When Maura fell from the prow she had gone straight down. Donal had fallen from the middle of the boat – how much difference would that make? The bay was huge, and the currents which Muiris had been describing earlier were strong. Donal might be anywhere by now. The only thing to do was keep searching for him as long as he could.
Which would not be long. Tom’s strength was almost gone.
He swam to the surface to take one more breath of air. When his head cleared the water he tossed the hair out of his eyes. They were stinging painfully from the salt. He could hardly see. There was a sort of blob which might be the boat, he could not tell. He thought he heard shouting again, but over the noise of the wind and the waves he could not be sure.
Tom took a big gulp of air and went back down. One more time, he told himself. I can do this one more time.
He went down as far as he dared, until there was just enough air left in his lungs to get him back to the surface.
A hand grabbed his ankle.
Instinctively he tried to kick free.
Then he realised it must be Donal. He twisted, reached down, found the arm that was attached to the hand, and pulled. Donal rose in the water beside him. The other boy’s eyes were open. His face was contorted into a grimace of terror.
Tom pointed upward. He could not tell if Donal understood, but he started swimming in that direction. He meant to carry his friend with him. Donal responded by trying to climb him like a tree, threatening in his panic to drag them both down.
After the day they first met, Tom had never matched his strength against Donal’s. Now he must.
‘I tell you I saw Donal!’ Seán was shouting. ‘Just over there, Muiris! He came up for a moment and vanished again. But they come up three times, do they not? Three times?’
‘Maybe he had come up twice already and we were looking the other way. What about Tomás?’
‘I don’t see anyone now,’ said Seán. ‘They’re gone. But we have to … we must …’
‘We must,’ echoed Muiris, his heart breaking. He knew what neither of them could say. Must search the coastline for the bodies and pray they eventually came ashore.
Something struck the bottom of the currach.
Seán swore at the rock that had caused this tragedy.
‘That did not feel like a rock,’ Muiris told him.
The bump came again. ‘More like a dolphin …’ Muiris looked over the side. ‘Seán, quick! Help me!’
Together the brothers pulled an exhausted, watersoaked boy out of the water.
And then another one.
* * *
The little island with its crown of trees was the most beautiful sight Tom had ever seen. By the time they beached the currach he had recovered enough to help Donal ashore. Muiris carried Maura in his arms.
As soon as they were on dry land the little girl said, ‘Can we eat now?’
Seán’s laughter was almost hysterical with relief. ‘Bless the child, I’ll find an ox and slaughter and butcher it myself.’
‘Don’t like ox meat,’ Maura declared. ‘Like bread and buttermilk.’
They ate while sun and wind dried their clothes. Tom discovered he was ravenous. ‘I don’t want anything wet,’ Donal said, ignoring the buttermilk. But he consumed a huge amount of bread and cheese. Only Muiris had no appetite. When Seán offered him food he refused. ‘I could have lost all of you,’ he said to the three children.
‘But you didn’t,’ Tom pointed out. ‘Have some cheese.’
‘I owe you a greater debt than I can ever repay, Tomás.’
‘You don’t owe me anything. Just take me smuggling with you the next time you go.’
Before Muiris could reply Donal said, ‘I didn’t know you could swim.’
‘I taught myself last summer. I practised in the cove on days when you didn’t come.’
‘But why?’
‘Because the water was there.’ Even as Tom said the words, he knew it was no answer. Yet it was the only answer he could give. Why does anyone do anything?
He turned back to Muiris. ‘Will you take me smuggling the next time you go?’
The man shook his head. ‘I cannot, Tomás. Smuggling is not something we did for pleasure, and I pray we never have to do it again. But even if we were going tomorrow I would not bring you. Letting you join us was an act of revenge on my part. Now that I have seen my sister again, I regret it.’
Tom frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I took you to get even with your father. It was my revenge for his taking Caitríona from us.’
Seán said, ‘You never told me that.’
