Hemlock At Vespers (49 page)

Abbot Laisran sniffed cynically.

“You have been away traveling this year, Fidelma. Perhaps you have not heard that there is something of a feud now between the King and his bishop. Four times during the last year Bressal has presented horses at races to run against the king’s champion horse and his jockey. Four times now he has been beaten. Bressal is mortified. He has become a man with an obsession. He thinks that he is being made a fool of, especially by his former trainer and jockey. Now he has one aim, to best the King’s horse and Illan in particular. The trouble is that his very efforts are making him a laughingstock.”

Abbot Laisran raised an arm and let his hand describe a half circle in the air toward the throng around them.

“I reckon a goodly proportion of these people have come here to see Bressal humiliated yet again when Aonbharr romps pasts the winning post.”

Fidelma shook her head sadly.

“Did I not say that horses had more sense than men, Laisran? Why must a simple pleasure be turned into warfare?”

Laisran suddenly halted and turned his head.

Pushing toward them, and clearly hurrying to make contact with them, was a young man in the livery of the Baoisgne, the King of Laighin’s elite warrior guard. There was anxiety on his youthful features. He halted before them awkwardly.

“Forgive me, Abbot Laisran,” he began and then turned directly to Fidelma. “Are you Sister Fidelma of Kildare?”

Fidelma inclined her head in acknowledgment.

“Then would you come at once, Sister?”

“What is the matter?”

“It is the wish of the King, Fáelán himself.” The young man glanced quickly round before lowering his voice so that he would not be overheard by the surrounding crowds. “Illan, the King’s champion jockey, has been found… dead. The King’s horse, Aonbharr, is dying. The King’s believes that there has been foul play and has caused Bishop Bressal to be arrested.”

Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, King of Laighin, sat scowling in his tent. Fidelma and Laisran had been escorted to the veritable township of tents which had been set up for the King and chieftains and their ladies alongside the course. Often entire families would camp at the Curragh during the nine days of the meeting. Behind the tents of the nobles were the tents of the trainers, riders and owners of lesser status as well as the tents which served as stables for their horses.

Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge was a man approaching his fortieth year. His dark features, black hair and bushy eyebrows made his features saturnine. When he scowled, his face took on the appearance of a malignant spirit which caused many a person to quail in his presence and stand uneasy.

Abbot Laisran, however, who had accompanied Fidelma, stood imperturbably smiling at the king, hands folded in his robes. He was acquainted with Fáelán and knew his grim features disguised a fair and honorable man. At Fáelán’s side sat his queen, the beautiful Muadnat of the burnished hair; tall and sensual, the tales of whose amours were legend. She was richly dressed with a jewelled belt and dagger sheath at her waist, such as all noble ladies carried. But, Fidelma noticed curiously, the sheath was empty of its small ceremonial dagger. The Queen looked dejected, as if she had been given to a recent fit of weeping.

Behind the king and queen stood the Tanist, the heir-presumptive, a nephew of Fáelán’s named Enna; and beside him was his wife, Dagháin. They were both in their mid-twenties. Enna was a handsome though morose man, while his wife was almost nondescript at first glance: although she was fashionably dressed, she was without the same care as her queen for Fidelma noticed that her dress was mud-stained and disheveled. Even the bejewelled belt and sheath looked scuffed and the accompanying ceremonial dagger fitted badly. She seemed ill at ease and impatient.

Fidelma stood before the king, waiting with her hands quietly folded before her.

“I have need of a Brehon, Sister,” began Fáelán. “Énna, here,” he motioned with his head toward his Tanist, “Énna told me that you were on the course with the Abbot Laisran.”

Fidelma still waited expectantly.

“Have you heard the news?” Énna interrupted his king, who controlled a look of annoyance at the breach of protocol. As Fidelma turned her gaze, Fáelán continued before she could reply to the question.

“My champion jockey has been murdered and an attempt has been made to kill my best horse. The horse doctor tells me that the beast is already dying and will be dead before noon.”

“This much your guard told me,” Fidelma said. “Also, I am informed that Bishop Bressal has been arrested.”

“On my orders,” confirmed the King. “There is no one else who benefits from this outrage but Bressal. You see …”

Fidelma staid his explanation with a small impatient gesture of her hand.

