Not Quite Bors

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It was a week later that Mum bestowed the gift of a new cloak upon me. It was perfect timing as well, for that night, as she watched the pot of stew with one hand and me parading in my new cloak with the other, it began to snow. Mum gathered me into her arms and kissed me with warm lips and held me tight and then tilted so that I could see out of the window past her shoulder. The sight there delighted me and I squirmed, despite her laughing protests, and wriggled out of her arms, making my way for the door.

“Don’t be long out there, girl,” Mum called after me. I promised to be home soon and I pulled up the hood on my new cloak – dark blue like the sky surrounding a full moon – and I stepped into the new world outside.

It did snow in Briton, but it did not always last long, especially not on this side of Hadrian’s Wall. The warm currents from the ocean usually meant that the snow would melt as soon as it hit the ground and it would make for frosty, slushy streets and icicles clinging to the overhanging roofs. But tonight was different, and for that I was glad. Tonight there was a crisp chill in the air and it stung my cheeks and I had to stamp my feet as I walked so that they would not freeze. I had to remember to ask for a new pair of boots soon. The snow was silent as it fell from the endless pitch of the sky, and it swirled around gently, landing on my head and my eyelashes and the tip of my nose where it tingled brightly. I made my way to the stables, wanting to see the horses and to see if Da was there, or better yet Gawain, so that I could show off my new cloak.

Da was not there, nor was Gawain. But Lancelot was there. I stepped into the warm air of the stables and heard his voice softly murmuring and I stifled a giggle, wondering who the insatiable knight had lured into his trap this time. On tiptoe I crept through the straw, keeping in sight of the horses so as not to spook them, but still deep enough in shadow that if Lancelot stepped into the main alley, he would not see me. At last I came to the stall where his mare was kept and I held my breath, counting to three before I quickly ducked around and stole a glance inside.

I was surprised to find him alone. Well, not completely alone. His horse was there, after all, and it seemed to be that the horse was the one he was speaking to. But it was not the common speech used at the fort. This language was different, lilting and haunting and the words melted together as his voice rose and fell like waves of the sea. I had heard Da speaking with Uncle Dag in this way and surmised that it must be a Sarmatian dialect.

Stripped bare to the waist, Lancelot continued speaking to his horse in soothing tones while he curried the broad chest and neck. A Sarmatian Knight with his horse was always a sight to behold and so I stood silent, coming further into the doorway, and leaning there, watching intently as Lancelot moved about his horse with ease. When he turned towards me then, I did not think to hide, for my eyes became transfixed on the small birthmark at his left hip. I gasped and looked up to meet his eyes.

“Branwyn?” He took a step forward and caught my arm in a firm grasp, shaking me lightly to bring my attention to him.

I tore my eyes away from the birthmark, a roughly shaped crescent moon of brown. Beneath his grip I trembled and I felt my lip quiver as I finally stared up at him, eyes wide.

I had that same birthmark.

“Something vexes you, girl?” But Lancelot’s voice sounded so far away as all my memories of my short life on earth came crashing back to me, suddenly making so much sense. The way Da looked at me. The way Da never acknowledged the name Tristan gave to me. The many times I would catch Lancelot looking on with interest, making sure that I was well out of harm’s way. I knew that Mum’s other children weren’t all Da’s. I just never thought those included me.

“Branwyn!”

I started in Lancelot’s hold and my eyes fluttered shut as I felt my hair brush my cheek. That black hair, that coal black hair, like the moonless night sky…it was Lancelot’s. My green eyes that titled up at the corners – Lancelot’s. And there was a glimmer of a smile upon his lips, a look I knew too well, a look that stared back at me from the polished brass mirrors that hung in Arthur’s rooms where I studied.

“Oh.”

It was the only sound I could think of to say. But it all made so much sense now. Lancelot’s hand slackened from my arm and I took a small step back. He frowned at that, but could he blame me? What did he want me to do, run into his arms and accept him as…as…oh for the love of the gods, I could not even think it now. Da had always been my Da.

