“Why? I’m telling you the honest truth and I believe in the principle of free speech. The freedom—”

“Be quiet, dammit. I heard something. Someone’s sneaking up on us—”

“Probably a werewolf!” Scharley chuckled. “A terrible manwolf, the scourge of the parish!”

As they were leaving the monastery, the thoughtful monks had warned them to be on their guard. They said that for some time, especially during the full moon, a dangerous lykanthropos or werewolf had been prowling the vicinity. The warning had greatly amused Scharley, who for a good few furlongs had split his sides laughing and mocked the superstitious monks. Reynevan didn’t really believe in werewolves, either, but he didn’t laugh along with Scharley.

“I can hear footsteps,” he said, pricking up his ears. Somebody was approaching, there was no doubt.

A jay in the undergrowth screeched in alarm. The horses snorted. A branch snapped. Scharley shielded his eyes against the setting sun.

“The Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s all we need. Have a look, someone’s arrived.”

“It might be…” stammered Reynevan. “It’s—”

“The colossus from the Benedictine abbey,” said Scharley, confirming Reynevan’s suspicions. “The priory giant, Beowulf the Honey-Eater. The pot-licker with the biblical name. What did they call him? Goliath?”

“Samson.”

“That’s right, Samson. Pay no attention to him.”

“But what’s he doing here?”

“Pay no attention and he might just go his own way, wherever that leads.”

But it didn’t look as though Samson intended to go. On the contrary, it looked as though he had reached his destination, for he was lounging on a tree stump a few yards away with his chubby, gormless face turned towards them. But his face was clean, much cleaner than before, and the dried-on mucus was gone from under his nose. What’s more, the smock he was wearing was freshly laundered. In spite of that, he still exuded a faint smell of honey.

“Oh well,” said Reynevan, clearing his throat. “Politeness requires—”

“I knew it,” interrupted Scharley, sighing. “I knew you’d say that. Hey, you there! Samson! Vanquisher of the Philistines! Are you hungry?”

Without waiting for a reaction, Scharley tossed a piece of black pudding towards the colossus, as one would a treat at a dog or cat. “Grub! Do you understand? Grub, over here! Foodies! Yum-yum! Do you want some?”

“Thank you,” the giant replied, unexpectedly clearly and alertly, “but I’ll decline. I’m not hungry.”

“This is a strange matter,” muttered Scharley, leaning towards Reynevan’s ear. “How did he get here? Was he following us? After all, he supposedly trails after Brother Deodatus, our recent patient… We’re at least a mile from the priory, so he must have set off immediately after us and followed our trail at a brisk pace. To what end?”

“Ask him.”

“I will. At the right moment. For now, just to be sure, let’s talk in Latin.”

“Bene.”