Hemlock At Vespers (50 page)

“Cellach,” the King said. “He attends all my horses.”

“Very well. Your guard may escort me to the place where the animal is stabled.” She turned to Abbot Laisran, who had remained quiet during the entire proceedings. “Will you accompany me, Laisran? I have need of your advice.”

Outside as they walked in the direction which the warrior of the Baoisgne conducted them, Fidelma turned to Laisran.

“I wanted to speak to you. I noticed that Queen Muadnat seemed to be very upset by the death of Illan.”

“Your perception is keen, Fidelma,” agreed Laisran. “For example, I did not even notice the disarray of Dagháin’s clothes until you mentioned it. But Muadnat has obviously been weeping. The death of Illan has upset her.”

Fidelma smiled thinly.

“That much I know. You know more of the gossip of the court, however. Why would she be so upset?”

“Muadnat is a handsome woman with, by all accounts, a voracious appetite in sexual matters. Perhaps I should say no more for Fáelán is a tolerant monarch.”

“You are still speaking in riddles, Laisran,” sighed Fidelma.

“I am sorry. I thought you might have heard of Illan’s reputation as a ladies’ man. Illan was only one of many lovers who have graced the queen’s entourage.”

When Fidelma and Laisran reached the stable tent in which Aonbharr was, the horse was lying on its side, its great breath coming in deep grunting pants. It was clearly nearing the end. A few men were gathered around it and one of these was Cellach, the horse doctor.

He was a thin man with a brown weather-beaten face and regarded the Sister with large, sad grey eyes. He was obviously upset by the suffering of the animal.

“Aonbharr is dying,” he replied to Fidelma’s question.

“Can you confirm that the horse been poisoned?”

Cellach grimaced angrily.

“It has. A mixture of wolfsbane, ground ivy leaves and mandrake root. That is my diagnosis, Sister.”

Fidelma stared at Cellach in surprise.

The man sniffed as he saw her skepticism.

“No magic in that, Sister.”

He reached for the horse’s muzzle and gently pried it open. There were flecks of blood and spittle around the discolored gums. Amidst this mucus Fidelma could see speckles of the remains of feed.

“You can see the remnants of these poisons. Yes, someone fed the horse on a potent mixture.”

“When would such feed have been administered?” she asked.

“Not long ago,” replied Cellach. “Within the last hour or so. Such a mixture on this beast would have an almost instantaneous effect.”

Fidelma laid a gentle hand on the big animal’s muzzle and stroked it softly.

The great soft brown eyes flickered open, stared at her and then the beast let out a grunting breath.

“Are there no other signs of violence inflicted on it?” she asked.

Cellach shook his head.

“None, Sister.”

“Could Aonbharr have eaten some poisonous plants by accident?” asked Laisran.

Cellach shrugged.

“While tethered in its stable here? Hardly likely, Abbot. Even in the wilderness, horses are intelligent and sensitive creatures. They usually have a sense of things that will harm them. Apart from the fact that one would not find mandrake root or wolfsbane around these parts. And how would it crush ivy leaves? No, this was a deliberate act.”

“Is there no hope for the animal?” asked Fidelma sadly.

Cellach grimaced and shook his head.

“It will be dead by noon,” he replied.

“I will see Illan’s body now,” Fidelma said quietly, turning toward the tent of the king’s jockey.

“Are you Sister Fidelma?”

As Fidelma entered the tent of Illan she found a religieuse straightening up from the body of the man who lay on its back on the floor. The woman was big-boned with large hands and an irritable expression on her broad features. On Fidelma’s acknowledgment she went on: “I am Sister Eblenn, the apothecary from the community of the Blessed Darerca.”

“Have you examined the body of Illan?”

Sister Eblenn made a swift obeisance to Laisran as he entered the tent before answering Fidelma.

“Yes. A fatal stabbing. One wound in the heart.”

Fidelma exchanged a glance with the Abbot.

“Is there sign of the knife?”

“The wound was not made by a knife, Sister.” The apothecary was confident.

Fidelma controlled her irritation at the pause.

“Then by what?” she demanded, when there had been a sufficient silence and the religieuse had made no attempt to amplify her statement.

