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.”
Arundell broke off as a waiter approached. “Shall we order?” he asked Burton.
The king's agent, who'd been absorbed in the other man's tale, waved his hand distractedly and said: “Yes, yes, of course, please do.”
Henry Arundell requested a chicken vindaloo and Burton, hardly caring what he ate, asked for the same.
“So this Roger Tichborne is the prodigal who's lately been the preoccupation of all the journalists?”
“Yes. He was doted on by his mother and raised as a Frenchman. He didn't learn to speak English until he was about twelve years old, and always spoke it with a strong French accent.
“A second son was born, too. A surprise, really, considering that James and his wife grew to hate each other. This one, Alfred, was a weak-willed lad, and was all but ignored by Henriette-Felicite, who remained devoted to her firstborn.
“To return for a moment to the grandfather, Sir Henry; when he died, one of his other sons, James's elder brother Edward, became the eighth baronet. Edward had changed his surname to Doughty as a condition of an inheritance. This is where my family comes into it, for after becoming Sir Edward Doughty, he married my aunt, Katherine Arundell, and they had a child, ‘Kattie’ Doughty, in 1834. She became romantically involved with young Roger Tichborne, who had, after being educated at Stonyhurst Jesuit School, joined the Sixth Dragoon Guards, and was spending his furloughs at Tichborne House. My aunt objected strongly to this romance on the grounds that Roger lacked prospects and didn't act in a sufficiently English manner. Plus, of course, he and the girl were cousins.
“Having been banned from seeing Kattie for at least three years, Roger determined to prove himself. Typically, he followed a flight of fancy. According to a family legend, Sir Henry had discovered a fabulous diamond in South America-”
“ What?” Burton cried, causing an outbreak of tut-tutting from the surrounding tables.
Arundell looked at him in astonishment then shook his head. “No, no, Burton,” he said. “It's just a fancy.
