by Lisa Sandell
Suddenly an elbow
digs into my side.
Let us sit here, child.
My father motions
to an empty bench.
As I watch Lavain join Arthur
and his knights, I think how remarkable
it is to have watched all these men grow
from boys into men.
And now they lead.
No, you cannot turn back time.
And now Arthur
plans to initiate an attack?
Does this make the men
murderers? I wonder.
My father and brothers
murderers?
Lancelot,
a murderer?
In the name of preservation,
we must defend ourselves,
our people, our land, is how
my father has always explained
away,
brushed aside,
my worries.
But now, his
explaining, his smoothing
away will not work.
The stink of sweat mixes
with that of ale now,
and roasting meat.
There are dozens of
men here, some I do not
recognize from our camp.
Maybe other clans, other armies
have traveled here
to witness this occasion?
I count quickly,
the men number,
it seems,
near three hundred
and sixty in all.
And two women,
myself and Morgan,
of course.
I wonder, how many
have left behind wives and
daughters, to mind the farms
and animals and land?
Not knowing whether
they live or not.
And I am so glad
not to have been
left.
I have only been
to the Round Table four
or five times before.
And then I was
too young to understand
the words and meanings.
When Ambrosius Aurelius lived,
he led small
armies of Briton men
from all over the land.
We, Arthur’s followers,
were just one finger
of Aurelius’s hand.
But now that Arthur
leads in Aurelius’s place,
I wonder what shall
become not only of
us, but of all the armies.
Will they follow Arthur?
Or disband,
as some of Arthur’s
chieftains already have?
Many men around the
circle are
so familiar.
Most of them,
as my brothers are.
Soot traces the
lines and grooves
of all these faces.
Warm spring air provides
nary a breeze.
I can feel the eyes
of some of the men
on me, tracing my shape
beneath my gown.
Lately there is
a change.
Does Lancelot look too?
I wonder.
Secretly, ashamedly,
I hope he does.
No, we cannot go
back.
We cannot turn back
time.
The Merlin steps forward
into the middle of the
circle, in front of Arthur.
He is like a lion.
Tirry passes a plate of
lamb to Father and me.
Britons! the Merlin shouts.
There is the rustle of
settling, then, quiet.
Britons, he repeats,
I, Taliesin, Merlin
of the Celyddon Woode,
stand before you
now, with this sword
that was forged in the fires
of Avalon, the very
beating heart
of Britain,
to proclaim Arthur,
son of the Pendragon,
dux bellorum,
defender of the land,
protector of all of Britain!
His voice booms
like thunder.
The men are rapt,
eyes wide.
Taliesin, the Merlin, is no beast —
such grace and passion form his words.
There could be no
better instrument
with which to fight,
to defend our land,
no better emblem to
stand under, to
follow, than this
sword, Excalibur,
crafted from this earth
in the sacred fires.
He thrusts the sword, point
down, into the ground, and there
is a sharp clanging sound,
as though it has struck
a rock. The sword
stands upright,
waving slightly from
the force of the Merlin’s hand.
And now, Arthur, you will
draw the sword from the womb
of this land,
taking from it
that which shall
protect it.
Arthur comes to kneel
before the Merlin,
who closes his eyes
and places his hand
on Arthur’s forehead,
fingers like a crown.
The Merlin’s lips move,
murmuring the secret oaths
and prayers of the Old Ways.
As Arthur rises to his feet,
he wraps his palm around the
hilt of the magnificent sword,
the rubies and gold of the handle
glittering in the firelight.
Slowly, so slowly, Arthur draws
the sword forth
from the earth, and
I sense
that all the men around
me are holding their breath.
As the sword leaps
free of the soil, the
Merlin stretches out his
hands, and the men
jump to their feet as one,
and hold their own
swords aloft,
blades pointing
toward the sky.
It is as though the heavens
are thundering in answer,
the moonlight washing over
us, painting Arthur and
the Merlin in ghostly silver
light, and I swear that
there is magic at work.
