Hemlock at Vespers

THE HORSE THAT DIED FOR SHAME

“Horse racing,” observed the Abbot Laisran of Durrow, “is a cure for all the ills of humankind. It is a surrogate for people’s aggression and for their greed. We would find the world a harsher place without its institution.”

The Abbot was a short, rotund, red-faced man with an almost exuberant sense of humor. In fact, the Abbot’s features were permanently fixed in a state of jollity for he was born with that rare gift of fun and a sense that the world was there to provide enjoyment to those who inhabited it.

Sister Fidelma of Kildare, walking at his side, answered his philosophical pronouncement with an urchinlike grin which seemed to belie her calling as a member of the religieuse of the community of Kildare.

“I doubt that Archbishop Ultan would agree with you, Laisran,” she responded, raising a hand to her forehead in a vain attempt to push back the rebellious strands of red hair which tumbled from beneath her head-dress.

The Abbot’s lips quirked in amusement as he gazed at his onetime protégée, for it had been Laisran who had urged Fidelma to study law under the renowned Brehon, Morann of Tara, and, when she had reached the qualification of Anruth, one degree below the highest rank of learning, becoming an advocate of the courts of law, he had persuaded her to join the community of Brigid.

“But the Bishop Bressal would agree with me,” he countered. “He has two horses which he races regularly and he is not averse to placing wagers on them.”

Sister Fidelma knew that Bressal, who was Bishop to Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, king of Laighin, was a keen supporter of the sport but, then, there were few to be found in the five kingdoms of Éireann who were not. Even the ancient word for a festival in Éireann, aenach, meant “the contention of horses,” when people came together to discuss weighty matters, to race their horses, to place wagers, to feast, to make merry and generally indulge in celebrations. Only recently had Ultan of Armagh, the Archbishop and primate, begun to denounce the great fairs as contrary to the Faith for, so he claimed, the fairs were merely an excuse for the people to indulge in idolatry and pagan dissoluteness. Mostly, his denouncements were ignored, even by his own clergy, for the ancient customs were so instilled in the people’s lives that it would take more than one man’s prejudice to alter or dilute them.

In fact, Ultan’s pronouncements were being ignored that very day by Abbot Laisran and Sister Fidelma as they strolled through the crowds gathering for the Aenach Life, the great annual fair held on the plain which, since the days of the High King Conaire Mór, had been called the Curragh Lifé, or “the race course of the Life,” after the name of the broad river flowing close by, twisting under the shadow of Dún Aillin. Indeed, was it not recorded that the saintly Brigid, who had founded Fidelma’s own community at nearby Kildare, had raced her own horses on this very plain? The Curragh was now the most celebrated race course in all the five kingdoms and the Aenach Lifé attracted people from all the corners of Éireann. Each year, the King of Laighin himself would come to officially open the proceedings as well as to race his own champion horses there.

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.

“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?”

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.

“So that when you came to examine the body, the arrow was in two pieces? One in the body, the other… where was that exactly?”

Sister Eblenn looked suddenly startled and peered around as if seeking the answer.

“I do not know. I presume it is somewhere about.”

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.

“The Bishop is not a likeable man.”

“And the evidence weighs heavily against him,” went on Lais-ran, as he fell into step with the religieuse. “Surely that evidence is now conclusive?”

Fidelma shook her head.

“If Bressal or Sílán had used the arrow to kill Ulan then neither would have kept hold of the incriminating half of the arrow so that it could be found so easily.”

“But, it makes sense. Either one of them could have stabbed Illan with the arrow. Then, realizing that the design on the flight would betray them, they broke off the arrow and took the incriminating part away with them …”

Fidelma smiled gently. “Leaving the cena with the poison and its insignia conspicuously in Illan’s tent? No, my good mentor, if they were that clever then they would have simply destroyed the arrow. There are enough braziers in which to have burnt it. Why place it invitingly back in the quiver where it would easily be discovered? And they would have rid themselves of the cena. Also, my friend, in the excitement you have forgotten the very fact that neither Bressal nor Sílán appears to be aware of and which demonstrates their innocence.”

Laisran looked bewildered.

“What fact?”

“The fact that the arrow was placed in the wound after Illan was dead in order to mislead us. The fact that Illan was killed by a dagger thrust and not by stabbing with the arrow.”

Laisran clapped a hand to his head. He had forgotten that very point in the agitation of Fidelma’s cross examination of Bressal and Sílán.

“Are you suggesting that there is some plot to make Bressal appear guilty?”

“I am,” confirmed Fidelma.

Laisran looked at her thunderstruck.

“Then who …?” His eyes widened. “Surely you are not suggesting that the King…? Are you saying that Fáelán might have feared that his horse would not win against Bressal’s horse and so he contrived this intricate plot…?”

