Song of the Sparrow
Page 6
an aunt, he sent me away.
Suddenly those eyes that are
usually filled with so much
light and laughter turn dark,
filled up with sorrow.
I feel my own eyes grow wide with surprise.
We have never spoken so seriously,
nor at such length.
And I admit, he continues, I was not
entirely innocent, either.
But you must have been a child!
I exclaim.
Yes, and so was she.
She was too young to be wedded
to an old man, and her mother,
knowing this, cursed us both.
But why? I ask. Why you?
None of this makes sense.
She gave Isolde a potion,
a draught to drink
to make her love my uncle.
But, mistakenly, I drank of it, too, and was
thus cursed. We deceived my uncle,
and when he learned of it,
he banished me from his kingdom.
Tristan looks up at me, his
eyes piercing the farthest
reaches of my soul.
And so you see, love holds no
promise for me. I shall never love
again. He looks away.
And thus, this life of
war is the one for me.
Tristan, I say shakily, it was
not your fault. Do not say such things.
I want to pull him
from this black mood, from these
blacker thoughts.
He chuckles grimly.
Now you know my dark secret.
It was long ago, and while I
cannot forgive myself, distance
has been kind. And every day
I feel grateful
that the betrayal was not requited.
He looks thoughtful,
far away, but then he comes back
to me.
Well, I am not sure how
it is that I came to tell you all this,
but let us talk of happier things.
Yes, I say, let us wish for days
of peace, when we may make our
home in a copse of birch trees,
like this one, without fear,
without cursed love.
He stares at me curiously.
Then says, The hour grows late.
I must get you back to your father.
In the moonlight, I could swear
that Tristan is blushing.
But we bid good night to the
silvery trees and bid good night
to each other outside my father’s tent.
The camp feels different this morning.
It is as if the sunlight has
swept clean the
muck of fear and uncertainty.
The air smells fresh and
is filled with …
hope?
Even the horses
seem to feel it.
As I pass the stables,
I can hear the stamping of
hooves, restless snorting, and
excited whinnying.
I am down by the
River Usk, washing out
laundry, pounding
sheet against stone, rubbing
sand into the folds, rinsing
and scrubbing and
wringing.
On most days, I would hate this
dull, backaching chore,
but on this brilliant morning,
the scent of soap and lard
lingers in the spring air,
mixing with the perfume
of daisies and all that is
living in this world.
And it does not bother me
one whit.
The rich melody of
the blackbird’s flutelike call
beckons to me,
and then I hear
the rumble of footsteps
and voices.
There she is!
a booming
voice calls out.
A golden-haired head
is now visible over
the crest of the hill. Then,
another, and a single, darker head.
Gawain, his
youngest brother, Gareth, and
Tristan
are coming my way.
Elaine, what are you doing?
Tristan’s voice is cheerful and,
as he moves ahead of
his companions and nears, his
yellow-green cat eyes
glow with mirth.
What does it look like
I am doing? I retort,
smiling back at him.
How can you do laundry
at a time like this?
He grins and Gawain and
Gareth lope down the bank
and come to examine
my basket of linens.
The day is a beautiful one,
a day of new beginnings.
It is not a laundry day, Tristan scolds.
We are off to fight by the
rise of the new moon,
Gareth adds eagerly,
clapping his brother
heartily on the shoulder.
He is like a small boy
boasting of a new toy.
And Lancelot shall return
by tomorrow, noon,
Gawain intones.
Tristan stretches like a cat.
The men joke
that he is by far
the most handsome of them.
But I prefer Lancelot’s
dark looks.
What?
I never used to have these
thoughts.
What has come over me?
But the mention of Lancelot’s name
quickens my heartbeat, though I
try not to let my feelings show.
Tristan studies me closely, and when
our eyes meet, I drop mine abashedly.
He grins.
Nothing escapes his notice.
I twist my hair into
a knot at my neck,
realizing how improper
I must look,
mud on my knees, my
skirts tied around my thighs.
Quickly, I unloose my dress,
and glance up to see a red blush
creeping over three
unshaven faces
at once.
