After Bell Hill Read online

  After Bell Hill

  Robin Tompkins

  Text copyright Robin Tompkins © 2019

  all rights reserved

  Front cover design and photography © 2019 Robin Tompkins

  Rear cover dragon image (paperback edition) © 2019 Robin Tompkins

  The views of the various characters in this book do not necessarily reflect those of the author.

  The religious, social, political and ethnic groupings in this novel are not intended as a metaphor or direct allegory for any real world religious, social, political or ethnic grouping. All characters and organisations in this work are purely fictitious and any resemblance to actual organisations or real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  This one is for Jeanne, without whom, Fred would have been lost and I wouldn’t be here.

  Many thanks again to M&M for the practical and moral support and Barry for the feedback. Hope you are all ready for my next one… I’m not sure I am.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Pivy the Make and Mend

  Chapter Two

  The Cunning Man o’Priddow

  Chapter Three

  Oroc

  Chapter Four

  The Dowager Duchess

  Chapter Five

  Tamarin o’Goodford

  Chapter Six

  The Holy Court of the Seven Sanctuaries

  Chapter Seven

  King Billy

  Chapter Eight

  Through Darkness to the Dawn

  Chapter Nine

  At the Bobbing Bottle Inn

  Chapter Ten

  The Righteous Flame

  Chapter Eleven

  The Coven of the Stricken Alder

  Chapter Twelve

  The Edge Houses

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Warden of the Edge

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ullie o’Goodford’s Legacy

  The twin stars shone, the Father and the Son

  The Son became a man and a father, he begat a son,

  Who became a man and a father and so repeated until eternity’s edge.

  The seed will flow, the seed must flow!

  Worship not woman, for women have no souls.

  They are given a pleasing aspect and a semblance of life,

  That they may please the fathers and bear the sons

  But they are soulless vessels only.

  Therefore, worship not womankind,

  The Truth of the Twin God, Chapter one, verse one

  *

  The Goddess is all things and all things are she.

  We are from her and return to her.

  As the wheel of life turns,

  Life follows death, follows life, follows death

  Eternally.

  Kill nothing needlessly, for all things have their place within the wheel.

  Without all things in their place, the wheel cannot balance.

  If the wheel cannot balance, the wheel cannot turn.

  The wheel must turn.

  Eternally.

  The Path of the Mother, First Words.

  *

  When the bell rings, they shall rise again, as flame rises again from a windblown ember...

  The Lay of the Defenders

  Prologue

  Just as the land begins to swell upwards toward the North borders, there stands a hill. Its steep, smooth sides and rounded, weathered crest tell any who pause to give it a moment’s thought, that this hill was made by the hand of man.

  Who made the hill is long forgotten.

  On the top of the hill, there stood, indeed there had seemingly always stood, a little chapel to The Lady. Quite plain but also quite strange. Its architecture was like nothing else in all the land. It was clearly from some ancient time, a time so far away in years, that no other structure like it still stood.

  Four, curiously ornamented round windows, each set with a glass lens of a different colour, pierced its walls. At the Spring Equinox, the Summer Solstice, the Autumn Equinox and the Winter Solstice, one of these carefully positioned glasses would always focus the first light of day onto the altar niche. In the niche, The Mother’s statue knelt, with arms outstretched, to welcome all who would come to her, gilded wings rising up behind to frame her and that ray of light fell upon her heart.

  In front of the altar, stood a narrow cylinder of rock crystal. Within the cylinder there was suspended a tiny golden bell. It was from this bell that Bell Hill took its name.

  The bell was small, no bigger than something you might use to decorate horse harness, delicately engraved on every surface with strange symbols.

  It was said, however, that if you struck this exquisite little thing, The Defenders, warrior wizards from an ancient time, would answer its call. That they were sleeping there beneath the hill, waiting, waiting to be called if they were needed. Ready to return, to restore order and protect the good ways, the kind ways, the ways of The Mother.

  One day, in desperation, with no other hope and little expectation, the council gathered on this windy hilltop. With a prayer in his heart, Duke Federand of Perl sounded the bell.

  Why was the Duke so desperate?

  In the cold and hungry Northlands, beyond the isthmus, in Gar-Land, the Gar, a broken people mired in civil war, surrounded by ruinous echoes of their former glory, had found new hope and new leaders.

  They had united behind an old religion, marginalised and almost forgotten until then, it gave them common cause in their time of need.

  Soon, however, regaining prosperity and stability was not enough for them. It seemed to the great Father/Son of Gar in the Holy Court of the Seven Sanctuaries, that all the known world should be introduced to the glory of the way of the Twin God, whether they liked it or not.

  They set out to proselytise with sword and musket.

  Their forces had no fear of death, their faith in an eternal paradise beyond this world was strong and unshakeable. They swept through the peaceful West and the Mid-Lands almost unopposed, until the Dukes of Perl and of Warn rallied the land behind them. It was no more than a breathing space. Against the fanatical and plentiful forces of the Father/Sons, as the Gar now called themselves, there could be no victory.

