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But, before we begin,
I must tell you that good King Thrushbeard knew her before she was the haughty princess. I must tell you how they loved each other as children do: unabashed, brazen, and unmoored. I cannot leave out the dirt on their hands, the laughter sweet on their mouths; I cannot forget to mention the young princess’s eyes, how they were older than the rest of her, as she said,
Do you promise?
Of course I promise.
Do you know what you’re promising?
Of course I don’t know what I’m promising.
I’ll tell you.
Tell me.
And the gardens were cold in spring and windy too. The young princess’s eyes were glassy and cold. She held the young king’s hands in her hands.
Do you promise?
Of course I promise.
And the young princess began to cry.
I.
The good king made his promise and he intends to keep it. His lands are vast and beautiful, his castle a fortress of elegance. He keeps courtyards in the gardens and the courtyards also have some gardens in them. The good king is a good king, although that might be readily understood.
The good king is not as young as he was. Nearing thirty, he is a handsome, upright man, with a crooked beard and eyes sharp like a bird’s. He has a tendency to stand at windows and stare at the trees. Sometimes he sits beneath them and plays his flute. He does this early in the morning, when the servants are yawning and the grass is wet; and he stays up late into the night when the candles are flickering, staring at scrolls like he stares at the trees.
The good king made his promise—now, how to make good on it, he does not know. He waits. He walks the halls, listening to the echo of his footfalls. He stares at trees. He listens to the birds. He tries to talk to them with the flute and they flutter away in rustles of feathers. He signs decrees, meets with delegates, courts a duchess who is eager for something to pass the time.
II.
The haughty princess stands with her chin turned to the window.
“This is no compromise,” her father says.
Indeed, this is no compromise.
The haughty princess starts to laugh, and her father starts to yell, and one of the gardeners working beneath the window startles and drops his shovel.
III.
The good king reads the letter and rises from his chair with a handsome eagerness. “Let’s be off,” he says to his valet, who is standing in the throne room with his hands clasped nervously together. “We’ve got quite the journey.”
The valet, who still does not know the contents of the letter, keeps his hands clasped together. “Sire?”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Where are we going, sire?”
The good king goes still, a kind of happy light moving around like water in his eyes. His mouth softens. He says evenly, “We’re going to meet my bride.”
The proclamation goes out that afternoon: The good king is getting married, now everyone must celebrate. The garlands are green and red. In the town, there is singing and dancing, and mead that tastes like the bitter but pleasant roots of turnips.
IV.
There’s a terrific line of them, the suitors. The haughty princess takes them all in from the front of the room. She wears a scratchy green dress that makes her skin turn red at her wrists and collarbones.
Her chambermaid told her that she has quite the reputation, and a fearsome one at that. The haughty princess was pleased at hearing this. She looks at them all as they all look at the floor. Their fine leather boots are without sound on the stone. They are waiting: for approval, for humiliation.
She casts them off, one by one. Takes the hooks from their lips and tosses them back into the sea.
It’s a week of this, just as it was a week of it before this week, just as it was a week before the week before this week, just as it was and it was and it was. All she ever does is rip hook from lip and scratch at her wrists when her father isn’t looking. On the seventh week she is cruel and pleased with herself, terrifically cruel and very pleased. The last one of them is a tall man. They say he is a good king. The haughty princess looks at his face while he looks at hers. Her stomach twists. Something about him is cold like the spring dew. Something about him is the wet grass making her legs cold through her dress. She looks at his face while he looks at hers.
“Look at his chin,” she laughs. “Like a thrush’s beak!”
V.
The king bids him to stay the week and he does. He changes into a quieter doublet and sturdier boots and goes out in search of her.
He finds her in a small courtyard, tucked away from the commerce of the palace, the stewards and chambermaids and councilman moving like birds in migration. She sits on a stone bench with a plum between her palms.
“Your Highness,” he says, so as not to startle her. He dips his head as she lifts hers.
Her regard is precious and thrilling. His hopes dare to rise, buoyed by her silence, nearly thoughtful in nature—
“Ah, Thrushbeard.”
He smiles, eyes on the moss and stone. “Yes.” He lifts his head. She sits there, and sits still, watching him like he’s a wild creature come across her path. “May I sit?”
“You may.”
The palace fades and up close, she is different. He sits beside her. The stone of the bench is cold, cold as winter, and her eyes are engraved into her countenance as though by an angry jeweler. Her mouth is long and wind-bitten.
