# The Young King _Retold by Talerie (talerie.com) from A House of Pomegranates, after Oscar Wilde_ · 14 min read · ages 8+ The night before his coronation, a young king raised by a goatherd dreams of the weavers, the pearl diver, and the dying men who paid for his robe, scepter, and crown. He rides to the cathedral in a briar crown, and there the sunbeams weave him a robe, his staff blossoms with lilies, and the Bishop kneels before him. --- It was the night before his coronation, and the young king was sitting alone in his beautiful room. His courtiers had bowed low and gone off for a last lesson in etiquette, since some of them still had quite natural manners, which in a courtier is a serious fault. The young king was not sorry to see them go. He was only sixteen, and he threw himself back on his couch with a sigh of relief, like a young forest animal newly caught by hunters. It was hunters, in fact, who had found him, barefoot with a pipe in his hand, following the goats of the poor goatherd who had brought him up. All his life he had believed the goatherd was his father. But people whispered another story. His mother had been the old king’s only daughter, and she had secretly married a stranger far below her in rank. When her baby was a week old, he was taken from her while she slept and carried off to a goatherd deep in the forest. Within the hour the princess was dead. It was said that the stranger lay buried beside her, and that he had been tied up and stabbed to death. What was certain was that the old king, on his deathbed, had sent for the boy and named him as his heir before the Council. From the very first, the boy showed a strange passion for beautiful things. He gave a cry of pleasure at the fine clothes and jewels laid out for him, and threw off his rough leather tunic and sheepskin cloak with an almost fierce joy. The palace seemed to him a new world made for his delight. But most of all he thought about what he would wear at his coronation: a robe woven of gold, a crown studded with rubies, and a scepter set with rows and rings of pearls. That night he lay by the fire and pictured himself at the high altar of the cathedral in the robes of a king, and a smile lit up his dark forest eyes. At midnight his pages undressed him with great ceremony, and soon after they had gone, he fell asleep. And as he slept he dreamed, and this was his dream. He was standing in a long, low attic full of the clatter of looms. Gaunt weavers bent over their work. Pale, sickly children crouched on the crossbeams, and haggard women sat sewing at a table. Their faces were pinched with hunger. The young king went over to one of the weavers and stood watching him. The weaver looked up angrily. “Why are you watching me? Are you a spy our master has set on us?” “Who is your master?” asked the young king. “A man like me,” the weaver said bitterly. “The only difference is that he wears fine clothes while I go in rags.” “The land is free,” said the young king, “and you are no man’s slave.” “In war,” answered the weaver, “the strong make slaves of the weak, and in peace the rich make slaves of the poor. We toil for them all day, and our children fade away before their time. We wear chains that no eye can see, and we are slaves, though men call us free. But what is that to you? Your face is too happy.” He turned away, scowling, and threw the shuttle across the loom, and the young king saw that it was threaded with gold. A sudden fear gripped him. “What robe is this that you are weaving?” he asked. “It is the robe for the coronation of the young king,” the weaver answered. “What is that to you?” And the young king gave a great cry and woke, and through the window he saw a round, honey-colored moon hanging in the dusky air. And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream. He was lying on the deck of a huge galley rowed by a hundred slaves, each one chained to the next. Beside him sat the master of the galley, holding a pair of ivory scales. Overseers walked between the benches with whips and lashed the rowers. At last they reached a little bay. Riders came out from the shore and threw spears at the ship, and the master of the galley shot one of them dead with his painted bow. When the anchor was down, the overseers took the youngest of the slaves, struck off his chains, and tied a heavy stone around his waist. He crept down a rope ladder and disappeared into the sea. After a while the diver came up, panting, with a pearl in his hand. The overseers snatched it from him and sent him back down. Again and again he came up, each time with a beautiful pearl, and each time the master of the galley weighed it. The young