Free Cave of Secrets by Morgan Llywelyn

table. ‘This is to season Mother’s food,’ he said.
    Cook frowned at him. ‘Are you playing another of your pranks, Master Thomas?’
    ‘I am not. Truly.’
    Unfolding the paper, Cook found a small quantity of red powder. She lowered her head and sniffed. ‘Cinnamon! And richer than the stuff that costs a fortune in Bantry. Where did this come from?’
    ‘A friend gave it to me as a gift for Mother,’ Tom said casually . He was thankful that servants were discouraged from asking questions. ‘Do you think she will like it? If she does, I have this for her, and this too.’ He produced several other papers.
    When Cook sniffed the nutmeg her eyes lit up. ‘The very thing for making a hot posset, and myself knowing Walter Raleigh’s own secret recipe for sack posset,’ she boasted.
    ‘A secret? Can you tell me? Please?’
    ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, Master Thomas. You’re a great one for the eating but I never knew you were interested in the cooking.’
    Tom grinned. ‘I’m interested in a lot of things. You would be surprised.’
    ‘Hmmph,’ she said, ‘I’ve reared seven childer of me own. Nothing about young ones surprises me any more. But I’ll tell you, so I will. Because you said please.
    ‘First boil together half a pint of sack sherry and half a pint of ale. Take the pot away from the fire and stir in a quart of hot cream – not boiled, mind, just scalding. And stir slow. Sweeten the mixture with lots of honey and grated nutmeg, then pour it into a well-warmed pewter bowl. And there you have it, Master Thomas.’ She beamed with pride. ‘The drink that gave the famous Raleigh his strength. ’Twill surely do our poor lady a power of good.’
    While Cook prepared and served the posset, Tom avoided his father. William Flynn was about to leave for Dublin again. The boy did not join his sisters at the door to wave goodbye. Instead he went upstairs to see if his mother had drunk the hot posset. The pewter bowl on the candle stand beside her bed was empty and she was sleeping peacefully. Perhaps there was even a little colour in her cheeks?
    Perhaps not.
    Clouds were gathering over the bay. The wind brought a smell of rain.
    * * *
    Later in the day Tom grew restless. The gathering storm was making him jumpy. His mother had retired to her room and his sisters were busy with their own amusements. Roaringwater House crouched sullenly on its ground while every gust of wind sent more draughts billowing through the large, high-ceilinged rooms.
    Tom did not expect to be summoned that night. The weather was too threatening. There was nothing for it but to remain inside and imagine a different, better life.
    Donal and Maura would be sitting by their hearth, warm and snug, surrounded by loving family. The children might be helping their mother card wool or listening to someone tell stories. Muiris was a great one for relating history, but Seán was better at the legends of ancient Ireland. His words could bring to life the grim Fomorians who had built giant stone fortresses along the western coast; the beautiful and magical Tuatha dé Danann who could control the wind and weather; the aristocratic Milesians whose iron swords had driven the Tuatha dé Danann underground – or caused them to turn themselves into thorn trees.
    And Seán’s wife could sing haunting songs of the Gaelicpast that brought tears to the eyes.
    Why is there no music in this house? Tom wondered. In the great hall there was a fine old harp which his mother used to play, or so she said. He had never heard her playing it. The elaborately carved body of the instrument was usually dusty and the strings were tarnished. When he ran his fingers across them they gave off a shrill whine.
    The wind rose with a shrill whine.
    * * *
    At the first rumble of thunder Maura climbed onto her mother’s lap. ‘Make it go away,’ she pleaded. She had been practising her English recently, so she could talk to Tomflynn better.
    ‘Only God can do