Song of the Sparrow

  look like a wild man.

  Could Morgan be wrong about him?

  Suddenly an elbow

  digs into my side.

  Let us sit here, child.

  My father motions

  to an empty bench.

  As I watch Lavain join Arthur

  and his knights, I think how remarkable

  it is to have watched all these men grow

  from boys into men.

  And now they lead.

  No, you cannot turn back time.

  And now Arthur

  plans to initiate an attack?

  Does this make the men

  murderers? I wonder.

  My father and brothers

  murderers?

  Lancelot,

  a murderer?

  In the name of preservation,

  we must defend ourselves,

  our people, our land, is how

  my father has always explained

  away,

  brushed aside,

  my worries.

  But now, his

  explaining, his smoothing

  away will not work.

  The stink of sweat mixes

  with that of ale now,

  and roasting meat.

  There are dozens of

  men here, some I do not

  recognize from our camp.

  Maybe other clans, other armies

  have traveled here

  to witness this occasion?

  I count quickly,

  the men number,

  it seems,

  near three hundred

  and sixty in all.

  And two women,

  myself and Morgan,

  of course.

  I wonder, how many

  have left behind wives and

  daughters, to mind the farms

  and animals and land?

  Not knowing whether

  they live or not.

  And I am so glad

  not to have been

  left.

  I have only been

  to the Round Table four

  or five times before.

  And then I was

  too young to understand

  the words and meanings.

  When Ambrosius Aurelius lived,

  he led small

  armies of Briton men

  from all over the land.

  We, Arthur’s followers,

  were just one finger

  of Aurelius’s hand.

  But now that Arthur

  leads in Aurelius’s place,

  I wonder what shall

  become not only of

  us, but of all the armies.

  Will they follow Arthur?

  Or disband,

  as some of Arthur’s

  chieftains already have?

  Many men around the

  circle are

  so familiar.

  Most of them,

  as my brothers are.

  Soot traces the

  lines and grooves

  of all these faces.

  Warm spring air provides

  nary a breeze.

  I can feel the eyes

  of some of the men

  on me, tracing my shape

  beneath my gown.

  Lately there is

  a change.

  Does Lancelot look too?

  I wonder.

  Secretly, ashamedly,

  I hope he does.

  No, we cannot go

  back.

  We cannot turn back

  time.

  The Merlin steps forward

  into the middle of the

  circle, in front of Arthur.

  He is like a lion.

  Tirry passes a plate of

  lamb to Father and me.

  Britons! the Merlin shouts.

  There is the rustle of

  settling, then, quiet.

  Britons, he repeats,

  I, Taliesin, Merlin

  of the Celyddon Woode,

  stand before you

  now, with this sword

  that was forged in the fires

  of Avalon, the very

  beating heart

  of Britain,

  to proclaim Arthur,

  son of the Pendragon,

  dux bellorum,

  defender of the land,

  protector of all of Britain!

  His voice booms

  like thunder.

  The men are rapt,

  eyes wide.

  Taliesin, the Merlin, is no beast —

  such grace and passion form his words.

  There could be no

  better instrument

  with which to fight,

  to defend our land,

  no better emblem to

  stand under, to

  follow, than this

  sword, Excalibur,

  crafted from this earth

  in the sacred fires.

  He thrusts the sword, point

  down, into the ground, and there

  is a sharp clanging sound,

  as though it has struck

  a rock. The sword

  stands upright,

  waving slightly from

  the force of the Merlin’s hand.

  And now, Arthur, you will

  draw the sword from the womb

  of this land,

  taking from it

  that which shall

  protect it.

  Arthur comes to kneel

  before the Merlin,

  who closes his eyes

  and places his hand

  on Arthur’s forehead,

  fingers like a crown.

  The Merlin’s lips move,

  murmuring the secret oaths

  and prayers of the Old Ways.

  As Arthur rises to his feet,

  he wraps his palm around the

  hilt of the magnificent sword,

  the rubies and gold of the handle

  glittering in the firelight.

  Slowly, so slowly, Arthur draws

  the sword forth

  from the earth, and

  I sense

  that all the men around

  me are holding their breath.

  As the sword leaps

  free of the soil, the

  Merlin stretches out his

  hands, and the men

  jump to their feet as one,

  and hold their own

  swords aloft,

  blades pointing

  toward the sky.

