Song of the Sparrow Read online

  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.