A roar rises from our midst.
Arthorius, the men chant,
calling him by his Roman name,
recalling those days
of glory past,
and Arthur has
never looked so
handsome or strong.
His fingers are pocked
by tiny white scars
I imagine he received in battle.
Fight with me,
beside me,
under the sword
Excalibur.
For Britain, he roars.
For Britain, everyone
echoes.
And my voice joins those of the men.
I watch as Tristan unslings
his harp from its place on
his shoulder.
The frame is delicately carved
of sleek grey ash wood,
and it shines and sings, the music of the
strings ringing long after they have
been struck.
Tristan runs his fingers
over the strings, raising a
melody that reminds me
of a brook that trickles and
glides across the landscape,
clea
r and musical, careless
and free.
He sings of battles and
ancient warriors,
victories over dark enemies,
and sunshine and glory.
His voice is also like water,
smooth and warm,
fluidly tripping
over notes and words.
He calms the men into
a relaxed state of delight.
They clap their hands
and sing along,
but no matter how loudly
they sing, no one can
match or conceal
Tristan’s rich, lilting voice.
I turn to look upon the faces that I love.
Gawain and his brothers,
my father, my brothers — even Lavain looks
cheerful and at peace, this once.
A light seems to radiate from within
all of them, as though
a fire has been lit inside their
very souls.
And there, there is Lancelot,
knight of my heart.
He who has been
playmate and friend,
guardian and protector.
I love him.
I love him.
I do.
Should I tell him?
Tonight under this moon …
Before he rides away …
Slowly, the men begin to rise
from their seats,
draining the last dregs
of their ale, and find their way
back to their tents,
content and ready to rest.
As my father and Tirry bid me good
night, and Lavain finds a place
with a group of men who are still
carousing and laughing loudly,
I stand and move closer to Lancelot.
His green eyes light up, and he
nods as he sees me approach.
I find a seat by his side and
wait for the end of the song.
Good evening to you, Elaine.
Lancelot turns to me and smiles.
The sparrow leaps.
Hello, I manage to whisper,
sending a silent prayer of thanks to the
Moon Goddess for the cover
of darkness that hides the warm blush
crawling up my neck,
coloring it crimson.
You look lovely by the light
of the fire, Lancelot says,
looking at me lazily.
He turns in his seat to study me.
He must be able to hear
my heart beat.
I curse myself for not combing
my hair again, for not
brushing the day’s dust and dirt
from the hem of my dress.
But the coarse yellow wool
glows golden in the firelight,
and under his heavy gaze,
I can almost imagine it is a proper
gown.
It is funny, he murmurs
thoughtfully, it was just today that
I told you we could not help
but forget sometimes
that you are a girl. Yet,
tonight I saw how the men look
upon you. You are grown up now,
Elaine. A woman.
His fingers flutter at the nape
of my neck.
My heart flutters too.
He called me a woman.
He believes I am a woman!
And the thought of his watching me,
it sends such delicious sensations
up and down my spine.
Aye, he continues, a woman does not
belong to this hard battle-camp life.
His hand has moved to rest on mine,
his fingers so lean and strong.
The sparrow beats her wings.
Hard times draw near,
Lancelot murmurs.
Yes. I find my free fingers toying
with the leather satchel
around my neck.
Tell me, Elaine,
does this amulet make you
feel safer? Lancelot asks,
reaching to pull the
pouch from my hand.
It is no amulet, I tell him.
I wear it so I always have
herbs for healing close at hand,
in case you find trouble,
as you always seem to do.
My teasing is flat, and a shiver
grips me.
I have no business joking
about such things.
It can only tempt ill fortune.
Lancelot sighs, his eyes downcast
and weary.
I wish the day would arrive
when you no longer need
to wear such a necklace.
I would bring you a necklace
of the most beautiful
pearls from the distant seas.
He looks up at me, his laughing green eyes
boring into my own.
Now my little sparrow
threatens to break free, fly away.
You would? I ask breathlessly.
