Page 19 of Propriety (le morte d’Guinevere #1)

Guinevere woke up wrapped up in his arms for the third morning in a row.

Her cheek was pressed to his chest, their legs tangled together beneath the blanket.

His warmth, the steady rise and fall of his breath — it all felt so normal , like something she could’ve had forever if her life had spun differently.

“Are you finally awake?” His voice rumbled from beneath her, sleep-rough and teasing, fingers brushing her hips in that soft, possessive way she was starting to crave. “We’ve got to get a move on, mon amour .” He sat up, tugging her with him like she was an extension of himself. “Time to go.”

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. He tilted her chin up and kissed her — quick, familiar, like it belonged to their morning routine.

Her heart flipped. Stupid, uncontrollable thing.

And then — even though she hated herself for doing it — her mind wandered back to Arthur. To mornings spent in polite silence, to perfunctory kisses on the forehead, to touches that felt more like ceremony than care. She couldn’t remember a single time he’d kissed her just because he wanted to.

She smiled softly, feeling her cheeks heat.

Outside, the barn was quiet, save for the scuff of hooves and creak of leather. She watched as Lancelot prepped the horse, sleeves rolled, hands steady. He didn’t look like a man who had lost control the day before. He looked like a knight again — calm, capable, composed.

At least until the boy walked in.

“Did you hear that King Arthur is hosting a celebration?” The stable hand chirped, hauling hay into the troughs.

“What?” The knight turned on him, clutching the reins tightly. Gwen saw his jaw tense, his back stiffen.

“Yeah! The town crier made the announcement last night. The king is celebrating 4 years of ruling with Queen Guinevere.”

Her pupils widened, pulling her hood up over her head.

She took a few steps towards where they stood talking, laying a hand on her knight’s arm.

“Thank you, sire.” Gwen nodded towards the boy, tugging on Lance’s arm.

“Let’s go, darling.” A name for the boy’s benefit.

A word that tasted like ash on her tongue.

Once out of the stable, she saw his composure start to falter. “Time to go back,” He said through clenched teeth, like it was the only thing keeping him from screaming.

“No,” she whispered, shaking her head, fingers digging into his arm. “Please, I can’t go back.”

He cradled her face in his hands, pressing his forehead against hers. “We have to, Gwen.” She didn’t know when she started trembling. “I’ll be with you the whole time.”

“But we can’t-” Her voice broke. She couldn’t say it. Couldn’t name the fear that was knotting in her ribs. Couldn’t confess what returning would cost her.

She couldn’t speak.

The barn was long behind them, the road ahead still empty, but she couldn’t move. Her feet wouldn’t obey. She gripped Lancelot’s wrist tightly, fearing he might disappear if she released him.

And somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the thrum of we have to, we have to. There was a quiet voice whispering what she hadn’t dared to admit aloud: She’d touched a man who wasn’t her husband.

Not in the polite, practiced way of court dances or greetings or stolen glances that meant nothing. She had kissed him. She had straddled him. She had watched him come undone for her, because of her, and she had wanted it. Craved it.

She had fallen. Somewhere between the way he whispered her name and the way he looked at her like she was more than a crown, more than a role, more than a queen — she had begun to fall.

It was irresponsible, defiant, stupid.

She’d seen his eyes for the first time a week ago, and her heart couldn’t bear the thought of being apart.

She felt cracked open. Vulnerable and free .

And now she had to go back.

Back to the man who hadn’t touched her like that in months. Who hadn’t seen her in years. Who would place her beside him like another jewel in the crown he guarded so tightly.

Her chest tightened, breath snagging against ribs. Her eyes burned.

“Gwen.” Lancelot’s voice was soft, almost pleading. His hands were still cupping her face, his thumbs stroking just beneath her cheekbones. “We’ll figure it out.”

There would be no figuring it out. She was already ruined.

And what terrified her most, what left her shaking beneath the morning sun, was not that she’d betrayed Arthur .

It was that she didn’t regret it.

