Och, nay. They are trotting o'er hill and dale looking for your enemies when your enemies are right here knocking ye off cliffs."
When the blanket suddenly came out from beneath Diarmot, Ilsa fell back and sat down on the ground, hard. Cursing softly, she rose to her knees, tossed that blanket over the litter, grabbed one of Diarmot's arms and pulled him toward the litter. Then she did the same by grasping one of his legs. She continued the arduous process until she had his body propped up on the edge of the litter.
"I think my arms are going to be several inches longer after this," she said, reaching across the litter to grab him by his doublet and pull. "If ye wake up after I get ye on this litter, I will be verra angry." She pulled again. "Twould be just like a mon, though. Let the woman do all the hard work whilst he rests his heavy bones, then wake and smile and ask what there is to eat."
"Ilsa."
By the time Ilsa recognized the voice which had called her name, she had already turned toward it, pulled out her dagger, and prepared to throw it.
Sigimor was quicker, however. He caught her by the wrist and took her knife from her hand.
"Curse it, Sigimor, I could have stabbed ye," she said, accepting her knife back and sheathing it. "Ye shouldnae creep up on a person that way." She smiled weakly at Tait and Nanty as they moved closer.
"If ye dinnae wish to be surprised, ye should be quiet," said Sigimor, bending to lift Diarmot and set him down on the litter. "Ye didnae hear me because ye were too busy complaining about men. What happened?"
Irritated by how easily Sigimor had gotten Diarmot on the litter, Ilsa answered his questions somewhat succinctly. She was becoming far too aware of all her aches and pains. She did not wish to think of what Diarmot suffered. It was undoubtedly a blessing that he was unconscious.
"The men's horses stood over there," Ilsa pointed toward the spot where Diarmot's attackers had left their horses, "and rode north when they left." As soon as Tait went to study the ground for any clear markings, Ilsa looked at Sigimor and asked, "Why are ye here?"
"Returned to Clachthrom earlier than we thought we would and Tom told us the two of ye were out here alone, had been for quite some time. Decided we best see if all was weel. Now, let us get the laird home." He looked toward his brother.
"Tait, ye follow that trail as far as ye can ere this storm starts. We may be lucky and they willnae go verra far, which will allow us to catch them up on the morrow."
"We will need Glenda from the village to help tend Diarmot's wounds," said Ilsa even as Sigimor picked her up and set her in her saddle.
"I will go after her," said Nanty.
Ilsa watched him and Tait mount their horses and ride off in different directions before looking back at Sigimor who was checking Challenger's wounds.
"I think he will be fine, dinnae ye?"
"Aye. None of the wounds are deep." Sigimor patted the gelding's strong neck, then went to mount his own horse. He rode back and picked up Challenger's reins before looking Ilsa over carefully. "Can ye hold on til we get ye back to the keep?"
She obviously looked as weary as she felt, Ilsa mused, and nodded. "I will be fine. I will be eased by a hot bath and a rest. Tis Diarmot who suffers. He hasnae roused since he fell."
"The way Nanty was riding, that healing woman will be at the keep waiting for us. Your laird will be weel, Ilsa." He winked at her and then nudged his horse forward. "Ye did weel, lass. Verra weel indeed."
Even as she urged Rose to follow him, Ilsa felt herself blush with pleasure.
Wife and mother she might be, but there was clearly enough of the child left within her heart to be thrilled by Sigimor's praise. She just hoped she had done well enough to keep Diarmot alive.
"Ye look much better, lass."
Ilsa smiled at Glenda and very cautiously approached Diarmot's bed. It had been difficult to put his care into the woman's hands and leave, but she had been given little choice. Gay and Fraser, aided by Sigimor's threatened assistance, had pulled her from Diarmot's side. After having a bath, enduring the tending of her many small wounds, and assuring the children she would be fine, Ilsa had been unable to fight the urge to rest. It took only three hours, however, for the sharp edge of her exhaustion to be dulled and then her fear for Diarmot had wakened her. She studied him, then looked across the bed at Glenda.
"Will he be all right?" she asked.
"Aye, m'lady," Glenda replied. "No bones broken and no sign that he is hurt inside. Bruised and battered, but little else."
"The blood upon his head," Ilsa began, lightly stroking his newly cleaned hair.
"A wee cut. Such wounds bleed freely and always look gruesome. I could feel no injury in the bone beneath it. Ye can set with him now, if ye wish."