by Lisa Sandell
I look up at him, tears in my eyes.
Morgan sits beside me and squeezes my hand.
Those were bad days, I whisper.
Yes, Arthur intones.
But these are better days, for
my heart is filled with much gladness
to see how strong you are.
And I am grateful, Arthur continues,
for your skills in the healing arts.
You have saved more than
one life. And I am grateful for
your friendship. We are
all grateful for it.
Arthur looks straight at me.
He stops again and clears his throat.
I wonder, may I speak openly with you?
Of course, Arthur, I reply,
my curiosity growing.
Do you know, he begins uncertainly,
how I came to be dux bellorum? he asks.
I am not sure I understand.
You are the nephew of Aurelius — I begin.
The Merlin, the Merlin and my sister
came to me — before Aurelius was killed,
and they foretold his death.
My eyes widen, and I look at
Morgan. She nods, her
lips pursed tightly. Arthur laughs
grimly. I did not believe them.
They spoke the truth, and
I did not warn Aurelius! he moans dolefully.
I had the knowledge, and
I did not use it to save him.
Again, I look to Morgan, who
just shakes her head and looks away.
She rises and begins to pace
around the tent, her steps stormy.
Arthur, I know not of these things,
the magic of the Merlin, I tell him,
but you did no wrong.
His eyes are wild, and he continues,
his voice ragged. That is not all.
The Merlin told me it was all part of a
prophecy. I would take Aurelius’s place
as dux bellorum, and I would lead
the Britons to victory. He gives another
harsh laugh. I — who am I? How
can I ever lead all these men?
What if I lead them to their deaths?
And all of this weighs on me, ever
plaguing my sleep, my dreams.
But I have no choice. His face
is pale and his lips set
in a thin, bloodless line.
No choice, he repeats. I would
that things were different.
My mind whirls as I try to think
what to say to him.
There are no words to comfort him,
so great are his worries.
What a burden, what a weight,
I think. How unfair.
Arthur, I start, unsure of
how to continue. I believe in you.
The men believe in you. There
is no one else whom the men
will unite behind. They love you.
And though these burdens
sit heavy on your shoulders in the
face of such dark deeds to come,
I have faith that all will be well.
That you will be well. And as
I speak the words, I realize that I
truly believe them. And from
the look of relief that lightens his brow,
I can see that Arthur does too.
Morgan is staring at us both and
comes to stand beside Arthur,
resting her hand on his shoulder.
Elaine speaks wisely, she murmurs.
Yes, Arthur replies. She says much the
same as you do, Sister.
Thank you, Elaine, he says,
turning to me. I am sorry
to have passed my worries
onto your shoulders, but to have a
friend, an ear — for that I thank you.
Arthur rises and bows, then
turns to Morgan, lifting her
hand and pressing
a gentle kiss to it.
Then he turns to leave,
throwing a last, small smile to us.
Slowly, I step out into the
cool evening air.
My feet,
my legs feel as light as
a cat’s.
I pad slowly back to the great
elm tree where Lancelot
and I meet, the elm tree
made grey by the moon’s light.
I sink to my knees, and lean
back against the
unyielding trunk, grateful
for its solidity, its weight, and
its rough, scratchy bark.
I am glad that
it is for me to see
the side of Arthur,
of the men I love,
that they dare not
show each other.
I must do something.
As I wander distractedly back to
our tent, thinking about how
the warring steals choices from all of us,
I hear footsteps
behind me. Quickly,
I turn, forgetting momentarily
that Lancelot has left.
Tristan. I hope he does not
recognize the disappointment
in my voice.
Yes, it is I, he laughs.
It is late for you to be
out, no? he asks,
his eyebrows raised in question.
Yes, I suppose it is, I answer.
Late, that is.
Muddled.
What is it, Elaine? You sound strange.
It is — it is nothing, I tell him,
shaking my head to clear it.
Nothing? he murmurs.
I was just — just thinking about
the herbs I must collect before
you leave.
I see, he says, not sounding like
he could see at all.
You are not plotting anything,
are you? he asks, his eyes glowing
in the gathering dark.
I know of your inclination to follow
where you should not.
I stop, surprised, no longer
distracted in the least.
