Ilsa dismounted, tethered Rose to a tree branch, and began to move toward the sounds of battle. She needed to see exactly what was happening, what the enemy's strength was, before she could do anything. It would take too long to race back to Clachdirom and get help. There was always the chance that no help would be needed.
At the very edge of the wood, she caught her first sight of all she had feared. Diarmot was in a fight for his life against four men. She quickly sprawled on her stomach on the ground and peered around a knot of brambles growing at the base of a tree. Unless the men ran into the wood, she felt sure they would not see her.
Every part of her tensed with the need to race to Diarmot's aid, but, despite the icy fear that she was about to witness her husband's murder, Ilsa held fast.
Her sudden appearance might well serve to distract the men attacking Diarmot, but it could also dangerously distract her husband as well. Worse, she could easily fall into the hands of Diarmot's foes and become just another weapon to use against him. Yet, to do nothing seemed wrong.
Ilsa decided charging the group on Rose was her only choice. She was good with her dagger, very good, and felt sure she could take down at least one man with it. Even Sigimor liked to brag about her keen eye in throwing her dagger.
She would just have to hope Diarmot would be quick to take advantage of the distraction she caused.
Just as she started to move, all hope of saving Diarmot was lost. Ilsa pressed her fists against her mouth to stop herself from screaming as Diarmot disappeared off the edge. Her whole body shook with the need to move, to run to the place where Diarmot had fallen, but she stayed hidden, watching her husband's murderers through tear-filled eyes.
Forcing herself to concentrate, Ilsa studied each man as he stood there peering over the edge of the ridge. As the men argued the wisdom of lingering long enough to make sure Diarmot was dead, she fixed their images in her mind.
She also studied their horses, fighting to recall all the little ways Tait had told her how to distinguish one horse from another beside their color and size.
Ilsa was determined that these men would be hunted down and brought to justice.
After a futile attempt to catch Diarmot's horse Challenger, the men rode away, but Ilsa still did not move. She needed to be sure the men would not return, would not suddenly decide they did need to make sure they had killed Diarmot. Ilsa realized she was also terrified to see that Diarmot was truly dead, broken upon the rocks, and that this was not just some horrible nightmare.
When she finally moved, her whole body ached and she realized how tensely she had held herself as she had fought her need to run to her husband. She finally began to move, each step easier than the last, and went to get her horse. As she led Rose toward the ridge, she discovered she had lost all urge to run. She did not want to view her husband's body; she wanted to race back to Clachthrom and send someone else to do it. Ilsa took several deep breaths and beat down her fear and grief. This was her duty as Diarmot's wife.
The moment she reached the spot where she had last seen Diarmot, Challenger trotted up to her. "Och, laddie," she murmured as she stroked his neck and saw several wounds marring his gray-speckled hide, "ye gave it your best try, didnae ye?" She took a moment to make sure the wounds were shallow, then lightly tethered the gelding and her mare to the same stunted tree struggling to grow in the rocky soil. "Just be patient, laddie. We will soon get ye home and have your wounds tended to."
Her first glance over the edge made her heart clench with grief and fear.
Diarmot was sprawled facedown on a narrow ledge, but had not fallen all the way down the rocky slope to break upon the large stones at the bottom. Ilsa pulled the back of her skirts through her legs and secured them at her waist so they would not get in her way as she climbed down to Diarmot.
It proved a relatively easy climb, despite the steepness of the slope. Ilsa was surprised at least one of the men who had attacked Diarmot had not tried it, but also relieved. If there was even the smallest chance that Diarmot had survived the fall, those men would have cut his throat.
Ilsa knelt at Diarmot's head and clenched her hands into tight fists, afraid to touch him and feel the undeniable chill of death. He certainly looked dead, pale and covered with blood as he was. The blood from whatever head wound he had suffered showed clearly upon his fair hair and was smeared over the side of his wan face. It was no wonder the men thought him dead.
Ignoring how her hand shook, she reached out to touch him. Beneath her fingers his skin was warm. Her heart lodged in her throat. As she tried to edge her hand beneath him to search for a heartbeat, he groaned. Ilsa collapsed slightly, bending forward until her cheek rested against his hair, and she wept.
It took her a few moments to compose herself.
"Diarmot?" she called softly as she wiped some of the blood from his face with her handkerchief. "Diarmot? Can ye hear me?"