Cave of Secrets

by Morgan Llywelyn

  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.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Off to War

  William Flynn and his men remained at Roaringwater House only for a few days before they galloped away again, full of high spirits. Tom watched them go with mixed feelings. His father’s attitude towards him had changed a little. Sometimes it was almost pleasant. There had been too much talk of soldiers and war, however. His father had even asked the head groom to teach him to ride. ‘If young Tom is meant for the cavalry we had best get to work right away, eh?’

  Not once had Flynn asked how Tom had injured his leg, or how the boy felt. About anything.

  As soon as his leg was strong enough, Tom set out for the narrow valley. He carried the walking stick but tried not to use it more than absolutely necessary. His friends – relatives! – greeted him warmly. Bríd was eager to see how well his leg was healing.

  ‘We wondered if we would ever see you here again,’ Muiris told him.

  ‘Why would I not come?’

  ‘Your parents could have stopped you.’

  ‘My mother saw me leaving the house this morning and said nothing, though I’m sure she knew I was coming here. As for my father … he was home for a brief while but has gone again. I did not tell him about you, and I don’t think my mother did either. He only cares about his own business anyway.’

  Muiris said, ‘And this business of his – is it so interesting?’

  While Tom related what he knew of his father’s plans, his uncle listened intently. ‘So Thomas Wentworth is Lord Lieutenant now,’ he said, ‘and Liam Ó Floinn is in his camp. Liam probably believes he is safely nestled in the English king’s pocket.’

  His choice of words warned Tom. ‘Is my father not safe with Thomas We
ntworth? He has given him an officer’s commission.’

  ‘I am sure your father has a splendid commission, and gold braid for his coat,’ Muiris said sarcastically. ‘Fineen Ó Driscoll had a knighthood from the English crown, and much good it did him. The Sasanach used Fineen for as long as suited their purpose, then cut him loose with every Irishman’s hand raised against him. His own son, Conor, had rebelled against him. The old man was forced to sell everything he owned. In the end he died penniless, with no one to tie up his jaw.

  ‘Believe me when I tell you: a man who can be ennobled at the whim of an English monarch can lose his nobility just as quickly. You are far safer leaning on your blackthorn stick, Tomás, than your father will ever be leaning on the Sasanach.’

  Tom spent the day with Donal and his family in the narrow valley. For long stretches of time it was as wonderful as he remembered. Then, like dark clouds passing across the face of the sun, his worries returned. The complicated adult world into which his father had ridden was like the swarming sea life beneath the surface of Roaringwater Bay. Unseen, unsuspected, unknowable.

  But he was close to it now. He already had one foot in it. He could not go back to being a child even if he wanted to. Nor did he know how to take the next step.

  His mother was waiting for him when he returned home. ‘You were with Muiris,’ she said.

  ‘I was.’

  ‘You have lost a lot of time with your studies, Tom, so I have sent for Mr Beasley to resume your lessons next week. Otherwise you will be studying right through the summer.’

  ‘Are you trying to keep me from being with my uncle and his family?’

  She looked hurt. ‘I would not do that, Tom. I am glad you found one another. I kept that secret too long.’

  ‘Why did you? Are you ashamed of them?’

  Catherine Flynn lifted her head. ‘Just the opposite, I am proud of them. I am only ashamed that I did not appreciate what I had.’

  ‘Does Father know about Muiris?’

  ‘He knew from the beginning. I would never keep a secret from him. William looked down on the Irish who had not adopted English ways, but my family still had some money then, which made them more acceptable. I did not learn until too late that they used the last of it for my dowry. I felt so guilty I could not face them any more.’

  ‘I’ll take you to them tomorrow!’ Tom said eagerly. ‘They will be glad to see you.’

  ‘They will not be glad. They hate me and I do not blame them.’

  ‘If they hated you, Muiris would not have come here,’ Tom pointed out. ‘Nor would he have kept an eye on you all these years. Please, Mother, let me take you to them. They have the nicest little house, so warm and snug, and the morning sun comes in the windows.’

  ‘I know,’ she said. So softly he did not hear.

  ‘They will make you welcome as they always do me and we can heal the damage that’s been done. Bríd is a wonderful healer, just look what she did for my leg.’

  ‘A broken leg is not the same as a broken family, Tom. We Irish carry our injuries to the grave.’

  It was the first time Tom had ever heard his mother say ‘we Irish’.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be that way!’ he protested. ‘I know it doesn’t. Please say you’ll come with me tomorrow, I know the way.’

  ‘I know the way too,’ Catherine Flynn replied.

  This time he heard her.

  * * *

  In the morning it was raining. ‘I shall have to wait for another day,’ Mrs Flynn said at breakfast. She sounded relieved.

  ‘If we don’t go now you’ll never go.’

  ‘Of course I shall, Tom.’

  Virginia spoke up. ‘I think we should all go together, as I said last night. They are part of our family too.’

  ‘We cannot pay a call in weather like this!’ Caroline protested.

  ‘The weather is always like this,’ said Elizabeth. ‘We live on Roaringwater Bay, remember? We can wrap up warmly and wear heavy boots.’

  ‘That will not be necessary,’ Mrs Flynn told them. ‘This time I think it should only be Tom and myself.’

  Tom reached across the table and seized his mother’s hands. ‘This time? Then you are going!’

