“There's
this place, of course,” Edward tapped the map over our house, and a
fourth spot materialised. “Alice French and all that. Then over
here is Anston Mound.”
“Mmm?”
Oak responded, as a fifth spot popped up.
“Not
really folklore,” I continued, “But there were stocks and gallows
there until the seventeenth century. The mound is in the centre of a
large field, visible from all sides, so was perfect for public
executions.”
“There's
a tree there now, isn't there?” Oak asked.
“Yes,
another lord wanted to put something living in the place that had
seen so much death. How did you know?”
“A
man accused of murder hung himself from its branches an hour ago. He
was innocent.”
