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) 📖

air, filled the open space. Around him, Treven could hear the gasps and sighs of those who watched, most of whom would never have seen such a sight before.

Hugh took the first faltering step. He held his hand away from his body, holding it before his own eyes as though it pointed the direction he must take. The second step, the stink of flesh grown stronger now that it had reached bone. Treven was certain he could catch that acrid stench. The third step, Hugh cried out for the first time, head thrown back as he roared his pain to the clear blue sky. The fourth step and the fifth, he almost stumbled. Treven knew he could not release the bar now even if he’d a wish to. It would have forged itself to his flesh as tightly as the smith forged metal to metal. The sixth step and his hand dropped almost to his side. He was faltering now, his feet stumbling on the path and his cry failed to just a childish whimper.

The seventh step was taken, but he had almost lost his footing. “Sweet Lord,” Treven heard him cry. “Help me.”

Treven groaned. Drawn towards Hugh he reached out to help him make those final steps. He was close enough to feel the heat of the bar wrapped so tightly in Hugh’s hand. The colour was fading now to that of straw, heat passed into flesh and bone.

“For pity’s sake,” Treven whispered fiercely as Kendryk took his arm and ordered him to stay.

“He must take all nine paces alone, King’s Thegn. You cannot help him.”

Treven fixed his eyes on Hugh’s face, willing him on. He could see that Hugh was sick with pain. The eighth step taken, then the ninth, one stubborn foot forced before the other, Hugh fell to the ground and Kendryk gave the signal. The smith came forward with a leather bucket filled with water. He tipped this over Hugh’s burning hand, the flesh smouldering and black from palm to fingertip. Then he bent down and dragged the metal bar from the clawed and welded grip. Hugh screamed as what was left of his flesh ripped from his palm. Treven could only watch as the monks lifted him and carried him away. The hand would be bandaged and left. If after three days Hugh had not died and the wound showed signs of healing, he would be declared innocent of all crimes and they could treat his injuries and give him poppy to kill the pain. Treven closed his eyes, then opened them again, aware that Kendryk was speaking to the smith, though it took a moment for his words to make sense.

The smith turned away and returned to his forge carrying the now cooling bar.

“What did you say to him?” Treven did not think he’d heard right.

“I told him to forge a new sword, to weave that metal into the heart of it. It should hold great power, King’s Thegn.”

Treven stared at him. “Sometimes I doubt you follow the Christ,” he said. “Your thoughts are more like those of my heathen grandsire.”

“And I have told you, the land does not forget and neither does the metal torn from the womb of the earth. Better the sword be made and be presented to me for safekeeping than let it loose into the world. Treven, I have no more liking for this display than have you. I would prevent the effects from spilling further into this land.” He smiled, then: “and, besides, does not that Heliand Gospel of yours teach that the Christ was a great warrior, worthy of a woven sword?”

He followed after his men and Hugh and left Treven open- mouthed and gawping like an ill-mannered child. The crowd began to disperse, their interest no longer held now that Hugh was gone and nothing would be known for three more days. Treven listened to their gossip as they went, aware that this incident would be told and retold with much enrichment in the months and winters to come. Aware too, that he had done himself no harm in permitting it. He felt sickened. After a moment of hesitation, wondering if he should accompany Kendryk, he decided he could take no more. He called for his horse and servants and returned to his own Hall.

CHAPTER 27

Clara Buranou sat in the interview room with her coat pulled tight round her skinny body and stared, her face stony and drawn, at the coffee Rozlyn had placed on the table. The room was bare but for a red-topped table, four wooden chairs and a tape player fixed onto the wall. The scuffed floor showed the marks of chair legs and years of restless feet. The walls had not been repainted in the decade and more Rozlyn had known it. She found their industrial flecked grey utterly depressing.

“Where were you going?”

“Anywhere.”

“You’d bought a ticket?”

“Yes. To Scotland.”

“Why Scotland?”

“It is far away.” Clara sighed and shifted in her seat, reached for the coffee and drank the scalding liquid in one go.

“Would you like some more? Are you hungry?”

Clara weighed Rozlyn with tired blue eyes, studying her face as though to catch the double meaning behind the words. The tape in the machine hummed softly and Jenny crossed her legs, the skim of fabric on fabric unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

Finally, Clara nodded.

“OK, I’ll send for more coffee and some sandwiches. Will that do? Is there anything you don’t eat?”

Clara shrugged and then shook her head. “I am not fussy,” she said. Then, “Thank you.”

Rozlyn regarded the young woman thoughtfully. “Charlie Higgins cleaned for the man who brings people like you into the country,” she said. “Is that how you met him?”

Clara hesitated and then sighed again, nodding her head. “You will send me back?”

“That’s not up to me. I’m just a police officer.”