As dusk falls outside the tent,

we hear the murmuring of voices,

of the Saxons gathered a short

distance from our prison.

Their voices are hushed, but

their rasping words slide through

the night air to our ears.

Can you make out what they are saying?

I ask Gwynivere.

She has been crouching near the entrance

of the tent, brow wrinkled as she

concentrates. But she shakes her head.

No. Their accent is too thick. I know

not the specifics of their discussion.

I am pacing again, like a wolf

trapped in a cage.

There must be a way out,

there has to be.

Suddenly I look at the ground.

At the back of the tent, the skin

hangs a bit loosely, where it

grazes the dirt floor,

not pegged properly with a stake.

What if —

Wait! Gwynivere’s voice

is excited.

What is it? I ask,

hurrying to her side.

Listen, she whispers to me.

What do you hear?

I hear … our language! I exclaim.

They have a Briton!

My thoughts are racing with my pulse.

Have they captured someone from

Arthur’s army? Do they have another

prisoner?

Listen, Gwynivere says again.

Arthur’s army is camped by

the River Avon, the strange voice

reveals.

A spy, I breathe.

Yes. Gwynivere nods. Someone who

knows everything about Arthur’s movements,

his plans.

We have to do something. I say, my panic

returning. We have to stop him.

How can we stop him? Gwynivere moans. We are

trapped in this prison, remember? Her

face is cloudy. Shhh, he talks still.

The spy speaks. ’Round the hill Badon,

to the south lies the River Avon,

by which you arrived here, I believe.

A Saxon grunts in agreement.

Follow that river, the spy continues,

and you will find Arthur.

He will never expect you to

come in the night. His men will be

unprepared, they will fall,

easy prey to your battle-axes and swords.

Go, tonight, the spy spits, his

voice muffled by the rising clamor

of the Saxons.

That is it. We have to warn them, I declare.

I rise and move to the back of the tent.

Our guard is still pacing in front of the

entrance, but there is no shadow at the

back. They have left us an opening.

Gwynivere, come here! I whisper,

motioning her to where I stand.

Look, down here, I instruct her,

and we both kneel, and I show her

where the bottom of the tent

hangs over the ground, unpinned

and loose.

If we dig, I whisper, we can tunnel

below the tent, escape,

and warn Arthur.

How can we dig that deep? Gwynivere’s

voice is heavy with defeat,

but a glimmer of hope flashes in her eyes.

We have no choice now. We have to

warn them. Please, I am begging you.

Help me, I plead.

She appears frozen, but suddenly

she shakes her head as though

throwing off a veil, and she is

stirred to motion.

All right. Let us dig to freedom.

Our fingers scratch

at the hard-packed earth.

Soon our nails are torn and ragged,

dirt lodged deep in their beds,

but we dig tirelessly, and soon

there is a sizable trough. I can now

slide my arm underneath the bottom

of the tent and dig on the outside.

We stop frequently, as we hear the

Saxons moving about, their voices

coming and going in a rough rumbling.

Our tent must be near the periphery of their

camp, for no one moves outside the back

of it, but footsteps pass often

in front of the entrance.

Suddenly we hear our guard

talking with another man.

Yellow Hair.

I recognize his voice.

Quick, throw your shawl

over the hole! I hiss at Gwynivere.

She unties her shawl and covers

the impression we have made in the dirt,

and we slide over to the center support beam,

just as the flaps fly open, and Yellow Hair,

his greasy hair and beard flecked with

ash and bits of food and blood, enters.

His deadened eyes sweep the room,

sweep over us, falling on the shawl

on the ground at the back.

My heart stops, and I can hear

Gwynivere take in a sharp breath.

You are cold, no? he barks

at both of us.

I am so warm from the effort

of our digging, I pray he does

not notice the sheen of moisture on my face,

which is mirrored on Gwynivere’s.

You dropped your cloth. He jerks

his chin toward the back of the tent.

I am sitting on my hands

so he does not notice the dirt,

and my nails curl painfully into my fists.

My breath has escaped, my heart

has taken on a wild

beat that must be as audible

as a war drum, and I am certain

he will discover our secret doings.

Then what will happen?

