by Lisa Sandell
scheme, and who am I to
presume that I can —
that I can lead?
So many lives,
so very many lives
are in my hands.
What if the Merlin’s prophecy
is false?
I cannot help but be fearful.
Arthur’s confession startles
my own worries from my head.
Oh, Arthur, you must not
doubt yourself. You are meant to
lead us, to fight for Britain and to
take her back from the invaders
who would enslave us.
You must never question that.
All you believe in is right and pure.
The men follow you because they know
in their hearts this is true,
I tell him, and you must believe it too.
What would I do without your good counsel,
Elaine? He looks at me then
looks down at the ground.
A-hem!
We both look up as a cough
startles us both from our thoughts.
Gwynivere approaches, a cold sneer
curling her lips.
Hello, Gwynivere. Arthur rises,
and gives a short bow of his head.
Good day, sir, she addresses him,
ignoring me. My father bade me
to aid in gathering herbs and plants.
She looks at him demurely. Of course,
I told him, I do all that I can to aid
in the cause. In your cause.
Arthur glances down at me,
an uneasy blush spreading over his
cheeks. Yes, well, Elaine, I am sure,
will show you which plants
bear the necessary fruits, so to speak.
You will guide Gwynivere, will you not, Elaine?
But of course, Arthur, I respond,
my head buzzing with rage. The gall,
the staggering, dishonest gall!
Arthur is still looking at me,
probably wondering why my face
has twisted itself into a grimace of
fury.
Come, Gwynivere. Let us hunt for
red clover. It is good for poultices
to stop inflammation.
Thank you, Elaine. Arthur looks
relieved and abashed at once.
Good! I think.
But it is not his fault, I remind
myself. He is as much a victim
of circumstances as I am.
More so, perhaps, as he does
his duty and is paid in this way
for it.
Good day, ladies, he says, then
swiftly lopes away.
What does this wretched weed look like?
Gwynivere’s tone is icy.
The flower varies from violet to crimson,
and the leaves are ragged and hairy.
They grow this tall, I explain,
motioning to the middle of my calf.
Follow me, I sigh, leaving my mending,
and leading her down
to the river, where, gingerly, I step
across the slippery stones that
lead to the other shore.
They grow here, on the moor.
But she is not listening to me,
her forehead creased with
consternation. Gwynivere lifts her
skirts and balances shakily
on the rocks.
If you walk quickly, you will stand
a better chance of not falling in, I warn.
Hmph, she grunts. We cannot
all be wild things like you.
Remembering the brown toad
I slipped in her embroidery bag,
I remind myself I have treated her
badly enough, in spite of her cruel words.
Still, I cannot help but grit my teeth.
I am stalking through the meadow grasses,
trying to calm my nerves, tearing
the clover from the ground when I see it.
I glance back to make sure Gwynivere
has not drowned, and I see her standing
on the near bank, stiff as a stone statue.
The grass does not bite! I call, and I hold
up a stem of clover, waving the
plum-colored blossom in the air.
And this is what you are to pick.
Try not to bring me any ragwort.
We move without speaking, though once
in a while, I hear her stumble and yelp,
or mutter in frustration.
Her heavy pink gown,
with all its layers,
must be sweltering
in the springtime sunshine.
I begin to pity her; clearly she has never
spent time wandering in the fields.
You must be warm, I call to her. You may
take off your gown. I promise I will not
look. I can feel a satisfied smirk
playing on my lips.
She only harrumphs in response.
But I spot her watching me with envy
in her eyes, as I remove my dress,
and lay it flat over a rock, so that I may
wander about in just my shift,
lighter and much cooler.
Really, it is quite comfortable, Gwynivere!
I tease.
Fine! she screams, startling a flock of
meadowlarks. She attacks the laces of
her dress viciously, and jerks the gown
over her head, only to get stuck
and flail about, trapped inside the
multitude of folds and bunches of material.
She stumbles around in a short circle,
and I giggle, then run toward her, ready to help.
Gwynivere, I say, putting out a hand to stop her.
Gwynivere — but she continues to twist and
wrench from my grasp.
Gwynivere! Stop! Let me help you.
I can tell she is reluctant to let me
aid her, but she halts and I grab
two handfuls of the abundant fabric
and pull the gown over her
head.
