Something struck his knee. It was neither soft nor hard, a soft hardness that might have been part of a piece of furniture, but when he bent to feel it he could feel only empty air, as though an animal had come up against him and wandered away. Then his shoulder knocked into a hard object that wobbled, began to fall, and did not fall. He took another step. His fingers struck something flat and smooth—it appeared to be a wall—and following the smoothness, Juan came to a closed door that opened into another darkness.
It should have been the dining room, if the meadow had been the drawing room, but as he advanced along the wall he came to what seemed to be a carved cabinet. He tried to remember a carved cabinet in the dining room, though wasn’t there one in the drawing room?—in which case he was already hopelessly lost. For that matter, the cabinet had begun to seem less like a cabinet than like a large beast carved in wood. On the other side of the chest-beast he felt the wall again, then the edge of something that might have been the frame of a mirror or the high back of a chair, and again the wall. Soon his fingers came to an opening that seemed to be a doorway without a door. He passed through into another blackness—perhaps a new room, perhaps only a recess or alcove—and as he stood wondering whether it might be possible to return through the no longer visible opening, he became aware of a small light glimmering in the dark.
He saw the shape of a far doorway, through which a figure with a candlestick was advancing slowly. The white gown was unhooped and flowing, a ghost in a wind. On her head was a pale hat with a wide brim.
As Mary came closer, she raised the candle toward his face and said teasingly, without surprise, “Why, Sir Juan! You really are a ghost. I’m feeling much better, thank you.”
Her face, radiant in the candlelight, seemed to glow from some inner light. When she stopped before him she dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Shhh. You mustn’t tell anyone, Sir Juan. ’Tis a secret, you see. But I can tell you.” She hesitated. “I’m going down to the river. I mustn’t be late. Don’t tell Georgiana.” She laughed lightly, then became grave. “You look tired, Monsieur Jean. Why are you not asleep? Oh, but I know. Night after night they roam the earth from dark to dawn, never resting. That is what ghosts do. ’Tis our job, Sir John. I’faith we cannot do otherwise. Shhh. Soon everything will be all right.” By the light of her candle he saw with surprise that he was in the supping room, an informal room off the main dining room where, as Hood had once explained, supper used to be served, although now he was converting it into a second library. She lowered her voice again. “You mustn’t follow me tonight. No-no-no-no.” Slowly she wagged a warning finger back and forth. In her wide, childish eyes he saw trembling candle flames. “Sleep well, Don Juan,” she said, moving past him toward another doorway. He watched her light until the darkness devoured it.
By continuing carefully in the direction from which Mary had come, he managed to enter the far doorway with only a slight bump on the shoulder. But now, instead of the familiar dining room he had imagined, he found himself in a soft, sagging chamber, a chamber of velvety wall hangings and a rug so thick that he seemed to be sinking up to his ankles, and he tried to remember when he might have been in such a place, which felt like a big, furry animal—he was walking on the back of a sleeping bear, at any moment it might wake up and fling him off. Something fell to the floor with a soft thud. Juan crouched down and patted about, feeling suddenly a glass globe the size of his fist.
When he rose, holding the globe, he sensed that he was moving in a different direction; perhaps he had passed through a doorway into still another room.
Now wearily, without hope, he made his way through the fertile and prolific dark, striking against unknown objects that sometimes fell over, pausing once to place the glass globe on what seemed to be a small silk cushion. As he passed from room to room in Hood’s inexhaustible house, which kept growing new corridors, chambers within chambers, additional stories, entire wings, he had the sensation that he was leaving bits and pieces of himself in every room, an arm here, an elbow there, the bones of his chest over there, so that if he ever arrived at Georgiana’s room there would be nothing left of him—nothing but a faint agitation of air. But he no longer believed in Georgiana’s bedchamber. It was so far away that it was in a distant land, where the inhabitants were said to have one eye in the center of their foreheads and long blue hair. He thought of knights who had to cross mountains and rivers and oceans and slay giants the size of entire towns in order to gain admittance to the bedchamber of a lady at the top of a tower so high that gradually it grew vague, as if it were turning into mist or dream. He thought of the multitudes of animalcula in a single drop of water, of infinite suns. He came to another stairway, another room. Wearily he opened the door.
