Cave of Secrets (3 page)
Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
C
aroline Flynn threaded a blue satin ribbon through her dark ringlets, the corkscrew ringlets she
painstakingly
rolled up on strips of rag every night. She was very proud of her hair. She studied her reflection in the looking glass. ‘I should be the bride,’ she said. ‘I’m ’way prettier than Lizzie. I’m the only one of us who looks like Mother.’
‘You’re the youngest,’ Virginia reminded her, ‘so you can’t marry until after I do. And I cannot marry until Lizzie is wed. Be happy for her.’
‘How can I? Have you seen the face on him? That old man looks like a wadded-up handkerchief full of–’
‘Don’t, Caro!’ Virginia cried. But she was laughing.
‘Would you want to marry him?’ her younger sister asked.
Virginia’s laugh faded. ‘I suppose I shall have to marry someone, but I hope Father finds a more handsome man for me. If I had my choice, Caro – and promise you won’t breathe a word of this to Mother – I would rather not be married at all.’
Caroline was astonished. ‘Not married? But what would you do, Ginny?’
‘Paint,’ her sister replied firmly. ‘Landscapes, I think, or maybe even portraits. Painting is the one thing I do really well and I love it. Mr Beasley said my watercolours were very nice.’
‘He had to say so, he was our tutor and Father was paying him. Besides, you can’t spend your life painting.’
‘Some people do,’ said Virginia. ‘Mr Beasley told me that Irish artists have even gone abroad to study. Imagine living in Paris!’ Her eyes were shining.
Caroline shook her head until her ringlets bounced. ‘Father would never let you do that, Ginny. He’ll find a
suitable
Catholic husband for you, perhaps one of the Old
English
whose ancestors came to Ireland with Strongbow. Then you will be the mistress of a house like this one and have lots of beautiful clothes to wear.’
‘Sugar and cream!’ Virginia burst out – the only ‘bad
language
’ her mother allowed. ‘I do not intend to spend my life buried in the country. Thank goodness we may be moving to Dublin.’
Caroline gasped. ‘Dublin? Do you mean it? When? We’ll need new frocks and bonnets and we must learn the new dances and–’
‘You silly goose,’ Virginia interrupted, ‘there is more to life than clothes and dances. Father is hoping for a political
appointment in the capital.’
Her sister stared at her. ‘Who told you so?’
‘No one told me. I keep my mouth closed and my ears open. That’s how I learn things. Before the party I heard him tell Mother that the pieces were falling into place.’
* * *
Falling down the cliff, Tom realised he had made a stupid mistake. He was only a boy, how could he possibly face down a gang of kidnappers and rescue his friend? They would take him too. He would be beaten and tied up and …
He hit the beach with a thud that knocked the breath out of him. Screwing his eyes tightly shut, he waited for the next awful thing to happen to him.
Nothing happened. All he heard was the sound of the waves and the patter of a few stones, displaced by his fall, as they struck the ground around him. He opened his eyes. He saw no pirates, no captives, no other living being.
When he stood up he noticed a wide gouge in the sand. It began at the mouth of the cave. He approached the cave warily and peered inside, but saw nothing. Only shadows. He tried Donal’s whistle, then listened to its eerie echo die away without an answer.
He turned and followed the strange track to the water’s edge, where it disappeared.
Tom shaded his eyes with his hand and looked out across the bay. The sky was spread with clouds as thick as
clotted
cream. Ropes of foam were dragging the waves across the water. Two small boats with sails raised were speeding towards the nearest island. Already they were too far away for him to make out any details. A captive could be lying, bound hand and foot, in the bottom of one of them.
And there was nothing Tom could do about it.
He watched until the boats rounded the island and
disappeared
from his view. Then he trudged home with a heavy heart. His mood lifted when Virginia said his father had just departed unexpectedly for Dublin. Flynn had not mentioned Tom at all before leaving. The recent incident between them seemed to be forgotten.