Come, Elaine. Tristan
is the first to break
this awkward silence.
Come and eat with us.
All this washing must be making
you hungry, and you should
not delay your noontime meal,
for there is to be
another feast tonight by
the Round Table.
I try to recall what
was life like
before these boys,
these men.
And I wonder, what
would life have been like
if I had never known them,
if Mother had lived.
Surely I would miss them.
I wring the moisture from the last sheet
and fold it quickly, laying it
on top of the rest of the laundry.
I will hang everything to dry after lunch.
As we walk back to the center of camp,
Gawain keeps pace with me, matching his
longer stride to my
shorter, quicker one.
You are looking forward to
the fighting? I ask the
great giant of a man,
looking up into his friendly
face that is ruddy with sun.
Tiny lines crisscross
at the edges of his eyes.
The fighting ages him, too.
I do not think it fair
to say I look forward
t
o it, Gawain replies.
Gareth is young and
still eager to prove his worth
in battle. But, as you must know,
our father, Loth, is one of those chieftains
who left two nights ago. I
cannot help but feel as
though I must fight harder,
must prove myself all over again
to make up for my father’s absence.
It is unforgivable, his leaving.
And I am ashamed.
Gawain looks down.
But Arthur surely knows that
a father’s acts say nothing
about his son’s, I say. Your mettle
and worth have been proven
time and again, Gawain. There
is not a man in this camp who
believes you are in any
way responsible for Loth’s
leaving.
What about woman? he
asks with a rueful grin.
Nor woman, I tell him,
patting his huge hand.
Elaine, you are a true
friend, he says.
I can detect a trace
of gratitude in his voice,
as though a fear has been
allayed.
And we walk on, through
the camp, together, in silence.
By the rise of the new moon.
Gareth’s words echo over
and over in my mind.
The moon begins to wane.
This means the men will leave
within a fortnight.
How many times have I
watched my father,
Tirry, and Lavain march off
to fight? More than I
can count.
But this feels different,
final, somehow.
A seed of dread
has begun to flower in
my belly, and tears spring and
sting my eyes.
How will I ever let them go?
The nearness of their departure
has brought me back to
sewing, odious chore it is.
But I must finish mending
Tirry’s cloak before he leaves.
Before he leaves.
Suddenly a sharp pain
shoots through my
finger.
Droplets of blood leak
onto the heavy wool
of the cloak.
I’ve pricked myself,
something I haven’t done
in years.
I watch the blood spread,
swallowed by
strands of thread,
sinking, darkening, staining.
An omen?
I feel my throat closing, thick
with tears, and I cannot breathe.
I drop Tirry’s cloak to the ground,
throwing it from my lap
as if it itself is a curse.
Then I run from the tent,
tears blinding me.
My feet lead me to the
birch trees.
I stumble to the
ground.
The earth is soft and cool,
carpeted with leaves here.
I lie down, my cheek against spongy moss.
Teardrops slip off my cheeks,
making small wet pools on the ground,
on my hands. They slide into my mouth,
the salty taste
stinging my tongue.
The tears come faster,
burning my eyes.
I cannot stop crying,
afraid that I have courted
disaster, horrible images
of brothers, father, friends
in pain, running through my mind.
This battle, Arthur’s plan —
I am so frightened of it.
Then I hear the whisper of
footfalls approaching.
I look up to see Morgan,
wrapped in a robe of indigo,
standing above me.
Elaine! Worry seeps from her voice.
What is wrong? What is it?
B — b — bad omens. But I am crying
too hard to explain.
My dear, hush, Morgan
kneels beside me and
strokes my hair.
Panic and fear fight
to consume me.
Warm arms so thin
they feel like a tiny robin’s
wings encircle me.
I lean into Morgan’s embrace,
allowing her to continue petting my head.
Morgan, I whisper,
I am sorry.
Hush, child. Be still.
No apologies.
Her breath is soft on
my cheek,
mixing with hot tears.
I spread open my hands and a faint
dot of dried blood marks
my finger.
What is it, Elaine? What
has upset you so?
