Song of the Sparrow

  In loving memory of Sydney Sandell

  For my two best friends …

  Sharon, more than you know,

  you are a source of inspiration,

  of joy and love.

  Liel, my partner, my muse,

  you are the love and light of my life.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  I

  II

  III

  IV

  V

  VI

  VII

  VIII

  IX

  X

  XI

  XII

  XIII

  XIV

  XV

  XVI

  XVII

  XVIII

  XIX

  XX

  XXI

  XXII

  XXIII

  XXIV

  XXV

  XXVI

  XXVII

  XXVIII

  XXIX

  XXX

  XXXI

  XXXII

  XXXIII

  XXXIV

  XXXV

  XXXVI

  XXXVII

  XXXVIII

  XXXIX

  XL

  XLI

  XLII

  XLIII

  XLIV

  Author’s Note

  Suggestions for Further Reading

  Acknowledgments

  Sneak Peek

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Lying, robed in snowy white

  That loosely flew to left and right–

  The leaves upon her falling light–

  Thro’ the noises of the night

  She floated down to Camelot:

  And as the boat-head wound along

  The willowy hills and fields among,

  They heard her singing her last song,

  The Lady of Shalott.

  –“The Lady of Shalott” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, 1842

  I am Elaine

  daughter of Barnard of Ascolat.

  Motherless.

  Sisterless.

  I sing these words to you now,

  because the point of light grows smaller,

  ever smaller now,

  ever more distant now.

  And with this song, I pray I may

  push back the tides of war and death.

  So, I sing these words

  that this light, this tiny

  ray of light and hope may live on.

  I dare not hope that I

  may live on too.

  Motherless.

  Sisterless.

  I am both.

  But I have brothers,

  dozens

  nay, hundreds

  of brothers.

  Only two real ones:

  brash Lavain

  and my biggest brother, thoughtful Tirry.

  The others are not brothers by blood.

  There are so many of them;

  I call a few my friends:

  Lancelot, Arthur’s second,

  but handsomer, still.

  Arthur himself, who is a captain in

  his uncle Ambrosius Aurelius’s army.

  The men here follow Arthur, but ultimate

  fealty is to Aurelius, dux bellorum.

  There is Gawain, a sweet bear of a man,

  and Tristan, who is all mystery

  and mischief and glee.

  We live here, in this army encampment,

  where drums beat and beat

  in my dreams and over breakfast,

  at sunrise and sundown.

  The here and home I speak of

  is no more than the collection of dirty,

  foul-smelling tents.

  I live here, in this army encampment,

  among men,

  because my mother is dead,

  delivered into the earth

  nine years ago now,

  and there is no one else.

  My father brought me here

  when I was eight years old.

  Once I heard Lavain whisper

  to Tirry that it was a good

  thing our mother lived to

  see me through eight years

  of life.

  Till I was old enough to learn

  to use a thread and needle

  and old enough to grow

  skilled at mending clothes.

  At least there is

  someone

  left to mend their clothes,

  Lavain said.

  But I am just one girl,

  without nearly enough hands

  to sew the tears

  in every man’s clothing.

  There are too many of them.

  For, in these days,

  dark battles rage on.

  From all sides Britain’s enemies

  press in on us,

  the painted Picts from the north,

  marauding Scots from the west,

  and the barbarian Saxons from the south

  and east.

  Britain bleeds

  and bleeds

  as men like my father and

  brothers

  even Lavain

  bleed and bleed.

  We move as the fighting moves,

  as the wind moves.

  So there might be peace.

  Before a battle begins,

  the men swarm about camp

  as bees in a hive, making ready.

  Mount Breguoin is the eleventh fight

  Arthur will lead in the war against

  our Saxon enemy.

  As they prepare for war, the men

  ready their weapons,

  sharpening blades and strengthening

  shields and chain mail.

  I do my part, too, tearing bandages

  and brewing poultices

  of healing leaves and flowers

  for Cai, Arthur’s steward, to carry

  to the battleground.

  I wander through the camp,

  from the stables, which lie just near

  the banks of the River Usk, toward

  the center, where dirty, greyish

  tents radiate out from

  the great fire pit that is

  the Round Table.

  All the time I am

  tallying in my mind the numbers

  of bandages and vials of powders and balm.

  The tents wind in ever-narrowing circles,

  like the curves of a snail’s shell.