* * *
The boy waited for two more days before returning to the bay. He followed the narrow downward path Donal had shown him, zigzagging between sharp rocks. On the beach everything looked as before, except that the channel leading to the sea had disappeared. Swept away by the tide.
When he spied a piece of driftwood on the sand, Tom picked it up and brandished it like a sword. ‘I’ll save you, Donal!’ he cried, pretending he was a man, with a man’s power: Thomas Flynn, brave general of His Majesty’s forces–
‘I don’t need saving,’ a voice called.
Tom turned around. Donal was clambering with ease over the nearest spur of rocks. ‘I’m glad you remembered about the three days,’ he said.
Tom did not contradict him. ‘You can trust me.’
‘My father says trust must be earned.’
‘Your father the king?’
‘My father the king,’ Donal repeated solemnly. ‘What were you doing just now?’
‘Pretending to be a general. Don’t you ever play that game?’
‘I don’t play games,’ said Donal. ‘I work. Today I’m
harvesting
the shore.’
‘I thought your work was guarding the cave,’ Tom teased.
‘That’s part of it. So is gathering seaweed, and collecting firewood, and catching fish, and mending nets, and helping repair boats, and–’
Tom stared at him. ‘You really do work.’
‘We work all the time.’
‘We?’
Donal put two fingers in his mouth and gave a
piercing
whistle, quite unlike the one Tom had practised. Within moments a tiny girl came scrambling over the stony barrier at the other end of the beach. The mass of tumbled boulders seemed no obstacle to her.
She wore a simple, homespun gown. A flannel petticoat
peeped from beneath the hem of her skirt. Tied around her waist was a blue apron the colour of her eyes. She had made a sling for carrying driftwood by holding up the corners of her apron. Seeing the stranger, she dropped the wood with a clatter. ‘Who’s that, Don-don?’
‘Tom Flynn,’ Donal said. ‘He’s all right, he’s my friend.’
The little face peeping through tangled curls broke into a smile. ‘Tomflynn,’ the child said, running the name together to make a single word. ‘Hello, Tomflynn.’ She bent to gather up the spilt wood.
Tom crouched down to help her. She pushed him away with a grubby little hand. ‘Don’t need help,’ she cheerfully asserted.
Tom looked up at Donal. ‘I suppose this is Maura?’
‘She is Maura. Isn’t she a clinker? There’s no finer
cailín
on this side of the bay.’
The little girl fixed bright blue eyes on Tom’s face. ‘Mine,’ she declared, reaching out to grab the piece of driftwood in his hand. In the next breath she said, ‘Are you a prostint?’
‘A what?’
‘She means a Protestant,’ her brother explained.
‘I’m a Catholic,’ said Tom. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Not to us,’ Donal told him.
Tom spent a morning like none in his memory. Maura insisted on looking for ‘pretty’ seashells. Tom’s first discovery was a glossy, cone-shaped shell vividly striped with orange.
Even Donal was impressed. ‘I’ve never seen one like that before. Have you?’
‘I’ve never seen any seashells,’ Tom admitted.
The other two looked at him open-mouthed. He did not know whether to be proud or embarrassed.
They gathered more driftwood from the beach and showed Tom how to harvest seaweed. The driftwood was for fuel, Donal explained, and the seaweed would go into the cooking pot.
‘I didn’t know you could eat it,’ said Tom.
‘You have to know which ones,’ the other boy told him. ‘Some are good for eating and others are good for healing.’
‘What else do you eat?’
‘Ev’ry fish there is,’ Maura piped up.
Donal laughed. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘You wouldn’t eat a jellyfish even if you were starving to death. But mackerel,
áthasach
! Great food. We eat mackerel from summer’s end until Christmas. We eat herring too, and cod and pilchard and seal meat, and badger when we can get one, and birds’ eggs and every kind of shellfish …’ he interrupted himself to point to a jet of water spurting from a hole in the sand, ‘… like that one. There’s a razor clam.’ He pounced as swiftly as a cat, and stood up holding a long, tightly closed shell.