“Mum is waiting for me,” I muttered before turning on my heel and dashing through the stables the way I came.

Lancelot did not follow.

That night, while Gilly and the other nine bastards swarmed the house we lived in and ate and laughed and pulled hair and poked one another, I sat sullenly at the bench, twirling my spoon around in the broth of rabbit stew while Mum instructed Da to get the younger ones to bed while she readied herself to work at the alehouse. Uncle Dag had made his appearance soon after dinner had been served and he and Da now sat and drank ale from earthenware mugs, muttering softly in their language. The sound of it made my stomach turn, for I had heard Lancelot speaking the same way not an hour before. Dashing my spoon into the bowl with a clatter I rose from the bench and stomped to the doorway.

“Where you goin’, lass?” Da called after me. I cringed and settled my hand on the door for a moment.

“I…promised Steren that I would join her at her home after dinner.” I had never lied to Da before, but then again, I thought he had never lied to me.

Da grunted and eyed Uncle Dag for a moment before shrugging. “Don’t be gone too late, aye? Best you be in bed before your mum returns home from the alehouse. And don’t let me catch you spying, you hear? Leave Gawain alone; he’s too old for you.”

The flames of embarrassment scorched my cheeks and I fought back the tears of indignity that stung my eyes. I looked to Uncle Dag for reassurance and he seemed to nod shortly before turning to Da. “Ah, come on, Bors. The girl is thirteen. Would you rather she be setting her sights on someone like Galahad? Full of piss and wind and whining all the time?” He laughed and then turned to me. “Come here a minute, lass.”

I crossed to where he sat and watched as he reached into the front panel of his tunic and withdrew a small kidskin bag that was tied shut with leather thong. The pouch was light and for a moment I was not sure what it was, but then Uncle Dag urged me to open it. I did and I spilled the contents into my hand. Strung on a leather cord was a hand worked piece of silver, all twisting and turning in the knots of the Britons. I smiled up at him.

“One of the metalworkers also deals in silver. I hope you like it.”

I threw myself into Uncle Dag’s arms and pushed my lips to his whisker-roughened cheek, my troubles forgotten for the moment. Uncle Dag always had away of making me smile. “I love it,” I answered breathlessly and then I turned around so that he could tie it at the back of my neck. As his fingers worked, my eyes met Da’s for a moment and he seemed saddened by something. It was gone in a moment and he shook his head at Uncle Dag and grumbled like an old bear.

“Now she’ll expect all of us to get her something, Dag.”

“Nah, she won’t,” Dag reassured him. “She’s not greedy, are ya, lass?”

I tilted my head at my uncle and shot him a disbelieving glance. “You know I’m not,” I pouted.

Da grunted something else and then nodded to the door. “Get going, then. The longer you stand here, the less time you have with your friend.”

I nodded and dashed to the door, swinging it open.

“And mind what I said, aye?” I heard Da yell as I swept into the snow night.

“Mind what you said, indeed,” I mumbled under my breath as I scurried towards the alehouse, in the opposite direction of Steren’s home. I wanted to go and sit near the fires of the kitchen at the alehouse and watch the goings on there – to watch the knights in a more personal setting and to hear Mum sing and scold the knights that gave her a hard time. She always did it with a smile, however, for she held them all very dear to her.

This, according to my discovery in the stables, was clear as day to me.

I stole in through the open kitchen door and dashed beneath a long table set with linens and piled high with bread and roasted game bird and boar and deer meat. Fruit that had been imported from Rome was present – sweet black grapes and apples and the pears that were my favorite. There was sweet wine and more jugs of ale than there were people present, but it would not go to waste. I held my breath as Mum’s familiar voice flitted through my ears, and she was talking to someone in a harsh, clipped tone, like the way she spoke to Da when she did not want us children to hear.

“…don’t have to tell her anything!” Mum hissed.

