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) 📕

Treven snorted, wishing in his heart that God could be a little more comprehensive in his judgement.

Hugh had been confined in one of the ancillary buildings belonging to the Scriveners and used for storage. A pallet had been provided, with a straw mattress and blankets, food and water given to him twice daily. That apart, he had been left alone to contemplate.

Hugh was not a man used to confinement and Treven had expected to find him chafing with impatience for whatever the outcome should be. Instead, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light inside, he saw that Hugh lay motionless on his bed, his good hand resting on his chest and the wounded one lying beside him almost as though he disowned it.

He’s dead, Treven thought and felt a guilty stab of relief. Then he saw the slight rise of his chest as he breathed.

“Hugh,” Kendryk commanded.

Painfully, Hugh opened his eyes and then sat. As Kendryk brought the rush light closer, Treven could see that he looked green and sick, but his eyes were not brightened by fever and, as Treven sniffed the air, he caught only the hog-grease smell of the oil lamp, the fragrance of fresh bread and the stink of a man left in the same clothing for too long without means of washing.

“Stand,” Kendryk ordered and Hugh rose wearily to his feet. He did not lift his eyes to face either of them, but instead, he extended the wounded hand for Kendryk to see.

They had been unable to prise open the fingers; the hot bar had been dragged from his fist, taking palm flesh with it. The hand was still closed and Treven, who had seen such wounds before, knew that he would never have the use of it again. It seemed wasteful, Treven thought, that such a warrior as Hugh was brought down by . . . by what? By a woman? By love or lust or some combination of both. Had he truly had such feelings for Cate Scrivener? Or by pride or conviction or something else that Treven could not name. Whatever the cause, Treven counted it waste. Better to have respected his father’s wishes and entered the monastery than come to this.

Kendryk himself began to unwind the bandages. The hand had been bound with clean linen and no attempt had been made to open it flat: the fingers had simply been wrapped as they lay, cramped against the palm bones. Kendryk paused as the first layer was pulled free. He fingered the wrapping, then called Treven to his side. “I feel oil on this,” he said, “and there is a scent too that I cannot identify.”

“I knocked the grease lamp while I slept,” Hugh told him. “It was out but the grease still warm.”

Treven frowned. He bent his head to catch the scent Kendryk had mentioned. It was familiar, but he couldn’t name the herb, though he knew one who could. Osric, he thought, and his throat clamped closed with fear.

Kendryk looked at him, expecting an opinion but when none came he shrugged and continued with his work. Hugh was in great pain now, as the inner layers of bandaging pulled and tore the still open wound.

Slowly the layers were undone and Kendryk leaned close to sniff and examine the wound. “The fingers are fused and the hand will not unbend,” he said. “But I see no pus and there is no smell of putrefaction.” He inclined his head towards one of his servant monks. “Bring him outside, we will examine him properly in God’s own light.”

Outside a crowd had gathered, smaller than that which had come to watch Hugh maimed. “If you had choice and could go back, would you do this thing again?” Treven asked him softly.

Hugh did not reply direct. Instead he said. “I did not kill her.” Then, more quietly. “But I can name the man that did.”

“What?!”

Treven’s shock was loud enough to have others turn and stare. He recovered himself and murmured some excuse, then stepped back to allow Kendryk to complete his work. He was aware that Kendryk had also heard Hugh’s words.

Kendryk turned the hand this way and that in the daylight, ignoring Hugh’s cries of pain. In the end he pronounced himself satisfied. Though there was little sign as yet of healing, the burns were dry and clean.

“God in his wisdom has spoken,” he declared.

He sounds disappointed, Treven thought.

“The man accused is declared innocent of the crime of murder and stands free to leave this place.”

The crowd murmured but Treven was unsure if they approved or were still aggrieved.

“If you’ve words to say,” Kendryk told Hugh sternly. “Then speak them now or keep your silence.”

Hugh cradled his wounded hand across his body and remained silent for so long that Treven began to feel that he’d thought better of his quiet accusation, but he was wrong. Slowly, Hugh lifted his head and he surveyed those gathered, Treven and the villagers and Kendryk and the brothers.

“Cate told me a secret thing,” he said, his voice strong with conviction. “She told me that on the night her sister left, she saw another leave after her. When he returned, there was blood on his tunic and on his hands. Cate herself helped to wash them clean.”

“What?” Eldred’s expression of shock only echoed Treven’s own. Sound erupted from those gathered; wordless questions and expressions of dismay both at the thought this might be true and also outrage that this man should dare make such claims.

Kendryk lifted a hand for silence. He waited until he had it, then he asked, “And whom now do you accuse? Cate’s husband, Eldred, or his brother Edmund, perhaps. Hugh, I am loath . . .”

“Neither.” Hugh told him. “There is