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Simon had suspected this one to be of the second sort. Now he saw he had been right at first. |
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"Yes, but I assure you I write many saints' lives too," the old man said placatingly, "and the saints' lives I write more beautifully, with many colored pictures to draw the eye. The abbot said the tales were permissible because the young" |
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"Yes, yes, of course." Simon suppressed his urge to laugh at the ludicrous mistake. "The servingman did not understand me. I desire to speak to the clerk who keeps the books of accounts." |
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"What books of accounts?" |
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"These here," Simon said, the laughter gone from his voice. Was he going to be faced with another mass of evasions and pretended ignorance? He stepped aside so that his body did not block the table upon which the wood-bound sheets of parchment lay open. |
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"Those are Lady Alinor's. A clerk? I do not know. Perhaps Father Francis helps with them sometimes, but" |
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"God writes them with his little finger?" Simon snarled. |
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The old man drew himself up. "Even the mighty should not blaspheme," he said. |
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"Then tell me who writes these books!" Simon bellowed at the top of his powerful lungs. |
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He nearly blew the frail old man out of the room. In the silence that followed his outburst, while the friar was collecting his scattered wits, Simon heard an urgent whispering among the servants and footsteps running across the Great Hall. |
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"My lord, my lord." The old man trembled and shrank away. "Be not so wroth. I told you the books are Lady Alinor's books." |
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Simon closed his eyes and swallowed, gripping his hands together in front of him so that he would not be tempted to raise them against a man of God. "And |
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