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her own books. Women did not read and write. The Queen did, of course, but the Queen was not "a woman." And there were nuns who had the skill and a few of the younger ladies of the Court who were addicted to the Court of Love ethos and wished to read and even reply to the poetic effusions of their "troubadours." But that "this innocent child," as Simon persisted in thinking of Alinor in spite of Sir Andre's protestations, should not only read but cipher and keep accounts did not ever cross his mind. |
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What grew in Simon was a feeling that, dearly beloved as Alinor was by her vassals and the serfs and villeins of the demesne land, she was not loved in the right way. He became grimly satisfied with the impulse that had precipitated him into being King's warden against his better judgment. Now he had a real purpose. Someone was cheating his ward, and he seemed to be the only one who noticed. A fierce protectiveness surrounded the lovely image of Alinor in his mind. |
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When they returned to the keep, the reality of Alinor magnified that feeling. She came lightfooted and smiling to greet them, her hair shining under its soft veil, her eyes lightened with laughter and showing flecks of green picked up from her bliaut. Not a trace of her earlier anger remained, for swift-footed huntsmen, trained to endurance by tracking and coursing game, had come sidling into the keep to confirm breathlessly the success of her plans. Her people had done their part; now it only remained for her to do hers. |
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It was as well that Simon had eyes only for Alinor. One glance at Sir Andre's grim and disapproving face would have forewarned him. But he saw only Alinor, who held out a cool, white hand to him and asked with sweet thoughtfulness whether, since he had been much in the saddle these three hot days past, he would like to bathe before sitting down to meat. |
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She was like a lily, he thought, slender and grace- |
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