Mark Hodder - The curious case of the Clockwork Man

“The final judgement troubles me little, husband, for have I not given to the poor of this parish through every sad year that I abided here? It is my final wish that thou shalt do the same.”

“Ha! I'll be damned!”

“Of that I am certain. Nevertheless, I would have the de Tichbornes donate, during the Feast of the Annunciation every year, produce of the fields to the people.”

“The blazes they will!”

“Payest thou this dole, husband, or I avow, with my very last breath I shall curse thee and thy offspring forevermore!”

Sir Roger blanched. “Have I not suffered thy evil eye sufficiently?” he muttered uneasily.

“For all thou hast inflicted upon me? Nay, there can be naught sufficient for that!” the old woman croaked. “Wilt thou concede?”

The squire looked down at his dying wife. His mouth was twisted with hatred and his eyes glinted horribly in the faint candlelight.

“I shall do as thou command me,” he growled, after a long pause. “But with one provision: it shall be thou who sets the levy!”

The old woman regarded her husband, blinking in puzzlement.

“What is this?” she exclaimed. “Thou biddest me to choose the amount of the annual donation?”

“In a manner! I bid thee traverse the borders of the fields from which the wheat must be taken. I shall dedicate to the poor of the parish the produce of whatever land thou encircles. Thou hast the time it takes for a torch to burn its full length to thus mark the extent of the charity.”

Lady Mabella gasped in horror. “What sayest thou? Surely to God thou cannot expect me to walk?”

“Then crawl,” de Tichborne snarled. “Crawl!”

He strode to the door, yanked it open, and bellowed: “Nurses! Take thy mistress from the bed and dress her! At once!”

The three young women, waiting outside the bedroom, looked at each other in confusion.

“My lord?” stuttered one. “What-what-?”

“Question me not, wench! Have her clothed and on the steps of the house good and prompt, or by God's teeth you'll suffer!”

He shoved them aside and stamped away, calling for Hobson, who met him at the bottom of the stairs. The valet had a twisted and bloodied handkerchief hanging from his left nostril.

“Bringest thou two bottles of Bordeaux up from the cellar, and be brisk about it!” de Tichborne ordered. “I shall be outside, at the front of the house!”

He then paced down the hall, joined Physician Jankyn in the library, and cried: “Here, Jankyn! Follow! We are to be right entertained!”

He led the mystified physician out, and to the lobby.

“Assist me. I would take this bench outside.”

He indicated an oak bench beside the wall near the entrance. Together, they lifted it and took it through the big double doors, across the portico, down the steps, and over the carriageway to the border of the wheat fields.

“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.