Song of the Sparrow

by Lisa Sandell

  that night in Morgan’s tent

  skip through my memory.

  I would that things

  were different …

  … that things were different …

  It makes sense now.

  Now I understand.

  He must have known.

  All these machinations,

  and I so naive.

  Lancelot looks bewitched, I spit,

  surprised by the vitriol in my voice.

  Yes, he does. Tristan looks

  at me appraisingly, his eyes

  darker now beneath eyebrows

  raised in question.

  Love is a tempestuous mistress,

  he continues. And none of us

  shall ever master her.

  He rises to his feet,

  his eyes slanting as he looks

  down on me,

  Do not fear, Elaine,

  love and friendship will

  resolve themselves.

  I continue to rest below

  the elm tree, the moss

  and leaves and bark,

  solid and familiar,

  like an anchor.

  I want to believe Tristan,

  but I do not see a way for

  anything to be all right

  again.

  What place does a woman

  have here, in this

  realm of men?

  I wonder.

  But I do have a place.

  I belong here, with these men.

  They are my family.

  I mend their clothes,

  I mend their bodies.

  I grew up wild like a boy

  here.

  How could she possibly belong here,

  to this camp?

  Her clothes are far too

  clean for these dusty soldiers,

  dusty tents.

  Yet, I always dreamed of a girl

  coming to live here, of a girl

  who would be my friend.

  Elaine. A deep voice interrupts

  the torrent of self-pitying thoughts.

  Tirry is towering over me,

  Why have you been hiding here?

  he asks. Did you not hear

  that there is a girl come to camp?

  I shake my head, unable to answer.

  You have been summoned to the

  Round Table, he explains.

  Who summons me? I ask crossly.

  Arthur, Tirry answers.

  He wishes you to come and

  meet his future bride and

  let her know that she is not

  alone here.

  Of course she is not alone

  here, I retort. There are

  nearly three hundred and fifty

  men dwelling here in this camp.

  I do not know why you are

  angry with me, Tirry says,

  looking wounded.

  I am not angry with you,

  Tirry. I will come. I know

  my voice sounds resigned.

  I am resigned.

  I follow my brother back

  to the center of camp,

  my feet dragging, stirring

  up more dust, which settles

  on the hem of my gown.

  The nubby wool, once vermilion,

  is now brown from wear and dirt

  that no amount of washing can remove.

  My slippers, doe-brown leather,

  too, are covered in a fine layer of

  grime. Nothing, nothing about me

  is fine.

  When we reach the fire pit

  where the Round Table meets,

  the smoky scent of ash and

  burnt wood settles in my hair.

  There is a small knot of people

  clustered around Arthur’s seat.

  Elaine, Arthur’s rich voice

  startles me from

  dark thoughts.

  He approaches, his

  eyes soft and tired.

  Thank you for coming. I had

  hoped you would help

  Gwynivere, daughter of Lodengrance,

  find her way here. I am afraid

  the notion of living in a battle camp

  is one wholly strange to her.

  I look over at her, and she returns

  my gaze with a cold stare,

  her eyes following the creases of my

  gown, lingering on the dirt

  and grass stains at the hem.

  I cannot help but think of a serpent

  as I focus on her icy blue eyes.

  They are hard, there is no warmth

  or friendliness behind them.

  I look back at Arthur.

  I know you will be great friends,

  he says, almost pleading.

  Is it possible? Could this girl

  be the female companion,

  the friend

  I have always wanted, dreamed of?

  Her expression is aloof.

  I do not feel very confident.

  Of course, Arthur, I say to him.

  I will do what you wish, my friend.

  His eyes, so dark,

  look moist, and something

  swims behind them that

  I have never seen there before.

  Hopelessness.

  I wonder, is this how I look?

  I thank you, Elaine, he whispers.

  I wonder, could it be

  that he does not wish to marry

  Gwynivere? But she is so pretty?

  Lancelot still stands beside Gwynivere.

  And he still gazes

  on her in the manner of a devoted

  puppy dog doting on its master.

  And she returns his look.

  A stab of pain clutches me.

  Gwynivere, please allow me to introduce

  you to Elaine, daughter of Barnard of Ascolat,

  and dear friend, Arthur begins.

  She has lived among us for many years,

  and perhaps can show you what she knows

  of herbal medicines. For she is an

  invaluable nurse and healer.

  Gwynivere merely nods,

  her long, golden tresses falling

  smoothly down her shoulders.

  Good, then. Arthur looks around

  uneasily. We shall leave you ladies

  alone.

  Alone.

  I can’t think of anything

  less good at this moment.

