Fidelma bit her lip. Extracting information from Sister Eblenn was like fishing for trout. One had to cast about blindly.
For a moment or two she stood looking down at the arrow. She became aware that Sister Eblenn was speaking.
“What?”
“I said, I must return to my apothecary’s tent. I have already had one theft this morning and do not want to chance another.”
Fidelma swung round with sudden interest.
“What was taken from your tent?”
“Some herbs, that is all. But herbs cost money.”
“And these herbs-were they mandrake root, wolfsbane and crushed ivy?”
“Ah, you have spoken to the Lady Dagháin?”
Fidelma’s eyes rounded slightly. “What has the Lady Dagháin to do with this matter?”
“Nothing. She was passing my tent just after I discovered the theft. I asked her to inform her husband as the Tanist has charge of the royal guards.”
“When exactly was this?”
“Just after the breakfast hour. Early this morning. Queen Muad-nat had come by requesting a balm for a headache. It was soon after that I noticed the herbs were gone. Then, as I was going to breakfast, I saw the Lady Dagháin and told her.”
After Sister Eblenn had left, still showing some bewilderment, Laisran grimaced.
“So now we know where the killer obtained the poison.”
Fidel nodded absently. While Laisran watched silently, Fidelma lowered herself to her knees and began to examine the body. Then she motioned Laisran to join her.
“Look at the wound, Laisran,” she said. “It seems our Sister Eblenn is not as perceptive as she should be.”
Laisran peered closely to where Fidelma indicated.
“No pointed arrowhead made that wound,” he agreed after a moment. “It is more of a gash, such as a broad-bladed knife would have made.”
“Exactly so,” agreed Fidelma.
For a while she searched all around the body in ever-increasing circles to cover the whole floor of the tent. There was nothing on the floor except for a leather cena, a medium-sized bag, which she placed on a tabletop. She could not find what she was expecting to discover and climbed back to her feet. She took up the splintered arrow again and stared at it as if perplexed. Then she thrust it into the marsupium or purse which she always carried.
She gazed down to study Illan’s features for a final time. Laisran was right; he had been a handsome young man. But his face was a little too handsome to attract her. She could imagine the self-satisfaction of his expression while he was in life.
Abbot Laisran coughed, as if to remind her of his presence.
“Do you have any ideas?” he asked.
She smiled at her old mentor.
“None that makes sense at this moment.”
“While you have been examining the corpse, I have examined this cena which you found in a corner of the tent. I think that you’d better look in it.”
Frowning, Fidelma did so. There was a mixture of herbs inside. She picked out a handful and sniffed suspiciously. Then she turned to Laisran with wide eyes.
“Are they what I suspect them to be?” she asked.
“Yes,” confirmed Laisran. “Mandrake root, wolf’s bane and ivy leaves. Moreover, there is a small insignia on the cena and it is not the same one as I noticed on Sister Eblenn’s apothecary’s bag.”
Fidelma pursed her lips as though to whistle but did not do so.
“This is a mystery that goes deep, Laisran,” she reflected slowly. “We must discover the owner of the insignia.”
Énna suddenly entered the tent.
“Ah, there you are, Sister. Have you seen enough here?”
“I have seen all that I can see,” Fidelma replied.
She gestured down at Illan’s body. “A sad end for one who was so young and talented in his profession.”
Énna sniffed deprecatingly.
“Many a husband would not agree with you, Sister.”
“Ah? You mean the queen?” Laisran smiled.
Énna blinked rapidly and looked embarrassed. Many knew of the gossip of Muadnat’s affairs but none in the court circle would openly discuss them.
“Doubtless,” he turned to Fidelma, “you will want to see Bishop Bressal now? He is upset that you have not gone directly to see him.”
Fidelma suppressed a sigh.
“Before we do so, Énna, perhaps you can help. I believe, as Tanist, that you have a knowledge of insignia, don’t you?”
Énna made an affirmative gesture.
“What insignia is this?” Fidelma showed him the cena Laisran had discovered.
Énna didn’t hesitate.
“That is the insignia of Bishop Bressal’s household.”
Fidelma’s lips thinned while Laisran could not hold back an audible gasp.
“I would not wish to keep the good Bishop waiting longer than is necessary,” Fidelma said, with soft irony in her voice. “We will see him now.”
