‘No! I won’t do it,’ she said.
‘Tamarin sweet, do as I ask hmm?’ Ullie said, with a resigned air, a forced calm.
‘I won’t leave you,’ Tamarin said flatly.
Ullie stood up straight, she was wearing her white ‘Solstice dress,’ and a big gold necklace, she normally only dressed this way for important ceremonies, or for funerals. Looking straight at Tamarin, Ullie reached up and let her hair down. It was more like releasing something wild and living. The great mass of copper curls tumbled and twisted onto her shoulders and down her back.
‘I’ve seen what happens Tamarin sweet, Tamarin precious,’ Ullie said, ‘I looked down into that old silver bowl of mine, into the still water and I’ve seen it. I didn’t know exactly when it would be but I had a near notion. That’s why that little bag has been under your bed and ready this past little while…’
‘If I’m to run, run with me,’ Tamarin said.
Ullie shook her head.
‘Your Uncle Gorg’s a dab hand at the scrying but I’ve the beating of him. Now haven’t I? Tell you what Tammy, I found that if I take just a little of the mushroom, just a very little now, or you see things you really don’t want to, just a little of the mushroom before scrying and you see more than one path.’
‘It’s like being in a forest, in a clear spot, you can look down this path and that and decide which way you might want to go. This is the only path Tammy love.’
‘No,’ Tamarin said, blinking back tears.
‘Yes, my lovely,’ Ullie said, ‘If we stay together, we both die, if we run together, we both die. I have seen it, clear as the water in my scrying bowl. The only way one of us lives, is this way.’
‘Is there a way where you live and I die?’ Tamarin asked quietly.
‘No,’ Ullie said. Tamarin did not believe her but she knew from Ullie’s face that there would be no shaking that answer.
‘Now off you go and get the little bag and into the woods with you. My book is in the bag now isn’t it? It’s important that book. See it safe to Aunty Rose. Rosy will know what to do with it,’ Ullie said.
‘The book is in the bag,’ Tamarin said but she still hesitated, wringing her hands, shaking her head.
‘Now then Tamarin, Ullie said more sternly, ‘That you are my take in daughter was my choice, since you had little say in the matter but to be my apprentice was your choice. Tell me now, did we join hands and did you say “Prentice, Prentice may I be, will you teach your lore and charms to me?”’
‘Yes,’
‘Did I say to you, “Prentice, prentice you may be, if in all things you abide by me.”’
‘Yes,’
‘And what did you say to me then,’ Ullie said, locking eyes with her take in daughter.
Tamarin reached out and took both of Ullie’s hands in hers.
‘Prentice, prentice then am I, with your rule I will comply, touch my heart and hope to die,’ Tamarin said sadly, knowing the argument was lost.
Tamarin threw her arms around Ullie and the two women held each other tightly.
‘Mother-in-stead, you are all the world and everything to me… I love you heart and soul,’ Tamarin said weeping a waterfall of tears.
‘And you are all my life and all I could have wished for in it,’ Ullie said. She pushed Tamarin out to arm’s length.
‘I might not have given you life when you came into this world Tamarin sweet but I’m giving it to you now…’
Chapter Four
The Dowager Duchess
‘Tillimanda!’ Gorg called out, ‘Tillimanda!’
The maid stopped, turned and looked at the Cunning Man with raised eyebrows.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘there’s new, all of the others at least stayed in the room long enough to pretend they were trying to help. You just poke your head inside and run out shouting.’
‘It’s not that Tillimanda. No, I’ve already some notion of what ails Her Grace but I need to ask questions to be sure and that poor woman is in no fit state to answer questions.’
He took Tillimanda by the shoulder, she shook him off.
‘Here’s what I propose,’ Gorg said, ignoring the snub. ‘A big place like this must have a fine herb garden, yes?’
‘The finest in the Duchy,’ Tillimanda said, with a lift of her chin.
‘Well, there I might disagree with you, there’s my garden for a start… but I’m not here for an argument Tillimanda,’ he said, with a half a smile.
