I am Arthur’s wife! Gwynivere screams,
spitting in the face of the
yellow-haired Saxon.
One of the men grabs her
hand, and there is a gold
ring on her fourth finger.
Where did it come from?
What is happening?
She is his sister! Gwynivere
shrieks, her voice scratchy
and torn. He will kill you all
if you hurt us.
I try to raise myself,
but my eyes fall on my hair,
and I vomit.
Yellow bile
red hair
yellow hair
red blood.
I begin to wretch,
and I am crying too.
Get up, Elaine! she screams.
Gwyn — Gwynivere?
I cannot speak but to
whisper her name.
Elaine, stand up! she snaps.
And I stand.
My knees still shake,
but I am up on two legs,
and the world is spinning like mad.
Suddenly all is still, and I
am moving fast,
faster than a wildcat,
and I leap at dirty Yellow Hair,
my fingers claws,
tearing at his beard
and ropy locks,
an animal scream curls from my throat,
and I am breathing and snorting,
and blood is rushing through my head,
down my arm.
I see a river of red run down
the side of his face,
a river of blood,
red like my hair on the muddy ground.
He yelps and clutches his cheek.
I am kicking and
screaming and scratching,
and Gwynivere
is attacking the others,
and we are a tangle of yellow
and red and scratches and
arms and fingernails.
The knife clatters to the ground.
One of the men grabs me,
forces my arms to my sides.
I am breathing and writhing.
A beast caught in a snare.
Another has taken hold of Gwynivere,
her arms pinned to her sides also.
The men bark at each other
in their ugly language that sounds
like coughs and choking,
ugly words issuing
from spit-flecked lips,
yellow teeth flashing dangerously.
I am shaking with hate and
fury, and they begin to walk,
Yellow Hair pushing me ahead
of him, the others following,
with Gwynivere in the middle.
We march silently, though I can
hear Gwynivere breathing heavily.
Is she crying?
My tears have stopped, perhaps
I have cried my eyes dry.
The scenery passes too quickly,
all mottled
green and grey; a cloud seems
to have settled over my sight.
A sorry collection of flaccid,
ash-colored tents lies ahead,
and beyond them,
a steep hill. This must be the hill
called Badon.
I twist my head back to look at
Gwynivere. Her head hangs low,
her flaxen hair covering her face.
Is she hurt?
We approach the tents, and
more filthy men clad in
leather jerkins, with limp,
dirty skins and furs swinging
from their waists, appear.
Our captors grunt to them,
the others grunt back,
staring at Gwynivere and me
in a way that makes my skin
creep and shudder.
I know what Saxons do to women.
What will happen to us?
One man steps forward to
greet our party. He and Yellow Hair
speak, and I do not understand
a word they utter.
Then, the man from the tents bends
down to look in my eyes.
Sister of Arthur, we will hold you
prisoner, and we will keep you
until this battle is won.
Then, Arthur will pay for you.
No harm will come to you.
For now …
yellow-and-black teeth
gleaming dully, and he turns
swiftly, and our captors push us
after him.
We stop in front of one of
the tents, the stink of dead animal
filling my nostrils,
filling my mouth with sour bile.
I wretch and vomit again.
A sharp shove from behind,
and Yellow Hair screams angrily,
my vomit has fallen on his boots,
and I am tumbling into the tent.
Gwynivere stumbles in after me,
and Yellow Hair snarls at the man
who was holding her, and he follows us
into the tent, grabbing my wrist and
Gwynivere’s, and dragging us to the center
pole. He forces us to the floor,
twisting my hand painfully. I try not
to make a sound, but a pitiful yelp
escapes, and he grabs my other wrist,
dropping Gwynivere’s, and binds my hands
to the support pole.
My injured arm is throbbing, and my wrist
burns. Gwynivere is thrown down opposite
me, and her hands are also tied to the pole.
We are left to face each other, mute
with horror and fear.
The Saxons leave, their harsh laughter
echoing behind them.
I cannot help it.
A scream, a scream for all the
anguish and fear and hate
is surging up from my chest,
tumbling over itself in its haste to get out,
and I scream and scream, a baby,
an animal.
Gwynivere stares at me in shock.
Her hair, tangled with leaves and
dirt, hangs over her eyes.
What if I led them to Arthur?
To Father and all the people
I have and love in this world?
I am still screaming.
