Hemlock at Vespers sf-9

by Peter Tremayne

  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 Elan’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 Dún 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, Bres-sal?”

  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 Aon-bharr 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 Fldelma. “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 Aon-bharr in a trial run yesterday, that Oc
hain 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 An-gaire’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?”

  “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 Aon-bharr 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.”