by Lisa Sandell
empty within. And that is why
I was so horrid to you.
My heart is beating fast, my
head spinning with disbelief.
Can she really be saying these
things? Can she really be jealous
of me?
Gwynivere, I start, unsure of how
to continue, how to make her see.
Gwynivere, you are beautiful, and
I am jealous of you for that. For the
way the men — the way Lancelot —
looks on you.
She shifts her eyes away, her
brow creasing, her cheeks coloring.
I have loved him since I was a child,
I tell her. But you are not empty.
You could not say these words,
you could not believe them, if you were.
What do you know? Gwynivere grumbles.
I know, Gwynivere. I was there when you
leaped from the forest to rescue me.
That did not do us any good, did it?
she mutters scornfully.
But you acted without any care for
your own well-being. You acted to save me,
I remind her.
But I failed. And my life only tells the story
of a woman without a will. Without a spine.
I could not even choose my own husband;
I was simply promised to a
man I had never met, as though
I were a — a horse.
The decision was made for me,
because I am empty. Her lips
are a tight line of resolve.
Gwynivere, may I ask you a question?
She shrugs her shoulders listlessly.
What do you want with Lancelot when
Arthur is so good and kind …
and, well, our leader — the one
every man and woman looks to?
Why do you? she hurls the question
back at me.
I do not know, I remark. But I think it is …
I try to think back to when it began.
Lancelot saved me when I was very young.
I recall that day he came to take Lavain away
to be a soldier, that day in the river,
all the memories of his friendship
floating into view behind my eyes.
One day, I was swimming by
myself in a river, when one of the men
began throwing rocks at me.
I was only twelve years old or so.
But Lancelot appeared and
scared Balin away, and then
he fished me out of the river …
and then he asked me to teach him
how to swim. A silly smile has
spread over my face, I realize,
and a warm blush quickly takes its place.
Huh. Well, I cannot have him anyway,
Gwynivere remarks impassively.
We are quiet, and suddenly I
notice that I cannot hear the sounds
of fighting any longer.
Do you think the battle has ended? I ask.
Gwynivere cocks her head and listens,
her brow creased.
No, I do not believe so. The Saxons have
not returned to the camp.
What could have happened to bring about
such quiet? I ask, my heart beating with dread,
as I see a thousand terrible images,
my family, my friends, lying dead
on a bloody battlefield.
Hush, Elaine, Gwynivere soothes,
do not let your mind wander to those
dark places. All will be well, you will see.
She begins to hum a tune,
softly, with such gentleness in her voice,
that instantly the fear and pain are driven from
my mind, and I feel the sparrow has come
back to her nest in my chest,
where she rests peacefully.
Thank you, Gwynivere.
You are good.
Remember that always.
And I feel myself lulled to sleep
once more.
The tent flaps are flung open by
a hairy hand, and a hairy
body follows. Yellow Hair’s
companion.
Gwynivere jerks her head up.
She had fallen asleep as well.
The Saxon looks at us with a leer
that sends shudders running
down my spine. Streaks of
dried, crusty blood cover his
face and chest, his fingernails,
too, I notice.
He comes to us and kneels.
Gwynivere and I both shrink back
as he bends over us.
But to our surprise, he does
not raise a fist, he does not
appear inclined to violence.
Rather, he begins to untie
our wrists. My heart leaps
with surprise. Perhaps the men
have come to rescue us!
You stay here, the Saxon grunts.
No sound.
No run away.
You prisoners. We take soldiers
and coffers of gold
for you.
That is … if Arthur is willing to pay.
His lips curl back in a hideous
laugh that barks and coughs
from his chest.
He shoves a foul and sullied-looking
pan at us.
We watch you. No run away.
No sound, he repeats.
My stomach turns, the smell
of the pan too foul. I
understand it is a kindness
being extended to us. A bedpan
for our use.
He turns, rises, and leaves,
his looming shadow
darkening the outside of the tent,
where he stands guard over us.
Gwynivere and I take turns
moving to the far corner of the
tent to make use of the Saxon’s
disgusting gift.
All my joints ache with stiffness.
I look at the wound on my arm.
A brown crust of scab has begun to
grow over the gash.
At least it heals well.
I begin to pace around the tent,
Gwynivere comes to join me.