  Men huddle in groups outside

  their tents, chortling with laughter at

  jokes made at the enemy’s expense,

  rowdily singing tunes of victory.

  I know them all and wave

  or nod to many.

  Then I spot Arthur

  near the Round Table, surrounded

  by a small company of men, his nearest

  friends. Arthur’s stance is graceful

  and straight, his eyes dark as pools

  in a deep wood.

  There is an air of melancholy

  entwined in his celebrated courage

  and strength.

  The men that we fight, Arthur told

  me once, they are just men. Like us.

  Well, like me, he said,

  a crimson blush coloring his cheeks,

  as those black eyes crinkled

  at the corners with a smile.

  And we fight, and ever they

  come at us, like the tide

  of the sea. I do not understand it.

  This fighting and killing

  and urge to conquer. His

  gaze turned downward then.

&nbs
p; I touched his arm, and he glanced

  at me, all the sorrow on this earth

  filling his eyes then.

  I will never understand it.

  But I will fight and kill as

  I must, to protect our

  world and all that is

  good and just in it.

  And I remember asking

  myself how there could

  be men like Arthur and men

  like our bloodthirsty enemies,

  built of the same flesh, yet so

  terribly unalike.

  As I approach the four men, they turn

  and welcome me, grins breaking

  over their faces.

  Elaine! Lancelot, Arthur’s

  dearest friend and his fiercest

  warrior calls, his emerald-green

  eyes glowing.

  He smiles warmly and waves me

  over to join their circle.

  The sight of him makes my heart

  leap joyfully, and

  I cannot help

  but grin back at him.

  Gawain is on Arthur’s other side,

  his friendly face shining with good cheer.

  He is large and his shadow looms

  over the other men, though he

  is the gentlest giant I have ever seen.

  Our fourth companion is

  Tristan, who is not much older than I.

  His golden eyes penetrate like a

  wolf ’s, ever alert,

  ever watching, but they are filled

  with a mischief that never fails to

  snatch a giggle from my throat.

  Hello, I greet my friends.

  Elaine, we were just discussing

  strategies for tomorrow’s battle,

  Tristan informs me,

  a crooked grin on his lips.

  I think we should eat breakfast

  before going to meet the Saxons.

  We shall have to climb a mountain, after all.

  We will need our strength.

  But Lancelot, here, wishes to

  fast in the morning, saving

  himself for a celebratory lunch.

  What think you? His smile widens.

  I fold my hands and put my

  fingers to my lips, as though I

  am deep in thought.

  I see I have interrupted a very serious

  conversation, I reply wryly.

  Yes, yes, Gawain jokes, most serious!

  Truly, Elaine, Tristan continues

  with the charade, your knowledge is deep.

  We will do only as you command.

  Ha, I crow, if I believed that, you would

  have taken up sewing a long time ago.

  The four men break into gales of

  deep, rumbling laughter.

  I believe our Elaine has bested you,

  Tristan! Lancelot says, winking at me.

  Come, friends, the hour grows late.

  Let us to bed, for we are off at dawn,

  Arthur suggests. The other three

  nod their heads and we bid each other

  good night.

  Sleep well, and fight hard tomorrow, I tell them.

  And do not forget to eat your breakfast.

  I throw a smile at Lancelot as I turn to go,

  their laughter following me as I make my

  way back to my tent.

  The scent of blood rides high

  on the wind,

  with its traces of cold, black iron,

  rotted earth, dying flesh,

  and I stagger backward

  as the smell, pungent

  and terrible,

  fills my nostrils.

  It stings and brings

  tears to my eyes.

  I hate this rank stench.

  I stand on a hill,

  on a mountain called Breguoin,

  beneath a young rowan tree,

  its slender

  grey trunk, rising

  above me,

  sheltering and hiding me,

  protecting me.

  Also a witness

  to awful events.

  The rowan tree’s

  graceful leaves and soft

  white flowers

  brush my arm like

  a whisper. But

  they do not shield me from

  the stink of blood,

  of death.

  Men scurry beneath

  me and this tree,

  running hither and fro,

  like ants busy at work,

  but their work is the work

  of nightmares.

  Men in battle leathers and armor,

  running hither and fro,

  swords and shields raised,

  and they run at each other,

  hacking and slicing,

  thrusting this way and that.

