BURY ME DEEP an utterly gripping crime thriller with an epic twist (Detective Rozlyn Priest Book 1) by JANE ADAMS (best romantic books to read TXT) 📕

“It is not my place to believe, only to accept,” Kendryk told him sententiously.

Treven eyed him with suspicion “And that means?”

“It means that the King was wise to give a cornered beast a way of escape. He avoided Guthrum’s teeth and Guthrum avoided dishonour.”

“Or death. Aelfred would have killed him.”

“Would that have troubled Guthrum? I think not. He is a man raised in the shadow of death. For that matter, so is Aelfred. If either feared it even for a moment they would crush such thoughts beneath a shoe heel, but both he and Aelfred knew that to kill Guthrum would give only reason and space for another to rise in his place. Conversion was convenient. Guthrum will say the words that he must say and keep his own counsel in his heart.”

“And you approve of that?”

“I see the expediency of it. In the end, God will judge. Thankfully, we can offer up that final responsibility to him.”

Treven fell silent. To offer final judgement of Hugh to the Almighty was exactly what Kendryk had earlier proposed. All Father, Treven breathed, not knowing at that moment which version of God he addressed, should I permit this? Guide me now.

“I measure the man by his strength in battle and his courage,” Treven said slowly. “Twice my life has been saved by Hugh’s skill and three times I have kept him from death. Many others, too numerous to count, have we watched the other’s back and fought odds I choose not to remember.”

“Then you are an unusual man,” Kendryk returned Treven’s earlier observation to him.

“How so?”

“Most men choose not only to recall the odds, but to double those they met in battle.”

Treven snorted. “When I am certain that the land is at peace and I have solved this dilemma with Hugh, then I will find a scop worthy of the name who can sing of my glory in battle, and he may raise the odds to suit his song. You’ll forgive me if I wait a season or two meantime.”

“I will forgive you that. But I must insist on an invitation to your new built hall and a place of honour at your feast. I would hear the lay of Treven of Theadingford.”

“You can mock, Priest.”

“Indeed I can. It is a skill I seek, daily, to perfect.”

Treven’s laughter exploded, disturbing the peace of the monks who slept beside the door. “How did you become a man of God?” he demanded. “You are as unsuited to the task as Hugh would be.”

Kendryk nodded slowly. “I have learnt to make the best of it,” he said. “Something I believe Hugh could never do. As to how? The way is similar. I am a younger son of a Frankish father. To avoid conversion by the sword at the hands of the Holy Emperor, his father, my grandsire, spoke the words of conversion and promised a son to the church. The first of each generation were kept, to be heir to their lands. The second they gave to God. I was a boy of six when I left my home. I’ve seen nothing of it since.”

Treven stared at him. “I hope you have no such children at that Abbey of yours. A man may choose to make peace and settle to the holy life, but a child or a boy should be allowed to grow as the gods intended.”

Kendryk raised an eyebrow, but Treven seemed unaware or uncaring of his slip. “Sometimes,” he said softly, “it is better for a child to be homed with the brothers than unwanted and ill fed. You and I must disagree on this, King’s Thegn.”

Treven frowned but let it pass, another thought had drifted into his inebriated brain and he felt inclined to speak of it. “Do you believe the land has spirits in it?”

“Reluctantly. But, yes.”

“What sway do the old gods have when the new ones come to take their place?”

“As much as they ever did, which is why we should be always on our guard. Why?”

“Because when I first came to this place it seemed to me I saw evil omens at every turn and since then . . . I have had strange dreams, Priest. Have you the skill of Joseph to interpret them?” He tried to keep his voice light and his mood seemingly untroubled, but the mead and the memory of these visions conspired to put a tremor in his voice. He drank again to steady his nerve.

“Tell me of these dreams and I will aspire, at least, to Joseph’s virtues.”

“You mock me again?”

“Sometimes it is easier to reply to mockery than to sincerity. Tell me anyway since you’ve a mind to?”

Treven drew a deep breath and held it before he began. “I saw two omens. On the day I came here there was a man hanged facing a wooden cross up on the hill above my home.”

“I know the place.”

“I looked at the figure on the cross and it seemed to me I could not tell clearly if it was an image of the Christ or of the All Father, but that was not the thing . . . the thing that troubled me.”

“What then?”

“The bird. It was the bird, pegged down. Its wings fastened to the ground. A great black thing like a battle crow. It sickened me to see it captured and I cannot yet tell you why, though I’ve given so much thought to the matter . . .”

“What did you do about it?”

Treven looked uneasily at Kendryk, still not certain about the man; he was, nonetheless, drawn to him. “I set it free,” he said.

“It was still living? Treven you’d have done better to put the poor creature from its misery.”

“No, it was dead. I . . . had my