Fidelma pursed her lips.

“Your hypothesis is good but there is more work to be done before the hypothesis can be used in argument.”

Énna was suddenly blocking their path.

“Have you seen Bressal, Sister?” he greeted and when she nodded he smiled grimly. “Has he now confessed his guilt?”

Fidelma regarded him for a moment.

“So you believe him to be guilty?”

Énna stood in surprise.

“Believe? Surely there is no doubt?”

“Under our laws, one must be proven guilty of the offense unless one confesses that guilt. Bressal does not accept any guilt. My investigation must show proof against him.”

“Then that is not difficult.”

“You think not?” Énna looked uncomfortable at her mocking tone. “I would have everyone concerned now gather in Fáelán’s tent: Bressal,Sílán, Angaire, Murchad, Fáelán and Muadnat, yourself and Dagháin. There I will reveal the result of my investigation.”

As Énna hurried away, Fidelma turned to Laisran.

“Wait for me at Fáelán’s tent, I will not be long.” At Laisran’s look of interrogation, she added: “I have to look for something to complete my speculation.”

At Fidelma’s request they had all crowded into the tent of Fáelán of the Uí Dúnlainge, King of the Laighin.

“This has been a most perplexing mystery,” she began when the king signaled her to speak. “What seemed simple at first began to become mysterious and obscure. That was until now.”

Fidelma smiled broadly at them.

“And now?” It was Fáelán who prompted her.

“Now all the pieces of the puzzle fit together. Firstly, the evidence against Bressal is overwhelming.”

There was a gasp of outrage from Bressal.

“It is not true. I am not guilty,” he protested indignantly.

Fidelma raised her hand for silence.

“I did not say that you were. Only that the evidence against you was overwhelming. However, if you had been guilty, or, indeed, if Sílán had carried out the deed for you, then you would have known that Illan had not been stabbed with an arrow but with a dagger. Only the real killer knew this and the person who placed the arrow in the wound. The arrow was a false scent planted in an attempt to lay a path to Bressal. It was obvious, therefore, that someone wanted me to find that evidence and draw the inevitable but wrong conclusion.”

Bressal gave a deep sigh and relaxed for the first time. Sílán, behind him, looked less defensive.

“I first approached this matter from the viewpoint of the motive, which seemed obvious,” went on Fidelma. “What immediately sprang to all minds was the idea that both Illan and the horse, Aonbharr, had been killed to prevent them taking part in the race today. Who would benefit by this? Well, Bressal, of course, for his horse, Ochain, and Murchad, his jockey, were the only serious contenders in the race other than Illan and Aonbharr. So if Bressal was not guilty, who could it have been? Who would benefit? Was it Murchad, who had laid a large wager on his winning? Laisran had already witnessed Murchad earlier this morning placing heavy wagers on himself to win.”

“No law against that!”

Murchad had flushed angrily but Fidelma ignored him and went on: “Obviously it was not Murchad for he did not have a motive. He would only have collected his winnings if he had won the race which essentially meant taking part in it. If he had murdered Illan, poisoned Aonbharr and left the trail of false clues of Bressal, then it would be obvious that Bressal would be arrested and his horse and Murchad would be disqualified from racing. That being so, Murchad would have forfeited his wager.”

Murchad nodded slowly in agreement and relief. Fidelma went blithely on.

“If not Murchad, what of Angaire, the trainer? He was not doing well for Bressal and had been told this very morning that Bressal was going to get rid of him. Bressal had made no secret of the fact that he had gone this very morning to see Illan in an attempt to persuade him to return to his stable and ride for him instead of Fáelán. Angaire had a better motive than Murchad.”

Angaire shifted uneasily where he stood. But Fidelma continued.

“You see, sticking to the line of argument about the horse race as the motive, there was only one other person with a motive who might benefit from putting the blame on Bressal.”

She turned toward Fáelán, the king. He stared at her in astonishment which swiftly grew into anger.

“Wait,” she cut his protests short. “Such a plot was too convoluted. Besides, everyone was of the opinion that Aonbharr could outdistance Ochain. There was no challenge there to be worried about. So there was no motive.”

She paused and looked around at their perplexed faces.

“It eventually became clear that the killing of Illan was not caused by rivalries on the race track. There was another motive for that crime. But was it the same motive as that for poisoning Aonbharr?”

They were all silent now, waiting for her to continue.

“The motive for Man’s death was as ageless as time. Unrequited love. Illan was young, handsome and his reputation among women was such that he had many lovers. He picked them up as one might pick up flowers, kept them until the affair withered and them threw them away. Am I not right?”

