banquets of berries and mud pies
for him, and he would crouch
awkwardly as we played with my doll
in the dust. As I grew older, we
ran races beside riverbanks,
and Lancelot always let me win.
Without a mother to mind me,
I ran wild, as I had seen my brothers do.
I quickly forgot the lessons in ladylike
behavior that my mother had taught me.
If I could not have her,
I would run free as a deer in the wood.
And Lancelot was my partner in freedom.
I hurry to meet Lancelot in our
usual spot.
We have been in this encampment,
Caerleon-on-Usk,
for four months now.
And Lancelot and I have a
meeting spot,
next to the great elm tree
beside the horse stable.
As I race down the dirt track,
the dusty track,
that always dirties my skirt,
trying not to trip,
because I always seem to trip
when I am trying to keep my skirt clean,
I pat my hair down.
Long and not quite red or yellow,
it streams out
behind my head.
This morning I took extra care
combing my hair
with the bone comb
that Tirry carved for me,
so it would lie smooth.
I pinched my cheeks to
make them pink, but
there is so little time before
collecting and cooking the eggs
and serving my father and brothers,
to notice
if my hair is mussed
or my cheeks too pale.
These days, as I pluck the
eggs from beneath our hens, I
imagine Lancelot’s smile and
wonder how grown up is
grown up enough
for him to notice I have
shaken my red-gold tresses
out of their plaits,
combed my hair
and … grown up?
As Lancelot approaches, he lifts
a hand in silent greeting.
He is wearing his battle leathers
and the dull winter sun
shines in his black curls.
A strange fluttering starts in my stomach.
What is this fluttering feeling?
Lately I notice how I notice
his hands
his eyes
his shoulders,
arms, and hair.
My friend.
My friend who has always
been like a brother
to me.
And now this fluttering in my belly.
These feelings are
foreign and frightening.
I shall ignore them.
Lancelot.
He draws to a stop and leans back
against the tree, then slides
to the ground till he is sitting.
His face is haggard
as though he has not
slept.
There is a look in his eye,
a heavy look that
makes him seem older,
as though in one night
he has lived one hundred lifetimes.
And it makes him appear
even more handsome.
Lancelot, you look …
Awful? he interrupts with a harsh laugh.
I nod.
Arthur is taking command.
Britain must unite behind him,
but many of the chieftains
have already deserted with their men.
Lodengrance, Loth. And there
are others.
I shall leave for Camelard in the morning,
he tells me,
to bring Lodengrance back.
I slide down beside him.
Never mind my skirts.
Why ever would British clansmen desert
Arthur now,
when he needs them most?
When we all need them?
I ask.
Lancelot shakes his head
and closes his eyes
those green eyes.
Then, blinking, he says,
Because Arthur is young. The chieftains
do not trust the young.
And the old will challenge the young
for power.
But that is ridiculous! I hear myself
whining like a small girl.
Arthur has more battle experience,
more victories than any
other clansman, soldier,
or captain.
Lancelot looks at me,
a strange light in his eye.
You do baffle me, Elaine of Ascolat.
You talk like a man; it is all too easy
at times, to forget you are not one of us.
But then the wind tugs at your hair,
pulls it loose, and I wonder
how anyone could forget that
you are, in fact, a girl.
A beautiful girl.
He catches a stray tendril of
my red hair and tucks it
behind my ear.
My breath catches.
Did he just say that?
That I am beautiful?
But a girl, he said….
He does not see me
as a woman.
Still, beautiful.
How long will you be gone?
I ask him,
feeling a heat tiptoeing
up my neck,
spreading across my cheeks.
As long as it takes to persuade
Lodengrance to give Arthur
his men and his horses.
Panic rises in my gut
at the thought of Lancelot’s
absence.
Return to …
me
us
soon, I tell him.
He nods once, then stands,
pulling me up beside him.
He takes my hand in his,
and his hands are warm and
rough like the silt and sand
on the bed of the
River Usk.
Then he brings my fingers
to his lips,
turns and walks away.
