Chambers of Death by Priscilla Royal

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.”
    Tobye jabbed the fork tines several times into the earth to clean them. “My tongue has a keener edge to it than is wise for a man of my low status. I beg pardon for any offense, Brother.”
    Thomas grinned. “Candor is a trait I may value, but I gather you have made enemies with it?”
    “Not so much for that, Brother.” He winked.
    Opting to ignore the lewd inference, Thomas turned down his sleeves and put up the pitchfork. “As long as you do not offend your master.”
    Tobye fell