Dragon's Boy Read Online Free PDF Page B

wore no fig leaves and there weren’t any scribes in such a small place as Beau Regarde who might paint them in. Artos smiled at the thought. He wished he’d seen the pictures before the flames had gotten to it. In the interest of wisdom, of course.
    He’d seen neither the Book of Hours nor the flames to which it had been consigned, but he’d had the story on good authority when, some years later, Lady Marion had sighed in mentioning it to her maids and they passed the sigh along with the gravy down to young Cai, who’d mentioned it as a joke to Bed and Lancot in the cowshed where Artos, unbeknownst to them, was trying to nap in the haymow.
    No, he couldn’t ask Father Bertram for help in reading the dragon’s book. Pictures or no, he doubted the dragon’s wisdom was the same as the good father’s and another book would be consigned to the fire. His only recourse, he knew with a slow, sinking feeling, was to ask Old Linn, that whiney, hunched-over, ancient embarrassment. He’d have to wait until suppertime of course, after the rest of his chores. Then he’d make an appointment with the old man, out of the hearing of the other boys; an appointment to visit Old Linn in his tower room.
    At the thought of the tower room, Artos shivered. He’d never been up there. None of the boys had. It was rumored to be filled with bottles of poison and beakers of strange-colored liquids. The door itself, so he’d heard, was set about with runic warnings and enchantments.
    But Old Linn was his only hope, tower room or no. The apothecary could read four languages well—English, Latin, Greek, and bardic runes. It was said his room was piled floor to ceiling with books, the only ones Father Bertram hadn’t been able to burn because the old man wasn’t a Christian. Old Linn had known great stories, many of them from those very books, like “The Conception of Pryderi” and “The Battle of the Trees” and the ones about the children of Llyr and the Cauldron and the Iron House and the horse for Bran. Artos suddenly wished he’d had one of those books instead of the dragon’s useless book of wisdom. Especially since Old Linn was now too enfeebled to recite the tales.
    Artos hoped, sincerely, that the apothecary was at least well enough to help him read the dragon’s book but not well enough to ask him how he’d secreted such a treasure away from Father Bertram’s fires. If asked, he’d say it was a present from his mother. Unconsciously, his hand strayed to the leather bag around his neck. Yes, he thought, old men are often sentimental. He’ll believe that. Then he added, quickly, I hope.
    Of course, there was a further problem. Artos knew that Old Linn hated him. Well, perhaps hate was too strong a word, but he certainly preferred the other young gentlemen of Beau Regarde —the heir Cai and his two cousins Bedvere and Lancot. Preferred them to the impoverished fosterling who’d been taken in as an infant by the kindness of Sir Ector and the tenderness of Lady Marion. The old man especially lavished attention on Cai who, as far as Artos was concerned, had long ago let his muscles overtake his head. And Bed, whose hand was as heavy as his long jaw. And that pretty boy Lancot. Even though they were all—and here he recalled the dragon’s words with pleasure— unruly, bulky, illiterate boys.
    Once, of course, he’d tried desperately to curry favor with them, fetching and carrying and helping them with their letters. But after Lancot, as a joke, had pulled Artos’ hose and pants down around his ankles in the courtyard and the other two—with great gasps of laughter—had called out Lady Marion’s maids to gawk, Artos had tried to ignore them whenever possible. Or had tried to make them ask him for help, which happened all too rarely.
    Still, whether Old Linn hated him or preferred the others, it didn’t