by Lisa Sandell
attention, who made her feel
grown up. But I did not love Lancelot.
I know that now, I explain.
Truly? he asks.
Yes, I tell him, still unable
to meet his gaze.
I feel my face heated by a blush,
and the peculiarity of feeling
this way around Tristan,
who has always been my friend,
makes my heart beat faster, my breath
harder to catch.
I thought I had lost you, Elaine,
he says earnestly. When Gwynivere
arrived in the camp that night,
that awful night, she was shaking
and covered with mud and brambles,
and she told us, his voice breaks, she told
us what you had done, and I thought
you were gone from me forever.
Then when the fighting began I
could only see your face, and I
hacked through lines of Saxons,
thinking only of you and praying
that you lived. I did not hear the
ringing of my sword on ax or shield,
I heard only your voice and
the sound of your laughter.
And when the fighting ended,
and one of the men spotted an unmanned
boat drifting down the river, I wanted
to believe it carried you back to me,
I wanted to believe it, but I was so
scared. He is trembling forcibly now,
and I take his hand, letting my fingers
stroke the calluses and cuts
and bruised flesh of his palm.
Tristan continues,
All of us, your brothers and father,
Arthur, Gwynivere, Lancelot, Gawain,
all of us, we ran down to the river,
and there you were,
lying in that boat, with that
red rose covering your chest —
only it was no flower. Blood.
He stops to wipe a tear from
his eye, and my heart is beating
so fast, the little sparrow fluttering
her wings so fast.
You were so pale, he goes on,
so white, like death. Yet, so beautiful,
so beautiful it broke my heart.
We all thought you dead.
And your father and brothers were
broken, Lavain fell to the ground,
and I —
He stops for a breath again.
Lancelot and I pulled you from
the boat and we — we saw the arrow.
You had pulled it from your own … He stops and
starts again. Then we carried you into the tent,
and as we lay you down, I felt your breath
on my ear, so weak, so slight.
Like a baby bird’s.
But you lived!
He wipes away more tears.
You lived, and Gwynivere took
control, ordering Lavain to
press on the wound to keep
it from bleeding, and when he did
such a moan of anguish flew from your lips,
my heart broke again. But Gwynivere
stopped the bleeding with the herbs in
that pouch you always wear, and we waited,
all of us, your father and brothers, Gwynivere,
Arthur, Lancelot, and I, in the tent, and all of the
men, every last one of them outside,
and we waited, waited for you to wake up.
And when you opened your eyes,
it was the gladdest moment of my
life. And in that instant, I knew …
His hand tightens around mine.
You knew what? I ask softly.
I knew that cursed love would never
find me again. I was so frightened
of love, of falling again, and I tried
to keep away from you, to keep from
thinking of you, and when I
could not, I told myself … His
jaw twitches. I told myself that
it was not love. I could not love again.
And, besides, you loved another.
But … now I know, no love potion could
beget a love this true. For,
I have found the truest love of all
in our friendship.
The heaviness on my chest dissolves.
You love me? I ask.
Elaine, you are the bravest,
the kindest and most beautiful,
person I have ever known. Yes,
I love you. I will love you
for the rest of my life.
His cat eyes hold me in their gaze.
I cannot look away.
The question is, he starts, can you
ever love me back?
My breath is hard to catch.
This is the moment.
I love him.
Yes, Tristan, my dearest one, I love you.
Always.
I think I have always loved you.
Such a look of relief and joy washes
over his beautiful face, a laugh
erupts from my mouth,
and I bite my lip as it summons back
the throbbing pain in my chest.
My love, he utters so softly,
and takes me in his arms,
clasping me to his chest,
as gently as one would a
bird, and his lips find mine,
in the sweetest kiss.
My head spins and my
belly fills with warm light.
This kiss is more perfect than
I could ever have imagined.
My sparrow, she flickers and wakes
and sings and sings.
A beautiful song of love.
We have reached Caerleon-on-Usk at last.
Morgan is there to greet us.
Hello, little one, she murmurs, as she
embraces me. I see much has happened,
much has changed. And your part to play
was no small one.
She smiles broadly and extends her hand.
I take it and follow her to her tent,
where she brews a pot of tea.
How is your wound? she asks.
Which one do you mean? I joke.
At times I feel like one of the
hay targets the men use to
practice their battle skills,
with so many holes poked in me.
Morgan grins, but her expression
quickly turns stern.
Let me see both of your injuries.
As I unwrap the bandages around
my arm and my chest, her
eyes lighten, and she nods,
looking pleased. Ah, Gwynivere
has done well, tending to you.