  That was when Federand struck the bell. The Defenders answered the call.

  Against all expectation, they were real. They were real and strange and powerful. Beings from a bygone time, when the unseen world and the world of men were one. They were great warriors. More than this, they could wield The Righteous Flame.

  The Defenders could produce walls and tongues of pale, licking flame like dragon’s breath from the empty air

  They were but four in number, Merren of the West, Thedabarra of the North, Karatoc of the East and Alessi of the South. Even so, within days of their awakening, they had pushed the Father/Sons back, back almost to the North Borders. Back as far as Bell Hill.

  At Bell Hill, The Defenders fell.

  After Bell Hill, nothing was ever the same again.

  After Bell Hill, the forces of the Father/Sons shattered all opposition. They took the lands north of the Tabarra mountains and would have swept on South if the South Lords had not closed the passes against them.

  After Bell Hill, worship of the Goddess was forbidden.

  After Bell hill, worship of the Twin God was compulsory.

  After Bell Hill, the cunning folk, those wise men and women whose lore and nature magic helped the common folk’s world go around, were treated with deep suspicion. They were all one step away from persecution. Some even changed their names, forsook their calling and fled their homes.

  After Bell Hill, compassion and tolerance died.

  After Bell Hill, hope died…almost.


  Even now, the people said that the Defenders were not dead but sleeping, that if the bell sounded again, they would return, stronger than before

  The Father Sons went to Bell Hill and they removed the key stones from the chapel. Then they took hammers and black powder to it. This beautiful little building, last relic of a bygone time, that had stood through centuries of storms, through baking heat and even earthquakes was reduced to a cairn of stones.

  So afraid were they of that little bell, that they had buried it under the rubble of its own protective chapel, never again to sound.

  The sword of Merren, dropped from his hand to the sward of Bell Hill, they drove deep into the stony heap, with only its hilt showing. It was locked there eternally by the power of the Twin God, or so they said. Certainly, it would not budge, though many tried.

  The Father/Sons gave the Defenders new names…

  Merren the Murderer

  Karatoc the Butcher of Sulleydale

  Thedabarra Black Witch of Pender

  Alessi Bone Breaker

  These names and a new history, they taught to boys in school. They taught girls nothing, since in their opinion motherhood is instinctive and is all that a female need know.

  Grass and plants have grown up through and over the cairn of stones. In the spring, it is covered by tiny flowers, pale blue, pink, mauve, yellow and white. Even the Father/Sons can’t prevent this gentle blooming…

  Chapter One

  Pivy the Make and Mend

  They called him, ‘Pivy the Make and Mend’ but that was not his name. Indeed, if his neighbours, the good villagers of Gowerham knew his real name, it is quite likely that they would have attempted to murder him in his bed.

  It was said Pivy could fix anything, though if they knew exactly how, some of those amazing repairs had come about, it is certain that a squad from the local garrison would have come knocking on his door at midnight, knocking with a log ram.

  Here, near the northern border with Gar-Land, the ways of the Father/Sons had taken quick root, since much of the populace already had some sympathy with their notions.

  That of course, was exactly why ‘Pivy,’ had chosen to hide here, not exactly in the belly of the beast but certainly in the cushion it rested upon. Even if they knew to look for him, they would not look here.

  He had lived in green, damp, Gowerham at the foot of Cloudy Hill, some seventeen years or so, which still made him, ‘that new one, him as is good with his hands, that one that took on old Greme’s cottage, when Greme passed on.’

  In those seventeen years, Pivy had perhaps aged five, which was why he had grown a beard and secretly bleached it and his hair a little, here and there.

  In the privacy of his workshop, he crafted a pair of spectacles, glazed with plain glass, then made a great show of having to give in to age and visit Crayton. Crayton was the nearest town of any size; you went there when you needed something the village could not provide, like an optician. He returned two days later, wearing the spectacles he already possessed and complaining bitterly about the price. Many in the village could not resist laughing, since it was Pivy’s work that was often said to have, ‘saved me from Crayton.’

  His dreams may have been troubled but by and large, his time in Gowerham was peaceful. It is true that he had to guard his tongue and curb his desire to intervene in things that did not sit well with him but despite its Father/Son leanings, it was not a radical place and in truth, its people were more concerned with making a living than high ideals.

  His greatest trial was on the day he arrived, ready prepared with a fake local accent, ostensibly looking for work. This was true enough in a way; he had to eat and needed a place to live. He was introduced to the village elders and persons of note, including the Cunning Woman Ameliam.

  Ameliam was perhaps fifty years of age, short, stout and possessed of a small pointed nose, dark, piercing eyes and a manner of thrusting out her head before her that gave her the air of a curious pigeon.

  Ameliam took one look at him and it was clear in her face, that she might not know who he was but she certainly knew what he was.

  The question was, would she betray him?

  ‘Call me Amy,’ she had said, with a bob of her head and in seventeen years and some months, neither of them had spoken one word of what they knew to be true.

