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
that night in Morgan’s tent
skip through my memory.
I would that things
were different …
… that things were different …
It makes sense now.
Now I understand.
He must have known.
All these machinations,
and I so naive.
Lancelot looks bewitched, I spit,
surprised by the vitriol in my voice.
Yes, he does. Tristan looks
at me appraisingly, his eyes
darker now beneath eyebrows
raised in question.
Love is a tempestuous mistress,
he continues. And none of us
shall ever master her.
He rises to his feet,
his eyes slanting as he looks
down on me,
Do not fear, Elaine,
love and friendship will
resolve themselves.
I continue to rest below
the elm tree, the moss
and leaves and bark,
solid and familiar,
like an anchor.
I want to believe Tristan,
but I do not see a way for
anything to be all right
again.
What place does a woman
have here, in this
realm of men?
I wonder.
But I do have a place.
I belong here, with these men.
They are my family.
I mend their clothes,
I mend their bodies.
I grew up wild like a boy
here.
How could she possibly belong here,
to this camp?
Her clothes are far too
clean for these dusty soldiers,
dusty tents.
Yet, I always dreamed of a girl
coming to live here, of a girl
who would be my friend.
Elaine. A deep voice interrupts
the torrent of self-pitying thoughts.
Tirry is towering over me,
Why have you been hiding here?
he asks. Did you not hear
that there is a girl come to camp?
I shake my head, unable to answer.
You have been summoned to the
Round Table, he explains.
Who summons me? I ask crossly.
Arthur, Tirry answers.
He wishes you to come and
meet his future bride and
let her know that she is not
alone here.
Of course she is not alone
here, I retort. There are
nearly three hundred and fifty
men dwelling here in this camp.
I do not know why you are
angry with me, Tirry says,
looking wounded.
I am not angry with you,
Tirry. I will come. I know
my voice sounds resigned.
I am resigned.
I follow my brother back
to the center of camp,
my feet dragging, stirring
up more dust, which settles
on the hem of my gown.
The nubby wool, once vermilion,
is now brown from wear and dirt
that no amount of washing can remove.
My slippers, doe-brown leather,
too, are covered in a fine layer of
grime. Nothing, nothing about me
is fine.
When we reach the fire pit
where the Round Table meets,
the smoky scent of ash and
burnt wood settles in my hair.
There is a small knot of people
clustered around Arthur’s seat.
Elaine, Arthur’s rich voice
startles me from
dark thoughts.
He approaches, his
eyes soft and tired.
Thank you for coming. I had
hoped you would help
Gwynivere, daughter of Lodengrance,
find her way here. I am afraid
the notion of living in a battle camp
is one wholly strange to her.
I look over at her, and she returns
my gaze with a cold stare,
gown, lingering on the dirt
and grass stains at the hem.
I cannot help but think of a serpent
as I focus on her icy blue eyes.
They are hard, there is no warmth
or friendliness behind them.
I look back at Arthur.
I know you will be great friends,
he says, almost pleading.
Is it possible? Could this girl
be the female companion,
the friend
I have always wanted, dreamed of?
Her expression is aloof.
I do not feel very confident.
Of course, Arthur, I say to him.
I will do what you wish, my friend.
His eyes, so dark,
look moist, and something
swims behind them that
I have never seen there before.
Hopelessness.
I wonder, is this how I look?
I thank you, Elaine, he whispers.
I wonder, could it be
that he does not wish to marry
Gwynivere? But she is so pretty?
Lancelot still stands beside Gwynivere.
And he still gazes
on her in the manner of a devoted
puppy dog doting on its master.
And she returns his look.
A stab of pain clutches me.
Gwynivere, please allow me to introduce
you to Elaine, daughter of Barnard of Ascolat,
and dear friend, Arthur begins.
She has lived among us for many years,
and perhaps can show you what she knows
of herbal medicines. For she is an
invaluable nurse and healer.
Gwynivere merely nods,
her long, golden tresses falling
smoothly down her shoulders.
Good, then. Arthur looks around
uneasily. We shall leave you ladies
alone.
Alone.