  I watch the warring unfold,

  my stomach clenched and

  biting, yet I cannot look

  away.

  Nor can my friend,

  my guardian,

  the rowan tree.

  Men run and fall,

  sinking to their knees.

  It is a dream too dreadful

  to wake from.

  Still, I look down, and

  the grass is so green, I

  cannot understand how it

  does not wither and die

  with sorrow. But against

  an emerald carpet, the

  warriors make war,

  and it is like a dance,

  almost beautiful,

  always macabre.

  The noise brings me back,

  the fearsome noise of swords

  striking swords,

  a metallic clanging that rings in

  my ears, echoing and echoing

  the fearsome

  din of men

  screaming and crying as they

  meet the sharp ends of blades.

  They fall, they die.

  The battle plays out like a game,

  a game my brothers once played with

  toy soldiers,

  drums and shouts measuring

  the beat.

  But this war is no dance;

  it is no game.

  My father and brothers are down there.

  My friends are down there.

  In the manner of the Old Ways, I

  shall sing you a song … I whisper

  to my grey companion.

  I pray to this rowan tree

  to please, please keep my men safe.

  I come to this place beneath the tree

  to know what I, a girl,

  am not supposed to know,

  and never supposed to see.

  So that I might know

  what the men I love

  endure,

  that I might understand

  even a little bit.

  That I might have some

  sense of whom and what

  I will have to heal

  when they return home.

  Home, the woman’s domain.

  But they will never keep me

  at home.

  I may not be allowed to fight

  on the battleground,

  but I share the battles

  with my men

  anyway.

  As the clattering of swords

  and shields and battle-axes

  winds down, and the living

  stagger from the field of

  death and glory and

  all that men love to

  assign to fields of war,

  I leave my rowan tree,

  kissing her trunk, and thanking

  her for keeping safe

  the soldiers I love. And I

  return home, ready to meet

  the wounded and the well.

  Ready with poultices and

  ointments, bandages and

  medicines.

  Ready to play my part

>   in the fighting.

  Where is she? Tirry’s

  voice mingles with the crunch

  of footsteps on frozen turf.

  It is dusk now,

  and I have since returned

  from the bedsides of the wounded,

  where I gently washed away dried

  blood, where I administered tinctures

  of feverfew and marigold for fever,

  where I applied ointments

  of calendula and willow,

  poultices of yarrow and comfrey

  to cuts and festering sores.

  Sometimes, as I sit at the

  bedside of one of the injured,

  nursing a sword or arrow

  wound, I cannot help but

  wonder at the magic of it —

  the flowers and weeds of the

  moorlands and meadows

  are endowed with such purpose.

  Such perfect purpose.

  These unassuming leaves, these

  unknowing roots.

  And it is for me to wield them.

  Me!

  Elaine of Ascolat, plain and ordinary.

  But when I mix the powders

  and draw out a tincture,

  I feel as though some measure

  of the magic has gotten in me.

  Now my healing tasks are done, and

  I have been waiting since

  the sun finished its course,

  for my father,

  my brothers.

  Elaine?

  My father’s voice,

  ordinarily so gentle,

  is filled with fear

  and tinged with something I have not

  heard in nine years.

  Sorrow.

  Father?

  I poke my head out of the tent flap

  just as Lavain pushes me aside and

  charges into the tent.

  He begins to light more candles,

  then paces up and down the length

  of the tent,

  his fists and jaw clenched.

  My breath catches.

  Something is wrong.

  Tirry and my father follow Lavain

  into the tent, and

  my father sits heavily on the

  wooden dining bench,

  his elbows leaning

  on our roughly hewn table.

  Each has blood,

  dark brown spots, spattered

  and streaked

  across his face,

  his hands,

  his tunic.

  The sight of it turns my stomach,

  and I swallow back a thick,

  sour taste from my mouth.

  It coats my tongue.

  Strange how the blood of my

  patients does not sicken me.

  Father, Tirry,

  what has happened? I ask.

  Elaine, my father begins, then

  his voice wavers,

  watery eyes betraying him.

  My stomach catches in my throat,

  again,

  but the three men of Ascolat

  are all here, safe.

  Our men won the battle at Breguoin.

  What could be wrong?

  Please, tell me. What is it?

  Tirry?

  I look to my elder brother.

  He returns my gaze,