Chambers of Death by Priscilla Royal Read Free Book Online Page B

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