What? I ask.
You heard me, he says,
his hand touching my
elbow.
I know of your secret visits
to the Round Table,
to battlefields.
You must not try to follow us,
Elaine.
I — I had not thought to try.
But as I speak the words,
a tiny voice begins to
whisper in my mind.
Promise me, he commands, urgently.
I promise, Tristan.
But I know now that I lie.
Very well, he says.
Though I hardly trust you.
He is grinning again,
his leonine eyes dancing.
Tristan delivers me to the mouth
of my tent, and I bid him a
good night.
And as I lay down on my pallet,
a plan starts to take shape.
There is much work to be done.
Thank you, Tristan, I whisper.
Morning dawns grey
and ominous, the sky
pregnant with indigo clouds.
As I rise from my bed,
I sense that I am alone
in the tent, my family
already gone to the mock
battlefield. In these
moments of silence
I do my chores, sort through
my herbs and take stock of
what is needed.
Handling the colorful powders
and scented flowers calms me,
allows quiet into my head.
I must think on my plan.
A list begins to form in my mind,
and suddenly I wonder, how will
I ever manage to gather all that
I might need and prepare
a kit for the journey
without anyone seeing, guessing?
For I shall follow.
There are no hiding places in this
tent, no private spots
in this camp.
As I scan the room, looking
for a nook to secret away
a sack, my eyes fall
upon my mother’s chest.
Yes, there should be room inside
of it, to squirrel away medicinal
plants, some clothes and food.
And no one will think to look in there.
The domain of woman.
I hear a scratching outside the tent,
and then Tristan’s voice floats
in to me, Your knight returns,
Elaine. Will you come to greet him?
Chastise him or cheer?
My heart does a little
flutter and I long to run outside,
but for Tristan’s sake, well,
for my own sake, that I might be
spared further teasing, I slow my feet.
I am sweeping, Tristan. And I do
not know the man whom you call
‘my knight.’
Is it my father?
I had no word
that he has left.
I smile a secret smile, then
step outside to meet my friend.
Shall we? Tristan asks, grinning as
he escorts me to the far edge of the camp
that overlooks the great moor to the west.
See there, he points, and I can just
make out tiny smudges riding
on the horizon, far off in the distance.
There is Lancelot with a small party.
It looks as though he succeeded
in the task Arthur set for him.
The hazy figures soon resolve into
solid shapes and indeed I can
make out several horsemen
and a carriage.
Does Lodengrance ride in the coach?
I ask. Can he not ride with the other men?
I know not, Tristan replies, thoughtfully
stroking his chin.
Soon I can discern Lancelot riding
at the fore on his beloved white stallion.
A heavyset man rides beside him.
Lodengrance.
So, who, I wonder, rides in the carriage?
A rustling behind me draws my
attention, and I see Arthur approach.
He nods and comes to stand beside me.
I look at him, but am met only
with his profile, as he
studies the nearing company.
His presence is unquiet,
and now Tristan, too, shifts
restlessly beside me.
My feet long to run away,
but my heart stays them.
My heart, like a baby bird,
longing to see Lancelot, jumps and
dips in anticipation of our reunion.
Finally the riders are here.
Lancelot dismounts
his steed without even a glance
my way.
He moves directly to the carriage,
with a look on his face such as
I have never seen there before,
so intent and serious it is.
But there is something else
in his green eyes,
something I do not recognize.
The carriage door is thrust
open, and I feel my companions
draw a collective breath,
as we wait to see who
alights.
Then,
the most beautiful creature
I have ever seen emerges.
She has a crown of hair the color
of flaxseed, skin ivory and delicate,
and full coral lips.
Her gown looks as though
it is woven of silver gossamer,
spun by enchanted spiders
for a faerie princess.
A girl!
A friend?
A companion to teach me all that
I do not know of women and beauty
and fine manners?
A friend to share my secrets and wishes?
Who will tell me her own?
A friend?
Lancelot takes her hand and
assists her to the ground.
And he looks stricken,
as though some force
grips his heart or his stomach,
or both.
The girl’s seashell lips lift
into a gentle smile as she
places one dainty hand on
Lancelot’s arm, allowing
him to escort her to
where we stand.
