Death of a Squire by Maureen Ash Page A

began to untie his mount that he noticed some marks in the earth near the outside edge of one of the remaining walls. He walked over to the spot and knelt down to examine them more closely. The hard-packed soil was deeply scored, two or three ruts on top of one another, ending in a flat impression like that made by the heel of a boot. Bascot looked up at the wall, then across at the faint track that led from the forest on this side. Had Hubert stood here, waiting in vain for the village girl, when he had been attacked? If someone had come up behind him, unheard and unseen while the squire’s attention was fixed on sighting the maid whose body he soon hoped to enjoy, it would have been an easy matter to loop a length of cord around his throat and choke him. As the boy had struggled, kicking out with his feet, his heels could have scored the ruts in the earth, sliding uselessly as he struggled to escape the constriction at his throat. If, as Bascot suspected, Hubert had been rendered unconscious before being hanged, was this the spot where he had first been attacked? But if it was, then why had he been moved such a far distance to the oak tree where he was found?
    Bascot walked a pace or two in the lee of the wall to see if there were any other indications of a struggle, some trace that would prove his tentative and unlikely assumption. The sounds from the hunt were growing louder now, but seemed to be coming from two different directions, one nearer than the other. Perhaps more than one quarry had been found and the party had split in two. The Templar was conscious of the need for haste; he did not want to get caught between the hunters and their prey, yet he did not want to leave and perhaps have any other signs of a possible assault on Hubert destroyed by the passage of dogs and horses. Making a quick circuit on the outside of the adjoining wall, he had just decided to remount when he heard the huntsman’s horn blast loud and shrill from the woods that edged the perimeter on the far side of the ruin. At that same moment a huge stag burst from the trees and into the clearing. The beast paused, sides heaving. Its flanks were flecked with foam and saliva dripped from its mouth. For one second the beast’s eye met Bascot’s good one. Fleetingly, he saw the terror and desperation of the animal before it lowered its head, took a few faltering steps then, spurred on by another blast of the horn, sprang once again into flight. Leaping with an inordinate grace over the few remaining stones of the foundation it disappeared into the woods on the other side of the lodge.
    It was as he turned to watch the vanishing deer that Bascot felt the arrow. Felt, rather than heard, for the noise of the hunt drowned out the whisper of flight the missile made before it embedded itself in the thickness of the extra tunic he was wearing under his cloak. The tip grazed the flesh covering his ribs and the cloth pulled as the shaft became snarled in the sheepskin padding of his under-tunic. Instinctively he dropped to the ground, protecting his sighted eye with his arm as he rolled into the timbers at the base of the wall. A second later a dog pack burst from the trees, led by two huge mastiffs. Racing across the open ground they continued the chase, their throaty baying echoing after them. Long moments behind were the horses, a powerful roan in the lead on which was mounted William Camville, with Richard de Humez following at some distance. Both held bows at the ready, arrows bristling in the quivers slung on their saddles. Other riders could be heard coming along the track behind them.
    Bascot stood up and William’s horse shied at his unexpected appearance. The sheriff’s brother cursed as he fought to bring his mount under control, then changed to an oath of surprise when he realised what had caused the animal’s alarm. Wrestling the startled steed to a halt, he stared at Bascot as de Humez and the rest of the hunt streamed past him.
    “De