I cannot stop.
Then hands cover my hands,
warm and soft,
like a butterfly’s wings.
And the screams stop.
My chest is empty.
Even my heart, my little
sparrow, seems to have left me.
I am bereft and frightened.
Are you — are you all right?
Gwynivere asks, her eyes wide.
Your arm, I mean.
I — I am fine, I mutter.
My throat is raw and
it smarts with each word.
Each breath.
Suddenly my rage is only for her.
What are you doing here?
Why did you follow me? I chastise.
What were you thinking?
I want to hurt her.
Gwynivere turns her head and rests it on her arm.
What was I thinking? she shouts back at me.
I am not the one who got caught.
If you were not so careless, this would
never have happened. But you
follow the men like a pathetic puppy dog.
Why would they ever want to see you? she snarls.
Her words sting, as much as my throat
and the wound on my arm.
But I am grateful for these piercing
breaths, each one a reminder, a gift.
I live, yet.
Why would they want to see m
e? I laugh,
disbelieving her arrogance.
I can heal them; when they are wounded,
they look to me! I scream at her.
How dare she!
They look to you, ha! Her voice and face
are filled with scorn.
But they want to look at me.
Not at young pups, she spits.
I feel as though I have been slapped.
Every time, her slings and insults
assail me anew.
Fool, I mutter.
Yes, I am a fool. But you are a bigger one,
she mocks.
The time creeps past, and the light
outside the tent grows weaker.
Gwynivere grows restless, her legs
twitching and rustling beneath her skirts.
They will not hurt us,
Gwynivere remarks tonelessly.
That Saxon pig is afraid of Arthur.
A savage grin twists her coral lips.
How can you be so certain? I ask.
Because I know men. You’re
bleeding all over me, she snaps.
I — I am sorry, I murmur. It will stop soon.
We are silent.
She knows men.
She knows how to manipulate men.
This is why Arthur will marry her.
Why Lancelot trails after her
as though he has been enchanted.
Why I shall remain alone.
How can she still be so cruel,
even now, when we are here,
trapped, together?
Yet —
yet, she tried to save me.
The realization gives me a start.
Yes, she tried to rescue me.
When she saw the Saxons seize me,
she flew from the trees like a lioness
protecting her cub.
She does not hate me.
She pretends.
Gwynivere, I begin.
I am sorry. Sorry that you
became entangled in this mess
with me.
She picks up her head and looks at me.
I do believe her eyes soften,
but she does not speak.
The minutes pass slowly, achingly.
My arm continues to bleed, and I
am beginning to feel faint.
My head spins, and my eyes
start to roll back in my head.
Elaine! Gwynivere screams.
Her hands hit mine, and she is
shaking my wrists frantically.
My — there are some herbs, I whisper,
leaves in the pouch that
hangs about my neck.
If — if I lean toward you,
can you reach it?
I open my eyes and sway sickeningly,
as I try to inch toward Gwynivere,
craning my neck. She wiggles
her hands in their ropes, and reaches
for the tiny leather pouch.
I — I think I can, she murmurs,
her brow wrinkled as she pushes as
far forward as she can.
The ropes are straining at her wrists,
biting into the white flesh, but she does
not even flinch.
I have it! she crows happily.
My head feels cloudy,
like I could float away, leave
my body behind, on the floor of this
dirty tent.
Elaine, Gwynivere growls, Elaine,
do not faint. Do not! Tell me what to do!
She is shaking me again.
Gwyn — Gwynivere, take the milfoil —
The what? she interrupts. I do not know
what that is. There are flowers, leaves
in here. Tell me which one to take!
There is an edge of
mania behind her words.
The milfoil, the feathery green leaves,
those will help the blood to clot.
Do you see it? I am so tired, so weak.
Yes, yes — this? she asks, holding up the
needlelike leaves.
Yes, that is the one, I reply.
Press them into the wound,
here on my arm. I indicate
the knife wound with my chin.
Can you reach? I ask.
Can you move closer to me? she urges.
I slide closer to her, and the scent
of roses stirs me from the sleepy
state I am entering, as I grow
weak from blood loss.
I wince as she prods the
cut, and the leaves fill the wound,
stanching the blood.
Her fingers are surprisingly gentle,
moving quickly and softly,
like a hummingbird.
I bite my lip, teeth sinking into
flesh, as the burning overwhelms
me for an instant, then dulls.
