Peter Tremayne - Hemlock at Vespers

“And did you see anyone else apart from Angaire and Murchad in that time?”

Bressal sniffed in annoyance.

“There were many people at the track. Many who might well have seen me but who they were I cannot remember.”

“I mean, did you engage with anyone else in conversation; anyone in particular… Illan himself, for example?”

Bressal stared back at her and then shook his head. She could see that he was lying by the light of anxiety in his dark eyes.

“So you did not speak to Illan this morning?” pressed Fidelma.

“I have said as much.”

“Think carefully, Bressal. Did you not go to his tent and speak with him?”

Bressal stared at her and a look of guilty resignation spread over his features.

“A man of God should not lie, Bressal,” admonished Laisran from the entrance. “Least of all, a bishop.”

“I did not kill Illan,” the man said stubbornly.

“How did you obtain that recent scar on your left cheek?” Fidelma demanded abruptly.

Bressal raised his hand automatically.

“I…” He suddenly stopped, apparently unable to think of an adequate reply. Suddenly his shoulders slumped and he seemed to grow smaller in his chair, looking like a defeated man.

“Truth is the best refuge in adversity,” Fidelma advised coldly.

“It is true that I went to Alan’s tent and argued with him. It is true that he struck me.” Bressal’s voice was sullen.

“And did you strike him back?”

“Is it not written in the Gospel of Luke: ‘Unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek offer also the other’?” parried Bressal.

“That which is written is not always obeyed. Am I to take it that you, who are obviously a man who is not poor in spirit, did not retaliate when Illan struck you?”

“I left Illan alive,” muttered Bressal.

“But you did strike him?”

“Of course I did,” snapped Bressal. “The dog dared to strike me, a prince and bishop of Laighin!”

Fidelma sighed deeply.

“And why did he strike you?”

“I… roused his anger.”

“Your argument was to do with the fact that he had once been your rider and had left your service to ride for Fáelán?”

Bressal was surprised.

“You seem to know many things, Sister Fidelma.”

“So how did you leave Illan?”

“I hit him on the jaw and he fell unconscious. Our conversation had thus ended and so I left. I did not kill him.”

“How did the argument arise?”

Bressal hung his head shamefully but once having embarked on the path of truth he decided to maintain it to the end.

“I went to his tent to offer him money to stand down from the race and return his allegiance to me.”

“Did anyone else know of your intention to bribe Illan?”

“Yes; Angaire did.”

“Your trainer?” Fidelma thought hard for a moment.

“I told Angaire that I was not happy with the way he was training my horse, Ochain. I told him that if I could persuade Illan to return, then he could look elsewhere for a job. In all my races this year, Angaire has failed to provide me with a winner.”

Fidelma turned to the silent warrior within the tent.

“How much of this story can you confirm, Sílán?”

For a moment the warrior stared at her in surprise. He glanced to Bressal, as if seeking his permission to speak.

“Tell them what happened this morning,” snapped Bressal.

Sílán stood stiffly before Fidelma, his eyes focused in the middle distance and his voice wooden in its recital.

“I came to the Curragh at-”

“Have you been personal guard to the Bishop for a long time?” interrupted Fidelma. She disliked rehearsed speeches and when she sensed one she liked to interrupt and put the reciter out of stride.

“I have,” replied the surprised guard. “For one year, Sister.”

“Go on.”

“I came to the Curragh not long after dawn to help set up the bishop’s tent.”

“Did you see Illan at this time?”

“Surely. There were many people here already. The Bishop, also Angaire, Murchad, Illan, even Fáelán and his queen and the Tan-ist…”

Fidelma was not looking at his face. Her eyes had fastened thoughtfully on the quiver at the guard’s side. One arrow seemed shorter than the others. Its feathered flight seemed to be sinking into the quiver among the other arrows.

“Turn out your quiver!” she suddenly ordered.

“What?”

ílán was gazing at her, clearly amazed at her behavior. Even Bressal was staring as if she had gone mad.

“Turn out the arrows in your quiver and place them on the table here before me,” instructed Fidelma.

Frowning, the warrior did so with no further hesitation.

Fidelma seized upon a shaft of an arrow. It was snapped off and only some six inches with its tail-feathered flight remained. There was no need for Fidelma to look for the other half among the rest of the arrows.

They watched in silent fascination as Fidelma took from her marsupium the section of the arrow which had been found by Sister Eblenn in the body of Illan. She carefully brought the two pieces together before their fixed gaze. They fitted almost perfectly.

“You seem to be in a great deal of trouble, Sílán,” Fidelma said slowly. “The head of your arrow was buried in the wound that killed Illan.”

“I did not do it!” gasped the warrior in horror.

“Is this one of your arrows?” Fidelma asked, holding out the two halves.

“What do you mean?” interrupted Bressal.

Laisran came forward with interest on his features.

“The design on the flights are the same.”

Sílán was nodding.

“Yes, it is obviously one of my arrows. Anyone will tell you that it bears the emblem of the bishop’s household.”

Fidelma turned to Laisran.

“Place the cena that we found in Illan’s tent on the table, Lais-ran.”

The Abbot did as she bid him.

Fidelma pointed to the insignia.

“And this emblem, being the same as on the arrow flight, is also the emblem of Bishop Bressal?”

Bressal shrugged.

“What of it? All the members of my household carry my insignia. Such bags as these are saddle bags, freely available among those who serve my stables.”

“Would it surprise you that this contains the mixture of poisonous herbs used to poison Aonbharr?”

Sílán and Bressal were silent.

“It could be argued that Sílán killed Illan and poisoned Aonbharr on the orders of his master, Bishop Bressal,” suggested Fidelma as if musing with an idea.

“I did not!”

“And I gave him no such order,” cried Bressal, his face turning white in horror.

“If you confessed that you were acting on the orders of Bressal,” Fidelma went on, speaking softly to Sílán, “little blame would attach to you.”

Sílán shook his head stubbornly.

“I had no such orders and did not do this thing.”

Fidelma turned to Bressal.

“The evidence was circumstantial in the first place, bishop. Yet, circumstantial as it is, it is against you. The evidence of this arrow and the cena, containing the poisons, now seem hard to refute.”

Bressal was clearly perturbed. He turned to Sílán.

“Did you slay Illan of your own volition?” he demanded.

The warrior shook his head violently and turned pleading eyes upon Fidelma. She could see the innocence in his face. The guard was clearly shocked at the evidence against him and his bishop.

“I am at a loss to explain this,” he said inadequately.

“Tell me, Sílán, have your carried your quiver of arrows all morning?”

Sílán paused to give thought to the question.

“Not all morning. I left my quiver and bow in the Bishop’s tent most of the morning while I had errands to run.”