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path had forced them to ride in single file and, as they neared the spot where the poached deer and Hubert’s body had been found, Bascot took care to look about him, telling Gianni to do the same. The boy may be mute, but his other senses were sharp, especially his eyes. With Bascot being blind on one side, he would have to depend on Gianni to notice anything he missed.
    Before long Tostig led them to a spot on the path where the slain deer still lay, half-buried under a hump of leaves. “I shall have to get help to remove the carcass. Looks like scavengers have already been at it.”
    Tostig dismounted and Bascot did the same, Gianni dropping lightly to the ground with the resilience of youth. The light was beginning to fade, but the scuffs of the poachers’ feet could still be seen amongst the multitude of tracks and the blood of the dead deer was splattered in dark patches onto the moss beside the path.
    “Where was Hubert?” Bascot asked, and Tostig led them a few feet off the trail, pointing to the branches of a large oak tree.
    “Up there,” he said.
    From a solid bough about halfway up, a remnant of rope still hung, cut at one end. It dangled a few feet above the ground and swayed slightly as a cold breeze shook the tree, sending down a shower of dead brown leaves. Through the denuded branches could be seen the other end of the rope, fastened to one of the lower limbs.
    “I cut the lad down. Could just reach him while I was mounted,” Tostig said. “Didn’t wait to see where the other end was fastened.”
    The forester strode towards the trunk of the oak, moving with the familiarity of one who has spent his life in the forest, and loosened the knot that held the rope in place. He pulled it down and coiled it over his shoulder and brought it for Bascot to look at. It seemed fairly new, with little fraying and no other marks except where Tostig’s knife had sliced it. The forester scuffed among the leaves and held up the noose, still knotted into place.
    “Here’s the bit I took off his neck,” he said unnecessarily. “I’ll put it and the rest away at the lodge. Shame to waste a good bit of rope.”
    Bascot made no comment as he and Gianni searched the ground. It was fairly untouched except for a faint disturbance of dead leaves that must have been made by whoever had hanged the boy and, later, by Tostig. Gianni went a little way into the trees. Bascot could hear the soft swish of his steps as he moved through the dying bracken.
    The Templar gazed around him. They were completely encircled by trees, most of the branches bare. In full summer it would be a dense forest of green, but now it was damp and smelled musty, with a tang of sharpness to the air that heralded winter.
    “How far is the nearest village?” he asked Tostig.
    “A little over a half of a mile north.”
    “And the sheriff’s hunting lodge?”
    Tostig swung about, gesturing with his hand in the opposite direction. “About twice the distance that way. The old hunting lodge is a little nearer but, like I said, it’s not used anymore.”
    Due south a thin trail of smoke was rising. The scent of burning wood came again in faint wisps. “That smoke, where is it coming from?”
    The forester shaded his eyes and looked up. “Oh, that’s just old Chard burning his charcoal. He’s within the chase, but he has permission. The castle needs a good supply with all the guests coming. Usually Chard does his burning outside of the chase, but there’s a good stand of birch over there and it’s one of the best for his trade, so the sheriff gave him licence to use it.”
    The sky was beginning to darken as they stood talking, not only for the lateness of the day but also from the shadow of rain clouds that were beginning to gather, blowing in from the east.
    “I shall need to go to the village, Tostig, to see if anyone there heard or saw anything untoward last night. I will also want to talk to the charcoal burner, but it’s too late today. It