“Sit, man!”
Jankyn sat. He shivered. The sky was clear and the full moon radiated a penetrating chill.
Squire Roger de Tichborne settled beside him and chuckled to himself.
Hobson emerged from the mansion and brought over the wine bottles. De Tichborne took them and handed one to Jankyn.
“Now,” he snapped at the valet, “I require three brands and a flint to light them. Hurry, fool!”
Hobson scuttled away.
De Tichborne used his teeth to pull the cork, and took a swig from his bottle.
“Drink!” he ordered Jankyn.
“My lord, I-”
“Drink!”
Jankyn raised the bottle to his mouth, extracted the cork, and took a sip.
They sat in silence until the valet returned. De Tichborne stuck a brand in the earth at either end of the bench and lit them. He saved the third, holding it in his hand. He dismissed Hobson.
“Ah!” he breathed, moments later, looking back at the house.
Physician Jankyn turned and let out a cry of dismay at what he saw.
Lady Mabella, held upright by her nurses, had tottered out of the door and was descending the steps, a frail old woman, seemingly little more than a shroud-wrapped skeleton. In truth, she was barely clothed, having pulled a gown around her night garments, draped a shawl over the top of it, and pushed her feet into slippers.
“Blessed Mary, mother of God!” Jankyn exclaimed. “What means this?”
“Do not thou interfere, Physician, I caution thee!”
Jankyn raised the bottle to his lips again, and this time he took a large gulp.
They waited, while slowly, painfully, the dying woman tottered closer.
“Hail to thee, wife!” de Tichborne bellowed. “It is a merry night, if a little chilly!” He laughed.
The woman, who would have fallen at his feet were it not for the strength of her nurses, stood trembling before him.
“Thou art bent on this course?” she wheezed.
“Thou it was who demanded the dole,” he answered, “so the charge for the levy falls upon thy shoulders. Wouldst thou retract thy final wish?”
“Nay.”
“Then take this brand. Yonder lay the wheat fields.”
He turned to the physician. “My dear Jankyn, the Lady Mabella hath commanded that I do make an annual donation to the poor of this parish. I have agreed. The good lady will now set the amount by encircling the land whose crop she deems sufficient for the purpose.”
Jankyn, who had stood at the lady's arrival, now fell back upon the bench in shock.
“She can barely walk, my lord!” he gasped.
De Tichborne ignored him and lit the brand. He held it out to his wife.
“Take it. Order thy nurses away. Show thou to me what I must set aside for charity. Thou hast until the brand is done.”
A bony hand reached forth and took the guttering torch. Bottomless black eyes held de Tichborne's for a moment. A toothless mouth muttered: “Leave me!”
The nurses stepped away.
Lady Mabella swayed for a moment. With her joints cracking, she then turned and hobbled to the edge of the field.
The squire laughed wickedly and swigged his wine. He sat down.
Speechless, helpless, Physician Jankyn watched as the old woman fell to her knees and began to crawl, supporting herself with one hand while holding the brand with the other.
“See, Master Physician,” de Tichborne chuckled. “We have fine sport this night, hey? Dost thou care to make a wager? I reckon she'll set the levy at maybe half a sack o’ grain afore the devil takes her unto his breast!”
“I cannot be party to this!” Jankyn cried. He made to stand but de Tichborne's hand clamped down hard on his arm.
“Hold! If thou makest to leave, as God is my witness, I'll run thee through with my sword!”
Jankyn fell back. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped it across his brow.
The old woman crawled on.
And on.
And on.
Squire Roger de Tichborne became increasingly uneasy as his wife traversed the border of the lengthy field before him and passed beyond it to the next, pulling herself up the long sloping side, across the far end, and now back down toward him. By the orange glow of her torch, he could see that her knees were bleeding and tears streamed down her face.
“Fie! From whence doth the crone's strength come?” he muttered. “The devil himself, I'll warrant! The damned enchantress!”
“By the saints, my lord,” the physician said, slurring his words slightly. “How many acres hath the Lady Mabella encompassed?”
“If she returneth to us before the brand is extinguished, nigh on twenty-three!”
Painful inch after painful inch, the dying woman crawled the remaining length of the border until, finally, she dragged herself across the carriageway and collapsed onto her face at de Tichborne's feet. The torch crackled, guttered, and died.
The squire poured the last dregs of wine down his throat then threw the bottle aside with savage force.
He looked down at the woman, his lips curling back from his teeth.
“Attend her!”
The physician crouched and pulled Lady Mabella over onto her back. Her eyes rolled then fixed intently on her husband. Her lips moved.
“What?” de Tichborne snapped. “Doth she speak?”
“Aye, my lord. She biddeth thee bend closer.”
The aristocrat snorted but, nevertheless, squatted on his haunches.
The old woman whispered: “Two fields of wheat, sir. Two fields!”
Her husband hissed vehemently.
“Thinkest thou that I would honour my word to a slattern and sorceress? Foul necromancer! Scold! Shrew! Two fields of wheat to the poor? Never! They shall receive naught from me!”
“Then listen thou to my final words, O husband,” Lady Mabella whispered. “From my heart, I curse thee and thine, and this curse shall hold true through all the ages. Should the allotted dole fail for e'en a single year, there shall be seven sons born to this house, aye, and nary a one shall sire a man-child. Seven daughters shall follow, and the name of de Tichborne will thus be lost for all time. And the house itself shall fall into ruin, until naught but wind-borne dust remains of thy family!”
Her eyes closed and a rattle sounded from her throat.
The physician looked up.
“The Lady Mabella is dead, my lord.”
“And may the devil have her eyes!” The squire looked across the wheat fields. “Hang it! Twenty-three acres, Jankyn!”
“Wilt thou accede to the lady's wish, then?”
“I have but little choice. The witch's curse is upon the family now.”
He looked up at the stars and muttered: “Heaven grant mercy upon those who follow!”
Sir Richard Francis Burton sat with his mouth open, his wine glass held inches from it. He blinked, took a breath, and gasped: “Good God! The man was an animal!”
Henry Arundell agreed: “A cad of the first order, and his brutality has had a lasting influence, for every year since he killed his wife-let us not pretend he did otherwise-the Tichbornes have paid the dole, with the exception of a short period that began in 1796.”
“What happened then?”
“The seventh baronet, Sir Henry, who'd been travelling overseas for some considerable time, returned to Tichborne House, stopped the dole, and declared the estate off-limits to all. For the next few years, he lived as a recluse, not emerging from his self-imposed isolation until the Napoleonic Wars. By this time, the eldest of his seven sons had produced only daughters and the others were childless. When a large part of the manor fell down, Sir Henry realised that the curse was upon him. He immediately restored the annual contribution, had the rest of the house demolished, and built the current manor on its foundations.”
“You say he travelled,” Burton interjected. “Do you know where?”
“Mainly in the Americas, I believe. Anyway, despite the resurrection of the dole, the Tichbornes’ misfortunes weren't quite over. While fighting in France, Sir Henry's third son, James, married an ill-tempered girl named Henriette-Felicite. Though she bore a male heir to the estate-Roger Charles Doughty Tichborne, born in January of 1829-her marriage to James soon faltered.”