My teeth clamped on my tongue when the second voice answered: “I think she’s figured it out, Vanora. She’s a clever girl, you know. Not all Bors.” I could hear the smirk in Lancelot’s voice.

I heard the sound of flesh striking flesh then and could only guess that Mum had walloped him good. “Damn you, Lancelot! Do you think this is easy on me? On Bors? He knows; he’s known since the day she was born and he looked at her.”

Oh gods, who else knew? Did any of the other knights? Was I the only one left out in the dark when it came to who my father really was? No wonder Tristan had given me a name – he knew I was not a number, not one of Da’s numbers. That was why the others called me Branwyn and looked on with interest. A tremor ran through my body and I pulled my cloak tighter around my shoulders.

“Do you think it easy on me, Vanora? I too know she’s mine. Don’t think for one second that you are the only one hurt in this. What about her? You did not see the look in her eyes…”

“How did she find out?”

Lancelot spluttered, caught off guard. “What? How did she…”

“How did she find out?” Mum repeated tightly. “Was it Gawain? Or maybe Galahad? Those two are always loose in the lips.”

I heard Lancelot sigh. “The birthmark, Vanora.”

“What?”

“The birthmark. The same way Bors confirmed it, so did Branwyn. It was bound to happen, what with her running around all over the fort.”

Mum sighed then and was silent for a moment. I heard footsteps next, ones that could only be the rhythmic tread of Lancelot. “She’s old enough now to know, don’t you think? I could tell her…”

“No.” Mum cut him off curtly and I heard her move towards the door. “I will be the one to tell her.” She left then, but Lancelot stayed behind. I knew this because I heard his heavy sign as he sank onto a bench near the window.

I shifted, feeling pins and needles settle into my foot, and I bit back a groan of discomfort. The room grew deathly silent then and I knew that I had made enough noise to be heard. I was too late to do anything and I watched as two booted feet appeared under the table linens at my hiding place.

“You’ve a bad habit for hiding in dark places, Branwyn. Thought you’d been scolded enough by…” He ended awkwardly.

I shoved forward on my elbows and whipped the table linen back, poking my head out and scowling up at Lancelot. “By whom?” I spat. “My Da?” I shook my head and scrabbled out from under the table and stood before Lancelot, my bravado heaving and my lip quivering.

He was a loss for words, which was something I’m sure didn’t happen often. We stood there for a spell, staring at one another, not knowing what to do next. I dared to speak first, and it was not what I expected to hear my voice say.

“I have your eyes.”

I suppose he was shocked to hear such a calm observation. But then he smiled a little and he nodded shortly, closing his eyes briefly, the same way he conceded to Arthur. “Aye, you do.”

“And your hair,” I continued, fingering a length of heavy black hair.

He smiled broader and nodded again. “You look like my sister.” His voice was sad, faraway, and his eyes blinked back unshed tears. “You look like my Alis.” He cleared his throat and blinked, looking as if he were waking from a dream. “I did not mean to keep…we were never sure when to…” He sighed, pausing to choose his words carefully. “When you were born, your Da…Bors…he knew. He knew when he took you from the nursemaid’s arms and turned you over. He saw the birthmark on your hip. When you spend more than ten years with a group of soldiers, scars and birthmarks become memorized. He knew. Dumped you in your mother’s arms and came looking for me immediately. It was before he and your mother settled down, you realize. The first child – the oldest boy? He is not Bors’ either.”

He was rambling, trying to fit everything into one moment’s explanation and I could only stare up at him and attempt to make sense of what he was telling me. He waited for me to nod, to catch up, before he continued.

“Bors knew that there were other men…but for me to have been one of them… he wouldn’t stand for it. Dagonet stepped between us that night – and you can thank him for saving me or curse him for getting in the way, whatever you like.” Lancelot took a deep breath then and stared me straight in the eyes, unblinking. “I am your father, Branwyn.”