  Arthur meets my eyes once more,

  and then he touches Lancelot

  on the shoulder. Lancelot

  shakes his head, as though he shakes

  himself awake from a dream, and the pair,

  along with Lodengrance, my

  father, and my brother turn

  and leave, leave me alone

  with Gwynivere.

  What can I show you? I ask.

  Surely Arthur spoke to you of the

  Round Table, where you sit now.

  She sits, while I stand,

  waiting on her like a servant.

  Gwynivere looks at me, then

  down at her hands, which are

  neatly folded in her lap.

  Yes, he did, she replies stonily.

  An awkward silence descends,

  as I struggle to find a topic

  for conversation.

  Would you like to learn about the healing arts?

  I stammer.

  I have no interest in your plants.

  The bitterness in her voice

  takes me by surprise, more

  than the harshness of her words.

  Very well. I am unsure

  of how to talk to her.

  Do you wish me to show

  you the camp?

  Gwynivere looks bored,

  and she looks down again

  at the bottom of my dress,

  her nose wrinkling in distaste.

  Nor have I any interest in tram
ping

  through the mud and filth,

  as you so clearly relish doing.

  I am not a beast, Elaine.

  She pronounces my name

  slowly, drawing it out,

  each syllable dripping

  with venom.

  She thinks me a beast?

  What have I done to her?

  I am a stranger to her.

  Do I look so rough,

  so ugly and rough

  that I seem so to her?

  I can only gape at her, feeling

  a red heat creep up my neck

  and bloom across my cheeks.

  She smirks at me,

  a superior grin spreading

  smugly over her lips.

  You may show me my tent, she orders,

  as though I were her servant.

  How I long to leave her

  there in the fire pit to find her own way,

  but I know I cannot

  disappoint Arthur.

  Follow me, I sigh

  and spin around and lead her

  through the maze of tents,

  to her own, which, as I peer

  inside, I can see is littered

  with rich, carmine rugs and

  a sumptuous pallet stuffed with

  fresh hay.

  She brushes past me and slips

  into her tent, letting the flaps fall

  closed behind her, without a word

  or a glance in my direction.

  I let out a long breath and shake my head.

  Was I mad to have wished for another

  girl to keep me company all these years?

  Morgan certainly does not behave

  anything like Gwynivere.

  My stomach twists and clenches again.

  I wander through the tents,

  as the weak sun, a dull

  white spot in the sky,

  begins to sink below the horizon.

  The vision of Lancelot and Gwynivere’s embrace

  burns.

  I cannot shake it away.

  My birch trees tremble in the slight

  breeze that slithers through the camp.

  I slide between them, feeling the

  bark, light and delicate,

  on my fingers, the scent of dried

  leaves soothing me.

  The peace of this grove

  feels almost magical,

  as though some goddess of silver-barked

  trees watches over me.

  I lean against a slender trunk,

  feeling the leaves playing in my hair,

  and listen to the sound of my own breath.

  For the first time since

  the night my mother died,

  I feel truly alone.

  The men bustle around camp

  like ants, checking to make

  sure their weapons,

  shields, provisions are

  battle ready, journey ready.

  They come by our tent,

  sheepish looks on their faces,

  bedraggled cloaks and tunics

  in hand, holding them out like

  offerings.

  Elaine, do you think you might

  have time to add a few stitches

  before we are off?

  Gawain, with Gaheris and Gareth in tow,

  arrives at midday, a pile

  of breeches and a hauberk

  in hand.

  Gawain bows his head slightly.

  Elaine, I know all the boys must

  be coming by with their rags,

  but if you could find time to

  help us with some mendin’

  we would be mighty grateful.

  Our breeches just need

  a bit of stitchin’ up, and my

  hauberk here, well, a few

  of the chain links have come

  off. Do you think you could

  patch them up?

  Gawain looks like a small boy,

  his eyes hopeful and bashful at once.

  Well, I don’t want some Saxon

  poking holes in you, now, so I

  will see what I can do about the

  chain mail. I should be able to

  sew them back on, I reassure him.

  Leave it here. I will have it all

  ready for you before you leave.

  Really? Gawain’s huge face lights up.

  Thank you so much, Elaine,

  we are forever in your debt.

  Thank you, Elaine! Gaheris echoes.

  Much indebted, Gareth calls over his shoulder.

  And do not worry — I will report

  back to you all that happens,

  every blow of my sword,

  every Saxon who begs for mercy.

  I will bring back all of the news

  to you.

  He grins his oafish grin once

  more, then the trio of brothers moves away.

