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,
Song of the Sparrow Page 15
