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"Take him!" John screamed as Giles' horse leapt out onto the drawbridge. |
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But it was too late. Simon cut left; cut right; and was out on the heels of his castellan. An overeager man-at-arms with a single idea fixed in his mind pulled the spike that held the portcullis' wheel. The gate slammed down. Simon checked his horse on the drawbridge and his big, bass laugh rumbled out. |
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"I have my wife safe, Brother John," he bellowed. "See if you can take my prize from me by fair means now that foul have failed you." |
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He wheeled his horse and set spurs to it. Behind him he heard orders to shoot, but the men had to run into the tower and wind their bows and it was very dark. Just out of arrow range the troop waited. They rode off, shouting insults back. Over their noise Simon heard the portcullis groaning upward again. They would be followed, perhaps, depending upon how stupid rage made John, but not for a little while. He chuckled as he imagined the confusion in the stables when the damaged equipment was found, the scurrying in the dark to find replacements. By then it would be far too late. Half an hour's ride away his troop and every man who could be spared from Iford waited their coming. |
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Alinor was already in the camp warming her hands and sipping from a cup of heated wine. She cast it down to fly into Simon's arms, took his face into her hands, and recoiled again. Simon laughed heartily. Now he could see the joke. He took off a gauntlet and began to scratch at his rigid features. The gray skin flaked away, showing his normal, ruddy complexion underneath. Disgust at her lack of comprehension replaced horror on Alinor's face. Simon roared and stamped his feet, suddenly recalling the master of the guard's terror and revulsion and realizing the man had thought he was really dead. Then he stuck his head out of the tent and called for Sir Giles. Between gusts of laughter they told how seven men and a living |
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