, replacing rotting wharves and warehouses. A new post office had opened in Castle Street.
Flynn’s destination was a low building of red Dutch brick, which rubbed shoulders with a glovemaker’s stall and a butchershop. When he pushed open the door, the smell of sweating male bodies was almost overpowering. Four men he knew were sitting at a heavy table near the door. He could not help noticing that they were drinking coffee instead of tea.
That is something else I was wrong about, Flynn thought glumly.
One of the men took a carved German pipe from his mouth long enough to call Flynn by name. Another pushed a stool forward with his booted foot. A large fellow with ginger whiskers said, ‘Are you well, William?’
Flynn gave a wan smile. ‘Well enough.’
‘Pah!’ Flynn sounded disgusted. ‘Not this time. I have been seeking an interview with Richard Boyle.’
‘Any success?’
‘I waited all morning in his town house next to Dublin Castle. Magnificent place. Swarming with servants. One of them showed me to a room the size of a barn and left me there without even a drink in my hand. Every time I put my head out the door I was told the earl was busy.’
His friends exchanged meaningful glances.
‘Oh, I saw the earl all right,’ Flynn said bitterly. ‘Saw him out the window as he drove away in a fine carriage – four perfectly matched greys and a man in crimson livery riding postillion. And not so much as a wave of his hand to me. Order a coffee for me someone, please.’ When a steaming bowl of coffee was placed before him he did not drink, but stared into the dark liquid as if seeing his future. ‘It’s the fourth time Boyle has avoided me, his soul to the devil. I cannot go cap-in-hand to him again.’
‘Quite right too,’ said Ginger Whiskers. ‘A man has his pride.’
‘Pride is a fine thing,’ another remarked, ‘if one can afford it.’ He smoothed his hands across his plum-coloured waistcoat. ‘William, you must remember that Richard Boyle is the richest man in Ireland now. He is hounded night and morning by petitioners. I dare say he is sick of the sight of pleading faces.’
An older man with a harsh voice like two stones scraping together said, ‘Don’t spare any sympathy for Boyle. Underneath the fine feathers he is a scoundrel who is busy lining his own pockets at the expense of others. The Lord Deputy Thomas Wentworth is a better fellow altogether. He may not be the warmest man I ever met, but I would swear on my brother’s life that Wentworth is honest. Which doesn’t sit too well with Boyle, of course. If we have to choose sides, I choose Wentworth. Boyle has no respect for the king and no real feeling for the people.’
William Flynn looked deeply worried. ‘My family lost their lands in the Elizabethan War,’ he said. ‘I have only a few acres I inherited from an uncle. A political appointment would enable me to protect them. One word from an influential friend was all I needed to get my toes under the government table in Dublin. Instead …’ He sagged on the stool. ‘Instead, I have called the wolf into the fold.’
Plum Waistcoat leaned forward and licked his lips with interest. ‘Really? How?’
‘By inviting Richard Boyle to Roaringwater House. I boasted of the fine estate I had created out of nothing. He was impressed, all right. He decided then and there to extend the plantation of Munster and grab the land for his favourites.’ William Flynn’s voice dropped to a shamed whisper. ‘And in my confusion … in my craven fear of his power … I offered to help.’
‘You poor fool,’ said Ginger Whiskers. ‘You might as well have handed him the deeds to your land.’
Pipe Smoker studied his smouldering tobacco. ‘Perhaps you should apply to Thomas Wentworth instead.’
‘Waste of breath,’ declared Plum Waistcoat. ‘The interests of the Crown are all the Lord Deputy cares about. He runs roughshod over everyone else in the name of King Charles.’
Harsh Voice said, ‘The king needs all the support he can get. In spite of his efforts on their behalf, the Catholics still don’t trust him. The Puritans hate him, the Scots have rebelled and there’s war looming between Charles and the English parliament.’
‘Meanwhile here in Ireland Wentworth and Boyle are fighting each other,’ Ginger Whiskers pointed out. ‘The Lord Deputy decided to make an example of Boyle for defrauding the Crown. He fined the earl fifteen thousand pounds for questionable practices in the diocese of Lismore. He also forced him to move the elaborate family tomb he had built in the heart of St Patrick’s Cathedral. Now it gathers dust in a side aisle.’
‘Wentworth has made a bitter enemy of the Earl of Cork,’ Plum Waistcoat warned. ‘Boyle will turn the entire government against him. And he knows just which strings to pull, which debts to call in. Boyle has a whole string of moneylenders working for him, you know. He’s even loaned money to King Charles.’
Pipe Smoker summed up the situation. ‘There are bad times ahead, my friends. Bad times indeed. I advise you to keep your heads below the parapet. We are merely pawns in larger games.’
William Flynn looked around the table. Nobody said anything. After a while he got up and left the coffee house.
