Song of the Sparrow

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Song of the Sparrow Page 15

by Lisa Ann Sandell


  and I were meant for each other.

  Her smile widens, and in this moment,

  she truly looks like an

  enchanted faerie queen.

  When next I wake, a crawling

  itch prickles my back, and I

  wriggle around on

  my pallet, trying to reach it.

  A searing pain blazes a path

  from my chest to the crown

  of my head and I am thrust

  back down on the bed

  by the white hot fury of it.

  A small cry escapes from

  my lips, and suddenly the tent

  flaps are flung open, and

  Tristan flies to my side.

  What is it, Elaine? he asks,

  his face a mask of worry.

  Hello, I try to say, but my throat

  is parched and the word gets stuck.

  Shhh, he hushes me, and lifts

  a mug of water to my lips. Drink this

  and lie back.

  I am fine, really, I argue.

  What happened? he asks,

  his golden eyes narrowing.

  It is nothing, I reply, shifting

  uneasily. Just some pain. I am

  quite well. Were you — were you listening

  outside the tent? I ask.

  A scarlet blush colors his

  cheeks. I — your father asked me

  to keep watch to make sure you

  were all right, he murmurs,

  looking down.

  I see, I say. Well, now that you are here,

  how will you entertain me? I ask,

  smiling at my friend.

  Entertain you? he asks. Am I nothing more

  than a court jester?

  Exactly. I smile. And I the queen.

  Tristan’s hair grows long, curling

  in tawny locks about his ears,

  touching his shoulders.

  His eyes are like a forest

  floor mottled by pools of

  sunlight, sparkling with mirth, and his

  face opens in a slow, easy smile.

  He is quite handsome, I think.

  Let me see, Tristan says, sitting

  beside the pallet. How can I

  entertain you? Perhaps, rather

  than a jester, a bard might do?

  I nod my head, looking forward

  to hearing him sing.

  Tristan sings to me of a knight

  who has lost his lady love,

  and as he slays dragons and giants,

  this knight can only think of getting back

  to the lady who holds his heart,

  to the lady who waits for him.

  I close my eyes, and

  his low, reedy voice summons

  moonlight and the sweet scent of

  leaves and earth. The heady

  perfume of lilies and rose gardens.

  How long it has been since I

  have stepped inside a garden….

  When the song ends,

  he looks at me for a long while

  in silence. Then, he whispers,

  Have I entertained you well,

  my lady?

  His gaze is intent, as though

  he searches for something

  hidden behind my eyes.

  The way he looks at me makes

  it hard to breathe.

  Tristan, I start, unsure of what I

  want to tell him.

  Somehow, in this moment,

  I feel our friendship has taken

  a turn, an inexplicable change

  of direction, and I know not where

  it leads.

  Thank you, I finish.

  He leans down and brushes

  his lips over my forehead.

  Sleep well, and dream of pleasant things.

  I am happy to see you wear the necklace.

  He grins, then, as I watch his back

  retreat from the tent,

  I cannot help but think of the strange

  dream of the wolf that came to me,

  that haunted me, as I lay dying

  in the Saxon boat.

  Arthur has decided that we

  will return to Caerleon-on-Usk.

  The men move around this camp,

  rolling up tents, packing away

  the instruments of war.

  Gwynivere sits with me while

  the men are busy, and when it is time

  to go, she helps me gently from my bed.

  I have not taken a step in five days,

  and my legs are weak, and they tremble

  and threaten to collapse with each step.

  Gwynivere cannot abide my weight, and

  she bids me to sit, while she calls for

  one of my brothers to help her.

  Lavain thunders into the tent,

  his eyes flashing.

  It is too soon, he storms. She should not

  be taking this journey now.

  Lavain, I am right here, so you

  need not speak as though I were not,

  I scold him gently.

  And, besides, I am perfectly capable

  of making this journey.

  My brother looks down at the

  ground abashedly.

  Very well. His voice is still gruff,

  but gentler now.

  Carefully he lifts me from the pallet.

  Are you all right? Does it hurt much?

  he asks, his face filled with worry.

  I want to stroke his cheek and reassure

  him, but I remember that this is my

  brash brother, and refrain.

  I am all right, I tell him.

  As we move into the brilliant

  sunlight, and into line

  behind the others, Lavain holds

  my elbow, his other arm wrapped

  around my waist.

  We walk slowly,

  so slowly,

  and then

  Lavain laughs.

  What? Am I too clumsy, too slow?

  Perhaps there is a cart I could ride in?

  Lavain grins and says, That is not why I laugh.

