Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

Fidelma, with a smile, waved away a youth trying to sell them hot griddle cakes, and glanced at her elderly companion.

“Have you seen Bishop Bressal this morning?”

“I heard that he was here earlier,” Laisran replied, “but I have not seen him. He is racing his favorite horse, Ochain, today. However, I have seen the bishop’s jockey, Murchad, laying heavy wagers on himself to win with Ochain. At least Murchad shares the Bishop’s faith in himself and his horse.”

Fidelma pursed her lips reflectively.

“Ochain. I have heard of that beast. But why name a horse ‘moaner’?”

“I understand that Ochain utters a moaning sound as it senses that it is about to win. Horses are intelligent creatures.”

“More intelligent than most men, oftimes,” agreed Fidelma.

“Between ourselves, certainly more intelligent than the good Bishop,” chuckled Laisran. “He is openly boasting that he will win the race today against Fáelán’s own horse, which does not please the King. They say the King is in a sour mood at his Bishop’s bragging.”

“So Fáelán is also racing today?”

“His best horse,” confirmed the Abbot. “And, in truth, there is little doubt of the outcome for the King’s champion Illan is in the saddle and with Aonbharr beneath his thighs, no team in Laighin will even come near… not even Murchad and Ochain. And, indeed, the fact that Illan is riding the King’s horse is doubtless a matter of displeasure for Bishop Bressal.”

“Why so?” Fidelma was interested in Laisran’s gossip.

“Because Illan used to train and race Bressal’s horses before the King of Laighin offered him more money to train and ride Aonbharr.”

“Aonbharr, eh?” Fidelma had heard of the king’s horse. So fleet was it that the King had named it after the fabulous horse of the ancient god of the oceans, Manánnan Mac Lir, a wondrous steed which could fly over land and sea without missing a pace. “I have seen this horse race at the Curragh last year and no one could best it. This horse of Bressal’s better be good or the Bishop’s boasting will rebound on him.”

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, Aon-bharr, 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 Énna; and beside him was his wife, Dagháin. They were both in their mid-twenties. Énna 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.