I do not think my feet have
ever carried me faster.
Not even when I was younger,
when I raced with Lancelot,
eager to show off how quick I was.
I hurry past the river,
and the sound of water
rushing over stones
slows my feet.
I stop and look at the
grassy bank, reeds
brown and green in the
springtime sunlight gently sway
with the breeze.
The scent of damp decay reaches
my nostrils, and I slip off
my leather slippers,
and step gingerly down
to the river’s edge,
letting the black mud ooze
between my toes, warm
and deliciously thick.
When I wriggle my toes in
the seeping mud, a sucking
sound replies.
I remember one spring day
so many years ago now. I
was a girl of twelve,
and it was the first warm day
of spring. We were in
a different camp, beside
a different river, but it did not
look so very different from this one.
That day, the sun fell on the
grassy bank in golden pools,
dappling the boughs of a weeping
willow tree, gilding the sad,
slender leaves.
My dress hung fro
m one of the
low-reaching branches,
waving like a
happy ghost in the warm wind,
as I bathed in the river in an undyed
woolen shift.
I kicked and paddled,
loving the feel of the icy water
on my skin, in my hair.
My brothers had taught
me to swim long ago.
Most girls did not know
how to swim.
But I could swim like
the minnows of
the stream,
and I felt so free and
the water felt so smooth,
I thought I might have
sprouted fins,
so agilely I glided through
the waters,
as the current pushed
me along.
Suddenly, a loud plop
and a splash came near my head.
I lost track of my strokes,
and looked up to see what had fallen.
I thought a brook trout might
have leaped into the air.
Then there was another
plop and a splash.
I looked around,
no fins, no silvery streaks
diving beneath
the surface.
And then something hard
and hot hit me in the
chest, knocking me backward.
The breath escaped from my body
in a loud puff, and I flailed
my arms, my feet kicking wildly
under the water,
searching for a slippery
rock to grasp.
Witch! a man’s voice
screamed.
Witch, devil, aye, I knew
you were cursed!
I swung my head around,
looking for the voice’s owner.
Then I saw Balin,
one of Arthur’s knights,
Balin with his mean, hangdog
look, and cruel, hard, black eyes.
Balin! I called out, hoping that
in saying his name, he would
come to his senses and realize
that it was just me.
Not
a witch.
He wound his arm back and
launched another heavy grey
stone, this one coming
dangerously close to
my head.
Balin, stop it! I screamed again.
I am not a witch! It’s me,
Elaine!
Witch, she-devil! His
voice took on a hysterical edge,
and he picked up another rock,
throwing it with all his might,
his face mottled
red and white,
twisted with fury and fear.
Balin! I could hear my own voice
tinged with desperation.
No, witch, you shall not
speak my name! You
will sink — oof!
Balin fell forward,
a look of surprise wiping away
the vicious anger.
You idiot! someone cried.
The sweet voice of an angel
filled my ears.
Lancelot, I breathed.
She — she is a witch, she is!
Look at her, she swims like
a serpent! Balin hissed
as he raised himself to his knees.
Balin, get away from here.
Lancelot’s eyes filled with ferocious
sparks, and if he could have,
I am sure he would have struck
Balin down with lightning bolts
like some ancient god.
Fool! Balin spat back at Lancelot,
but he struggled to his feet,
and limped away.
Are you all right?
Lancelot’s green eyes softened
in an instant.
I was treading water,
parting the current in
small swirling eddies,
as I moved my hands over the glassy
surface in circles.
Yes, I — I think so, I replied.
Thank you.
My legs felt like weights, and
my arms were shaking.
I started to swim toward
Lancelot, but the current
was pushing against
me, carrying me away,
downriver, and I hardly had
the strength to keep my head
above water.
He started to wade into the river,
but as the water rose above his knees,
he took a step back,
and slipped on one of the
slime-covered river rocks.
I could feel myself gasp
as his feet flew out from
under him and he landed on his bottom,
the water now up to his neck.
