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A little light came into Simon's eyes, a smile that did not quite succeed pulled at his mouth. For the first time since Alinor had entered the room, Simon did not look like a walking dead man. |
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"When did this sickness come upon you?" Alinor asked. |
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"Sickness? Oh, that," he gestured to where the page was wiping up the floor. "That is not a sickness of the body but of the spirit." |
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His eyes went blank again. For once Alinor did not suspect Simon of concealing a physical weakness to spare her anxiety. This hurt she believed was not of the body. She said nothing, merely pulled off his gauntlets and began to unlace the side of his tabard. It would be best if he could tell it in his own way. She had removed the tabard, seated him on the stool and drawn off the hauberk before he spoke again. When she came back from laying the armor aside and began to unlace his shirt, he suddenly leaned forward, resting his head against her and gripping her tight in his arms. |
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"Alinor, I cannot bear this place. I cannot bear the heaps of pears and plums and figs, all soft and sickly sweet, that Saladin sends to the King. I cannot bear the richness of the floors and walls, the soft rugs, the silken hangings. There is too much of everything. Even hostages. Whoever heard of three thousand hostages? Only, there are no hostages any more." |
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He stopped to breathe harshly and Alinor stroked his hair, puzzled. She knew Simon was offended by the lush luxury of these eastern lands. He had said so before, but Simon was no religious fanatic like an anchorite who could be driven hysterical by luxury. And if the hostages had been returned But if the hostages had been returned, why should Simon be all bloody? |
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His arms tightened and he nuzzled his face against |
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