It feels good to be moving again,
even if only within the confines of
this cage.
There has to be a way to escape, I
murmur to myself.
How? Gwynivere moans. They
stand outside, guarding us
like a chest of gold.
She shakes her head, defeated.
I will not allow us to be traded
for men we know, men I —
we love, I declare. It will not happen
as long as I live. I would rather
kill myself. I am unbending
and resolute.
What do we do? Gwynivere asks.
I do not know, but I will
think of something, I tell her.
As dusk falls outside the tent,
we hear the murmuring of voices,
of the Saxons gathered a short
distance from our prison.
Their voices are hushed, but
their rasping words slide through
the night air to our ears.
Can you make out what they are saying?
I ask Gwynivere.
She has been crouching near the entrance
of the tent, brow wrinkled as she
concentrates. But she shakes her head.
No. Their accent is too thick. I know
not the specifics of their discussion.
I am pacing again, like a wolf
trapped in a cage.
There must be a way out,
there has
to be.
Suddenly I look at the ground.
At the back of the tent, the skin
hangs a bit loosely, where it
grazes the dirt floor,
not pegged properly with a stake.
What if —
Wait! Gwynivere’s voice
is excited.
What is it? I ask,
hurrying to her side.
Listen, she whispers to me.
What do you hear?
I hear … our language! I exclaim.
They have a Briton!
My thoughts are racing with my pulse.
Have they captured someone from
Arthur’s army? Do they have another
prisoner?
Listen, Gwynivere says again.
Arthur’s army is camped by
the River Avon, the strange voice
reveals.
A spy, I breathe.
Yes. Gwynivere nods. Someone who
knows everything about Arthur’s movements,
his plans.
We have to do something. I say, my panic
returning. We have to stop him.
How can we stop him? Gwynivere moans. We are
trapped in this prison, remember? Her
face is cloudy. Shhh, he talks still.
The spy speaks. ’Round the hill Badon,
to the south lies the River Avon,
by which you arrived here, I believe.
A Saxon grunts in agreement.
Follow that river, the spy continues,
and you will find Arthur.
He will never expect you to
come in the night. His men will be
unprepared, they will fall,
easy prey to your battle-axes and swords.
Go, tonight, the spy spits, his
voice muffled by the rising clamor
of the Saxons.
That is it. We have to warn them, I declare.
I rise and move to the back of the tent.
Our guard is still pacing in front of the
entrance, but there is no shadow at the
back. They have left us an opening.
Gwynivere, come here! I whisper,
motioning her to where I stand.
Look, down here, I instruct her,
and we both kneel, and I show her
where the bottom of the tent
hangs over the ground, unpinned
and loose.
If we dig, I whisper, we can tunnel
below the tent, escape,
and warn Arthur.
How can we dig that deep? Gwynivere’s
voice is heavy with defeat,
but a glimmer of hope flashes in her eyes.
We have no choice now. We have to
warn them. Please, I am begging you.
Help me, I plead.
She appears frozen, but suddenly
she shakes her head as though
throwing off a veil, and she is
stirred to motion.
All right. Let us dig to freedom.
Our fingers scratch
at the hard-packed earth.
Soon our nails are torn and ragged,
dirt lodged deep in their beds,
but we dig tirelessly, and soon
there is a sizable trough. I can now
slide my arm underneath the bottom
of the tent and dig on the outside.
We stop frequently, as we hear the
Saxons moving about, their voices
coming and going in a rough rumbling.
Our tent must be near the periphery of their
camp, for no one moves outside the back
of it, but footsteps pass often
in front of the entrance.
Suddenly we hear our guard
talking with another man.
Yellow Hair.
I recognize his voice.
Quick, throw your shawl
over the hole! I hiss at Gwynivere.
She unties her shawl and covers
the impression we have made in the dirt,
and we slide over to the center support beam,
just as the flaps fly open, and Yellow Hair,
his greasy hair and beard flecked with
ash and bits of food and blood, enters.
His deadened eyes sweep the room,
sweep over us, falling on the shawl
on the ground at the back.
My heart stops, and I can hear
Gwynivere take in a sharp breath.
You are cold, no? he barks
at both of us.
I am so warm from the effort
of our digging, I pray he does
not notice the sheen of moisture on my face,
which is mirrored on Gwynivere’s.