I am so frightened, I tell her.
Frightened, dearest?
Morgan continues to stroke
my hair as though I were a small child,
as my mother did when I tripped
and scraped my knee or
knotted my wool as we were weaving.
What are you frightened of? Morgan asks.
Losing them, my father. My brothers, I reply.
This march on the Saxons, I continue,
it does not feel right. And now,
now I have gone and given
Tirry bad luck.
How did you do that? Morgan murmurs.
I — I pricked my finger as I was
mending his cloak. And I
left a spot of blood.
The blood — it is an omen.
I am afraid to let them go.
The tears return, filling
my eyes, spilling down
my cheeks.
I wipe them away as quickly
as they fall.
Shhh, Elaine, come with me, Morgan says.
Let’s get you washed and calmed.
And we can talk
of these things.
She helps me to my feet
and leads me back to her tent.
It is on the other side
of the camp,
nearer to Arthur’s.
Once I am seated in the cool interior,
she puts a cup of wine
in my hands.
I take a sip, its
sour heat warming my throat,
clearing away the bitter taste of fear.
She brushes a damp cloth
scented with lavender
over my forehead,
down my cheeks and again,
I think of my mother’s calm hands
easing my childhood terrors.
Let us talk, Morgan says.
I nod and draw a deep breath.
This march on the Saxons,
I understand it, but
it scares me, I explain.
Our men have always defended this
land, its villages and people,
as the Saxons or Picts have
attacked.
But they have never met our
enemies in a battle of our own
making.
Morgan looks thoughtful, then says,
Yes, it is true. Her brow wrinkles as
she considers her words.
But I cannot help but feel
this battle, too, is of the Saxons’ making.
A tall shadow suddenly fills
the tent entrance.
Brother. Morgan looks up
as Arthur haltingly enters.
My sister. Arthur gives
a small bow. And Elaine.
He looks surprised as he notices
me. Am I interrupting?
He looks unsure.
His eyes flick from
Morgan’s face
to mine.
Oh, Arthur, enter. Morgan sounds
almost
impatient with her younger brother.
Certainly I interrupt.
Arthur smiles uneasily.
May I help?
Morgan glances at me,
a question in her eyes.
It is my choice,
to include Arthur or not.
I have known him so
many years now, and he has
long been a friend.
But today he is different.
Today he is dux bellorum.
I shift in my seat,
suddenly nervous.
Arthur, I begin.
I am about to tell the leader
of all Britons that I
disagree with his strategy.
What am I thinking?
What right do I have?
Yes, Elaine? Please, what is it?
I can see something troubles you,
he says.
I must admit, I begin, my voice
trembling, I am frightened.
For the first time, I think, Arthur laughs
gently, our brave Elaine admits
fear? I do not believe it.
He grows serious. Please, Elaine,
tell me what troubles you.
I take a deep, shaky breath.
I am frightened by the plan
to attack the Saxons.
Initiating a battle seems,
somehow —
I search for the right words.
wrong.
Murderous.
Most of all, I — I fear
it will only invite ill fate.
Arthur sits slowly on the bench
nearest me. His
eyebrows are knit together,
and he appears to actually
be weighing my words.
We have shared jokes and
casual words so often.
But talk of battle plans?
Never.
Elaine, I would be lying
if I said I had not considered
these same arguments carefully.
We have always fought
defensively, waiting till our villages
were attacked. The thought of our
meeting the Saxons offensively
sickens me. That we have to
meet them at all saddens me.
But they continue to pour into
our land, unhindered and in
great numbers.
We must meet them and
stop them,
drive them from our shores
for good.
Now.
I fear that if we wait
any longer, we will not be able to
stop them. They will outnumber us,
and they will have reached too far into
the heart of this land. I fear they will
stamp out the Britons, enslaving us
and bending us to their will. They
are so many, and we are so few.
So very few.
He looks as though a very
heavy load rests
on his shoulders.
Indeed, I imagine,
that load is real.
Arthur — I begin.
No, do not apologize
for declaring your fears,
he says.
I would there was another way.
But I cannot see one.