Lancelot has not taken his
eyes from her face.
Indeed, he looks enthralled.
Arthur looks down fleetingly
and draws a breath,
as though steeling himself,
then steps forward to meet them.
My friends, he says, his hands
extended before him in greeting.
To my surprise, Lancelot,
who has been Arthur’s dearest companion
for as long as I have known the pair,
does not turn to his captain.
Rather, he continues to stare in
an almost unnatural manner
at the young woman who stands by his side.
Lodengrance, who is as ruddy-faced and
rotund as I remembered him, approaches
Arthur first, throwing his arms open and
embracing him.
Ah, my dear friend. It gives me great
pleasure to be back in your company.
Soon I shall call you ‘Son,’ eh?
Lancelot flinches.
What is happening here?
The way Lancelot gapes
at this strange girl is
unnerving, and a dull ache
opens up in my chest.
It feels as though there is a
yawning hole where my heart
did beat hopefully
just some minutes ago.
I do not understand what unfolds.
And the girl, she stands there,
so placid, gazing on Lancelot,
then turning to Arthur,
who now returns Lodengrance’s
embrace, and says,
You are most welcome here.
Indeed, I thank you for coming
and bringing some measure
of cavalry to our aid.
We have great need, in these
days, of friends. I am
happy to see you, old friend.
I cannot stand here, I cannot
watch this tableau,
which I do not understand
nor do I want to understand it,
unfold any longer.
But I cannot look away.
Nor can I stop the torrent
of questions.
Finally the greeting party
breaks apart.
Tristan returns to his
weapons practice,
and Arthur leads Lodengrance
and the girl away.
Lancelot stands rooted
to the spot, as though frozen.
I hurry back into my tent to
find some mending, something
to keep me busy, so the
doubts filling my gut do
not carry me away.
Then I cannot stand it
any longer, and the walls
of the tent seem too close,
too stifling. I must get
outside.
As I run to the willow
tree at the river’s edge,
gulping great breaths
>
of sweet fresh air,
I stop short. There
is the girl, and she is
with Lancelot. His arms
are around her, and she
lifts a hand to his
cheek. He is murmuring softly
to her. I cannot trespass;
I cannot believe what I see.
The ground feels as though
it bends and shifts beneath me.
Indeed, the world feels as though
it rocks in its place in the heavens.
Will we all fall down?
The pair stand partially hidden
by the willow’s low-sweeping branches,
and my stomach
turns and churns.
Lancelot, with the faerie girl.
This is all so wrong!
I know not what to do.
I cannot bear to face anyone
now.
I circle around the perimeter and
finally find the great elm by the stables.
I sink to the ground. My breath
comes unevenly
and my head spins.
What has taken hold of Lancelot?
What spell has this yellow-haired
sorceress cast on him?
I look at my hands,
freckled with sun,
callused from so many chores.
The nails are ragged and
torn; dirt lodges
beneath them in grey crescents.
Her hands, her hands are so
white, with long tapering fingers
with smooth, rounded nails.
The essence of woman.
All the memories of my
mother’s face, all the ideals
of what a woman should be,
they are all wrapped up
in her.
And I am so dull and dirty.
Like a small brown toad.
He does not see me.
How could he see me
when she is before him?
Glowing and gilded in gold.
Then Tristan is before me,
his face a stiff mask.
Elaine? His voice is hesitant.
I cannot respond, I cannot
summon my voice.
O, and tears threaten.
I look at the moss and
the grey pebbles and
withered leaves around
my feet.
He is beside me.
His hand covers mine.
Elaine, Tristan repeats.
Are you — are you well?
I am not sure how to answer him.
I am not sure if I am able to answer him.
I rub my fingers over the thick,
springy moss.
His hand tightens over mine.
What — what happened? I
manage, croaking
like a bullfrog.
Tristan leans his head back
against the trunk and sighs,
moving his hand into his lap.
I am not certain if I understand
it, he murmurs.
I believe Lancelot lured
old Lodengrance back here
with the promise of Arthur’s hand.
Arthur is a man of means, and
I suppose he shall marry
Gwynivere, daughter of Lodengrance.
Arthur to marry this girl?
All of the words Arthur spoke