But now, with horror, she felt his hand snaking around her hips. Perhaps he meant to play with Aelfric’s balls. There was nothing she could do about it. She felt his hot hand slide over her belly, and then down into the tangle of hair below—

He pulled back. ‘Tears of Christ!’ He laughed. ‘Why, lads, he’s no Aelfric! You’re a—’

Wood slammed on bone. ‘Animals! Hell-hounds!’

Elfgar howled and fell back. Aelfric’s hands were released. She slipped backwards off the table, her manuscripts sliding back with her. Frantically she fumbled at her habit.

Dom Boniface was laying about him with his walking stick, the purple scar on his face flaring. The three novices yelled and ran. Elfgar was bleeding from the back of his head, his pants around his ankles, his prick comically still erect. They clattered into tables, spilling heaps of vellum and ink pots, until at last they made it out of the door. Boniface chased them. ‘I’ve had enough of you animals! I know what you do! Never mind your confessor, I’m going to the abbot about this, and you’ll be scourged as even you have never been scourged before! ...’

The Menologium was on the floor, covered in blood and spilled ink. Aelfric lifted it to the table and tried to smooth it out.

She was distracted by a wheeze. Boniface, his burst of energy used up, had collapsed to the floor, still clinging to his stick.

She ran to him. ‘Dom Boniface. Let me help you.’

With one arm under his, she got him to his feet. He was lighter than she had imagined, frailer, and there was a strange stink about him. Perhaps it came from the purple growth that enveloped one cheek and the side of his jaw. As she walked him to a chair, she tried not to recoil.

He noticed, of course. Gasping, he said, ‘Oh, you needn’t be afraid of it, child.’

‘Afraid?’

‘Of my demon, the thing which is eating me from the outside in. I don’t fear it. I thank God for sending me an opportunity to show my strength! I have had a good life, and a long one - I’m forty-three, you know - I thank Him and praise Him.’ She got him to the chair, but he tried to kneel. ‘Join me now, child, in a prayer of gratitude.’ He closed his eyes.

She knelt, but she felt unable to concentrate. ‘Oh, Dom Boniface - the manuscripts are ruined! Even the original is covered in blood.’

‘The blood you spilled defending it. That’s no sin. Ruined? Well, perhaps. But time ruins all things. That is why we make copies, after all. Your copy may last a century or two, but when it wears out there will be another novice, in this very room, to make a fresh version, and so it will go on.’

‘But all the time I put into it—’