  I suddenly remembered when we were young,

  how you always insisted on playing on the

  stones in the middle of the river

  by Shalott. You would step so gingerly

  over those slippery rocks, and I was so

  afraid you would fall in and be carried

  off by the current. Ever I walked beside you,

  as slowly as we go now. And you would skip

  gaily from stone to stone, singing and

  chattering busily to the fish and the trees

  and the reeds on the shore.

  You would even chatter to me,

  talking nonsense and squeezing my hand

  with your tiny little fingers.

  He pauses and the smile runs away

  from his face.

  Elaine, do you know how hard it

  is not to hold your hand and guard

  you still as you step into danger even now?

  Ah, Sister, you must take better care.

  And he grins again, and this time

  I do put my hand to his rough, unshaven

  cheek.

  Lavain, I begin, a wicked smile on my lips,

  if I had known, all these years, that

  you still felt inclined to watch over me,

  I likely would have been one hundred times

  wilder and one thousand times more willing

  to seek out danger.

  Devil! he cries. And we both laugh,

  until I stagger from the pain in my chest

  and gasp for breath.

  Come, give me no cause to worry more,

  he says, trying to hold in his laughter,

  and we continue on this way, joking

  and teasing as we did when our

  greatest concerns were mud pies

&nb
sp; and small, green turtles.

  We have walked for several hours

  already this day. The sun

  soars high overhead, and the

  air is warm.

  Someone at the front of the company

  whistles shrilly, and we halt and

  fumble for our skins of water.

  There is a small brook some steps

  away, and a lovely weeping willow

  tree sweeps over it, her branches trailing

  in the burbling water.

  My chest aches dully, and I make up my mind

  to sit for a few minutes in the shade

  and fill my skin.

  This moment of rest is welcome.

  I watch the water skipping over

  rocks and swirling in tiny eddies

  around the graceful branches.

  The willow’s boughs

  curve in elegant swoops,

  and it feels as though she means

  to protect me.

  Suddenly a shadow crosses

  into my pool of shade.

  Lancelot, I say, looking up, surprised.

  He has avoided me since I came

  to the camp by the River Avon.

  And now that he approaches,

  I recall, with surprise,

  how unbothered I have felt

  by his absence.

  His forehead is creased,

  and his emerald eyes rove

  across my face, as though searching

  for something.

  May I sit beside you? he asks hesitantly.

  Of course, I answer, shifting to

  make room for him to lean against the

  furrowed bark of the willow’s trunk.

  My friend, he whispers, can you ever

  forgive me?

  His eyes are haunted.

  He does not give me a chance to speak.

  I thought — I thought I would never

  see you again. I thought I would never

  be able to tell you how deeply sorry I am

  for the cruel words I flung at you that

  day — that day on the moor. His

  voice trembles and breaks.

  I think I always knew you — you

  loved me, he says. But I always saw

  you as the small girl who arrived

  at camp so many years ago, terrified

  and dirty, with great big eyes that

  had seen something terrible. You were

  always that small girl who learned to

  laugh again and to run races

  and swim with the fish, and who

  looked at me like I was a hero.

  He takes a deep breath.

  And I loved being your hero.

  But that day, that day when you

  offered yourself to me, I was

  shocked, and I was angry with the

  world, drowning in self-pity.

  I dismissed you as a child

  who could never understand.

  But now, I suspect you understood

  better than anyone.

  A bitter smile that does not

  reach his eyes twists his mouth.

  Yes, Lancelot, I respond, I do understand.

  But let us put it behind us now.

  Do you forgive me? he asks,

  his eyes drowning in sorrow.

  Lancelot, you have been my

  dearest friend since I was a child.

  You have been my knight and, yes, my hero.

  And I loved you. But I loved you

  when I was just a child.

  Of course I forgive you.

  The lines on his face smooth with relief.

  But, Lancelot — I am not sure how

  much I may say to him. You are

  in love with her, still?

  He nods slowly. Yes, I love her,

  but it is hopeless. I know that,

  and I will live with it for the rest of my days.

  I am sorry, Lancelot, I murmur,

  brushing his hand with mine.

  I am sorry as well, he says, his

  eyes filled with regret.

  For so many things.

  He sits with me awhile longer,

  telling me jokes and recounting

  his and Arthur’s heroics during

  the battle. And Tristan fought

  with a mighty sword, indeed,

  he says, his eyes widening slightly

  with surprise. I have never seen him

  fight so ferociously. As though

  a spirit chased him at his heels,

  he cut through the enemy as if

  he did not even see them. As if he

  were possessed by some ghostly force

  outside himself. It was a sight to behold.

  He grows thoughtful and glances at me.

  He tugs a loose lock of my hair.