‘I am the chief,’ Muiris reminded him. ‘I do not tell you everything.’
Tom could not help laughing. ‘You wanted revenge against my father, Muiris. So did I! I wanted to join the smugglers to help make a fool of my father.’
‘Now I do not understand,’ said Muiris.
Donal spoke up. ‘I think I do. I saw a Persian rug in your house, Tomás. For several months we had that rug stored in the cave. I know it’s the same one, because I used to unroll it to look at the horses and peacocks.’
Tom was nodding. ‘I suspect Father’s been buying smuggled goods for years without knowing it.’
Muiris raised one eyebrow. ‘Are you sure he did not know?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Battlefield
Elizabeth composed a letter to Herbert Fox, breaking off their engagement. She did not use the elaborate, flowery language in which she had been schooled, the proper language for a lady’s correspondence. She used the bare minimum of words. She did not want to give him anything more.
Dear Mr Fox,
With my father’s approval I wish to end our betrothal. I shall not marry you.
Sincerely, Miss Elizabeth Flynn.
She hoped that would be the end of it.
The brief, bright summer of 1640 arrived overnight in Roaringwater Bay. One day was cold and overcast. The following day was radiant, with a warm wind blowing from the south and every leaf a-shimmer.
Mr Beasley had packed up and departed the scene, leaving Tom free to spend as much time as he liked with his uncle’s family. At first he went almost every day. There was always work he could help with, and he loved fishing. The currachs did not go far out in the bay, however. They stayed close to home, fishing in shallow water.
Maura was not allowed anywhere near them.
By July, Tom’s visits to the valley became less frequent. There he was treated as a hero now, which made him uncomfortable. At Roaringwater House he was just Tom. His mother still tried to baby him, his sisters’ conversations still bored him, and when he thought about his father he still had mixed feelings.
On the first of August Catherine Flynn wrote a long letter to her husband and sent it to him in care of the Dublin post office. She had been writing a similar letter every fortnight since his departure for Scotland.
She had yet to receive a reply.
* * *
William Flynn grunted with the effort of pulling off his heavy boots.
‘This was not a good day, Captain Flynn,’ said the man slumped beside him in the heather.
‘No, it was not,’ Flynn agreed. ‘We have not had many good days since we arrived in this godforsaken country, Major. I do not mind telling you, I expected something rather different.’
‘As did I,’ said his companion. ‘When I received my commission I thought it would include … shall we say … spoils of war?’
Flynn lifted his head to look at the other man. Although they were in the uplands, which were supposed to be cool, the August sun was fierce. Sweat was rolling down the major’s forehead. He was dressed in a maroon-coloured coat over which he wore breast and back plates formed from sheet iron. His polished iron helmet shimmered in the heat. He looked like a man being roasted alive.
Flynn had taken off his helmet but his woollen coat was bad enough. He was thankful he had not been able to purchase body armour.
Could not purchase anything now anyway. Last coin spent. Pockets full of lint. Sounds like a poem, he thought. Do poets ever write about the losing side?
‘Spoils of war,’ he said aloud. ‘A polite term for plunder. I suppose there will be no plunder now.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ the major confirmed. ‘No reward of any kind. Not even the thanks of the Lord Lieutenant.’ He sounded bitter.
At the mention of Thomas Wentworth, Flynn sat up. ‘Where is Strafford?’
‘The last I heard of him, he and the king together were trying to raise funds to support the war. They got a trickle of money but it never reached us. For all I know Strafford’s still in London. He is too clever to share our defeat.’
Flynn slumped back into the heather. ‘One pitiful skirmish, and then goodbye. We’ll be lucky to get back to Ireland with our lives.’ He picked up his badly dented helmet and held it towards the major. ‘See that? Grazed by a Scottish musket ball. Should have taken my head off.’
‘Where’s that bold horse of yours?’