king tried to speak, but his lips would not move. Then the diver came up for the last time, and the pearl he brought was shaped like the full moon and whiter than the morning star. But his face was strangely pale. He fell down on the deck, and in a little while he was dead. The overseers shrugged and threw his body into the sea. The master of the galley laughed. He took the pearl, pressed it to his forehead, and bowed. “It shall be,” he said, “for the scepter of the young king.” And the young king gave a great cry and woke, and through the window he saw the long gray fingers of the dawn clutching at the fading stars. And he fell asleep again and dreamed, and this was his dream. He was standing at the edge of a dim forest, and before him a vast crowd of men was toiling in the bed of a dried-up river. They swarmed over the rocks like ants, dug deep pits, and scrabbled in the sand. From the darkness of a cave, Death and Avarice were watching them. “I am weary,” said Death. “Give me a third of them and let me go.” But Avarice shook her head. “They are my servants.” “What do you have in your hand?” Death asked her. “I have three grains of wheat,” she answered. “What is that to you?” “Give me one of them to plant in my garden,” said Death. “Only one, and I will go away.” “I will not give you anything,” said Avarice, and she hid her hand in the folds of her robe. Death laughed. He dipped a cup into a pool of water, and out of the cup rose Ague. She passed through the crowd, and a third of the men lay dead. Avarice beat her breast and wept. “You have killed a third of my servants! There is war in the mountains. Go there, and leave my valley alone.” “No,” answered Death. “Until you give me a grain of wheat, I will not go.” But Avarice shut her hand and clenched her teeth. “I will not give you anything.” Death laughed. He threw a black stone into the forest, and out of a thicket of hemlock came Fever in a robe of flame. She passed through the crowd, and every man she touched died. Avarice shuddered and put ashes on her head. “You are cruel! There is famine in India and Egypt. Go to those who need you, and leave me my servants.” “No,” answered Death. “Until you give me a grain of wheat, I will not go.” “I will not give you anything,” said Avarice. Death laughed again and whistled through his fingers, and a woman came flying through the air. Plague was written on her forehead. She covered the valley with her wings, and not one man was left alive. Avarice fled shrieking into the forest, and Death leaped onto his red horse and galloped away, faster than the wind. The young king wept. “Who were these men,” he asked, “and what were they looking for?” “Rubies for a king’s crown,” answered someone behind him. He turned and saw a man dressed as a pilgrim, holding a silver mirror. “Which king?” asked the boy, turning pale. “Look in this mirror,” the pilgrim answered, “and you will see him.” The young king looked, and saw his own face. He gave a great cry and woke, and bright sunlight was streaming into the room. The Chamberlain and the high officers of State came in and bowed low before him, and the pages brought him the robe of woven gold and set the crown and the scepter before him. Never had he seen anything so beautiful. But he remembered his dreams. “Take these things away,” he said to his lords, “for I will not wear them.” The courtiers were amazed, and some of them laughed, thinking he was joking. But he spoke to them sternly again. “Take these things away, and hide them from me. Though it is the day of my coronation, I will not wear them. For this robe was woven on the loom of Sorrow, by the white hands of Pain. There is Blood in the heart of the ruby, and Death in the heart of the pearl.” And he told them his three dreams. The courtiers looked at one another and whispered, “Surely he is mad. What is a dream but a dream?” Then the Chamberlain spoke. “Your Majesty, I beg you, put on this robe. How will the people know that you are a king if you do not wear a king’s robes?” The young king looked at him. “Is that really so? Won’t they know I am their king unless I wear a king’s robes?” “They will not know you, Your Majesty,” cried the Chamberlain. “I had thought there were men who were kingly,” the young king answered, “but it may be as you say. And still I will not wear this robe, nor will I be crowned with this crown. I will leave the palace just as I came to it.” He sent them all away except one page, a boy a year younger than himself, whom he kept as his companion. Then he took from a chest the leather tunic and sheepskin cloak he had worn on the hillside with the goatherd’s goats, put them on, and took up his