The King in the Tree

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by Steven Millhauser


  The sword fight between Modor and Roland was a brilliant piece of stagecraft. Their short but dangerous blades flashed in the light of candles, rang out in high-pitched tones, flung showers of sparks. Both dwarves were expert swordsmen— Roland more graceful, more resourceful, more constrained, as if he disdained to make a single motion more than was absolutely necessary; Modor fierce, nimble, relentless, at times awkward, a lover of the wild and unexpected motion. His eyes in the flamelight glittered like magic stones. Suddenly the edge of Modor’s sword strikes Tristan’s upper arm, cutting through the mail. Blood runs through the iron rings. Dwarf Tristan falls to one knee and drops his sword. As if maddened by the sight, Modor strikes wildly with his blade—rings of iron go spinning into the air. Suddenly he plunges his sword into Tristan’s side. Dwarf Tristan falls forward and lies face down on the stage.

  Now Modor bends to unlace the helmet, swiftly removes it. He flings his own shield over his back, where it hangs by the shield strap, raises his sword in both hands, and in a single blow cuts off Roland’s head. Ladies cry out, the Count rises from his chair. Modor, his face crazed with triumph, seizes the dripping head by the hair, strides to the King, and holds it up to him. The Queen cries out, raises one arm across her eyes, and falls sideways in a swoon. The King, roused from his trance, holds the Queen awkwardly and attempts to rise. On the stage, Bathsheba utters a piercing scream.

  The Count, inconsolable over the loss of his favorite dwarf, agreed to accept thirty thousand pieces of gold, three greyhound bitches, and an annual gift of grain. Modor sits chained in the tower prison. It is difficult to know which is worse: the murder of the Count’s dwarf or the humiliation of the King. The King speaks to no one. What I find interesting in these troubling events is the moment when Modor held the head up to the King. I had the distinct sensation that the King was about to stretch forth his hand, before coming to his senses and calling for his guards.

  This morning the King summoned me to his tower chamber. His face was drawn, his eyes melancholy and streaked with very fine lines of blood. He came directly to the point. There was no proof against the Queen, no evidence of wrongdoing, but the atmosphere of suspicion and gossip had put him in an intolerable position. Although Modor’s murderous rage was inexcusable, he did not entirely blame the dwarf, who in his brutal and bloody way had delivered a timely warning. The King was able to see three possibilities of action. First, banish Tristan from the court. Second, allow Tristan to remain at court, but forbid him to be alone with the Queen. Third, set a trap and take them unawares. The first possibility was repugnant to him, for two reasons: first, he did not wish to punish Tristan without evidence, of which there was none, and second, he loved Tristan as a son and the mere imagination of his absence made his heart hurt. The second possibility—allowing Tristan to remain at court, but forbidding all intimacy with the Queen—was likewise unacceptable, for three reasons: first, he did not wish to deprive Tristan unjustly of the Queen’s company; second, he did not like to publish his suspicions by a decree resulting in a conspicuous show of change; and third, he did not wish to deprive Queen Ysolt of the company and protection of Tristan, for not only did she feel warm friendship for him, as was only proper, but she was protected by him from the unwanted attentions of other members of the court, some of whom he knew to be far less honorable and trustworthy than his loyal nephew. The third possibility—the trap—though distasteful to him, was therefore the one he favored, for if the two were indeed guilty of treason against the crown, it was important to have evidence before bringing charges against them for a crime punishable by death.

  As the King spoke, he became animated, as if the act of utterance were filling him with decisive energy, but his eyes remained melancholy, withdrawn, and—an impression that struck me—as if indifferent to the strategy he was urging.

  He knew, he said, that I disliked Oswin, who nevertheless was trustworthy in most ways. Oswin had reported to him that the Queen had been meeting secretly with Tristan, at night, in the orchard. The steward had followed them twice to their trysting place, where a broad apple tree grew beside a brook. There, although Oswin had not witnessed it himself, he believed they consummated their treasonable love. The King proposed to have Oswin lead him to the spot, whereupon he would dismiss the steward—on pain of death—and conceal himself in the tree. He would arm himself with a bow and two arrows.