Thank you, I whisper. That is better.
And everything goes black.
The sound of quiet weeping
wrests me from my sleep.
As my eyes slowly open, I am
startled to remember where I am,
tied up in a cavelike tent,
Gwynivere bound and beside me.
Her chin is on her chest, and her shoulders
shake with tears.
Gwynivere?
She lifts her head quickly.
You — you are alive! she breathes.
I thought you had died.
And tears fill her cornflower eyes and
course down her cheeks.
I was so frightened. I thought you had
left me alone, she says.
I am sorry to have given you a fright,
I tell her. It is all right. I will live.
Gwynivere meets my grin with her own,
and we both begin to giggle blackly.
I will live, but who knows for how long?
Silence descends upon us once more.
Darkness has fallen outside, and
the tent is filled with shadows, the
only light coming from a single lantern
near the flaps. The Saxons must have
come while I slept.
I watch the orange flame dance and
flicker. I wonder if my father and brothers
sit beside a fire, too, tonight.
I wonder if they live.
I wonder if I led the Saxons to them.
If they have been slaughtered like sheep,
or if they have already met in combat.
Dread and fear take root in my belly,
growing like a vine up into my chest,
my throat.
I am sure they are quite safe,
Gwynivere breaks into my thoughts.
W-what? I ask.
I am sure your father and brothers are safe,
she responds. There has not been any fighting
yet. I overheard the pigs talking.
You can understand them? I ask, incredulous.
Just bits. There are Saxons living in the
summer lands of my father.
But they expect to meet Arthur in battle
in the morning, by the rise
of the sun, she answers.
How did you know what I was thinking?
I whisper, still shocked by her intuition.
My father is out there too, she replies simply.
And I worry as well.
I am sorry, I whisper. Of course
you are worried too.
I wonder if I can begin to know her.
Neither of us speaks, but a question
is burning my tongue.
Why do you hate me? Why have you hated
me since you arrived at Caerleon?
Gwynivere’s head snaps up, her
mouth snaps open and closes again.
Then she looks down again,
huddling her knees close
to her chest.
I — I do not hate you, she stammers softly.
Then she looks at me directly,
her face regal and eyes frosty again.
You think you are better than everyone.
The way you run around the camp
like a — a heathen. Well, you are not
better. Gwynivere’s eyes slant.
A fox, with teeth bared.
I do not think myself better
than anyone, Gwynivere. That is not true,
I reply. And I think you know it to be false.
Gwynivere shrugs her shoulders
as though she does not care either way.
And this time the silence is heavy;
it weighs on my shoulders, my aching
arm, and on my eyelids.
Soon, my eyes are too heavy to
keep open, and I feel myself drifting
off to sleep. Before they close
a final time, I see Gwynivere is
already asleep.
The hammering of boots
on earth, of sticks on drums,
of swords on shields wakes me.
The drums beat fiercely now,
and tremors ripple through
the ground.
It has begun.
They have been fighting since
dawn. Gwynivere’s tone is flat,
her eyes flat too.
How far away are they? I ask,
shaking my head, rubbing my
wrists. My hands and arms have
not woken up yet, my injured shoulder
throbs dully.
At least it does not feel inflamed.
I do not know, she replies.
If I cock my head and strain,
I can hear cries of pain and death
riding on the wind.
Whose are they?
I fight down the panic that rises
from my belly.
But I have witnessed too many
battles to get scared again.
I have listened to too many
war stories to be frightened
by this, the workings of men.
Yet I cannot force the terrible thoughts
from my mind.
What if I never see Lancelot again?
What if I never feel my father’s embrace
again? What if I never hear Tirry’s
comforting words again? What if I never feel the
tug of Lavain’s sly hands on my braids again?
What if I never talk with Arthur again?
Or laugh with Tristan, and feel the glow
of his friendship again?
The tears threaten once more.
I blink to fight them back,
but one slips down my cheek anyway.
You are right, Gwynivere, I was
a fool, I chastise myself.
Such a stupid fool. What did I hope
to achieve? Now I have gotten us
caught, like foxes in a snare,
and Arthur will have to
pay dearly to win us back.
I am so stupid.
He was right….
I am a child.
Suddenly Gwynivere’s hands
are on mine.
No, Elaine, do not berate
yourself. Your intentions