Sunlight filters through the

hide of the tent, wresting me from

a dreamless slumber.

Once again I am alone, and

once my chores are finished,

I carry an armload of clothes

outside, down to the river,

where I find a seat on a bed

of clover, below the great

elm tree.

There, I take up my mending.

It is better to do by the light

of the sun than squinting in the

gloomy shade of the tent.

As I stitch a gaping hole in

Gawain’s breeches, the river

babbles and burbles past.

All is quiet and still. There is

no wind to move the tree’s branches,

nor to rustle the grasses and reeds

that line the river’s banks.

Then a twig snaps, and I

look up from my task to see

Arthur striding toward me.

His features are haggard,

lines I never noticed before,

standing out around his eyes.

Hello, I call to him, letting

the needle and pants fall into my lap.

I thought I might find you here.

You seem to favor the company of

trees to men, these days. Arthur

runs a quick hand through his curly

brown locks, and looks at me,

his eyes squinting,

as though he gauges

my mood.

Trees are solid, dependable;

they can be trusted, I reply.

Unlike men, Arthur finishes, sitting

beside me.

Most men, I add.

I do not know, Elaine.

Even those of us with the best

of intentions can be unreliable,

weak. His eyes grow dark.

Arthur, I say gently, let us not

talk of such things. The sun

shines and the sparrow sings.

Uncertain days lie ahead,

but for now, let us enjoy what

is certain and wonderful.

And he is silent,

staring out over the river,

lost in his own thoughts.

There is no time for regrets

or sorrow, I tell him,

in these days of war.

Yes, you are right, I suppose,

he agrees,

but I cannot help but wonder

if —

if all my arranging

and concocting and

planning is leading me,

us —

all of us —

astray.

The very existence of Britain,

all of Britain rests on this

scheme, and who am I to

presume that I can —

that I can lead?

So many lives,

so very many lives

are in my hands.

What if the Merlin’s prophecy

is false?

I cannot help but be fearful.

Arthur’s confession startles

my own worries from my head.

Oh, Arthur, you must not

doubt yourself. You are meant to

lead us, to fight for Britain and to

take her back from the invaders

who would enslave us.

You must never question that.

All you believe in is right and pure.

The men follow you because they know

in their hearts this is true,

I tell him, and you must believe it too.

What would I do without your good counsel,

Elaine? He looks at me then

looks down at the ground.

A-hem!

We both look up as a cough

startles us both from our thoughts.

Gwynivere approaches, a cold sneer

curling her lips.

Hello, Gwynivere. Arthur rises,

and gives a short bow of his head.

Good day, sir, she addresses him,

ignoring me. My father bade me

to aid in gathering herbs and plants.

She looks at him demurely. Of course,

I told him, I do all that I can to aid

in the cause. In your cause.

Arthur glances down at me,

an uneasy blush spreading over his

cheeks. Yes, well, Elaine, I am sure,

will show you which plants

bear the necessary fruits, so to speak.

You will guide Gwynivere, will you not, Elaine?

But of course, Arthur, I respond,

my head buzzing with rage. The gall,

the staggering, dishonest gall!

Arthur is still looking at me,

probably wondering why my face

has twisted itself into a grimace of

fury.

Come, Gwynivere. Let us hunt for

red clover. It is good for poultices

to stop inflammation.

Thank you, Elaine. Arthur looks

relieved and abashed at once.

Good! I think.

But it is not his fault, I remind

myself. He is as much a victim

of circumstances as I am.

More so, perhaps, as he does

his duty and is paid in this way

for it.

Good day, ladies, he says, then

swiftly lopes away.

What does this wretched weed look like?

Gwynivere’s tone is icy.

The flower varies from violet to crimson,

and the leaves are ragged and hairy.

They grow this tall, I explain,

motioning to the middle of my calf.

Follow me, I sigh, leaving my mending,

and leading her down

to the river, where, gingerly, I step

across the slippery stones that

lead to the other shore.

They grow here, on the moor.

But she is not listening to me,

her forehead creased with

consternation. Gwynivere lifts her

skirts and balances shakily

on the rocks.

If you walk quickly, you will stand

a better chance of not falling in, I warn.

Hmph, she grunts. We cannot

all be wild things like you.

Remembering the brown toad

I slipped in her embroidery bag,

I remind myself I have treated her

badly enough, in spite of her cruel words.

Still, I cannot help but grit my teeth.

I am stalking through the meadow grasses,

trying to calm my nerves, tearing

the clover from the ground when I see it.

I glance back to make sure Gwynivere

has not drowned, and I see her standing

on the near bank, stiff as a stone statue.

The grass does not bite! I call, and I hold

up a stem of clover, waving the

plum-colored blossom in the air.

And this is what you are to pick.

Try not to bring me any ragwort.

We move without speaking, though once

in a while, I hear her stumble and yelp,

or mutter in frustration.

Her heavy pink gown,

with all its layers,

must be sweltering

in the springtime sunshine.

I begin to pity her; clearly she has never

spent time wandering in the fields.

You must be warm, I call to her. You may

take off your gown. I promise I will not

look. I can feel a satisfied smirk

playing on my lips.

She only harrumphs in response.

But I spot her watching me with envy

in her eyes, as I remove my dress,

and lay it flat over a rock, so that I may

wander about in just my shift,

lighter and much cooler.

Really, it is quite comfortable, Gwynivere!

I tease.

Fine! she screams, startling a flock of

meadowlarks. She attacks the laces of

her dress viciously, and jerks the gown

over her head, only to get stuck

and flail about, trapped inside the

multitude of folds and bunches of material.

She stumbles around in a short circle,

and I giggle, then run toward her, ready to help.

Gwynivere, I say, putting out a hand to stop her.

Gwynivere — but she continues to twist and

wrench from my grasp.

Gwynivere! Stop! Let me help you.

I can tell she is reluctant to let me

aid her, but she halts and I grab

two handfuls of the abundant fabric

and pull the gown over her

head.

Gwynivere seizes the gown from

my hands, snapping it back,

as though I were trying to steal it from her.

I look at her, waiting for thanks, but

none comes.

She spins on her heel and bends to the ground,

snatching a knot of grass and a single

clover head.

Very well, I say, and turn away,

returning to my own gathering.

Now, however, the silence between

us feels less charged, somehow. Easier.

Perhaps I have found a chink

in her armor?

I am through here, she shouts at me.

This is a servant’s work. You may finish it.

And she throws her gown over her

arm and storms away, back to the river.

How wrong I was, I murmur, reeling

a bit, though I am unsure why.

Why do I still feel surprised by

her intolerable rudeness? I wonder.

At least I will not be lingering

here for much longer, I whisper to the meadow.

Soon enough, I will bid you a silent farewell too.

And I don my dress and follow Gwynivere

back across the river,

back to the camp.