“What if we ran?” She whispered, blinking back tears.

He smiled softly. “You know we can’t.”

She wrenched herself from his arms, putting space between them. “You’re so noble.” She spat, her voice too loud for the quiet morning. “You were always going to do the right thing, weren’t you? Noble knight, loyal servant.”

“Gwen-”

She took another step back. “Don’t ‘Gwen’ me, Lancelot. I should have known. There was no version of this where I got to keep you. You were always going to send me back to him. ”

She watched as his face fell, but she hadn’t said her fill yet. She surged forward, pounding her fists against his chest. Not hard, not to hurt — but because she didn’t know what else to do.

Because she had to feel something other than the hollow that was gnawing at her throat.“You were supposed to be different,” she gasped, fists faltering. “You were supposed to fight for me.”

He caught her wrists gently, holding her like she was a fragile, sacred thing. “I am fighting.”

“Not if you make me go back.”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. She hadn’t realized she was crying until he brushed a tear from her cheek.

“Please,” she breathed. “Please don’t make me walk back into that castle and pretend like you never touched me. Like I didn’t fall asleep in your arms. Like I didn’t fall-” She cut herself off, too afraid to say the last word.

Lancelot’s hands cupped her face. His eyes were wide, wrecked.

“I know. God, I know.” He wrapped her up in his arms, holding her tightly, holding her together.

“But if you think I’m through fighting for you, just because the battlefield’s changed…

” His fingers curled into her hair, pressing her tighter against him.

“If I have to stand beside him to stand beside you, I will, Guinevere.”

She didn’t answer him.

She couldn’t.

She only leaned in, pressing her forehead against his collarbone, as if he could shield her from the world.

For a moment more, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing.

And then…

His hands shifted, reluctantly. Purposefully.

They had to move.

Lancelot helped her into the saddle like he had done each morning prior. Careful and steady, but his touch lingered just a second too long.

Neither of them spoke.

The sun had risen, and Camelot awaited.

They rode hard through the night. There was no point in delaying the inevitable.

As the sun crested on the next day, Camelot’s walls were in sight.

Guinevere’s entire body ached, but it dulled compared to the grief that weighed heavily on her heart. She had been gone from the kingdom less than a week… and it felt like her entire being had been cracked open.

Zeus slowed when they passed through the gates until Lancelot pulled him gently to a stop. He slid off the horse, gently circling his hands around the queen’s waist as she followed suit.

“I’m here,” He murmured, placing his hand on the small of her back.

The kingdom still slept, it appeared. A stable hand met them by the barn, taking the horse from them, but other than that, Camelot was quiet.

“Are you hungry?” Lancelot asked as they walked, stepping in time. His hand hadn’t left her back.

She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

Everything happened all at once.

A commotion came from the doors of the castle, a large group of people flooding out of the doors. In the front, her husband, clad in his bedclothes, ran to her.

Her stomach churned as she saw the relief in his eyes.

He crashed into her, arms holding her too tightly, his fingers digging into her skin to the point of pain.

“Easy, brother.” Lancelot’s voice came, and her eyes stung. “We’ve been traveling a long while. She needs rest.”

“I know you aren’t telling me how to greet my wife, du Lac.” Arthur’s voice was tight, tired.

“No, I’m telling you how to treat your queen. ” She could see him out of the corner of her eye, shoulders tight, hand lingering on his sword.

Gwen pulled back from Arthur, offering a watery smile. “I am tired, king.” She swiped a tear off of her cheek. “And I could use a bath.” She laughed, hoping to ease some of the tension she felt rising between them.

“I’ll come with you, Guinevere.” Arthur leaned forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “I have missed you, wife.”

“Can I-” She bit her bottom lip, eyes cast downward. “I’d like-” She couldn’t find the strength in her to ask him for a moment alone. “Thank you, your grace.”

The king grabbed her by the arm, leading her away from the throng of people that had begun to gather.

Recklessly, Gwen looked back over her shoulder to find her knight, watching her walk away with his jaw clenched.