Moonlight shone on a canopy bed with rose-colored curtains. On a small glass table he recognized a large fan with ivory sticks, which Georgiana had once asked her maid to fetch from her room.
As Juan advanced toward the foot of the rosy bed he felt a desire to postpone his arrival, in part because he wanted to make certain that his mind wasn’t suffering from an illusion brought on by his weariness, and in part because, if it proved to be an illusion after all, he wished to let it continue for as long as possible before the bed began to tremble, waver, and melt away. At the foot of the dream-bed he paused before the closed curtains, the lower half glowing a cool silver-rose in the moonlight from the open window. He reached out his hand, which glowed suddenly as if it had burst into flame, and drew a curtain back.
In the shadowy depths of the bed Georgiana and Augustus lay side by side, their shoulders and heads raised by pillows. He could barely make them out, there in the shadows, as if they were reluctant spirits summoned out of the invisible world. He was not surprised to see them lying there, waiting for him to speak, for hadn’t he always known they liked to be together? They seemed to gaze at him as he stood holding the curtain aside. Georgiana had pulled the sheet up to her neck, but carelessly, so as to expose one shadowy shoulder and part of a dim breast. Her scarcely visible hair fell over one shoulder and vanished onto the coverlet. He thought he was able to make out a gaze that was frank, slightly amused, slightly irritated, as if to say: “So you have found me at last, Don Juan.” And indeed he had found her at last, though now there was nothing left of him, after his long journey. Hood’s eyes in his boyish face, he was sure of it, were large and melancholy. Raising one arm as if in a gesture of welcome, Hood said with deep feeling, “My dear Juan.” Then he allowed his hand to fall back heavily on the bed, where it bounced once and lay still. Juan wondered whether the words he had heard were part of a sentence abruptly terminated, or whether they represented the complete and exact expression of an elusive thought.
Juan stood holding the curtain aside, feeling their ghost-gaze upon him. Then he opened his fingers and watched as the curtain plunged back into place. He stood staring at it, as if trying to remember how it had come to be there, then yanked it open with a violent rattle of rings. He drew his sword and felt a tremor pass along his arm. In the air beside his face he saw with surprise a naked sword.
He thrust it back into the scabbard and said, “I will be leaving in the morning.” He took one step back, removed his hat, and bowed low, sweeping the plumes to the floor. Then he turned and walked out of the room.
A change seemed to have come over the night. Perhaps dawn had begun to break, perhaps his eyes had grown used to the dark, in any case Juan made his way through rooms filled with dim masses and murky forms that sometimes took on the shapes of cabinets and couches. He heard movement; the servants were up; and here and there the heavy curtains had been drawn back from the windows, admitting moonlight in some rooms and faint dawnlight in others.
He descended a staircase. At the bottom stood a cluster of chambermaids and scullery maids and footmen, talking at the same time. He heard “Mary” and “the river.” Over the front lawn he saw that the sky had begun to turn pearly gray.
Don Juan made h
is way through the vestibule and down the steps onto the sloping lawn, where servants were moving in many directions; it occurred to him that he had never seen more than two or three at a time. He followed a groom and a chambermaid down toward the river. Three footmen came through the osiers, carrying Mary. She lay with her head flung back and water dripping from her hair. “She’s alive, Sir. No need for alarm. She’ll pull through, she will.” Someone thrust a wet piece of paper into Juan’s hand. “We found this, Sir. Pinned to her gown.” The note read, in neat, stiff letters: HERE LIES MARY HOOD, WHO DIED FOR LOVE.
The sun was coming up. A high window opened and a chambermaid leaned out, holding her arms wide as if to greet the new day.