Fáelán was pale and he glanced surreptitiously at Muadnat.

“That is no crime, Fidelma. In our society, many still take second wives, husbands or lovers.”

“True enough. But one of the flowers which Illan had picked was not ready to be discarded. She went to his tent this morning and argued with him. And when he spurned her, when he said he would have no more to do with her, she, in a fit of rage, stabbed him to death. All it needed was one swift dagger blow under the rib cage.”

“If this is so,” said Énna, quietly, “why would she go to such lengths to put the blame on Bressal? Why poison Aonbharr? The laws of our society allow leniency to those who perpetrate such crimes of passion.”

Fidelma inclined her head. “A case could be made that any nonfatal injury inflicted by the woman in such circumstances does not incur liability. Our laws recognize the stirring of uncontrollable passion in such circumstances. In the matter of death she would be fined her victim’s honor price only. No other punishment would be necessary.”

“Then why, if this were so, did the woman conceal her crime, for the concealment brings forth greater punishment?” repeated Énna.

“Because there were two separate villainies at work here and one fed off the initial deed of the other,” replied Fidelma.

“I don’t understand. Who killed Illan?” Fáelán again glanced uneasily at his wife. “You say it was a woman. By attempting to conceal the crime such a woman, no matter her rank, if found guilty, would be placed into a boat with one paddle and a vessel of gruel and the mercy of God. Sister Fidelma,” his voice suddenly broke with passion, “is it Muadnat of whom you speak?”

Fáelán wife sat as if turned to stone.

Fidelma did not reply immediately but drew out of her mar-supium a belt with a bejewelled ceremonial sheath. There was a small dagger in it. She took out the dagger and handed it to Muadnat.

“Does the dagger belong to you, my lady?”

“It is mine,” Muadnat replied grimly.

Fáelán gasped in horror, as if his worst fears were confirmed.

“Then …?” he began.

Fidelma was shaking her head. “No, Dagháin killed Illan.”

There was a gasp of astonishment from the company and all eyes turned on the flushed face of Énna’s wife. Dagháin sat stunned for a moment by the revelation. Then, as if in a dream, she slowly rose to her feet and looked about her, as if searching out someone. “Liar! Betrayer!” she hissed venomously. Fidelma glanced quickly in the direction the woman was gazing and felt satisfied.

Dagháin now turned toward her and cursed her in a way which left no one in doubt as to her guilt. Énna had simply collapsed into a chair, immobile with shock.

After Dagháin had been removed to a place of confinement, Fidelma had to raise her hands to quell the questions that were thrown at her.

“Dagháin was seen coming to the Curragh early this morning. The apothecary, Sister Eblenn, saw her soon after she had been robbed which was just after breakfast. Dagháin therefore lied when she said that she had come later in the morning to the course. That lie alerted my suspicions. A suspicion which was increased when I realized that the arrow was not the murder weapon but the wound had been made by a dagger. When I first came before Fáelán, Muadnat had been wearing a ceremonial dagger sheath yet there was no dagger in it.”

“This I don’t understand,” Fáelán said. “Surely this would lay the suspicion on Muadnat?”

“Indeed, I was suspicious for a while, that I admit. But it was obvious to my eye that the dagger in Dagháin’s sheath was too small to fit comfortably in it. That I had to work out. Then I realized that she, at some stage, put Muadnat’s dagger in her sheath, is that not so?”

Muadnat spoke softly.

“She wanted an apple to calm her nerves and asked me for the loan of my dagger, saying she had mislaid her own. It was only a moment ago that I realized Dagháin had not returned it.”

“Dagháin,” Fidelma went on, “in her description of the finding of Illan, said that she had run straight to tell Énna. Yet she was seen running from his tent directly to her own tent. I searched her tent a moment ago. Thankfully, she had discarded her ceremonial belt and sheath. I was confirmed in my suspicion that the dagger did not belong to her but was that of Muadnat.”

“Then where was Dagháin’s own dagger?” demanded Laisran, intrigued.

“I found it where I suspected it would be, the blade is still covered with Illan’s blood. It was in Angaire’s saddle bag.”

Angaire, with a cry of rage, made to jump to the tent door but one of the Baoisgne, the king’s guards, stayed him with a drawn sword to his chest. Fidelma continued on without taking any notice of the drama.

“While Angaire did not kill Illan, he did poison Aonbharr, and then tried to place the guilt for both deeds on Bressal by planting the arrow and cena as evidence. Angaire’s actions obscured the real murderer of Illan. You see Angaire knew that he was about to be discarded by Bressal. I have already given you his motive. Bressal had been quite open in his intention to replace Angaire. Indeed, even if Illan had not refused Bressal’s offer to return to his stable, Angaire’s days as trainer were still numbered.

