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Page 482
Then he shouted an alarm; his crossbow, hastily snatched up, sent a bolt crashing among them.
"Oh, my God!" Simon screamed. He wheeled his horse, came up to Alinor's, and snatched her from her saddle into his. "Down," he urged her, "Keep your head below my shield edge."
Obediently she bent her head. Covered on one side by Simon's shield and on the other by the bulk of his body, she was safe from any misaimed shaft. She did not think of that, but clutching his body for stability gave evidence of his warmth and his strong, easy movement. No dead man could be warm as that. Not even Simon could move so lithely if he had been rent and torn like his armor and surcoat.
More cries of alarm sounded. Beorn rode up on one side of Simon, Sir Giles on the other. More men clattered out of the stable. One snatched up the loose reins of Alinor's horse. Another crossbow bolt whizzed among them. They set spurs to their horses, faces grim. If Rolf and Hugo did not accomplish their purpose, they could not get out. They would all die. A small group of men, half armed, rushed from the forebuilding to block their path. Beorn roared an order. Alinor's men-at-arms shrieked with satisfaction and fell upon the men from the castle, cursing their unfamiliar weapons but glad to redeem a trifle of their honor.
They won past that group, but other men were now pouring from outbuildings and a flicker of torchlight could be seen from the Great Hall and the wall rooms of the keep. A shouting troop charged; a horse screamed and fell; the man-at-arms mounted on it rolled to his feet, cursing. Two companions surged forward driving the attackers back while he struggled onto another horse. Simon roared blasphemies. He had never felt so helpless in his life. He could not lead his men or fight with them or even properly protect himself while he held Alinor, yet he would not relinquish her to anyone else.

 
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