These will both heal nicely.
I wonder how Morgan knows so much.
Giving voice to my question, she answers,
simply, I see many things.
I know that whatever magic she
has, it is not for me to understand.
My place is here, on this land.
It is my magic and my home.
You have done great things,
Morgan says with a tender smile,
and I am so proud of you. And you
have been rewarded with
the greatest riches of all.
I nod, picturing Tristan’s lazy grin
and gleaming eyes and remembering
the warmth of his kiss.
What will happen now? I ask.
Will everyone scatter?
I imagine many will return
to the homes they left behind, to their
own families and loved ones, she replies
slowly, but we will learn more tonight,
for Arthur has asked everyone
to come to the Round Table.<
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As the sun sinks in a fount
of crimson, rose, and purple,
Tristan and I begin to make
our way to the Round Table.
We pause, when we reach the copse
of birch trees, and stand among the
silvery trunks.
Tristan wraps his arms around my waist.
My love, he murmurs against my hair.
We should always live among the trees
and grasses and wildflowers, he whispers.
They suit you. I smile in response
and reach up to the nearest branch,
my fingertips grazing the feathery leaves.
Yes, I sigh, we should always live among the trees.
As we move toward the Round Table, several
men are stoking a roaring bonfire.
Flecks of white ash fly overhead,
arching toward the heavens.
For an instant I think of the snowy
ashes of our home on Shalott, that night
so long ago, and I shiver.
Then Tristan takes my hand and squeezes it,
and the dark memory is banished.
We sit near Lavain, Tirry, and my father,
near Arthur, Gwynivere, Lancelot, and Morgan.
I know I have earned my place at the Round Table,
and the knowledge makes me glad.
Soon platters of venison and rabbit
and flagons of mead
are being passed around the table.
The mood is light, and
a current of excitement
hovers in the air.
Men speak of going home,
of reunions with wives and sons and daughters,
of land they will farm, of livestock to raise.
Laughter and jokes fill the air,
and we eat and drink until all are stuffed.
Then, as though he steps
out of the very night,
the Merlin appears.
He looks less like a wraith,
but a man of enchantment and vision,
wrapped in a cloak woven of dreamstuff.
His eyes are fierce, but his mouth turns up
in a smile. He takes a seat
on Arthur’s left, beside Morgan.
As he sits, all chattering and rustling stops.
All is still.
Arthur rises from his seat and
throws his hands into the air.
Britons! Bravest Britons!
You have won back your land,
wrested her from the grasp of the enemy.
Now she is yours, to live in,
in freedom and in peace.
Arthur’s face grows thoughtful.
And he turns to look at each of us in turn,
his eyes lingering on my own.
I smile at him.
He returns my grin with a wide one, then
continues, I thank you for your service,
indeed, I will think on each of you
with everlasting gratitude and admiration.
Your deeds have been noble,
your hearts righteous,
and your just reward is due.
Return to your homes, to your families,
and to your farms. Make them vibrant and strong,
and reap all the glory and gifts this
land has to give. But,
for those of you who have lost
so much, for those of you who have
not homes nor wives to return to,
I offer you a choice.
A choice to stay and to
build something new,
something magnificent.
This day, I ask you to join me,
to join me on a new journey:
In this place, on this land,
where the path to our
freedom began, I aim to
build a monument to liberty and peace.
A haven, where
justice will reign as king.
Where any man or woman may
come in search of relief,
in search of redress, when
someone or something
steals away their freedom,
plunders their peace.
Arthur rises and his voice thunders
over the Round Table,
Britons!
Who will stand with me?
Who will stand with me to
build this haven for justice?
Who will stand with me to build
Camelot?
Tristan and I look at each other
and smile. Then, together,
hands entwined, we rise.
And Lavain and Tirry and my father rise.
And Gwynivere stands beside Arthur,
her eyes shining as she stares up at him,
love filling her gaze.
And Gawain and his brothers rise.
And one hundred other men rise.
All are smiling at the prospect of
a future filled with hope.
And finally, Lancelot stands,
but the joy in his eyes is dimmed
as his gaze alights on Gwynivere
clutching Arthur’s arm.
A brewing storm.
My friends, Arthur calls out,
my friends, I thank you. And I welcome
you on this journey.
To peace! To freedom!
To freedom! we cry. To freedom!
That night, after the embers have died
and the only light comes from the moon,
I walk among the birch trees,
a shiver of
silver silent ghosts.
