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Even in the late afternoon, the great hall of Roselynde keep was rather dark. The light that flooded in through the western windows was lost in the great space, softening to a dim radiance. One could see well enough, but everything was soft, without hard edges or brilliance. Servants moved without hurry, clearing the remains of dinner from the tables. The best of the leftovers went into baskets to be handed out to beggars at the gates; the small or mangled scraps were scraped onto the floors where the cats and dogs and mice and rats would snatch them out of the rushes. |
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There was some noise as the trestle tables were lifted from their stands and piled against the walls, but not much. In fact, the servants were making an effort to be quiet because they wished to listen. Lord Geoffrey was playing and singing, and he was as skilled, many said more skilled, than any minstrel. The clear notes of voice and instrument, although they were not loud, seemed invested with a life of their own and traveled easily, filling the space. |
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Geoffrey FitzWilliam looked out into the hall as if he could follow the path of his notes with his eyes. |
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Of one that is so fayr and bryght
velud maris stella Bryghter than the dayis lyght
parens et puella I crie to thee, thou saie to me
Leuedy, preye thy sone for me
tam pia That I mote come to thee
Maria |
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