"Ye were a verra brave lass to try to save them," he told her, speaking in a near-whisper.
"Odo says we have to take care of each other."
Liam came out of the cottage, crouched near them, and said, "Only Margaret is left."
"I think Geordie broke something in Lucy," Alice said. "Mama covered my eyes so I couldnae see him do it."
"And Geordie?" Diarmot asked.
" 'Member when ye told us Mama was sick because she dranked bad wine?"
Diarmot nodded. "I think Geordie dranked bad ale." She glanced toward the front of the cottage. "Are ye going to help Mama now?"
"Aye, sweet Alice, I am."
"I will stay with the bairns," said Nanty.
"Would m'lady like me to fetch a damp rag, mayhap a wee bit of water, to clean her wounds?" Liam asked Alice.
Free of Diarmot's hold, Alice sat down on the blanket and looked at Liam.
"Aye, sir. I gots dirt on me and I dinnae like it."
Diarmot followed the Cameron twins and Tait along the side of the cottage until Margaret and Ilsa were in view. As he watched his wife, Diarmot began to doubt that anything would distract Ilsa from Margaret and that sword. Ilsa had the intense, watchful air of a warrior, one alert for danger or the opportunity to strike. Sigimor drew his dagger and Diarmot was a little surprised to feel himself relax. He had not realized how confident he had become of Ilsa's brothers. There was no doubt in his mind that Sigimor would use that dagger with deadly skill at the first hint of a real threat to Ilsa's life. For now the decision silently made was that they would let Ilsa deal with Margaret.
"Put aside the sword, Margaret," Ilsa said. "I dinnae want to kill ye."
Margaret laughed. "How can ye kill me? By drowning me in your own blood? I have the sword."
Ilsa drew her dagger. "I am nay unarmed. I could have this buried deep in your heart ere ye completed one swing of that sword." She nodded when Margaret frowned, looking uncertain. "Lay down the sword. Ye willnae hang for this," she promised, hoping Diarmot would agree. "We can send ye to your father, have him protect ye from yourself."
"My father?" Margaret laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. "My father cannae protect me, willnae protect me. He ne'er has. He didnae protect me from his own brother, did he? Or my cousins. Or his foul drunken friends!"
Her father was obviously the wrong person to speak of, Ilsa thought Now she knew where Margaret's madness had been bred. Ilsa could weep for the frightened, abused child Margaret had been, could find mercy in her heart for the scarred, troubled woman facing her, but she would kill her if Margaret pressed her to do so. She was not sure Margaret really understood or believed that.
"I must have my revenge," Margaret said. "Diarmot took Anabelle away from me.
I will take ye away from him."
"Ye gave the woman the potion that killed her, Margaret."
"That mon had got another bairn on her and wouldnae accept it as his! She would have been shamed!"
"That woman was carrying some other mon's bastard and, if she was shamed, she brought it upon herself by being a whore."
"Nay! Ye didnae ken her! She was a warrior. She showed men their own weakness and foulness. She conquered them in their hundreds. She could make e'en the most pious mon desire her, show him and the world that he was nay any better than the beasts in the field."
"Ye think she was some great battle maiden because she could get a mon's rod stiff? It doesnae take any great skill to do that. Wheesht, a mon can wake up alone in his bed with a stiff rod just because he had a passing thought about breasts. And getting a mon to rut on her was nay a great victory. If a mon is hungry enough he would rut on an ugly woman with boils on her arse. He would just squint a lot. She lied to ye. Mayhap she lied to herself, as weel. I dinnae ken why she did what she did, but it wasnae any great victory. Are ye really prepared to die for those lies?"
"She didnae lie! She was shaming them all and that is why she is dead!"
Margaret lunged at her, but Ilsa was ready for the move. She nimbly moved out of the way and tripped Margaret. The sword fell from the woman's hand and they both dove for it. Ilsa found herself in a hard battle, but Margaret had no skill. She fought like an angry woman. Ilsa fought like a youth facing a bigger and stronger opponent--dirty. In but a moment, she had the woman pinned to the ground.
As she caught her breath, ignoring the squirming, cursing woman beneath her, Ilsa glanced toward the cottage. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of an all-too-familiar head of bright hair. She was no longer alone. She did hope that her rescuers had only just arrived or she would suffer from a lot of teasing about her crude remarks.
"Margaret," she said. "I can kill ye. Ye must ken that by now. Ye have a chance to live, though twill probably be in the care of nuns or the like. But e'en that is life. Do ye surrender?"