So long I wanted to grow up
to be a woman,
all the while fighting
the trappings of womanhood.
But now I may be woman
and child and Briton,
and nothing can imprison me again.
I look up to the full moon and whisper,
Lady of the Moon,
for keeping safe all that is dear to me, for preserving those I love
and this land,
I thank you.
And at that moment,
a lilting melody lifts to the moon as
a single sparrow sings.
I cannot remember the first time I discovered the stories of King Arthur. I have been reading — and loving — them forever, it seems. The legends of King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table have always been among my favorites to hear, watch, and read. Yet, as I’ve read more and delved deeper into this incredibly rich and terribly vast canon, the more I have wanted to learn about the history — the true story, if you will — of this king named Arthur.
He is one of the most celebrated literary figures of all time; Arthur and his knights have inspired hundreds of poems, stories, books, plays, and movies — from Sir Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur to Monty Python’s Spamalot — spanning centuries. As omnipresent and popular as the literature is, I was surprised to discover that there is no hard proof that Arthur actually existed.
Many archaeologists, historians, scholars, and fans have made it their life’s work to try to uncover the mystery of Arthur. There are a multitude of theories, but no hard evidence has ever been brought to bear either way.
As I thought about how to approach writing Song of the Sparrow, I knew I wanted the setting and characters to feel authentic, and so I looked back at many texts for guidance, which are listed in the Suggestions for Further Reading section.
If the man whom we know as Arthur did live, it was most likely close to the end of the fifth century or during the early sixth century, in what is referred to as the Dark Ages. Approximately three hundred years later, a Welsh monk and historian named Nennius, who, it is believed, had access to fifth-century texts that have since been lost, seems to have left the most promising clue. He writes about Arthur in his Historia Brittonum, or History of the Britons, casting him as a star military captain:
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Then Arthur along with the kings of Britain fought against them in those days, but Arthur himself was the military commander [dux bellorum]…. The twelfth battle was on Mount Badon in which there fell in one day 960 men from one charge by Arthur; and no one struck them down except Arthur himself, and in all the wars he emerged as victor.1
While this sounds like proof enough of Arthur’s existence, certain glaring exclusions of his name from other earlier texts that date closer to what would have been Arthur’s lifetime indicate that perhaps this wasn’t the case after all.
A sixth-century British monk named Gildas, who also recorded the history of the Britons, failed to mention Arthur’s name even once in his text, Concerning the Ruin of Britain. Nor did another historian and clergyman known as the Bede, who wrote a comprehensive work titled The Ecclesiastical History of the English People in A.D. 731.
It wasn’t until the twelfth century, more than four hundred years after Nennius introduced Arthur, that the mythic king reappeared in the history books. This time, it was a bishop named Geoffrey of Monmouth who wrote at length about Arthur in his History of the Kings of Britain. Geoffrey placed Arthur directly in the line of British kings. He was the first to do so, and it was Geoffrey’s writings that spawned the Arthurian legends readers know now.
And so, despite differing accounts and much ambiguity, there are a few things we can say about Arthur with some certainty. The roots of his story lay in the Roman Empire, which was founded circa 31 B.C., and stretched from Rome all the way into northern Africa, parts of Asia, and most of Europe, lasting for nearly fifteen hundred years.
In A.D. 44, the Romans invaded Britain and ruled there relatively peacefully and prosperously for nearly four hundred years. But, in the early fifth century, the Roman Empire began to suffer from rebellions and fighting in its various territories, and Britain itself had also become subject to waves of invasions. The Roman legions that were posted on that remote isle were too few to fend off the growing numbers of invaders, and the soldiers began to rebel. Finally, in A.D. 410, the Roman soldiers and governing officials withdrew from Britain to aid in the fighting in other parts of the Empire, leaving the tiny island completely drained of its former glory and military strength.
The Britons who remained behind lived in small groups, or clans, led by local chieftains. Left to fend for themselves, they fought among themselves, as well as against their many enemies. The Britons faced the Picts, tribesmen from what is now eastern and northeastern Scotland, who were called such because of the Latin word picti, meaning “painted,” as the Picts were said to have tattooed their bodies. Hadrian’s Wall, which ran seventy-three miles across the width of Britain, was constructed by the Romans to keep the Picts out of Britain proper. Other enemies of the Britons at this time were the Scots, invaders who came from what is now known as Ireland — the name originates from the Roman name for the Irish, meaning “raider” or “bandit” — as well as the Saxons, from what is now Germany and parts of the Netherlands, who also posed constant threats to Britain at this time.