Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“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 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?”