‘Let’s us go and make Her Grace a concoction of feverfew and a couple of other things I can name, if you have them. Then you, as a familiar face, take it in to her and get her to drink it down. Leave her something, perhaps a little bell, to call for attention when she feels a little stronger. In the meanwhile, I will sit myself down outside of her door, on one of those uncomfortable looking golden chairs and wait for her to ring? How does that strike you?’
‘I like the part where you’re in discomfort,’ Tillimanda said but she had softened again and was merely joking with him. For all his cocky ways, she had decided that he meant well.
The shimmering tinkle of the little silver bell roused Gorg from a strange dream, where he was in a bare, dark room being tortured by men in black clothing.
Centring himself between earth and the heavens once more, he turned the handle and entered.
The Duchess was sitting up, her fine, pale skin gleaming softly in the light from a little lamp, the wick turned down as low as it would go.
The Cunning Man approached slowly, bowed low and removed his hat. He waited to be addressed.
‘Cunning Man, your herbs have given me some small relief,’ the Duchesse said, her voice low, soft and cultured but with a weary edge to it.
Gorg looked deep into her cool, smoke grey eyes and his brow furrowed. The Duchess looked back, raised her chin slightly and then a questioning eyebrow.
‘Your Grace will perhaps forgive me staring so,’ Gorg said, ‘it’s just that I still see much pain behind your eyes.’
‘Well, I did say the herbs gave some small, relief,’ the Duchesse said with dry humour.
‘Might I ask some few questions about your troubles Your Grace?’ Gorg said.
‘Please do,’ she said.
‘Right before they begin… do you see little sparks out of the corner of your eye, like bad fairies gathering?’ He could see from her expression that she did. ‘Then the darkness closes in and it’s like looking out at the world from inside a cave?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that’s it exactly. Her interest piqued, the Duchesse leant forward, though it made her wince and go pale.
‘The light becomes so dazzling, you can’t bear to look at even a pinprick of it, then you get sick to your stomach and the pain in your head begins… just on one side only, as if someone is plunging in a dagger and twisting it.’
‘My Goddess yes… yes, that’s just it!’
‘Your Grace, I’m so sorry to say, you have the ‘Half Head Ailment,’ I cannot cure you of that.’
‘Well, there’s honesty at least,’ the Duchesse said, laughing softly, even though it clearly hurt to do so. ‘Then you may go Cunning Man… I thank you for your honesty… and for the absence of leeches, which creatures I cannot bear.’ She rolled onto her side and drew the cushion to her, hugging it like a child hugs a toy. ‘Pray turn out the lamp before you go.’
‘Your Grace, I said I could not cure you; I did not say I could not help you,’ Gorg said.
The Duchess turned to look at him again, saw the sincerity in his face.
‘No leeches Cunning Man. Those blasted Father/Son doctors smothered me in those slithering little monsters and I, sick to the stomach already, vomited upon them.’ She drew herself up, a ferocious expression on her face. ‘Then they berated me, swore at me… one even laid rough hands upon me… Me! The Dowager Duchess Albermora of Perl! To them just a woman and women have but one use and function and no status.’
‘They are barbarians Gorg of Priddow and
they would do away with me if they dare but they fear the unrest such an act would cause. So instead, they are pleased to ‘protect,’ me, by which they mean, imprison me in my own home.’
‘Well, your Grace, Leeches have their uses, maggots too you might be surprised to know,’ Gorg said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘but they are worse than useless for the Half Head Ailment. So, there will be none of that.’
‘My hands bye the bye, are most soft and cared for and the Cunning Folk do no harm… though had I been there that day your grace, I might have considered harming some heads with my fists.’
‘Do you know why I sent for you particularly Gorg of Priddow? The Duchesse said.
‘Well, I’m quite well known, as far as the Cunning Folk are known but I fancy it was the flask of sloe gin I shared with your late husband the Duke, after the battle of Finsterleigh wood. I had the privilege of serving him in the war, as one of the brigade of cunning folk and healers who tended to the dead and dying and did our best to save the rest.’
‘He spoke most highly of you and of the gin,’ she said.
