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

Hugh grimaced. A younger son, destined for the church, his father had not been pleased when he chose a life of battle rather than one of contemplation. ”I’ll settle for your hovel,” he said. “For tonight, anyway. There might be some young wifmann, lonely for company, who’ll offer me a bed elsewhere. Favours from a Shire Reeve are not to be gainsaid lightly after all.”

Treven snorted. “You’re not yet Shire Reeve,” he reminded Hugh. “There seems little yet to be Reeve of. And you’d do well to mend your thoughts. I recall the last time you sought a woman’s favours you neglected to enquire how long her weaponmann would be from home.”

He sniffed, the scent of wood smoke rising to them from the valley and with it the rich odour of roasting meat. “There is food at least,” he said. “Pig, if I’m not mistook.”

“Well, the Lord be blessed for his favours,” Hugh replied. “Let’s go down.”

Theadingford lay in a sheltered valley. The manor had been surrounded by farmland, but the forest was encroaching once again after years of neglect, saplings of sycamore and birch marching past the line of rowan at the boundary and across strip-cultivated fields. It would need clearing before any crop was sown. Sheep — small, black-faced creatures, their fleeces almost re-grown ready for the coming winter — cropped amongst the dips and hollows and what looked like the remains of an apple orchard, overcrowded but well laden, stood to the west side of the Manor.

The house itself showed a generation of neglect. It had been close on a decade since its last habitation and Treven had known that he should have expected the worst, but after years of fighting and the loss of his father’s land, he had hoped perhaps for something more. When the King had given him charter for Theadingford he had accepted gratefully, despite the fact that this was an effective frontier, the Great Heathen Army less than a day’s march north. He had been pledged in battle to serve his lord and now that Aelfred was safely throned, he had pledged to keep the king’s peace. If his somewhat dubious reward for this was to become master of Theadingford, then so be it.

Hugh had been his friend and comrade at arms these past five years. To look at, the contrast could not have been greater and should any onlooker be asked to point out which was thegn of this place, they would have indicated Hugh as their first choice. The Kentish man was dressed in style. A soft grey tunic of finest wool worn over a shirt of linen with braid-trimmed cuffs and metal closures. His cloak was dyed a rich, fresh blue and fastened with a finely worked brooch, shaped like a shield boss and inlaid with red enamel work that sparkled in the autumn sun. Hugh’s fair hair had seen the recent services of a comb and lay neatly about his shoulders.

By contrast, Treven was travel stained. He wore no shirt and his tunic was sleeveless, overlaid by a jerkin of boiled leather plates. His cloak had once been red but had faded to a russet brown. Thick and much mended, it had seen him through three winters without benefit of more than a sound beating when the caked-on mud grew thick enough to cause him grief. He had combed his fox-coloured hair, but that had been four days before, when they had left Winchester. On leaving, he had changed back into his travelling clothes and tossed his comb into his pack, there to lie forgotten.

His horse was well cared for though, groomed, with its harness cleaned and greased to keep the leather supple and the fittings from rusting. And the sword he wore at his side was very fine, passed from father to son for generations and forged and pattern welded, so it was said, in Raedwald’s time, when Treven’s family on his father’s side had been close kin to the Kings of Anglia. It lay in a sheath of finely worked leather, lined with fleece, and the wax from the wool kept the blade clean and clear of rust.

Treven, Hugh and their servants splashed through the shallow ford that gave Theadingford its name. Those he had sent ahead five days before stood in front of the ruined Hall tending to the fire and the pig spit roasting over it, coarse barley bread baked on hot stones resting close by. The three men tending to the food and fire looked far from happy. Osric, the elder of the three by a good many summers, stepped forward to take the reins of Treven’s horse as he dismounted. Osric had served his lord since both of them were boys. He was generally a man of few words, all of them direct and to the point.

“I’ve turfed out the swine,” he said, jerking his head back towards the house, “but the place still stinks like a midden. The walls are rotten and the Abbot’s men have been here this morning. They say the land is now the property of the church and you have no rights here.”

“Abbot?”

“Abbot Kendryk.” Osric elaborated. “Abbey at Storton, an hour’s ride that way,” he nodded briefly to where Treven could see a trackway leading off into the wood. Having delivered all necessary information, Osric clucked his tongue and led the horse away.

“A fine welcome,” Hugh commented sourly.

Treven nodded. “We’ve had worse. At least there’s food at the end of this journey.”

As Hugh fell hungrily upon the meat and bread, devouring both in great fistfuls, Treven glanced about with interest. Notwithstanding that the house leaned at an alarming angle and, if Osric was to be believed, was in a far worse state inside, Treven liked what he was seeing. Late afternoon