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) 📖

Osric nodded, though his face was creased with concern. Treven, unable to offer words of comfort, turned away from his home and walked back to the ford, crossing carefully on the larger rocks to keep his feet dry. The skies, heavy with snow, began to loose the first flakes and they drifted down to settle in his fox-red hair. He drew the hood over his head and pulled the cloak closer, even though the day had warmed somewhat since morning, and as he walked swiftly up the rise towards that place with the wooden cross, Treven felt less chill in his bones though the lump of ice still sat hard in his belly.

As he reached the crossroads where the cross and gibbet faced each other and the three roads to Storton, to Theadingford and back towards Winchester met, a flock of black battle crows flew overhead, their harsh cries causing him to pause and look skyward. They and he were the only things moving in this quiet landscape, the muffling of snow clouds even deadened sound. Treven stood and listened to the silence.

The body had long since fallen from the rope onto the hard ground below, flesh and sinew rotted through, left to be dragged away by those creatures hungry enough to feed on putrefying flesh. In spring, someone would gather what was left and bury it at the crossing of the roads. Too few would come here in the winter months to worry about the walking of restless spirits and besides, it would soon be All Souls. Such walkers were expected and it might be that his kinsmen would still lay a place for him at their table and even hope that he would return.

Treven wondered what kind of a man he had been. None in the village could name him, but those in Theading were not the only locals to hang their guilty here and, he guessed, they most likely chose not to remember his name even had it been known to them. It came to his mind that he should have brought Hugh here this day, placed the noose about his neck and driven the cart from beneath his feet. He closed his eyes, imagining the hairy texture of rough rope between his hands. Treven himself would have placed the rope about Hugh’s neck; it was not a task he could in conscience have passed to another. He asked himself, could he have done it?

He closed his eyes tighter, recalling the marks on Cate’s neck and knew that he could, though to kill in such cold blood was not something he would willingly have chosen, even though he believed the crime deserving of it.

He turned away from the remains of the man and walked on past the cross. Kendryk had spoken of an ancient grove that he wished destroyed. Treven searched for it now, seeking solace in a place that was not of Christian mind.

The track was overgrown, though in no place had the undergrowth encroached enough to make it impassable. Someone still used this place then. Here and there he noted where saplings and brambles had been chopped back to keep them in control and the woodland was coppiced between the taller oaks and white-skinned birch. Thickets of hazel rustled with the life of small birds and rodents disturbed by his presence and the coppiced trees showed two or three winters’ worth of growth. It would be ready for cutting back again this next spring. Beyond the coppiced woodland rose a circle of grey-skinned ash, crowning a slight rise. Treven paused. Snow was falling heavily now, muffling his footsteps and crusting his long-suffering cloak with a rime of white. He glanced back over his shoulder, suddenly afraid that Kendryk might have guessed his destination and be watching him.

“Fool,” he told himself. “Kendryk has more sense than to be traipsing abroad in this.” He took a deep breath of chilled air and stepped through the curtain of falling snow and into the sacred grove.

Within the grove was silence. Treven walked to the heart of it and turned slowly, gazing up at the leafless canopy and the heavy sky.

“What do I do? Lord, I have spent my life since childhood in battle and war; in blood and death. I came here hoping to have left that life but it has followed after me. Death comes to my door and even justice is blinded by one man’s misuse of faith.

“God, Christ, Wotan, whatever I should call you, whatever name you bear, guide me now. Tell me, show me what I should do?”

His words stumbled, blocked, it seemed cushioned by soft falling snow and lowering clouds. Treven closed his eyes and for a moment, gave himself up to anger and despair.

* * *

“Are you all right?”

The woman’s voice was strange, the words seemed familiar and yet said with an accent that Treven could not truly understand. He frowned and turned towards the speaker and as he did so the sounds resolved themselves inside his head into words that he could comprehend. The woman stood at the edge of the grove, her posture stiff and uncertain as though finding herself in an unfamiliar and private place and not sure of her welcome.

“You!” Treven took a step towards her and then two back, gripped by unreasoning fear. He felt he should speak, hide his dread. “I have seen you, walking with the hooded one. Are you a spirit?”

The woman or woman shaped thing stepped further into the circle.

“A spirit? No, I mean, I guess everyone has a spirit or at least I like to think so. But unless I died and no one thought to tell me, then I think I’m still alive.”

Treven stared at her, wondering if this woman thing were at