  It is my duty to lead Oswin back to the castle, after which I am to return and join the King in the tree.

  I loathe this plan, which seems to me to carry with it something alien to the King, something that belongs to Oswin, like a borrowed sword.

  For my part, I think of the Count of Flanders, who, when a vassal sighed in the presence of the Countess, ordered that the man be beaten and suspended head first in a cesspit.

  The King is pleased by his decisiveness, which is nothing but the cunning form assumed by his indecisiveness.

  It is very late, but I cannot sleep before setting down the surprising events of this memorable night.

  Not long after the King took his leave of the company to return to his bedchamber, I made my way alone to the orchard, where I lay in wait for the King and Oswin not far from the gate in the orchard palisade. I soon saw the gate open and the King and Oswin pass through. I followed, keeping well behind. The moon, a brilliant crescent, was low in the sky—a clear night, dark, with many stars. Oswin did not speak. He led the King silently along wagon paths, through clusters of fruit trees and arbors of grapes, over streams and ditches; in the starlight I saw an abandoned wagon, a pile of empty baskets, a broken wheel with tall grass growing between the spokes. In time we came to an older part of the orchard, where thick-branched apple trees rose high overhead. A narrow brook ran nearby. At the base of an immense apple tree that grew beside the stream, Oswin stopped. One low branch, thick with leaves and small unripe apples, grew out over the stream. Handing his bow and quiver to Oswin, the King with a sudden leap seized a branch and climbed into the tree. Swiftly he concealed himself in the middle branches. Then he reached down for his bow and quiver, which Oswin handed up to him.

  “Why are there three arrows, Sire?” Oswin asked.

  “The third arrow is for you,” the King replied, “if you fail to return to the castle. Thomas will see you safely to the gate.”

  At this I stepped forth. Oswin, outraged, banished all expression from his face and accompanied me in silence back to the orchard gate, where he took his leave coldly. Only when the gate closed did I make my way back through the orchard to the apple tree beside the stream. There I stood looking up at the thick-leaved branches, until the King ordered me to climb up and keep watch with him.

  When I was settled not far from him on a neighboring branch, the King said in a whisper, “Tell me, Thomas. When did you last climb a tree?”

  At once I saw myself in the orchard of my uncle’s manor, plucking a handful of cherries.

  “Forty years ago,” I whispered.

  At this the King gave a sudden, disarming grin, a mischievous grin, as it seemed to me, and my heart was moved, for despite the solemnity of the occasion, he was still boyish, in some things.

  His mind darkened as we waited. He seemed restless, sorrowful, gloomy with anticipation, half inclined to abandon the grotesque enterprise—for how could he desire to discover what he could not bear to know? And beneath his burst of boyish high spirits, I sensed that he was ashamed to be hiding in a tree, spying on the Queen and Tristan; for he was no comic cuckold in a minstrel’s tale, but King of all Cornwall.

  Suddenly Tristan was there, under the tree. I had not heard a sound. Shadow branches showed sharp and black on the moonlit grass. He seemed uneasy and kept pacing, keeping a careful watch in the dark.

  At the sound of the Queen’s footsteps I felt the King grow violently still, as if his body were a hand that had closed over a struggling bird.

  Tristan did not step forward to meet the Queen. Instead he drew back, almost as if he wished to avoid the
meeting. As Queen Ysolt came near I could see her face in the moonlight, anxious and uncertain. She stopped some ten feet from Tristan, who stood directly below us.

  “Why have you asked me to come here?” she said, in a cold, majestic voice I had never heard before. I had the odd sensation that I was watching a court play.

  “To ask for your help, my lady. Enemies have turned the King against me; God knows the love I bear him. If, in your kindness . . .”