‘He was too bold,’ said Flynn. ‘He had no stomach for cowards. When our troops panicked at the first cannonade he threw me off in disgust and left the field. Where’s yours?’
‘Killed under me. I never had a horse die under me before. It is a rotten experience, I can tell you. He would have made a fine hunter when this was over.’
‘How are we supposed to replace them?’ Flynn wondered. ‘We are a hundred miles from anywhere and my feet are too swollen to go back into my boots.’
‘You still have your pistol, Captain?’
‘I do. Lost the sword somewhere, but I still have this.’ Flynn drew a wheel-lock pistol from his belt.
‘Use it to relieve some other poor sod of his mount,’ the major advised. ‘That is what I mean to do. Then ride like the devil for the nearest port and hope to take a ship for Ireland before they catch us.’
‘Before who catches us?’
‘The world and his wife,’ said the major.
* * *
Summer was over. The slanting light of autumn lay across the bay. On a September day when the wind was in the east and the sea was the colour of lead, Herbert Fox unexpectedly appeared at Roaringwater House. Simon opened the door for him and showed him inside. Then he went to tell Mrs Flynn.
She was startled. ‘Why is that man here, Simon?’
‘He did not tell me, madam. He only said he wants to see you.’
‘Bring him to me in the hall, then, but stay within earshot. There might be an unpleasant scene.’
Mrs Flynn held her head high and her back straight, though her hands were trembling. She hid them in the folds of her skirt as she faced the visitor. To her surprise he seemed to be in a good mood. He offered a courteous little bow and several minutes’ worth of pleasant conversation before coming to the point.
‘As you know,’ said Fox, ‘I have released your daughter from our engagement. I cannot marry a woman who no longer desires to be my wife. I would never do anything against a lady’s wishes. I like the ladies.’ He smiled, revealing stained yellow teeth. ‘In fact, I am here today to do a favour for another lady – yourself, dear Mrs Flynn.’
She raised her eyebrows politely. ‘What sort of favour?’
‘In this backwater you must be unaware of what happens in the larger world. Knowing your husband as I do, I doubt he tells you anything of importance.’
‘Is William all right?’
‘Calm yourself, dear lady. I am not bringing bad news, at least not about your husband. But the campaign he joined has gone very wrong.’ Fox showed still more teeth. He was enjoying this.
Mrs Flynn repressed a shudder.
‘Allow me to explain,’ Fox said. ‘Going to war is an expensive business. Instead of raising sufficient money for the king’s campaign against the Scots, the English parliament turned against the king. Meanwhile Strafford’s attempt to raise money through the Irish parliament met with little success. Promises were made. But that is as far as it went.
‘In May the king dissolved the English parliament. Since then everything has changed. Now the question is who really holds the power in England: the monarch or the parliament? This may be the end for the king. There are very clever men against him.’
‘Surely no one would harm the king!’
‘One would hope not, dear lady. However, situations change. In August a Scottish army crossed the border into England to fight the king. They chose their time well. Strafford’s troops had not yet been fully deployed and the English soldiers were untrained and lacked discipline. The king’s forces panicked before a cannonade at Newburg. The Scots gained a nearly bloodless victory that day.
‘The king is deeply upset. He does not accept any blame, of course; kings never do. The blame is being shifted to the shoulders of the Earl of Strafford. Thomas Wentworth will be the scapegoat for everything that goes wrong. Richard Boyle and his friends are whipping up a great wave of resentment against him. At the first sitting of the new parliament, Strafford’s enemies intend to accuse him of invading crown territory with a private army for his personal gain.’
Mrs Flynn opened her eyes very wide. ‘But that is not true.’
Fox replied in the voice he would use for speaking to a child. ‘The truth, dear lady, is whatever the men in power say it is.’
‘I do not believe you!’
‘You should; it is a valuable lesson to learn. And one more thing you should know. Thomas Wentworth will be tried for treason. The king will throw him to the wolves to draw attention away from his own failures.’