You dropped your cloth. He jerks
his chin toward the back of the tent.
I am sitting on my hands
so he does not notice the dirt,
and my nails curl painfully into my fists.
My breath has escaped, my heart
has taken on a wild
beat that must be as audible
as a war drum, and I am certain
he will discover our secret doings.
Then what will happen?
Hmmf, he grunts, obedient prisoners
we have. An evil smile spreads
across his vulture’s face, then he turns
and leaves.
I fall down backward, my chest heaving,
my hands shaking.
Gwynivere’s head is in her hands.
Oh my God, she whispers. I thought
he would take the shawl.
I know. I feared the same!
We smile at each other wildly,
and fall into a fit of giggles.
Shhh, I say, trying to draw a breath
in between bouts of laughter.
We move back to our tunnel,
and begin tearing at the earth again.
The night wears on, and still
we dig, our fingers aching and
trembling from the effort.
Finally I think there is room
enough for us to burrow under
the tent to the other side, to freedom.
A wild urgency drives me;
I have to get to Arthur,
to Tirry and Lavain and Father.
To Tristan.
I have to warn them.
Before it is too late. I touch the beads
hanging around my neck.
Swiftly, my mind diverts
into an unexpected thought —
I think of Tristan, where I
would have expected to think of
Lancelot.
Well, Tristan has been my true
friend these last weeks.
I should not be surprised.
And just as quickly, my mind
flies back to its purpose.
We need a plan, I tell Gwynivere.
What for? she asks. We just run,
around the mountain, to the south.
As the spy said.
No! The harshness of my voice
startles both of us. Only one of us
can go. The other must create a
diversion, so the Saxons do not
realize our purpose. So the other can
get away. Gwynivere’s
eyes widen and a terrified look
crosses her face. I think quickly.
I will escape first, run through the
camp and in the noise and chaos
that is sure to follow me, you
will run in secret. You must
go past the mountain and find the river.
Follow the stars, and you will
find Arthur and warn him,
I decide. I shall follow, once you
have had time to get away.
Elaine, they will never let you —
Hush, I cut h
er off. Gwyn, there is no
choice. You must go to Arthur.
But — she begins.
Do not argue with me, I tell her,
putting my hand over hers.
There is no other way.
You must wait until you hear
the noise when they discover me in their
midst. Then count to ten and
run, I command her.
Gwynivere looks at me as though
the sky is falling down upon our heads.
I have never seen such a stricken look
in anyone’s eyes.
We grab each other and
embrace.
I will do it, she says, her chin
set with resolve.
Gwyn —
Suddenly tears are streaming
down my face, and my
body is trembling.
Please, tell my father and my
brothers that I am so sorry.
That I love them.
You will tell them yourself,
Gwynivere says, putting her
hands on my shoulders and
giving me a little shake.
I recall my own voice telling
Gwynivere that we have no choice.
Right, I say. Then I beckon for
her to raise the skirt of the tent
as high as possible and I begin
to wriggle on my stomach into
the trench we carved out of the dirt.
The cool night air crashes
over my face, lifting off the
sweat and drying my tears.
As I rise to my feet, I look
all around me.
I was correct in guessing that
our tent was on the periphery of the
camp. All of the tents are arranged
in a circle, the mountain looming at
the far end of the camp. I wiggle
my fingers under the tent,
to let Gwynivere know I am all right.
Remember, I whisper into the
tent’s skin, wait until you hear
the shouts, and count to ten. Mount Badon
lies on the far side of the camp. I will
lead the men away from there.
Elaine, comes her hushed voice.
Farewell!
My heart stops for a moment,
and I whisper,
O Mistress of the Moon,
O Goddess,
keep her safe,
keep my friend safe
in her purpose.
My friend.
And you, too, my sister!
I call softly.
I press my hand to the wall of the
tent, then turn.
I must attract the Saxons’
attention and lead them away
from the mountain. Then I must
switch courses and run back to the
mountain.
I take a deep breath.
My sparrow is flitting and
dancing in my chest. She swoops and
does loops and circles in my belly.
Give me your wings, I pray.
Another breath.
My hands and legs feel shaky.
One more breath, then I run.
I run, circling the tent, and fly
past the guard. His eyes open