“As Saint Gregory the Great, Doctor of the Church, teaches,” he said severely and emphatically, “a nun once swallowed the Devil with a lettuce leaf from the monastery vegetable garden because she ignored the duty of praying and crossing herself before meals. Did Brother Deodatus not commit similar misdeeds?”

The Benedictines lowered their heads and the abbot cleared his throat.

“That is indeed true,” he muttered. “Brother Deodatus could be secular, extremely secular, and not dutiful enough.”

“It is then simple to fall prey to the Evil One,” Scharley concluded dryly. “Lead me to the chapel, Brothers.”

“What will you need, Master?” asked the abbot. “Holy water? A cross? Holy pictures? A benedictional?”

“Just holy water and a Bible.”

The chapel was cold and in semi-darkness, lit only by the glowing halos of candles and a slanting column of coloured light filtered through a stained-glass window. Brother Deodatus lay in the light, on a catafalque covered by a linen mortcloth. He looked as he had in the monastery infirmary an hour earlier, when Reynevan and Scharley saw him for the first time. His face was set like a wax mask and had the yellowish colour of a boiled marrowbone, his cheeks and mouth sunken, his eyes closed and his breath so shallow as to be almost imperceptible. He had been positioned with his arms—marked with wounds from bloodletting—crossed on his chest and a rosary and mauve stole entwined around his inert fingers.

A few paces from the catafalque, an immense man with shaven head, vacant gaze and the facial expression of a slow-witted child was sitting on the floor, his back resting against the wall. The giant had two fingers of his right hand in his mouth and his left hand was clutching a small clay pot to his belly. Every few seconds, the giant sniffed repulsively, peeled the dirty, sticky pot from his sticky, dirty tunic, wiped his fingers on his belly, shoved them in the pot, gathered some honey and lifted them to his mouth. Then the ritual was repeated.

“He’s an orphan, a foundling,” the abbot said, anticipating the question and seeing Scharley’s disgusted expression. “Christened ‘Samson’ by us owing to his great size and strength. He’s a servant here in the monastery, a little simple… but he loves Brother Deodatus greatly, trots behind him like a little dog… So we thought—”

“Very well, very well,” interrupted Scharley. “He may sit there as long as he stays quiet. Let us begin. Master Reinmar…”

Reynevan, imitating Scharley, hung a stole around his neck, placed his hands together in prayer and inclined his head. He didn’t know if Scharley was pretending or not, but he was praying earnestly and zealously. He was, quite simply, terrified. Scharley, meanwhile, looked absolutely confident, oozing imperious authority.

“Pray,” he instructed the Benedictines. “Say the Domine sancte.”