< previous page page_100 next page >

Page 100
fine, take his money out of Alinor's lands, and accept the fait accompli.
Simon first groaned aloud and then laughed at himself harshly. Quite aside from the fact that he did not believe he could live with himself if he committed so gross a breach of faith, so black an act of dishonor, Alinor was not the sort of woman to be a passive victim. If she did not literally tear the throat out of him with her hands and teeth while he was trying to bed her or slip a knife between his ribs while he was sleeping afterward, she would like as not have him murdered by her faithful men.
Of course it might be possible to win her compliance. She liked him, and she was surprisingly innocent for a girl of her age and birth in some ways. Simon was not fool enough to read more into Alinor's playfulness than was there. It was that open gaiety that convinced him of her innocence. If, before she was exposed to the practiced gallants of the Court so much younger and more romantic than he, he made love to her himself, he might be able to win her heart. Simon shuddered with disgust. Old lecher pursuing a scarcely nubile girl to gain a prize of shame added to dishonor.
There was no way, really, but to endure. Tomorrow they would leave for the Court. At least they would not be together all day every day. There would be distractions. This sickness of heart came from too much idleness. Alinor's property was so well run that there was nothing for him to do. Perhaps he would go to France and fight in the tourneys again. A double thought, each prong at opposite ends of hope, sprang into his mind. Men died in tourneys; men won rich estates in tourneys. Simon quashed both thoughts firmly. To hope for death was a black sin. To think of winning a rich estate to make him more eligible for Alinor would not make the old-satyr/young-maiden image less disgusting. There was no way but to endure.

 
< previous page page_100 next page >