Gwynivere seizes the gown from
my hands, snapping it back,
as though I were trying to steal it from her.
I look at her, waiting for thanks, but
none comes.
She spins on her heel and bends to the ground,
snatching a knot of grass and a single
clover head.
Very well, I say, and turn away,
returning to my own gathering.
Now, however, the silence between
us feels less charged, somehow. Easier.
Perhaps I have found a chink
in her armor?
I am through here, she shouts at me.
This is a servant’s work. You may finish it.
And she throws her gown over her
arm and storms away, back to the river.
How wrong I was, I murmur, reeling
a bit, though I am unsure why.
Why do I still feel surprised by
her intolerable rudeness? I wonder.
At least I will not be lingering
here for much longer, I whisper to the meadow.
Soon enough, I will bid you a silent farewell too.
And I don my dress and follow Gwynivere
back across the river,
back to the camp.
As I near our tent,
the sounds of clanging swords
and grunting men find my ears.
The soldiers are still at work,
which gives me time to begin
packing away all that I will need
for my journey.
The other night,
I overheard Tirry and my father
discussing the march in hushed tones.
It is to last five days and five nights,
stretching over rough country,
forest, hills, and swamp.
We will move to the east, across a mighty river,
and then to the south, until we reach
the fort of Cerdic Strong-in-the-Arm,
that beastly Saxon who leads the invaders,
Tirry described.
I bring my mother’s chest and take from
it the silvered glass.
My eyes, as murky and muddy as ever,
look older to me, somehow.
I cannot say what it is that has changed,
exactly, but these eyes I do not
recognize.
Again I ask myself,
Am I beautiful?
Do I look like a woman now?
Lancelot’s words echo in my head,
You? You are naught but a child, Elaine.
You would not understand.
I shudder at the memory
of his sneering disdain.
Naught.
I must be ugly.
I tuck the glass back
into the chest, beneath the
linens and pretty
white things.
Then I pull out the leaves and flowers
and seeds I secreted away earlier,
the bits of cheese and dried fruit,
nuts and crusts of bread,
and I spread everything from my cache
onto the table.
There is not much.
Not nearly enough.
Not for five days and five nights,
and certainly not for more than that.
I will have to do better.
And how will I carry all of it?
As I finger the ruffled sheets
and napkins, an idea takes shape.
I lift one soft, white linen sheet
from the chest,
shaking it open.
Yes, that will do.
I recover my needle from a man’s
stained and ratty tunic, and a
length of woolen thread, and begin to sew
the edges of the sheet together,
closing it up like a sack.
Carefully I wrap the plants
in leather pouches.
I have already prepared
poultices and tinctures for the
men to carry with them,
but I will feel more
confident knowing that
I bear more medicines
that I can prepare myself
when I am with them.
From the pantry, I collect some smoked meat,
more cheese, and a loaf
of bread. A flagon of cider.
This will have to do.
I tuck all of the provisions
into the sack and cover it all with
my cloak.
A shiver runs through me.
As I plan to march
toward battle and the unknown,
just as the men do, I wonder,
do I seek glory too?
It will be an adventure, and I have always
wanted, dreamed of having an adventure.
Again, a shiver,
one of delight,
excitement,
travels up my spine.
As I tuck the cotton sack back
into the trunk, I see a dark
shape moving against the flap of the tent.
Did I really see it?
Was someone spying on me?
Did somebody see me?
I duck my head outside, but no one is there.
I must have imagined it.
Still, the sense that someone was lurking,
watching, gnaws at me.
No, I must have imagined it.
I survey the room to be sure I
do not leave behind any evidence of my designs,
then lay myself to sleep.
The men make ready to set out at dawn,
when the glow of the newborn sun
is sickly and pale.
My father kneels by the edge of my pallet;
his lips, warm and rough, gently
touch my forehead.
Daughter, he whispers.
I sit up quickly, startled.
I slept without hearing his
and my brothers’ movements.
Surprised that I could sleep
knowing that I would be on my way,
alone
too.
Father, I reply. It is time?
Yes, I am afraid so, dearest one.
My heart begins to beat fast,
too fast.
I cannot believe that all of these days
of planning have left me,
on the day itself, so unprepared.
