Highland Groom

by Hannah Howell

  “What are ye doing, m’lady?” asked Tom.

  “I do believe I am mounting my horse, Tom,” Ilsa replied sweetly as she settled herself in the saddle, amused at how hard a blushing Tom tried not to look at her stockings before she could arrange her skirts a little more modestly. “I am going to look for my husband. Do ye have any idea where he might be riding?”

  “Mayhap ye should wait, m’lady. The laird could return soon. Mayhap your brothers and Sir Nanty will return and they could ride with ye.”

  “My brothers and Nanty have traveled far afield this day, Tom. They may nay be back until the morrow. I dinnae think I should leave the laird wandering around by himself until then, do ye? Now, do ye ken where he might be?”

  “Geordie said the laird was riding along the ridge. Some lambs have gone missing and he wanted to see if they had gotten themselves trapped or had fallen. Ye can sometimes save the pelt,” Tom began, then gasped as Ilsa started to ride past him. “Ye cannae ride about on your own!”

  “Verra soon I willnae be on my own,” she called back to him. “I will be with my husband.”

  She heard Tom cursing as she rode away. She felt a brief twitch of guilt over her actions, but swiftly pushed it aside. If anyone ought to feel guilty, it was whoever put Tom in charge of manning the gates. Not only was Tom a little young and untested for such an important post, but he simply could not be threatening or authoritative. She would just have to be very careful not to be injured in any way or Tom would feel at fault.

  She took a deep breath and sighed with enjoyment. She knew the air outside the gates was the same as the air inside the gates, but it seemed sweeter. Over the last few weeks she had done her best to behave, to go nowhere alone. Raised mostly by her brothers, she had always had great freedom. The fact that there seemed to be a cousin around every corner had allowed her to come and go as she pleased, safe and secure in the knowledge that no one at Dubheidland would hurt her or let harm come to her. She had also been taught when to heed orders given for the sake of her own safety, however, and she knew her brothers would not be pleased with her disobedience, no matter how much they might understand and sympathize. Ilsa hoped she could return to Clachthrom safely, with her husband at her side, preferably without her brothers discovering what she had done. Although she was a married woman, and a mother, Sigimor would not hesitate to lecture her and she hated those lectures. Sigimor had truly mastered the art over the years.

  Reaching a thick stand of trees, Ilsa slowed her pace to a cautious one. There were a lot of very wild places on the Clachthrom lands, she realized. Harshness and wild beauty marched side by side. The children were going to have to be carefully taught to respect the land around them and the dangers it might hold. She idly wondered if she could keep them tethered to the keep until they were twenty and laughed softly. Although she liked to move freely, she obviously did not like the thought of her children doing the same.

  The unmistakable sound of clashing steel abruptly cut through the peace of the wood. Ilsa tightened her grip on the reins as she fought back the instinctive urge to gallop forward to see what was happening. One of Sigimor’s most repeated lessons went through her mind and she took several deep breaths to calm herself. Caution was a person’s strongest shield, her brother was fond of saying. Ilsa held tightly to that thought as she tried to decide what to do. Since she was certain Diarmot was just ahead, that the sounds of fighting meant he was in danger, calm and caution were difficult to cling to.

  She could not go racing to his resuce. Although she considered herself strong and able, she was no warrior and, at the moment, the only weapon she had was a dagger. A horse could also be a weapon, but Rose had never been trained in such skills.

  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 Clachthrom 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 up
on 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?”

  “Ilsa,” he whispered.

  She waited, but he said no more and did not open his eyes. As carefully as she was able—terrified he would move and she would not be able to stop his fall from his precarious resting place—she checked him for broken bones. Ilsa finally decided he had miraculously escaped that fate and sat back on her heels to plan what to do next.

  “I could ride back to Clachthrom and get help,” she said and then looked around. “Nay, that willnae serve. Ye move at all and ye could fetch up at the bottom of this rise. The rocks down there are monkillers for certain.”

  One glance up the rise revealed that the climb was not as easy a one as she had thought. Desperation and some skill at climbing had caused her to underestimate the challenge. Although she could get back up and down again, she had no idea of how she could get Diarmot up that steep rocky ridge. There was nothing to secure him to while she went to get help, either.

  “Dinnae ye move, dinnae e’en twitch,” she ordered her unconcious husband and then started to climb back up to the horses.

  When she reached the top, she studied what tools she had at hand. They were few, but very useful. Diarmot clearly planned for every need when he rode out to tend to his lands.

  Securing one end of a coil of rope to her horse, Ilsa gently lowered the rest over the ledge. She wrapped a blanket and her cloak around her neck, and climbed back down the hill. As soon as she reached Diarmot, she hurriedly tied the other end of the rope around him beneath his arms so that she no longer needed to worry that, at any moment, he could move and fall the rest of the way down the slope. She tied the blanket so that it covered his back and used her cloak to wrap his head for she knew that his journey back up the hill would be rough.

  Although she ached to somehow direct his body up the rise, to try to prevent every bump he would suffer, she knew that was impossible. Not only did she need both hands to climb, but Rose would need to be coaxed to pull Diarmot up. Ilsa climbed down a few more feet to retrieve Diarmot’s sword from where it had caught between two rocks and returned it to his scabbard. As best as she could, she pushed and pulled his limp body until he was seated, his blanket-covered back against the rocks.

  Once back up with the horses, Ilsa took a moment to catch her breath, then grasped hold of Rose’s reins. “Now, lass, step gently and let us pull Diarmot back to safety with as much care as we can.”

  When Ilsa judged Diarmot reaching the top, she moved to the edge to look over, then went back to Rose to lead her mare along another few steps. Ilsa had to go back and forth twice more before she was able to get a grip on Diarmot. Urging Rose to move and cursing Diarmot for being so big, Ilsa finally got her husband onto the ground several feet away from the edge. She untied the rope around him and Rose, tethered Rose and, after taking her cloak off Diarmot’s head, sat down beside him.

  “I cannae just leave ye here,” she said, staring at Diarmot’s chest and taking comfort in the way it rose and fell with each breath he took. “Ye are helpless and tisnae only the ones who wanted ye dead one needs to worry about. I could just set here and wait for someone to come looking for me.” A quick glance up at the dark clouds on the horizon made her shake her head. “Nay, no time for that. I am going to have to think of some way to drag ye back to Clachthrom myself. Or,” she frowned at the horses, looked back at Diarmot, and cursed. “Nay, I cannae get ye on the back of one of the horses.” She patted his chest, holding her hand over his heart for a moment to savor its steady beat, then untied the blanket she had used to protect his back, spreading it out beneath him.

  The slowly increasing wind and the chill it carried told Ilsa she could not rest long. She stumbled to her feet, spread her own blanket over Diarmot, and fetched the small axe from where it hung on his saddle. Ignoring the increasing damage to her hands, she cut what wood she needed to make a rough litter. She used the lacings from his boots to lash it together. After she had used the rope to attach the litter to her horse, she stood and looked down at Diarmot.

  “I will confess, love, that, at this precise moment, I truly dinnae appreciate that fine strong body of yours,” she muttered. “I have spent my whole life surrounded by braw oafs,” she grumbled as she grasped the blanket he was on top of and pulled him toward the litter, inch by arm-wrenching inch, “but where are they now, I ask ye? Are they here to help me get your carcass on the litter? 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 unconcious.

  “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 kee
p?”

  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.”