My strength was sapping away,
and I closed my eyes,
ready to be taken by the rushing waters.
Lancelot could not swim.
Then a hearty, ringing laughter
reached my ears.
I opened my eyes and saw Lancelot, sitting
in the water, his head thrown back
with mirth.
He looked at me and called out,
Hold on, Elaine! I am going to move
downriver; I will catch you!
He started to shimmy like
a crab, moving sideways,
only his head poking above
the water’s surface.
With the last scrap of strength in
me, I fought against the current
and moved to close the gap between
the knight and myself.
I felt his fingers close around my wrist,
so tight it hurt,
and I allowed him to tow me toward him.
Do you think me a
witch, too, Lancelot?
I asked, my breath coming
in fits.
In that brief instant, as I
waited for his answer, I felt
myself a pink salmon,
sparkling in the sunlight,
caught in a fisherman’s snare.
But when I looked up again into
Lancelot’s meadow-green eyes
that smiled back at me, and
his lips made a perfect circle
as he mouthed the word no,
I knew I was safe.
That he would always keep me safe.
And that, I believe,
is when I first began
to love him.
The shrill twittering of
a red-throated swallow
brings me back.
I slide on my shoes, ignoring
the squelching of wet mud in my toes,
and hurry home.
The brown-yellow dust
of the path
kicks up on either side of my feet.
As I reach the tent and pass
through the flaps, the stench
of animal skin turns my stomach,
reminding me
I will never grow entirely used
to living in a battle camp.
I slow myself, smoothing my
skirts. No one is in,
and I am thankful.
The scorched, scarred lid
of the old wooden trunk
my mother’s, rescued
from the embers and ruins
of our home
creaks open with a squeal,
and I cringe, glad
neither my father nor brothers
are nearby to hear it.
They are likely at
battle practice,
feinting and thrusting,
swordplay.
It is easy to playact with a sword,
Tirry once told me,
but the actual killing comes
mu
ch easier.
I push these awful man-thoughts
that I’m sure no other
girls entertain,
but that plague me
every day,
from my mind.
My mother’s dresses and linens,
they will be mine when
I marry —
though, I can’t help but wonder
if I marry — for who
would want to marry
a girl whose head is filled
with man-thoughts?
The startling whiteness of her
belongings — nothing remains
white in the camp — reminds me
how little of women I know.
There it is.
A glint of metal.
I pull the silvered glass
from the trunk and prop
it on the table, against
our wooden bread bowl.
Tirry found this glass for me.
Lavain does not know I have it.
For, if he did, surely he would tease me,
call me vain and silly.
The glass is scratched, the silver
peeling away in spots.
But I can see myself
nonetheless.
Eyes of hazel-green like forest ferns
and mud,
and long, thick hair my father once told me
was the color of wheat and summer strawberries.
Could he really think I am beautiful?
How am I supposed to tell?
I can hardly see myself as he does.
A long, skinny neck and
skin both sun- and work-worn.
My fingers move up to trace
my cheekbones, my eyebrows.
Is this what women look like?
Beautiful women?
My mother was beautiful.
Her face soft
and white and pink.
Her eyes the color of autumn leaves,
filled with light
and love.
I remember sitting close to her,
nose to her neck,
her scent, of
violets and earth,
warming me from the inside.
She taught me how to sew
stitches in straight lines,
gently guiding my small,
chubby hands
small and chubby no longer,
rather, rough and long and
callused
along the
ragged patches of
Father’s torn tunics.
And I remember complaining relentlessly,
even then,
with each stitch.
How I wished I could be
outside, playing with my brothers,
anything not to be cooped up indoors.
Now, though, I would trade all the
meadows and fields of wildflowers
for one more hour
with her.
After I had mastered sewing,
my mother sat me down before her loom.
Oh, it was beautiful, her loom.
Golden oak, polished and
smooth as her skin
but for the knots that seemed
to suggest wisdom and age.
As though the loom had seen
many lifetimes,
and knew the cares of humans,
and understood.