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.”