Hmmf, he grunts, obedient prisoners

we have. An evil smile spreads

across his vulture’s face, then he turns

and leaves.

I fall down backward, my chest heaving,

my hands shaking.

Gwynivere’s head is in her hands.

Oh my God, she whispers. I thought

he would take the shawl.

I know. I feared the same!

We smile at each other wildly,

and fall into a fit of giggles.

Shhh, I say, trying to draw a breath

in between bouts of laughter.

We move back to our tunnel,

and begin tearing at the earth again.

The night wears on, and still

we dig, our fingers aching and

trembling from the effort.

Finally I think there is room

enough for us to burrow under

the tent to the other side, to freedom.

A wild urgency drives me;

I have to get to Arthur,

to Tirry and Lavain and Father.

To Tristan.

I have to warn them.

Before it is too late. I touch the beads

hanging around my neck.

Swiftly, my mind diverts

into an unexpected thought —

I think of Tristan, where I

would have expected to think of

Lancelot.

Well, Tristan has been my true

friend these last weeks.

I should not be surprised.

And just as quickly, my mind

flies back to its purpose.

We need a plan, I tell Gwynivere.

What for? she asks. We just run,

around the mountain, to the south.

As the spy said.

No! The harshness of my voice

startles both of us. Only one of us

can go. The other must create a

diversion, so the Saxons do not

realize our purpose. So the other can

get away. Gwynivere’s

eyes widen and a terrified look

crosses her face. I think quickly.

I will escape first, run through the

camp and in the noise and chaos

that is sure to follow me, you

will run in secret. You must

go past the mountain and find the river.

Follow the stars, and you will

find Arthur and warn him,

I decide. I shall follow, once you

have had time to get away.

Elaine, they will never let you —

Hush, I cut her off. Gwyn, there is no

choice. You must go to Arthur.

But — she begins.

Do not argue with me, I tell her,

putting my hand over hers.

There is no other way.

You must wait until you hear

the noise when they discover me in their

midst. Then count to ten and

run, I command her.

Gwynivere looks at me as though

the sky is falling down upon our heads.

I have never seen such a stricken look

in anyone’s eyes.

We grab each other and

embrace.

I will do it, she says, her chin

set with resolve.

Gwyn —

Suddenly tears are streaming

down my face, and my

body is trembling.

Please, tell my father and my

brothers that I am so sorry.

That I love them.

You will tell them yourself,

Gwynivere says, putting her

hands on my shoulders and

giving me a little shake.

I recall my own voice telling

Gwynivere that we have no choice.

Right, I say. Then I beckon for

her to raise the skirt of the tent

as high as possible and I begin

to wriggle on my stomach into

the trench we carved out of the dirt.

The cool night air crashes

over my face, lifting off the

sweat and drying my tears.

As I rise to my feet, I look

all around me.

I was correct in guessing that

our tent was on the periphery of the

camp. All of the tents are arranged

in a circle, the mountain looming at

the far end of the camp. I wiggle

my fingers under the tent,

to let Gwynivere know I am all right.

Remember, I whisper into the

tent’s skin, wait until you hear

the shouts, and count to ten. Mount Badon

lies on the far side of the camp. I will

lead the men away from there.

Elaine, comes her hushed voice.

Farewell!

My heart stops for a moment,

and I whisper,

O Mistress of the Moon,

O Goddess,

keep her safe,

keep my friend safe

in her purpose.

My friend.

And you, too, my sister!

I call softly.

I press my hand to the wall of the

tent, then turn.

I must attract the Saxons’

attention and lead them away

from the mountain. Then I must

switch courses and run back to the

mountain.

I take a deep breath.

My sparrow is flitting and

dancing in my chest. She swoops and

does loops and circles in my belly.

Give me your wings, I pray.

Another breath.

My hands and legs feel shaky.

One more breath, then I run.

I run, circling the tent, and fly

past the guard. His eyes open

wide and he gives his head a little

shake, as though he cannot believe

what he sees.

Then he drops the cup he was

holding and begins to shout.

He starts to speed after me,

raising his ax and brandishing

it in the air. I cannot look back

at him, I must run and run.