‘For the gin I can take no credit, it was by the hand of Mother Goodford. Sweet as honey but powerful enough to take your head off your shoulders… the gin’s not bad either…’ he said with a grin.
‘Really Gorg of Priddow!’ she said.
‘Mother Goodford’s a wonderful woman and in the unlikely event I should ever feel like settling down, it would likely be with her…if she’d have me,’
‘Not if she has one lick of sense Master Gorg,’ the Duchesse said.
‘Anyway, the gin I cannot take credit for but as for my other skills… well you will soon be the judge of that Your Grace.’
‘I’m not suffering from a witch’s curse then? As the doctors decided?’ Albermora said with pawky humour.
‘Indeed not Your Grace, for as we know, there is not one witch in all the Mid-Lands… the cunning folk drove them out in years gone by and our wards and charms keep them out,’ Gorg said, with a tilt of his head and a smile at Albermora’s joke.
‘I shall prepare a good stock of a certain tincture, that, if taken the very moment you see the first bad fairy glitter in the corner of your eye, will lessen the severity of the attack and shorten it by some good way.’
‘Let me be clear Your Grace, this will not stop your suffering, since you are just by nature prone to the half head and that is why I cannot cure you but perhaps it might help.’
‘Before I leave, I will instruct your herbalist in how to prepare more…’ Gorg paused ‘and because it is you Duchesse and only because it is you, I will tell him when to prepare it and the right words to say over it. Which as you know is forbidden, sharing the cunning ways with one who is not of the cunning folk. I don’t do this lightly but it is true to say, that rule is made to prevent the use of the cunning ways for harm and this is for good.’ He paused again.
‘I greatly feel for you; you have the half head worse than any I have ever seen…’
‘My Husband was right, you are a good man Gorg of Priddow,’ the Duchesse said.
Gorg looked into her eyes again, his cunning ways saw a different kind of pain.
‘There is more you want to say I think?’ He said gently.
‘Aaah, the cunning ways, there is no hiding from them,’ she said, a sadness creeping into her voice.
‘Do you know when I first had a really severe, really disabling attack, Gorg of Priddow?
‘No, your grace,’ he said, sensing a true pain of the heart was about to emerge.
‘It was at Bell Hill. Duke Edthard and Duchess Famelia had already left the camp, riding out to battle side by side… that’s how they died that day, Master Gorg, side by side… As Feddy and I should have died. But this, this, ‘thing,’ came upon me, I could not see or stand unaided, much less ride a horse, or wield a sword. And so, it was poor Feddy died alone, without me by his side and I… as you well know, I was paraded through the streets of Perl Town, in my night shift, still sick and shaking, as a trophy of war.’
Gorg suddenly put up his hands and felt his face… it was wet, were they tears for the Duchesse? Water began streaming from between his hands, pouring onto the carpet. Gorg reeled back, clutched at his throat, he couldn’t breathe, he was choking…
Gorg was yanked back viciously out of the water cask by his hair.
‘There,’ said the Witchbinder with the blood shot eyes, ‘I told you that would bring him back!’
‘That you did,’ the senior said, ‘sometimes, the son instructs the father and it is a good son who speaks and a wise father that listens… well done my son.’
‘Thank you, Father.’
‘Again!’ Said the Father, gesturing at the cask.
Gorg had just a bare moment to take a deep breath before his bruised and battered face was plunged back into the icy water.
The son held the struggling cunning man down something like glee glittering in his eyes. The water churned and frothed. At length, Gorg went still.
‘We need him alive son,’ the elder said.
‘Yes Father,’ the younger said, ripping Gorg’s head back out of the water and hard back on his neck in a shower of spray.
Gorg gulped in the air like a greedy man gulps ale and no ale ever tasted sweeter than that foetid dungeon air at that moment.
His cuts burned, his bruises throbbed, it hurt to open his mouth and it hurt to close it. Every part of Gorg o’Priddow ached to his very bones, the drugs in the tainted water and the lack of oxygen had his mind in a fog bank. He stared down at the cold water in the cask, panic welling up inside him, fear knotting up in his groin and he knew that he was done.
