Under a pear tree lay Tristan and the Queen, asleep. They lay on white linen, beneath a red silk coverlet brocaded with gold lions. In the green shade they lay mouth to mouth, embracing. The coverlet was partly cast aside, revealing their naked arms and upper bodies. The Queen’s breasts were pressed against Tristan’s breast. What startled me was the Queen’s hair, unbound, naked, wild, like some yellow eruption, pouring along her shoulder, bursting over Tristan, burning along the coverlet.
They were breathing quietly. I could not bear to look at the King’s face.
The King bent toward me and whispered harshly, “We must find witnesses.” He turned and strode away.
I withdrew my dagger and crept up to the sleeping pair. As I bent over Tristan, I imagined someone watching from a tree: the murder in the garden. Carefully I laid the dagger with its jeweled handle across his naked neck. Then I rose and followed the King through the hedge paths.
Why did the King leave? He left because, although he had caught them red-handed, and had every right to kill them on the spot, he had so long imagined this very scene that it must have struck him as familiar, unsurprising, perhaps a little disappointing. He left because, from the instant he saw them, he entered an unhappiness so deep that nothing could relieve him. He left because he was a just King who, although he had caught his wife and nephew lying naked under a pear tree, did not wish to condemn them to death unfairly, in the anger of the moment and in the presence of a single witness known to be his friend, for there might, even now, be an explanation that had not occurred to him and that would reveal them to be innocent. He left because he could not bear a life without the Queen, without Tristan. He left because, although he wished to return with his barons and murder the lovers in their bed, he also wished to offer them a chance to escape. He left because his heart was broken. He left because, in the first instant of seeing them there, before the knowledge of their treachery entered his heart, he had experienced a kind of awe before the beauty of Tristan, the beauty of Ysolt, two lovers under a pear tree, in a garden, out of this world.
These were my thoughts as I followed the King through the hedgerows and back across the garden to the door in the tower.
Inside the door, Modor stepped from the shadows. He had drawn his little sword, which he held high in his excitement. “You saw them!” he cried, his face savage with glee.
The King, uttering a cry, struck with his sword. The blow severed Modor’s hand cleanly from his wrist. Modor gave a high, unpleasant scream and bent over violently with his bleeding stump pressed against his stomach. I looked at the little hand lying palm upward on the floor beside the fallen sword, which lay quite close to it. Modor, shrieking like a child, stumbled away into the shadows.
As he strode toward the great hall to fetch witnesses, the King told me that Modor had ridden out to the forest with the news that he had seen the Queen and Tristan go into the garden. From a ladder at the top of the garden wall the dwarf had watched them lie down under the pear tree.
When we returned to the garden in the company of four barons, we found the Queen lying alone under the tree, with the coverlet up to her neck. In terror she looked up at the six of us standing over her with drawn swords. It was evident she expected to be murdered.
The barons looked at the King. The King looked at the Queen. Without a word, he turned and headed back out of the garden.
No longer does the King leave the castle. He walks in his garden, shuts himself up alone in his tower, stares unblinking in the chapel, presides in silence at dinner beside the silent Queen. Sometimes he stands on the wall walk, looking out over the battlements. Only at meals and at morning mass is he seen with the Queen. They never look at each other.
She, for her part, spends much time in the women’s quarters, embroidering among her companions, or in her tower chamber, with its window looking down upon her garden.
At night, in the royal chamber, the King takes his pleasure of the Queen. But can it be correct to say that he takes his pleasure? Is it not more accurate to say that he takes his pain? For when he lies with the Queen, does he not hear, in the bed beside her, the breath of Tristan, does he not feel, beneath his palm, the back of Tristan’s hand?
Never have the King and Queen been less alone.
Having spared the Queen, the King can do nothing but bear witness to her unhappiness, her uninterrupted desire for Tristan. This form of suffering, which is unbearable, is slightly less unbearable than the suffering that would have been his if he had condemned her to death, since he is left with the hope, however delusory, that a change will come over the Queen, that in the course of time she will begin to forget Tristan.