  Perhaps I know

  who that spirit was after all….

  Well, he shakes himself and stands up.

  I shall leave you in peace to rest.

  I have a feeling more visitors will follow.

  He kneels again and lifts my hand

  to his mouth, where he plants

  the softest kiss.

  A funny grin lifts his mouth. Be well, Elaine,

  dearest friend of my own heart.

  You be well, too, Lancelot, I call after his

  retreating back.

  How badly I wanted to grow up,

  to be a woman, that he might notice me.

  But now, now I am happy to enjoy

  whatever granule of ease or freedom

  I may find,

  after all that has happened.

  The freedom of childhood innocence.

  The freedom of the sparrow.

  As we prepare to move again, Lavain

  has found a horse for me to ride.

  He raises me onto the back

  of a beautiful roan mare, who steps gently

  and saves my poor brother from continuing

  on at a snail’s gait.

  I concentrate on ignoring the pain,

  on not falling out of the saddle.

  Suddenly Tristan is beside me,

  a stormy look in his eyes.

  Are you well? he practically shouts.

  I nod, startled by his brusque manner,

  and he rides ahead without

  even a glance back at me.

  What bothers him? I wonder.

  But I have not the strength to follow him.

  When we stop next,

  Lavain helps me to dismount,

  gently easing me from the roan’s back.

  He leads me to a resting spot he has found,

  beneath a rowan tree.

  As I lean back against

  the smooth grey trunk,

  a shadow crosses into the

  cool circle of shade.

  Tirry! I exclaim gladly.

  How are you faring, Sister?

  he asks, kneeling to pat my shoulder.

  I am quite well, I reassure him.

  He lays a gentle kiss on my cheek,

  then rises to report my welfare to our father.

  As I close my eyes to rest,

  I feel a shadow fall over me.

  I do not look up, expecting

  Lavain has returned to bother me more

  with his clumsy attempts

  at nursing.

  You are back so soon? I ask playfully.

  Really, I am perfectly —

  I expect you mean your knight? No,

  I am not he, an angry voice interrupts.

  Tristan! I exclaim.

  Disappointed? he asks, his

  voice brimming with rancor.

  Tristan, are you angry with me? I ask,

  confused by his tone and the fiery

  look in his eyes. Have I done something

  to upset you?

  No, Elaine — you do nothing! His voice

  catches
on the last word. He throws

  himself onto the ground beside me,

  but looks down, and directs his body

  away from me.

  His fingers tear at the grass fiercely.

  Has the earth upset you? Did the grass

  give you an itch? I try to make my voice

  light, hoping that gentle teasing will

  bring back the easygoing friend I recognize.

  I see nothing to laugh at, he spits.

  What did Lancelot say to you? More blades

  of grass murdered by his hand,

  beheaded and drowned in the brook.

  What did Lancelot say to me? I repeat,

  not understanding what could have made

  him so agitated, but starting to

  feel irritated by his tone.

  What are you talking about? I snap.

  Then, I realize, he must have seen me

  speak to Lancelot during our last stop.

  Lancelot and I had —

  matters to discuss.

  What matters? Tristan storms.

  Tristan, what is it you are getting at?

  Lancelot and I had a private discussion

  and it is really none of your concern

  what we spoke of, I shout, losing my

  patience with his ill-tempered tirade.

  So, you are in love, then? The cords

  in his neck stand out

  and his normally bronze face

  has turned purple. We do not even have

  dyes for our wool that color.

  I tell him so.

  I should have refrained.

  Tristan explodes.

  He is a careless ass, and you are

  an even bigger fool if you think that

  he could love you as much as —

  He clamps his mouth shut

  and crosses his arms over his chest,

  kicking his feet, scuffing the turf, and

  glaring at the wide blue sky.

  Tristan, I do not love Lancelot, I tell him simply,

  nor does he love me.

  His words begin to sink in.

  I feel a sense of breathlessness.

  As much as what? I ask.

  Tristan, as much as what?

  Tristan whips his head around to look at me.

  His green-gold eyes are so serious.

  What? he storms. You have loved him

  all these years and today you stop?

  I am so confused by the swinging

  pendulum of his temper. But

  suddenly, suddenly everything

  makes sense. The dream …

  the dream I had in the boat,

  when I was unconscious.

  It was all leading to this,

  this moment, these feelings.

  He is the one.

  Tristan is the one.

  I want to leap up and sing.

  I have to tell him, I realize.

  How do I tell him?

  How do I make him see?

  Have I already lost him?

  Fear seizes me, and I begin talking,

  words just falling out my mouth,

  stumbling over themselves to get out,

 

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