  So they declaimed, two actors under the moon. For I understood—suddenly and absolutely—that they knew they were being watched, up there in the branches. I felt like leaping down and crying, “Well done, Tristan! A fine speech!” On the ground, among the leaf shadows, I saw the shadow of the King’s face. Tristan must have seen it there and passed a signal to the Queen. So the two played out their little drama under the apple branches: the Blameless Lady and the Injured Knight. It was well acted, though a little long; the speeches, though rather florid, were delivered with strong feeling. And I marveled at the sheer daring of it, the air of impassioned conviction with which they assumed their parts. Of course they were in a trap, fighting to get out. But wasn’t there more to it than that? Tristan truly did love the King, who had taken him into the Cornish court at the age of fifteen and brought him up like a father; the Queen surely considered herself blameless, for she had been married against her will—and in any case, what can one do against the power of Love? And what of the King? Can he really have been deceived? I believe he grasped at the little drama gratefully, eager to be deluded—for the one thing he could not permit himself to find was the truth he sought.

  When the two had left—first the blameless Queen, and later, after a proper interval, the melancholy and misunderstood knight—the King said nothing for a long while. Then he turned to look at me from his branch. With passion, with a kind of crazed delight, he whispered, “You see, Thomas! You see!”

  “I see our shadows, my lord,” I replied sharply, but the King, with a burst of energy, swung down from the tree and looking up at me cried out, “Come down, Thomas! What the devil are you doing up there? A grown man like you! Come down, Thomas, come down!”

  Oswin is in disgrace. The King dotes on the Queen, sings Tristan’s praises, hunts the red deer and the fallow deer and the roe deer, drinks deep from his gold flagon, throws back his head in laughter: all is splendid, all is well. Only I am uneasy. Is it because I detect in the King’s heartiness a note of excess, as if by sheer effort of will he hopes to banish the doubt that devours him? His eyes glitter with a mad merriment. He embraces Tristan, looks admiringly at the Queen. “Thomas!” he cries. “Is she not beautiful?” “Yes, my lord.” The Queen lowers her eyes.

  Because the King cannot bear the thought that his wife and Tristan are lovers, he has again placed her under Tristan’s protection. In this way he demonstrates to himself that they are innocent and he is wise—for if they were guilty, he would be a fool to leave them alone together. All morning and afternoon he hunts in the forest, while Tristan attends the Queen everywhere. He walks with her in the garden, climbs the winding stairs that lead to her tower chamber. Oswin is forbidden to be in her presence, on pain of imprisonment. In the early evening, Tristan returns Ysolt to the King. The King and Queen retire early. At night, in the royal bedchamber, I hear cries of lovemaking.

  Anyone who reports ill of Tristan or the Queen is threatened with banishment.

  It is precisely now, when the Queen and Tristan ought to exercise exceptional caution, that they behave as if the King’s trust, his air of cheerful unconcern, has deceived them. They exchange glances full of longing, flush and grow pale, emerge from hidden chambers drowsy and languorous. When Tristan hands the Queen to the King, his face is full of tender sadness. The Queen, walking beside the King, looks about for Tristan, catches his eye. Are they mad? One might almost think they are trying to provoke the King into punishing them. Is it possible that his inflexible good cheer, his stubborn insistence on being deceived, exasperates them into public shows of affection? Do they feel he is tempting them to see how much he can bear? Or is it that, swept up as they are by an irresistible power, they do not think about the King at all?

  Really, they go too far. Have they no sense? No shame? The King has been absent for two days. He announced that he would spend two nights in one of his hunting lodges and not return until the third day; in the presence of his Council he placed the Queen in Tristan’s care. All day they walk like lovers, seeking out secluded places. A servant saw the Queen and Tristan emerge at dawn from the door at the base of her tower that leads into the garden. At dinner they sit side by side at the royal board; he permits his hand to graze her hand while her throat flushes above the gold brooch clasping the lappets of her brilliant green mantle. Fearing the King’s wrath, everyone turns away, remains unwatchful and ill at ease. Oswin stares at them coldly. One can almost hear, from the high prison of the south-east tower, the rattle of Modor’s chains.