In the coach headed south for Dover, Don Juan leaned back and closed his eyes. Late-summer sunlight warmed his cheek and the back of one hand. A leathery creak of springs mingled with a clatter of wheels and the dark, soothing thud of hooves. Don Juan saw light playing on the bridges of Venice, trembling on the sides of gondolas. Through the coach window he heard the single sharp call of an unknown bird.
The King in the Tree
The Queen is a whore—cut off her nose. The Queen is lecherous—burn her. Such are the interesting remarks one hears at court, from those who dislike the King’s new bride. Others, it is true, speak of the Queen’s exceeding beauty. By this they mean the Queen is guilty and should be hanged. For my part, I believe the young Queen is beautiful and must be watched closely.
I, Thomas of Cornwall, faithful counselor of a once happy King.
The King is a vigorous man, well favored in countenance, deep-chested and hard-muscled, youthful in appearance despite his forty-four years. His forehead is smooth, his eyes large and dark. His broad hands, well tested in the managing of horse and sword, are remarkable for their long fingers, which lend a suggestion of grace and even delicacy, though I have seen him crush a man’s collarbone with a single blow of his fist. When, in his crimson mantle trimmed in ermine, he walks beside the Queen, the eye is pleased with its vision of power joined with beauty.
There is nothing in the King that can incite ridicule.
I have noticed one change. Before his marriage to Queen Ysolt, the King was master of his countenance: no one studying the King’s face could see anything behind the smooth brow, the broad planes of his cheeks, the still mouth, the clear, intelligent eyes. Now, in that well-loved face, one can see adoration, suspicion, jealousy, yearning, sudden doubt.
The ladies of the court speak continually of love.
Love, they say, ennobles the heart and exalts the soul. Love is a divine gift that permits us to enter the Earthly Paradise, from which we have been banished because of our base natures and which is a type and reflection of the Heavenly Kingdom. I have heard the wife of a baron maintain in the middle of a summer afternoon that love is a purifying flame which burns only in a lofty heart, and I have seen that same baroness in the dark of night standing against the wall of the granary with her robes raised above her waist while her gallant lover, grunting like a bull, charms her with his delicate attentions. Love, I have heard the court ladies say, is not a contractual obligation upheld by the brute authority of law, but a form of spiritual consent, freely given. By this they mean that love is possible only outside of marriage. It is these same ladies who whisper about the Queen, glance at her with malicious disapproval, gossip about the King’s nephew, and smile kindly at their husbands while devoting every instant of their waking hours to the arrangement of clandestine meetings with their virile young lovers.
The ladies of the court are very beautiful.
The immediate source of the court rumors is Oswin, the chief steward. It is he who first reported to the King the glances exchanged by the Queen and his nephew. The steward is a loyal servant of the crown, skilled in all that relates to household management, scrupulous in his accounts, exact of speech, proud, censorious, secretive, disinclined to laughter. He is fond of rich cloaks trimmed in miniver, jeweled rings, cups of gold. He has two weaknesses. Because he is the son of a burgher and has made his way at court through talent, tireless work, and steadfast purpose, he nurses a grievance against the rich and well-born. This failing leads him to overestimate his own considerable accomplishments and to imagine slights in the eye-blink of a baron. His second weakness lies in his displeasing looks. Although Oswin is not an ugly man, his features make a disagreeable impression: his eyes are small and cold, his nose thrusts forward, one upper tooth grows at an angle. The lady Fortuna, he believes, has treated him unjustly, while lavishing upon fools her gifts of landed estates, hereditary titles, and pretty teeth. His lust for highborn ladies, which appears inexhaustible, is not pleasant to contemplate. His successes never satisfy him.
Oswin follows the Queen ruthlessly with his eyes. His lust shows on his face like a knife-gash.
