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Page 61
and there. The sight of him half-naked . . . no, all naked, for he had only clutched the bedrobe about himself when he saw her. Sybelle giggled. That was why he had not picked up his shield! He had been reaching for it, had seen her, and had hastily pulled his robe together.
Well, then, Sybelle thought, the question is settled. I suppose I do want him, and Papa can propose a marriage between us as soon as it is politically safe. She snuggled down more comfortably, aware of relief and pleasure, but then she frowned again. Once, when Rhiannon had spoken of her fear that Simon would be unfaithful to her after marriage, Sybelle had assured her he would not. The men of Roselynde, Sybelle had said proudly, did not do such things. They chose a wife when they were sure of what they wanted and clove only to her thereafter. But WalterSybelle's mind checked for a moment, aware that she had dropped the Sir from Walter's nameWalter was not bred to Roselynde either by blood or by custom.
Not all men, Sybelle knew, believed that conjugal fidelity was a matter of great importance. Then a slow smile curved her full lips. She was remembering another part of that conversation she had had with Rhiannon about Simon's fidelity. She had pointed out to Rhiannon that it was a wife's duty to make a marriage satisfying and interesting. Men, Sybelle remembered saying, were essentially simple creatures in matters of love, and it would be no burden to keep a husband anxious and eager. Yes . . . that was what she had said, but she had been mouthing what she had been told by her mother and grandmother. Now that she was facing the problem on her own account, did she believe her own words? And what if she did not?
Her mother had hinted that her one reservation was Walter's age and the possibility that he had fixed the pattern of his life. If so, there was bound to be conflict because Sybelle had been trained to independence and to ruling what was her owna pattern not only foreign but offensive to most men. Would that drive Walter to seek other, more docile women? What then was she to do? Sybelle asked herself. Was she to marry one of those callow youths who dogged her footsteps each time she appeared in public? Doubtless one of those young sprigs could be molded into meek acceptance of Roselynde ways.

 
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