The Dragon Throne Read Online Free

doctor,” she said.
    â€œWhen churls drink costly foreign wine,” replied the doctor, “the world’s turned upside down.”
    It seemed to Ester that the distant bank would never arrive, and that it approached only to shrink back again, unattainable reeds and mossy pebbles.
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    Westminster Castle was some distance west of London’s walls, not far from the river in a countryside of oaks and hedgerows. The castle was handsome, in the way of buildings constructed to endure siege and gradually transformed to a place of royal shelter. Arrow slits marked the high walls, narrow openings where crossbowmen could aim their weapons, and guards leaned against their spears in the manner of a drawing a child might make, towers and battlements, every soul with a cheerful duty.
    Sheep and cattle grazed across the flowery field, and somewhere a tool was being repaired, the sweet sound of hammer on scythe. In the distance a farmer’s wife shoveled ashy lime, engaged in making soap. The boat nosed the close-shorn grasses of the riverbank, and Bernard gave an involuntary wince, and then smiled in apology. A strong-hearted scholar, he had always taught Ester, should never complain.
    The injured man was met by men supporting a litter-bed. Ida, who had traveled ahead to fetch these attendants, beckoned them to hurry. The horsemen wore the livery of the royal Plantagenets, a leopard in red on the chest of every tunic. Only a careful eye could discern the worn hems of some of the garments, and the occasional faintly starlike design where a moth hole had been repaired by stitchery.
    If there was a single fact about court life Ester did not admire, it was the careful protocol that dictated every act a castle servant might commit. Ester had seen country folk, shepherds and haywards running on market day, bounding stride by stride toward home, or sprinting merrily toward a beckoning friend, but the men and women of the royal court never hurried. To break into a run was thought ungentle—no lady would think of skipping down a corridor, or rushing after a herald with further instructions.
    Even now, with her father’s life in the balance, the liveried servants took measured steps as they found their way down the bank of the river and listened to the doctor’s instructions on how to lift his stricken patient.
    â€œIt will be like the time the churchmen moved the relics of Saint Gwen,” said the doctor, referring to the recent reburial and celebration of the skeleton of a local holy woman. The pious had gathered from far away to see the centuries-old bones swaddled in sendal, a rare silk, and buried with sung devotions.
    â€œGently, gently,” the doctor called now, as the scholar offered a brave smile and let his body be lifted slowly—more slowly than the monks lifting the amber-and-walnut remains of the blessed Gwen.
    â€œWait,” her father called in a whisper, squeezing his daughter’s hand in anticipation of the pain soon to follow as they were about to lower him onto the litter-bed.
    Giffard, a white-haired knight and steward to the queen, murmured to the scholar, “We will do you no harm, my lord Bernard.”
    Ester was grateful for the measured, time-consuming deliberateness of the servants as they eased Bernard onto the portable bed frame with such care that only once did Bernard give a start of pain.
    Was it Ester’s imagination? Or did she actually hear one servant murmur in a shaken voice to another, “He’ll be dead by dawn”?

7
    WHEN HE WAS SECURE ON THE LITTER-BED, Bernard raised his head to look around, thanking the servants as they lifted their load to their shoulders, much as pallbearers carry a loved one to the churchyard.
    â€œThere’s no need,” the scholar mouthed, “for all this trouble.”
    â€œThey’ll see you safely home, Bernard,” said the doctor, with an air of professional cheer, “where you can drink hot wine