What place does a woman

have here, in this

realm of men?

I wonder.

But I do have a place.

I belong here, with these men.

They are my family.

I mend their clothes,

I mend their bodies.

I grew up wild like a boy

here.

How could she possibly belong here,

to this camp?

Her clothes are far too

clean for these dusty soldiers,

dusty tents.

Yet, I always dreamed of a girl

coming to live here, of a girl

who would be my friend.

Elaine. A deep voice interrupts

the torrent of self-pitying thoughts.

Tirry is towering over me,

Why have you been hiding here?

he asks. Did you not hear

that there is a girl come to camp?

I shake my head, unable to answer.

You have been summoned to the

Round Table, he explains.

Who summons me? I ask crossly.

Arthur, Tirry answers.

He wishes you to come and

meet his future bride and

let her know that she is not

alone here.

Of course she is not alone

here, I retort. There are

nearly three hundred and fifty

men dwelling here in this camp.

I do not know why you are

angry with me, Tirry says,

looking wounded.

I am not angry with you,

Tirry. I will come. I know

my voice sounds resigned.

I am resigned.

I follow my brother back

to the center of camp,

my feet dragging, stirring

up more dust, which settles

on the hem of my gown.

The nubby wool, once vermilion,

is now brown from wear and dirt

that no amount of washing can remove.

My slippers, doe-brown leather,

too, are covered in a fine layer of

grime. Nothing, nothing about me

is fine.

When we reach the fire pit

where the Round Table meets,

the smoky scent of ash and

burnt wood settles in my hair.

There is a small knot of people

clustered around Arthur’s seat.

Elaine, Arthur’s rich voice

startles me from

dark thoughts.

He approaches, his

eyes soft and tired.

Thank you for coming. I had

hoped you would help

Gwynivere, daughter of Lodengrance,

find her way here. I am afraid

the notion of living in a battle camp

is one wholly strange to her.

I look over at her, and she returns

my gaze with a cold stare,

her eyes following the creases of my

gown, lingering on the dirt

and grass stains at the hem.

I cannot help but think of a serpent

as I focus on her icy blue eyes.

They are hard, there is no warmth

or friendliness behind them.

I look back at Arthur.

I know you will be great friends,

he says, almost pleading.

Is it possible? Could this girl

be the female companion,

the friend

I have always wanted, dreamed of?

Her expression is aloof.

I do not feel very confident.

Of course, Arthur, I say to him.

I will do what you wish, my friend.

His eyes, so dark,

look moist, and something

swims behind them that

I have never seen there before.

Hopelessness.

I wonder, is this how I look?

I thank you, Elaine, he whispers.

I wonder, could it be

that he does not wish to marry

Gwynivere? But she is so pretty?

Lancelot still stands beside Gwynivere.

And he still gazes

on her in the manner of a devoted

puppy dog doting on its master.

And she returns his look.

A stab of pain clutches me.

Gwynivere, please allow me to introduce

you to Elaine, daughter of Barnard of Ascolat,

and dear friend, Arthur begins.

She has lived among us for many years,

and perhaps can show you what she knows

of herbal medicines. For she is an

invaluable nurse and healer.

Gwynivere merely nods,

her long, golden tresses falling

smoothly down her shoulders.

Good, then. Arthur looks around

uneasily. We shall leave you ladies

alone.

Alone.

I can’t think of anything

less good at this moment.

Arthur meets my eyes once more,

and then he touches Lancelot

on the shoulder. Lancelot

shakes his head, as though he shakes

himself awake from a dream, and the pair,

along with Lodengrance, my

father, and my brother turn

and leave, leave me alone

with Gwynivere.

What can I show you? I ask.

Surely Arthur spoke to you of the

Round Table, where you sit now.

She sits, while I stand,

waiting on her like a servant.

Gwynivere looks at me, then

down at her hands, which are

neatly folded in her lap.

Yes, he did, she replies stonily.

An awkward silence descends,

as I struggle to find a topic

for conversation.

Would you like to learn about the healing arts?

I stammer.

I have no interest in your plants.

The bitterness in her voice

takes me by surprise, more

than the harshness of her words.

Very well. I am unsure

of how to talk to her.

Do you wish me to show

you the camp?

Gwynivere looks bored,

and she looks down again

at the bottom of my dress,

her nose wrinkling in distaste.

Nor have I any interest in tramping

through the mud and filth,

as you so clearly relish doing.

I am not a beast, Elaine.

She pronounces my name

slowly, drawing it out,

each syllable dripping

with venom.

She thinks me a beast?

What have I done to her?

I am a stranger to her.

Do I look so rough,

so ugly and rough

that I seem so to her?

I can only gape at her, feeling

a red heat creep up my neck

and bloom across my cheeks.

She smirks at me,

a superior grin spreading

smugly over her lips.

You may show me my tent, she orders,

as though I were her servant.

How I long to leave her

there in the fire pit to find her own way,

but I know I cannot

disappoint Arthur.

Follow me, I sigh

and spin around and lead her

through the maze of tents,

to her own, which, as I peer

inside, I can see is littered

with rich, carmine rugs and

a sumptuous pallet stuffed with

fresh hay.

She brushes past me and slips

into her tent, letting the flaps fall

closed behind her, without a word

or a glance in my direction.

I let out a long breath and shake my head.

Was I mad to have wished for another

girl to keep me company all these years?

Morgan certainly does not behave

anything like Gwynivere.

My stomach twists and clenches again.

I wander through the tents,

as the weak sun, a dull

white spot in the sky,

begins to sink below the horizon.

The vision of Lancelot and Gwynivere’s embrace

burns.

I cannot shake it away.

My birch trees tremble in the slight

breeze that slithers through the camp.

I slide between them, feeling the

bark, light and delicate,

on my fingers, the scent of dried

leaves soothing me.

The peace of this grove

feels almost magical,

as though some goddess of silver-barked

trees watches over me.

I lean against a slender trunk,

feeling the leaves playing in my hair,

and listen to the sound of my own breath.

For the first time since

the night my mother died,

I feel truly alone.