Thus the King devotes himself to a life of suffering for the sake of a future in which he does not believe.
It is also possible that he wishes the Queen to witness his own suffering, which cannot happen if she is dead.
Is it a wonder that they can’t bear to look at each other, in the light of day?
Last night I walked out into the orchard. I had not walked there for many days. The air was cool and fresh—a touch of autumn—and as I made my way along the wagon paths, under a dark sky brilliant with stars, I recalled the night when I saw Tristan and the Queen walking not far from me among the trees—walking so slowly that they were scarcely moving. I recalled the picture vividly, but for some reason I was unable to recapture the sensations that had been stirred in me then. Had they been illusory, those stirrings and wonderments? Had they perhaps been used up? I was pondering these questions when I found myself in a familiar place, not far from the fence of pointed stakes. I recognized the broad apple tree in whose branches the King and I had hidden ourselves, like boys at play.
On a sudden impulse I reached up to a branch and pulled myself into the tree. I climbed through branches heavy with ripe apples until I was nearly at the top. In one direction I could see over the palisade of stakes into the royal forest; in the other I could see, beyond the moonlit orchard stretching away, the pale, towering wall of the castle. In memory I heard the King’s voice crying, “Come down, Thomas! What the devil are you doing up there?” and I was wondering how I might reply when I became aware of sounds in the near distance. Quickly I withdrew into the darkness of the leaves.
Two figures came into view, whom I recognized at once as the Queen and Brangane. I was divided between the desire to reveal myself, for I had no wish to spy on the Queen, and the desire to remain hidden, for how could I explain my presence to her, in the orchard, at night, in the trysting tree? As I held myself back, the women came up to the tree. I saw that Brangane was carrying a bundle of some kind. The Queen stood staring at the trunk as if she were imploring it to speak, while Brangane unfolded her bundle, which proved to be a quilt and coverlet. In the moon-speckled shade of the apple tree, the Queen lay down and closed her eyes. Beside her Brangane stood guard, like a crossbowman on a castle wall. They did not speak.
High among the apple branches I looked down on the sleeping Queen, who lay with her head turned slightly to one side. Her face, haughty and sorrowful in daylight, looked mild and peaceful now—the face, almost, of a sleeping child. I was struck again by the mystery of her beauty, as it streamed up at me from the foot of the tree. It came over me that I too was guarding her, as she slept her strange sleep, under the trysting tree. Only then did it all come back to me, the night when I saw them in the orchard, the wonder, the stillness, the moment when the sky was about to crack open and reveal a dazzling light.
Had she come to sleep in the open air because she was unable to sleep in the royal chamber? Had she escaped from the King, whose attentions repelled her? Perhaps she had had word from Tristan—at any moment he would leap over the wall and take her in his arms. Or had she, in her sorrow, sought out the place where she had once been happy?
I dared not move, for fear of waking her or alerting Brangane. Fortunately I am well-disciplined; as a young knight I trained my body to follow my will, and once forced myself to stand motionless in my uncle’s orchar
d from daybreak to sunset. Time passed, or ceased altogether. I had the sensation that I had been in the tree, guarding the Queen, not for this night only, but for many nights—for every night since the night I had seen her and Tristan walking in the moonlit orchard. I was startled, almost disappointed, when Brangane bent over and shook her awake.
She opened her eyes—I could see them opening, as if to gaze at me in my branches—then she sat up abruptly, held out her hand, and allowed Brangane to raise her to her feet.
“Quickly,” Brangane said, as she gathered up the coverlet and quilt.
“He will come,” the Queen said, quietly and sorrowfully.
They turned away, and I watched as they passed through the orchard and out of sight. For a long while I stayed in my tree, like a man bound in a spell. Then I climbed down and returned to the castle, even as the cocks began to crow in the courtyard.
The Queen goes out every night and waits for Tristan under the apple tree. The King cannot be ignorant of these journeys.