‘There goes a desperate man,’ Harsh Voice remarked as the door closed behind him.
‘These are desperate times,’ said Ginger Whiskers.
* * *
Leaving the cove behind, Donal led Tom along the coast. The waters of the bay were still rough. Great breakers deposited mountains of foam and scud wherever they touched land. Ragged clouds raced across an otherwise blue sky. There were several places where Tom tried to stop for a moment and enjoy the view. Donal, who had seen it all many times before, trotted on. Tom had to run to catch up with him.
Tom felt a growing excitement. He had never met a king before. Even his father had never met a king, though William Flynn spoke of King Charles as if he were a personal friend.
At its best the way was rough and broken. The boys climbed up and down steep slopes and made their way along the crumbling edges of unstable cliffs, where the ground threatened to collapse beneath their feet at any moment. Caught between sea and sky, they moved through a magical, ever-shifting light that made it impossible to judge distances.
‘Mind you keep an eye on the path,’ warned Donal.
‘I don’t see any path.’
Donal laughed. He was as agile as a wild goat. Tom twice skinned his knees and once narrowly avoided breaking his ankle. ‘Do we have far to go?’ he panted.
‘Not very,’ Donal assured him. ‘It only seems like a long way because you’re not used to it.’
Tom had just about decided to turn around when Donal announced, ‘Here we are.’
Ahead lay a marshy area studded with clumps of willow bushes like miniature islands. Through this wetland a little river emptied into the bay. The stream flowed sleepily along, in no hurry to reach the sea. By contrast the willows were bristling with energy. Wind trailed long fingers through their branches, turning the slender leaves first to show their brilliant green side, then reversing to silver. Shining waves of green and silver followed one another in constant motion.
Tom was entranced by the sight. He almost failed to notice that Donal had turned inland to follow the course of the river. He had to run to catch up.
As they followed a footbeaten track along the riverbank the sound of the bay gradually receded into the distance. The air grew very still.
In the reedy shallows a solitary heron waited, immobile, to spear an unsuspecting fish. The bird was so involved in its task it did not blink as the boys walked past.
When they came to a bend in the river Donal’s pace increased. Tom felt his own heart beat faster.
A short distance beyond the bend, steep hills rose on either side of a narrow valley. Nestled in the valley was a handful of stone cabins whitewashed with lime. They had been built with their backs to a hill and their fronts to the sun. Their roofs were thatched with reeds securely pegged down. A round, stone bake-oven stood at a safe distance from the dwellings. Between the cabins and the river Tom saw a clutter of lobster pots and fishing nets and coils of rope and upside-down currachs. And other articles whose use he could not guess.
For a moment he thought he heard his father’s warning: A fate worse than death!
Donal gave him a shove from behind. ‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘They’re waiting for you.’
In front of the largest cabin a woman sat at a spinning wheel. She was humming as she worked. Maura was leaning against her shoulder. The two looked up as the boys approached. ‘Tomflynn!’ the little girl shouted. She ran to meet him with arms outstretched. ‘Tomflynn, Tomflynn!’
A man appeared in the doorway behind the woman. She looke
d back at him. He briefly rested one hand on her hair.
People began to emerge from the other cabins. Four men – one of them quite old – a woman well past her youth, and another in her middle years. Seeing them together, Tom understood the meaning of ‘tribe’. Men and women alike were tall and strongly built. All but the oldest had thick black hair. Everyone, even little Maura, possessed the same bright blue eyes and sharply cut features.
They were nothing like the people William Flynn entertained at Roaringwater House. Tom recalled his father’s guests with a newly critical eye. Their faces resembled suet puddings. Their clothes were too tight and their bellies were too big.
On Roaringwater Bay lived a tribe with the faces of sea eagles.
The man standing in the doorway wore a saffron-dyed linen tunic and woollen trews. His feet were clad in untanned leather that softly fitted their shape. Slung across his broad shoulders was a mantle trimmed in wolf fur.
Tom had no doubt who he was. Donal’s father looked more like a king than Charles Stuart in his ermines.
How does one greet a king?
Donal’s father solved the problem for Tom by stepping forward and putting one hand on the boy’s shoulder. The man’s eyes sparkled with some hidden amusement. ‘I am chieftain here,’ Muiris said. ‘And you are the son of Liam Ó Floinn.’ Not a question, but a statement. ‘Does your father know where you are?’
‘My father doesn’t care what I do, as long as I stay out of his sight.’
‘Donal says you would like to work with us. Is that true, Tomás?’
It was strange to hear his name pronounced in the Irish way. The servants at home would never dare. ‘It is true,’ said Tom. ‘Learning about the sea would be a great adventure.’
‘It might be,’ Muiris conceded. ‘Is adventure your only reason?’ He cocked one black eyebrow. His blue eyes seemed to see right through Tom.
Cave of Secrets Page 4