Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

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.