I can’t think of anything
less good at this moment.
Arthur meets my eyes once more,
and then he touches Lancelot
on the shoulder. Lancelot
shakes his head, as though he shakes
himself awake from a dream, and the pair,
along with Lodengrance, my
father, and my brother turn
and leave, leave me alone
with Gwynivere.
What can I show you? I ask.
Surely Arthur spoke to you of the
Round Table, where you sit now.
She sits, while I stand,
waiting on her like a servant.
Gwynivere looks at me, then
down at her hands, which are
neatly folded in her lap.
Yes, he did, she replies stonily.
An awkward silence descends,
as I struggle to find a topic
for conversation.
Would you like to learn about the healing arts?
I stammer.
I have no interest in your plants.
The bitterness in her voice
takes me by surprise, more
than the harshness of her words.
Very well. I am unsure
of how to talk to her.
Do you wish me to show
you the camp?
Gwynivere looks bored,
and she looks down again
at the bottom of my dress,
her nose wrinkling in distaste.
Nor have I any interest in tramping
through the mud and filth,
as you so clearly relish doing.
I am not a beast, Elaine.
She pronounces my name
slowly, drawing it out,
each syllable dripping
with venom.
She thinks me a beast?
What have I done to her?
I am a stranger to her.
Do I look so rough,
so ugly and rough
that I seem so to her?
I can only gape at her, feeling
a red heat creep up my neck
and bloom across my cheeks.
She smirks at me,
a superior grin spreading
smugly over her lips.
You may show me my tent, she orders,
as though I were her servant.
How I long to leave her
there in the fire pit to find her own way,
but I know I cannot
disappoint Arthur.
Follow me, I sigh
and spin around and lead her
through the maze of tents,
to her own, which, as I peer
inside, I can see is littered
with rich, carmine rugs and
a sumptuous pallet stuffed with
fresh hay.
She brushes past me and slips
into her tent, letting the flaps fall
closed behind her, without a word
or a glance in my direction.
I let out a long breath and shake my head.
Was I mad to have wished for another
girl to keep me company all these years?
Morgan certainly does not behave
anything like Gwynivere.
My stomach twists and clenches again.
I wander through the tents,
as the weak sun, a dull
white spot in the sky,
begins to sink below the horizon.
The vision of Lancelot and Gwynivere’s embrace
burns.
I cannot shake it away.
My birch trees tremble in the slight
breeze that slithers through the camp.
I slide between them, feeling the
bark, light and delicate,
on my fingers, the scent of dried
leaves soothing me.
The peace of this grove
feels almost magical,
as though some goddess of silver-barked
trees watches over me.
I lean against a slender trunk,
feeling the leaves playing in my hair,
and listen to the sound of my own breath.
For the first time since
the night my mother died,
I feel truly alone.
The men bustle around camp
like ants, checking to make
sure their weapons,
shields, provisions are
battle ready, journey ready.
They come by our tent,
sheepish looks on their faces,
bedraggled cloaks and tunics
in hand, holding them out like
offerings.
Elaine, do you think you might
have time to add a few stitches
before we are off?
Gawain, with Gaheris and Gareth in tow,
arrives at midday, a pile
of breeches and a hauberk
in hand.
Gawain bows his head slightly.
Elaine, I know all the boys must
be coming by with their rags,
but if you could find time to
help us with some mendin’
we would be mighty grateful.
Our breeches just need
a bit of stitchin’ up, and my
hauberk here, well, a few
of the chain links have come
off. Do you think you could
patch them up?
Gawain looks like a small boy,
his eyes hopeful and bashful at once.
Well, I don’t want some Saxon
poking holes in you, now, so I
will see what I can do about the
chain mail. I should be able to
sew them back on, I reassure him.
Leave it here. I will have it all
ready for you before you leave.
Really? Gawain’s huge face lights up.
Thank you so much, Elaine,
we are forever in your debt.
Thank you, Elaine! Gaheris echoes.
Much indebted, Gareth calls over his shoulder.
And do not worry — I will report
back to you all that happens,
every blow of my sword,
every Saxon who begs for mercy.
