When Michael tapped on the door there was a sound of running footsteps, the grille on the gate was snapped open and Tysilia peered out. ‘Oh, it is you,’ she said to Michael, sounding pleased. ‘We always like visits from Dominicans and Franciscans.’ ‘I am a Benedictine, not a Dominican,’ said Michael, offended. ‘You should be able to tell the difference; you wear the habit of a Benedictine novice yourself.’ Tysilia shook her head in evident impatience with herself. ‘Dame Martyn told me that I could always tell a Benedictine from a Dominican because Benedictines are fat. I must remember that!’ Bartholomew glanced at Michael and smiled. ‘I said I would punch the next man who called me fat,’ muttered Michael in reply. ‘And Tysilia is no man.’ ‘She is not,’ agreed Timothy, not bothering to mask his distaste. ‘I keep forgetting that Black Monks and Black Friars are different,’ Tysilia went on cheerfully.
