“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
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
Bressal waved a hand in annoyance. He was well informed on the rules of the rank and privileges of the Brehons.
“Very well
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.