Her father is no exceptional king. It is not for his wealth that the suitors come knocking. Her long fingers press into the skin of the plum and he wonders, not for the first time, if she is cold.
“Will you eat it?” he asks.
“No, I will not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s too beautiful to ruin.”
He laughs. “Any plum would gladly put itself to ruin for you.”
“A plum is a plum,” she tells him. She was raised in this palace, in this courtyard, tucked away. Her words are like magic spells; she was raised to know that.
“Then may I have it?”
“No, you may not.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s mine, even if it’s a plum and too beautiful to ruin.”
“What will you do with it?”
Her pale mouth twists and moves down. “Hold it a while.”
“Then?”
“Leave it for a squirrel or some other creature.”
He tastes the daring in his mouth and says, teasing, “Am I not some other creature?”
She gives it to him and gets up and leaves. The wool of her dress brushes dully over the stone. And he is left there, holding that small red plum in his hands, red as a heart but too cold to be one.
VI.
The good king is brave, if nothing else.
She has been watching him all through this day and the day before; how he bargains for moments, is brazen with intent; even now he sits beside her at dinner, goblet held in one long-fingered hand, the other pressed to his heart as though it pains him in some subtle way.
Seated to her father’s left, she would have expected him to be across from her. The offer was certainly extended.
Thrushbeard sits beside her at dinner and talks very little. When he lifts the wine to his mouth or cuts the steak with his knife, the fabric of his doublet makes a quiet murmuring sound, and their chairs are decently close, so she wonders if she is one of few who can hear it.
But no matter the adjective he is a king and kings have countries, palaces with thrones that must have tall men to sit in them. There will be long fields with crops timid as mice. The winds are still so cold. The servants laugh behind their hands as he passes; silly to be proud in the court of a prouder princess.
Her father the king is making threats about beggars and marriage but she is standing by the window and so cannot hear.
VII.
The horses are ready. Their small company stands in the front of the palace. He adjusts his cloak, straightens his thick leather gloves, squinting as a gust of wind blows cold.
Then he turns, and he sees her.
She is standing in the archway of the courtyard, holding a wrap of wool around her shoulders. She is standing as though she will come no closer. So he hands the reins to his valet and goes to her. His boots make firm sounds on the stone.
“Your Highness,” he says.
She says nothing.
He lifts his eyes to see her and his heart seizes in his chest. How old must she be now? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? Not a child, not anymore. And yet she is lovelier now than she ever was, her hair braided tightly away from her face, her face grim and splendid. Her lips part but she still says nothing. And the wind blows cold, pressing the wool close to her neck.
Slowly he takes off the glove from his right hand. She watches him as he reaches for her wrist, her fingers. She lets him step closer and touch her hand with his hand. Gloveless. Bare. Her regard is precious and thrilling. Her watching eyes, like towers.
He holds her hand in his hand, touching her fingers with his fingers. He kisses her cold knuckles. She does not pull away and so he does not let go. The good king—he tastes the daring in his mouth again, bitter and pleasant, and he turns her hand over and kisses her palm, the cold dry creases of her skin.
She watches him closely. He lifts his gaze to hers and her eyes are dark and solemn, watering, from the wind.
“Sire?” calls his valet.
She takes her hand back and walks away. He puts his glove back on, watching her leave.
VIII.
The beggar kneels on the floor of the throne room. He plays the lute masterfully well. The haughty princess watches him and listens.
He asks for a meager reward, and she is given a half hour to pack what she must.
The beggar is uncommonly tall, and though he slouches, his shoulders are broad. She cares little for conversation but she says things to him, if only to hear the things he says back. They walk together through the countryside.
“Whose lands are these, husband?” she asks.
“These lands belong to King Thrushbeard,” he says.
They walk a while in silence. He clears paths for her in wilder spots, and offers his hand. She takes it. As they come to a little meadow with wildflowers rustling in the wind, she stops, and he stops too.
“Whose meadow is this, husband?” she asks.
“This meadow belongs to King Thrushbeard,” he says.
They walk another long while in silence, until they reach a bustling castletown, smelling of manure and wheat, with charming roofs painted green and pink and thatched like feathers around the palace. The princess looks at it.
“Whose town is this, husband?” she asks.
“This town belongs to King Thrushbeard,” he says.
She smiles a small smile, and it feels secretive, forbidden. “A shame I did not wed him.”
The beggar grumbles something inaudible and his fingers tighten around hers. They keep walking until they reach a slouching hovel on the outskirts of town. Weeds spring up, unhindered by the cold. The door swings unsteadily open.
