Finally the greeting party

breaks apart.

Tristan returns to his

weapons practice,

and Arthur leads Lodengrance

and the girl away.

Lancelot stands rooted

to the spot, as though frozen.

I hurry back into my tent to

find some mending, something

to keep me busy, so the

doubts filling my gut do

not carry me away.

Then I cannot stand it

any longer, and the walls

of the tent seem too close,

too stifling. I must get

outside.

As I run to the willow

tree at the river’s edge,

gulping great breaths

of sweet fresh air,

I stop short. There

is the girl, and she is

with Lancelot. His arms

are around her, and she

lifts a hand to his

cheek. He is murmuring softly

to her. I cannot trespass;

I cannot believe what I see.

The ground feels as though

it bends and shifts beneath me.

Indeed, the world feels as though

it rocks in its place in the heavens.

Will we all fall down?

The pair stand partially hidden

by the willow’s low-sweeping branches,

and my stomach

turns and churns.

Lancelot, with the faerie girl.

This is all so wrong!

I know not what to do.

I cannot bear to face anyone

now.

I circle around the perimeter and

finally find the great elm by the stables.

I sink to the ground. My breath

comes unevenly

and my head spins.

What has taken hold of Lancelot?

What spell has this yellow-haired

sorceress cast on him?

I look at my hands,

freckled with sun,

callused from so many chores.

The nails are ragged and

torn; dirt lodges

beneath them in grey crescents.

Her hands, her hands are so

white, with long tapering fingers

with smooth, rounded nails.

The essence of woman.

All the memories of my

mother’s face, all the ideals

of what a woman should be,

they are all wrapped up

in her.

And I am so dull and dirty.

Like a small brown toad.

He does not see me.

How could he see me

when she is before him?

Glowing and gilded in gold.

Then Tristan is before me,

his face a stiff mask.

Elaine? His voice is hesitant.

I cannot respond, I cannot

summon my voice.

O, and tears threaten.

I look at the moss and

the grey pebbles and

withered leaves around

my feet.

He is beside me.

His hand covers mine.

Elaine, Tristan repeats.

Are you — are you well?

I am not sure how to answer him.

I am not sure if I am able to answer him.

I rub my fingers over the thick,

springy moss.

His hand tightens over mine.

What — what happened? I

manage, croaking

like a bullfrog.

Tristan leans his head back

against the trunk and sighs,

moving his hand into his lap.

I am not certain if I understand

it, he murmurs.

I believe Lancelot lured

old Lodengrance back here

with the promise of Arthur’s hand.

Arthur is a man of means, and

I suppose he shall marry

Gwynivere, daughter of Lodengrance.

Arthur to marry this girl?

All of the words Arthur spoke

that night in Morgan’s tent

skip through my memory.

I would that things

were different …

… that things were different …

It makes sense now.

Now I understand.

He must have known.

All these machinations,

and I so naive.

Lancelot looks bewitched, I spit,

surprised by the vitriol in my voice.

Yes, he does. Tristan looks

at me appraisingly, his eyes

darker now beneath eyebrows

raised in question.

Love is a tempestuous mistress,

he continues. And none of us

shall ever master her.

He rises to his feet,

his eyes slanting as he looks

down on me,

Do not fear, Elaine,

love and friendship will

resolve themselves.

I continue to rest below

the elm tree, the moss

and leaves and bark,

solid and familiar,

like an anchor.

I want to believe Tristan,

but I do not see a way for

anything to be all right

again.