  It amazes me how alike they look,

  how alike in nature they are.

  As I look at the floor all around my

  pallet, around the dining table

  and benches, the mountains

  of clothes awaiting mending

  suddenly feel too overwhelming.

  There is no possibility of my finishing

  all of this before it is time to leave.

  And how will I find the time to gather

  all of the herbs I need?

  I throw the armload of Gawain’s and his

  brothers’ clothes on the floor in

  a flare of temper.

  It is so unfair that the task I hate

  more than any other is the one my brothers

  and friends have need of me for.

  Why do you not ask the new girl?

  Lavain’s voice startles me from

  my reverie.

  What? I ask, surprised that

  he has been in here with me all this

  time and kept silent.

  Ask Lodengrance’s daughter to help you.

  With the mending, he says.

  I do not need her help, I reply,

  my voice rising, despite my

  efforts to keep calm.

  What upsets you? Lavain

  rises from his bed and comes to

  stand before me.

  All the work that weighs on you?

  Or having someone to share it with?

  Lavain, I know not what you speak of.

  I will do the work, as I always have done,

  I retort, feeling my face redden.

  So it is sharing the work, then. He smirks.

  I see no one here to share the

  load with me, actually. My hands

  begin to shake with anger. Why,

  why do I let him irk me so?

  As all of you would be running

  about half naked with your guts

  hanging out if I were not here

  to fix the tears in your clothes

  and in your flesh, I suggest you

  keep quiet and leave me be.

  Frustration is pulsing in my blood now.

  I am going out to gather milfoil, I snap.

  And I leave the piles of tunics

  and breeches and cloaks and my brother,

  who stares after me, mouth hanging

  agape, and stamp outside.

  My whole body trembles with rage.

  What a dolt, I grunt, replaying the

  exchange in my mind, as I stumble

  away from the camp, find the

  stepping-stones in the River Usk

  and cross over to the moor

  on the other side.

  The wild grass grows long, and

  small purple wildflowers dot the

  landscape.

  The world feels very large here.

  Wide open.

  Finally. Space to breathe.

  I loosen my hair and let

  it fall down my back. The wind

&
nbsp; whips it around and it beats my

  face. I grab a lock and wind

  it around my fingers. The colors

  of wheat and summer strawberries.

  Nothing new or particularly interesting

  there. It is not the color of flaxseeds

  or faerie’s gold. Not like hers.

  Dull.

  I fall to my knees, letting the

  great sky press down on me.

  I turn onto my back and stare up

  at the heavens. There is not

  a cloud to disturb the unending blue.

  Blue.

  Blue like water

  and painted demons

  and her eyes.

  Blue like peaceful dreams

  and freedom.

  A pair of larks sweep into

  view, black lines against the

  sky. They swoop and play

  and trill and fly away.

  This is my home.

  This dirt, this soil.

  It is all I have and all I am.

  No tent, no man,

  no sewing needle to enclose

  and imprison me.

  Suddenly, the crunching of feet breaking

  twigs and flower stalks.

  I sit up quickly and spot a tall

  figure some yards away.

  He does not see me, no, he stands,

  oblivious to the world.

  It is Lancelot.

  I crouch in the grass and watch him.

  He stares out into the distance, unseeingly.

  His profile perfect, his stance perfectly still.

  I long to run to him, to throw my arms

  around him,

  even to tap his shoulder and prance away,

  challenging him to a race

  as I would have done

  before,

  before

  she came.

  I sit back and hug my knees.

  Lancelot, I call out.

  He turns quickly, his face

  filled with joy and yearning,

  then it falls, crumples as soon as

  his eyes light on me.

  No, I am not the one he hoped for.

  Oh, hello, Elaine, he calls back,

  his voice heavy and dull.

  Come sit by me awhile, I ask,

  my voice too cheery.

  I know not what I am doing now.

  He moves in my direction, as

  though propelled by some outside

  force.

  What troubles you on this fine day,

  Lancelot? The earth blesses us with all

  her beauty today. Why do you not find

  pleasure in her gifts?

  His green eyes are dimmed,

  and he keeps them on the horizon.

  I have lost myself, he answers.

  Lost yourself? But you are right here,

  sitting beside me.

  He does not respond, just stares.

  She will marry him. Arthur, he says,

  his voice filled with a bitter sorrow,

  impenetrable and chilled. He continues,

  Why does it have to be him? Of all men?

  My best friend.

  She should be mine.

  But I will never have her.

  Never. His voice breaks.

  My little sparrow returns,

  fluttering, frightened.

  She beats as hard as my heart,