old shepherd’s staff. The little page opened his blue eyes wide. “My lord, I see your robe and your scepter, but where is your crown?” The young king picked a spray of wild briar that was climbing over the balcony, bent it into a circlet, and set it on his own head. “This shall be my crown,” he said. Dressed like this, he walked into the Great Hall, where the nobles were waiting. “Your Majesty,” some of them called, laughing, “the people are waiting for their king, and you show them a beggar.” Others were angry and said, “He brings shame on our state, and he is not fit to be our master.” But he did not say a word. He went out, mounted his horse, and rode toward the cathedral, with the little page running beside him. The people laughed. “It’s the king’s fool riding by,” they said, and they jeered at him. He reined in his horse. “I am the king,” he said. And he told them his three dreams. A man stepped out of the crowd and spoke to him bitterly. “Sir, don’t you know that the poor live off the luxury of the rich? Go back to your palace and put on your purple and fine linen. What do you have to do with us and our suffering?” “Aren’t the rich and the poor brothers?” asked the young king. “Yes,” answered the man, “and the name of the rich brother is Cain.” The young king’s eyes filled with tears, and he rode on through the murmuring crowd. But the little page grew afraid and left him. At the great door of the cathedral, the soldiers thrust out their halberds. “No one enters by this door but the king.” His face flushed with anger. “I am the king,” he said, and he pushed their halberds aside and went in. When the old Bishop saw him coming in his goatherd’s clothes, he rose in wonder from his throne and went to meet him. “My son, is this how a king dresses? With what crown shall I crown you? This should be a day of joy for you, not a day of shame.” “Shall Joy wear what Grief has made?” said the young king. And he told him his three dreams. When the Bishop had heard them, he frowned. “My son, I am an old man, in the winter of my days, and I know that many evil things are done in the world. Can you make them stop? Surely He who made misery is wiser than you are. Ride back to the palace, put on the robe that is fit for a king, and I will crown you with the crown of gold. The burden of this world is too great for one man to bear, and the world’s sorrow too heavy for one heart to suffer.” “You say that in this house?” said the young king, and he strode past the Bishop, climbed the steps of the altar, and knelt before the image of Christ. He bowed his head in prayer, and the priests crept away from the altar. All at once there was a wild uproar from the street, and the nobles burst in with drawn swords. “Where is this dreamer of dreams?” they cried. “Where is this boy who brings shame on our state? We will kill him.” The young king bowed his head again and prayed, and when he had finished, he rose, turned around, and looked at them sadly. And then, through the painted windows, the sunlight came streaming down on him, and the sunbeams wove around him a robe finer than the robe of gold. The dead staff blossomed with lilies that were whiter than pearls. The dry thorn blossomed with roses that were redder than rubies. He stood there in the robes of a king, and the Glory of God filled the place. The organ pealed out its music, and the trumpeters blew their trumpets, and the singing boys sang. The people fell to their knees in awe, and the nobles sheathed their swords and did homage. The Bishop’s face grew pale, and his hands trembled. “A greater than I has crowned you,” he cried, and he knelt before the young king. Then the young king came down from the high altar and walked home through the midst of the people. But no man dared to look upon his face, for it was like the face of an angel. --- - Read online: https://talerie.com/en/tales/the-young-king - Version: gentler retelling; the longer, more faithful retelling: https://talerie.com/en/tales/the-young-king-original.md - Also in: [Spanish](https://talerie.com/es/cuentos/el-joven-rey.md), [Portuguese](https://talerie.com/pt/contos/o-jovem-rei.md) - Author's country: Ireland (https://talerie.com/en/tales/country/ireland) - Wikidata: https://www.wikidata.org/wiki/Q47297170 - Source: A House of Pomegranates, by Oscar Wilde (Project Gutenberg #873) (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/873) - Public-domain basis: Talerie contemporary retelling (CC0 2026), based on: A House of Pomegranates, by Oscar Wilde (Project Gutenberg #873) — original: author died 1900 (+70 passed) - License: CC0-1.0 (https://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/zero/1.0/)