That day Tom received a thorough instruction in the
varieties
of shellfish which made the bay their home. Mussels and limpets and cockles and winkles, shrimp and crabs and even
sea urchins, which were terrifying to look at but ‘’lishus!’ according to Maura. Tom had thought of Roaringwater Bay as nothing more than a vast sheet of water. Now he realised it was an immense larder, filled with items more interesting than suet pudding.
Again and again his eyes returned to the gleaming expanse of the bay. The dancing waves, the shifting clouds. The constant interplay of birds in the air and along the shore. Kittiwakes and blackbacks, terns and shags and cormorants. Larks soaring high in the air, their song falling to earth like liquid sunshine.
Tom said, ‘I never knew the bay was so beautiful.’
‘Beautiful?’ Donal was surprised. He had never thought of the bay as beautiful though he saw it almost every day of his life. ‘Can’t you see it from your house?’ he asked Tom.
‘Only in the distance.’
‘Does that make a difference?’
Tom nodded. ‘All the difference in the world. Do those islands out there have names?’
‘They do have names,’ said Donal. ‘Every place made by God has a name. The big island at the mouth of the bay is Dún na Séad, the Fortress of the Jewels. You might have heard it called by its English name, Cape Clear. When all the land belonged to the Gael, Dún na Séad was a kingdom with its own king.’
‘A king like your father?’
‘He had a larger territory than my father does,’ the other
boy said. ‘Look where I’m pointing now: there are the three Calf Islands, and there is Long Island, and Coney, and Castle – which has a castle on it – and there are the Skeams, and yonder is the Horse, and the Hare, and–’
‘Do people live on the islands?’
‘On most of them. Farming is hard, but they have the sea to feed them.’
‘Are the islanders savages?’
Donal glared at Tom. ‘They’re no different from Maura and me.’
‘I didn’t mean–’
‘Only the
Sasanach
would ask a question like that,’ Donal went on angrily.
Tom’s own temper surfaced. ‘I’m not a foreigner!’
‘
Sasanach
doesn’t mean foreigner. It means Saxon. Englishman, Protestant,
Saxon
.’ Donal spat out the word as if it tasted bad.
Tom retorted, ‘I’m not a Saxon, either!’
Donal held his eyes a moment longer, then looked down. ‘I know it,’ he said.
Before saying goodbye that day, Tom offered Donal the orange-striped shell.
‘I can’t take that,’ Donal protested. ‘You found it, it’s yours.’
‘I want you to have it,’ Tom insisted. ‘It’s an apology.’
Afterwards Tom Flynn would recall the summer of 1639 as the best time of his life.
N
ow that the formal announcement had been made, preparations for Elizabeth Flynn’s wedding began in earnest. The ceremony was scheduled for the
following
year. In the meantime there was much to be done. The bride’s mother was expected to make all the necessary social arrangements. She must also prepare Roaringwater House for a much grander occasion than a mere engagement party. Mr Flynn wanted numerous repairs and improvements made to the house. The servants must be prodded into exceptional activity.
Tom’s mother had no talent for prodding servants. She could not even raise her voice to them. She simply made suggestions – and usually forgot to follow up.
In the end, Virginia undertook the organising. She made countless lists for herself on bits of paper. Any drawer in the house might be opened only to find one of Virginia’s ‘To Do’ lists inside. She had earnest conversations with Simon about clearing drains, and demanded that Cook create new pastries.
She bullied the housemaids, even old Eithne, and
occasionally
tried to give orders to Missus, the housekeeper. Caroline teased her, but she took her self-imposed task seriously.
Elizabeth Flynn sought to avoid it all. She often went to her bed-chamber and closed the door. Her mother had taught by example that when a lady’s door was closed, she must not be disturbed. She was in her sanctuary, a place where she could pray and think and dream.