“Angaire had, I believe, already devised a plan to hurt Bressal. I believe his original intention was to poison Ochain. For that end, he stole some poisonous plants from the tent of Sister Eblenn early this morning. Then the mysteries of Fate itself took over. Angaire overheard Bressal arguing with Illan. But the plot did not occur to him then.

“It was only when he was with Murchad and Sílán a little while later, that he saw Dagháin fleeing from Alan’s tent. Her dress was disheveled and the ceremonial dagger missing. She fled to her own tent. He had made a lewd remark, an automatic remark. His companions, Sílán and Murchad, were leaving. Perhaps even before then the thought had struck him that his unthinking remark might be true and what if… his mind was thinking about the missing dagger.

“He went to Illan’s tent. There was Dagháin’s knife buried in Illan’s chest. His suspicion was right. He took out the knife with the idea growing in his mind. Here was his chance to get even with Bressal and to secure a future lucrative role for himself in the service of Dagháin. He hurried to her tent, showed her the knife, which he kept as a hold over her. He told her to wait a while before she should find her husband and tell him the story which she has subsequently told us. The reason for her to be in Illan’s tent was that she had noticed that Aonbharr was ill. This was Angaire’s addition providing a perfect excuse and an essential part of his intrigue.

“Then he hurried to Bressal’s tent, furtively took an arrow from Sílán’s quiver, broke it in two, and left one half in the quiver. The other he took, together with his cena full of poisonous herbs, and hurried to his task. He fed Aonbharr the poison. Then went into Illan’s tent and thrust the forward section of the broken arrow into the wound. He left the cena in plain sight. The false trail was laid.

“Thus two separate villainies were at work, coming together over the one great crime. And who is the greater villain-Dagháin, a pitiful, rejected woman, or Angaire, petty and vengeful, whose spite might have led to an even greater crime? I tell you this, Fáe-lán, when the time comes for Dagháin to be tried before the courts, I would like to be retained as her advocate.”

“But what made you connect Dagháin with Illan?” demanded Fáelán.

“Énna himself indicated that his wife had had an affair with Illan by a chance remark. You knew of the affair, didn’t you, Énna?”

Énna glanced up from his chair, red-eyed with emotional exhaustion. He nodded slowly.

“I knew. I did not know that she was so besotted with Illan that she would resort to such means to keep him when he finally rejected her,” he whispered. “Fáelán, I will stand down as your Tan-ist. I am not worthy now.”

The King of the Laighin grimaced.

“We will talk of this, Énna,” he said, with considerable discomfit, studiously ignoring his wife, Muadnat. “I am not without sympathy for your situation. There are doubtless several victims in this terrible drama. Yet I still do not understand why Dagháin would do this thing. She was the wife of a Tanist, heir presumptive to the throne of the Laighin, while Illan was merely a jockey. How could she behave thus simply because Illan rejected her for a new lover?”

The question was aimed at Fidelma.

“There is no simplicity about the complexity of human emotions, Fáelán,” replied Fidelma. “But if we are to seek the real victim then it is the poor beast Aonbharr. Truly, Aonbharr was a horse that died in an attempt to conceal the shame of others.”

A trumpet was sounding outside.

Fáelán bit his lip and sighed.

“That is the signal for me to open the afternoon’s race … my heart is not in it.”

He rose and automatically held out his arm to Muadnat, his wife. She hesitated before taking it, not looking at her husband. There would be much to mend in that relationship, thought Fidelma. Then Fáelán turned and called to his bishop:

“Bressal, will you come with us? Stand alongside me while I open the proceedings so that the people will clearly see that we are together and are not enemies? As neither of our horses can now enter this race let us show unity to our people for this day at least.”

Bressal hesitated before nodding his reluctant agreement.

“I’ll send your fee to Kildare, Fidelma,” Fáelán called over his shoulder. “I thank God we have Brehons as wise as you.”

After they had left the tent, Énna slowly rose. He stared at Fidelma and Laisran with sad eyes for a moment.

“I knew she was having an affair. I would have stood by her, even resign my office for her as I will now. I would not have divorced nor rejected her had she come to me with the truth. I will continue to stand by her now.”

Fidelma and Laisran silently watched him leave the tent.

“Sad,” remarked Fidelma. “It is, indeed, a sad world.”

They left the tent and began walking through the shouting, carefree masses, milling toward the race course. Fidelma smiled thinly at Laisran.

“As you were saying, Laisran, horse racing is a cure for all the ills of humankind. It is a surrogate for people’s aggression and for their greed.”

Laisran grimaced wryly but was wisely silent before the cynical gaze of his protegee.