  A trap! Was it a trap? In the middle of the night I was wakened by the King’s hand on my shoulder and the light of a candle glaring on his cheek. He had returned alone, secretly, in the night. My door remains always unbarred, so that the King may find me when sleep eludes him. In his hunting lodge he had dreamed that Ysolt had been gored in the side by a wild boar. I rose quickly from my bed, groped for my tunic and sword belt in the flickering dark, and followed the King to the royal bedchamber. Slowly he pulled aside the curtain, which rattled on its rings. He thrust in the candle. The bed was empty.

  The King motioned me to follow him. We climbed the winding stairs to the women’s quarters; the guard admitted us into a large hall with curtained bench-beds along the walls, where the Queen’s companions sleep. Here and there on the rush-strewn floor, servant women lay on quilts beneath bed-covers. A small adjoining chamber served as the Queen’s private quarters. The room with its bed and clothes chest was empty.

  We descended to the courtyard, crossed to the northwest tower, and climbed the winding stairs to the Queen’s high chamber. With a large iron key the King unlocked the door. Dark bedposts topped by gilt wooden swans glowed in the moonlight; the bed curtains were open. On the coverlet lay a silk girdle brocaded with gold. We descended the dark stairs to the ground floor—a storage chamber with locked chests— where a narrow door admitted us into the Queen’s garden. Under the summer moon we walked along the sanded paths of the garden; a shimmering peacock moved before us and disappeared. The King stepped behind a tree, peered into wall recesses supplied with turf seats, turned suddenly at the sound of a rat. At an arched opening in a hedge he drew his sword and led me into a maze of hedgerows, which brought us to a grove of fruit trees. Nothing stirred in the moonlight.

  We returned through the garden and made our way across the courtyard to the castle keep. On the broad steps leading up to the great hall we passed a sleeping black hen. Through an arch I followed the King up the winding stairs. I had thought we were returning to my chamber, but the King stopped before Tristan’s door. With another iron key he entered.

  The curtains of Tristan’s bed were closed. At the top of the bedposts sat carved falcons with gilt beaks and wings. The King, holding his candle and beckoning me to follow, approached the bed and slowly drew aside the curtain.

  The Queen lay in the bed, alone and fast asleep. The covers were partly thrown back; she was fully dressed, and wore a head covering, held in place by a gold fillet set with emeralds and jacinths. In the light of the candle I saw the King’s uncertain, sorrowing eyes.

  “My lord,” said Tristan, standing behind us. The King, turning quickly, splashed candle-wax on his hand.

  “I hope your hunt was successful,” Tristan said, sheathing his sword. He was fully dressed, in green tunic and crimson surcoat; in the flamelight a network of tiny pearls glittered on his mantle, one end of which was thrown over his right shoulder. He nodded at the bed. “The Queen was frightened—a rat in the dark. I have guarded her with my life.”

  “Indee
d you have,” the King replied. “But as for me, the wild boar escaped. A long day—I’m tired now. Come, Thomas.”

  “Shall I wake the Queen?” Tristan asked.

  “By no means,” replied the King. “But when she wakes, please tell her that her husband bids her good morning.”

  I made my way with the King to his chamber, where I wished him good night before returning to my bed.

  A new feeling is in the air. The lovers, no doubt alarmed by the King’s nocturnal visit, have become uncommonly circumspect, while the King, abandoning the strategy of frivolous jollity, watches them with visible suspicion. He continually sends for the Queen on trivial pretexts: asks her if she is satisfied with her attendants and servants, inquires after her health, requests her to play the rote or harp for him. The Queen is resolutely obliging, but it is clear that she finds his attentions wearisome. Tristan spends long hours following his hawks. Once, when the Queen was playing a melancholy song on her harp, the King suddenly ordered her to stop and began pacing restlessly. “Continue to play for Thomas,” he said irritably, and strode from the chamber. For a moment the Queen raised her eyes and glanced at me, before taking up the harp again. We both understood that the King had suspected her of dreaming of Tristan, as she played her mournful song.

 

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