Aye. Lancelot looks at the fire
then turns back slowly and
grins at me. I would bring you
all manner of pretty trinkets.
I love presents, I reply,
breathless.
What else would you bring me?
Lancelot’s smile widens.
I would find you the most beautiful …
He rolls his eyes around,
as though searching for the
right answer, then stops,
looking up at the night sky.
He points at the heavens.
… the most beautiful star in the sky.
See there, that one.
He leans close to me, and I breathe
in his rich, musky scent.
My heartbeat quickens.
Now?
Do I tell him now?
Alas, Lancelot groans, moving back,
we are here in this camp,
about to march off to war,
and I have a duty to perform in the morning.
And so I will bid you farewell.
I shall see you upon my return
from the summer lands.
My stomach sinks. I had forgotten
he was leaving for Camelard.
Safe journey, Lancelot.
I will wait for you to return.
He smiles again and bows his
head ever so slightly, then
with his marked grace,
rises and leaves.
As I watch him move away,
I can hardly quell the twitches
of nervous excitement in my belly.
Could it be?
Does he
love me?
I sit back on the bench as the
fire begins to fade and die out.
Then suddenly someone is beside me.
Lancelot?
Tristan. I start with surprise.
Your singing was beautiful tonight,
I tell my friend.
Why, thank you. I am
pleased to hear it, he says.
There is no other
who can ease our hearts
as you can with your music,
I say.
You flatter me. A gleeful
smirk crosses his mouth, before
a crooked half-smile that is all too
contagious steals its place.
Really, Tristan, you have a way
of making everything feel right
and well.
He lays the harp gently on the ground.
Well, as long as you think so,
and the others, too,
that is all that matters.
His cat eyes glint in the firelight.
I pour a cup of mead for him and
one for myself.
He drinks long and thirstily.
How do you always know what
we need, before we know ourselves, even?
he asks. His eyes
no longer teasing.
What do you mean? I feel a
pink heat returning to my neck,
reaching for the tips of my ears.
You were singing. I thought
you might be thirsty, I tell him.
I was.
He nods, but his eyes
are thoughtful.
Tristan’s face is sober.
He scuffs his toe over a clump
of clover.
Singing is fine and easy
on a night such as this one,
but I would that this warring
would end, he says.
It has lasted too long,
and too long we have not made
time for normal life.
We have stood up and
are walking now, away
from the firelight, toward
the copse of birch trees.
The moon plays
on the ground in pools of
ghostly light.
As we walk between the trees,
their bark peels away
from the trunks
like scrolls of silver parchment.
What would such a life
look like? I ask.
It would look as life should,
husbands and wives living
in quiet homes, with
children playing in gardens,
without fear of Saxon invaders
carrying them off.
You could marry your knight —
he breaks off and looks at me
devilishly for a moment.
My knight? I ask, my heart
beating faster.
I know you too well, Elaine, he says.
I do not know what you are talking about.
I circle the nearest tree, my head spinning.
How has Tristan guessed?
Do all of the men know?
Does Lancelot know?
Oh, come, Elaine, I see how you
gaze on him, upon Lancelot.
Don’t be ridiculous, Tristan, I retort.
All right. He is grinning again.
Perhaps I am ridiculous.
Perhaps I deserve this life
of violence. But, truly,
I would live a life of peace,
free of ill-fated, ill-brought …
Tristan’s voice trails off.
What? What is it? I ask him,
circling back around to where
he stands.
Elaine, do you know how I arrived
here, under Arthur’s watch?
I had always assumed that he came
to be here as so many others did,
having lost family and home to
marauders.
I was sent here by my uncle.
Sent? I ask.
Tristan takes a deep breath,
then pushes on.
My parents were both killed, and
so I went to live with my uncle
Mark, but after,
after his wife, Isolde —
His voice breaks off, his lips
still bent around the shape
of her name,
as though he savors it, keeping it close.
After Isolde began to look
on me in a way unbefitting of
an aunt, he sent me away.
Suddenly those eyes that are
usually filled with so much