“And this…” she begins.
He leads her inside, where it smells of must and smoke. “And this is my home, and now yours as well, wife.”
IX.
She knows nothing of domestic arts, of cooking or cleaning or weaving or mending. And now she sleeps. A gentleness has fallen over her face, like a shadow, or a woolen shawl. The beggar stretches, blows out the candle, and lies down beside her.
The next morning he wakes her early. She groans and pushes him away.
“Get up,” he says, and tries to uncurl the blanket from her fingers. “We have a long day ahead of us.”
“Perhaps you do, but I will sleep.”
They argue a bit longer, half-hearted jabs, and soon she’s irritated enough to stay awake. She sits up, scowling darkly. Her hair falls wild around her face and over her shoulders.
“Well?”
He stands. “We’ve got to fix up the place and make breakfast.”
“I don’t know how to cook.”
“I know, I’ll show you. But you must get up first and put on something decent.”
It takes her several minutes to ready herself. Her fingers, clearly, are not used to dressing herself. Her hair is foreign to her hands. He notices these things from the corner of his vision as he sweeps the broom over the floor.
Wordlessly she stands beside him, hands on her hips.
“You’re ready, then,” he says.
“Yes.”
It’s a terrific mess but they succeed, somewhat. She has boiled two eggs and salted them, a precious and beautiful meal they share, sitting on the edge of the cot.
“And how does a princess spend her time?” he asks, looking up at her.
She narrows her eyes. “I’m a beggar’s wife, now.”
“It upsets you.”
“In some regards, yes, it upsets me.”
“But not in all?” He grins. “I will do my best to please you, wife.”
“Start by letting me sleep, husband.”
But they find their habits, their rhythms. They stand close together in the cottage in the mornings and in the evenings, and sleep beside each other at night, and he takes to braiding his wife’s hair before he blows out the candles. She did not object the first time he put his hands over hers. And it is his favorite part of this whole scheme: lifting the great shining weight of it off her neck, gathering strands from her shoulders, feeling her breathe. Tonight he finishes off the braid and says, “Tomorrow I’ll show you how to weave.” She turns and looks at him. “There is very little food,” she says.
X.
It hurts her hands, the business of weaving. The willows are rough and hard. They refuse to obey her and it’s horribly frustrating.
The next day he sits her down at the spinning wheel and shows her how to spin. This, too, is painful. Her fingers bleed and bleed. She likes this better than the weaving—the movement is a bit smoother, and easier to manage, but nevertheless it leaves her in a foul mood.
Her husband braids her hair, wraps her fingers with a poultice, and kisses her wrist, a touch that fills her with hope and curiosity. Then he blows out the candle and they go to sleep.
The next day he asks if she would sell the earthenware he makes in the marketplace.
Ill at ease, she sets the pots and earthenware around her, and keeps her eyes down. But to her surprise, she finds herself with customers—men, with eyes that crawl and seize on her face and her covered hair. They pay whatever she requires. It’s funny, sometimes, and she amuses herself by asking ridiculous prices and seeing what they’ll do. The wealthier ones pay. The others start up with choruses of flattery as though words are worth a penny.
She and her husband, they enjoy a loaf of bread that month, and eggs with bright yellow yolks, and other good things she has come to like. She has learned the specific pleasure of sleeping with a full stomach. She has learned she likes to feel the cot dip as her husband lies down beside her.
And yet, he requests another thing of her: to go to the palace and work in the kitchens.
She complies, if only because some foolish drunk crashed through the marketplace the day before, smashing all the pots to pieces. She came home in a rage, raving and throwing her arms all around. It was then that he told her of the opening in the palace kitchens. How he knows it, she suspects she knows, but says nothing aloud.
That night she lies on her other side. Once he’s asleep, she touches his face with the tips of her fingers. He’s handsome, for a beggar, and with a proud countenance despite that ridiculous beard and those wild, bird-like brows. His mouth is beautiful like a promise. She puts her face close to his and puts her mouth on his. It could not be called a kiss. A curious touch.
He doesn’t stir, so she turns on her other side and goes to sleep.
XI.
His wife leaves for the palace early that morning, hair braided and covered, circles under her eyes. He watches her go. His mouth remembers her mouth. His nose remembers the touch of her finger. He watches her go until she disappears into the bustle of town.
She comes back late that night with two jars sewn into her skirts, filled with scraps of finer food.
“How was it?” he asks.