“Well, Bressal, tell me your story,” invited Fidelma as she seated herself before the agitated portly figure of the king of Laighin’s bishop. Bressal was a large, heavily built man, with pale, babylike features and a balding head. One of the first things she noticed was that Bressal had a red welt on his left cheek.
Bressal frowned at the young religieuse before glancing across to acknowledge Abbot Laisran who had followed her into the tent and taken a stand with folded arms by the tent flap. The only other occupant of the tent was a tall warrior of Bressal’s personal household for the Bishop’s rank and position entitled him to a bodyguard.
“You have seated yourself in my presence without permission, Sister,” Bressal thundered ominously.
Fidelma regarded him calmly.
“I may be seated in the presence of any provincial king without permission,” she informed him icily. “I am a dálaigh, an advocate of the courts, qualified to the level of Anruth. Therefore, I can sit even in the presence of the High King, though with his permission. lam-”
Bressal waved a hand in annoyance. He was well informed on the rules of the rank and privileges of the Brehons.
“Very well Anruth. Why were you not here sooner? The sooner I am heard, the sooner I can be released from this outrageous imprisonment.”
Fidelma eyed the bishop with distaste. Bressal was certainly a haughty man. She could well believe the stories that she had heard about him and this vanity of racing against the king of Laighin’s horse.
“If you wish speed and urgency in this matter, it would be better to answer my questions without interpolating any of your own. Now, to this matter…”
“It is not clear?” demanded the bishop with outrage in his voice. “Fáelán is trying to blame me for something that I have not done. That much is simple. He has probably done this evil deed himself to discredit me, knowing my horse would have beaten his.”
Fidelma sat back with raised eyebrows.
“Counter accusations come better when you can demonstrate your own innocence. Tell me of your movements this morning.”
Bressal bit his lip and was about to argue and then he shrugged and flung himself onto a chair.
“I came to the race track with my personal guard, Sílán.” He gestured to the silent warrior. “We came straightaway to see Ochain, my horse.”
“Who had brought Ochain here?”
“Why, Angaire, my trainer, and Murchad, my rider.”
“At what time was this? Tell me in relationship to the finding of Illan’s body?”
“I do not know when it was discovered but I was here about an hour before that oaf Fáelán had me arrested.”
“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.”
“What kind of errands?”
“To find Murchad, for example. I found him talking with Angaire near Illan’s tent at the time we saw the lady Dagháin come
out, white-faced, and go running to her tent. I remember that Angaire passed some unseemly and lewd remark. I left Angaire and returned here with Murchad.”
“So the quiver of arrows was in this tent while you went to find the Bishop’s jockey at the Bishop’s request?” Fidelma summed up. “The bishop was alone in the tent, then?”
Once more a look of indignation caused Bressal’s face to flush.
“If you are saying that I took an arrow and went to kill Illan…” he began.
“Yet you were alone in this tent at that time?”
“Some of the time,” admitted Bressal. “Sílán left his weapons most of the morning and we were constantly in and out of the tent. Also, there were visitors coming and going. Why, even Fáelán and his wife, Muadnat, were here for a moment.”
Fidelma was surprised. “Why would he come here? You had become bitter rivals.”
“Fáelán merely wanted to boast about Aonbharr.”
“Was that before or after you had your argument with Illan?”
“Before.”
“And Muadnat was with him?”
“Yes. Then Énna came by.”
“What for?”
“To beg me to withdraw Ochain from the race, saying my argument with Fáelán was an embarassment to the kingdom. This is pointless. Angaire and Murchad were here as well…”
“Was Énna’s wife, the lady Dagháin, one of your visitors?” queried Fidelma.
The bishop shook his head. “However, if you are looking for an opportunity to take an arrow and kill Illan, why, several people had that opportunity.”
“And what about the cena full of poison herbs?”
“All I can say is that it bears my insignia but I have no knowledge of it.”
Fidelma smiled thinly and turned to Laisran. “Walk with me a moment.”
Bressal stared at her in outrage as she made to leave his tent.
“What do you propose to do?” he demanded.
Fidelma glanced across her shoulder toward him.
“I propose to finish my investigation, Bressal,” she said shortly before stepping through the flap, followed by the bewildered Laisran.
Outside, Fáelán had posted several of his elite guards to keep the Bishop a prisoner.
“You do not like the good Bishop,” Laisran reflected once they were outside.
Fidelma gave her urchinlike grin.
Hemlock at Vespers sf-9 Page 39
