BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) by JANE ADAMS (best book reader .txt) 📗

“Shire Reeve?” Eldred sounded outraged. “My father has served these past five years as Steward and as Shire Reeve. What justice appoints another over him?”

Treven looked sharply at the younger man. “The king’s justice,” he told him. “Your father will be paid his dues.”

“Dues!” Eldred began, but his brother silenced him.

“Eldred. Enough. These men are guests in our father’s house. Would you shame him?”

His brother fell into a reluctant silence and Edmund continued. “Our father is unwell. He gave word that you should be welcomed as if he were able to do so himself. Come inside. If your men take themselves to the cookhouse out back, they will be fed and watered.”

Treven and Hugh followed the brothers into the hall. The interior was dim, with narrow windows, covered with oiled and scraped vellum only at the farthest end and even those were set high into the wall so that shafts of filtered light fell, sharply angled, into the room.

A loom had been set close to the doors to take advantage of the morning brightness. On it was a length of half-worked cloth, the threads stretched tight with weights of baked clay. Beside that a carved chest acted as shelf for rush baskets of wool, skeined ready for plying, dyed the same shade as the green of the woven cloth. It was intended for winter wear, Treven guessed. A mantle for one or other of the men. Treven remembered the long hours he spent as a child, sitting at his mother’s feet, his hands outstretched until they ached, as though he’d spent all day handling his wooden sword, while she wound skeins of wool into balls and then plied the yarn ready for the winter weaving. A single winter cloak took the wool of a half dozen sheep and many hours of women’s work.

Beside the left-hand wall was propped a trestle table, dismantled until required and a long oak bench. A second bench rested against the opposite wall. A small table stood just inside the doorway, laden with cold meats and apples, a flagon of ale and — an especial treat for men used to coarse fare — a loaf of wheaten bread with dishes of preserves and honey.

Cate poured weak ale into leather flagons. It was the small beer from the third brewing, suitable for drinking throughout the day whereas the stronger ale was kept for the evening meal. She strained the residue from the dark liquid with the pierced spoon and wiped it clean on a piece of old linen. She then lifted the cup to her lips before giving it to Treven.

“A health to you,” she said. She spoke softly and found it hard to meet his eyes.

“And to you, lady,” Treven told her. “I thank you for your hospitality.” Though it was, if he were to be honest, of the bare minimum that courtesy allowed. And he sensed that Cate thought this also, that their welcome, although polite, was frosted with suspicion.

Hugh seemed beset by no such thoughts. He made a point of brushing, as though by accident, the slender fingers of the lady as she handed him the cup. The touch might well have gone unnoticed, but she flinched away as though his fingers stung and Eldred bridled like a badly handled horse. He would have spoken, Treven thought, but Edmund caught his look, warning him off with a stare that would have frozen all but the most foolhardy of men.

“Eat, please,” Edmund urged them. “Sit, there are chairs set beside.”

Treven sat down in one of the two carved chairs that were more usually for the brothers’ use. Edmund pulled up a tall three-legged stool and began to carve the meat. Cate stood hesitantly for a further moment and then with a word that might have been excuse, slipped off to her weaving. She stood side on to the group of men and Hugh’s gaze strayed her way far more often than could be considered proper. Eldred paced restlessly, like a man whose energies are too pent up for rest.

A chamber with a curtained door occupied one end of the hall, divided, Treven assumed, by a partition of wood to give some semblance of privacy to the married couple. He wondered about Edmund. Strange that the younger son should have a wife and yet there be no evidence of Edmund being wed. The straining of the ale was something the lady of the Hall would do, the wife of Edmund’s father, or of the eldest son. Cate, wed to the younger and, now he had looked at her more closely Treven had seen her to be barely more than a girl, seemed young to have such responsibility.

“Your father has been Steward to my estates?” Treven asked, when he had eaten enough for courtesy and conversation could be allowed to turn to business.

“Steward, yes, though he’s had no time to maintain the hall at Theadingford. The vill has twice been burned. It seemed more fitting to house those who’d lost homes than upkeep a building with no master and no use.”

“I’ve no argument with that,” Treven told him, “though I’ll need men now at least to make it safe and weatherproof before winter. Come spring it can be taken down. I’ve plans for the rebuilding of it.”

Edmund hesitated before he spoke again. “We’ve few young men,” he said. “Not enough to spare for work that doesn’t bring in food for their families or fodder for the kine.”

Treven’s eyes narrowed. “I could order it,” he said. “Edmund, whatever position your father and your kin hold here, I’ll not be gainsaid if I require a thing done.”

“And I’ve not gainsaid you,” Edmund’s voice raised in mild annoyance. Then he recovered himself. “Forgive me, it’s long since any assumed control over this land and, though my brother put it ungraciously, he was right in