She unwraps her hair and hands him one of the jars. “Eat,” she says.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The days go on and the nights go on and she is so unhappy. He cannot remember ever seeing her happy, cannot remember if the smiles she used to wear were as true as he once thought; and at night she lies facing away with the thick braid of her hair stretched out over the cot. He wants to touch her. He is always wanting to touch her. He is always wanting to hold her closer and feel her heart. And she is unhappy. The days go on and he wonders what a promise is, anyway, to children who laugh and play in palace gardens, and he wonders if she would have been happier if he’d left her alone, left her to her silences and her courtyards, her plum tree and wool.
The next morning she leaves early for the palace, and the beggar, too, goes home; to his valet, to his horses, to his throne and gardens.
The proclamation goes out for the second time: The good king is getting married, now let us all celebrate.
XII.
The king is getting married and the kitchens are loud, hot, and hurried. She escapes up the narrow stairs to the edge of the ballroom, the sparkling ballroom. The sounds she knows haunt and console her. She shivers and watches the silver goblets glitter; the ladies have laughter like quiet rain, and their hands are trained creatures, fingers long and obedient. The musicians play and play. A little boy runs past and tosses the crust of his bread at her feet. She picks it up and slips it into one of her jars.
The guests whirl across the ballroom, their steps practiced and beautiful, their faces painted with glee. She cranes her neck to see the king.
A tall man steps up beside her. “Your Highness,” he says, and dips his head.
She looks at him, and he looks at her.
He is the good king with the crooked chin, and the beggar, too. He is standing in his fine wedding doublet and boots, bearded and handsome, broad-shouldered and smiling slightly. When she was little her father used to yell at her, tell her that there was an ugliness inside her, an ugliness that must exist to even with the beauty of her face. She believed him. Children believe their fathers. And the ugliness stirs and turns as she looks at him, he who is good and vast as any forest. She knew this. She always knew who he was, who he was pretending to be. But she is tired, and tired of the ugliness, the unhappiness. The young princess begins to cry. She flees.
He catches her wrist in the stairwell. “Wait, please,” he whispers, and his fingers tighten. “Please, my darling.”
“Let me go.” She turns away. “Let go of me.”
“I love you.”
“You don’t love me, you—”
“I love you, only you.”
“But you’re getting married!” she cries.
His fingers tighten, then loosen. Slowly, she turns.
She looks up at his eyes and they are kind, and familiar. She looks at him and they are sitting in the cold wet grass. He smiles.
“If you’ll have me,” he says quietly.
But she cannot speak, and stands very still as he brushes the tears from under her eyes. His thumbs are warm and calloused. Then he leans close and presses his mouth between her brows. She closes her eyes, curling her fingers around his wrists, into the fine fabric of his cuffs. He kisses her left eye, then her right. Her lips part, and he kisses her there too, a kiss that stirs her. She grips his wrists tight. She has never been kissed so thoroughly. It’s bizarre, it’s like nothing she’s ever felt. It thrills her. At once she is entirely and not at all aware of herself in this world. This stairwell. Her husband, who has never kissed her before this. The coarseness of his beard. The jars pressed against her legs. And as he pulls away, she cannot open her eyes; he breathes the words over her mouth.
“Will you have me?” he murmurs.
With some effort she opens her eyes. His mouth is swollen; his eyes are full of love.
“Yes.” She finds herself smiling. “I will have you.”
XIII.
They stand together in the flowering gardens, several days after the wedding. The queen is holding his hand and looking at the trees, and he is looking at her. The long hours of quiet have soothed her. Her hair is pinned away from her face and her eyes are softer, and calmer, though still filled with a solemness that makes him want to hold her close.
“I never said it,” she says, in a wandering voice.
He runs his thumb over her knuckles. “What did you never say?”
She turns and looks at him. “Thank you.”
He smiles. “I see you’ll make me guess.”
“You can’t guess?”
“I wish you would tell me,” he says. She smiles a little and he steps closer. “Tell me, wife.”
She tilts her head, her mouth pressing down in that rare and exquisite expression—she’s trying not to laugh. “You kept your promise after all. I thought no one would ever take me away from that place. So, thank you.”
“You do not need to thank me for keeping a promise.”
“I love you,” she says, seriously. The wind stirs the little hairs at her temples. “Very much.”
He grins, and brushes his thumb over her cheek. “That’s very well.”
“Don’t tease, husband.”
“Kiss me, wife.”
She laughs, a startling and clear sound, and kisses him soundly.