The Dragon Throne Read Online Free Page A

and rest your head on a downy pillow.”
    â€œAnd be pitching quoits by summer,” said his daughter reassuringly.
    A leisurely game of throwing the disc-shaped stone toward a target was one of her father’s favorite pastimes, and he and his daughter sported often, long into the slow-fading evenings of June. Ester fixed the image of a twilight match between them, the smooth stone clanging against the iron post.
    To her displeasure, the doctor took the sleeve of her gown as the litter was born quickly and yet with care toward the castle gate.
    â€œEster,” said the doctor, speaking in a soft voice, “if you will permit me, I should detail the nature of your father’s injuries.”
    â€œMy father will play half-bowl with you, good doctor, on Midsummer’s Eve.”
    â€œI have every prayer that it might be so,” said the doctor. “And yet, dear Ester, I have gazed upon—” He hesitated, but having begun, took a breath and continued. “I have studied dead felons hanging, as the law decrees, and seen, if you will forgive me for mentioning it, their bones as flesh retires.”
    Ester had noticed that men sometimes went out of their way to display talents that made them tedious. She kept her voice the very example of patience. “My father needs me at his bedside, Doctor.”
    Reginald de Athies was a round-faced man with gray eyes. Ester knew he was unmarried. He was taking more pains than he would for a matron or a merchant, eager to impress Ester with his medical lore and windy diction.
    â€œThe ribs are exposed as weather and winged creatures have their way,” the doctor was saying, “as you may have observed yourself.”
    â€œIf you will let me join my father,” was all Ester would allow herself to say, in no frame of mind to discuss decaying criminals.
    â€œThe ribs of a body form something like a wicker frame,” continued Reginald, “or bushel basket, containing our lights and other organs.”
    Ester was walking, as quickly as she could without breaking into a run, but the doctor was keeping the pace. “And I fear,” he added, “that the hoof broke your father’s ribs.”
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    Scrolls of precious sheepskin brooded on shelves, waiting for the touch of Bernard de Laci’s quill. A priceless volume, Marcus Aureliuss’ Meditations , was open on the lectern in the corner, the dark letters distinct against the surface of the vellum.
    The late King Henry, father to Richard and John, had endowed Bernard’s studies, saying that the wise man was an ornament to his court. The de Laci family had an estate near the Seine at Honfleur, and land near the village of Beer along the English coast, but they had never been wealthy enough to thrive except by serving the crown. Bernard had confided to Ester that the old king would rather hear of Caesar’s military victories in Gaul than the Nature of Virtue, and that the new king, Richard, had little use for either. In contrast, the legendary Eleanor of Aquitaine had enjoyed the consolations of philosophy during the long winter nights away from her sons, and often asked the scholar to read to her.
    In recent weeks the queen had kept to her own chamber, plagued, some said, by illness. Ester knew that the queen drew strength from solitude, an unusual trait. Constant companionship, song and chatter, filled the days of rich and poor.
    It was rumored that Queen Eleanor had followed John’s journey here to make certain that he did not cause too much mischief in Richard’s kingdom. In a world in which the eldest son inherited most of the wealth and power, younger sons were often lean and restless, and Ester reckoned John as hungry as any man alive.
    â€œRuth?” her father called weakly from his bed.
    It was the name of Ester’s mother, dead these long seasons ago.
    If Bernard was surprised to see his daughter sitting beside him, and not his wife, he gave no