And frightened.
Do not be afraid, my love, he says.
The fear must be seared across my face.
We will return to you soon.
My father’s callused fingers
tickle my cheek,
and I throw my arms around his neck.
Father, I —
I break down into sobs,
I do not want you to go.
I do not want any of you to go.
This is madness … my voice breaks,
and I cannot speak anymore.
Shh, Elaine, hush, and do not cry.
We will be back before the next moon.
It is not so much time.
And Tirry and Lavain will take care of me,
you will see, no harm will find us.
His voice is softer than I remember
ever hearing it before.
I cry silently into the crook of his neck,
memorizing his smoky scent.
He reaches behind him and
unlocks my hands, laying them down
at my sides.
It is time, he echoes.
Say good-bye to your brothers,
and wish them well. For we are off.
I rise and embrace Tirry, who stands
two paces behind our father,
his face set in grim lines.
His blue eyes bore deep into mine,
and he grasps me by my shoulders,
holding me away from him.
All will be well, he intones.
I promise. Think on us with love
and good wishes. We shall see
each other soon. I feel it.
I nod and fight to hold back
fresh tears that threaten to
pour from my eyes. I feel
I could flood our little tent if
I allow myself to continue weeping.
Tirry, I whisper, thinking of the blood on
his cloak, please be careful.
We embrace once more, and then he
and my father leave the tent, and Lavain
and I are left alone. He
stands resolutely next to the
opening, his eyes
trained on the dirt floor.
Lavain. I hate
how my voice trembles
when I speak his name.
Lavain, I repeat. Brother —
I hate how I do not know what
to say to him.
He looks up at me, his eyes
steely and unreadable.
Please, I continue, be watchful.
And be — be well.
Lavain nods and takes a step
toward me. Sister, he says,
his voice a low growl, we will
return to you. And he is gone.
There is no touch, no pat of reassurance.
No gesture, no word of love
or affection, yet, somehow,
I know he meant as much.
I run outside the tent and my three
men turn back to me and raise
their hands in silent farewell,
as I feel the sky, in its leaden greyness,
fall down upon me.<
br />
I sink to my knees,
crying and praying.
Please, O Lord, please, Goddess of the Moon,
keep them safe, I beg.
I wait until they vanish into the pearly mist
that seems a cousin to the dawn.
Then I run back into the tent and
pull my white linen sack from
my mother’s chest,
my sparrow flapping her wings, as what
I am about to do
sinks in.
I replace the linens,
carefully folding them.
The danger of what I am
about to attempt seizes me,
and I wonder, will I ever see
this chest again?
I reach down to the bottom of the
coffer and pull out a small lace
cloth — my mother’s handkerchief.
I stuff that into the sack too,
and again, as I reach into the box
to straighten the materials that are
left, my fingers brush something hard and
cold. Tristan’s necklace.
I withdraw the strands of beads that
I had stored in the trunk for safekeeping,
and fasten them around my neck.
His strange but lovely gift feels
like an amulet for protection.
That is all. I close the chest
and walk out of the tent,
looking back just once.
Will I come back?
Will I survive?
I know not. Nor do I know
of another choice.
And so I begin walking,
following the track of
foot-and hoofprints, following
the distant sound of horses
whinnying and feet and hooves
pounding the earth.
The sun is high overhead,
and I am walking north and east.
I am still following the tracks in the mud,
praying that I do not lose them.
The leaves of so many trees
make lacy patterns against the slate-colored
sky, and I worry that it will soon rain.
I have no shelter, no skins with which
to cover myself. I did not plan as well
as I thought.
Birds call to one another
in the morning sky, and I sing
to myself to keep
my thoughts from wandering to Lancelot.
It is useless.
The last words we exchanged on the moor,
his icy glare.
You? he sneered.
How small and ugly I feel
at just the memory of it,
the way his lips curled,
and his voice rose and trembled.
Then I remember his promise
of pearls and that sweet night
by the fire, that night that
was filled with so much
promise.
As my thoughts drift from one
place to the next, the sun, too,
drifts from one point to the next.
I am starting to feel tired, and
I must keep my mind focused
on moving my feet forward and forward,
watching the trail, keeping the mountains
ever behind me and to the south.