I will bring back all of the news
to you.
He grins his oafish grin once
more, then the trio of brothers moves away.
It amazes me how alike they look,
how alike in nature they are.
As I look at the floor all around my
pallet, around the dining table
and benches, the mountains
of clothes awaiting mending
suddenly feel too overwhelming.
There is no possibility of my finishing
all of this before it is time to leave.
And how will I find the time to gather
all of the herbs I need?
I throw the armload of Gawain’s and his
brothers’ clothes on the floor in
a flare of temper.
It is so unfair that the task I hate
more than any other is the one my brothers
and friends have need of me for.
Why do you not ask the new girl?
Lavain’s voice startles me from
my reverie.
What? I ask, surprised that
he has been in here with me all this
time and kept silent.
Ask Lodengrance’s daughter to help you.
With the mending, he says.
I do not need her help, I reply,
my voice rising, despite my
efforts to keep calm.
What upsets you? Lavain
rises from his bed and comes to
stand before me.
All the work that weighs on you?
Or having someone to share it with?
Lavain, I know not what you speak of.
I will do the work, as I always have done,
I retort, feeling my face redden.
So it is sharing the work, then. He smirks.
I see no one here to share the
load with me, actually. My hands
begin to shake with anger. Why,
why do I let him irk me so?
As all of you would be running
about half naked with your guts
hanging out if I were not here
to fix the tears in your clothes
and in your flesh, I suggest you
keep quiet and leave me be.
Frustration is pulsing in my blood now.
I am going out to gather milfoil, I snap.
And I leave the piles of tunics
and breeches and cloaks and my brother,
who stares after me, mouth hanging
agape, and stamp outside.
My whole body trembles with rage.
What a dolt, I grunt, replaying the
exchange in my mind, as I stumble
away from the camp, find the
stepping-stones in the River Usk
and cross over to the moor
on the other side.
The wild grass grows long, and
small purple wildflowers dot the
landscape.
The world feels very large here.
Wide open.
Finally. Space to breathe.
I loosen my hair and let
it fall down my back. The wind
whips it around and it beats my
face. I grab a lock and wind
it around my fingers. The colors
of wheat and summer strawberries.
Nothing new or particularly interesting
there. It is not the color of flaxseeds
or faerie’s gold. Not like hers.
Dull.
I fall to my knees, letting the
great sky press down on me.
I turn onto my back and stare up
at the heavens. There is not
a cloud to disturb the unending blue.
Blue.
Blue like water
and painted demons
and her eyes.
Blue like peaceful dreams
and freedom.
A pair of larks sweep into
view, black lines against the
sky. They swoop and play
and trill and fly away.
This is my home.
This dirt, this soil.
It is all I have and all I am.
No tent, no man,
no sewing needle to enclose
and imprison me.
Suddenly, the crunching of feet breaking
twigs and flower stalks.
I sit up quickly and spot a tall
figure some yards away.
He does not see me, no, he stands,
oblivious to the world.
It is Lancelot.
I crouch in the grass and watch him.
He stares out into the distance, unseeingly.
His profile perfect, his stance perfectly still.
I long to run to him, to throw my arms
around him,
even to tap his shoulder and prance away,
challenging him to a race
as I would have done
before,
before
she came.
I sit back and hug my knees.
Lancelot, I call out.
He turns quickly, his face
filled with joy and yearning,
then it falls, crumples as soon as
his eyes light on me.
No, I am not the one he hoped for.
Oh, hello, Elaine, he calls back,
his voice heavy and dull.
Come sit by me awhile, I ask,
my voice too cheery.
I know not what I am doing now.
He moves in my direction, as
though propelled by some outside
force.
What troubles you on this fine day,
Lancelot? The earth blesses us with all
her beauty today. Why do you not find
pleasure in her gifts?
His green eyes are dimmed,
and he keeps them on the horizon.
I have lost myself, he answers.
Lost yourself? But you are right here,
sitting beside me.
He does not respond, just stares.
She will marry him. Arthur, he says,
his voice filled with a bitter sorrow,
impenetrable and chilled. He continues,