“And as cold.” Arcadia noted the monk’s glassy stare. “At least shut his eyes.”
Getorius grunted and closed his fingers over the dead man’s eyelids, then began an examination of his head. The sunken cheeks were shadowed by beard stubble, which was studded with bare scar spots. A few splotches reddened the pale skin, and scabby lesions crusted the shaved portion of his ear-to-ear tonsure.
“When did Behan die?” Getorius abruptly asked his wife.
“When?” Arcadia gritted her teeth and lifted the right arm to test its flexibility. It was somewhat rigid, but she knew the monk’s emaciated condition and the cold water would have retarded rigor mortis. Her estimate was a hesitant question, “Since…since about the last night hour of the day before yesterday?”
“Possibly. It’s still dark then, so Behan began his last penance before sunup.”
“Poor man,”—Arcadia touched the pale skin stretched over the monk’s prominent rib cage—“so thin.”
“Probably lived mostly on bread, with fish now and then. Not exactly banquet fare.”
When her husband scraped at small red spots on the dead man’s forearm, Arcadia bent down for a closer look, then blurted out, “He had the pox!”
“Ah…cara, these are old insect or mosquito bites,” Getorius corrected with an indulgent smile. “We’re near off shore marshes, remember?”
“Sorry,” Arcadia mumbled and plucking self-consciously at her hairnet, resolved to be more observant next time before voicing a diagnosis.
Getorius traced his fingers over the skin, pausing at white scars where Behan had been injured and healed, and wondering if some of the wounds had been self-inflicted as penances. He touched a reddish welt around the neck, then used the probe to examine inside the monk’s mouth. Arcadia turned away to keep from gagging and looked around the hovel.
The walls were constructed out of upright pine poles interwoven with thick willow branches that had been chinked with sandy mud. Daylight showed through the coating in several places where it had crumbled and fallen away. Three rough boards on the dirt floor partly covered with a gray blanket, and a rounded wooden block, served as Behan’s bed and pillow. Yellowish evergreen needles lay strewn on the bare earth around it.
Arcadia stepped around a circle of rocks framing a pit in the center of the floor. The depression was filled with cold ashes and partially burned sticks. An iron kettle hung over the pit from a chain attached to a pole rafter. The monk’s kitchen. When she noticed a clothes chest that was carved with beautifully intricate Celtic patterns, she thought it an incongruous vanity for someone who had renounced worldly goods. In contrast, Behan’s simple eating utensils lay on top—a wooden trencher and spoon, an iron knife, and a brass cup stained with a green patina.
The sturdiest article of furniture was a slant-top writing desk with a storage cabinet beneath. It stood by one of the walls, to the left of a window covered by a parchment skin that admitted light but kept out the cold. Examining the items on the desktop, Arcadia saw pots of ink, a box of quill and reed pens, and an erasing knife arranged toward the left edge. Next to them a smooth river stone kept three rolled-up manuscripts from sliding down. Above the desk, a shelf sagged under the weight of several books.
Behan’s belongings certainly reflect the reported passion that Hibernian monks have for writing and literature, she thought.
Glancing from the bookshelf to the narrow door through which Optila had brought the body, Arcadia saw a short rawhide strap, with knots tied on the ends, hanging next to the frame. It made her recall the bruise on the dead man’s neck.
“Getorius,” she called out, examining the strap, “there’s a thong here that looks like it might match the welt on Behan’s throat. Could he have been strangled?”
“By whom, and for what reason? No, Behan obviously drowned.” He beckoned to her with the probe. “As long as you are here, do you want to examine him as part of your training?”
“I…I suppose so.”
“What were those books you were looking at?”
“See for yourself,” she said, taking the probe with fingers increasingly stiff from cold.
Getorius watched her begin searching gingerly around the dead man’s head, then turned away to examine the books.
Jerome’s recent translation of the Testaments propped up smaller volumes. Getorius skimmed past a codex by Bishop Eusebius, an account of early Christianity up to the time of Constantine, and several pamphlets, then took down a parchment-bound booklet. Its title page was written in a language and alphabet style he had not seen before, but from the Latin subtitle, regulae abbatis ciallani, Getorius surmised it was a list of rules formulated by Abbot Ciallanus, who had recently brought Hibernian monasticism to northeastern Gaul.
Getorius brought the volume to Arcadia. “Do you recognize this writing?”
She glanced at the page. “It’s probably Celtic. Behan did come from Hibernia.”
“Celtic. Interesting. I didn’t think it was being written much any more.”
“He is…was Hibernian, so it’s logical Behan would write in his native language.”
Getorius grunted agreement, put the book back, then unrolled and studied the three manuscripts on the desk. “One of these is in Latin,” he called to Arcadia, “but the other two also seem to be Celtic. Hmm, they have three-word groupings and phrases…like short verses. I’m taking these back with us until someone from Behan’s order claims them. His belongings too. Bandits will clean this place out of anything we leave behind.”
Arcadia stepped back, moved the instrument case, and sat down on the chair, trembling slightly. “I…I think I’m finished.”
Getorius came behind her, kissed his wife’s hair, and began to knead her neck muscles. “Does this help relax you, cara?”
“Mmm, nicely,” she murmured.
“Sorry I was a little curt with you earlier. What did you find out about Behan?”
“Well, that long scar on his right