‘I will need food and rest, my scrying glass and a quiet place to scry,’ he muttered, in a quiet, defeated voice.
‘What was that?’ The senior Witchbinder said, though he had heard perfectly well.
‘I will scry for the Westerman, I will scry for King Billy,’ Gorg said, voice flat and lifeless.
‘Of course, you will… you were always going to you old fool,’ the Son said.
‘If we’re moving him, best put him in the iron suit, I want his witch powers bound,’ said the father.
‘Yes Father,’
The younger Witchbinder banged on the cell door and two Father/Son infantrymen doubled into the room. They were tall men, dressed in the black and gold livery of the Twin God, faces concealed behind the thin, black cotton face masks that all the common soldiers wore.
The soldiers hauled Gorg to his feet, where he stood limp as a ragdoll while they dressed him in the strange contraption of chains and plates. The suit was so heavy that an exhausted Gorg could barely shuffle as they led him out into the corridor.
The long, narrow corridor of stone flags strewn with dirty straw, curved gently away toward a glimmer of cold blue daylight, a sharp breeze blew along it, tugging at the straw.
A sad sight came toward them, out of the daylight and into the darkness. Two men, bruised faces full of misery and desperation, hobbled in leg irons, hand in hand, bodies protected from the biting wind only by simple, white cotton shifts.
‘Who are those two poor beggars,’ Gorg said, hoarsely, moved, despite his own plight.
There was a long silence, Gorg didn’t think anyone would answer. Then the senior Witchbinder spoke, tersely.
‘The Father and the Son must be close and loving… but some, some get… too close. Sometimes, the seed is planted where it cannot grow. To waste the seed is unforgiveable.’
‘What will become of them?’ Gorg asked.
‘They have confessed their evil act, an act oft repeated as I understand it. If the Father betrays the Son, he is put to death, if the Son betrays the Father, he is put to death. With these animals, they have betrayed each other and God… both will die.’
‘You put these men together for every minute of the day and night, encourage closeness and then murder them for falling in love?’ Gorg said incredulously.
‘We did wrong before
God and we will pay, as we should,’ the younger prisoner said as they drew alongside and spat at Gorg, though his dry, bruised mouth could summon little spittle.
‘We don’t want your pity witch,’ the older of the prisoners said.
‘You have it, nonetheless,’ Gorg said quietly.
The younger Witchbinder punched Gorg in the face, glaring at him from his bloodshot eyes.
‘Shut up you old fool, pity yourself and your own situation… for none here will.
∆∆∆
Ullie opened the cottage door and stepped out into the cold moonlit garden. By the strange sensation in her scalp, she knew that danger was near, could feel it approaching.
‘I am Ulleandra o’Goodford, of the Cunning Folk,’ she said softly to the frosty night air. ‘I do no harm.’
She stood silently for a moment, before adding.
‘Nonetheless, I will not go quietly…’
Ullie stretched out her arms, palms upward and began a curious susurrating whisper, like the waves on the shore, or the wind in the trees. A mist seemed to rise from the ground, its tendrils wrapping around the shrubs and bushes, getting deeper, thicker, higher, filling the cottage garden. The strange mist was full of disembodied voices, sudden spectres, confusion, fear, despair and leaden torpor.
‘I am Ulleandra o’Goodford, I will do no harm but you will have a time of it, oh yes you will…’ she said.
Chapter Five
Tamarin o’Goodford
Firelight glistened in Tamarin’s moist eyes, as she fought back the tears that she knew would help no one now, least of all Ullie. Elder cottage burned, flames clambering ever higher, like some strange, fiery ivy, that clung to the walls.
Tamarin was reminded of a story Ullie had once told her, about a god, renowned for his prodigious appetite, who nevertheless lost an eating contest to what he took to be a mortal, only to find out later he had been competing against fire in human form and nothing is hungrier than flame.
Tamarin the foundling looked on, as the roaring, crackling, vicious flame, consumed the only home she had ever known and the mortal remains of Ullie o’Goodford. Ullie, who had raised her as her own and taught her all she knew.
After Bell Hill Page 3