  ‘I have not yet decided if–’

  ‘Say you will. Please?’ The eyes gazing at her so earnestly were his father’s eyes; William’s eyes as Catherine remembered them, when he and she were young. How could she refuse those eyes anything? ‘I shall go,’ she said at last.

  Warm outer clothing was gathered with a sense of urgency. Tom was afraid that if he wasted any time his mother would lose her nerve. Elizabeth and Virginia clamoured to accompany them, but Mrs Flynn would not allow it. What she was about to do would take all the courage she had. If she were rejected, she did not want her daughters as witnesses.

  They made slow progress, the woman in her heavy cloak and the boy with his walking stick. For once there was little wind off the bay, but the rain pounded like a fist on their heads and shoulders. Where the going was rough Tom held his mother’s arm. He threw down the stick because it got in his way.

  ‘It’s a strange thing,’ he remarked to her. ‘Sometimes it takes forever to reach the valley, and other times I come upon it long before I expect to.’

  She said nothing.

  Tom did not take a wrong turning. He found the marsh at the river mouth just where it should be, and led his mother to the narrow valley without mishap. The familiar cabins were waiting for them, snugly huddled under their thatch, their limewashed walls gleaming in the grey light.

  Mrs Flynn stopped walking. ‘They have not changed,’ she said in a voice full of wonder. ‘Everything else has changed, but not …’ She began to cry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Mrs Flynn Pays a Visit

  Bríd had a pile of mending on her lap when she heard the knock on the door. ‘Who but a fisherman would be out in this weather?’ she muttered to herself. ‘And I after telling himself we already have enough dried and salted fish to last until the summer, but would he listen? Not Muiris; not when there’s something troubling his mind. Then he has to be busy.’

  She raised her voice. ‘The door’s not latched, come in!’

  The knock was repeated.

  She thrust her needle through the topmost garment and set the pile aside. ‘Have ye gone deaf?’ she asked as she opened the door. ‘Tomás, lad! Come into this house, you’re very welcome.’

  He did not step inside. ‘My mother is with me, and she’s crying. I can’t get her to come any farther.’

  Looking past him through a curtain of rain, Bríd saw a woman muffled in a heavy cloak. She was bent almost double, with her two hands over her face. Bríd ran to her. ‘Help me, Tomás!’ With one on one side and one on the other, they walked Catherine Flynn through the open doorway and into the cabin.

  ‘Sit by the hearth and warm yourself,’ Bríd said. ‘Och, look at the state of you, you could have come from the bottom of the bay. Take off that wet cloak at once.’ She tried to fold Catherine’s hood back.

  ‘Leave me,’ Tom’s mother moaned. ‘Please leave me be.’

  Bríd pulled the hood away. ‘Caitríona? Is it really yourself?’

  ‘I am Mrs William Flynn,’ the other woman replied. In her whisper voice.

  Bríd made a clucking noise with her tongue. ‘Muiris has taken Donal upriver to collect bait, but they will return soon. Would you have them see you like this?’ She began to mop Mrs Flynn’s wet face with her apron. ‘Tomás, my comb is on the dresser. We need blankets too, you know where they are.’

  ‘Tomflynn!’ came a glad cry from overhead. Maura scrambled down the ladder from the loft. ‘I was ’sleep,’ she announced, ‘but I’m ’wake now!’ She flung herself at Tom and gave him a great hug. A moment later she was in Mrs Flynn’s lap and hugging her too.

  Soon the two Flynns were warm and dry and enjoying a hot meal. There was little chance for Bríd and Catherine to talk to each other. Maura monopol
ised the conversation with her customary babble about everything and nothing, punctuated with frequent hugs for the guests.

  During a momentary lull Catherine managed to say, ‘I was afraid you might hate me, Bríd.’

  Before Bríd could answer the little girl exclaimed, ‘We love you! We love you and Tomflynn lots!’

  Muiris and Donal returned to find Bríd and Catherine sitting by the hearth, finishing the mending together. Tom was trying to teach Maura to count to ten. The cabin was filled with a warm glow which only partially came from the fire in the hearth.

  An amazed Muiris paused in the doorway, hardly believing his eyes.

  His wife glanced up. ‘You’re after letting the rain in, you foolish man. Be inside or be outside but don’t be doing both at once.’

  Catherine Flynn smiled at her brother. ‘As you can see, Muiris, I am inside.’

  * * *

  Every member of the small community wanted to call on Catherine. Bríd decided against it. ‘Caitríona is like a robin that lands on your outstretched hand. If people crowd around her she will be overwhelmed.’

  Maura stationed herself at the door. Whenever someone knocked the little girl opened the door just a crack and said, ‘Tomflynn’s mother is a robin. Don’t ’whelm her.’

  The day was far too short. When the light began to fade Catherine announced they must leave. Muiris urged her to spend the night but she declined. ‘I have three girls waiting for me at home, and a household to run,’ she reminded him.

  ‘But you will come back?’

  ‘It is not as far as I thought it was,’ she said.

  She and Tom were both tired. The rain had stopped but neither felt like talking. They saved their energy for the walk. Once Roaringwater House was in sight, however, Tom said, ‘Did you think they hated you because of the money?’

  ‘I suppose I did. It all happened so long ago and I was very young, but when I look back …’ She stopped walking. Tom waited.