  It is as though the heavens

  are thundering in answer,

  the moonlight washing over

  us, painting Arthur and

  the Merlin in ghostly silver

  light, and I swear that

  there is magic at work.

  A roar rises from our midst.

  Arthorius, the men chant,

  calling him by his Roman name,

  recalling those days

  of glory past,

  and Arthur has

  never looked so

  handsome or strong.

  His fingers are pocked

  by tiny white scars

  I imagine he received in battle.

  Fight with me,

  beside me,

  under the sword

  Excalibur.

  For Britain, he roars.

  For Britain, everyone

  echoes.

  And my voice joins those of the men.

  I watch as Tristan unslings

  his harp from its place on

  his shoulder.

  The frame is delicately carved

  of sleek grey ash wood,

  and it shines and sings, the music of the

  strings ringing long after they have

  been struck.

  Tristan runs his fingers

  over the strings, raising a

  melody that reminds me

  of a br
ook that trickles and

  glides across the landscape,

  clear and musical, careless

  and free.

  He sings of battles and

  ancient warriors,

  victories over dark enemies,

  and sunshine and glory.

  His voice is also like water,

  smooth and warm,

  fluidly tripping

  over notes and words.

  He calms the men into

  a relaxed state of delight.

  They clap their hands

  and sing along,

  but no matter how loudly

  they sing, no one can

  match or conceal

  Tristan’s rich, lilting voice.

  I turn to look upon the faces that I love.

  Gawain and his brothers,

  my father, my brothers — even Lavain looks

  cheerful and at peace, this once.

  A light seems to radiate from within

  all of them, as though

  a fire has been lit inside their

  very souls.

  And there, there is Lancelot,

  knight of my heart.

  He who has been

  playmate and friend,

  guardian and protector.

  I love him.

  I love him.

  I do.

  Should I tell him?

  Tonight under this moon …

  Before he rides away …

  Slowly, the men begin to rise

  from their seats,

  draining the last dregs

  of their ale, and find their way

  back to their tents,

  content and ready to rest.

  As my father and Tirry bid me good

  night, and Lavain finds a place

  with a group of men who are still

  carousing and laughing loudly,

  I stand and move closer to Lancelot.

  His green eyes light up, and he

  nods as he sees me approach.

  I find a seat by his side and

  wait for the end of the song.

  Good evening to you, Elaine.

  Lancelot turns to me and smiles.

  The sparrow leaps.

  Hello, I manage to whisper,

  sending a silent prayer of thanks to the

  Moon Goddess for the cover

  of darkness that hides the warm blush

  crawling up my neck,

  coloring it crimson.

  You look lovely by the light

  of the fire, Lancelot says,

  looking at me lazily.

  He turns in his seat to study me.

  He must be able to hear

  my heart beat.

  I curse myself for not combing

  my hair again, for not

  brushing the day’s dust and dirt

  from the hem of my dress.

  But the coarse yellow wool

  glows golden in the firelight,

  and under his heavy gaze,

  I can almost imagine it is a proper

  gown.

  It is funny, he murmurs

  thoughtfully, it was just today that

  I told you we could not help

  but forget sometimes

  that you are a girl. Yet,

  tonight I saw how the men look

  upon you. You are grown up now,

  Elaine. A woman.

  His fingers flutter at the nape

  of my neck.

  My heart flutters too.

  He called me a woman.

  He believes I am a woman!

  And the thought of his watching me,

  it sends such delicious sensations

  up and down my spine.

  Aye, he continues, a woman does not

  belong to this hard battle-camp life.

  His hand has moved to rest on mine,

  his fingers so lean and strong.

  The sparrow beats her wings.

  Hard times draw near,

  Lancelot murmurs.

  Yes. I find my free fingers toying

  with the leather satchel

  around my neck.

  Tell me, Elaine,

  does this amulet make you

  feel safer? Lancelot asks,

  reaching to pull the

  pouch from my hand.

  It is no amulet, I tell him.

  I wear it so I always have

  herbs for healing close at hand,

  in case you find trouble,

  as you always seem to do.

  My teasing is flat, and a shiver

  grips me.

  I have no business joking

  about such things.

  It can only tempt ill fortune.

  Lancelot sighs, his eyes downcast

  and weary.

  I wish the day would arrive

  when you no longer need

  to wear such a necklace.

  I would bring you a necklace

  of the most beautiful

  pearls from the distant seas.

  He looks up at me, his laughing green eyes

  boring into my own.

