BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) JANE ADAMS (fox in socks read aloud TXT) 📖

“Time was you’d have been of my mind,” Hugh returned irritably. “Since when did your view of women become any more considered than mine.”

Treven scowled but didn’t answer. It was true, he acknowledged, that when the first grief of losing his wife and son had subsided, Treven had promised himself he’d never become so entangled with any woman again. The pain of losing Hild and Hlisa had burned worse and for longer than any battle wound. Afterwards, he’d been as careless of the women he took to his bed as had Hugh — though he’d never had his friend’s appetites and neither had he had Hugh’s success. But that feeling had passed. He’d woken one morning beside some unknown, unnamed female and it seemed to him that while he slept he must have dreamed of Hild. She’d been standing in the doorway of their old home, watching their son play with the other lads and as he’d come near to her, she’d smiled at him and held out her hand.

There had been, he thought, no blame in her eyes, no recrimination, though he felt she had seen everything and known all he’d done since the day she died.

Since then, there’d been no women, though perhaps Hugh was right in what he’d said earlier. The time had come to settle and to find a wife. Aelfred had spoken of this also and made it plain that the king’s peace needed families as much as it required fighting men. So many deaths called for children to replace them.

It was late afternoon by the time they returned to Theadingford and the dilapidated Hall, its state seeming worse now he had the steading at Theading village to compare it with. Treven wandered away from Hugh and, despite Osric’s warning, went inside to have a proper look at what was left of the building.

Unlike that at Theadingford, the doorway here was placed centrally on the longest side and, amongst the rubble of the part-fallen building and filth left by the swine Treven could make out two hearths, one set at either end of the main room. Beyond that on the right, as he stood in the doorway, what was left of a wooden partition and beyond that again, visible through the part broken wattle of the wall, a second room. This puzzled him at first until, peering through the gap, he realised this must be the cattle shed. It was a good thought, Treven acknowledged. This smaller chamber would be warmed by the hearth fire on the one side and by the body heat of the animals in the shed on the other.

He studied the design of the hall more carefully. The evening light slanted through the partly missing roof and the gaps in the end wall. It revealed a sophisticated construction, the like of which Treven had seen only in the King’s hall at Winchester and in one other. The hall was not a simple A-frame but was cruik built at either end, a stronger and more elegant design, which if handled well allowed for a gallery to be stretched above the main room. Peering closely, Treven could just make out the supports for this, set high in the wall, though the gallery itself was long gone.

The thought pleased him. He wondered if there were carpenters and woodworkers in Theading capable of understanding the structure and of replicating it, or if outside labour had created it and he would be forced to send elsewhere for skilled men.

His thoughts were interrupted by Osric calling to him from the doorway that food was ready.

“It’s built like the King’s house,” he said as he wandered over to where his servant stood.

“I seen it,” Osric told him. “I asked about it today. The father of the local smith saw a house like this and carried the way of making home. His grandson reckons he was told how.”

Treven nodded, satisfied. “I’ll talk with them,” he said. “And what of the Scriveners, what did you find out?”

Osric shrugged. “The father of the two women owns the land. He married them to the men, the brothers, to unite their land with his and treated them like sons. They took his name. Scrivener, since the land was his. There’s talk the women have lost their right to inherit and the old servants think that’s wrong. The steading has been passed through the female line these past five generations, or so they reckon. They got their name, Scrivener, from being scribes to the Thegns that held this land before.”

Treven nodded and made a mental note that he should find out more about his. Conflicts over land were best resolved at root and not left to infect the branch. “Two women?” He asked.

“Cate Scrivener had a sister. Wife to the older brother, Edmund. Her name was Allis.”

“Was?”

He shrugged again. “Word is she’s either run off with a Waelas man, in which case she’s good as dead so far as her kin are concerned, or her husband got wind of her plans and done away with them both.”

Treven raised an eyebrow. “Is that likely? I could believe that of Eldred, but Edmund seemed the more reasoned of the two.” He sensed that there was more. Osric was always wont to stretch his stories out, doling them out in episodes as rewards for patience. It annoyed Hugh; Treven was simply so used to it he gave it little thought.

“Other word is he might have let the woman go with his blessing.”

“Oh?” That was stranger news.

“Three years and no sign of offspring, when it’s known he’s fathered at least two elsewhere. They say he dealt fairly with both the women. Paid a good bride price and found them sound husbands