“Lead on, honourable Father Abbot,” said Scharley, swallowing loudly. “Lead on.”

Reynevan wiped his mouth and stifled a belch. The beavers’ tails, stewed in a thick horseradish sauce and served with kasha, turned out to be delicious. Until then, Reynevan had only heard of that speciality. He knew that in some monasteries it was eaten during fasts, since for some obscure reason beaver was considered to be something like fish. It was, however, quite a rare delicacy, since not every abbey had beaver lodges in the vicinity and not all of them had hunting privileges. But the great pleasure of eating this titbit was marred by anxious thoughts of the task awaiting them. Although, he mused, scrupulously wiping his bowl with a hunk of bread, no one can take away what I’ve just eaten.

Scharley, who had made short work of quite a small portion—it was a fast day, after all—was now pontificating.

“Various authorities have voiced their opinions regarding devilish possession,” he said. “The greatest of them—men who are no doubt familiar to you—are both sainted fathers and Doctors of the Church such as Basil, Isidor of Seville and Gregory of Nazianzus. Surely the works of Tertullian, Origen and Lactantius are known to you?”

Some of the Benedictines present in the refectory nodded eagerly and others lowered their heads.

“But those sources of knowledge are quite general,” Scharley continued to explain, “and thus a serious exorcist cannot restrict his learning to them alone.”

The monks nodded again, sedulously eating up the kasha and sauce in their bowls. Scharley sat up straight and cleared his throat.

“I know Michael Psellos’s Dialogus de energia et operatione daemonum,” he announced somewhat proudly. “I know by heart excerpts from Exorcisandis obsessis a daemonio, a work by Pope Leon III. I also know the Book of the Secrets of Enoch, but that’s nothing to boast about since everybody does. While my assistant, the courageous Master Reinmar, has even deeply explored Saracen writings, keenly aware of the risks that contact with the magic of the pagan carries with it.”

Reynevan blushed. The abbot smiled benignly, taking it as a sign of modesty.

“Verily!” he announced. “Why, I see that you are scholars and experienced exorcists. I wonder, do you have many devils to your name?”

“In truth,” Scharley lowered his eyes, as modest as a Poor Clare novice, “I can’t compete with records. The most devils I’ve managed to cast out of a possessed person at one time is nine.”

“Indeed,” said the abbot, clearly worried, “that is not many. I’ve heard of Dominicans who—”