At this morning’s service in the chapel, the Queen rose from kneeling and, growing suddenly faint, stumbled for a moment against the King. The King, who had just risen, was startled by the sudden weight of the Queen against him, and would himself have stumbled and perhaps fallen had I not been able to support him with both hands. The King and Queen recovered at once. The episode lasted the space of a moment, but in my mind I see the three of us fixed in place as in a bas relief: the Queen fallen against the King, the King fallen against his old companion, who himself leans slightly away, his left hand grasping the King’s shoulder, his right hand gripping the King’s back, his neck tense, his lips pulled back over bared teeth.
This night I woke from a troubling dream of Tristan—he lay wounded and bleeding under a tree—and seemed to hear a sound coming from Tristan’s chamber. I sat up, listening intently. There could be no doubt: someone was stirring in Tristan’s chamber. I rose, put on my robes and sword belt, and stepped from my room to Tristan’s door, which was open a hand’s width.
When I entered his chamber I saw in the moon-streaked darkness a figure seated on the side of the bed, between drawn-back curtains. My heart leapt—he had come!—but at once I recognized the King.
“Is it you?” he said, in a voice so sorrowful that a heaviness came over me, and I could scarcely speak.
“It is Thomas, my lord.”
“Ah: Thomas. I thought—” He rose, in the dark. “I dislike empty rooms,” he said. “They remind me of—” He gestured with a hand, which dropped to his side. “I sometimes come in here, at night. I don’t know why. Do you remember when the three of us would ride out together? He was fifteen then. He could already cut up a buck like a man. His harp: the time he made the minstrel weep. Do you remember? I was— twenty-five. Twenty-five! God. Where has it gone? I never sleep. Do you sleep, Thomas? But of course you do. I keep thinking he’ll return, to ask my forgiveness. She doesn’t eat. She doesn’t speak. Let me show you something.”
He passed out the door and I followed him into the royal chamber. The shutters were unbarred and night brightness glowed in the room. He pulled aside the bed curtain and showed me the Queen, asleep on her side. I could scarcely see her in the darkness of the bed.
“Have you ever seen a more beautiful face?” the King asked, as he let the curtain drop back. “And yet—” Again that helpless gesture, the hand raised and falling to his side. “But I was going to show you—”
He pulled the curtain aside once more and bent over the Queen. As he gently began to draw down the coverlet, I did not know what to think. Was he going to show me the Queen’s nakedness? Then I saw a glint of something; her upper body was covered to the waist. He drew up the coverlet and led me to the door.
“It’s a shirt of iron. She has it from the chaplain. She wears it night and day. She is cut, bruised—all over.”
“But why—”
“At first I thought she was punishing herself because she had—dishonored me. But now I believe she is punishing herself because he is gone. She removes it if I ask her to. I am tired, Thomas.”
“Sleep, my lord.”
“Sleep? I’m done with sleep. Sleep is for the young. Sleep no longer desires me. Good night, Thomas.”
I left him standing at the door, like a knight whose task it was to guard the Queen’s sleep.
I do not like that iron shirt, cutting into the Queen’s flesh. Perhaps if I speak to the chaplain?
The King is mistaken about one thing: I too no longer sleep.
Today, after the tables were removed from the hall, a blind harper from Brittany played for us. I watched the King and Queen staring fiercely at him, trying to penetrate the disguise. Even I, who saw at once it was not Tristan, studied him closely, wondering whether I had perhaps been mistaken, whether he had deceived us by changing the shape of his body.
We are all waiting for him, the shining one.
If Tristan were to return now, and beg the King’s forgiveness, everything would be restored to him—except the Queen, except the Queen, except the Queen.
A week has passed, with little to report. The harper has left, one of the King’s favorite greyhounds has died, a group of six pilgrims have taken up residence in the guest quarters for a few days, a squire accused of striking a servant girl has been given a lashing. Oswin complains that the guests will exhaust the treasury; he reports expenditures for two dozen fowls, one hundred eggs, hay for six horses. Yesterday, in the royal forest, a boar gashed the thigh of the Baron Amaury de Chastelet.
An extraordinary thing has happened.