“I know,” I answered softly. Somehow I’d always known. “But you’re not my Da,” I pointed out.

“No,” Lancelot agreed. “I’m not. And I don’t want to tell you that I’d like to be.”

One might think that those words would have hurt me, but I understood what was meant by them. He couldn’t be my Da simply because he did not have it in him. There was too much lost between us – maybe if it had been a different woman, or Bors had been another man, it might have been different somehow. And besides, Lancelot was a knight, through and through; when I look back on it now, he knew he was for battle and whoring women and living out his days on horseback. I knew he would die soon.

I swallowed the aching lump in my throat and tilted my head at him, copying his movements perfectly. “Tell me about Alis,” I asked softly. “I want to know about her.”

And so I sat perched on a stool before the kitchen fire while Lancelot told me of his sister, and of his home when he was a boy. As he spoke, I watched his mannerisms, listened to the cadence of his voice, and began to understand myself a little more. This was who I was, or at least it was a part of who I was. The way he held his thumbnail between his teeth while he thought made me giggle – I did it all the time, and Gilly would call me a thumb-sucker and kick dirt on my boots. Now I knew why I did it.

“It is getting late,” Lancelot suddenly announced with a glance out the window. “Your Mum could be back here at any moment and I don’t think you’re supposed to be here, are you?”

I shook my head. “I like to come and see what is going on. To listen to you and Uncle Dag and…” I squirmed. “And…Da…tell stories. I like to hear Gawain tease Galahad…”

“I think you just like to come and stare at Gawain.”

I blushed and looked away. Was it that obvious?

“You keep your emotions in your eyes, Branwyn. It is not something easily rid
of – I should know. But better Gawain than Galahad, I think.”

“That’s what Uncle Dag says.” I slid from my stool and stood before Lancelot for a moment. “Will you be at the feast tomorrow?”

“For certain. You could not keep a Sarmatian away from a good feast, girl. And I still have a gift for your birthday.” He stood too and put a hand on my shoulder, turning me towards the back door. “Now off home with you. To bed.”

I was not sure how he expected me to sleep with all of this to process, but I did as my elder bid me and quickly made my way home, ducking into the house through the kitchen window and brushing the snow from my hair before I hug up my cloak. I had just slid onto the bench near the burning embers and began stirring them as the kitchen door opened and Da barreled in, reeking of ale and mumbling something incoherent. Uncle Dag balanced him on his shoulder and winced when he saw me. He nodded his head at Da and then towards the other room where he would no doubt stretch the drunken body out on the cot there. A moment later, after some struggle and a string of colorful words, Uncle Dag wandered back to the kitchen fire where he crouched down and held his hands out before the small flames licking there.

“How did you get him home?” I wondered aloud. When Da was drunk, it was rumored he was like dead weight.

“I followed a little girl’s footsteps,” Uncle Dag said with half a smile. “Your Mum will be along shortly. Shall I wait with you?”

I nodded and he sank to the floor in front of the bench where I sat, stretching his long legs out and folding his arms over his chest. I watched with amusement as his head started to nod, the warmth of the fire and the ale in his stomach doing its job, and when I thought he was almost gone for the night, I whispered:

“Do you know, Uncle Dag?”

“Know what,” he mumbled through a yawn.

“That…that Da isn’t…”

Uncle Dag nodded. “Yeah, Branwyn,” he said softly. “I know. He doesn’t love you any less, aye? It’s just hard, that’s all. All Bors, that’s what he wants. But he was gone for a good spell thirteen years ago and your Mum and Lancelot…they had companionship. If nothing else, he’s learned to accept it.” He leaned back and fixed me with a glance. “Do you understand?”

I rested my cheek in my palm and slid my other hand over the fuzzy growth on Uncle Dag’s head. “I understand.” Then, a moment later: “Will you still be my Uncle Dag?”

He grinned, his eyes soft. “For as long as you’ll let me.”

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TBC