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Page 14
mail blending with the gray surcoat he wore to give him an appearance of granitelike solidity. His left hand, empty of the lance his squire carried, rested on his hip. His right hand held his reins in so iron a grip that his stallion, head curved into its neck, was immobile as he. Alinor's breath drew in sharply with mingled hurt and surprise. Who was this who was so proud he would not dismount at the Queen's command to assist a lady?
In the moment that her eyes found his face, the hurt was almost fully salved. His expression was only slightly obscured by the nosepiece of his old-fashioned helmet. It was clear enough that this was no proud princeling, simply a man so stricken by amazement that he was frozen. The Queen could not see Simon's face without moving her horse or twisting her body uncomfortably, but she could see enough to know he had not moved.
"Simon!" she exclaimed, and then, very peremptorily, "Simon, what ails you?"
Sunlight flashed on mail as the frozen figure jerked to life. The horse backed and lashed out when the reins tightened convulsively. Alinor bit her lip to suppress a giggle.
"I beg pardon, Madam. What did you say?"
At that the Queen laid aside her dignity, slewed herself around, and stared. Now, however, no more than a slight frown of anxious chagrin appeared on Sir Simon's face.
"What ails you?" the Queen repeated, more of concern than anger in the question.
"Naught." The rich basso rumble hesitated; the man's face closed into careful expressionlessness. "I was dreaming."
Dreaming? Surely, Alinor thought as she heard the Queen's command repeated, that is not the face of a dreamer. It was the face of a Norman reaver, square and hard, with a determined chin and a hard mouth.

 
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