I went to bed early yesterday evening, after listening to a minstrel’s song of Charlemagne and Roland and then playing a game of chess with the King. On parting he spoke of the boar that had gored the baron, slitting him from his knee to his upper thigh; it occurred to me that the King’s thoughts were beginning to return to the hunt, a hopeful sign. In my bed I fell at once into a deep sleep and did not wake until dawn. As I woke I became aware of a coldness on my neck. At first I thought it was the chill morning air, but the sensation began to resemble a pressure, a weight of cold. When I reached up to touch my neck I felt a sudden sharp pain in the palm of my hand. I sat up quickly, fully awake, and saw a streak of blood on my palm. On the coverlet lay my dagger with the jeweled handle, which I had placed on Tristan’s neck under the pear tree in the Queen’s garden.
He was here!—I had no doubt it was Tristan who had placed it on my neck—and before descending to the chapel I stepped into his chamber and pulled aside the bed curtain, as if I might find him sleeping there.
In the chapel, kneeling beside the King, I observed the Queen closely. And now it seemed to me that a change had come over her, that her cheeks were slightly flushed, her lips less drawn, and that I had observed these changes, without thinking about them, for the past several days.
After breakfast I sent a message to Brangane, who met me in the King’s garden. On the turf bench beside the fountain of leopards I brought forth the dagger. She drew back—as though I had intended to murder her—but quickly recognized the weapon and its meaning.
“He has gone back,” she then said.
Brangane revealed the stratagem to me, which was executed at precisely the time I believed I had nothing to report. The blind harper, who was not blind, was Tristan’s messenger. He informed the Queen, by means of a message delivered to Brangane, that Tristan had crossed over from Lyonesse and would devise a way to enter the castle. He might easily have arranged to meet her in the orchard, but he wished to penetrate the castle itself. He and five companions disguised themselves as pilgrims and entered the castle gate; under their humble robes they wore ring mail and swords. For three days they dined among other guests in the great hall, walked in the courtyard, prayed in the chapel. Tristan revealed himself by signs to the Queen and visited her alone in her garden by day and in the orchard by night. He remained for three days and three nights; during the third night he stole into my chamber and returned m
y dagger. At daybreak he departed for Lyonesse, across the sea, where he lived in his ancestral castle. It was to this castle that he had fled after the night of discovery under the pear tree. There he had lived, sorrowing for his lost Queen, until at last, searching for death in the German wars and not finding it, he had plotted a return to Cornwall in the guise of a pilgrim, to pledge his undying love.
Such was Brangane’s story, delivered breathlessly beside the fountain. As she spoke I saw in memory the proud youth from Lyonesse, who long ago came riding to his uncle’s court in Cornwall—came riding with such easy grace that it was said he rivaled the King himself. The King had seen in that face the face of his dead sister, Blanchefleur, and I had seen the face of the young King. And in my mind, for a moment, I confused the two of them, the young Prince whom I loved and whom I had instructed in the arts of fencing and dialectic, and the young lord who ten years later came riding into Cornwall with the bearing, the elegance, the hands, the very look of my beloved and still youthful King.
When I asked Brangane why the Queen had not fled to Lyonesse with Tristan, she sat up a little straighter. “She is married to the King,” she replied; in her voice I detected a note of reproach.
Tristan does not return. The Queen’s face has become sharpened by unhappiness, simplified by longing; her life has contracted to the single act of waiting. It is as if she is shedding herself piece by piece, divesting herself of superfluous looks and gestures, until she has come to resemble the figure of a stone saint on a tympanum, who forever must express, in a single genuflection, the vast multiplicity of poses that constitute a lifetime. The King too is waiting, but without hope: he is waiting for the Queen to forget Tristan and turn her attention to him. Because unhappiness has made him patient, and because he is without hope, he tends to the Queen and even imagines her desires: no longer does he sleep in the royal bedchamber but has removed himself to Tristan’s chamber. Sometimes he hears her return from the orchard, where she waits nightly for Tristan, despite the cold weather. Then he lights her way into her chamber, summons a servant to stoke the fire in the hearth, and wishes her a good night before returning to Tristan’s chamber.
The King in the Tree Page 20