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stant. Simon found her; his eyes lit; he shifted on his horse and raised his hand. Alinor waved from the window where she stood behind the Queen's chair, kissed her fingers, and threw the kiss to him. Her gauzy sleeve, moving more slowly than her hand, brushed her face. Practicalities, always more compelling to Alinor than fears or dreams, swarmed into her mind. She did not know whether Simon was fitted with thin garments for the cruel heat; she did not know whether he had sufficient funds. That Simon! And she had once doubted he was a dreamer. A whole week wasted on songs and whispers of lovewell, not wasted, she thought, as the cavalcade moved past and Simon's white tabard became one of a mass of such. No, not wasted. |
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Still, this was no time for tears, she told herself while the rebellious tears came anyway. The Queen was not weeping. Alinor glanced at her mistress and caught her breath. Her face was like a death mask, as white and still as graven stone. Alinor knelt and took the thin, icy hand in hers. "Madam," she choked, "Madam," and bowed her head into the Queen's lap. |
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The other cold, fragile hand patted her shaking shoulder. "Courage, child, courage." The voice was old, trembling. Then the hand gripped tight, the voice came strong. "Courage, I say. If we fail now, all is lost. What good is useless lamentation. Think! What is next to do?" |
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Fortunately there was much to do, more than Alinor expected when she swallowed her tears and went to buy cloth again. She had only a few quiet days to begin hasty work on garments for Simon, harrying her maids unmercifully at their sewing. If they finished in good time, Simon would have the clothing before the army left France because they were going first to a meeting with King Philip at Vezelay. Those days were all she had to work and dream and cry a little. The |
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