“I have heard of your disputes over the matter of horse racing. Why do you send for me? You have your own Brehon.”

Fáelán blinked at her unceremonious address.

“He is not in attendance today,” explained the King. “And it is only permitted that a Brehon should decide whether there are grounds to hold the bishop so that he may be taken before the law courts. In the case of a bishop, who better qualified to this task than a
dálaigh
who is also a member of the religious?”

“Then let me hear the facts,” Fidelma assented. “Who discovered the body of your jockey?”

“I did.”

It was Dagháin who spoke. She was, now that Fidelma had time to assess her closely, a rather plain-looking girl, blond of hair and features which seemed without animation. The eyes were grey and cold but they did not shy away from her level gaze.

“Let me hear your story.”

Dagháin glanced toward the king as if seeking permission and, after he had nodded approvingly, she turned to Fidelma.

“It was an hour ago. I had just arrived for the races. I went into Illan’s tent. I found Illan’s body on the floor. He was dead. So I hurried to find my husband, who was with the king, and told them what I had seen.”

Dagháin’s voice was matter of fact, without guile.

Fidelma examined her closely.

“Let us go through this more carefully,” she smiled. “You arrived—from where?”

It was Énna who answered.

“My wife and I had been staying at Dun Ailinn. I came on here early this morning to meet with Fáelán.”

Fidelma nodded.

“And what made you go directly to Illan’s tent instead of coming to find your husband?”

Did Dagháin blush and hesitate a little?

“Why, I went first to see the horse, Aonbharr. He was raised in my husband’s stables before he was sold to the King. I saw that he looked unwell and went to tell Illan.”

“And found him dead?”

“Yes. I was shocked. I did not know what to do and so I ran here.”

“Did you fall in your haste?” asked Fidelma.

“Yes, I did,” admitted the girl with a puzzled expression.

“And that would explain the disarray of your dress?” Fidelma’s question was more rhetorical, but the woman nodded in hasty relief.

“I see. What was the cause of Illan’s death, were you able to see? And how was he lying?”

Dagháin reflected.

“On his back. There was blood on his clothing but I did not see anything else. I was too intent to inform my husband.”

A sob caused Fidelma to glance up quickly to where the king’s wife, Muadnat, was sitting, dabbing at her eyes with a piece of lace.

“You will forgive my wife,” interposed Fáelán quickly. “She has a horror of violence and Illan was one of our household. Perhaps she can withdraw? She has no knowledge of these events and so cannot help your deliberations.”

Fidelma glanced at the woman and nodded. Muadnat forced a small grimace of relief and gratitude, rose and left with her female attendant.

Fidelma then turned to Énna.

“Do you agree with this record thus far?”

“It is as my wife says,” he confirmed. “She came into our tent, where I was talking with Fáelán, and came in a state of distress telling us exactly what she has now told you.”

“And what did you do?”

Énna shrugged.

“I called some guards and went to the tent of Illan. He lay dead on the floor of the tent as Dagháin has described.”

“He was lying on his back?”

“That is so.”

“Very well. Continue. What then? Did you look for the cause of death?”

“Not closely. But it appeared that he had been stabbed in the lower part of the chest. I left a guard there and went with a second guard to the stable tent and saw Aonbharr. As Dagháin had said, the horse was obviously distressed. Its legs were splayed apart and its head depressed between its shoulders. There was froth around its muzzle. I know enough of horses to know that it was poisoned in some way. I called Cellach, the horse doctor, and told him to do what he could for the beast. Then I came back to report to Fáelán.”

Fidelma now turned to the King.

“And do you, Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, agree that this is an accurate account thus far?”

“Thus far, it is as Dagháin and Énna have related,” confirmed the King.

“What then? At what point did you come to believe that the culprit responsible for these events was your own bishop, Bressal?”

Fáelán gave a loud bark of cynical laughter.

“At the very point I heard the news. This year my bishop has become obsessed with beating my horse, Aonbharr. He has made vain boasts, has wagered heavily and, indeed, is deeply in debt. He has put forward a horse to race Illan in the main race of today, a horse named Ochain. It is a good horse but it would not have stood a chance against Aonbharr. It became obvious that Bressal could not afford to lose against me. If Illan and Aonbharr did not run, then Ochain would win. It is as simple as that. And Bressal hated Illan, who was once his jockey.”