Sister Eblenn pointed to the table. A broken arrow lay on it. It was the front half of the arrow, about nine inches of the shaft and head. It was splintered where the shaft had been snapped in two.

Fidelma reached forward and took up the section of arrow. She could see that it was covered with blood and it was clear that Sister Eblenn had taken it from the wound.

“Are you telling us that Illan was stabbed in the heart with this arrow?” intervened Abbot Laisran. “Stabbed, you say, not shot with the arrow?”

Sister Eblenn pursed her lips and regarded him dourly.

“Have I not said so?” she asked petulantly.

Fidelma’s voice was brittle.

“No; so far you have not explained matters at all. Tell us what you have discovered and be specific.”

Eblenn blinked. She was obviously unused to people questioning her. She was given to assuming knowledge on the part of others and did not explain herself clearly. She flushed angrily at the rebuke.

“The dead man,” she began slowly, speaking in wooden but distinct tones, like a petulant child explaining the obvious, “was stabbed in the heart. The instrument was this arrow. Whoever killed him thrust the arrow under the rib cage, avoiding the sternum and thrusting with some force upward so that it entered the heart. Death was instantaneous. There was little bleeding.”

“Why do you discount the arrow being shot into the body?” insisted Abbot Laisran.

“The angle of incision is of such a degree that it would be impossible unless the archer was standing five feet away and shooting upward at a forty-five degree angle at least five feet below the target. There is also the fact that the arrow snapped in two. I believe the impact of the blow, the arrow gripped hard in the hand of the attacker, was the cause of its breaking.”

“I presume that you cut out the arrowhead?”

Eblenn pursed her thin lips and shook her head.

“The head is part of the shaft, simply a carved wooden point. I did not cut the arrow out at all but merely pulled it out. As it went in, so it came out. It was easy enough.”

Fidelma sighed deeply.

“So that when you came to examine the body, the arrow was in two pieces? One in the body, the other… where was that exactly?”

Sister Eblenn looked suddenly startled and peered around as if seeking the answer.

“I do not know. I presume it is somewhere about.”

Fidelma bit her lip. Extracting information from Sister Eblenn was like fishing for trout. One had to cast about blindly.

For a moment or two she stood looking down at the arrow. She became aware that Sister Eblenn was speaking.

“What?”

“I said, I must return to my apothecary’s tent. I have already had one theft this morning and do not want to chance another.”

Fidelma swung round with sudden interest.

“What was taken from your tent?”

“Some herbs, that is all. But herbs cost money.”

“And these herbs—were they mandrake root, wolfsbane and crushed ivy?”

“Ah, you have spoken to the Lady Dagháin?”

Fidelma’s eyes rounded slightly. “What has the Lady Dagháin to do with this matter?”

“Nothing. She was passing my tent just after I discovered the theft. I asked her to inform her husband as the Tanist has charge of the royal guards.”

“When exactly was this?”

“Just after the breakfast hour. Early this morning. Queen Muadnat had come by requesting a balm for a headache. It was soon after that I noticed the herbs were gone. Then, as I was going to breakfast, I saw the Lady Dagháin and told her.”

After Sister Eblenn had left, still showing some bewilderment, Laisran grimaced.

“So now we know where the killer obtained the poison.”

Fidel nodded absently. While Laisran watched silently, Fidelma lowered herself to her knees and began to examine the body. Then she motioned Laisran to join her.

“Look at the wound, Laisran,” she said. “It seems our Sister Eblenn is not as perceptive as she should be.”

Laisran peered closely to where Fidelma indicated.

“No pointed arrowhead made that wound,” he agreed after a moment. “It is more of a gash, such as a broad-bladed knife would have made.”

“Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma.

For a while she searched all around the body in ever-increasing circles to cover the whole floor of the tent. There was nothing on the floor except for a leather
cena,
a medium-sized bag, which she placed on a tabletop. She could not find what she was expecting to discover and climbed back to her feet. She took up the splintered arrow again and stared at it as if perplexed. Then she thrust it into the
marsupium
or purse which she always carried.

She gazed down to study Illan’s features for a final time. Laisran was right; he had been a handsome young man. But his face was a little too handsome to attract her. She could imagine the self-satisfaction of his expression while he was in life.

