Morning dawns grey

and ominous, the sky

pregnant with indigo clouds.

As I rise from my bed,

I sense that I am alone

in the tent, my family

already gone to the mock

battlefield. In these

moments of silence

I do my chores, sort through

my herbs and take stock of

what is needed.

Handling the colorful powders

and scented flowers calms me,

allows quiet into my head.

I must think on my plan.

A list begins to form in my mind,

and suddenly I wonder, how will

I ever manage to gather all that

I might need and prepare

a kit for the journey

without anyone seeing, guessing?

For I shall follow.

There are no hiding places in this

tent, no private spots

in this camp.

As I scan the room, looking

for a nook to secret away

a sack, my eyes fall

upon my mother’s chest.

Yes, there should be room inside

of it, to squirrel away medicinal

plants, some clothes and food.

And no one will think to look in there.

The domain of woman.

I hear a scratching outside the tent,

and then Tristan’s voice floats

in to me, Your knight returns,

Elaine. Will you come to greet him?

Chastise him or cheer?

My heart does a little

flutter and I long to run outside,

but for Tristan’s sake, well,

for my own sake, that I might be

spared further teasing, I slow my feet.

I am sweeping, Tristan. And I do

not know the man whom you call

‘my knight.’

Is it my father?

I had no word

that he has left.

I smile a secret smile, then

step outside to meet my friend.

Shall we? Tristan asks, grinning as

he escorts me to the far edge of the camp

that overlooks the great moor to the west.

See there, he points, and I can just

make out tiny smudges riding

on the horizon, far off in the distance.

There is Lancelot with a small party.

It looks as though he succeeded

in the task Arthur set for him.

The hazy figures soon resolve into

solid shapes and indeed I can

make out several horsemen

and a carriage.

Does Lodengrance ride in the coach?

I ask. Can he not ride with the other men?

I know not, Tristan replies, thoughtfully

stroking his chin.

Soon I can discern Lancelot riding

at the fore on his beloved white stallion.

A heavyset man rides beside him.

Lodengrance.

So, who, I wonder, rides in the carriage?

A rustling behind me draws my

attention, and I see Arthur approach.

He nods and comes to stand beside me.

I look at him, but am met only

with his profile, as he

studies the nearing company.

His presence is unquiet,

and now Tristan, too, shifts

restlessly beside me.

My feet long to run away,

but my heart stays them.

My heart, like a baby bird,

longing to see Lancelot, jumps and

dips in anticipation of our reunion.

Finally the riders are here.

Lancelot dismounts

his steed without even a glance

my way.

He moves directly to the carriage,

with a look on his face such as

I have never seen there before,

so intent and serious it is.

But there is something else

in his green eyes,

something I do not recognize.

The carriage door is thrust

open, and I feel my companions

draw a collective breath,

as we wait to see who

alights.

Then,

the most beautiful creature

I have ever seen emerges.

She has a crown of hair the color

of flaxseed, skin ivory and delicate,

and full coral lips.

Her gown looks as though

it is woven of silver gossamer,

spun by enchanted spiders

for a faerie princess.

A girl!

A friend?

A companion to teach me all that

I do not know of women and beauty

and fine manners?

A friend to share my secrets and wishes?

Who will tell me her own?

A friend?

Lancelot takes her hand and

assists her to the ground.

And he looks stricken,

as though some force

grips his heart or his stomach,

or both.

The girl’s seashell lips lift

into a gentle smile as she

places one dainty hand on

Lancelot’s arm, allowing

him to escort her to

where we stand.

Lancelot has not taken his

eyes from her face.

Indeed, he looks enthralled.

Arthur looks down fleetingly

and draws a breath,

as though steeling himself,

then steps forward to meet them.

My friends, he says, his hands

extended before him in greeting.

To my surprise, Lancelot,

who has been Arthur’s dearest companion

for as long as I have known the pair,

does not turn to his captain.

Rather, he continues to stare in

an almost unnatural manner

at the young woman who stands by his side.

Lodengrance, who is as ruddy-faced and

rotund as I remembered him, approaches

Arthur first, throwing his arms open and

embracing him.

Ah, my dear friend. It gives me great

pleasure to be back in your company.

Soon I shall call you ‘Son,’ eh?

Lancelot flinches.

What is happening here?

The way Lancelot gapes

at this strange girl is

unnerving, and a dull ache

opens up in my chest.

It feels as though there is a

yawning hole where my heart

did beat hopefully

just some minutes ago.

I do not understand what unfolds.

And the girl, she stands there,

so placid, gazing on Lancelot,

then turning to Arthur,

who now returns Lodengrance’s

embrace, and says,

You are most welcome here.

Indeed, I thank you for coming

and bringing some measure

of cavalry to our aid.

We have great need, in these

days, of friends. I am

happy to see you, old friend.

I cannot stand here, I cannot

watch this tableau,

which I do not understand

nor do I want to understand it,

unfold any longer.

But I cannot look away.

Nor can I stop the torrent

of questions.