It is easy to imagine that Oswin’s report to the King was caused by injured pride and thwarted desire. When the Queen smiles at the steward, her gray, faintly melancholy eyes do not see him; more often she passes him by without a look. His invisibility, his terrible transparency, must exasperate him beyond measure. But such an explanation, however reasonable, is true only up to a certain point. In judging the motives of a man like the steward, one must bear in mind his loyalty to the crown; Oswin’s obedience has never been in doubt. It is his duty to report to the King any sign of disorder in the household, any form of behavior unbefitting a vassal or a wife. In this sense his spiteful report is the laudable act of a servant devoted to his master. It is also true that Oswin has always been jealous of the King’s nephew, whom the King loves immoderately.
No one can deny that the young Queen and Tristan take pleasure in one another’s company.
The Queen’s beauty is remarkable but difficult to account for. Each of her features, considered separately, is exceeded in perfection by the exquisite eyelid, the flawless cheek, the incomparable lip of a court lady, and yet, united, they compose a pattern of beauty that surpasses any other at court. Is it the harmony of her parts that is so beguiling? I believe the secret lies elsewhere. The Queen, like all beautiful women, has about her a remoteness, a coolness of perfection, such as one feels in a jewel or a silver goblet. Such beauty holds us at a distance, chills us, in truth repels us a little. In this sense it may be argued that the highest expression of beauty is nothing but a rare and enigmatic form of ugliness. But working against the chill of the Queen’s beauty is some other force—a force of imperfection, of unruliness. Her plaited yellow hair, a hint of which is visible at her temples, where the wimple is joined to her head covering, is so richly golden and perfectly arranged that it appears to have been fashioned by a master goldsmith with repeated blows of his small hammer, yet here and there a strand escapes and glitters in the sun. These are the strands that break the heart. Her lips are perfectly formed, but when she smiles, one side of her mouth begins to turn upward before the other. Her left eyelid dips at the outer corner. Her elegant nostrils, shaped by the delicate chisel of a carver of Old Testament scenes on the panels of a cathedral door, do not match precisely. When she laughs, however mildly, something leaps into her cheeks and eyes that was not there before—something that bursts out of her like a force of disruption.
The secret of the Queen’s beauty lies in what shatters it.
Is it surprising that gossip and slander have joined the young Queen and Tristan? They are radiant with youth, disarming in beauty. When the King, the Queen, and Tristan are seen walking together, the eye helplessly binds the young Queen and Tristan, separating them cruelly from the King. It is also true that the King has formally requested Tristan to love and protect the Queen; when the King is meeting with his counselors in the great hall, or following his hounds in the royal forest, she is always with Tristan. They walk in the Queen’s garden, stroll among the trees of the orchard, ride in the forest, talk in the women’s quarters above the royal bedchamber. Such behavior can lead only to malicious gossip. The Queen is very busy, say the court ladies: she has
one husband by night, and one husband by day. They fail to understand that it is precisely the King’s love for Tristan that makes him place his beloved Ysolt under his protection. Would they leave her open to the attentions of the steward?
Tristan is honorable. He would lay down his life for his King. The Queen walks beside him with downcast eyes. Strands of her yellow hair catch the sun.
They are too much together. I do not like these rumors.
This morning I was summoned to the King’s private chamber in the northwest tower. I found the King seated alone at a small table before his chessboard. He motioned for me to sit down across from him and, after taking thought, moved the white king’s pawn two squares forward. His long fingers lingered caressingly on the artful folds of the sleeves of the stern-faced pawn, before releasing it; of his nine sets of chesspieces, these are his favorite, carved from walrus tusks. In reply I moved the pawn of my black king two squares forward. He immediately moved the queen’s pawn two squares forward, inviting a capture. At this point an odd look came into his eyes, and he raised his hand to stop me from moving. “Now, Thomas,” he said, “if you were King of Cornwall, which move would you anticipate?”
“If I were King of Cornwall, my lord, I would anticipate one of three moves: a direct capture, the move of my king’s knight to the square before the bishop, or the advance of my queen’s pawn.”
The King in the Tree Page 13