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tine assignation. The idea was delightful in all its aspectsbeing privy to a secret, having a really juicy piece of gossip about the Queen's youngest and prettiest lady, perhaps even having a piece of knowledge with which he could extract a coin or two from the great ones, although that was not a safe idea for dealing with Sir Simon. In any case, his guess had been wrong. One does not send messages out of a love nest. He took the chance of running to get his cloak. Love tryst or conference on affairs, both were long and cold for one who had no seat but the marble floor. |
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Alinor, shaken out of an uneasy sleep by her maid, could scarcely credit her message. Simon, God bless him, was a creature of the utmost propriety. He would be most unlikely to come visiting in the middle of the night unless an unendurable pressure The thought brought Alinor out of bed in a leap. If it had not been for Gertrude's restraining hands, she would have run naked down the corridors. No remonstrance could make her take time to dress, however. She pulled on a bedrobe and with her hair flowing unchecked down her back and her feet bare fled in the direction of the King's apartment. Snatching up a pair of slippers and a taper, Gertrude pursued her mistress. She would be the one to bear the blame if Alinor caught her death of cold or came to some hurt. |
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''Simon," Alinor cried, and then as he turned and she saw the condition of his armor and tabard, "Oh God! Are you hurt sore?" |
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His face was curiously blank. "No. I am a little cut about, but nothing of consequence." |
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His voice was curiously blank also. Alinor came up closer, drew him toward the table where the light was better. She reached up and pulled off his helmet, unlaced the throat closure and pushed back his mail hood. He stood quietly, docile as a babe being dressed by its mother. The helmet was undented, his hair free |
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