Abbot Laisran coughed, as if to remind her of his presence.

“Do you have any ideas?” he asked.

She smiled at her old mentor.

“None that makes sense at this moment.”

“While you have been examining the corpse, I have examined this
cena
which you found in a corner of the tent. I think that you’d better look in it.”

Frowning, Fidelma did so. There was a mixture of herbs inside. She picked out a handful and sniffed suspiciously. Then she turned to Laisran with wide eyes.

“Are they what I suspect them to be?” she asked.

“Yes,” confirmed Laisran. “Mandrake root, wolf’s bane and ivy leaves. Moreover, there is a small insignia on the cena and it is not the same one as I noticed on Sister Eblenn’s apothecary’s bag.”

Fidelma pursed her lips as though to whistle but did not do so.

“This is a mystery that goes deep, Laisran,” she reflected slowly. “We must discover the owner of the insignia.”

Énna suddenly entered the tent.

“Ah, there you are, Sister. Have you seen enough here?”

“I have seen all that I can see,” Fidelma replied.

She gestured down at Illan’s body. “A sad end for one who was so young and talented in his profession.”

Énna sniffed deprecatingly.

“Many a husband would not agree with you, Sister.”

“Ah? You mean the queen?” Laisran smiled.

Énna blinked rapidly and looked embarrassed. Many knew of the gossip of Muadnat’s affairs but none in the court circle would openly discuss them.

“Doubtless,” he turned to Fidelma, “you will want to see Bishop Bressal now? He is upset that you have not gone directly to see him.”

Fidelma suppressed a sigh.

“Before we do so, Énna, perhaps you can help. I believe, as Tanist, that you have a knowledge of insignia, don’t you?”

Énna made an affirmative gesture.

“What insignia is this?” Fidelma showed him the cena Laisran had discovered.

Énna didn’t hesitate.

“That is the insignia of Bishop Bressal’s household.”

Fidelma’s lips thinned while Laisran could not hold back an audible gasp.

“I would not wish to keep the good Bishop waiting longer than is necessary,” Fidelma said, with soft irony in her voice. “We will see him now.”

“Well, Bressal, tell me your story,” invited Fidelma as she seated herself before the agitated portly figure of the king of Laighin’s bishop. Bressal was a large, heavily built man, with pale, babylike features and a balding head. One of the first things she noticed was that Bressal had a red welt on his left cheek.

Bressal frowned at the young religieuse before glancing across to acknowledge Abbot Laisran who had followed her into the tent and taken a stand with folded arms by the tent flap. The only other occupant of the tent was a tall warrior of Bressal’s personal household for the Bishop’s rank and position entitled him to a bodyguard.

“You have seated yourself in my presence without permission, Sister,” Bressal thundered ominously.

Fidelma regarded him calmly.

“I may be seated in the presence of any provincial king without permission,” she informed him icily. “I am a
dálaigh,
an advocate of the courts, qualified to the level of
Anruth.
Therefore, I can sit even in the presence of the High King, though with his permission. I am—”

Bressal waved a hand in annoyance. He was well informed on the rules of the rank and privileges of the Brehons.

“Very well
Anruth.
Why were you not here sooner? The sooner I am heard, the sooner I can be released from this outrageous imprisonment.”

Fidelma eyed the bishop with distaste. Bressal was certainly a haughty man. She could well believe the stories that she had heard about him and this vanity of racing against the king of Laighin’s horse.

“If you wish speed and urgency in this matter, it would be better to answer my questions without interpolating any of your own. Now, to this matter …”

“It is not clear?” demanded the bishop with outrage in his voice. “Fáelán is trying to blame me for something that I have not done. That much is simple. He has probably done this evil deed himself to discredit me, knowing my horse would have beaten his.”

Fidelma sat back with raised eyebrows.

“Counter accusations come better when you can demonstrate your own innocence. Tell me of your movements this morning.”

Bressal bit his lip and was about to argue and then he shrugged and flung himself onto a chair.

“I came to the race track with my personal guard, Sílán.” He gestured to the silent warrior. “We came straightaway to see Ochain, my horse.”

“Who had brought Ochain here?”

“Why, Angaire, my trainer, and Murchad, my rider.”