Catherine Flynn was on the verge of tears. ‘How can you possibly know all these terrible things?’
‘I make it my business to know them. Knowledge is power, dear lady. I have it. Your husband does not.’
‘William is still alive, then?’
‘I am told that he is, and I have reliable informants. A man with enough ships has ears everywhere.’
Catherine Flynn sat very still. Then she licked her dry lips. ‘Simon?’ she called. ‘Tell Missus to prepare a bedroom for our guest, and be sure that his horse is stabled and fed.’ With an effort, she arranged her features into a pleasant expression. ‘You will be joining us for dinner, Mr Fox?’
His eyes glinted. ‘Of course.’
Elizabeth was horrified. ‘I will not sit at table with that man! Mother cannot ask it of me. Why is he here, Tom?’
‘Mr Fox brought news for Mother.’
‘On the very day we were supposed to be married? Herbert Fox has another reason for coming here, you can count on it. Make him go away, Tom. You saved two children from drowning. Surely you can get rid of one ugly old man.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
A Different Kind of Storm
In support of their sister, Virginia and Caroline also failed to appear for dinner. Tom found himself sitting on one side of the table with Herbert Fox on the other, and Mrs Flynn at the end. There was not much conversation. Plates and cutlery made a loud clatter in the quiet room.
When Tom asked him to pass the butter, Mr Fox was annoyed because the boy said ‘Please’, and then ‘Thank you’.
Mrs Flynn put down her three-tined fork and cleared her throat. ‘Mr Fox, you say my husband is alive. Will he be home soon?’
Tom looked up.
‘I think he will,’ Fox replied. ‘I hear that Strafford’s men fled from their defeat like rats from a sinking ship.’
Tom said angrily, ‘My father never fled from anything. I resent a fox calling him a rat.’
‘Tom!’ Mrs Flynn exclaimed. ‘You must apologise to our guest.’
‘I’m not the one who owes an apology.’
‘Tom,’ she said again.
He relented. He could not humiliate his mother. ‘I apologise,’ he muttered. ‘May I be excused now?’
Mrs Flynn nodded.
He pushed back his chair and stood up. As he crossed the room he could feel Herbert Fox’s eyes boring into his ba
ck.
Virginia and Elizabeth were lying in wait for Tom outside the door. ‘We heard everything,’ Virginia said. ‘Imagine that wretched man calling Father a rat!’
‘Do something about him, Tom,’ Elizabeth pleaded again.
He drew a deep breath. Roaring at the top of his lungs, courageous General Thomas Flynn rushed back into the room: Leave this house at once, Mr Fox, and never darken our doorway again! Tom slowly exhaled. ‘He would only laugh at me, Lizzie. Boys don’t give orders to men.’
‘Sugar and cream!’ swore Virginia. ‘I’m really disappointed in you!’
In the morning Herbert Fox enjoyed a lavish breakfast, helping himself to double portions of everything. Tom expected the man would depart soon afterwards. He went to the stable himself to have Fox’s horse made ready.
Instead Fox examined William Flynn’s collection of books, selected one with a lot of illustrations, and sat down in the hall to look at them.
By evening he was still there.
It was not polite to ask a guest when he was going to leave. Yet the visitor’s continued presence in the house was unsettling. ‘I think Mother’s afraid of him,’ Caroline said.
Virginia disagreed. ‘Father and Mr Fox do business together, don’t they, Lizzie? Mother’s only being nice to him on that account.’
‘She’s being nice to him because he has information about Father,’ Tom said.
‘This is not about business or Father,’ Elizabeth stated with conviction. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘Herbert Fox is a horrid man. Believe me when I tell you: he’s here to take revenge because I hurt his pride. He might do anything.’
Tears welled in Caroline’s eyes. ‘Oh how I wish Father were here!’
* * *
The following morning Fox was the first person down for breakfast.
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