  Every village had its Cunning Man or Woman. The folk of Gowerham and all the little villages like it, could not afford Apothecaries, Doctors and Science Men, The Father/Sons forbade that there should be any Science Women. No, they needed the intelligence, the wit and the lore of the Cunning Folk. With knowledge and wisdom, kindness and compassion, they kept their communities going through all that life in its diversity could bring to them.

  Pivy and Ameliam became good friends, not that unusual for the village mend-all and the village Cunning Woman. It was a habit now, for them to share a cup of nettle tea every Fourthday morning, nettle tea and some of Ameliam’s oat biscuits.

  They would sit in the cosy half-light of her cottage, fragrant bundles of herbs dangling from the beams, something curious bubbling on the fire and talk of many things but never the thing that must have burned Ameliam up with curiosity.

  When the terrible cough swept through the land, with its ague and fever, Ameliam o’Gowerham fought it with all she knew but her best efforts merely gave comfort to the dying.

  ‘If only I knew someone who had the stopping of it,’ she had said, one Fourthday morning over tea, knowing what she was asking.

  If Pivy was disturbed by her request to potentially betray himself, his face didn’t show it.

  ‘There’s a full moon a coming, tis said moonlight is very cleansing...yes, I’ve heard that said, so perhaps there’s hope?’ He had replied with a friendly smile, where he sat, apparently idly trifling with the herbs on her workbench.

  When he got up to go, taking an oat cake for the road, he reached up and took a jar of powder from her shelf.

  ‘Tis a curious shaped jar that one?’ he said, putting it down besides the herbs, which had now been arranged in a very precise order.

  ‘Twas my Grand Mama’s, she said, giving his hand a gentle squeeze, which he reciprocated.

  When he had gone, she looked down at what was certainly the cure laid out on her bench, armed with the knowledge that it must be distilled by the light of a full moon to bring out its power.

  Gowerham cured its own, then sent out the cure to all the nearby villages. After that, people began calling Ameliam ‘Mother Gowerham.’ Ameliam was not at all comfortable with that. She had known it might happen but lives were at stake.

  Some Cunning Folk achieved a certain fame, like the Cunning Man o’Priddow, who had tended to the Dowager Duchess in all her pain. But this was the age of the Father/Sons, not the old days. No, it was best to remain quiet, with your head low. Besides, attention to her, attention to Gowerham, put Pivy at risk, whoever Pivy really was.

  That Pivy was a good man, she felt certain. She knew the risk of becoming too visible to the Father/Sons, she could only assume his risk was greater, perhaps far greater but he had helped anyway and lives had been saved because of it.

  Life returned to normal in grey little Gowerham, his seventeenth year among them came and went for Pivy and things were safely mundane.

  Then, one Firstday morning, Ameliam felt something in the air, she didn’t know what it was, everyone else seemed oblivious to it but it worried her, made her anxious.

  Pivy felt it too but he knew exactly what it was

  ∆∆∆

  ‘Tamarin Sweet,’ Ulleandra o’Goodford said, blowing ineffectually at the red hair flopping into her eyes from under her head scarf. She stood at the sunflower yellow table, vigorously kneading at the poultice in her big, cream, crock bowl.

  Tamarin looked up from where she was neatly sowing up a muslin bag of herbs.

  ‘Is it still there, Tammy, under your bed, that little bag I had you pack... that bag with those bits and pieces I t
old you to put in?’

  ‘Yes, Ullie,’ Tamarin said, the little leather bag worried her.

  Ullie gave up, and brushed the fiery tangle of her hair back under the scarf, streaking it and her forehead with poultice as she did so. She washed and dried her hands, then resumed work.

  ‘And did you change the food and water in it today, so it’s fresh, like I told you?’

  ‘Yes Ullie,’ Tamarin said, looking over at her ‘mother-in-stead’ with big, concerned eyes. ‘Yes, I did, I changed it just now.’

  ‘That’s a good girl you are, Tamarin Sweet,’ Ullie said, flashing her a big, bright smile that she tried to keep free from worry.

  Chapter Two

  The Cunning Man o’Priddow

  As he walked besides the maid, Gorg o’Priddow couldn’t help but admire her fine form and the tumble of chestnut locks that spilled out from under her bonnet.

  ‘Do maids to the Duchess get much free time I wonder,’ he said, with a cheeky grin and a wink.

  ‘Be ashamed of yourself sir,’ she said, shooting him a withering look. ‘Here’s you come to tend to the Duchess in all her pain and rolling about in bed is what’s on your mind… tis shameful.’

  ‘No offence now Miss, it was just a harmless enquiry,’ he said, throwing up his hands. ‘If I’m not your sort, then fair enough… we can’t always take a fancy to those who fancy us and that’s a fact.’

  She continued to scowl at him.

  ‘There’s the word ‘Man,’ at the end of ‘Cunning Man,’ miss and I can’t help that, I take back my remark, as harmless as it was meant and sincerely apologise.’

  ‘Men and beasts can be much the same in my experience,’ she said.