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Girt the sword with hilt of gold
Horse doth mount, and lance doth wield
Looks to stirrups and to shield
Wondrous brave he rode to field
Dreaming of his lady dear
Setteth spurs to destrier
Rideth forward without fear
Through the gate and forth away
To the fray" |
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It was a favorite piece of the King's, one of the few he sang that he had not himself written, from an old lay, "Aucassin and Nicolette," but it was a little too close to the personal situation for Alinor. Richard would send his letter at first light the next day. Comnenus would reject the terms; they were not only impossible but couched in the most insulting manner Richard could devise, and Richard was an old experienced hand at devising insults. Then they would fight. |
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"Simon," she murmured against his mouth, "oh, Simon, I do not want you to be a coward, but have a thought to me. If you should strive so hard to win me that you should catch your death, how will I live? How will I bear that knowledge?" |
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He moved her aside, rose to a sitting position, and caught her into his arms so that she was sitting on his lap in what seemed like a single movement. "Now, now," he soothed softly, "nothing worse is like to befall me than a few scratches. Besides, I will have enough chance to display myself tomorrow. I will have enough to do to keep up with the King. He is bitterly angry. Do not let that sweet singing fool you. He sings to keep himself from raging. He will fight like a man possessed tomorrow." |
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"Is that supposed to comfort me?" Alinor sighed, half laughing, half crying. |
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"Come," Simon urged, "do not weep. Will you not be |
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