  Now my little sparrow

  threatens to break free, fly away.

  You would? I ask breathlessly.

  Aye. Lancelot looks at the fire

  then turns back slowly and

  grins at me. I would bring you

  all manner of pretty trinkets.

  I love presents, I reply,

  breathless.

  What else would you bring me?

  Lancelot’s smile widens.

  I would find you the most beautiful …

  He rolls his eyes around,

  as though searching for the

  right answer, then stops,

  looking up at the night sky.

  He points at the heavens.

  … the most beautiful star in the sky.

  See there, that one.

  He leans close to me, and I breathe

  in his rich, musky scent.

  My heartbeat quickens.

  Now?

  Do I tell him now?

  Alas, Lancelot groans, moving back,

  we are here in this camp,

  about to march off to war,

  and I have a duty to perform in the morning.

  And so I will bid you farewell.

  I shall see you upon my return

  from the summer lands.

  My stomach sinks. I had forgotten

  he was leaving for Camelard.

  Safe journey, Lancelot.

  I will wait for you to return.

  He smiles again and bows his

  head ever so slightly, then

  with his marked grace,

  rises and leaves.

  As I watch him move away,

  I can hardly quell the twitches

  of nervous excitement in my belly.

  Could it be?

  Does he

  love me?

  I sit back on the bench as the

  fire begins to fade and die out.

  Then suddenly someone is beside me.

  Lancelot?

  Tristan. I start with surprise.

  Your singing was beautiful tonight,

  I tell my friend.

  Why, thank you. I am

  pleased to hear it, he says.

  There is no other

  who can ease our hearts

  as you can with your music,

  I say.

  You flatter me. A gleeful

  smirk crosses his mouth, before

  a crooked half-smile that is all too

  contagious steals its place.

  Really, Tristan, you have a way

  of making everything feel right

  and well.

  He lays the harp gently on the ground.

  Well, as long as you think so,

  and the others, too,

  that is all that matters.

  His cat eyes glint in the fire
light.

  I pour a cup of mead for him and

  one for myself.

  He drinks long and thirstily.

  How do you always know what

  we need, before we know ourselves, even?

  he asks. His eyes

  no longer teasing.

  What do you mean? I feel a

  pink heat returning to my neck,

  reaching for the tips of my ears.

  You were singing. I thought

  you might be thirsty, I tell him.

  I was.

  He nods, but his eyes

  are thoughtful.

  Tristan’s face is sober.

  He scuffs his toe over a clump

  of clover.

  Singing is fine and easy

  on a night such as this one,

  but I would that this warring

  would end, he says.

  It has lasted too long,

  and too long we have not made

  time for normal life.

  We have stood up and

  are walking now, away

  from the firelight, toward

  the copse of birch trees.

  The moon plays

  on the ground in pools of

  ghostly light.

  As we walk between the trees,

  their bark peels away

  from the trunks

  like scrolls of silver parchment.

  What would such a life

  look like? I ask.

  It would look as life should,

  husbands and wives living

  in quiet homes, with

  children playing in gardens,

  without fear of Saxon invaders

  carrying them off.

  You could marry your knight —

  he breaks off and looks at me

  devilishly for a moment.

  My knight? I ask, my heart

  beating faster.

  I know you too well, Elaine, he says.

  I do not know what you are talking about.

  I circle the nearest tree, my head spinning.

  How has Tristan guessed?

  Do all of the men know?

  Does Lancelot know?

  Oh, come, Elaine, I see how you

  gaze on him, upon Lancelot.

  Don’t be ridiculous, Tristan, I retort.

  All right. He is grinning again.

  Perhaps I am ridiculous.

  Perhaps I deserve this life

  of violence. But, truly,

  I would live a life of peace,

  free of ill-fated, ill-brought …

  Tristan’s voice trails off.

  What? What is it? I ask him,

  circling back around to where

  he stands.

  Elaine, do you know how I arrived

  here, under Arthur’s watch?

  I had always assumed that he came

  to be here as so many others did,

  having lost family and home to

  marauders.

  I was sent here by my uncle.

  Sent? I ask.

  Tristan takes a deep breath,

  then pushes on.

  My parents were both killed, and

  so I went to live with my uncle

  Mark, but after,

  after his wife, Isolde —

  His voice breaks off, his lips

  still bent around the shape

  of her name,

  as though he savors it, keeping it close.

  After Isolde began to look

  on me in a way unbefitting of