“Certes,” Scharley retaliated with Samson’s answer. “I know. But you, Brother, came to our camp and not the other way around. Which is why it behoves you to introduce yourself. Without waiting until you’re unmasked.”

“Scharley,” Reynevan interrupted, sounding serious. “I think he’s speaking the truth. We called him forth as a result of our exorcism. Why can’t you see the obvious? Why—”

“Because, unlike you, I’m not naive,” interrupted the penitent. “And I know exactly who he is, how he ended up at the Benedictine priory and what he wants from us.”

“So who am I?” The giant smiled a not-at-all foolish smile. “Tell me, please. Forthwith. Before I’m consumed by curiosity.”

“You’re a wanted fugitive, Samson Honey-Eater. An escapee. Judging from your colloquialisms, probably a runaway priest. You hid from your pursuers in the priory, pretending to be a halfwit, assisted considerably by your appearance—no offence meant. Since you’re clearly not a halfwit, you instantly saw through us… or rather me. You weren’t listening to us idly. You want to flee to Hungary and knew it would be difficult by yourself. Our company—a company of cunning and worldly men—is heaven sent for you. You’d like to join us. Am I right?”

“No, you’re wide of the mark in every detail but one: I did see through you right away.”

“Aha.” Scharley stood up. “So I’m mistaken, but you speak the truth. Go on, prove it. You’re a supernatural being, a resident of the beyond, from which our exorcism accidentally extricated you. In that case, show us your power. May the earth shake. May there be thunder and lightning. May the sun rise again in the night. May the frogs in the swamp sing in unison the Lauda Sion Salvatorem instead of croaking.”

“I’m unable to make any of those things happen. And even if I were, would you believe me if I told you so?”

“No,” admitted Scharley. “I’m not by nature gullible. And on top of that, the Bible says: ‘Believe not every spirit. Because many false prophets are gone out into the world.’ In short: liars, liars and more liars.”

“I don’t like to be called a liar,” replied the giant, gently and calmly.

“Oh, indeed?” The penitent lowered his hands, leaning slightly forward. “What do you do when you’re lied to, then? Personally, I dislike hearing barefaced lies so much that I’ve been known to break the liar’s nose.”

“Don’t try it.”

Although Scharley was a head shorter than Samson, Reynevan had no doubt what to expect. He’d already seen it. A kick to the shin, just below the knee, the victim receiving a punch in the nose as he fell forward, the bone breaking with a crunch and blood spurting over his clothes.