Priscilla Royal - Chambers of Death

Later, after the hearth fire had been banked and the company left to find sheltered corners and another body for warmth enough to sleep until sunrise, the cook had made a bed for Thomas near the hot ashes, then wrapped herself in a blanket and was soon snoring on the bench. It was just as the monk was also drifting off to sleep that Huet slipped into the kitchen and knelt by Thomas.

“May I share this space with you, Brother? The fleas in the hall are fierce,” he had whispered. “I have brought a thick blanket large enough to wrap around us both. It will keep the draft away.”

Another time Thomas might have rejected the offer, fearing even the innocent touch of another man, but tonight he was too weary from the hard journey to protest when Huet wrapped the two of them securely together inside the soft wool. Despite any misgivings, Thomas soon fell into the most peaceful sleep he had had since his days in London, and, for once, he suffered no dreams.

When he awoke the next morning, Thomas knew he had slept through at least two Offices. Huet was still snoring as the monk slipped out of his embrace.

I am not the only laggard, he thought with gentle amusement, looking down on the steward’s younger son. Then he tenderly tucked the blanket closer around the sleeper so the young man would not suffer any chill.

Now Thomas caught himself singing, at least in muted voice, a very earthy chanson heard from the steward’s son last night. He already owed penance for his failure to observe the Offices, but this quite secular expression only added to his failings. God might well understand that he meant nothing by this choice of song beyond an expression of his current happiness, but Thomas decided he had best follow the example of Saint Benedict and find some physical labor to do for swift atonement.

Thus he turned toward the stable. Being fond of the four-legged beasts, he would offer to tend the horses and especially his prioress’ donkey.

As he hurried alongside the manor house, he was assailed by a rank odor and, looking down, saw the arched hole in the wall. “The night soil from the garderobe needs removal,” he muttered and put a hand over his nose. In the heat of summer, flies and the stink would be unavoidably foul enough, but the recent bad weather had clearly prevented adequate cleaning. “At least the latrines at Tyndal drain into a fast-running stream,” he muttered, grateful that their superior design prevented these problems.

The stench so distracted him that he did not hear the commotion until he rounded the corner.

There were several horsemen near the courtyard gate.

Thomas tensed. Was something amiss? He stopped to watch.

Near the stone steps leading to the manor house door, a manservant helped an older man dismount from his horse.

“Dearest husband, you are safely returned,” a female voice cried out.

Thomas looked in her direction and saw a brightly robed young woman, arms wide, approaching the man. Was this Huet’s father?

“Wife,” the man replied. His flat tone and perfunctory embrace conveyed no enthusiasm.

The monk watched the steward lean on the woman and limp toward the manor door. Had they not addressed each other, he might have concluded that they were neither kin nor close friends, for all the affection either showed the other. Aye, she had embraced him, Thomas thought, but the gesture was cold, nothing more than a formal greeting. Nor had the steward shown any especial joy at her greeting, and his arm around her shoulders seemed placed there solely to give his stiff joints ease.

“Ah, but none of this is my concern,” Thomas muttered, and turned away. At least his offer of help in the stables would surely be greeted with relief, considering the number of horses needing care. He smiled at the prospect of hard labor.

***

When Thomas walked into the high-roofed, timbered structure, he saw a tall man leaning on his pitchfork and staring at a donkey as if the beast had just sprouted a horn in the middle of its gray forehead.

“That is Adam,” the monk said. “The creature belongs to Prioress Eleanor.”

“Eve rides Adam?” The man spun around, his mouth twisted into a lewd grin, and then realized he had addressed his jest to the wrong man. “A monk? Where did you come from?”

“Not from the Garden of Eden,” Thomas replied. “Were it otherwise, I would have failed to understand your insult to my prioress.”

“I intended no evil, Brother.”

From the man’s obvious embarrassment, Thomas decided he did mean little by his ill-mannered words and had merely spoken without thinking. He nodded acceptance of the apology. “I came to see if you needed extra hands to help with these horses.”

“You accompanied the prioress who arrived in the storm last night?”

“Aye.”

“Monks may have callused knees but rarely work-hardened hands.”

Thomas grinned and stretched out his hand, palm up. “Mine may have softened in the last several weeks, but they will soon harden again with familiar work.”

The man squinted at the monk’s hand, then shook his head with some surprise. “I’m Tobye, groom to the steward and his family.”

“Brother Thomas of the Order of Fontevraud.”

“What can you do? Surely you didn’t come here to muck out horse shit. If I can catch any of the younger boys, I make them do it.” Tobye looked around. All lads had vanished.

Thomas rolled up his sleeves and looked around for another pitchfork. Now that the groom was standing straight, the monk realized how huge he was. Thomas himself was bigger than most men, and well-muscled enough, but this fellow had broader shoulders and was taller by some inches. He was grateful his vocation demanded the avoidance of violence for this was one man he would not wish to fight.

The man shrugged, found the extra tool leaning against the wall, and handed it to the monk. “Does your prioress truly ride that worthless creature?”

“She’s a little woman.” Thomas led the insulted beast to an empty stall nearby and returned to pitch fouled straw into a mound outside the donkey’s allotted space.

“Are you are such a poor Order that she cannot afford even a sway-backed nag?”

Adam brayed loudly.

Tobye glared at the perpetrator.

“Our prioress refuses to ride a horse. If you are a good judge of the beasts, look over there.” He pointed to the sleek creature in a nearby stall. “As you can see, I am but a simple monk, but that is the horse I rode on our journey.”

The groom shook his head in amazement, then bent to his task as well.

The two worked in silence until the stalls were cleaned and fresh straw put down for the priory mounts, including Adam the donkey.

“I don’t understand,” Tobye muttered.

“What troubles you?”

“I know of no convent on this road, certainly not one that could afford to have its priest ride that fine horse.”

“Have you heard of Tyndal Priory? It is close to Norwich.”

He blinked. “That sounds like the monastery where Master Stevyn’s first wife went when she fell ill. Although the lay brothers had no cure, the mistress praised the tonic they gave her to ease pain.”

“We have a hospital at Tyndal. Prioress Eleanor is the leader there.”

“A convent of nuns then?”

“Our Order is a double house…”

“With a woman in charge?”

“The mother house is in Anjou, and our founder…”

“French.” Tobye spat.

“The Order is much favored by those who rule England.”

The man blinked. “And you are mucking out a stable? What vile sins have you committed? I can think of no other reason than penance for this work.”

“Many men, who dedicate themselves to God, do respect the vows taken.”