Fidelma smiled softly.

“It is a well-conceived suspicion but there is not enough evidence here to arrest nor charge a man, Fáelán. If it is only this suspicion which has caused your action, then my advice is to free Bressal immediately lest he cite the law against you.”

“There is more,” Énna said quietly, and motioned to the warrior of the Baoisgne who stood at the flap of the tent. The man went out and called to someone. A moment later, a large man with a bushy beard and rough clothes entered and bowed to the King and his Tanist.

“Tell the Brehon your name and station,” Énna ordered.

The big man turned to Fidelma.

“I am Angaire, hostler to Bishop Bressal.”

Fidelma raised an eyebrow but controlled all other expression on her features.

“You are not a member of Bressal’s community in Christ,” she observed.

“No, Sister. The Bishop employed me because of my expertise with horses. I train his horse Ochain. But I am no religious.”

Angaire was a confident man, smiling and sure of himself.

“Tell Sister Fidelma what you have told us,” prompted Énna.

“Well, Bressal has often boasted how Ochain would best Aonbharr at this race and he has laid heavy wages upon the outcome.”

“Get to the main point,” pressed Fáelán irritably.

“Well, this morning, I was preparing Ochain …”

“You were to ride him in this race?” interrupted Fidelma. “I thought …”

The big man shook his head.

“Bressal’s jockey is Murchad. I am only Ochain’s trainer.”

Fidelma motioned him to continue.

“Well, I told Bressal that it was my opinion, having seen Aonbharr in a trial run yesterday, that Ochain would have difficulty in catching the beast on the straight. Bressal went berserk. I have never seen a man so angry. He would not listen to me and so I withdrew. Half an hour later I was passing the tent of Illan …”

“How did you know it was Illan’s tent?” demanded Fidelma.

“Easy enough. Each jockey has a small banner outside showing the emblem of the owner of the horse he rides. The insignia of owners are important at such gatherings as this.”

Fáelán interrupted: “This is true.”

“As I passed the tent I heard voices raised in anger. I recognized Bressal’s voice at once. The other I presumed to be that of Illan.”

“What did you do?”

Angaire shrugged.

“No business of mine. I went on to Murchad’s tent to advise him how best to handle the race, though I knew he had little chance against Illan.”

“Then?”

“As I was leaving Murchad’s tent I saw—”

“How much later was this?” interjected Fidelma again.

Angaire blinked at the interruption.

“Ten minutes probably. I can’t recall. Murchad and I did not speak for very long.”

“So what did you see?”

“I saw Bressal hurrying by. There was a red welt on his cheek. His face was suffused with anger. He did not see me. Furthermore, he was carrying something concealed under his cloak.”

“What sort of something?”

“It could have been a long, thin knife.”

Fidelma drew her brows together.

“What makes you say that? Describe what you saw exactly.”

“He held something long and thin in one hand, hidden under his cloth, it was no more than nine inches long but I have no idea of the width.”

“So you cannot take oath that it was a knife?” snapped Fidelma. “I am not here to listen to surmise and guesses but only facts. What then?”

Angaire looked grieved for a moment and then shrugged.

“I went about my business until I heard a guard telling someone that Illan had been found dead in his tent. I felt it my duty to tell the guard what I knew.”

“That guard came to me,” Énna agreed. “I later verified Angaire’s story with him.”

“And I had Bressal arrested,” confirmed Fáelán as if it ended the matter.

“What has Bressal replied to these charges?” Fidelma asked.

“He has refused to speak until a Brehon was sent for,” the King replied. “When Énna told me that you were on the course, I sent for you. Now you know as much as we. I think I have the right to hold the bishop for trial. Will you see Bressal now?”

Fidelma surprised them by shaking her head.

“I will see the body of Illan. Has a physician been in attendance?”

“None, since Illan is dead.”

“Then one needs to be sent for. I want Illan’s body examined. While that is being done, I shall see the horse, Aonbharr, and this horse doctor… what name did you say?”