Steven Millhauser - The King in the Tree

At the base of the garden wall I saw a figure in the dark. Something about its stealth — its wary silence — put me in mind of Oswin. As my fingers closed over my sword hilt the figure leaped, gripped the top of the wall, and pulled himself nimbly up along the stones. For an instant he crouched like an animal at the top of the wall, before plunging to the other side. In that instant I recognized Tristan.

I released my sword and became aware of the tumultuous beating of my heart. What was it that so unsteadied me, there by the garden wall? Was it an old knight’s love of youthful daring? Or was it some more dubious feeling, a secret sympathy with wayward and forbidden things? There was no question of reporting what I had seen to the King: and as I turned away, I felt in my chest — my arms — my throat — a dark, secret exultation.

One imagines that it is no longer necessary to fear for the Queen’s health.

I have had a note from Brangane. She pressed it into my hand as she passed me on the winding stair leading from the great hall to the bedchambers above. In it she thanks me for my kindness in receiving her and says that the Queen’s health is much restored. Does she mean for me to read through these too-innocent words to the unwritten message, that Tristan has returned? Or is it her intention to throw me off the scent, to dismiss me, now that the Queen has found her cure?

Much to the court’s surprise, the Queen has begun to spend a good part of each day in the company of Oswin. Sometimes she even sends Brangane in search of him. The whisperers are busy and begin to weave lascivious designs, but the true explanation is surely less tedious. Made wretched by Tristan’s absence, the Queen loathed Oswin as the cause of that absence. Now, made happy by Tristan’s presence, she need not shun Oswin. Indeed, she makes use of him: she deceives the world into believing she is obedient.

Two weeks have passed since I last sat down to record my thoughts. Events crowd thick and fast. Already great changes have taken place. How shall I begin?

The castle walls are twenty-two feet thick. They are built of blocks of ashlar, smoothed by the mason’s chisel and topped by crenellated battlements; between the outer and inner layers of stone lies a core of rubble, composed of crushed rock, pebbles, and mortar. Here and there a portion of the core has been removed, leaving a hollow passage large enough for a man to walk in. The walls are in fact honeycombed with passages of this kind, located at different heights, some joined to the ones above and below, and here and there the stone has been hollowed out to form small, hidden chambers. Although only the King is permitted to know the design of these labyrinthine tunnels and the location of the many chambers — information that is passed to him, during the ceremony of coronation, in a letter sealed by the previous king — it is a tradition among the kings of Cornwall to reveal parts of the design to one or more trusted companions, who are sworn to secrecy; and so complex is the pattern of these intersecting passages, many of which lead nowhere, that it would be impossible for a single mind to hold them in memory, even if, as is certainly not the case, the passages corresponded faithfully to the information contained in the sealed letter. In the course of the twenty-four years of his reign, the King has taken me a score of times into the labyrinth; and on several of those occasions, he has invited the steward or Tristan to accompany us.

The passages are entered through concealed openings in four of the castle’s twelve towers. Narrow spaces between blocks of stone are hidden behind painted wall hangings. The stones on each side of the narrow space are hollow and are pierced by an iron rod that permits them to be turned; they then form an opening wide enough for a single man to enter.

Some of the small chambers contain locked chests in which are stored royal documents, deeds, treaties, lists of vassals. Others are storerooms containing old hauberks, battered helmets, crossbows, piles of swords, fifty-pound rocks for defensive catapults. Still other chambers are empty, or house mysterious objects, such as the decayed robes of a vanished queen or a small casket containing the bones of a child; and it is said that there are passages and chambers no one has ever seen, hidden in the depths of our mighty walls.

Three days ago, as I was climbing the winding stairs of the southwest tower on my way to the wall walk, where I wished to stretch my legs and look out from the battlements at the clear sky and the dark forest stretching away, I heard above me the sound of hushed, urgent voices, coming from what I knew to be a recessed window not yet in sight, which looked down at the courtyard. I hesitated, stopped; one of the voices was that of the steward, with its clipped, overprecise syllables, and the other was the Queen’s. “Tomorrow,” Oswin was saying. “Very well, very well,” I heard her say, with a kind of impatient weariness. I prepared to make my presence known, thought better of it, and withdrew quietly.

I disliked the hushed tones, the sound of irritable acquiescence in the Queen’s voice, above all the word “tomorrow,” for the King had announced that he would be hunting all day and would not return before nightfall. Once in my chamber I considered whether to keep the steward under close surveillance— several household servants act for me as spies, when I have reason to think the King’s interest might be well served in this manner — but I decided to send first for Brangane.

We met at the wicker gate of the King’s garden. I opened the gate for her and led her past beds of white and red roses to a turf bench beside the fountain of leopards. I had last spoken with her in the dark, and in the sharp light of day she surprised me; she seemed timid and mistrustful, like a child accused of stealing an apple. I came to the point quickly. I swore her to secrecy, reported what I had overheard, and asked whether she knew anything she might wish me to know.

She hesitated, then turned to me with an almost angry look. “The steward follows us — everywhere. I don’t like him.”

“And the Queen?”

“The Queen hates him — but doesn’t fear him.”

“And you fear him?”

She looked at me with contempt. “I fear for my lady.” She paused. “He wants to show her something — a place he speaks of. A bower.”

“And she goes tomorrow?”

“After morning mass, when the King hunts.”

“Thank you.” I stood up. “I will have him watched.”

“The Queen is in danger?”

“All will be well.”

She stood up and followed me to the wicker gate. “Thank you,” she said simply, looking at me with eyes that partly thanked and partly searched me.

When I returned to my chamber I sent for one of the steward’s servants, whose life I had once saved and who performed for me small favors from time to time. Behind my thick oak door, double-barred, I asked him to watch his master closely and report to me any action of a suspect or unusual kind.

The steward, a rigorously correct but secretive man, was the subject of a number of rumors, one of which concerned a grotto or bower said to be located deep within the labyrinth of passages in the castle wall. There he was said to amass treasure stolen from the household, to seduce male and female servants, and to practice magical arts.

After supper I sat with the assembled company in the hall and listened distractedly to the songs of a visiting Breton minstrel in a feathered cap before climbing the stairway to my chamber. At the door I found Oswin’s servant waiting for me. Once within he reported that directly after supper the steward had crossed the courtyard to the sixth tower, where in a storage chamber on the ground floor he had moved aside a painted cloth picturing a deer and disappeared.