The windows of Elizabeth’s sanctuary were draped with damask. The sheets were bleached linen. A gilt-framed oil painting of King Charles stared down from one wall. There were portraits of the king throughout Roaringwater House. Some were clumsy paintings by amateurs, like the one in Elizabeth’s room. Two or three were good miniatures in silver and gold frames. These were prominently placed where any visitor would see them.
Charles Stuart, son of James VI, grandson of Mary, Queen of Scots, and King of Great Britain and Ireland, was a slightly built man. He had a Scottish accent and a stammer that his portraits did not reveal.
In her sanctuary Elizabeth often sat in a window
embrasure
like a princess in a tower, watching for a prince to come riding to her rescue. Her prince never came. But one morning she did notice her brother riding away from
Roaringwater
House. Tom was cantering along on the rubbishy stick horse their father had given him. And he was singing. The
words drifted back to the watcher in the window. ‘
Come and take a ride with me upon my magic pony
…’
Dreams and fancies, Elizabeth thought bitterly. No good can come of that.
As far back as she could remember, her father had chased one dream after another. Very few of them came true. Only Roaringwater House. And soon, this awful marriage.
Elizabeth
envied Tom. Boys had it all, they could do anything they liked. No one cared about women’s dreams.
‘I’m being traded like a carriage horse, and I hate it,’
Elizabeth
complained to Virginia later that day.
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Lizzie. What’s so bad about marrying a man who has money? If I had money I could go to Paris to paint and no one would stop me. Everyone needs money, even the king. He imposes more and more taxes because he has to pay the debts left from his wars with France and Spain. And the uprising in Scotland is costing him another fortune.’
‘How do you know about all that, Ginny?’
Her sister was exasperated. ‘Sugar and cream! Am I the only person in this house who ever
listens
?’
‘Listens to what? Father never talks about anything but politics.’ Elizabeth made a face. ‘And politics is so boring.’
Virginia put her fists on her hips and shook her head at her sister. ‘If you had the wit to pay attention to Father, you would realise that politics affect everything, Caro. And that includes you.’
* * *
Politics had no place in Tom’s mind that summer of 1639. On any day when the weather was fair he went riding on his hobby-horse. He no longer sneaked away but marched boldly out the door, carrying his stick mount under his arm. After circling the house a time or two to make certain he was seen playing with his silly toy, he would gallop off. He abandoned the hobby-horse as soon as he was out of sight. It would remain hidden under a furze bush until he returned home. It had proved a good enough decoy, after all. The servants made jokes about his latest game. As soon as he was out of sight they forgot about him.
When Tom reached the cliff he would take off his shoes and stockings and roll up his breeches. Going barefoot was painful at first, but after a few days he could walk – even climb over rocks – without wincing.
Donal was often waiting for him at the cove with Maura. Although they never said so, Tom suspected they were as lonely for the company of other children as he was. If they did not appear he could spend hours watching the ever changing spectacle of the bay. Sometimes the water was cobalt blue. Or emerald green. Or even a clear, brilliant
turquoise
colour, streaked with royal purple.
He threw pebbles at seagulls. Searched for interesting
shells to collect for Maura. Lay on his back on the beach, gazing into the bottomless sky. Watching white-sailed
galleons
race before the wind. The ceaseless wind that blew over Roaringwater Bay.
One warm, muggy day Tom waded into the surf. The cold water swirling around his legs was wonderfully refreshing. He went farther out. Water to his hips. To his waist.
Delicious
.
Until a breaker swept him off his feet and into a roil of sand and stones and shells and seawater. As soon as he could stand up again he headed thankfully for the shore. Halfway there he stopped. Looked back at the water. He was wet anyway. Why not try?
Cautiously, Tom waded deeper. How do animals swim? Head above the water. Paddle with the front legs, kick with the back legs.
He took a deep breath and held it.
At first it seemed impossible. Then, to his surprise, he discovered he was swimming. Struggling, but staying up, not giving up. He opened his mouth to take a great gulp of much-needed air – and the sea poured in. Salty water flooded down his throat and up into his nasal passages. He was strangling.
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.