Steven Millhauser - The King in the Tree

She took it in thoughtfully — I imagined her turning over my words as if they were pieces of fruit she was examining for bruises — then turned to me sharply. “The Queen is in danger?”

“The Queen’s reputation is in danger.”

“The King sends you to say this?”

“I send myself.”

She sat brooding there; then—“The Queen fears nothing.”

Her vehemence surprised me. It was as if she were saying that everything was lost.

“It isn’t a question of the Queen’s courage,” I said.

I waited for her to speak, but she only looked at me, waiting.

“But rather of her — honor.”

“Honor comes from within,” she declared, and rapped her breastbone with her knuckles.

I hadn’t summoned the Queen’s maid to discuss the fine points of honor. She must have felt something flash from my face, for she then said, “And the King believes these rumors? You believe them?”

“I don’t know that he believes them. He dislikes their existence.”

“So does the Queen,” she said, looking at me as though in triumph.

“If you would urge her to be more careful — warn her—”

“And this warning is from — a friend?”

I considered it. “From someone who isn’t an enemy.”

She looked at me. “I will speak to her. The Queen — does as she likes.”

I rose and accompanied her to the gate.

“The Queen — thanks you,” she said, pausing for a moment as if she intended to say more, but instead turning abruptly into the courtyard.

What troubles me about this conversation is the unexpected image of the Queen. The Queen fears nothing? The Queen does as she likes? Suddenly the Queen has become a bold woman, scornful of authority, impatient with duty — a woman for whom a King is an irritating encumbrance — a woman who declares to her handmaid, as a hard-won truth wrung from experience, “Honor comes from within.” Consider: the Queen has been thinking about honor. “Honor comes from within.” What can this mean except: honor comes not from what I do, but from what I feel?

It is the philosophy of a dissolute baron.

And the King’s honor? What of that?

It is difficult to reconcile this Ysolt, the fierce Ysolt sprung from the words of her handmaid beside the fountain of leopards, with that other Ysolt, the gentle, courteous, and mild Ysolt who has been growing slowly within me, like a pear tree in a walled garden.

I know nothing of the Queen.

But the Queen is wild! Is mad! She searches for Tristan eagerly, devours him with her eyes, hurries from the King’s side to greet her darling Tristan. Is she feverish? Delirious? At the royal board she looks only at Tristan, leans in front of the King to seize Tristan’s glance. It is as if she wished to defy the King— to provoke his wrath. Can this be the fruit of my warning to Brangane?

Tristan is ill at ease. The King pretends to see nothing and suddenly turns his head to look at the Queen, who impatiently adjusts her gaze, searching beyond the edges of his face for Tristan.

This morning I saw the King inclining his head to Modor in the shade of the garden wall.

Shortly after noon, as I walked in the courtyard, Brangane stepped out from the narrow alley between the wall of the Queen’s garden and the granary.

“I have spoken to her,” she said simply.

“Did you tell her to mock the King?”

“She feels — she doesn’t like to be accused.”

“No one accuses her.”

“She thinks you plot with the King against her.”

“Splendid! You think so too?”

“I told her I thought — I believed — you can be trusted.”

I was startled by a burst of gratitude, like a rush of wind. Why should I care what these women thought of me? — I who loved my King and would gladly have died for him.

“The King is unhappy,” I then said.

Brangane looked at me as if waking from a trance. “We’re all unhappy!” she said; it was almost a cry. “Goodbye,” she said, and was gone.

As I sit at my table, writing these words in the light of a single candle, I can hear, through my partly open door and the closed door of the royal chamber, the noises of love, a sudden cry from Ysolt, silence. It is the second time this night. In Tristan’s chamber, two sounds: the scrape of a table leg, the bang of a shutter thrown open or shut.

Sometimes a strange thought comes: to murder the lovers in their sleep, to destroy this ugly plague of love that causes nothing but ruin and despair.

It is even worse than I feared.

This morning the King called a meeting of his barons in the great hall. He announced that the rumors surrounding his wife and nephew were harmful to the honor of the court and the kingdom; that although he had no evidence of dishonor, it was plain to him, and to all the court, that his wife and nephew bore one another a love beyond that which was proper and fitting; that although it was within his power to exact punishment, he would not, for the love he bore both of them, take revenge, and demanded only that they leave the court together, to seek in another place the life denied them here; that he had tried to live in a fellowship of three — the King and Ysolt, Ysolt and Tristan, Tristan and the King — but that he could do so no longer, for he saw that they were against him, in a fellowship of two; and for the love he bore them, he wished them well.

This speech — which made a deep impression — struck me as most artful. The King, while speaking continually of the love that was in his heart, was at the same time driving from his castle, and from his protection, the objects of that love. He forgave them for the wrong they had done him, while by the decree of banishment he left no doubt that he had been terribly wronged. He sent them forth to live their lives together, lawfully, without interference from him, while letting it be known that those lives were so shameful that they could not be led at the Cornish court, bright home of honor, but only elsewhere, in some other world, invisibly.

The Queen, who stood beside the King during the entire performance, never once lowered her eyes.

The King has surprised me. He is cheerful, energetic, full of schemes. The absence of Tristan and the Queen, which I feared would be harmful to him, appears to have freed him from some impediment in his nature. He inspects the wall walks and gatehouse, consults with a visiting military engineer about defense catapults to be mounted on the towers, bestows a large gift on a Cistercian monastery, speaks with the chamberlain about new curtains for his bed and new tiles for his fireplace. Above all he oversees a burst of castle repairs and construction: carpenters extend the length of the stables, masons construct a new wall for the bake house, the old wooden granary has been torn down and in its place rises a sturdy building of dressed stone. In the chapel the cracked wooden statue of the Virgin, her right arm extended and one finger raised, has been replaced by a new statue in bright colors, while a sculptor repairs the wings of a stone angel.

The King has invited to the court an artificer, Odo of Chester, a monkish man remarkable for his long face, his long nose, his long thin fingers, and his large moist mournful eyes. On one of his fingers he wears a black stone carved in the shape of a tiny hand. Odo has brought with him a curious device: a wooden box with a small window and a handle on one side. When you look through the window you see a rural scene: a windmill, a stream, a tree, a barn. But turn the handle, and behold! — the windmill turns, the stream flows, the leaves of the tree shake in a breeze, the barn door opens and a cow steps out.

This toy is well liked by the ladies of the court.

The King spends many hours closeted with Odo of Chester in his tower chamber. They are preparing something; in the King’s face I can read a quiet excitement.