I swerve and weave through the

tents, leading what is now a pack

of Saxon warriors on my heels, south of

the mountain, and they are hollering and

waving their instruments of war at my back.

I am fast, but they are more powerful, with

longer legs. I can feel their hot breath on

my back, the stench of their unwashed

bodies urging my legs on.

I am unaware of breath, of pain.

I feel only the wind at my feet and the heat

of their bodies on my neck.

Run! the wind calls.

Run! I beg of Gwynivere in my mind.

I am darting and weaving like a fox,

but suddenly something whistles past

my ear in a cool rush of air.

I see the white feathers in the moonlight.

An arrow.

Out of the corner of my eye

I spy a figure moving toward

the mountain.

Gwynivere.

Her golden hair streams out

behind her, like one of Arthur’s

battle standards.

She goes and no one follows.

I turn and race behind a tent.

Another arrow hurtles past me.

I catch sight of the moon,

half revealed in all her splendor.

Please, please help me, I pray silently.

I look around, but Gwynivere is nowhere

in sight. I change direction and begin to head

for Mount Badon.

In the distance, I can see the sparkle of the moon

glinting off the watery surface of the river.

I can make it, I tell myself.

The Saxons are closing in, and arrows are

now flying as fast as the beat of a

hummingbird’s wings.

My legs and my lungs are burning,

but I keep moving.

There is no choice.

I have no choice.

As I round the base of the great hill,

I can see the river curving,

carving through the land just up ahead.

There are dark figures like teeth

or men

looming before me.

My heart sinks with dread.

The Saxons, they must have

guessed our purpose and headed

off Gwynivere, and now they wait for me.

But my legs do not stop moving.

Let them try to take me!

A wild laugh parts my lips,

my mouth is dry and my eyes water.

As I near the river, the dark shapes grow

larger. They are too tall to be people.

Closer now, closer!

My heart beats an angry tattoo.

My own drum of war.

They are not Saxon soldiers after all!

Boats!

I fly toward them, and the intricate

carvings on the stern of the nearest boat

become clear in the moonlight.

What a beautiful vessel,

a beautiful vessel to carry me home!

Another giggle laced with fear and

an edge of lunacy.

I run to the craft and begin to push,

willing it to slide into the water.

I turn and drive my back against

the boat’s massive weight.

Suddenly there is a hissing sound, and

my mind is stunned as a burning pain

explodes in my body.

I look down and there, lodged in the soft flesh

between my shoulder and my chest, the wooden

shaft of an arrow, silvery feathers tracing

the end.

Like an animal made wild with fear,

I thrust myself against the boat once more,

and it shakes loose and rolls

into the water.

I stagger down the bank

of the river, dizzily brushing aside the

reeds waving in the wake of the boat’s

sluggish track.

Somehow, I catch hold of the craft

and roll myself over its side,

careful not to land on the

arrow buried deep in my chest.

Careful not to look down and

see the blood, the blood that is

warm and sticky on my hands, my face,

that now coats the bottom of the boat.

The Saxons have lined up on the shore,

frozen, as if stunned, and watch me

float away.

The last thing I remember,

before the grey mists

at the edges of my eyes veil

my vision wholly, is thinking

they must believe me dead.

The boat sways and rocks gently,

drifting lazily along

with the river’s current.

The moor …

the moor is green and pregnant

with clover and wildflowers,

and I feel the feathery grasses

brushing the palms of my hands,

vivid pink and purple flowers and

the sky is a strange shade of green,

without a hint of a storm.

Suddenly my hand is filled with

beads, cool, ivory-colored beads,

with intricate scrolls and knots

etched into them. They fill my hands

and they fill a basket that hangs from

my arm, and somehow I know

I am richer because of them.

Then a wolf with green-golden eyes

and tawny fur comes to stand beside me.

I am not afraid, for the wolf is my friend.

He nudges my hand with a cold nose

then bounds away, and I chase him

through a shiver of silvery birch trees.

As the wolf and I wind between the

slender trunks, the wolf vanishes,

and as I feel I am losing my breath,

my strength sapping away

Tristan steps from behind a tree

and offers his hand. I take it

and suddenly I feel wings beating

at my back, and Tristan and I turn into

a pair of sparrows.